It's here! The spin-off to the Charlie/Steven chapter of 'If I Should Die...'! I'm super (no pun intended) excited about this story, except that it's turning out to be rather long and so far I've only written a third of it. I would normally wait till finishing a story before publishing it, but I'm hoping that posting this first chapter might get me off my butt to write the rest?

Please review! It'll help me write faster, and I would love your suggestions of anything you'd like to see happen. (I have lots of room in the story to add new ideas.)

Disclaimer: the DPS isn't mine (if it was, it would have ended differently...)

One day, Steven Meeks arrives home from work to find his (upper-east side) penthouse apartment completely overturned, with a half-naked Charlie running around in it like a whirling dervish, throwing hats and shoes and other items of clothing into an oversized suitcase in the middle of the lounge.

"Charlie," says Steven, carefully placing his briefcase on the one clear space he can find on his previously spotless workbench, "What's going on?"

"Pack your bags, Stevie!" yells Charlie, disconnecting a lamp from the wall and then, on second thoughts, dropping it back to the floor. "We're going to Russia!"

"To Russia?" Steven furrows his brow.

"Yes. The flight leaves at eleven. So pack your bags," Charlie repeats.

"Oh," says Steven, as he calmly sorts through the mess of papers on the bench. "But why does our apartment look like the FBI hit it in a drugs bust?"

"You're not packing!" says Charlie, leaping from the lounge to the kitchen and grabbing Steven's wrists. "Why aren't you packing?"

"You said the flight leaves at eleven," says Steven, rationally. "And it's only five thirty now. There's plenty of time to sort this mess out and have a cup of tea first."

"Nggh!" says Charlie. He throws his hands in the air.

"Besides," says Steven. "You haven't told me what's going on."

"This," says Charlie. He shoves a folded piece of paper in front of Steven's nose. "This is what's going on." He leans on the bench and watches Steven adjust his glasses and carefully unfold the paper.

"Dear Sirs. We regret to inform you that the Federal Bureau of Investigation – so the FBI does have something to do with this?"

"Too slow, too slow!" Charlie snatches the paper from Steven's hands, and waves it about. "Basically the FBI have decided, in their infinite wisdom, to criminalise all unauthorised superhero activity – "

"But that's us – " says Steven, pushing his glasses up his nose.

" – on the grounds that it's too bloody dangerous."

"But they need us."

"It's not just us, Stevie. Gravity Girl, The Masked Hawk, Wonderfish – those fuckers in the FBI have shut down every single one of us and confiscated our stuff – "

"They've confiscated – what? What have they taken?" Finally, a hint of anger threatens to ruffle Steven's otherwise placid countenance. He runs from the kitchen to the living room, swirling through the mess of upturned furniture, strewn books, and broken ornaments.

"The boots?"

"Gone."

"The wings?"

"Gone."

"The costume?"

"Gone – Steven, Steven, hold still – " Charlie grabs him by the shoulders as the smaller man threatens to hyperventilate.

"Todd spent ages on that costume," he whispers. "What about my – my – " His gaze drifts back to the bench space, where he keeps his notebook.

"The place was like this when I got home from the drycleaners. They were quick, Stevie. I was only gone ten minutes. There was nothing I could do."

Charlie leads him to sit on the couch, and pours him a stiff drink from the remains of the liquor cabinet.

"So why are we going to Russia?" Steven finally manages to ask, as the alcohol washes over his nerves.

"Because we need to get a license. They need to say our gear is safe to use – "

"Of course it's safe," Steven says, crossly. "I invented it."

" – and then we fill in a heap of forms, and the FBI gets off our backs. Or that's the idea, anyway."

"But – why Russia?"

"Presumably because they're evil bastards," says Charlie, leaving Steven on the couch and dragging a second suitcase from the bedroom. "And evil bastards, as you know, like to live in the cold, wear wolverine-fur hats, and drink cheap vodka."

"That's surely a stereotype."

"Our lives are built on stereotypes," says Charlie.

Steven watches Charlie for a long moment, then quietly sets about clearing up the mess the FBI agents made. He tries to get Charlie to be more methodical and less ridiculous in his packing, as he surveys their apartment, hands on hips.

"It'll be okay, Stevie," Charlie says. "They'll give us our license. I'll still be a dashing superhero, and you'll still be my sexy librarian-type inventor. Actually, can we play sexy-librarians before we go?"

But what if it's not okay? Steven smiles wanly as Charlie bounds into the bedroom. He doesn't ask, because he doesn't need to ask questions to which he already knows the answer; he doesn't need to hear answers that are only going to hurt.