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thebibliosphere · 2 years ago

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Hnnngh. Now I’m fixating on the idea of time travel in this universe, and Young!Alfie is accidentally sent forward in time instead of backward while on a mission, and he ends up in the same timeline as Old!Alfie and all the chaos that’d ensue.

Like everyone knows, Alfred has a past. He’s been open with all the kids about his time in the SAS (…some of the stories, at least. The more heroic ones where he can focus on pulling through slim odds because he had his friends at his back, so really, Master Damian, you should make more effort to get along with young Master Drake. You never know when you might need each other.)

And they take it in stride. After all, they’ve seen Alfred when his family is threatened. They know about the shotgun he keeps close at hand, even if Bruce doesn’t like having it in the house. They’ve seen him in hand-to-hand combat when things go pear-shaped, and Alfred is their final line of defense. He might be slowing down a bit now (Bruce refuses to think about it), but it’s still impressive for a man his age. And he’s patched all of them up more times than any of them can count. He’s Alfred. He’s solid and dependable, and yeah, he’s got medals for killing people. But it was war. Needs must.

But there’s hearing stories about Alfred performing heroic feats for Queen and country and all the things he does for them, and then there’s seeing this young, scrappy version appear in a blinding flash of light and witnessing the sheer level of competent violence he’s capable of.

It’s like watching a carefully honed whirlwind of chaos: all razor-sharp edges and deadly precision that somehow threatens even worse pain if you don’t comply. A glint in the eyes that says, “I really don’t want to hurt you, but I can, and I will. If you make me. So, what’s it going to be?”

And all of it said with a smile. A cocky shrug of the shoulders that turns the smile into a smirk. A lovable jack-the-lad façade hiding a maelstrom of violence raging beneath the surface.

And you just know he’d fuck shit up in modern!Gotham.

He doesn’t mean to (“Honest, guv,” he says to Bruce, who is having too many existential crises at once because this is Alfred. This is the man who raised him and taught him the importance of restraint. He doesn’t get to shove his hands in his pockets and grin at him like one of the kids as he explains how the person who tried to kidnap Dick at tonight’s charity gala fell down several flights of stairs. Twice.) but there’s rumors abound that there’s a new vigilante in town, except this one makes Red Hood look like fucking Mother Theresa.

He seems to be a Bat, too, because he always seems to pop up when one of the Robins is in trouble. But he doesn't wear a mask and the bullets aren’t rubber, and Batman wouldn’t allow that, would we?

(Deathstroke watches the footage from the attempted kidnapping of Grayson and decides to make himself scarce for a bit. He’s not scared. He’s not. He’s horny impressed, and that’s worse. Besides, it’s been a while since he’s seen his kids. Maybe they’d like to come with him on vacation. Somewhere on the opposite side of the world. Just for a bit. Just until whoever this is fucks off.)

The kids love it. He’s funny and fierce with a smile that goes all the way to his eyes and so willing to teach them things.

Older Alfred lingers around, watching, giving off a faint air of disapproval when things veer more toward the ruthless. But he doesn’t stop Alfie (Because that’s how they make the distinction. He’s Alfred, and the younger version is Alfie.) He sees too well the logic in letting this younger version teach them the things he’s gotten too old to do.

It might keep them alive.

Damien, for one, is ecstatic. He’s learned so many new knife tricks. (Bruce is turning grayer by the minute.) Master Richard also seems to be benefiting, if only because, for the first time in his life, he’s got something akin to a big brother.

“It’s like a vacation,” he tells Alfred one morning, eating peanut butter straight from the jar with a spoon and sounding like he’s on the verge of tears. “He’s just there, Alfred. I don’t have to keep tabs on everyone. I don’t think I’ve slept this well since I was eight.”

“Christ,” Jason mutters, breaking down his gun at the breakfast table with irate business but with no real heat behind his glare.

Alfred should scold him for having a gun at the table, but he doesn’t want to. Truthfully, he’s a little jealous of all the time Master Jason is spending with Alfie at the gun range. The boy can break down guns in his kitchen if it means getting to see him more often.

Jason carries on cleaning the barrel of his gun, laser-focused on some defect only he can see. “Even when you’re the middle child, you’re fucking golden.”

“Language,” Alfred admonishes, which only earns him a disbelieving snigger from both boys.

“That’s rich coming from you,” Jason replies, the merry twinkle in his eyes more blue than green than they’ve been in years. “I think every other word out of Alfie’s mouth is ‘fuck.’”

“Or ‘cunt,’” Richard supplies, unhelpfully. “Or ‘bollocks.’”

Alfred pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m… he’s young and fresh out of the army. I’m sure you’ve heard this expression before, but it was a well-known fact of British wartime that among Her Majesty's finest, the word ‘fucking’ merely served as a warning that a noun was coming.”

That gets another snicker out of both boys, and Alfred feels it settle warmly in his chest.

Until Jason glances at him sideways again, gaze all too knowing. “Speaking of the Queen…”

Alfred returns his gaze with a level one of his own. “A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell, Master Jason. I should hope I raised you well enough to know that…”

“So that’s a yes, then,” Richard says, sounding far too smug.

Alfred steals back the jar of peanut butter and chases them out of his kitchen.

But the chaos doesn’t truly come to a head until one night on patrol when Tim almost dies.

“Who’s this chuckle-fuck, then?” Alfie asks, staring down at the prone clown on the ground, gun aimed steadily.

Tim swallows. “What are you doing here?” he asks, tone sharp and accusatory. Resentful at having been both caught and saved. A poor show of gratitude, he knows.

He hadn’t even heard the Joker coming up behind him. He’d be dead if Alfie hadn’t been tailing him even though he was supposed to be back at the manor waiting to hear from their version of Lucius Fox. Though, granted, so is Tim. He's meant to be in bed with his foot on ice. Not out here chasing drug rings.

“Oh, y’know,” Alfie drawled in that easy, sing-song Cockney accent still fresh out of the East End of 1950s London. He doesn’t take his eyes off the Joker. “Felt like a bit of fresh air. Well, fresh as you can get in Gotham, I suppose.”

He looks up then, fixing Tim with one of those easy smiles that makes him think of their Alfred when he’s caught them doing something he knows they shouldn’t but isn’t going to tell Bruce. “Though I could ask you the same thing, young Master Robin. I thought the Bat told you to stay put on account of that ankle.”

He nods toward Tim’s ankle, and Tim looks down, instantly wishing he hadn’t as the pain makes itself known like a hot lance being driven through his leg. It’d been sprained before, but now, looking at the angle, it’s definitely broken. He suspects the only reason he can’t really feel it yet is the panicked adrenaline surging through his veins.

It’d all been so quick.

One minute, he’d stopped to tighten the brace around his ankle, felt the air move behind him, and turned in time to see the Joker’s monstrous grin bearing down on him in the dark. He’d leaped sideways, barely avoiding the crowbar swung toward him a malicious cackle (talk about a repetitive gimmick), but his ankle had crumpled beneath him on the landing, and Tim was barely able to scrabble away again before the crowbar came down again, striking sparks off the metal roof where he’d been crouched mere moments before. Stupid, stupid, stupid, he should have known better. He wasn't fit for patrol, and he'd known it.

He’d just been doing so well with his case and hadn’t wanted to lose any time. And now he was going to die because the Joker got lucky and found him injured on a random rooftop. He’d still fought, dodging and weaving for all he was worth, trying to reach the edge so he could grapple away. But the Joker had caught the scent of blood in the water, downing Tim with a sickening crack of metal against anklebone.

Tim didn’t even know if he’d screamed. Probably.

Looming over him, the clown had sneered something about little baby birds with broken wings being out of the nest and how the Bats ought to keep better track of his brats.

And then he’d been gone. Dragged sideways by the weight of Alfie Pennyworth slamming into him like a bulldozer.

They’d grappled for a moment, the Joker using his lankier build to crowd Alfie into a crouch, but then a sharp elbow had come up into his jugular and dropped the clown like a stone. Alfie had turned then to look at Tim, a question poised on his friendly face, and the young Robin barely had time to shout a warning before the Joker’s hand shot out, gripping Alfie by the ankle and pulling him down. The ensuing scrabble had been ugly, with the Joker managing to flip the younger man on his back, ready to get his hands around his throat. But Aflie had anticipated that and used the momentum to sink his knee into the clown’s groin, taking advantage of his winded grunt to slam his head into the clown’s nose with vicious disregard for his own skull.

Like picking on the kiddies, do ya? He’d heard Alfie hiss as the young Englishman stood over the crumpled villain, who looked just as dazed by the uninhibited violence as from the pain, blood streaming down his pale face. Y’know, we had a word for people like you back where I’m from. And I’ll tell you something for free, mate. I don’t like people who hurt kids.

The ensuing kick to the ribs had been swift and brutal, knocking whatever little wind was left in the clown’s lungs. And it hadn’t stopped at one. Neither had the screaming.

“Stop!” Tim had wheezed as though he was the one being pummeled. “Stop, we have to… we have to take him to Arkham.”

Which brought them to the present moment, with Alfie standing over the Joker, gun drawn, and far too still. “You still haven’t answered me, y’know. Who is he? He looks familiar. He one of them nutcases in the Bat's Rogue gallery or something?”

Tim swallows, realizing with resignation the only way this is going to go. “He’s… he’s the Joker.”

If it was at all possible, Alfie stilled even further. Cold and unmoving. “The one who killed—”

“Yes.”

Alfie’s eyes flick to the crowbar dropped on the ground next to Tim. It feels like the air is being sucked out of the sky. The atmosphere thick and heavy with the promise of thunder, except there’s not a cloud in sight.

To Tim’s surprise, the storm passes, and Alfie lowers the gun, the safety clicking back into place as he shoves it into the back of his waistband.

“Well, well, well,” he says, all polite and conversational as he crouches down beside the wounded Joker. “You’re the pathetic waste of air who killed my boy.” He jogs his head to the side, facial expression thoughtful. “Well, not my boy. Not yet. But it’s the principle of the thing. And a man’s got to have his principles. The world would be in a right old state if we didn’t.”

“Who… who the hell are you?” the Joker manages to wheeze through his broken face and, no doubt, several broken ribs.

Alfie smiles then, still far too calm, and Tim realizes the storm hasn’t passed. They’re just standing in the center of it.

“Do you play Clue, Mister Joker?” he asks, “Cluedo, we called it growing up. Used to play it in the barracks when we was on standby.” The Joker stares at him, breath wheezing raggedly in his chest as Alfie stands, moving across the rooftop at a sauntering pace. He stoops over to retrieve the crowbar, the metal dragging lazily over the rooftop with an almost silken sound.

He turns back to face the Joker, who, having now realized the severity of the situation, is doing his utmost to scrabble backward toward the ledge just as Tim had.

“Am I to presume by your silence you’re not a fan?” Alfie asks, tone still light, still conversational like they're talking about the weather. “Shame. I always liked a good murder mystery, me.” He leans down with his hands on his knees, crowbar mere inches from the Joker’s face. “Shall I tell you how this one ends?”

He smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes.

“It was the butler on the rooftop with a crowbar.”

"Alfie..." Tim tries.

"Look away, Robin. There's a good lad."

He doesn't kill him. He's decided not to long before the backup Tim called for arrives in a flurry of capes. The Joker's not Aflie's to kill. That's up to Jason if he wants it. But the boy will know he is loved. That he is protected. And that deep down, deep at his core, his Alfred would have killed the clown if he could. Still might, one day.

Bruce goes ballistic. It's a right old end-of-days shouting match in the cave that turns physical and ends up with Alfie flipping Bruce on his stomach on the floor, garotted by his own cape, arm twisted up behind his back until the bones creak, vicious in a way Alfred never was when he was teaching Bruce to fight.

"He's alive; what more do you want?" Alfie demands.

"He's in critical condition! You could have killed him!"

"This again. Listen, when are you going to give up pretending?"

"We don't kill people!"

"Oh, come off it. How many people have you hit a little too hard and known it?" Alfie demands, breathing heavily with the strain of holding Bruce down. "How many people have you shoved and watched them fall just wrong. How many punches have you thrown and felt their noses go up a little too far? You and I both know that just because they're still breathing doesn't mean they're alive, mate."

Bruce grinds his teeth together. "Those were accidents."

"That's worse," Alfie says, so calm it's worse than the shouting. "That just means you're being clumsy. You've got to mean it when you kill someone. Everything with intent, Master Bruce," he says, and Bruce throws him off, snarling with incomprehensible rage, because he does not get to talk to him like that. Like his Alfred.

None of the kids want to go near them, though fuck knows, Dick tries a couple of times and gets a clip around the ear from Alfie when he gets too close. "Bugger off, there's a good lad," he says, as though Bruce isn't trying to strangle him.

Damian runs for Alfred. It's the only thing to be done. The crack of the shotgun echoes through the Batcave like the fist of an angry god punching a meteor through the earth.

"Off, please," the old butler says, aiming the shotgun at Aflie's head.

"Here, put that thing away. You can't kill me," Alfie says, "It'd cause a wossname. Time paradox. You'd cease to exist. So would all of them."

"In theory." Alfred grins. "But that's my boy, you're hurting. And I don't know about you, but I'm willing to risk the collapse of the timeline to save him."

Alfie stares at him. Then just laughs and laughs and laughs. Because he would. And they all know it. That's what got them into this mess.

He lets go of Bruce, holding his hands up as he faces his older self, a crooked smile gracing his youthful features. "Fair cop, guv. Good to see you've still got it in you."

Alfred returns the smile. Brittle and fierce. "Never left."

Bruce gets to his feet, bracing his arm against his chest like it hurts to move the joints. He opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but one look at Alfred sends him spinning on his heel to the medbay to check on Tim.

This isn't a fight he can win. Not with two of them.

(Alfred was always Jason's favorite person. His comfort in childhood and his safe space from the green-tinged madness inside his head as an adult. It's doubly true now. He moves back into the manor. I mean, someone's got to help the old boy once young Alfie is gone. None of these other useless fucks know how to cook.)

In the end, they figure out the time anomaly. And not a minute too soon, if you'll pardon the expression. Alfie needs to get back. He's got a nuked London to help rebuild and a young Martha and Thomas Wayne to keep in check.

Bruce finds him in the living room, staring up at the painted portrait of his parents.

"Are you sure I won't remember?" he asks, tone morose in a way it hasn't been the entire time he's been here. "Like supposing everything goes back to normal, but I remember..."

Bruce grunts. He knows what Alfie is asking him. "Even if you did remember-- and that's unlikely-- you won't be able to prevent it. It's a fixed event." He looks away, adding more softly. "Trust me. I've tried."

Alfie blinks rapidly, throat tight. "Yeah. Yeah, I suppose you would have."

The silence isn't comfortable. This isn't his Alfred, not yet. But the promise of it is there. All the comfortable silences to come, and everything in between.

"Sorry, again, about the Joker," Alfie says because he feels like he ought to.

Bruce grunts again. "No, you're not."

"No, I'm not," Alfred agrees. "If you want my advice--"

"I don't."

Alfie carries on anyway. "If you want my advice, Master Bruce, there's two types of mad bastards in the world. Those you can patch up and help, and those what need killing. And your boy, Jack Napier, he's the latter. He doesn't suffer madness; he enjoys it, and he makes it every cunts problem."

Bruce blinks. "How did you find out his name?"

No one knows that name. He doesn't think even Harleen knows it.

Alfie just looks at him like he's five. Like Bruce tried to tell a bald-faced lie to his face about not sneaking any cookies before dinner. "Mate, I'm Alfred fucking Pennyworth. I'm SA-fucking-S. I find out everything."

They've gathered around the portal to watch him go, the entire family. The kids have all said their goodbyes earlier. Some with more tears in their eyes than others. Which is silly because Alfred will still be right here when he leaves. He's not going anywhere. Not really.

"Well, be seeing you," he says, taking the hand Alfred offers him, painfully aware of how paper-thin his own skin feels. He's tried hard not to look at all the age spots and wrinkles and the divet between his brows from too much frowning.

It's a bit too much like staring his own mortality in the face. Literally.

But he can't help but notice how there are laugh lines, too. And the crease around his eyes when he smiles. And the love in his fading eyes when he looks back at his family.

Family, he thinks. Shame he won't be able to tell his mum about this. She'd be as happy as Larry. Provided he left out most of the bits about fighting crime and, well... most of it.

"Good luck," his older self tells him, his smile crooking to the side. "And don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"Short fucking list," Alfie laughs back, and Alfred returns the squeeze of his hand.

He turns to look at the kids one more time, determined not to let his smile wobble. He hates that he's going to forget them.

But he can't wait to meet them all again.

…

……

I don’t have time for another WIP, I don’t have time for another WIP I dON’t, I DON’T

God DAMMIT

All I can imagine now is Flash telling stories to the newest group of titans or young justice or something and-

"And one time! I had to travel back in time to stop England from becoming one huge crater!"

"WOW, who did that, how'd you fix it!"

"Uh, well, I don't actually remember anything about it, but it's fixed now!"

The answer was a gun. Flash somehow got Alfred a big enough gun with enough ammo that he fixed everything himself

Hgjsl[.

I'm just imagning the Flash appearing in a crackle of light and handing something to Alfred then fucking off back into the spacetime continuum.

"What have you got there, Alfie?" his mum asks, dreading the answer but needing to know.

Alfie joyfully holds up his space-age looking weapon. "A gun!"

#pennyworth #FUCK #FUCK OFF #NO #NO NO NO #batman #minific #tw violence #long post #wall of text

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bonvoyagenoona · 5 years ago

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Countermelody (M)

Chapters

Summary

This new city has already invigorated your tired bones and shy heart. The people here seem kind and exciting. All sorts of interesting silhouettes are always shuffling about, and you write little stories for each person who passes you by. Even the stationery shop next door is warm and inviting, and you’re grateful that Mr. Kang offers you the manager job on the spot. But you get a funny feeling about things when he shows you the boxes in the back, the ones marked with red tape and the name MIN YOONGI scribbled on top. You wonder what makes this customer particularly special. You don’t know that the process of finding out will make you question why you ever moved here in the first place.

Pairings: Yoongi x Reader

Genres: Y’all know me by now right? / get ready for some E2F2L / Fluff / Smut / Humor / Angst / Producers!Yoongi, Hobi, Namjoon / Songwriters!Yoongi, Hobi, Namjoon / Shopgirl!Reader / Musician!Reader / Competition and Rivalry ooh / Adulting: What Is It? / Friends: How do You Make Them? / this is my first fic wit the rapline front and center / but the other guys show up / Jin’s your brother-in-law, that’s fun / aaaaahhhh let’s see how it goooooes

Rating: 18+ / Explicit / Mature

Content Warnings: Expect the usual soft and hard smut eventually, people saying some mean things, and just existential crises abound, especially as it pertains to figuring out what life is supposed to be all about or whatever, but also some tasty ARMY in-jokes

Author’s Note (Feb 2, 2022): Thank you to @asemutiful and Yoongi Flavored Mint Cloud for translating the fic into Russian on ficbook.net! Check it out here!

Taglist 💜: permanent @purpleheartsfortae @btseditsworld @greezenini @missbickerbocker | countermelody @adventuresinwonderlust @min-yus @dearbambideer (taglist now closed!)

Adding some amazing artwork done by @purplehearts1996! Here are some mood boards for each chapter, plus some beautiful title art!

01: Dissonance: “A good boy?” you echo. “Frankly, sir, he seems to be a bit of a dick.”

02: Tuning: “I’m a producer,” he tells you straightforwardly, his smooth baritone smile fading into a soft but serious pout of determination. “I produce.”

03: Syncopation: “Are you fine with me… touching things?” he asks.

04: Modulation: “Did you try?” he growls. “Did you try without me?”

05: Harmony: “What do you think about turning Suran’s debut song into a duet?”

Title Art

#bts #bts fanfiction #my fics #countermelody #ksmutclub #bts fluff #bts smut #bts angst #yoongi x you #yoongi x reader #yoongi x y/n #producer min yoongi #rapline-centered because oh boy #enemies to friends to lovers

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pararennial-archived · 4 years ago

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Mainverse!Roxy: PAIN. EXISTENTIAL DREAD. FEAR. BLOODSHED. IDENTITY CRISES ABOUND. TRAUMA. SELF-DOUBT.

Human!Roxy: DREAMS FULFILLED. MUSIC IS THE LOVE OF HER LIFE. GROWING ARTISTICALLY. OPEN HEARTED. OPEN TO LOVE.

#⁖▐ ❛ 𝐎𝐎𝐂 ⏤ spiritless‚ fearless‚ little lyricist hoax.#ok i'll stop and just write :'D

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moonmvrked · 5 years ago

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time moves strange when one begins to lose track of the days. lauren’s reality had become an amalgamation of work , commutes , & existential crises. however , these things fluctuated -- although persistent they were not unceasing. lulls in time could only be found in sleep , for motherly duties still reigned when not at the library , teaching weekly art courses or on the subway headed this place or that. lauren would never curse her role as a mother though , for she adored her son. & most days , his existence was the only thing that kept her tethered so devoutly to this earthly plane. it was simply that , as he grew he began to take on his father’s likeness ... his mannerisms even , despite his absence. the latter haunted lauren , as it was one of many facets of her reality she couldn’t quite shake. how , she often ponders , had things gone so awry ?

the answer comes to her in dreams sometimes , but she forgets them just as eyes flutter open & form flits from mattress. it’s a quiet saturday ; even weekends are often marked by routine , but this one differs. lauren sits within her kitchen , ambient noise abounds. ( a most charming characteristic of living in new york , she supposes. ) doesn’t draw her from her musings though , as she sits with tea in hand whilst young boy sleeps the early morn away. aidan’s set to celebrate a birthday today , with the actual date having been midweek. on the day of , she’d prepared an elaborate breakfast for him , smothered him with kiss upon kiss before sending him off to school & surprising him upon returning home with an intimate celebration had with close family & few friends. the celebration to be had on this day was larger in size , meant to incorporate peers of both the scholarly & extracurricular variety. lauren may have been something of a recluse herself , but it certainly didn’t mean aidan had to be.

despite the allure of decorating speaking to her most prominent passions , it’s often not enough to stifle the emotion hat arises within upon each passing year. often , she fantasizes that she will awaken to the sight of her beloved zeus , eager to aid her in raising their hybrid of a son. however , the latter bit of such a reverie brings about FEAR. it wasn’t so much that she was afraid of her own son ; rather , she was afraid of her own shortcomings as a result of her ... human standing. eager to be rid of such thoughts , moments pass as she goes through the motions post - tea , conducting party preparations with ample time to spare. dainty digits diligently chop fruit & place each piece seamlessly on a platter , the sound of an ajar door causing attention to shift elsewhere. one glance at her watch , & lauren's privy to her most cherished companion’s arrival. knife is placed aside , haste marking mother’s movements towards apartment entrance.

❛ sophie ... ? ❜ saccharine sweet , ever - clear voice chimes. before the other can even say a word , she’s eager to pull her into an embrace. despite the thoughts that have burrowed within brain , casting them away is as simple as being within the other’s mere presence. unfortunately for lauren , she’d learned the hard way that there were few she could rely upon in this life. sophie was one of few who proved exempt from this though , & for that lauren was eternally grateful.

❛ oh , soph , ❜ she coos. ❛ i’m so glad you’re here. i still have a lot left to prepare , i’m just getting started , really. so ... oh -- sorry ! i’m sorry , gosh , i don’t mean to bombard you. come in , come in ... ! the little one’s still asleep , but i assure you the minute he hears your voice he’ll be up in no time. ❜

4 @wergelds <3

#interactions: lauren page.#closed starter.#wergelds #u kno i love me some introspection so ...... dont feel even a lil bit pressured 2 match length i just be Talkin #but also. the girlies r Back <3 <3 <3 #1) lauren 10000% gave sophie a key 2 her place #2) we're gonna saaaay aidan is 7 @ this point #3) aidan & lauren r sophie's biggest stans lmao and thats that on that

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skelebae21 · 5 years ago

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Chapters: 26/? Fandom: Undertale (Video Game) Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Sans (Undertale)/Reader, Underswap!Sans/Reader, Underfell!Sans/Reader, Beasttale!Sans/reader, Aftertale!Sans/Reader, Inktale!Sans/reader, Errortale!Sans/Reader, Dream!Sans/Reader, Implied Alphys/Undyne (Undertale) Characters: Sans (Undertale), Papyrus (Undertale), Reader, Alphys (Undertale), Undyne (Undertale), Frisk (Undertale), Toriel (Undertale), Mettaton (Undertale), Asgore (Undertale) Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Underswap, Alternate Universe - Underfell, Reverse Harem, College, Some plot foreshadowing here and there, gender neutral reader, Fluff, angst sometimes, I'm Going to Hell, We're all going to HELL, Somewhat Vulgar, Alternate Universe - BeastTale, Alternate Universe - Aftertale, Alternate Universe - Dreamtale, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Okay maybe more angst than I thought, Alternate Universe - Inktale, Alternate Universe - Errortale, Slow Burn, Comedy, Romantic Comedy, Though romance will come later, I'm going to 'try' to stay as canonical as possible, Creative liberties are a thing though, existential crises abound, Nihilism, why are so many of my plot points riddled with angst, whoops, Reader is androgynous and their appearance is vague, Are the female?, Are they male?, Something else?, It is up to you to decide, But let me tell you that they look absolutely fabulous in that dress regardless, OHH YESS, help its been two years, and I'm still writing this

#undertale fanfic #lol #sillyness #good stuff #sans x reader #so many #so sweet

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silvensei · 5 years ago

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In This Mad Machinery

A human and an android swap bodies, resulting in identity crises, existentialism, philosophy with the boys, and fun!

Detroit: Become Human | gen | 20k | rated T | introspective comedy/sci-fi

Chapter 3 (2.5k words) | [AO3 link] | [first] | < prev | next >

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A bell chimed above the door as it swung open. A portly woman turned around from the counter, a practiced yet warm smile and greeting at the ready. When she noticed who her new patrons were, she paused and propped a hand on her hip. “Well, look what the cat dragged in!” she teased amicably. “Hank Anderson! Haven’t seen your face ‘round here in ages!”

“Sorry, Bel. You know how life gets in the way,” Connor said, parroting Hank’s briefing from the car. “Is the usual still on the menu?”

“Aw, hon,” she laughed, “joshing as always!”

Connor smiled. He had no idea what that meant.

Fortunately, she turned her attention to the other member of his party. “As much as it’s good to see an old favorite, new faces keep the business going. Name’s Ysabel.”

Hank waved. “Connor.”

“Well, Connor, want a menu? It’s just your typical array of diner classics, but with enough pizzazz to knock your socks off, guaranteed!”

“Oh, no, thanks, ma’am, just a coffee for now.”

“Two cuppa joe and a patty with the fixin’s.” She waved them off and adjusted her apron. “You boys go make yourselves comfortable, y’hear?”

She left for the kitchen. Hank ushered Connor into the diner proper, over to the rows of red booths with black and white marbled tables. With windows on two sides, natural light filled the space. Only a handful of other tables were occupied, people chattering amongst themselves. It wasn’t terribly spacious, but in the way that it felt cozy rather than claustrophobic.

Hank settled in a corner booth, his back to the wall. “She seems nice,” Connor commented, sitting across from him.

“Bel? She’s more than nice. She’s probably the closest thing to an angel I’ve got.” His head turned to look out the window, letting Connor notice a momentary bout of erratic flickering in his LED. “It doesn’t matter who you are or where you’re from, but she still makes this place seem like a mother’s kitchen. Just home recipes abound. And to top it all off? She don’t take shit from no one.

“One time—” he laughed, “—One time, ages ago, Jeffrey and I came by for lunch just pissed off. An easy drug bust flipped right around and left us with nothing, sending us right back to the drawing board. One officer was so furious she quit that morning. So we came in here, fuming, cussing up a storm, just miserable bastards looking to drown our frustrations in some good ol’ comfort food; it was too early for booze, but hell, did we come close. Bel came over with absolutely not the right thing, like soup and salad or something. I’ll admit, I was a bit of a hotheaded prick back then—”

“‘Back then’?”

“Watch it, boy,” Hank warned with a grin. “Anyway, I snapped at her, saying I wasn’t in the mood to deal with this, we didn’t want this, how hard was it to grill a fucking burger, I didn’t even have my coffee yet, and so on, and she shut me up by throwing a glass of water in my face. It was nearly empty already and didn’t have ice, but it was enough to do the trick. Then she said, ‘If starting over is so easy, why don’t you kids stop bitching and suck it up?’ Then she walked away.” Hank rested his chin in his hand, the smile still on his face. “It was the literal smack to the head that I needed. She gave us the soup n’ salads on the house as an attempt to get us to eat healthier. The coffee was free, too, but it was mostly hot sauce to get back at me for yelling at her.

Connor’s own smile had only grown. He wasn’t entirely sure why; it seemed like an involuntary response. “If that’s not the definition of a guardian angel, then I don’t know what is.”

“What can I say? You really do need a friend around who’s not afraid to knock some sense into you.”

Connor leaned back, sinking into the red cushions. This was comfortable. Natural light diffusing through the windows; fun conversation with the white noise of other discussions over quiet music he couldn’t place; the ever-present aroma of a kitchen hard at work; a pleasant warmth from the sunlight (without the radiation). He would like to come here again.

With such fond memories, though, why hadn’t they come here before in the six months Connor had known him? He decided to ask.

Hank continued looking out the window. His expression shifted into something Connor couldn’t interpret, but the brief red light gave him some clues. “It just seemed a bit boring to bring an android to a restaurant, y’know? You don’t really eat and all….”

“You boys gossiping over here?” joked Bel, sliding two mugs of coffee onto the table. Connor jumped; he hadn’t heard her approach. Or maybe his ears did, but his attention was focused elsewhere. Bel laughed. “Late nights at the bar making you jumpy?”

“Ah… not so much anymore,” Connor improvised. “Some late nights on the job, if anything.”

“Oh, I’d bet. Between homicide and android rights cases, you two are probably set on work for the next couple years.” She fished around in the pocket of her apron.

“Where did you hear about our casework?” asked Hank.

Bel found her target and deposited a couple small cups of thirium into the bowl of half-and-half creamers. “All over the news, hon! You’re really paving the way for androids in the work force. Setting the bar pretty high, too, while you’re at it.” She smiled before whisking off to other tables.

“As nice as ever, that Bel,” Hank commented. He inspected one of the thirium cups and asked, “How is this compared to plain old creamers?”

Connor’s hands hovered around his mug. He lacked his infrared temperature sensor, his unfamiliar tactile senses only told him ‘hot,’ and he couldn’t even remember what a fourth-order differential to estimate heat loss through radiation looked like. He’ll just give it a minute or two to cool. “I’m sure thirium doesn’t taste pleasant, but because the android program recognizes it as essential to mechanical function, it won’t register the taste. It’s just used like a nutritional benefit.”

Hank’s nose scrunched for a moment as he regarded tainting his sacred drink. Then he shrugged, poured one in with a stir and downed a gulp. He stared past Connor, eyes narrowed as he critiqued the taste. There was a smattering of yellow in his LED. “Mmmmm,” he soon hummed. “0.12 calories.”

A snort of laughter caught in Connor’s nose, which turned into a short bout of coughs. The tickle it left in his nasal cavity was completely alien. “Shit,” he choked out. Hank was much better at containing his reaction to just a smirk. “I don’t like how involuntary that was.”

“Hah. Welcome to the club.”

“And hot off the presses!” Bel swept over to them once again, setting a platter in the middle of the tabletop. “Did the onions myself! It was such a treat to break out the cheddar patties again, too; they just go to waste when you’re not around.”

Connor sat mesmerized. He and Hank had gone to many—if not most—burger joints in and around Detroit, but the hamburger in front of him was the tallest, most layered sandwich he had ever seen. Two burgers, flecks of cheddar dripping from them, overflowing with caramelized onions, roasted peppers, mushrooms, slices of some other cheese, lettuce, pickles—is that macaroni? A sharp kick to the shin snapped him from his trance long enough to thank Bel and send her off. “Lieutenant!” he hissed. He leaned forward to keep his voice down, regretting the full whiff of that savory, melty scent he got. “Do you know how many calories are in this?!”

“With this head of yours, I do now, yeah. And no way am I telling you, impulsive programming be damned!” Hank set a devious grin in his borrowed expression; this mischievous image of his doppelgänger made Connor uncomfortable. “Give it a try. I can guarantee it’s delicious.”

He knew he shouldn’t. It was unhealthy, grease-laden, and caloric. As if the burger wasn’t enough, the bed of beer batter waffle fries that coated the plate with accompanying cups of barbecue sauce could’ve been a meal on its own. It also smelled incredible.

It was technically a command from Hank, he realized, but without a HUD of objectives, it was nothing more than words. Nothing binding about it.

But it smelled so good.

He picked up the burger, leaving in the steak knife skewer holding it together. Before he could second-guess himself, he took a bite. There was a crunch from the brioche, a different crunch of the onions, then too many to distinguish, each with its own flavor that he had no previous reference on which to base any categorization, but together, it was splendid.

His instinct was to isolate and analyze each individual component, but without his tech, it was just a bombardment of information. By the time the taste stopped overwhelming his senses, half of the burger was gone.

Hank was swirling the coffee around in his mug, expression dripping in ‘told ya so.’ “A goddamn culinary masterpiece, right?”

Connor took another quick bite (getting mostly onions and macaroni) before he replaced it on the plate. He wiped off his hands on a paper napkin to buy processing time. “Lieutenant,” he said. “Hank. I still disapprove. But I understand now.”

“Fuckin’-A right!” Hank took a bite out of a waffle fry. “Listen, I get that you guys don’t need to eat, but it wouldn’t kill ya every now and then. CyberLife at least could’ve built in better taste buds. All I’m getting is calorie count and salt content, not any of the finesse.”

Trying a fry for himself, he noted the tang that he deduced as saltiness. Though not the main dish, they were also quite good. He took another. “It’s not vital to androids’ function—”

“And it’s not ‘vital’ to come and eat out like this. It’s just fuckin’ delightful.”

That is true. Much of his existence these days isn’t spent out of necessity. He didn’t have to pet Sumo, but it made him happy to do so. Munching on a third fry, he realized that humans were the same, except with more of a sensory benefit, like the fluffiness of Sumo’s fur. Why weren’t they the ones with compulsive programming? It seemed like they would need it more, what with all these distractions that can physically affect their mental state. “Ohh…,” he realized, “no wonder addictions are such an issue.”

“Now— hold on, now, how’d you jump to that conclusion? Like, yeah, but—” Hank’s LED began blinking. He flinched from something before raising his eyebrows. “A call from Jeffrey. Now this’ll be interesting.” He hesitated before he looked around the room. “I, ah, should probably take this elsewhere, ‘case it’s on the down low.”

“Tap the temple to answer,” Connor advised as Hank slid out of the booth and went to the door.

Connor crunched another fry, one that was extra crunchy. He should probably pay Bel soon and get a box for the rest, should they have to leave in a hurry. If only he knew how much two coffees and a—shit.

He picked up the untouched coffee. It was barely warm now. Unhelpful one-track human brain. Can’t even set a reminder in the background. He took a sip. It didn’t warm him or anything, but it tingled his tongue in a sort of dry, sharp way. Coffee was bitter, right? He didn’t think it would be this bitter, but Hank did like his coffee black. Despite complaining he couldn’t taste much, Hank’s mug was completely drained.

He spotted Bel this time as she approached. “Could I get a box for the rest of this? It sounds like we might have to leave soon.”

“Always off to save the city, you two are. I’ll get this all wrapped up in a jiffy!”

“And how much do I owe you?” Connor asked before she left with his plate. He was pretty sure Hank’s wallet was in his left pocket.

Bel cocked a grin. “Hon, has it really been so long you don’t remember?”

He paused. “Got two coffees this time.”

“Oh, silly me, that’s true! How’s an even ten bucks sound, then?”

Connor couldn’t help a small frown. “That seems a bit low….”

“Nah, call it a ‘welcome back’ discount.” Her expression lost its teasing edge, becoming something warm. “It’s good to see you again, Hank.”

While he liked the woman, if the conversation was going to turn sentimental, he wasn’t sure how well he was going to keep up his act. “It’s good to see you, too, Bel,” he replied before bringing his cold mug to his lips, hoping to end it there.

“And I hope you kept your talent for parenting.”

Connor almost choked. “What?”

“You were always a good father.” Bel was looking over his shoulder, off down memory lane. “Cole was the brightest kid in the county. But while more tragedy has befallen you than I would wish on anybody, I still hope Connor’s lucky enough to be in the same kind of care.”

“No, sorry, Connor’s not my son, he’s a detective—my coworker—not to mention an android.”

“Which means he might need it most, eh, sugar?” She shifted her weight and her gaze, looking back at him. “Sure, he looks what, twenty-five? Thirty? But isn’t he a new model? He probably ain’t even three yet, and he’s been deviant for way less than that. A father figure to show him the societal ropes sounds perfect to me.”

He felt like a process or ten had stalled. Fortunately, Hank returned to the table, so Bel took his plate and left with no more than a wink.

“Jeffrey wants us at the office today,” Hank said. Connor blinked and took a breath, trying to not focus on Bel’s inanity. (RK800 androids were the most advanced—hot off the production line immediately—he didn’t need—)

“Specifically, he wants me,” continued Hank, “so technically, he wants you. Said it shouldn’t take long.”

Connor cleared his throat. “So why didn’t he call me directly?”

“He did. A few times.”

Startled, Connor quickly dug out Hank’s phone. The screen lit to two missed calls, one new voicemail, and some new emails. “Oh….”

“Not so easy when it doesn’t directly invade your brain, huh? Now can you forgive me for not texting immediately?”

“I thought we were supposed to be unraveling the secrets of existence, Lieutenant, not dissecting your communication and dietary habits.”

Hank laughed. In Connor’s opinion, it didn’t sound right with his voice, but it made him smile nonetheless. “So, are we both going or just me?” he asked.

“I dunno, what else am I gonna do?”

Connor hummed. “It’s Saturday, right? Markus might be home.”

“Markus? As in rA9 Markus?”

“If CyberLife keeps this up, he’s bound to hear about it sooner or later, so why not tell him now? He usually checks in on his human on the weekends.”

Hank shrugged. “Might as well, I guess. Gives me something different to do. Where’s he live?”

“Around. Don’t ask me, you’re the one with the GPS today.”

Bel returned once more and set a cardboard box on the table. “Well, boys, it was my pleasure!” she boomed. “Y’all better come back soon, alright?”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Hank said with a smile as he stood. “Wonderful coffee.”

“Aw, c’mere!” She pulled him into a hug, something that didn’t fluster Hank at all. When the embrace broke, she held him by both shoulders and said, “Oh, Hank, he hugs like you already!”

The real Hank’s eyebrow twitched. “What…does that mean?”

“Nothing, nothing!”

Connor avoided their eyes until he found a ten and some ones in his wallet and handed them to Bel. He picked up the box and used his free arm to give her a quick hug. It was warm. Nice. “Thanks, Bel.”

“Anytime!”

[next >]

#Detroit Become Human #DBH #Connor RK800 #Hank Anderson #my writing #DBH fanfiction #body swap #my roommate set off the smoke alarm while I was writing up this post #she was trying to fry an egg #her only response was 'you learn something new each day'#like sure dude but also this is our fifth year of college #you are twenty-four

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