#Talia and john
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" I could follow you to the beginning
Just to relive the start
And maybe then, we'd remember to slow down
At all our favorite parts
All I wanted was you"
Paramore
#pablo schreiber#master chief#pablo schreiber fanfiction#pabloschreiber#pabloschreiberedit#pabloschreiberimagination#john 117#Halo serie#Talia perez#Talia and john#Caporal perez#Halo fanfic#Talia John romance
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DC HEROES By comic artist, Neal Adams
Colors by me! Feel free to use as long as you credit me! :)
#neal adams#dc#dc comics#my edit#comicedit#dcedit#justice league#superman#clark kent#batman#bruce wayne#wonder woman#diana of themiscyra#martian manhunter#j’onn j’onzz#harvey dent#teen titans#fab five#donna troy#dick grayson#wally west#roy harper#oliver queen#john stewart#dinah lance#hal jordan#talia al ghul#ra’s al ghul#lois lane#jimmy olsen
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why does everyone seem obsessed with making the batkid’s bio parents either an afterthought or worse than they actually are?
I mean, in some cases they did actually have bad parents, like Arthur Brown and David Cain
But like…
Stephanie’s mom is still alive and they have a pretty good relationship.
Duke’s parents are still alive, albeit comatose. He loves them.
Tim’s parents were not as criminally neglectful as fannon makes them out to be, and it really impacted him when they died.
Dick’s parents are the REASON he chose Robin as his name, and he still misses them.
While Willis Todd wasn’t a great father, he did at least want a better life for Jason in some cannons. And Catherine did the best she could. The only person really deserving of hate is Sheila. Fuck her fr.
Shiva might not be a good mother, but she and Cass actually have a weirdly positive relationship.
TALIA TRIED HER FUCKING BEST FOR DAMIAN AND SHE IS NOT A RAPIST
Babs LITERALLY STILL HAS A DAD. WHO SHE LOVES. Justice for my man Gordon.
I mean CMON
#fox’s rambles#dcu#batfamily#tim drake#cassandra cain#duke thomas#stephanie brown#david cain#arthur brown#willis todd#Jason Todd#jack and janet drake#barbara gordon#jim gordon#dick grayson#mary grayson#john grayson#lady shiva#talia al ghul#Damian Wayne
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Forget the Academy and listen to your T.O.s. They'll teach you the way it should be done.
#TheRookieEdit#The Rookie#Tim Bradford#Lucy Chen#Angela Lopez#Nyla Harper#John Nolan#Talia Bishop#ChenfordEdit#Chenford#The Rookie gifs#westwingwolf#TimBradfordEdit#LucyChenEdit
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H̵̩͋o̸̹͒l̶̢̑ď̸͕ ̵͔͛T̴̲̄h̶͙͋e̶̤͘m̵͍̋ ̷͓̈D̵̯͛o̶̡̅w̵̖̃n̵͝ͅ
Get in the Water AU: Original Post Ruthlessness
Ghosts were physiologically different from humans.
It was something Tucker and Sam didn't understand. They saw Phantom as "Danny with superpowers," not as a fundamentally different being.
Sometimes, Danny didn't understand either.
But his parents did. Utter disregard for the scientific method aside, the Fentons were the ones who learned how inhuman ghosts were: "Just emotions and electricity imprinted on ectoplasm, Danno, nothing to be scared of!" Snapshots of people at the moments of their deaths. The past and the present, incapable of contemplating the future.
And with his duality, Danny struggled to understand either of his halves.
As a human, Danny could move past his nightmare of a childhood, compartmentalize and think to the future, when he was fully healed and his past couldn't hurt him anymore. So when Dora, first elected Queen of the Infinite Realms - long may she reign - asked him to collect all the resurrected humans for a health check and assessment... when he'd noticed Damian Al Ghul-Wanye on the list... He'd thought up a little prank to pull on his long-lost brother. A cruel one, perhaps, but nothing harmful.
As a ghost, Danny couldn't move on. He could never forget that Sam led him to his death, that his parents negligence allowed for the stage to be set, that the lab they loved so much held both his home and his grave. Just as Danny would always be that fourteen year old, caught in that moments, he was still the 7-year-old Danyal Al Ghul who trusted his brother not to hurt him... and ended up poisoned.
Phantom wanted his murderer to suffer.
And Danny, much to his shame, had allowed it.
For a few weeks, Danny managed to ignore it. He'd gone after Damian first, so there were tons of resurrected on his list. He started with the more extreme cases first, like Constantine, but soon enough the next on his list was Ra's Al Ghul.
He'd asked Queen Dora to send someone else, anyone else. That he wouldn't be able to control himself if he saw his grandfather again. Instead of relieving him, she'd given him a knowing look and told him to follow his core's desire.
She never mentions it, but Queen Dora had been a murder victim too.
There was no showmanship, no dramatic reveal. Just Danyal, his grandfather, and the Pit.
Despite all Ra's Al Ghul's power, he was no match for a spirit hellbent on drowning him.
That's what Danny did to his grandfather. He'd thrown up afterwards, once he was human before. But the ghost in him relished the act; he could still feel Grandfather's throat under his hands, pulse fluttering against his palm as Danyal held him down. He struggled and shook as the Lazarus waters filled his lungs, burning away healthy tissue. Fingernails morphed into claws that sliced through the tender skin, blood leaking into the water, and water leaking into the blood.
It took a long time for Grandfather to die. Deep within Danny, next to his core, he knew it was what was deserved. That the murdered finally had justice. He was content with never speaking of it again, a secret between him and the waters.
And now it was going to happen again as Phantom's impulsive mind overtook Fenton's tactical one.
He'd known Damian was looking into him. Knew another confrontation was inevitable, what with two more of his siblings needing their health checks. But as Danny was stalking their mother, searching for the best way to abduct her (she was still his mother after all, he didn't want her dead... yet), Damian and his family confronted her.
Relief washed over him as only a normal amount of rage bubbled up at the sight of Damian, instead of the overwhelming, all-consuming fury he'd felt. Danny laughed at their arguments, at Constantine thinking he could put a living ghost to rest, at his siblings-unmet and his father-unknown, until...
Damian confessed.
His murderer confessed, yet as he continued to speak, to explain, the fury rose in him again. Because it wasn't a betrayal. He'd always thought Damian betrayed him, but no.
Through his own ruthlessness, Damian gave him the only mercy he could manage. And there was only one thing Danyal wanted now.
""̸̲̈́T̶͘͜ä̵̢li̸a̶̬̓ ̴̬̐A̵̛̪l̸̲̚ G̸̛̫h̶̺̏u̸̢̚l!̴̳̈́ D̷̩̕o̸͛ͅ ̶̝̍y̴͙͘o̵̙͐u̵̬̓ ̴̤͂k̸̡̑n̵͓̈́o̷͈͝w̷͖͂ ̷͓͑w̴̧̄h̵̲͌o̴̮̔ ̵̼́Ị̷̂ ̷̣̽a̵̳̓m̷̩̓?̷̝͒"̷̧͠"
It was her fault. She was the reason why he was dead, nothing more than a coward who couldn't go against her father for the sake of her children. She abused them, she struck his brother, it was her fault-
"Danyal," she answered. And Danyal grinned, fanged and sharp.
He approached, the waters of his birthplace lovingly brushing against his legs, consoling him the only way they knew how. They whispered revenge into his ears, madness into his heart, just as they had when he'd confronted Damian, when he murdered Grandfather. "You have much to answer for, daughter of the Demon Head," he said, voice echoing around the room.
Unrestrained greed filled her gaze. "You've returned to me, my son."
Danyal laughed, brutal and rough. "I've returned for you, Mother," he corrected. "Don't think this reunion will end well for you."
"You mean to hurt me, Danyal?" she crooned, all false hurt and fake love.
"I mean to kill you."
Genuine anger flashed across her face. "My son would never-"
"Y̵̺̆o̴̩͂u̸͉̕r̷̰͝ ̴͔͝s̵̡̉o̶̡̎ň̵̞ ̶̗̈i̴̘̍s ̸̦̐d̴̯̚ê̶͚á̶̩d̷̻̈́," he snarled, and Damian flinched. He was too close to Talia. "You wanted me dead... for being weak. For having mercy." He stared up at his mother's shocked form. "I killed Grandfather. Tell me, is that ruthless enough for you, Umi?" Talia flinched with just her eyes. He hadn't been allowed to call her Umi since he was three.
Their father stepped forward, the naked distress on his face contrasting with his battle armor. "Danyal," he plead. "You don't have to do this-"
"Stay out of this, Baba." The man's breathing hitched. "This doesn't involve you."
Constantine tried to talk him down next. "It does, kid. A Siren on your level can't stay around for long. It's time for you to rest."
Danyal threw back his head and laughed. "As if you could stop me, exorcist." No more delays. It's time for action. "I will drown you all before you can."
Danyal lunged. And despite his mother's decades as an assassin, she couldn't kill what was already dead.
He held her down by the throat, the attacks from Damian's family bouncing off him. "This is mercy," he cooed as she desperately clawed at his hands. "For me. For Damian. For everyone you will try to hurt in the future. Ruthlessness is the only mercy I can give you now." Her face turned red as she gaped for air and Danyal-
Was thrown back into the water.
Reorienting himself, he found John Constantine standing over his mother, protecting her from him. "̷̪͂E̷̺͐x̷̝̑ŏ̶̺ȑ̴͉c̷̟͘i̸͔̋s̶̮̀t̶̯͝."
And the Pit's water began to rise.
#dc x dp#dp x dc#dpxdc#dcxdp#c: danny fenton#c: danyal al ghul#c: ra's al ghul#c: talia al ghul#c: damian wayne#c: john constantine#Danny is just using the lazarus pits as portals to the Ghost Zone without realizing they're poisoning him with Pit Madness#the pits are sentient and love him#the pits also love jason that's why he has permanent pit madness#with the amount of murder victims dumped in there it really cares about fellow victims the most#anyway with the circe saga out i thought of a sequel to Storm so that'll be fun#get in the water au
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You will always be my Boot
Main masterlist | The rookie masterlist
Tim Bradford x FBI!FormerRookie!reader Fandom: The Rookie
Summary: You are a former FBI agent and come back to your roots after many years. Little did you know Tim waited for you all these years.
A/N: This is my first Tim Bradford one ever and I know I need some improvement in this police area. I'm thinking about making a part two of this. Anyways, let me know what you think. Have a wonderful day, bubs! Lots of love.
Requested: Yes Words: 2.5k Requests for Tim Bradford are open! GIF not mine, credits to the owner.
The flight was exhausting and the shitty bed from that cheap motel was even worse. They'd think an FBI agent would afford a five star hotel and a warm meal, instead of that reheated noodles you had last night, but LA is expensive as shit. One thing you didn't miss about this city were those self-centred Hollywood "stars" and the exorbitant prices.
You watched the time over and over again, shaking your foot nervously. You are ready to go, but you just can't gather the courage to face those police officers again. The bathroom light is dim and you put the blame on that for your horrendous bun, not because you lost practice. You redo the bun one more time and watch yourself in the mirror. LAPD uniform hugs your curves so perfectly and the overloaded belt accentuates your waist. You allow yourself to wear a small smile today, for the sake of old times.
The tranquility of the morning was shattered by the unmistakable sound of gunshots ringing out in the distance. Instantly alert, with your heart pounding in your chest as adrenaline surged through your veins, you grabbed your service weapon and badge, slipping them into your waistband as you hurried out the door and into the cool morning air.
As you made your way down the narrow staircase of the motel, the sounds of the gunshots grew louder, sending a chill down your spine. Stepping out onto the sidewalk, you quickly assessed the situation—a group of armed men engaged in a shootout with one another only a few blocks away. Confusion made its way to your mind; why would some people from the same gang fire at each other?
As you analyse their tattoos, some have it on their neck, some on their wrist, it snapped. You recognise those tattoos from your FBI files that lay on your motel bed, two different markings, two different gangs. Dangerous ones, wanted ones.
Without a second thought, you sprang into action, ducking behind parked cars and storefronts, you closed in on the scene, your heart pounding in your chest as you prepared to confront them. There's no time to wait for backup. And who'd you call anyway?
With a burst of adrenaline, you emerged from cover and sprinted towards the gunmen, your weapon drawn and ready. The element of surprise worked in your favor as you caught them off guard, their attention momentarily diverted as they turned to face you.
"Drop your weapons! FBI!" you shouted, your voice ringing out clear and commanding above the chaos of the shootout.
For a moment, there was hesitation in their eyes, uncertainty flickering across their faces as they weighed their options. But then, with a defiant snarl, they raised their guns once more, their fingers tightening on the triggers.
Time seemed to slow as the standoff unfolded, each moment stretched to its breaking point as you and the felons locked eyes, the tension thick in the air. And then, with a burst of gunfire, the situation erupted into chaos once more.
Bullets flew past you in a deadly dance as you returned fire, each shot ringing out like a thunderclap in the stillness of the morning. You managed to hit two of them, one in the shoulder, that dropped the gun and grabbed their wound in shock and the other one in the thigh, forcing them to fall into the ground. You didn't had enough handcuffs to secure them all, so it was your priority to stop them from running away until the officers arrived.
It's crazy to see how four rival gang members united to get rid of you when seconds before were about to blow their heads off.
"I said, drop your weapons, now!" you demanded to the masked one still standing, gunshots finally stopping. You didn't see any response or will to do so and that made you place aim for their legs as well, forcing them to collapse. "Hands behind your back, intertwine your fingers."
Before handcuffing them, you pulled up your phone and searched for that one number.
"Sergeant Grey" the voice on the other side responded.
"Agent Y/L/N, FBI. I have in custody two of Crenshaw and two of Tongan. I need backup and R/A. Crenshaw bulevard with W 66th Street." you informed Sergeant Grey.
"Copy that."
Not long after you made the call, three cars and an ambulance pulled up to the address you gave. The look on the officers faces when they saw you holding one handcuffed suspect and three injured on the street, was as satisfying as catching those. Adrenaline still coursing through your veins, you couldn't help but feel a sense of pride wash over you.
"Y/L/N, FBI." you presented yourself to the officers, you showed your badge and shake their hands, each wearing a mortified expression after they heard your name. "After they're checked, let's get going. I'm late for my first day." you demanded and the six officers nodded as an understanding.
You could tell by the look on their faces, some of them are rookies. You can't forget those eyes, you had the exact same expression when you were a rookie and as Tim as your T.O. didn't help much.
"Agent Y/L/N." a serious tone came from just as a serious man. Sergeant Grey standing tall and imposing in the booking room as you walked the men to one of the benches and let another officer take care of him. As you approached the man, a big and friendly smile appeared on his face "It's so good to have you back."
"Good to be back, sir." you accepted his handshake with that small smile from the morning that you promised yourself you'd be wearing all day.
Your name was on everyone's lips as you walked through the station besides Grey.
It had been years since you last walked these familiar corridors, but as you made your way toward the meeting room, a sense of nostalgia washed over you.
"Is that Y/N?" one officer whispered to another, having the impression you didn't hear them.
"Yeah. Still hot. Heard she's working with FBI now." that remark made you turn your head in their direction, locking your eyes with one of them as he swallowed the lump in his throat and returning to his seat.
Inside, the meeting room was filled with the buzz of conversation as officers gathered for the morning briefing. All eyes turned to you as you entered, whispers and murmurs following in your wake. You could feel the weight of their scrutiny, their curiosity palpable in the air as they watched the former FBI agent return to their ranks.
"Good morning everyone. Sorry I'm late, had to take care of something so early this morning because someone doesn't sleep." he glanced at you and the murmur stopped when the eyes landed on you standing in the doorframe. "Take a sit." you nodded and sat down in the first row.
"Is that Y/N?" Lucy whispered to Nolan and Jackson. It was impossible to shake the feeling of being under a microscope, every move you made scrutinized by your colleagues.
"Hell, yeah, she is!" Jackson laid his eyes on you and gave you an appreciation smile.
As the sergeant launched into the details of the day's assignments and priorities, you found it difficult to concentrate, the weight of everyone's eyes on you making it hard to focus. But you pushed through, determined to prove yourself in your new role as a police officer.
"Today we made serious progress towards the gangs that won't let Los Angeles sleep in peace. Agent Y/L/N, first thing in the morning had in custody four men, almost as important as the gang leaders." your mind zoned out, you already knew that story. But what you didn't know and what's really eating you inside is that specific blond man.
In the corner of the room, Talia and Angela exchanged knowing glances, their whispers barely audible over the sergeant's voice.
"Can you believe she's back?" Angela muttered.
"I heard she was with the FBI," Talia replied, her voice tinged with curiosity. "Wonder what brought her back here."
"From an FBI agent to an officer? Seems like a joke to me..." Lopez paused as she looked at Tim for a moment. "Maybe something bad happened. Maybe she did something bad." the excitement of her voice was unquestionable.
Meanwhile, Tim Bradford watched from his seat at the front of the room, his expression unreadable as he observed the scene unfolding before him. Memories of your time together as rookie and training officer flashed through his mind, the bond you had shared still lingering despite the years apart.
"I heard she was the best rookie this station ever had. And it was his rookie, can you believe that!" Angela's mind was focused on one subject and one only. She is more than convinced that something has happened between you and Tim.
"Almost 100 on every exam and she was the only person this grumpy smiled to!" Talia added, making Tim shift uncomfortable in his seat, his eyes not letting the sight of you even for a second.
"That's not true. And I'm not grumpy, I do smile..." Tim responded to their feminine gossip, something he's not doing too often. He still thinks it's a waste of time this kind of conversation and one's personal life is no one's business, but maybe, maybe he wants to know more about you. "Sometimes"
He was wondering as well what could've possibly had happened to make you come back to LA, knowing very well how much you hated the city and how much you suffered the moment you stepped on that plane.
Tim's heart was below the sea's surface, buried inside the burning hell somewhere since the moment he caught a glimpse of your siluete walking around these hallways again. His hands were sweating and the lump in his throat could swallow him.
But you were nowhere far away from that feeling either. All the feelings from back then were coming alive faster than the light-speed and the memories of the time you were his rookie, the looks, the touches, the sweetness of his words alongside the glances from your colleagues made your eyes fill with bittersweet tears. You had to raise your head a little and blink as fast as you could to make those tears disappear and take a few deep breaths to calm down. You have to put this feelings aside. Now.
As the meeting drew to a close, Sergeant Gray turned his attention to you, his gaze lingering for a moment before moving on to the next item on the agenda.
"You're dismissed and be safe out there!" Gray closed the meeting and everyone rushed to start the day.
You waited for everyone to clear the room, mostly because you hate crowded places and people jostling around. You kept your head low, already full of everyone staring. When the room cleared just enough, you wanted to make your way to Sergeant Gray's office when a big, warm hand landed on your shoulder, freezing you on spot.
Some time ago, you knew by heart every single trace and curve of that hand, and now your mind doesn't disappoint you remembering it all with just a blink. His breath winding down your spine as minty as always.
You hated him. You hated yourself. Damn, you hate everyone and everything this moment.
"Y/N." his voice was as overwhelming as always and it made your feet weak. It made you weak and it hit you hard right into your bones. You didn't think twice and as you raised your chin up high and faked a confident expression, you turned to your heels to face him. Once and for all. "I can't believe you're back."
"Tim" you nodded, greeting him with a smile. This time a genuine one, wider and more powerful than the one you had forced yourself to wear all day. Not a forced one, but one that you found you couldn't hide. "It's been a while." you cleared your throat and searched his eyes.
They were staring right into your soul with the same spark and love you've missed so much. It seems like you've never changed, seems like everything is just the way it was. Like he was your TO, teaching you, teasing you, caring for you, having your back and you were his rookie, learning from him, turning into the best version of him, making him proud.
The air between you crackled with unspoken tension as you struggled to find the right words to say. The spark that had once ignited between you still burned bright, despite the years and distance that had separated you.
"How are you? How's Isabel?"
"Uh-Yeah..." he paused for a moment, the light in his eyes fading. "We separated a few months ago."
Tim wished this words would hurt more admitting them in front of you, would hurt just as much as he hurt you. But it didn't. That wound is almost healed, making room for another one to open.
"Oh, Tim. I'm so sorry" you were sincere, though not with all your heart. You knew it must've hurt like hell having in mind how much Tim loved his wife. But at some point he loved you too. Maybe not as much as her, maybe more, maybe less.
"But I'm fine, yeah. It's past now." he cracked a smile, resting his arm on the table as close to your thigh as you could feel its warmth. "What about you? Making an entrance for sure. Catching those guys from Crenshaw and Tongan, impressive. I taught you well." oh, he knows what he's doing and watching your shield breaking before his eyes, he's delighted.
"Oh, don't be so cocky—"
"Why are you here? Why now?" he asked. You rested your hand on your belt and raised an eyebrow as a response to his questions.
"You know I can't tell you." he sighed at your words, realising just now maybe the things are not how they were. You are not as open to him or talkative as before. You are not in love with him as you were before. But he's not done trying yet.
"Dinner tonight?" Tim was bold for sure and his question took you by surprise. You weighed the answer, but before you could say yes, he continued "I can't lose the chance again. I can't lose you again, Boot."
"Okay, yes!" you pushed your finger into his chest "Stop making those puppy eyes, you know I can't resist." he laughed and before you can walk away, he grabbed your waist and kissed your forehead gently. His lips lingering on your skin few more seconds, memorising your sweet scent, trying to remember it, like if he could ever forget.
"It's good to have you back, Boot!"
"Stop calling me 'Boot'!" you fought back, annoyed, but he enjoyed every moment. He missed you like hell and now all of this is hitting him hard in the face like a... boot. "I'm not your Boot" you persisted.
"Oh, you'll always be my Boot!"
#Tim bradford#the rookie#tim bradford x you#tim bradford one shots#tim bradford the rookie#tim bradford imagine#tim bradford x reader#tim bradford imagines#it's so goo to have you back#tim#bradford#lapd#the rookie one shot#the rookie imagine#the rookie x reader#john nolan#lucy chen#angela lopez#talia bishop#jackson west#tim bradford x y/n#tim bradford x fbi!reader#tim bradford x rookie!reader#tim x reader#tim imagine#tim one shot#tim x you#tim x rookie!reader#tim x fbi!reader#you will always be my boot
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Prompt: Gotham Baby Switch Mystery (DCXDP)
Gotham City is in chaos. Major breaking news has just surfaced: a nurse or doctor (your pick) has been involved in switching the identities of nearly 200 babies over the course of their career. Gotham PD, working overtime alongside other police departments, has been investigating the swaps. The authorities now have a list of affected families, and the shocking implications are that the child you’ve cared for, loved, and raised with all your heart may not actually be yours. Worse yet, the child you buried may also have been someone else’s.
Among the families affected? The Wayne family. And, understandably, the Batfamily is freaking out. The questions are piling up: Does this mean we have a brother or sister out there in the world? Why hasn’t Bruce told us about this? Chaos ensues.
Bruce Wayne, however, is left with only one certainty: the child he and Talia al Ghul had together, a baby born prematurely. The child spent days in the ICU, and the doctors were hopeful, but ultimately, the baby passed away. That tragic event had driven a wedge between Bruce and Talia, and she cut ties with him. When she became pregnant with Damian, Talia did everything in her power to ensure that her second child would survive to term, determined not to lose another baby like their first.
Faced with the turmoil of this new revelation, Bruce does the only thing he can think of: he calls Talia. He tells her about the baby swap scandal and asks if, given the news, she’d like to meet the child who might be their lost son or daughter. Talia, understandably, is furious. Her emotions boil over. The trauma of burying her child, only to now be told that the baby may not have been hers at all, is too much to bear. Her first instinct is to kill the person responsible for causing this pain.
Still, Talia decides to take Bruce up on his offer. If the League of Assassins and Batman work together to gather information, she wants to know the truth. And of course, Damian has just discovered that he may have an older sibling—and he’s determined to meet them first. He’s not going to let anyone else in the family get to them first, calling dibs on being the first to see the once presumed-dead sibling.
Two months had passed, and there was still no new information about where in the world Bruce and Talia’s child was. However, since the news had broken in the U.S., many of Bruce’s friends had stepped in to help. Lex Luthor and Oliver Queen suggested that Bruce's child might have taken a DNA test, as it was becoming increasingly popular among adopted or orphaned individuals who wanted to find their birth parents or potential siblings—whether through sperm donation or other means.
That’s when they discovered that a 14-year-old kid from a small town in Illinois had done a DNA test. This was how Bruce, Talia, and the Bat family found out that their lost sibling—whom they all assumed was a boy—was alive. The confusion had arisen because, when she took the test, Danny had used her nickname, Danny Fenton, rather than her full name, Danielle Fenton, which led everyone to assume she was male. In contrast, Jazz, her older sibling, had written her full name—Jasmine Fenton—on her own test. So, when the Bat family found the results, they expected a boy but were unaware that Danny was, in fact, a girl.
However, Danny and Jazz’s parents, Jack and Maddie Fenton, had never opened the letter containing the letter explain the whole affair. . It had been sent to the Fenton household, but it was discarded as junk mail, with the Fentons assuming it was another complaint about their family, specifically Jack and Maddie’s eccentric, often controversial, scientific endeavors. No one realized the importance of the letter until much later.
The test results showed two key revelations that shocked both Danny and Jazz. First, the two were not biologically related at all. They were not sisters by blood. Second, the test revealed that one of Danny’s biological parents had Middle Eastern ancestry. This was a detail that Danny hadn’t known, nor had she ever suspected.
Meanwhile, as Danny was undergoing a strange and painful transformation, gaining her ghost powers and becoming a half-ghost, she unknowingly shared this moment with a significant event taking place far from Amity Park. On the other side of the world, John Constantine was battling demons. During one such fight, a particular demon expressed an intense fear, saying, “Are we really going through with this? I thought Lady Gotham would never agree to it. Hell, most of us demons don’t want to deal with her wrath.”
Constantine, intrigued, asked, “Why would a demon like you be afraid of Lady Gotham? I’ve met Batman and his insane family, and honestly, half the time, I don’t even believe they’re mortal. But what does Batman have to do with you? He doesn’t even know you.”
The demon paused, clearly shaken. “There was an event where Cronus ( Clockworks) called together all the demons, all the powerful beings, into the infinite realms. During that meeting, Cronus ( Clockworks) revealed one truth: the Ghost King will wake from his slumber. And only a warrior—not from the land of the living, nor from the Infinite realm—will be able to defeat him. This event will happen in every timeline Cronus has seen. But the parentage of the warrior changes with each timeline. This time, the warrior’s parentage is what scares us. Nobody wants to see the wrath of Lady Gotham.”
Constantine narrowed his eyes, sensing the gravity in the demon’s words. “What are you talking about?”
The demon continued, fear lacing its voice. “The decision that was made—bringing this individual, this warrior, into the fight—has caused a ripple effect across the ancient realms. Some of us, those who are eternal, those who have never known death, have already overstepped. Even some of the observers—beings who are supposed to remain neutral—have meddled. Now we have to deal with the consequences of our actions. And it’s not just us. It’s the entire infinite realm. We’re all doomed. Let us pray, Constantine, that the Ghost King never awakens. For when he does, and the warrior defeats him in single combat... that will be when all of our fears come to fruition. It will be the beginning of the end.”
Constantine’s stomach turned as the weight of the demon’s words settled in. “You’re serious, aren’t you?” he muttered under his breath.
“Deadly serious,” the demon replied. “What they’ve done… is beyond repair. And the worst part is, they didn’t even realize it. The actions of the living—specifically Lady Gotham and her vigilantes—have overstepped a boundary. The warriors of Gotham, the protectors, the police, the citizens—even the Joker—are all unknowingly playing a part in this colossal mistake. It wasn’t Darkside, or any of the other cosmic threats or even Supernatural threats that you and those Heroes have faced, that will bring about the end. NO It’s this one misstep. One moment of carelessness. One action, and now it’s too late.”
Constantine stood there, his mind racing. “This prophecy... It’s not just about one person, is it? It's about the whole damn city, the whole damn world.”
The demon nodded grimly. “Gotham is the key. And once the warrior rises, once the wrath of Lady Gotham is unleashed, nothing will stop it. Cronus himself is holding an emergency meeting about this, trying to figure out how to deal with it. And let me tell you—things are not looking good for anyone.”
Constantine cursed under his breath. He realized that the situation was far worse than he could have ever imagined. If the demon was right, and this prophecy was truly tied to Gotham, then they were all in serious trouble. And what terrified Constantine the most was the thought of Batman finding out that someone—someone he loved—was being manipulated, consciously or not. Batman didn’t care about the methods or the reasons; if anyone he cared about was caught up in a scheme like this, the consequences would be catastrophic.
“God help us,” Constantine muttered, more to himself than to the demon. “Because if this gets back to Gotham… none of us are getting out of this alive.”
So if this post gets a lot of likes I will make a part 2 continuing the story. Because this is something that has been stuck in my mind I just want to share it.
#dp x dc#danny phantom#dc x dp prompt#john constantine#female danny#batfam#damian wayne#damian al ghul#cassandra cain#talia al ghul#Gotham baby mystery
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Bruce being poly and bisexual would fix me
#bruce wayne#batman#bisexual bruce wayne#oliver queen#selina kyle#talia al ghul#minkhoa khan#john constantine#clark kent#harvey dent#zatanna zatara#batcat#brutalia#batanna#ghostbat#bruharvey#batstantine#superbat#dc comics
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#batman#dc#DC comics#dcu#batfam#batfamily#batman polls#batfamily polls#tumblr polls#poll#polls#dc polls#alfred pennyworth#thomas wayne#martha wayne#bruce wayne#john grayson#mary grayson#catherine todd#willis todd#jack drake#janet drake#talia al ghul#doug thomas#elaine thomas#crystal brown#jim gordon#debate
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B5 text posts memes part 5
[part 1] [part 2] [part 3] [part 4] [part 6] [part 7] [part 8] [part 9] [part 10] [part 11] [part 12]
#babylon 5#b5#babylon five#john sheridan#jeffrey sinclair#michael garibaldi#talia winters#susan ivanova#mr. morden#morden#ambassador kosh#kosh#lt. corwin#lochley#elizabeth lochley#marcus cole#sinclair x garibaldi
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I need another season
#halo series#halo#spartan#john 117#master chief#talia perez#corporal perez#artists on tumblr#traditional drawing#ink drawing
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My super sons✨
(academy edition)
I ran out of ideas, but someone suggested this to me :)
#dc comics#dc#johnzee#magicblazer#zatanna#zatanna zatara#john constantine#constantine#super sons#damian wayne#damian al ghul#jonathan kent#superman#lois lane#clark kent#kal el#bruce wayne#talia al ghul#clois#brutalia#jon kent#superboy#robin#zatara ii
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SEASON 1, EPISODE 4, “THE SWITCH.”
The morning hum of the precinct had its usual rhythm — coffee brewing, boots stomping across tile, the occasional shouted “Where’s my damn vest?” echoing from the locker rooms.
But there was an energy in the air. A kind of anticipatory buzz that hinted at chaos, the kind that only Sergeant Grey seemed capable of orchestrating without ever raising his voice.
The bullpen filled fast. Tim Bradford leaned against the wall at the back of the briefing room, arms folded across his chest, watching the usual suspects file in. His expression was unreadable — but the slight twitch of his jaw said he was already skeptical.
Beside him, Dylan Jenkins strolled in, black coffee in hand, her eyes sharp and steady, that usual air of British smugness wrapped around her like armour. She clocked the mischievous glint in Grey’s eyes before he even said a word.
Uh-oh.
Grey cleared his throat, standing tall at the front with his clipboard. “Today is a special day.”
Bradford rolled his eyes. “Here we go…”
Dylan smirked into her coffee.
Grey continued. “As part of your ongoing development, and because some of you are getting a little too comfortable in your partnerships, we’re mixing things up.”
A ripple of surprise — and light panic — moved through the room.
“Today, you’re each going to work with someone new. Not just to test your adaptability, but to challenge your communication, your habits, and your trust.”
He began reading off the new pairings, voice firm and deliberate.
“Chen — you’re with Bishop.”
Lucy blinked, wide-eyed, and looked over at Bishop, who just offered a tight-lipped, amused smile.
“Nolan — you’re riding with Officer Yates.”
John sighed softly and gave a nervous thumbs up to the corner where Yates leaned, already unimpressed.
“Bradford — you’re with West.”
Jackson grinned like a kid unwrapping a gift. “Let’s go, Coach.”
Tim muttered under his breath, “This is going to be a long day…”
“Lopez,” Grey said, “you’re with Jenkins.”
Angela Lopez’s eyebrows shot up — and despite herself, she let out a soft but audible: “Yes.”
Dylan looked over, amused. “You alright there, partner?”
Lopez played it cool. “Just… always nice to work with someone who’s actually intimidating on purpose.”
Dylan’s grin widened. “Flattery gets you a better playlist.”
The truth was, Angela Lopez was genuinely thrilled. She’d admired Dylan since day one — her quiet intensity, her control, that cool accent and no-bullshit approach. Dylan was a walking detective’s manual with a tragic past and a wry sense of humour. And she carried herself like someone who could win a bar fight with one arm.
Lopez wanted to learn. And Dylan? Dylan secretly felt the same. Lopez was sharp, assertive, and charismatic in a way Dylan would never be. She liked her. Which unnerved her slightly.
But she wasn’t going to admit that. Obviously.
Grey stepped forward again. “One more thing — today’s not just about routine patrols or team-building exercises.”
Cue Tim’s second eye-roll of the morning.
Grey went on, “Your objective today is to learn one personal thing about your temporary partner. Something they don’t advertise. Something real.”
There was a collective groan from every corner of the room.
“No surface-level nonsense,” Grey clarified. “I don’t want to hear about favorite bands or pet names. I want something they wouldn’t normally share. And by end-of-shift, you’ll each report back.”
“Seriously?” Tim muttered.
Grey met his eyes directly. “Yes, seriously. You all spend more time with each other than your own families. It’s about time you acted like it.”
“Sounds invasive,” Dylan said casually, sipping her coffee. “I’m in.”
Grey glanced at her. “Careful, Jenkins. You’re not as impenetrable as you think.”
She raised a brow, accepting the challenge with a half-shrug.
Tim pushed off the wall, heading toward Jackson without a word. But the moment his back was turned, Dylan caught the way he glanced her way — just for a beat.
That half-second pause.
A reluctant tug at the corner of his mouth.
He wouldn’t say it — ever — but she knew.
He was going to miss riding with her.
As Dylan turned toward Lopez, Angela was already flipping open a notebook from her vest pocket.
“Alright,” she said. “First question — what’s your interrogation strategy when someone’s clearly lying but knows they’re cleverer than you?”
Dylan blinked. “Wow. Straight to it.”
“I don’t mess around.”
Dylan smirked. “You’re not going to let me get through the day without talking about my feelings, or detective tips, are you?”
“Not a chance.”
And with that, the pairs began to peel away, fanning out toward patrol cars, assignment sheets in hand, new energy in their step.
Dylan Jenkins had no doubt she’d uncover something about Lopez.
What she didn’t realise — not yet — was just how much Lopez was going to dig out of her.
The briefing room had emptied quickly after roll call, with rookies filing out toward their assigned units like chess pieces scattering across the board. The parking lot hummed with the sound of cruisers starting up, boots hitting pavement, clipped conversation crackling through open radios.
But just outside the rear entrance, in the slight shadow of the awning, four training officers lingered.
Tim Bradford. Talia Bishop. Angela Lopez. And Officer Yates.
All four leaned against the concrete wall in practiced silence — the kind that only came from people used to leading the charge. For a moment, no one spoke. Just the shared nods, the low clink of coffee cups and tactical belts.
Then, naturally, Lopez broke the silence.
“So,” she said casually, hands on her hips, “Jenkins. What am I in for?”
Tim didn’t immediately respond. He stared out toward the lot, watching as Dylan disappeared around the corner with her coffee in one hand and her signature walk — unbothered, steady, quietly intimidating — cutting across the asphalt.
“She’s solid,” he said finally. “One of the sharpest cops I’ve worked with in a long time.”
Lopez raised her brows. “That sounded suspiciously like a compliment.”
“It was,” Tim said flatly. Then, reluctantly, he added, “But she’s got a few… quirks.”
“Oh, I love quirks,” Lopez said with a grin. “Shoot.”
Tim shifted his weight slightly, arms folded across his chest. “She’s got a short fuse. Controlled — mostly — but if someone’s being an idiot or doing something reckless, she doesn’t always hold back.”
Lopez nodded. “Noted.”
“She also takes too many risks,” Tim continued. “Not the adrenaline-junkie kind — more like… if she sees someone in danger, she doesn’t hesitate. Even if it puts her in the line of fire.”
“Sounds like someone else I know,” Bishop murmured with a look toward Bradford.
Tim ignored it.
“She’s got instincts like a detective who’s worked twice her years,” he added. “Cuts through lies like nothing, picks up on details most people miss. But…”
“But?” Lopez prompted.
Tim hesitated.
“She shuts down sometimes,” he admitted, voice lower now. “Just… goes quiet. You’ll be mid-shift, everything fine, then something will hit her — a call, a suspect, a phrase — and she’ll go radio-silent. Detached.”
Yates glanced over. “Trauma?”
“Definitely,” Tim said. “What kind, I don’t know. She doesn’t talk about it. Not to me.”
Lopez tilted her head thoughtfully. “So she internalises. Pushes through. Bottles it up.”
“Exactly.”
Bishop crossed her arms. “And yet you still say she’s solid?”
Tim looked at her, voice even. “She is. She doesn’t let it get in the way of the work. But you’ll see it if you’re paying attention. She’s not a mess — she’s just carrying something big. And she’s good at hiding it until it gets too heavy.”
Lopez nodded, taking all of it in with a quiet seriousness.
“She’s one of the best partners I’ve ever had,” Tim added after a pause. “But she doesn’t want people to know that she still bleeds.”
The group was quiet for a moment, the weight of his words settling over them like heat.
Yates finally broke the silence with a grunt. “I’ve got Nolan. He’s probably already offering to pay for lunch.”
Bishop smirked. “Chen’s practically allergic to talking about herself. This should be fun.”
Lopez took one last sip of her coffee, then dropped the cup into a nearby bin.
“Well,” she said, stretching her shoulders, “sounds like it’s going to be an interesting day.”
Tim offered a dry smirk. “Just keep your seatbelt fastened.”
Lopez glanced over at him as she headed toward her cruiser. “Don’t worry. I’ve been waiting for this ride for a while.”
As the others dispersed, Tim lingered for a beat longer, eyes following the direction Dylan had walked.
He wouldn’t say it aloud.
But part of him hated that someone else was riding with her today.
Not because he didn’t trust Lopez.
But because he did.
The cruiser rolled down a sleepy stretch of side street near Echo Park, warm sun filtering through the windshield, the usual city noise quieted by a rare pocket of calm.
Angela Lopez gripped the wheel with one hand, trying very hard to look casual — and failing. The second she’d been assigned to ride with Detective Dylan Jenkins, she’d been a mixture of giddy, focused, and slightly terrified. Dylan wasn’t just sharp — she was magnetic. The kind of cop whose silence made people talk, whose gaze could unearth things buried years deep.
Angela wanted to learn. Desperately.
And Dylan?
Dylan was the kind of person who didn’t give anything away for free.
Which is why Lopez had parked in the shade, killed the engine, and said — casually, but very much on purpose — “Figured now’s a good time for the whole ‘tell me something personal’ thing Grey’s making us do.”
Dylan, in the passenger seat, raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “You’re really following through with that?”
“Absolutely,” Lopez said, turning to face her fully. “You’ve got layers, Jenkins. And I want to know what’s underneath.”
Dylan gave a soft snort and looked out the window. “You’re too eager.”
“I’m ambitious,” Lopez corrected. “There’s a difference.”
Dylan didn’t respond immediately. She seemed to weigh the silence, like she was deciding whether to fill it or let it stretch.
“You know what, let’s just get this over with.” Then she said, very quietly: “I had a younger brother.”
Angela’s smile faded slightly, caught off guard by the abrupt sincerity in her voice. “Yeah?”
“Rio,” Dylan continued. “He was… a mess. Charming, funny, but always in trouble. Drugs, theft, fights — you name it.”
Lopez stayed quiet, sensing the shift.
Dylan’s voice was calm. Controlled. But there was something just beneath it — like she was walking across glass, barefoot.
“I was more of a parent than a sister. Our dad was a drunk, high more often than not. Mum never cared enough to ask where we were, let alone what we were doing. So I took care of him. Cooked, cleaned, covered for him. Tried to keep him on the rails.”
Angela frowned, already feeling the tightening in her chest. “That’s a lot for a kid.”
Dylan nodded slowly. “When I joined the Met, started working my way toward detective, I got tunnel vision. Thought if I made it — if I became someone — I could pull him out of it all. But I stopped watching. He started acting off. Secretive. Jumpier. I chalked it up to immaturity.”
She went quiet for a beat.
Then said, so softly it nearly disappeared: “One day, I was on shift. Got called to a scene. Anonymous tip. Body dumped in an alley behind a kebab shop in Camden. Male. Early twenties. Gunshot to the chest.”
Angela didn’t move.
Dylan stared straight ahead, eyes locked on something far away. “It was Rio.”
The air in the cruiser went still.
“I was the one who unzipped the bag,” Dylan said. “Didn’t even realise what I was looking at until I saw the tattoo on his collarbone. I still see it. Every single day.”
Lopez’s throat tightened. “Dylan…”
“I should’ve done more. Should’ve pushed harder. Should’ve seen it coming.” Her fingers tapped once on her thigh. “That guilt? It doesn’t fade. It just shifts. Changes shape. But it never leaves.”
Angela took a slow breath, grounding herself. “You were a kid trying to carry two lives. And then you were a woman trying to fix something no one trained you for. That’s not your fault.”
Dylan finally looked at her. “Tell that to the part of me that sees his face every time I look in a mirror.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was full. Real.
Angela, moved but composed, reached into the console, pulled out a granola bar, and handed it over like it was a peace offering.
Dylan blinked at it. “What’s this?”
“Something to chew on instead of your guilt,” Lopez said simply. “Also, you skipped breakfast. I saw you.”
Dylan let out a surprised huff of laughter. The smallest, briefest smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.
“You’re relentless,” she muttered.
Angela grinned. “Ambitious. We went over this.”
They sat for another quiet moment, the engine off, the city moving around them like distant waves.
And for the first time since the shift started, Dylan felt like she wasn’t just being studied — she was seen.
The cruiser had been rolling again for about ten minutes, but the earlier conversation hung in the air like dust — soft, but ever-present.
Angela Lopez hadn’t stopped thinking about Rio. About the way Dylan’s voice had shifted when she said his name. About the quiet resilience behind the guilt that she wore like armour. Dylan had cracked open something real and painful, and somehow she hadn’t done it for sympathy — she’d done it like it was nothing more than breathing.
Angela was still in awe.
Which was exactly why she was caught off guard when Dylan said, casually:
“Alright, your turn.”
Angela blinked. “My turn?”
“Grey’s little challenge?” Dylan said, glancing at her with a hint of a smirk. “You got my tragic backstory. Time to cough up yours.”
Angela tried to laugh it off. “Come on, I don’t have anything near as heavy as that.”
Dylan didn’t look away. “Didn’t say it had to match. Just said it had to matter.”
Lopez hesitated. Her hands tightened slightly on the steering wheel, knuckles flexing as she stared straight ahead. The light turned red, and the cruiser rolled to a gentle stop.
She exhaled slowly, thinking. Then, finally:
“I wasn’t supposed to make it this far.”
Dylan turned toward her, intrigued.
Angela kept her eyes on the road. “Not that I wasn’t capable. But where I’m from, people like me — young, brown, working-class — we don’t get handed a damn thing. My older brother? In prison. My cousin? Dead at twenty-two. My mom worked three jobs and still couldn’t keep the lights on sometimes. Every teacher I ever had told me I was ‘spirited’ — which is just code for ‘you’re gonna burn out or blow up.’”
Dylan listened in silence, her gaze steady, but not pressing.
Angela’s voice dropped slightly. “I learned how to fight young. Not physically, just… push back. Speak up. Out-talk, out-work, out-smart everyone around me. I told myself I’d get out. Become something.”
“And you did,” Dylan said quietly.
“Not yet,” Angela replied, her smile faint but tight. “Detective’s still the goal. Getting the badge, cracking the cases, putting my name on something that matters.”
She paused again.
“But sometimes… I still feel like that girl from Boyle Heights. The one who got overlooked. Like at any minute, someone’s gonna realise I’m faking it.”
Dylan was quiet for a long beat.
Then, with a small smile: “Imposter syndrome.”
Angela nodded. “Yeah.”
Dylan leaned her head back against the seat, watching the world move past the window. “You’re not faking it. You’re earning it. Every damn day.”
Angela glanced at her, surprised.
“You’re sharp,” Dylan continued. “You lead with your instincts, but you’re not reckless. You want to learn, but you don’t beg. You ask. Direct. Respectful. And you listen. Not many people do that.”
Angela’s chest tightened slightly — not from discomfort, but from something deeper. Recognition. The rare feeling of being seen and understood without having to scream for it.
“Thanks,” she said softly. “Coming from you, that means a lot.”
Dylan didn’t make a big deal of it. Just gave her a slow nod.
And just like that, something unspoken fell into place between them.
Not rivalry.
Not hierarchy.
But mutual respect. The kind that comes before a real friendship.
The rest of the shift passed in a comfortable rhythm — answering calls, sharing dry humour, working like they’d been doing it for years.
And as they drove back to the precinct with the city dipped in gold from the setting sun, Angela looked over at Dylan and said, half-smirking:
“You ever think about transferring to training officer? You’d make a pretty great mentor.”
Dylan raised an eyebrow. “You saying I’m old?”
“I’m saying I’m learning more from you in one shift than I have from some people in six months.”
Dylan scoffed. “Don’t get sentimental. It doesn’t suit you.”
Angela just smiled wider. “Too late.”
And this time, when Dylan smiled back, it wasn’t guarded or small.
It was genuine.
The beginning of something solid.
The warehouse sat low and wide in the fading light, its corrugated steel walls already rusting at the seams. It looked forgotten, tucked between a scrapyard and a storage yard, but the intelligence was solid — it was a front. A gun runner had been operating from the inside, moving modified rifles and pistols through the city like clockwork.
Tim Bradford stood just outside the perimeter fence, his vest heavy over his chest, one hand resting on the grip of his service weapon. Jackson West stood beside him, less steady, shifting from foot to foot like he couldn’t quite settle his nerves.
Tim gave him a glance. “You good?”
Jackson nodded, but it was the kind of nod that came too fast — automatic. Not rooted in confidence. His eyes were wide, scanning everything too quickly.
Tim noted it. Tucked it away.
They moved in with two other units, taking different access points around the back of the warehouse. The tension hung thick in the air — that razor edge before the breach, when anything could go wrong and usually did.
Tim signalled.
They stepped through the side door into shadow and must.
Then came the shout.
“LAPD! Show me your hands!”
The response was immediate — the pop of gunfire cracked through the air like a whip, loud and disorienting in the tight space.
And that was when it happened.
Jackson froze.
He dropped to his knees behind a steel crate, arms over his head, his entire body trembling with the sudden crash of adrenaline. His gun hung useless at his side. Breath ragged. Eyes locked on nothing, like he’d been transported somewhere else entirely.
Tim barely had time to process it — diving behind a forklift, returning fire with precision. One suspect went down. Another bolted through a side door, and the sound of boots echoed through the far corridor.
Once the gunfire stopped, everything went still.
Except Jackson.
Still crouched. Still shaking.
Tim’s heart thundered in his chest — part residual adrenaline, part something heavier.
He holstered his weapon and crossed the floor, boots crunching over spent casings and shattered glass. He crouched down beside Jackson, his voice low but firm.
“West.”
No response.
“Jackson. Look at me.”
Jackson finally did — and his eyes were glassy, terror swimming just beneath the surface.
Tim’s gut twisted.
This wasn’t just rookie nerves. This was real fear. The kind that locked the body down and cut off instinct. The kind that, in the wrong moment, could get someone killed.
Tim had seen it before. Hell, he’d seen it in himself once — long ago.
He helped Jackson to his feet slowly. The kid didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. His silence said everything.
Later, once the scene was cleared and backup had taken over, Tim stood near the cruiser, arms folded, watching Jackson sit quietly in the passenger seat, staring out at the pavement with haunted eyes.
Tim had seen rookies break before. It came with the job. But this moment, this bust — it brought something else back to the surface.
Dylan.
That gunfight. The blood. The noise.
The way she’d run to him — even as she bled.
The way she stayed focused, stayed sharp, and dragged him out with one arm and zero hesitation.
He’d almost died that day.
But she hadn’t frozen.
She hadn’t flinched.
She’d acted.
She’d saved him.
And now, watching Jackson crumble under the same kind of pressure, Tim felt that truth dig deeper than before:
He was fucking lucky.
Lucky Dylan had been the one with him that day.
Lucky she hadn’t second-guessed herself.
Lucky that, even carrying her own trauma, she still ran toward the danger, not from it.
Jackson wasn’t ready.
He might never be.
And Tim?
Tim realised, for the first time in weeks, just how rare it was to have someone like Dylan at your side when everything went to hell.
The lunch crowd at the burger van buzzed with casual energy — the clatter of boots, the scent of grease in the air, and the familiar sound of laughter bouncing off brick walls. Officers gathered in loose circles, leaning against cruisers, paper-wrapped burgers in hand. It was one of those rare moments where the precinct exhaled.
Angela Lopez and Dylan Jenkins sat together at one of the dented folding tables beneath the truck’s faded yellow awning. Grease-stained napkins rustled in the soft breeze, and the sun baked gently on their shoulders as they picked at fries and sipped lukewarm sodas.
“I swear,” Lopez was saying through a grin, “if Bishop gives me one more lecture on ‘leading with empathy,’ I’m going to start handing out emotional support stickers during arrest reports.”
Dylan smirked. “And here I was thinking the point of training officers was to beat the empathy out of people.”
Lopez snorted. “You and Bradford are basically a ‘Caution: Emotional Repression’ poster.”
“Flattered,” Dylan replied dryly, but her eyes glinted with amusement.
That’s when they heard it — the unmistakable screech of tires, a black-and-white cruiser pulling in too fast, skidding slightly before jolting to a stop just beyond the picnic area.
Lopez and Dylan both looked up.
Tim Bradford climbed out of the vehicle. His vest hung open, jaw set, hands flexing at his sides like he was physically trying to contain something.
“Lopez!”
His voice snapped through the air like a gunshot — sharp, commanding, pissed.
Angela froze mid-reach for her drink. Her smile vanished.
She turned toward Dylan with an uneasy glance. “Give me a sec.”
Dylan nodded, slowly lowering her cup, but her eyes never left Tim. She knew that walk. That energy. Something had gone very wrong.
Lopez met him halfway, intercepting him just before he stormed past the van. She kept her voice low, cautious. “Tim. What’s going on?”
Bradford didn’t sugar-coat it. “Why the hell did you let me hit the street with a rookie who folds under fire?”
Lopez flinched — barely — but Dylan caught it from the table.
“What are you talking about?” Angela asked, her stomach tightening.
“Jackson froze.” Tim’s voice was rising now, louder than it needed to be, hot with frustration. “We hit that warehouse, called out ‘LAPD,’ and the second bullets started flying, he dropped behind cover, covered his damn head and did nothing. Didn’t draw his weapon. Didn’t return fire. Didn’t even radio. Just shut down.”
Lopez swallowed hard. “I—” She hesitated. “I knew he had an issue with gunfire. Early on. Back in the first few weeks. But we worked through it. I thought it was handled.”
Tim’s eyes flared. “You thought wrong.”
Angela’s mouth opened, but she couldn’t find the words.
“I could’ve been killed,” he snapped. “We could’ve all been killed. You think I don’t know rookies mess up? Of course they do. But freezing like that in an active fire zone? That’s not just a mistake — that’s a dangerous blind spot. And you should’ve flagged it.”
“I didn’t hide it,” Lopez said quietly. “We worked through it. I saw him improve. I thought he’d gotten past it.”
“Well, today proved he hasn’t.”
Across the lot, Dylan sat still, gaze sharp. She didn’t move, didn’t interrupt, but her entire posture had changed — alert now, spine straight, fingers slowly flexing around her soda cup.
She could hear every word. So could half the lot.
Lopez’s voice dropped, the weight of it heavy. “You think I’d knowingly put you at risk?”
Tim didn’t answer right away. His jaw clenched. “No. But that doesn’t make this better.”
“I’ll talk to him,” Lopez promised, regret lining her voice now. “I’ll handle it.”
Tim nodded once, clipped, then turned and stalked back toward his cruiser, tension still radiating from his frame like heat from asphalt.
Angela stood there a moment longer, blinking against the sun, before making her way back to Dylan — slower now, each step heavier.
She dropped into the seat with a quiet exhale and rubbed her temples.
“I thought he was ready,” she muttered. “I really thought we fixed it.”
Dylan was silent for a beat. Then, gently: “Some cracks don’t show until the pressure’s real.”
Angela glanced at her. “Bradford’s right to be pissed.”
“He is,” Dylan said evenly. “But you’re not the first to believe in someone and get proven wrong.”
Angela’s eyes drifted toward the squad car where Tim sat alone behind the wheel, gripping the steering wheel like it might anchor him.
“You think he’s okay?” she asked.
Dylan looked at Tim, her voice unreadable. “No. But that’s not the question he’s ready to answer.”
The lot was starting to thin out.
The post-lunch lull had settled, officers drifting back to their cruisers or stretching out a few more minutes in the rare California shade. Dylan stood a few paces from the burger van, arms folded, eyes tracking the patrol units as they loaded back up.
She spotted Jackson West lingering beside the passenger side of his and Bradford’s shop, face tight, posture tense — clearly still rattled. He kept glancing toward the ground, like the pavement might offer him answers. Or forgiveness.
Dylan stepped away from the table and casually made her way over.
“West,” she said softly, keeping her voice level. “You alright?”
Jackson startled, looked up. “Oh. Uh. Yeah. Fine.”
“Liar,” Dylan replied calmly.
He gave a nervous chuckle, but didn’t deny it.
She leaned lightly against the car, looking ahead rather than at him. “I’ve seen that look before.”
Jackson frowned. “What look?”
“The one where you think one bad moment defines the rest of your life.”
Jackson’s throat bobbed. “It wasn’t just a moment. I froze. Completely.”
“And you think you’re the first?” she said, turning toward him now. “You think every single cop out there is born fearless? Invincible?”
“No,” Jackson murmured. “But Tim—Bradford—he’s not like that. He doesn’t tolerate fear.”
“No,” Dylan agreed. “He doesn’t. Because he’s scared of what it says about him. Not you.”
Before Jackson could respond, a familiar voice cut across the lot like a blade.
“Jenkins!”
Tim Bradford was marching toward them, face flushed, jaw locked.
Dylan sighed through her nose. “Here we go.”
Tim didn’t slow as he approached, his voice low but laced with fury. “Stay out of this.”
“I was talking to him,” Dylan replied, equally low. “Not you.”
“I don’t need you softening my rookie.”
Dylan pushed off the cruiser. “Maybe if you offered an ounce of actual support, he wouldn’t need someone else to do it.”
“Leave. Now.”
Dylan stared at him for a second, jaw tight, then turned to Jackson. “You’ll be alright. You’re not broken.”
Then she walked off without waiting for Tim’s reaction.
She found Lopez leaning against a light pole nearby, arms crossed, having clearly seen the whole thing.
“He’s in one of those moods,” Angela said.
Dylan scoffed. “He’s in one of those lives.”
Angela offered her a burger she hadn’t touched. “Peace offering?”
Dylan smirked. “Only if it comes with duct tape for his mouth.”
Later that day, the fluorescent lights of the locker room buzzed overhead as Tim changed out of his vest, shirt sticking to his skin after a long, tense shift.
The room was mostly empty.
Until Jackson walked in.
He hesitated by the row of lockers, then made his way over, standing a little too straight, his voice shaky but determined.
“Sir.”
Tim didn’t look up from re-strapping his sidearm. “What is it, West?”
“I just wanted to say… I know what happened today wasn’t acceptable. I know I screwed up. But I’m not giving up. I’m in this for the long haul. I just… I need some guidance.”
Tim finally looked up, meeting his eyes. Cold. Measured.
“I don’t do lost causes,” he said flatly.
Jackson flinched. “Sir—”
“You want a badge, prove you deserve it. Tomorrow, you show up and either act like a cop, or don’t bother showing up at all. Because if this happens again, it won’t just be your life on the line.”
Jackson’s face fell.
Then he nodded once, quietly. “Understood.”
He turned and left.
From behind a locker wall, Dylan stepped out.
She hadn’t meant to overhear — but she didn’t look sorry about it.
She folded her arms and stared at Tim, unimpressed. “That was brutal.”
Tim didn’t flinch. “It was honest.”
“It was unnecessary,” Dylan shot back. “You’re not training a robot. You’re training a person. One who just admitted he needs help.”
Tim snapped the locker shut, glaring. “He’s a cop. There’s no room for indecision when bullets are flying. You freeze, you die. Or worse, your partner dies.”
“I know that,” Dylan said, voice sharper now. “But he’s trying. You gave up on him before he even had a chance to process what happened.”
Tim’s voice dropped, low and cold. “I don’t have time to hand-hold people through panic. That’s not the job.”
“No,” Dylan said. “But it is the job to know when someone needs a hand and not a fist.”
The room crackled with tension.
Finally, Dylan shook her head, backing away. “No wonder you miss riding with me. I didn’t need to be perfect to get your respect — I just had to bleed.”
She turned and left.
Tim didn’t stop her.
But for the first time that day, the locker room felt colder.
And Bradford stood there, completely alone.
The morning sunlight was sharp and clear over Los Angeles, the city buzzing as it always did — too bright for how heavy some of its people felt. Jackson West had reported for duty on time, polished and proper as always, but a heaviness still clung to him. Not just the aftermath of freezing up during the bust, but the weight of disappointment — in himself, and maybe in how Bradford had looked at him afterward.
So when Tim Bradford told him they were taking a detour before patrol, Jackson expected another brutal reality check. Maybe a shooting range, or worse — a walk-through of the warehouse from the day before.
Instead, they pulled up outside a modest apartment block in Echo Park. Nothing fancy — rust along the railings, windows smudged with city grime, a building that had seen things.
Jackson followed Tim inside, silent and confused, until they stopped outside apartment 4B.
Tim knocked once. Twice.
The door opened a few inches — a cautious pair of eyes peeking out from behind the chain.
“Wallis. It’s me.”
The man behind the door blinked, then let out a breath of recognition and slowly unlatched the chain.
Wallis was short, round, pale-skinned with glasses too big for his face and a hoodie that looked two sizes too large. He shuffled back, waving them in. “Sorry. I don’t do well with… surprises.”
“You’re fine,” Tim said. “Thanks for letting us stop by.”
Jackson entered slowly, eyes scanning the small apartment. It was spotless but dark, the windows covered with blackout curtains. Video game consoles were neatly stacked beside a TV, and the faint smell of takeout hung in the air.
“Wallis,” Tim said, gesturing to Jackson, “this is Officer Jackson West. Jackson — this is Wallis. He’s a good man who went through something real. Something he’s still working through.”
Wallis gave a sheepish smile and a nervous wave. “Hi.”
Jackson returned it with a polite nod. “Nice to meet you.”
Tim glanced at Wallis, voice softening. “You mind telling him what happened?”
Wallis hesitated, then sat down on the edge of the couch. “Couple years ago, I got jumped. Hate crime. Three guys. They waited for me outside my building. Didn’t like that I… existed, I guess.”
Jackson blinked, slowly lowering himself into the chair opposite.
“I had broken ribs. Lost a few teeth,” Wallis said, trying to keep it light. “Bradford found me. Made sure I got to the hospital. Checked in on me every week for months. Even when the case went cold.”
Tim stayed silent — arms crossed, eyes low. Letting the moment belong to Wallis.
Wallis continued. “Now? I can’t even open the door without picturing those guys again. I don’t go outside. Groceries, meds, work — it’s all delivery or remote. I live in a box of fear.”
Jackson’s expression shifted, something deeper unlocking behind his eyes. “I think I get that.”
Wallis looked up at him. “You froze, huh?”
Jackson nodded. “Yeah. In a shootout. And now I can’t stop thinking about how badly it could’ve gone. How I should’ve moved, should’ve drawn my weapon, done something.”
Wallis nodded. “Sounds like you’re thinking a lot about what you didn’t do. That’s the loop. It’ll kill you if you stay in it.”
“What do you do?”
Wallis gave a wry smile. “I do it anyway. Scared. Shaking. Sometimes crying. But I do one thing each week that scares me. It’s slow, and some days I fail. But I figure if I move through it just once, I’ve already won.”
Jackson absorbed that like a sponge. His shoulders weren’t quite so tense anymore.
“Thanks,” he said. “That… helps.”
Later that day, the squad gathered in the roll call room. Grey stood at the front with a whiteboard covered in intel and a projected map behind him.
“Alright,” Grey said, “we’ve got word of a sizable drug operation operating out of a residential house in Glassell Park. Mid-level supplier, running fentanyl-laced product through the East Side. We’re moving tonight. Tactically. Quiet. No heroics.”
The room rustled as officers shifted in their seats, nodding, focusing in.
Dylan Jenkins, sitting at the end of the second row, noticed something immediately.
Jackson West looked… different. Still reserved, still serious, but his shoulders weren’t hunched anymore. His jaw wasn’t clenched. His hands weren’t fidgeting in his lap.
She glanced sideways, toward Bradford, who sat like he always did — arms crossed, jaw locked, attention sharp.
But when she caught the faintest, most subtle flicker of Tim’s eyes drifting to Jackson — just for a second — it clicked.
After the briefing, as everyone stood to disperse, Dylan sidled up to Tim, her voice pitched just for him.
“You took him to see someone, didn’t you?”
Tim didn’t look at her. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She smirked. “You big softie.”
That made him snap his eyes to hers, jaw tightening. “I am not a softie.”
“You kind of are.”
“I took him to someone who’s been through it,” Tim muttered. “Doesn’t mean I’m braiding his hair and journaling about my feelings.”
Dylan grinned. “No, you’re just personally helping scared rookies face their trauma head-on. With community support. Very un-Bradford of you.”
He glared at her. “You done?”
“Oh, not even close,” she replied, patting him on the arm. “But I’ll let you stew in your accidental emotional growth for now.”
She walked off, still smiling.
Tim stared after her.
Grumbling to himself.
But he didn’t deny it.
Not this time.
The briefing room had the kind of buzz that only came with high-risk operations — quiet but charged, like the air just before a thunderstorm.
Sergeant Grey stood at the front with a large printed layout of a multi-level car park, each floor marked with red ink and annotations in his tidy, efficient handwriting. A drone photo hovered behind him on the projector — grainy, but clear enough to show the layout. Five levels. Dozens of cars. At least six points of entry and exit.
And, according to intel, one active drug deal happening in the chaos of mid-afternoon foot traffic.
“This is not your standard takedown,” Grey began. “No front doors to kick in, no guaranteed sight lines. They’re using the location for exactly one reason — chaos. The suspects know they can disappear fast if we don’t move right.”
He tapped the map.
“We believe the exchange is going to happen here,” he said, indicating a blind corner on the third floor, tucked between two supporting columns and shielded by parked cars. “There’ll be lookouts posted on either side — that’s our first problem. The second? It’s public. Civilians everywhere. We need eyes. Fast reaction time. Zero gunplay unless absolutely necessary.”
The room was tense. Focused.
Grey began assigning positions.
“Chen and Bishop, northeast stairwell. Nolan, Yates — top deck. Lopez, south exit ramp. Bradford and Jenkins—” he pointed to the lower west stairwell, just adjacent to a pedestrian bridge.
Dylan arched a brow, glancing across the room at Tim. He gave her a single, silent nod.
Grey finished his rundown, making it clear: once the signal was given — a visual confirmation of the handoff — every unit would converge. Quick, quiet, and tight.
No heroics.
No missed beats.
Two hours later, the sun was still high and unforgiving, baking the concrete structure of the car park like an oven.
Tim Bradford and Dylan Jenkins sat together in the shop, parked one block away. Their position was locked in — they’d be on foot, moving through the side stairwell once the suspects entered the third floor. For now, they waited. Radio quiet. Phones dark. Everyone on standby.
Tim sat behind the wheel, shades on, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel in slow, measured beats.
Dylan had her vest half-unfastened, sipping on a bottle of warm water, eyes watching the pedestrian traffic beyond the windshield.
“Ever notice how stakeouts are always ninety percent boredom, ten percent near-death?” she muttered.
Tim didn’t look at her. “Try doing them with Nolan. Apparently he narrates the pigeons.”
Dylan smirked. “Bet you’d love that.”
“Absolutely not.”
There was a moment of quiet between them, not uncomfortable — just heavy with anticipation.
Dylan shifted slightly in her seat. “This one feels off.”
Tim glanced over. “How?”
“Too messy,” she said. “They’re not amateurs, but using a crowded car park in broad daylight? That’s erratic. Either they’re desperate, or they’re baiting.”
Tim gave a slow nod. “You think it’s a trap?”
“I think it’s a warning,” Dylan replied. “To someone. Maybe even us.”
Tim’s gaze lingered on her, thoughtful.
“Still,” she added, tightening the straps on her vest, “wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Tim’s mouth twitched slightly. “You like the chaos too much.”
“Only when I know who’s watching my back,” Dylan said simply.
Tim didn’t respond at first. He just looked back out the windshield, jaw flexing once.
Then, quietly, he said, “I’ve got you.”
The words weren’t sentimental.
But they didn’t have to be.
They were true.
A static crackled on the radio — Grey’s voice, low and sharp:
“Units be advised — suspects have arrived. Silver SUV, third level, west end. Eyes on. Prepare to move.”
Tim clicked on the dash cam. Dylan pulled her gloves tighter.
The hum in the air snapped to attention.
“Let’s go,” Tim said.
And they stepped out of the car — two shadows moving into the fray, calm in the storm, partners in the fire.
The car park stank of oil and sunbaked concrete, the kind of staleness that stuck in your throat. From their shadowed position behind a row of cars on the third floor, Tim Bradford and Dylan Jenkins moved with silent precision, each footstep calculated, bodies low and tight.
The air buzzed with tension.
They had eyes on the suspects now — three men, one holding a duffel bag, the other two scanning the lot with too much frequency to be mistaken for anything but muscle. One leaned against a pillar, tapping his boot anxiously. The other kept a nervous hand close to the hem of his oversized hoodie.
Tim muttered into his comm, “Visual confirmed. Suspects are in position. Package in hand.”
Grey’s voice crackled back: “Standby for signal.”
But the suspects must have caught a shadow, a flicker, something out of place — because in a single heartbeat, everything went to hell.
“Cops!”
Then—
Gunfire.
The deafening crack of it echoed through the concrete cavern.
Tim immediately shoved Dylan down behind the engine block of a black SUV as bullets pinged off metal and shattered windshields.
“Third level! Shots fired, shots fired!” Tim shouted into his comm, drawing his weapon and returning two sharp, clean shots toward the far wall.
Dylan was already moving — rolling across to better cover, taking up position at the rear wheel of a parked sedan. Her breaths came fast, shallow, but her grip was steady. Her eyes flicked to Tim’s position, checking on him.
And he was checking on her just as frequently.
Neither of them said it, but the fear was there — not for themselves, but for each other.
This was their first gunfight since the day they both bled into asphalt.
The last time, Dylan had dragged Tim out while bleeding herself.
The last time, Tim had nearly died.
That memory clung to both of them, silent and heavy.
Suddenly — movement.
One of the suspects broke from cover, sprinting across the open space toward the stairwell exit. Dylan pivoted sharply, gun raised, tracking him—
—and a second suspect turned and fired.
At her.
CRACK.
The bullet whizzed past her face — so close it clipped the edge of her vest strap. She threw herself behind a concrete pillar, her back slamming into it with a grunt.
“Dylan!” Tim’s voice sliced through the chaos, panicked, raw.
He lit up the shooter with three controlled bursts — two to the shoulder, one to the leg. The man went down hard, screaming.
Backup swarmed seconds later, a flood of officers closing in from every stairwell, guns raised, shouting commands. Suspects were cuffed, weapons kicked across concrete. The air reeked of smoke, rubber, and adrenaline.
And through it all, Tim was already moving toward her.
“Dylan—Dylan, talk to me.”
“I’m good,” she said hoarsely, pushing up from her cover, but he was already there — hands on her, pulling her behind another car, shielding her like the danger wasn’t already over.
She blinked, startled. “Tim, I’m fine—”
He didn’t listen.
His hands moved to her vest, checking her sides, her back, his fingers shaking slightly as he searched for blood.
“Take it off,” he muttered.
“I’m—”
“Take. It. Off.”
His voice was low, sharp, almost desperate.
So she did.
He yanked the vest off and ran his hands along her shirt, brushing her shoulder, ribs, waist — and then finally stopped. His hand lingered just above her stomach, pressing lightly.
Nothing.
No blood.
She placed her hand over his, stilling him.
“I’m okay,” she said, eyes steady on his.
His chest rose and fell like he couldn’t believe it yet — like he was waiting for the red to bloom somewhere anyway.
She softened. “You okay?”
He let out a slow breath. “Yeah. I just— it was close. Too close.”
Their hands were still touching. Her vest lay between them, forgotten on the ground.
Something passed between them then. Not just the rush of post-gunfight adrenaline. It was quieter. Heavier. Unspoken.
A kind of care that didn’t fit in their usual back-and-forth. Something unfamiliar, yet impossible to ignore.
Dylan was the first to pull back, sliding her vest back on and tightening the straps herself.
“You’re a menace when you go into protective mode,” she muttered.
Tim straightened, clearing his throat. “You almost got shot. Again.”
“And you looked like you were about to rip someone’s throat out with your bare hands.”
He shrugged. “Just part of the job.”
But neither of them believed that.
They didn’t say what it really was:
It was fear.
It was protectiveness.
It was something brewing that neither of them had language for.
And neither of them dared to name it.
Not yet.
The locker room was quiet, the day winding down, the adrenaline from the bust slowly giving way to exhaustion. Harsh fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting pale reflections on the tiled floor. Most officers had already cleared out, heading home or to paperwork — but Dylan Jenkins sat on the edge of the bench, rolling her shoulder gingerly, trying to hide the grimace she didn’t want anyone to see.
Except Tim Bradford wasn’t just anyone.
He walked in without a word, a first aid kit tucked under one arm, a bottle of water in the other. His vest was half undone, shirt untucked, a line of sweat clinging to his jaw from the chaos of the day. But his eyes were on her.
She smirked. “Let me guess. Florence Nightingale routine?”
“I’d say ‘patching up my rookie,’ but you’d probably bite my hand.”
Dylan tilted her head. “Tempting.”
Still, she didn’t protest when he dropped the kit beside her and knelt slightly to her side, fingers tugging at the strap of her vest to pull it down and assess the bruising near her collarbone. The bullet had missed, but just barely — it had clipped her vest, grazed the edge of her skin, close enough to leave a wicked bruise already blooming beneath the fabric.
Tim’s hands were steady — at first. But then his fingers stilled.
Just below the bruise, a sliver of skin was visible — a fresh, pink scar, still healing. A reminder of the last time they’d been under fire.
The day they both got shot.
Only difference was… Dylan didn’t stop for herself that day.
She’d bled through her shirt, dragging him to cover, patching him up while ignoring her own wound.
Tim stared at the scar. The way it stretched just beneath the bruise, fresh but closed. Clean, but not forgotten.
His jaw tightened.
He wasn’t touching it, but he didn’t need to. The image alone sparked a flash of memory:
—her face pale, focused, bleeding and still firing rounds—
—her hand pressed to his hip wound, voice urgent in his ear—
—“I’ve got you, stay with me”—
—blood on her shirt, her hands, her eyes locked on his, even when her own body was failing—
“Tim?”
Her voice broke through the spiral.
He blinked, pulling his hand back, eyes flicking up to hers. She was watching him now — not confused, just quiet. Knowing.
He didn’t say anything. Couldn’t.
But she knew what he’d seen.
And she knew what it meant.
Before anything more could pass between them, the locker room door burst open.
“Aww, come on!” Angela Lopez strolled in, peeling off her gloves and grinning wide. “I knew it. I knew I’d walk in on some weirdly charged moment.”
Dylan rolled her eyes and pulled her vest the rest of the way off. “It’s not charged. He’s just overdramatic.”
Tim stood, trying to shake off the look in his eyes. “You were almost shot. Again.”
“And yet I wasn’t. You’re welcome.”
Angela raised an eyebrow, looking between them. “Well, whatever’s happening here, I’m glad you’re both still in one piece.”She walked over to Dylan, softer now. “Hey. Just wanted to say thanks. For today. For the backup. For the calm-in-the-storm thing you do so well.”
Dylan smirked. “You’re welcome. You’re not terrible either.”
Angela grinned. “I think we’re gonna get on really well.”
Dylan gave her a look. “We already do.”
Lopez patted her on the good shoulder, then turned to Bradford. “Don’t let her bully you too much, okay?”
Tim grunted. “She can try.”
Angela left with a wink, disappearing down the hallway, leaving a heavy silence behind.
Dylan glanced over at Tim as she started to strap her vest back on.
He hadn’t taken his eyes off her scar.
“You alright?” she asked, voice low.
He nodded once. “Yeah. Just… saw something I should’ve noticed sooner.”
She paused. Then added, gently, “It wasn’t your fault.”
His jaw flexed, but he didn’t answer.
Instead, he bent down, zipped the first aid kit shut, and muttered, “Let’s get out of here.”
But as they walked toward the door side by side, his hand brushed hers — barely there, feather-light.
She didn’t move away.
And neither of them said a word about it.
DYLAN JENKINS X TIM BRADFORD SERIES
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#oc#the rookie#tim bradford#jackson west#john nolan#lucy chen#tim bradford x reader#fanfic#oc x tim bradford#angela lopez#talia bishop#officer bradford#sergeant bradford#wade grey#sergeant grey#rookie x oc
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The only (canon) DC ships to ever matter
#dc#dc comics#dickkory#katmajohn#brutalia#jayrena#dick grayson#koriand'r#john stewart#katma tui#bruce wayne#talia al gul#jason todd#rena dc
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R̸̜̈́u̵̟͘t̶̺̓ḧ̵͇l̷̟̋ē̶̘s̵̨̎s̵̩͒ṋ̵̋e̵͙̐s̵̡̈́ś̸͙
Get in the Water prompt Storm alternate version Animatic Fanart
There was a spell, Constantine had explained after his own trip to the afterlife. Something to contain Danyal's soul long enough to resolve his unfinished business, to keep him still and away from the influences of his fellow dead. And if that didn't work, Constantine continued, then there were ways to force a spirit to rest. It was better for a ghost to move on by themselves, but if there was no other choice...
Damian hoped Danyal would choose to rest on his own. That he'd let him explain, finally.
Danyal had been weak. Strong in a fight, but too weak to kill, and that infuriated Damian. But he was scared more than he was angry. Because that weakness would get Danyal killed, could get Damian killed, could get the League killed. Even the newest recruits had a stronger desire to kill than Danyal.
He was the weakest link in the chain. And while their mother had taught them to be ruthless, Danyal had remained limp with mercy.
They needed Danyal's body. It would be Danyal's tie to the earth, Constantine explained as he joined them on the Batplane. The souls of the dead don't often linger on the mortal plain. The magician had speculated that the only reason Danyal had managed to manifest in the waters below Gotham was because of Damian's presence, but his remains would keep him stable this side of life for however long it took to heal his soul.
But was that even possible?
"I don't know, kid," Constantine admitted during the plane ride. "Wish I had a better answer for you, but... Your brother is a siren now. And from the sound of it? He really wants you dead."
"Then why didn't he kill me?" Damian argued. "He had hours to do it... or minutes..." The time he spent in that green world felt longer than the ten minutes Father couldn't find him, but... "He had me in his grasp and let me go. Doesn't that mean he didn't want to-"
"Have you ever heard the phrase 'Playing with your food?'" Constantine asked instead. "Sirens aren't known for letting their prey go. If we're out here, its because he wants us here."
They--Damian, Father, Constantine, Grayson, and Todd--landed in Nanda Parbat after a few hours. There was a crypt inside for members of the Al Ghul family who didn't use the Lazarus Pits. It was there Danyal's body was entombed. They would have to steal it.
And it was unfortunate that Constantine got them caught within five minutes of entry.
Damian glared daggers at the man as they were led towards the Lazarus Pit. Constantine shrugged. "What? I don't want assassins chasing after me because of some light grave robbing! Besides, we need to explain the situation anyway-"
"And what, precisely, needs to be explained?" asked a woman from inside the chamber. The heroes were pushed inside, only to see Talia Al Ghul standing where her father should have been. The Lazarus Pit hissed and boiled behind her, casing the cave in a ghoulish light.
Damian could hear laughing.
Father stepped forward. "Talia. Where's Ra's?" Grandfather was the biggest threat to their plan succeeding.
Mother... looked away, unable to meet his gaze. "I do not know. At the present moment... the Demon Head is missing."
You could hear a pin drop. "What do you mean?" Father demanded.
"It's as I said; he is missing. Yesterday, he was alone in the Pit, and hours later, no one could find him." She glanced behind her, at the waters, before looking back at them. "I had assumed he'd left to care for the League's interests. Now-" She tilted her chin up, looking down at them. "What exactly do you need to explain? What is so important that you break into my home to tell me?"
Stepping forward, Constantine explained. Mother looked grim as he spoke of Danyal, but did not interrupt. "We want to put his soul to rest. But for that, we need access to his body-"
"You dare ask for such a thing?" Mother snarled. "As if I even believe you. My son would never-"
"Your son?" Grayson snapped. "From the looks of it, you didn't care for either of your children!"
As the group descended into an argument, Damian heard laughter again, Danyal's high pitched giggle harmonizing with something deep and bone shaking. The Lazarus Pits loomed over him, beckoning him, whispering. Damian took a step towards it as his mother said, "I don't even have his body!"
"What?" Damian snapped at his mother, focusing back on the conversation. "But the crypts-"
"After your brother's murder, the Demon Head ordered for the culprit to be found. But they were never discovered." Because the culprit was Damian, he knew, and no one else ever learned about it. "I wanted to place him in the Pits immediately, but I was ordered to stay my hand until the murderer was caught. But..."
"He never was," Damian finished for her. "And then you put Danyal into the waters?"
"Yes." She closed her eyes. "And he never came back out. Even if it was too late, he'd still come back as the undead, but he never rose from the waters."
"Then this is entirely my fault."
"Finally," Danyal whispered in his ear, breath chilling his skin.
Damian did his best to ignore it. Danyal was haunting him. Danyal needed to be put to rest. If they couldn't do it Constantine's way, then they had to put him to rest another way.
Grayson looked troubled. "Robin, it's not your fault-"
"I'm the one who killed him," Damian confessed. Everyone stared at him. Grayson, horrified; Mother, blank; Father, betrayed. Damian continued, "I overheard you and Grandfather arranging a fight to the death, and I knew who would win. I couldn't... I couldn't allow Danyal to die without the Al Ghul name, in disgrace as the one who wasn't good enough. So I killed him, assassinated him, and now he's haunting me for revenge." Damian looked at the Pit. "So go ahead, Danyal."
"Damian, what are you saying?"
"Danyal wants revenge on the person who killed him; I'm giving it to him." Todd was staring at him. Damian might not be able to see past his helmet, but he could feel the respect coming off the man. "Danyal, I know you're here. Please come out." If he focused long enough, he could just making out wheezing breaths. "I can hear you, please-"
Father grabbed Damian by the shoulders. "Damian, listen to what you're saying! You're offering your life up for nothing!"
"B's right." Grayson placed a hand on his shoulder. "There's got to be another way. You don't have to do this!"
"Yes I do!" Damian ripped himself out of Nightwing's grip. "I'm the one who killed him! I'm the one at fault! My brother is suffering because of me, I have to save him-"
Stepping between them all, Mother slapped him across the face.
And the Pit's whispers fell silent.
Damian stared up at his mother, cheek throbbing with pain. She glared back. "Cease this behavior at once," she snapped. "There's no need to get so worked up over a ghost, of all thing-"
"T̴̯̃al̵̬͂ị̴̿a̵̮̕ ̵̼͐A̴̗̕l̷͈̆ ̴͚̓G̵͎̀h̷̻͒u̶̜͋l̴͍̀."
This time, everyone could hear Danyal's voice, filled with static and corrupted. Damian swallowed as his dead brother continued,
"D̸͕͠o̶̪̅ ̸͍̆ỹ̵̗ö̸̲ũ̸̧ ̶͖̚k̶̻͊ņ̸͐o̸̹̚ẘ̸̙w̷̛̹ḧ̸͚́o̷͉̅ ̵͈̑I̶̪̽ á̵̞m̶͙̂?̸̻͂"
The cavern shook as the Lazarus Pit bucked, a wave forming in the absolute center of the water. The wave rose, pillaring up above their head and brushing the ceiling. A cold wind rushed through the room and blew out the torches on the walls, leaving only embers and the occasional florescent behind. Damian braced himself for the waters to rush out and flood.
Instead, the water fell back into the pit, like it had never risen in the first place, leaving behind a lone figure in its wake.
"Danyal," Mother whispered.
And the dead boy glared back at her with pure contempt.
#dc x dp#dp x dc#dcxdp#dpxdc#so i tried to find a permanent base for the league of assassins#and discovered that the Nanda Parbat I keep seeing is only a League base in the Arrowverse?#but it's the only one I could find so here it is!#c: damian wayne#c: john constantine#c: bruce wayne#c: talia al ghul#c: danny fenton#c: danyal al ghul#get in the water au#by the way danny straight up murdered Ra's#if anyone cares#just drowned his wrinkly old ass#Sorry if Talia and Bruce seem weird#I don't know how to write them#there will probably be more but this was already over a thousand words so whatev
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Very Important People + Text posts (season 2)
#very important people#text post meme#very important people show#dropout#vip dropout#dropout tv#vic michaelis#anna garcia#jacob wysocki#chris redd#kimia behpoornia#john early#kate berlant#danielle pinnock#zac oyama#paul f tompkins#corin wells#bobby moynihan#paul robalino#echo kellum#alex song xia#brennan lee mulligan#izzy roland#nicole byer#lisa gilroy#talia tabin
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