A/N: Listening to Nirvana's "Nevermind" while I was in the shower, and thinking about my planned Mighty Ducks fanfic, "Unforgiven" when "Lounge Act" came on. I stopped in my poor karaoke-style rendition of the song and said to myself, 'Oh, my god, this is a Fulton song! How could I have missed it before?!' And that, if anyone cared, is the backstory about how "Might as Well" came to be.

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"Might As Well" (a mighty ducks fanfiction by SchizoAuthoress)

["Truth covered in security/ I can't let you smother me/ I'd like to but it wouldn't work/ Trading off and taking turns/ I don't regret a thing/

I've got this friend, you see/ Who makes me feel/ And I wanted more/ Than I could steal/ I'll arrest myself/ And wear a shield/ I'll go out of my way/ To make you a deal/

We've make a pact/ To learn from who/ Ever we want/ Without new rules/ We'll share what's lost and what we grew/ They'll go out of their way/ To prove they still/ Smell her on you."

--from "Lounge Act" by Nirvana]

Fulton Reed was lying on his mattress, holding the cordless phone in one hand. His bedroom was dark, in both lighting and decor. Posters--some still with a new sheen to them and curling rebelliously from their positions on the wall; others flat and ragged from being tacked onto many walls--depicting various heavy metal, hard rock, and punk bands adorned the painted-black walls. A cracked plastic hamper overflowed with wrinkled clothes, and a black trash bag beside it held articles of clothing deemed too stained or smelly to wear until thrown into the wash. Sports equipment was perhaps the only thing piled neatly, next to the window. Otherwise, the floor was so littered with junk that the true color of the carpeting was a mystery, even to Fulton, who decided to forget such a useless detail as that. The only lights in the room were a burned-out combination fan and ceiling light, and a small gooseneck desk lamp, currently turned on and illuminating an expensive-looking folder.

Fulton turned his head and stared at the folder on his desk. It didn't belong there, just like Fulton wouldn't belong at Eden Hall Academy. His family was blue-collar, on welfare. How could rich kids that had never wanted for anything in their lives possibly understand and accept a guy like him?

Sitting up, Fulton felt around on the plastic crate next to his bed that served as a bedside table. Finding what he was looking for, Fulton got up and went to the desk, sitting in his metal folding-chair and closely studying the small plastic card.

~~Flashback~~ "Here," Portman said softly, pressing the card to Fulton's palm, "it's a pre-paid calling card. Using it is like making a collect call. You know how to do that?"

"Yeah," Fulton mumbled, keeping his eyes downcast. He hated good-byes. They always seemed so...final.

Portman slipped one hand beneath Fulton's chin, gently tilting the boy's face up so that they looked at each other. Forcing a smile, Portman managed to ask, "You /will/ call me, won't you?"

"Of course." Fulton answered simply, unable to say any more because of the tears that rose suddenly in his eyes.

Portman pressed Fulton to his body in a fierce hug, forceful enough to probably crush someone smaller than a Bash Brother. "I'm gonna miss ya, bro," he choked out. Fulton hid his face against Portman's shoulder and whispered,

"Not as much as I'll miss you, Dean." ~~End Flashback~~

When they rejoined the others, Fulton had noticed that the calling card only had two hundred minutes on it. So he only used it twice, each for a call on Dean's birthday, and saved the other fifty minutes for an emergency.

And if this--being bullied into going to a prep school on a hockey scholarship--wasn't an emergency, what was?

****

Dean Portman flung open the door to his family's apartment and yelled, "Hey, Ma! I'm home!"

"Dean, honey, come here," his mother called. Dean dropped his bookbag next to the black leather couch and headed for the kitchen.

"What's up?" He asked, swiping an apple from the basket of fruit sitting on the round white-oak table. His mother beamed at him and waved some leather-bound booklet in his face.

"Look! A scholarship from Eden Hall! They want you to play hockey for them, and you'll be getting a quality education, better than in public school, honey."

Dean groaned and flopped into the nearest chair. "Mo-om! A private school? Are you kidding?"

"What's so bad about a private school?" Mrs. Portman demanded, arms akimbo. She looked annoyed, blowing a few loose strands of wavy, caramel-brown hair out of her eyes. Dean muttered,

"You wouldn't understand," and took a bite of his apple. "They're all really rich kids at that school, I'll bet. I wouldn't fit in." But curiousity got the better of him, and he asked, "Where /is/ Eden Hall, anyway?"

Mrs. Portman grumbled, "Why do you care? You don't want to go."

Before Dean could respond, a shrill ring from the telephone cut him off. Mrs. Portman set the scholarship folder on the table and whirled around to pick up the phone.

"Hello?" There was a pause, and she said, "Yes....Hello, Fulton. Did you want to speak to Dean? ...Hold on," Mrs. Portman passed the phone to Dean.

"Hey! Fulton, how ya doin', bro?" Dean exclaimed. Getting up from the table, he went back to the living room and flopped down on the couch.

"Hi, Dean. I'm all right, what about you?" Fulton asked. Dean could hear the smile in Fulton's voice, and he was relieved. Dean knew that Fulton was prone to cover up his problems, but also that Fulton could never fake being happy if he wasn't.

"I /was/ having a pretty good day until Mom told me about this scholarship offer...it's for some bogus preppy school. They want me to play hockey there; guess it's because of the Junior Goodwill Games. Anyway, I told Mom that I wouldn't fit in, and she's pissed, could you tell?"

There was a pause. "So you're not gonna go?"

"Hell, no! Fulton, you know me. I'd be fucking miserable there!" Rolling over on his stomach, Dean asked, "What's up? You sound disappointed."

"Well, don't you want to get a good education?"

Dean laughed, "Fult, you sound like my mom! And anyway, I'm dumb as a rock. Private school kids, ya know, they're not only rich, some of 'em are real smart, too."

"Don't say stuff like that," Fulton protested, "You're not dumb. You're very intelligent, just too much of a macho ass to show it."

"Sure, sure..." Dean scoffed, "You're just trying to flatter me."

"If I was trying to flatter you, I'd compliment your muscles or your looks, since that's all you think you've got going for you." Fulton chuckled, and finished, "Not that you don't, Dean."

"Aww, thank you."

****

They talked until Fulton's phone card nearly ran out, and then they reluctantly hung up. Fulton tossed the reciever onto the bed and smacked his head into the top of the desk. "That was helpful..." Fulton mumbled aloud to himself sarcastically.

Obviously, Dean was going to waste his opportunity to go to a private school in Illinois. Maybe he should call the other Ducks and see if they too had gotten hockey scholarships. Charlie, Banks, Goldberg, Averman, Connie, and Guy would all probably be offered the chance to go to Eden Hall, too. If they were going, he might as well.

Being with his old teammates would make the year bearable, but without his best friend... Fulton sighed.

Sometimes, he wished that he hadn't accepted the offer to go to the Goodwill Games. For years before that competition, Fulton had kept himself apart from people, caring about and protecting those who needed him--or more accurately, his strength and willingness to fight--but never really becoming attatched to anyone.

With Dean, it had been different. When they met, Dean Portman immediately resulted in the strongest emotional reaction Fulton had felt in a long time. Granted, it was one of anger and disgust at first. But their friendship developed quickly into an intense camaraderie, with Dean teaching Fulton the finer points of being an enforcer, with Fulton tutoring Dean in the higher maths, and of course, with the Bash Brothers on Team USA.

And now...

Well, now Fulton was lonely.

He sighed again and retrieved the phone. Time to call Spazway.

~~The End?~~

A/N: I've already got lycanthrope happy and apparently high off of this fic...she demands more to this. So what do the rest of you think? And should this be kpet platonic, or develop into some Bash-slash later? [I guess I'm not as terrible at this as I thought...well, it is fic #41 that I've posted.]