#'shut up bruce i know a shortcut'

[mysterycitrus]

I find the whole topic of Dick’s emotional competence really fascinating because it’s clear that has an understanding of emotions in a way that Bruce has completely suppressed and cannot because he straight up doesn’t talk about emotions but while Dick recognises and understands it -

He never really uses it for ethical reasons ( exceptions like E.G having that call with Tim after he talked the jumper of the roof because if that was Bruce well .. I don’t think it would of helped much )

He mostly uses it for tactical reasons and manipulation.

And despite being able to use it on others and have emotional intelligence with them when it actually comes to him …. Well it goes less well because he holds himself up to this insane standard BECAUSE of Bruce .

Its especially interesting because Dick has wished before that unlike Bruce he could bottle up his emotions and shut it out .

Idk correct me if wrong but it’s nice food for thought!

dick grayson is sooooo normal i want to study his brain under a microscope. yeah id say that’s a pretty fair interpretation of his rich inner world — i do think that like bruce he tends to force himself through emotional trauma by brute force (we see this in the 96 run, for example) — but he’s also really cognisant of other people and specifically how he’s viewed by other people.

there’s this panel out of titans 99 where vic is like “i can’t believe dick lied to me!!” and the other characters say yeah. that’s normal for him. he’s a manipulative person when he wants people to do what he says, yknow? i mean i do think he does it for good a tonne, he just uses shortcuts to cut to where people are hurting. like….. he will explain to u ur emotional intricacies to get u to open up. he’s similar to bruce in the sense that they both care — possibly way too much — but while bruce struggles to express that dick is a lot more outwardly open, but also u never know how much of it is a facade.

it also makes it more impactful when he is profoundly known by others — specifically the fab5 and kory and babs and bruce. he has (imho) some degree of depersonalisation about his identity and his body and his autonomy, so people seeing through the performance and wanting to protect the core is truly. chefs kiss

it’s so interesting!! i cannot emphasise how much more of an interesting character he is when writers actually incorporate his intelligence into his stories. like people will follow him to ends of the earth because despite how bitchy he gets u know he’s going to do the right thing, even if dick himself doesn’t necessarily believe it

im literally rattling on the bars of my cage like

[more-cardigan-than-woman]

Just for the Weekend 3/10

Summary: Jason makes a pit stop.

Pair: Reader x Jason Todd

Words: 1.5k

Warnings: Mutual pining, swearing.

Part 2

"Is she here?" Jason asks as he follows you down the steps

"Yes sir, We're just getting her off now and Leslie will see that your bags are delivered to the hotel."

"Awesome, thanks." He says handing Julian what looks to be $100. You just stand there, mostly confused about what is happening and it isn't until someone rounds the corner with a dark maroon motorcycle that you understand who she is.

"No," you say almost immediately, Dick had been trying for years to get you on one of those death traps and you had yet to cave. "I'll just go in the car, meet you there."

"But darling," he says, clicking his teeth like he's trying out the pet name but doesn't like the way it feels in his mouth, "we need to arrive together, how will it look if we aren't?"

"No way,"

"Sugar, you'll be fine. I've only crashed twice,"

"Jason,"

"What if the car follows us, sweet cheeks?" his eyes crush up, "the car can follow us and if you want to get off I'll let you off,"

"If the cars going to follow us why can't I just-"

"How far is it to the hotel from here?" He asks Julian.

"30 minutes,"

"Doll, well be there before you know it,"

"If I come with you, will you stop with the pet names?"

"Deal, get her a helmet."

Within seconds Jason has the helmet on and you're climbing on the back of the bike. Fuck, he's so close. That fucking forest cologne permeating your nostrils and making your insides tingles. You reach down gripping the side rail, like Dick had shown you the one time he managed to get you on the bike before you chickened out.

"Hold onto me," Jason says through what you assume is a Bluetooth connection in the helmets.

"Nah, I'm good," you say, glad that he cannot see how red you are.

"If you don't wanna fall off you need to hold onto me,"

"I can hold on here, it's fine,"

He lurches the bike forward before coming to an abrupt stop and your arms fly around his waist, holding on for dear life. "See now isn't that better," you can hear the smile in his voice. Fucking asshole, but God he's so fucking warm and as he takes off you squeeze him tighter, closing your eyes and wishing that you could crawl inside him so you don't have to feel how fast the wind is moving past you.

"Your eyes shut?" He asks and you can barely hear him over the revving underneath you.

"Yeah,"

"Open them," reluctantly you do as he asks, just in time to see the coastline to your left

"It's beautiful,"

"Would've missed this view in the car," it's only then you realise that you can't see the SUV anywhere and you're traveling up a dirt road.

"Where are we? Where's the car?" You start to panic,

"Took a shortcut, should be there soon."

"You say that-" cut off by a sharp turn, you feel your adrenaline start to pump. "Are you enjoying this?" You start to giggle uncontrollably as he moves faster, zig zagging through the landscape as your laughter goes higher and higher.

He stops and you know you're not at the hotel. The hotel is closer to the city and this seems to be an alcove? Maybe a private beach?. "I don't want to get arrested for trespassing."

"We won't, Bruce owns the house up there," he points up the hill. "We're about 2 hours ahead of schedule so I wanted to go for a swim," retrieving the bag that somehow managed to fit behind your ass on the bike. You assumed it was for the helmets, but as Jason pulls out towels and a bag you realise it's much bigger on the inside.

"What's this?"

"Swimmers and a towel,"

"What for?"

"Swimming? Aren't you meant to be the smart one?"

"Shut up, I mean why are we here?"

"Like I said I wanted to go for a dip." He pulls off his shirt and you think you might pass out. How is he like this? He's so broad, his arms look fucking huge and as your eyes taper down you notice the round curve of his tummy that looks so soft and biteable.

"Is there somewhere I can change?" You stutter, fuck you need to get away, need to breathe for a second.

"Yeah there's a cabin that way," he points to the shack you hadn't noticed.

"Thanks," grabbing the bag, you take long deep calming breaths that do nothing to stop your pounding heart.

The look on your face was worth it, Jason thinks as he quickly changes into his board shorts. The shameless way you ogled him before running away like a kitten in a storm.

He steps closer to the water, diving under the first wave and relishing in the cold kiss of the water. He's always loved the water. It took him a while to get back in after Lazarus, the fear that this time he wouldn't rise back out lingering in some distant part of his brain.

But as you emerge from Alfred's cabin, he can't seem to recall that fear. Instead focusing on you, your hair flowing freely behind you and the tiny swimsuit you're wearing. "Come on in, the waters nice," he calls out to you as you stare down at him. He thanks the universe that the coolness of the water is keeping his face from turn red as he takes you in.

You start to run, knowing that if you stop you're probably just going to turn back into the adorable cabin and stay there. When you hit the edge of the water you keep running, making sure you're deep enough. And when you lose the sandbar you drop, flopping yourself into the upcoming wave and making a huge splash.

A large burst of water splashes into you when you emerge and you know where it came from. You kick hard, splashing Jason back, before attempting to swim away.

This goes back and forth, the both of you enjoying your splash in the water as your arms and legs go weary.

You hear a noise overhead and look up to see a flock of gulls flying over you. You turn to the place Jason was to tell him about it but he's gone, seemingly vanished. It's only when you feel a tug on your ankle and let out a scream, your head is dragged under water.

Two strong hands tugging you back up and Jason's rancorous laughter fills the air when you brush all the hair that falls in front of your face. "Rude!" You shout, splashing him again.

Annoyed that you probably look like a drowned cat and he still looks perfect, somehow maintaining the curls while dripping in ocean water.

“Is there something on my face?"

"No. It's… never mind"

"Coz you're looking at me like there's something on my face."

"It is starting to get a bit pink," you point up at the sun, "maybe we should find some shade?"

"Good idea," he starts trudging up towards the shore, grabbing a towel and laying it out under the trees.

"Drying off?" You question, laying your towel out beside him in a much sunnier position.

"Yeah, don't want to get on her wet," he stops looking at you, seeming to focus on something in the distance.

You like the silence, it's not awkward or filled with tension or anything like that. It's peaceful. Like you're both just enjoying the sun, listening to the waves lapping and when you finally feel your bathing suit dry. You stand, "well we should get going, don't want to be late and I'd like to have a shower before dinner."

"We're still going to be hours early but if that's what you want."

"It is. I'm excited to see Jamie and Sunny. I think you might actually like them too."

"Me? Pfft I don't like anyone,"

"Now I know that's not true. I know you have a secret soft spot for Titus," you tease, you've spotted Jason quite a number of times in the library with the dog's face on his lap. It was a very sweet image.

"Have you been spying on me," he glares at you.

"I dabble," you shrug, grateful that he's already halfway up the path and he can't see how you're watching him.

Jason closes the door to the cabin behind him. Shit. You are so beautiful and that fuckin bikini. He could barely keep his head on straight enough to have a conversation when he first caught sight of you. He thinks as he slips off his board shorts and puts his jeans back on.

You've been spying on him. He thinks aloud, were you trying to avoid him? Learning his habits so you could stay clear of his path?

He steps out of the cabin, noticing you must have changed on the beach. you smile at him like you're actually happy to see him. It's just for the weekend, he reminds himself. It's Just because he's doing you a favor, by Monday you're going to forget all about him and you'll go back to avoiding him. Might as well enjoy it.

Part 4

[batarangsoundsdumb]

big difference between batman and green arrow is that if batman contracted covid he would command an army of robots from his crime fighting basement, whereas green arrow would hear someone near him cough and immediately cease all vigilantism for a month.

[scaryscarecrows]

Are there alternative POVs to your Whumotober chapter 5, Where do you Think You're Going? I'd love to see what Bruce, Dick, or Jim had going through their head at the time.

Took some digging, but I found a little bit. Maybe one day I'll finish it...

Bruce, in true Bruce fashion, hears ‘Joker’s escaped’ and hurtles off into the night without so much as an ‘I’ll keep in touch’. Because he won’t. Because Batman is above such petty things as ‘communication’.

Dick’s not bitter at all. He promises.

Whatever. Bruce’s Bruce-ness means that Dick’s the one hanging around the asylum to deal with that fallout when Gordon’s voice goes panicked and he spits out, “Dove, you have to get outta there--”

Okay, that’s weird. One, Dove Marquis (that’s gotta be who’s on the other line, right) is usually at work, and Penguin’s been...quiet...lately. Dick needs to drop in on him, poke him a little for fun. But two, Dove’s usually not, like, in the line of fire. She does her job and goes home and minds her own business. If this is Joker-related (probably), there is literally no reason for him to be interested in her. Dove, like every other person with half a brain, avoids the clown at all costs.

“But--Dove. Dove, listen. Joker is out, he murdered his way out earlier tonight and that’s probably why, you need to go.”

Dick has never been more confused.

“For--fine. Fine. I’ll have someone over there as soon as possible, just--dammit.”

Gordon snaps his phone shut, looks around, and marches over to Dick.

“Nightwing,” he says, voice still freaked, “we may have a lead.”

“Commissioner?”

“I need you to go over to Dove Marquis’s apartment. Do you know where that is?”

Either he ruins the Bat-reputation of knowing everything, or he admits they’re all stalkers. There’s no winning here.

“Yes. Why?”

“Dove found Robin.”

The ground pitches under his feet. Jason’s been missing for months, and Joker...Joker’s been chatty about it. Dick had snapped the bastard’s arm the first time he started cackling about ‘so pretty when he screams’, but that hadn’t stopped him. Not even close.

Oh, God, Jay.

“You’re sure?” he demands, because he can’t do this, he can’t take many more false leads. “You’re positive?”

“That’s what she said, and I doubt there’s that many kids running around in a cape. Said she found him here--she had business for Penguin, I guess--”

“Robin?” Bullock’s suddenly there too, toothpick stilled between his teeth. “Dove’s got the kid?”

Dove. Jason. Joker.

Okay. Okay, okay. If he takes the bike off the island to the edge of town, he can take two shortcuts on the rooftops and be there in fifteen minutes, easy. Maybe even less, if he can catch the train.

* * *

The first thing he sees is the crowd in the street. The second thing he sees is the mangled corpse they’re gawking at. Paper-white skin, purple clothes, that godawful grin splitting the face even in death. The mask says he’s been shot several times, and when Dick looks up, he zeros in on a shattered window.

Jason--

“Batman,” he barks out, already firing his grapnel gun at the balcony he wants, “get to my location now.”

“What--”

He signs off. He does not need Bruce yapping in his ear, not right this minute. Joker’s dead. He’s just hoping Jason isn’t.

Mask says two people, one armed. Two alive people, though, and the unarmed one is small. So Dick throws manners out the window and bursts out of the bedroom.

Jay. He’s not. He…

Christ, he looks bad. Cut and bruised and broken and desperately thin, like he was at the start. But he’s alive, he’s breathing, and honestly, Dick had started to think…

He’s asleep, half on the couch and half on Dove, and wrapped in a big yellow comforter. She’s clearly cleaned him up at least some; that gash on his nose looks like it bled something awful.

“Nightwing.” Dove’s voice is rough. “Been a bit, kid.”

Yeah, he...hasn’t seen her since...geeze, since he got a haircut, at least. It’s been a while, all right.

“Did you…”

“Thought he had a gun. He was gonna come through the glass.” Jason shifts, shivering under the comforter. “His ankle’s messed up, an’ he’s sick.”

Better sick than dead.

“I. I’m just.” Keep it together, Dickie. “Little Wing?” He wants desperately to use his brother’s name; Robin is too...it’s too impersonal, right now. “Wake up.”

Jason, ever the stubborn little brat, does not. Dove moves and Dick catches the glint of a handgun. Little thing. If that’s what killed Joker--and he’s sure it is--it belongs in a museum.

Who knows. Maybe Penguin will do exactly that.

“Nightwing’s here to pick ya up, kiddo,” Dove’s saying now. “Wake up.”

Finally, finally, Jason’s eyes flutter open and he mumbles, “‘Wing?”

Oh, thank God.

“Hey, brat,” he says, crouches down to reach out to brush his fingers against Jason’s head. He is warm, but he’s real and here and alive. Everything else can come later. “Ready to go home?”

“Mm.”

“C’mon, I’m gonna pick you up. Please don’t bite me.”

It’s a valid concern. Last time Dick tried to pick up a sleepy Jason, he’d been chomped on hard enough to leave indents in his shoulder.

“Was one time. An’ you scared me.”

There is no biting when Dick carefully gets Jason into his arms and stands up. He’s lighter than he has any right to be, and now, up close, Dick can see new things. Track marks and finger-shaped bruises and evidence of broken things that haven’t healed right, or at all.

He’s only fifteen.

He looks so much younger.

“Thank you,” he says, and means it. If Joker...if he’d gotten him back, that would have been the end. They’d have found him, all right, dead. Dick’s been dealing with the Joker only a year and a half less than Bruce. He knows what he’s capable of, what he would have done. “Thank you for...for all of this.”

Now that he looks, she doesn’t look right, either. Her eyes are very far away.

“Get him home,” she says, and her voice is strong and solid. “It’s late. Jim’ll be here soon.”

Batman, too. Which is great, because Dick’s not balancing Jason on the bike. That’s just asking for trouble.

[pricetagofficial]

You Died -JT

Summary: You and Jason were walking home when he thought of a shortcut to get you both home quicker. There’s nothing more romantic than a cemetery right?

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

Word Count: 1108

Tag list: @idkmanicantenglish​ @kishony-the-geek​

Warnings: Angst, language, mentions of death and depression and trauma. 

A/N: This one got a little dark, sorry about that! To the anon that requested this, it was a really great idea and I hope that you liked it!

It was a cold autumn night in Gotham City, the wind was crisp as it blew past and chilled you to the bone. Your knees were shaking as you pulled your jacket tighter around yourself. Jason was at your side and wrapped an arm around your waist, keeping you close to him as you walked.

Sure there was no one around, but it was Gotham City. Anything could happen in the blink of an eye before you could try and stop it. But it was home.

“It’s cold as shit out here Jay.” you muttered.

“When we get back, I can draw you a hot bath to warm you up Princess.” he smiled softly as he looked down at you. The tips of your nose and ears were cold from the chilly breeze and he couldn’t help but smile at how cute you looked to him.

You leaned closer to him, Jason was like a walking space heater and you were rarely cold with him around. Half of the time, you had to kick off the blanket in your sleep because you were sweating so much just from his body heat. 

Jason took a look around, a grin crossing his face. It was late October and it was spooky season, his favorite part was when you would get scared over something and curl into him for protection. A cemetery was to your right, and he got the brilliant idea that he should walk you through it. 

“Hey, (y/n) let’s go this way.” he said, taking your hand and leading you into the cemetery. 

“Jay, that’s a cemetery.” you said softly, planting your feet refusing to go further in.

Jason turned to look at you. “It’s a shortcut, it’ll get us home in half the time. I promise.” That was not a lie, he knew Gotham like the back of his hand and this would get the two of you home quicker. What he didn’t know was how cemeteries made you feel, especially after he died all those years ago.

You swallowed and shook your head. “I’d rather take the long way.” 

“I’ll be with you the whole time baby girl, what could go wrong?” he asked, giving your hand a squeeze. 

Maybe he was right, it might not be as bad now that you knew he was alive and would be the one walking with you. Giving him a hesitant nod, Jason pulled you close and walked you through not loosening his hold on you by one bit.

The first minute or so wasn’t so bad. Jason could tell you were apprehensive about something, he just thought it was the creepy atmosphere so he made sure to keep talking the whole time; telling jokes and funny stories to keep your mind off things.

That strategy worked until you saw a name on one of the tombstones, it stopping you dead in your tracks. Jason Turk. You shook your head and squeezed your eyes shut, it wasn’t Jason’s tomb. The real one was back at Wayne Manor in the family graveyard, but it brought back all of those feelings you had when he died.

It nearly killed you when Bruce told you that he had died, even as teenagers you knew that Jason was your soulmate. When he died, a piece of you died with him and even though he came back you weren’t the same. You took extra precautions, always called him when he was out later than he said, even went as far as asking Dick to make sure that he didn’t get hurt or do something stupid on patrol.

Jason felt you stop and looked at you, ready to crack a joke but all that failed when he saw the look on your face. 

“(y/n), princess what’s wrong?” 

You were frozen, and your skin had gone pale. He could feel your hand trembling in his own as you stood there silently.

It was like the oxygen had been knocked out of your lungs, your vision was blurry and your hands began to sweat. The more you tried to breathe in, the harder it was to let the air back out. You blocked out everything, unable to hear a single thing around you including Jason beside you as he tried to get you to respond to him.

Your breathing picked up rapidly, unable to get a decent amount of oxygen into your lungs. Jason wasn’t dead, not anymore. He was right next to you, and you knew it but there was that part of you that was scared that it was a dream that he came back to you. 

Jason could see that you were panicking, and he did the first thing he could think of. He cupped your face and kissed you, making you hold your breath for a moment. That moment was all you needed to calm yourself down and get your groundings. 

You could see Jason clearly now, his eyes were filled with worry as he looked down at you. “Look at me, take a deep breath.” and you did. Jason stood there and breathed with you, helping yours to match his own and slow your racing heart. 

Once you were calmer, you felt better but it was like you weren’t there still. You felt disoriented, and like your legs were going to collapse from under you. The grip you had on Jason’s hand was turning it blue because you were holding it so tight. 

“I-I think I’m okay.” you muttered, your voice hoarse from how dry your throat and mouth were.

“What happened?” he asked.

“You died, Jay. That’s what happened…” you whimpered softly, eyes filling with tears.

Hearing you say those words, he looked at the name and he understood what had happened. He was an idiot, why the fuck did he decide to bring you into a cemetery in the first place? There were signs in the beginning that he didn’t see because he wasn’t paying attention, but looking back they were obvious.

“I’m so sorry (y/n), I shouldn’t have brought you this way.” he scooped you up into his arms and held you tight against his chest. “Close your eyes and just listen to my heartbeat okay, and focus on that.” 

Jason knew that you visited his grave almost daily and cried over his for years, even after he came back because you were so scared for him. He wasn’t the same person when he came back, and he was different even now than he was when he returned. You had helped him become what he was, if it wasn’t for you then he might as well have stayed dead.

[thessalian]

Thanksgiving Challenge (Avengers Fic)

(This comes from this TikTok. Yes, the man has pre-serum Steve energy but for creative insanity, it’s gotta be Tony. Also I blame @hyperewok1 for my very first Avengers fic GODS DAMNIT, NOMS.)

When Clint finally turned up at Avengers HQ, mostly lured there by the prospect of a good dinner he didn’t have to cook, he found his comrades in arms sitting in their lounge area - all but Tony Stark. The location of the playboy genius inventor was fairly obvious from the grumbling, occasional swearing and apparent argument with Jarvis from the kitchen area. While Clint wasn’t sure he wanted to know, he looked at Natasha anyway. As he did, his eyes skated over Steve, pausing there momentarily to find Captain America sporting a facial expression that had never appeared on the trading cards - somewhere between “exasperated” and “sheepish”.

Natasha, reading Clint’s look with no issues, sighed. “Steve has ... views about shortcuts taken around Thanksgiving dinner. The words ‘Stove-Top stuffing’ came up and Steve ...made his views known.”

“All I said was that I was going to make stuffing and pumpkin pie to Mom’s old recipe!” Steve still looked a bit sheepish, as anyone who got Tony on a tear was wont to do, but stood his ground regardless. “Convenience food was a new and kind of strange concept when I was growing up, and I swear, you can taste the effort!”

Natasha carried on. “Tony took that as a challenge to his cooking skills.”

Clint frowned. “Does ... Tony have cooking skills?”

“He’s put together more dangerous things than a dessert,” Bruce chimed in. Clint noted with some concern that Bruce had picked the farthest seat from the kitchen he could get while staying in the room.

Thor grinned a little. “It will be a glorious challenge regardless!”

“We had to set limits on the challenge.” Natasha was very good at ignoring and talking around cross-talk. “He was talking about doing something like what the pilgrims had, but we vetoed that. Well. Bruce helped us out there.”

Bruce shrugged. “Given breeding programmes? It would have taken years and too many mutagens. I promised not to give him an example of what happens when you play with mutagens.”

“So something in the 20th century at the very earliest. But he still wanted to go earlier than Steve, so--”

Tony stuck his head into the sitting room, waving what looked like an iPad but was probably his own homebrew tablet. His grin was a rictus combining mad scientist enthusiasm and horror as he yelled: “CHOCOLATE POTATO CAKE! From 1912!” As he disappeared back into the kitchen, he added, “This is why we don’t perform lobotomies anymore!”

The Avengers looked at each other, struggling for the words to encompass the situation. Clint said it best: “I think we were safer with things from another dimension trying to eat our heads.”

Later:

“Boil a potato! ...Did I mention this was a cake?!?”

Thor blinked. “Did he sound ... near tears ... at the mention of boiling a potato?”

Bruce shook his head. “Just try not to think about it too hard. Knowing how the sausage gets made just puts you of your dinner.”

Thor then interrupted proceedings by giving a quite detailed account of how Asgardian sausage was made that came close to losing everyone their appetites for Thanksgiving dinner. That ended just in time to hear Tony say: “Skins stay on?!?”

“Unlike Americans.”

“...Jarvis, what does that even mean?”

“You were the one who programmed my humour subroutines, sir. You tell me.”

“...Never mind. FIRE!” That followed by the click of the stove burner.

Later:

“Cream the butter! ...Could we at least have coffee first?”

Steve blinked. “How much innuendo can he cram into one sentence?”

“Enough that I should maybe be taking notes,” Clint replied, though a wry look from Natasha shut him down fast.

“Butter goes NRRRRRRRRRRRRRGH!”

Later:

“Should be a pale white.”

There was a pause, and then Tony stepped out of the kitchen, holding a spoon. He walked over to Bruce, pulled up the sleeve of Bruce’s sweater as Bruce simply stared in ‘please don’t let me Hulk out’ terror, compared the colour of the mixture on his spoon to the inside of Bruce’s forearm, nodded, and went back into the kitchen. Bruce looked at them all, and all he could say was, “...I don’t know whether admire his faith in me or ask what he would have done if it was supposed to be a deep green...”

Later:

“Is he just making random sounds now?”

Pepper, bringing everyone much-needed beer (or tea in Bruce’s case) just sighed. “He thinks making anything goes better with sound effects.”

“I bet this recipe is just all the wrong answers on a baking test.”

Pepper stepped into the kitchen. “You asked for my great-great Gram’s recipe book; this is what you get.”

“Gnyeaaaah ... smells like dentures!”

“Could you at least close the door to the kitchen while you do this?”

“No. They need to hear this for posterity.”

Pepper walked back out. “You’re on your own, guys.”

“Goodbye!” And then the oven door slammed. A moment of stylus-on-tablet later, they all heard, “For the icing, we BOIL butter, sugar, milk and chocolate.”

Steve facepalmed. “I’m going to be hearing about how ‘people in the past only knew how to boil things’ from him for how long?

“Three months,” was Natasha’s best estimate.

Later:

A timer beeped. The Avengers in the lounge held their breath, allowing them to hear, in the silence, the sound of fork scraping plate. There was another three beats of silence ... and then, laughter. High, disbelieving laughter.

Followed almost immediately by, apparently to the cake, “YOU’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO WORK!”

The Avengers exchanged looks that were varying degrees of incredulous as, muffled by cake, came Tony’s verdict: “It’s incredible. And I’m mad about it!”

After another exchange of looks, the Avengers assembled, at great speed and with a certain amount of elbowing, to taste the unexpected genius-cake of 1912.

[professional-benaddict]

Chicago Fire AU oneshot

I tried smth idk if it’s any good but sksk for the moodboard and idea here

Tony, Steve, Stephen, 18+ Peter and MJ, Avengers and CW, firefighters, paramedics, firehouses, conflict and tensions, Peter is an emotional hoe for Everyone, Thor just being a cute puppy, MJ x Pepper hints, 3.5k

It is almost 8 am in Chicago, and Peter and MJ are walking up to Firehouse 51 to start their first day. The two childhood friends were both accepted to the firehouse and are now partners on Ambulance 61, and everything is like a surreal and wonderful dream. If you had told 8 year old Peter that he was going to be working with his best friend MJ as a paramedic, first he would have thrown a huge crying fit because he wants to be a firefighter most of all, but then he would have told you that you were lying. 

MJ has already been introduced to the others at the firehouse the week before, and already knows how to get through the backdoor, which is closer to the parking lot. Peter, on the other hand, has never been to the firehouse since he just moved from New York to Chicago. Ever since he got accepted, he has been studying the city map everyday to memorise the most important roads and shortcuts. Besides, he does not have anything else to do at night since he cannot sleep due to the nerves of the new job. 

While MJ dashes off to talk to the administration about getting a parking space, Peter is swooped away by to the Chief, Nick Fury, who runs the whole Firehouse. Their handshake is very formal, and straight to the point, and so is the introduction. But, Peter can see that there is a soft side to the Chief behind the rough edges, and the patch on his left eye hints to a long career as a firefighter. Around the patch, Peter can see scar tissue that resembles the aftermath of a severe burn, but Peter keeps his mouth shut and not asked about it. The Chief then shows Peter around, and then introduces him to the second in command, the Lieutenants. First came Lieutenant Steve Rogers on Rescue Squad 3, a large, blonde firefighter with a squared jaw and a clear will of steel, but kind, blue eyes. 

“Welcome to Firehouse 51, Parker.” 

“T-Thank you, Lieutenant Rogers.” Peter stutters out, trying not to sound as intimidated as he is by the huge blonde. The Lieutenant is in charge of Rescue Squad, which consists of Bucky Barnes, Sam Wilson and Clint Barton. All the firefighters engulf Peter’s hand when they shake hands. The young paramedic can tell that these guys are tight based on their playful bantering and how they shove at one another and rub shoulders. 

“These guys don’t join every call like 81, but if there’s a tricky situation, these guys will have our backs.” Chief Fury says and the Squad nod in agreement, heads high and grins wide. The 8 year old inside Peter cannot wait to see them in action. 

Next, the Chief introduces Peter to Firetruck 81 up in the lounge area, led by Lieutenant Tony Stark. But, the man himself is absent for some reason, but the Chief goes right ahead and introduces Peter to the rest of the Truck team. James Rhodes is first, who is clearly a veteran around, but still at the top of his game. Then, Peter shakes hands with Thor Odinson and Bruce Banner, trying not to wince openly when they practically crush his hand. 

“Peter, huh? You’re tiny.” The large blonde, Thor, comments. Peter blushes and is about to open his mouth to defend himself somehow, but the dark haired and shorter firefighter interrupts him. 

“Thunder thighs, be nice to the new meat.” Bruce says, shoving the other firefighter out of the way to pat Peter’s shoulders. “Welcome to our team, buddy.”

A few moments later, one of the doors to the lounge area opens up and a gorgeous man waltzes past Peter to the kitchen at the other end of the room. The firefighter’s uniform fits him perfectly, and the dark blue fabric hugs his muscles and makes them bulge even more in the light. His hark is short, and nearly black like soot, and his goatee makes his jaw appear even more sharp than it already is. Peter’s stomach does an excited flip when his nose catches the musky smell of the man and his dark brown eyes that remind Peter of whiskey. The man, the Lieutenant like it says on his uniform, is by far the most gorgeous at the Firehouse that Peter has met so far. Well, maybe Steve is. Peter is not entirely sure. 

“Stark, care to explain why you are late?” Fury asks, folding his arms in front of his chest. The man in question turns of his heel, putting on a clearly fake smile, but Peter is still intrigued and finds the man charming in an odd way. The Chief, on the other hand, is not amused in the slightest. 

“Had to help an old lady get her cat down from a tree.” Tony lies. 

“Right…” Fury sighs, while Rhodey, Thor and Bruce snicker in the back. 

“What kind of breed was it?” Peter asks, wanting to also join in on the fun. Tony picks his head up at that, and finally looks at the young paramedic. His eyes soften and one corner of his mouth tugs upwards in a tiny smile. 

“Brown.” The Lieutenant answers, his smile becoming wider. Before Fury can get to his rant, the alarm goes off, indicating a fire within their range, and everyone drops what they are doing and head down to the garage. Tony passes Peter on his way, and pats his shoulder. “Welcome to Firehouse 51, Peter Parker.” 

While driving with MJ to the scene behind Firetruck and Rescue Squad, Peter cannot stop thinking about how Tony Stark knew his name. The young paramedic tries not to draw any conclusions, but he cannot help his heart which races at the thought of the firefighter doing research beforehand and knowing about his arrival. At the end of his first day, Peter is head over heels for Lieutenant Tony Stark. 

Even with his heart racing with the rush of a crush, Peter manages to do a good job at the call, and together with MJ he saves the car crash victim, while the firefighters stop the car from tipping over and onto another car. It was quite the mess, and the Rescue Squad had remained behind to assist the police with the traffic. Meanwhile, Peter and MJ had rushed the crash victim to the closest hospital, and then returned to the firehouse. They actually  bump into Truck 81 on their way, and MJ and Peter can see how Thor waves at them from the driver seat and honks the horns on the truck. Peter might be imagining things, but he is almost sure that he saw Tony smirking at him where he was sat next to Thor. 

“Hey, Peter, wait up.” 

Peter turns around when he hears his name being called, and his stomach does an equally excited and nervous flip when he sees Steve Rogers jogging up to catch up with him in the hallway at the firehouse. 

“Yes, Lieutenant?” 

“Oh, don’t give me that formal stuff. It’s Steve, please.” The blonde firefighter smiles widely, radiating friendliness and everything warm and fuzzy. Peter feels a bit weak at the knees as he looks at the man’s heavenly blue eyes. Is he just falling for everyone now? “Just wanted to say what a good job you did out there. Many of the new kids tend to freak at such gruesome scenes, but you handled it well.” 

“Oh- I mean, thanks, Lieu- Steve.” Peter stutters out, his cheeks glowing like some Christmas ornaments. 

“No problem, kid.” Steve smiles, and shoves playfully at the paramedic as he passes him and heads off, leaving Peter completely stunned. 

During his first week, Peter learns a lot more than he ever felt like he did at school, both from the senior paramedics that frequently join them on calls, and the firefighters and their relationship to one another. Apparently, Lieutenants Rogers and Stark have been friends since the academy, but they had a falling out recently that has shaken the entire fire house. They rarely ever appear in rooms together at the same time, and if they really do have to be present, like during meetings, briefings and calls, they tend to steer away from one another. The lack of cooperation is nearly catastrophic, which means that Chief Fury has a much bigger job to do that he should have if his Lieutenants actually did their jobs and cooperated. Still, Peter keeps having encounters with them both, and for each time, he falls more and more in love with them both, although Peter knows what he wants is impossible to achieve. Tensions are high, and so are the flames.

A few weeks later, Peter and MJ are once more called to a scene with the firefighters. After a few minutes drive, they reach the scene. It is an elementary school, but luckily it is after school hours now, so the building is nearly empty, except for a few teachers working overtime. Hopping out of his own vehicle, Chief Fury starts giving orders, which includes to search the building for victims and then get the fire under control before it spreads to the neighbouring constructions. 

While the large, bulky male firefighters get their oxygen masks on and gear up to head into the fire, the two young paramedics wait by the ambulance, their gurneys and first aid kits all ready. Even at a relatively safe distance across the street, Peter can feel the heat pulsing from the burning building. A window shatters somewhere under the intense heat, then another. The supporting constructions of the building creak and moan loudly, almost like it is in pain. Some of the kids must be happy to hear that there will be no school, though. 

“I did some digging.” MJ says, fiddling with her stethoscope around her neck as she watches the firefighters work with keen eyes. While MJ is looking for signs of victims and patients for her to treat, Peter is getting distracted with looking at the firefighters, and Steve and Tony in particular. 

“Hmm?” Peter asks, not really registering that MJ spoke. “I think I’m falling for them both.” 

Not really following who Peter is referring to, MJ tries to follow his gaze and also spots the Lieutenants. 

“Peter, no. Just- no.”

“But, MJ! Like- I know about their fight and such-”

“No! Like I said, I did some digging. It wasn’t a fight, it was Rogers who left Stark to die in a burning factory. You can’t be friends, let alone boyfriends, with them both. Chief Fury has even considered firing one of them because they can’t work together, it’s that bad.”

“You hear a lot of shit, don’t you?” 

“I like to chat with Pep.” 

“Pep? As in Pepper? How?!” Peter asks, bewildered. The office lady in question, who honestly runs the Firehouse more than Chief Fury does, has an extensive reputation. None of the firefighters dare to anger her, some don’t even dare speak to her. But, it seems Pepper has a soft spot for MJ then, and Peter smirks at the idea. He knows that his friend has a thing for older women in heels. 

Before they can chat any further, MJ and Peter both perk up when their names are called. It is Thor who is carrying a burn victim in his arms, but before MJ and Peter can get to him, one of the other paramedics get there first. 

“Hey, he called for us!” MJ protests, but the two other paramedics have already got the victim on their gurney. 

“Yeah, not this time, kiddos.” One of them says before rushing off. 

“Kiddos?!” MJ snaps, giving both Peter and Thor a dumbfounded look. “We are just as good as them!” 

“It might take a while for you guys to earn your place here. Sorry…” Thor says apologetically with a shrug. Before MJ can protest further, everyone turns to look at the fire wrecked building when the constructions groan loudly. It sounds like it is going to collapse. Turning on his heel, Thor goes to join the Chief. 

“Everybody, retreat now! It’s coming down!” Fury barks into the radio. He gets a few responses from his firefighters who promise to return, and after a few moments, Bruce, Clint and Steve come running out from the building. 

“It’s all clear!” Steve reports, tugging off his helmet and then his mask. His face is dripping with sweat and partly covered in soot. Looking around, Fury quickly counts his men, but then his face hardens. The building creaks again, and a large cloud of smoke emerges as a part of the third floor collapses. Peter blinks his eyes rapidly as the heatwave from the collapse hits them. 

“Stark, come in!” Fury shouts into the radio. “Stark! It’s coming down, get out for God’s sake! Stark!” 

Peter’s heart jumps into his throat as he listens to the Chief bark into the radio, his voice becoming more and more desperate. It is silly, it is, but the young paramedic starts praying to a god he doesn’t believe in for the Lieutenant who remembered his name to return safely. The seconds tick by slowly, but the building continues to give in more and more, and seems to be speeding up. Suddenly, the Chief’s radio crackles. 

“Coming…” 

It is hard to decipher Tony’s voice through the radio and with all the background noise of the crackling fire, but it is Tony. Everyone holds their breaths as they wait, and finally Tony emerges from the doorway. Rhodey and Thor sprint towards him, grabbing each of Tony’s arms and throw them across their shoulders to support their friend. For some odd reason, Tony is missing his mask and his face is covered in soot. 

“Medic!” Rhodey calls out and MJ and Peter take their chance, finally. 

“Get the jacket off.” Peter commands, and Rhodey and Thor do as they are told. Tony is barely standing up on his own, with his head hanging down to his chest. Once the heavy jacket is off of Tony, the firefighters lift the Lieutenant up on the gurney. The two young paramedics work in sync, with MJ strapping an oxygen mask on the man and hooking up an EKG, while Peter listens to his chest with his stethoscope. 

“Breaths sounds okay, but it’s not good.” Peter reports to MJ and looks down at Tony when he suddenly groans out. “Where’s your mask, Lieutenant?” Peter asks, chuckling a little sadly as he gets help from Thor and Rhodey to load Tony into the ambulance. MJ goes in the front to drive, while Peter sticks with the Lieutenant. 

“Dropped it, sweetheart…” Tony lies weakly, but with a cheeky smile on his chapped lips as he looks up at Peter. The young paramedic tries to ignore the butterflies suddenly swarming in his stomach, and instead focuses on getting Tony stable. From the front, MJ honks the horn to get past the large gathering of vehicles and people by the fire. 

“Please, don’t do that again.” Peter huffs out with a laugh, reaching for an IV kit. 

“I wouldn’t have to-…” Tony starts explaining, but has to pause to cough. The heart monitor does a jump, which concerns Peter. “If Rogers did his job…” The firefighter stutters out before finally falling unconscious. 

A day later, Chief Fury informs the rest of the firehouse that Tony is still at the hospital for observation due to the arrhythmia during the ambulance to the hospital, but adds that he is doing much better and will be discharged very soon. The Chief also adds how the ER had complimented Peter for managing the arrhythmia so skilfully for such a fresh paramedic. Blushing a bit in response, Peter mutters his thanks to the others who applaud him for helping Tony. However, out of the corner of his eye, Peter notices that Lieutenant Rogers is stood a bit back. He isn’t clapping at all. 

Peter and MJ end their shift that day at the ER after dropping off a gunshot victim, and let out a long breath once it sinks in for them that their work is finally done. Now, they have two days off, then another two days on call. But, they are both still a bit shaky with the last of the adrenalin still lingering in their system after their latest call. Gunshot victims are one of the worst in Peter’s opinion. 

“Uhm, MJ? Could you do me a favour?” Peter asks, pulling his best best puppy-dog eyes and even lifts his hands in a prayer. “Could you check the ambulance while I’ll go see how Stark is doing?” 

MJ rolls her eyes, but waves Peter off, saying how he owes him. Peter squeals out his thanks and heads off after hugging his partner from behind. After asking in the reception at the ER, and explaining that Tony is his coworker, the nurse behind the desk directs him to the third floor and to room B336. Luckily, Peter is still in his paramedic uniform, so none of the staff really pay him any mind as he heads to Tony’s room, with a bit of a skip in his steps and smile on his lips. In his head, he keeps replaying how Tony had called him ‘sweetheart’ in the ambulance the day before, and his stomach flutters pleasantly at the memory. 

The glass sliding door to room B336 is open, and Peter can hear two voices conversing in the room, so he slows down a bit since he does not want to interrupt. Through the glass, he can see Tony in a hospital gown on the bed, with a few monitors hooked up to him as well as a saline drip. The firefighter looks healthy, which Peter is relieved to see. His chest feels warm when he hears the man chuckle. The butterflies also do flips in his stomach. It is like they come alive whenever Tony is near. 

“You really should go to Fury about Rogers, Tones. This is the second time he has left you behind.” An unfamiliar male voice says from the room. 

“I’ve tried, I’ve tried, but Fury can’t touch the Squad. Those assholes run the place, and do the least work.” Tony says bitterly. The other man sighs and moves to sit next to Tony on his bed. At this angle, Peter can recognise the man as Doctor Stephen Strange. The paramedic had the ER doctor as one of his supervisors when he was in medical school, but he does not know the doctor well. But, it seems like Tony and the doctor know each other well, with Stephen’s hand moving to hold Tony’s. 

“What about switching to Firehouse 21? They would be lucky to have you.” 

“No, I can’t. I can’t leave my friends behind.” 

“Yeah, Rhodes, Bruce and Odinson have all been asking about you. I told them you’re too stubborn to die.” 

Tony laughs loudly at that, his hand squeezing Stephen’s. Meanwhile, the butterflies’ dance in Peter’s stomach has turned into a frantic panic. He feels sick. 

The two men in the hospital room pause for a bit, and the silence is comfortable. However, somewhere down the hall an alarm goes off and some staff members head to the room. Stephen isn’t phased and remains sat by Tony’s bedside. Eventually, Tony hums, his thumb moving across the back of the doctor’s hand. 

“Fury’s given me a whole week off to recover. Do you happen to have some free time? And this time, you must stay for breakfast.” Tony bargains. Stephen chuckles, promising to come after his shift on Wednesday. 

Peter has finally had enough and before Stephen has the chance to leave the room, he sprints off, trying to hold back his tears as he rides the elevator down to find MJ again. 

With some unknown godly strength, Peter manages to keep it together and hides his upset from MJ while she drives them back to the firehouse to park the ambulance before finally ending their shift. It is silly to be upset, and that is exactly why Peter hides it. MJ had warned him at the school fire, but he had been dumb enough to think something real was going on between him and Tony. Clearly, sometimes real is going on between this Strange doctor and Tony. Their conversation was very suggestive, and Peter feels sick as he in unable to stop their conversation from playing on repeat in his head. 

“Yo, you’re quiet. Is Stark okay, or…?” MJ asks, and Peter knows that he isn’t hiding his upset so well after all. Luckily, they reach the firehouse just then, and Peter has the excuse to head to the men’s locker room to change out of his uniform and shower. But, even in the men’s locker room, Peter is not left alone, when he sees a familiar blonde firefighter walking in. After just one glance at Peter, Steve’s brows furrow and he walks over. 

“What’s up, kid? You look real upset.”

Peter draws in a shaky breath. 

[experimentalmadness]

Treatment

More one-shots featuring my OC and Harvey Dent, if you’re curious about more of their story you can find other stories here. Hope you like YEARNING, because we are doing some mutual pining in this household tonight. 

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She had broken into many places in her life, but that had been her first pharmacy. Jacky kept to the rooftops. The old apartments here were so close together it was easy enough to jump from building to building, no fancy equipment required. If only all jobs could be so quick and painless. The poor pharmacist was going to be sleeping with the lights on for the foreseeable future, Jacky guessed. Hopefully she’d be true to her word and not snitch. Good kid though, they didn’t have to help them find the right medicine, but they did it anyway. Maybe they thought she was just someone desperate with no insurance.

Well, she was, wasn’t she?

She flinched as the first drop of rain landed on her nose. Oh great. That meant she only had a few more minutes until—a curtain of water descended from the night, slicking the roof tops and soaking Jacky through in less than a minute. A quiet purr of thunder followed. Never could have just a little mist or drizzle in Gotham. Had to be a storm or nothing. 

Luckily she was almost to homebase. 

One more leap was all it took, she skidded on the landed, sliding right for the roof access door and almost losing her balance. No one was around to see this less than graceful entrance. Trying the door she found it locked. Huffing strands of wet, fading-bleached hair out of her eyes, Jacky considered busting the door in. Nah, too much trouble. And she really didn’t fancy getting more soaked than she already was trying to pick the look in the dark either. 

Shortcut it was. 

Heading back over to the roof’s edge, Jacky peered down until she spotted the fire escape. Lining herself up and saying a quick prayer she jumped down, slamming onto the cold, iron grating. The impact went from her knees to her teeth, but at least she was golden. The resident inside the apartment window she’d landed beside gave a single scream. Jacky turned about, raising a half salute before climbing down to the apartments below. Poor lady, hopefully she didn’t get any thoughts about calling the police. Jacky was not in the mood to deal with the GCPD. 

It was two more flights before she arrived at her destination. The curtains were closed, blocking her view inside, but should tell the lights were still on. She rapped at the window twice before giving it an experimental push. 

She hadn’t counted on it being unlocked.

The window flew inward and Jacky had just enough time to think that this was exactly why she really hadn’t gotten into burglary before she tumbled into the apartment, tangling up in the curtains. The unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked kept her still. “It’s just me, boss,” she said through a mouthful of cloth.

“Jacky?” 

Harvey pulled the curtains off of her as she rose to her feet. “We could have shot you.”

“Eh, I liked my odds. Besides it’s not my fault the roof hatch was locked again.” Jacky slicked her short hair back, sniffling as she wiped the rain water from her eyes. 

It had been three months since she started working for him full time and Jacky still couldn’t equate seeing him in this slum. She’d grown up not too far from this street. She knew he’d come from those same roots, but somehow he was always in an orbit far beyond her. Far beyond the scum she’d been trying to kick the dust off of for years. Harvey set the revolver on the small, circular table at the corner of the room that served as the majority of the apartment. 

“What are you doing here?” he snapped, fixing her with his good eye. Sometimes if she tilted her head right he’d look the same. But even that blue eye had an ice, cold edge to it now. 

“Angling for that overtime pay?” 

He did not look amused. “Okay, okay, I got something for you,” she held out her hands in surrender before fishing for the items in her satchel. “Doc says you should be using these—”

“We don’t need those.”

“—every day or there could be serious complications!”

 “Did we hire you to be a goddamn nurse?” It was still taking some getting used to, the voice that was and wasn’t Harvey Dent’s. The person that moved his body around, that possessed him, that was still him in all the ways he didn’t want to admit. 

“No, you hired me to take care of your enemies, and sometimes, Harvey, that’s you.”

She was never sure how far to push the man who was still her friend, a total stranger, and now her employer. Saying yes to the job was easy. She’d already gone down as far as one could go in this city. If anyone was going to follow him down the rabbit hole it had to be her. 

Harvey ran an exasperated hand through his hair. “Get yourself dried off, Jacky, and get out of here.” He gestured to the bathroom off the corner. 

Stubborn. Well he was in here with the champ. But she was soaking wet, still. She grabbed the medical supplies and hauled off into the cramped bathroom, taking a towel she dried off the ends of her hair, wiping down her face, neck. She turned on the tap to get some hot water on her chilled hands. The hottest she could get it was still lukewarm. “Damnit,” she cursed, shutting off the water and slamming the towel against the rim of the tub next to her. Leaning against the sink counter she got a good hard look at the haggard woman staring back at her in the dirty mirror, along with Harvey, leaning against the doorway. 

Her fingers curled against the yellowing counter top. It hurt to look at him. There was still that blue eyed stare that got to her the way no one else’s ever had or ever would. “I’m not leaving,” she said to the reflection. 

“We can make you.”

Two nights ago she’d watched as he broke a man’s neck on the flip of a coin. When only two years ago those same hands had helped her put up campaign flyers and posters in her shop and gestured emphatically about how Gotham was going to change. And a few months before that had held her secure as he danced her across Bruce Wayne’s manor, both of them laughing about made up scandals and whiskey. 

Jacky turned around, hiked herself up on the counter top and sat back. “Alright, heads you throw me right out on my ass out the window, scarred side you try the damn treatment.”

Oh, he was livid. But he still went for the coin in his pocket. It was only three stories up, if he really did throw her out it wouldn’t hurt much. Jacky watched the coin flip, saw how carefully he studied it. The most decisive man she ever knew, basing his every move now on the whim of a silver dollar. He pocketed the coin in silence and padded over to her. She stiffened, back pressed up against the mirror. Shit, he really was going to pick her up and toss her out. 

“So...you gonna show us what exactly is in this damn stuff you got, or—”

Jacky breathed out a shaky, laughing breath, her shoulders rolling forward, muscles releasing every line of tension. She felt for the satchel still at her belt, not taking her eyes off him. “It’s for the scarring, least that’s what the pharmacist said. I made him find the right things.”

“Useless junk,” he mumbled.

“Not if you don’t want to get infected,” Jacky countered. “Let’s see what you do when you can’t even talk back to me ‘cause the skin’s so tight from the scar tissue you can’t even move your damn mouth ‘cause you refuse to get skin grafts, genius. And can you even see out of that eye anymore?” She waved in what she knew was his blindspot. 

“Shadows and light,” Harvey said quietly. “But that’s all we need.”

“You’re gonna lose that eye,” Jacky was already working on the eye dropper bottle, tearing the seal and setting a packet of gauze out on her lap. “And I’m sorry, Harvey, but I’m not gonna just sit here and watch you do that. I’m not. And I know you didn’t hire me for this, but I’m gonna be honest...I’m kinda cashing in on five plus years of friendship on this one. You have to trust me.”

Sometimes he looked at her like he didn’t quite know her. That part she refused to get used to. The expression faded as he nodded. “Alright, Jacky, we trust you.”

He was still looming over her, close enough to touch, close enough to make her aware of how pathetic she’d been for these five odd years. Oh, Jacky, you miserable idiot, what were you thinking? This all felt close to some vivid hallucination. Harvey sat along the edge of the tub, no more smart remarks or resistance. Jacky leaned over him now, the countertop giving her the needed height as she primed the dropper. That pharmacist had better have given her the right stuff or she was going to pay them another far less friendly visit. 

Harvey looked straight up at her and Jacky’s mouth went dry. The scars gave him a permanent snarl where the left edges of his lips had burned away, but on the undamaged side she swore she could see something akin to...disappointment? The burned eye was red, wild, and from this close it really was like looking into two different faces. Yet they were both patient. And they both were as good as their word. 

The pharmacist had said two drops so that’s what Jacky did. Harvey pulled away as they hit the red eye, flinching, trying to blink without eyelids. Jacky was ready for that. She placed the gauze pad over the eye, tearing off medical tape and sticking it delicately around the edges. “You gotta keep it on for the rest of the night, Harvey,” she said. 

“Like how you kept the damn tape on when you got your nose busted?” Harvey jabbed her right in the bridge of the nose in question, pushing her head back gently as she laughed unexpectedly. 

“Hey, that was different,” she bit back a grin as she fished around in the bag, pulling out the ointment.

His laughter nowadays was a grating, raspy, vicious sound. She still loved hearing it. “You know I had that little situation under control before you walked in. Thought you were gonna kill that poor mugger.”

The gel came out clear, she ran a finger’s worth down the middle of his face, where the scar tissue met undamaged skin. 

“We wanted to,” he snapped. 

“I’m flattered, boss.”

She had to bring herself so close in order to do this right. The burned skin felt different than she had imagined. This was a rough map and she was tipping over the edge of it. Jacky didn’t fish for conversation as she smoothed the medicine over his face. She had to focus, trying hard not to catch Harvey’s gaze meant she concentrated harder on this new map she was following. The burns were harder, more twisted in some places, in others almost smooth, like new skin was trying so hard to break past the ruin. She didn’t go near his lower cheek and jaw, where the tendon was barely holding the structure together. 

Blood hit her tongue, and Jacky unclenched her teeth. She should have been there that day. Didn’t matter how impossible that was. Didn’t matter she would never have known, didn’t matter she had only just been released from Blackgate a few weeks prior, didn’t matter she would have had no business being in that courtroom. Then at least he wouldn’t be sitting in this slum of a hideout with her. He’d be home with Gilda and she’d still be going about the necessary work of untangling herself from his association for his own good. 

Jacky really wished in that moment she hadn’t noticed that Harvey wasn’t wearing his wedding ring anymore.

Things were already dangerous enough. 

Her hand went down across his neck where the acid had splashed. The attacker would have had to get in close, possibly only a difference of inches between how close she was to Harvey now. She knew that because the only difference between her and that hitman was who they had signed a contract with. It was sheer dumb luck Maroni had put the hit out first and not Falcone when it cold have easily been him. And it could have easily been her holding that bottle of acid, and what would she have done then? 

Her panic blinkered out as Harvey tilted his head into her hand, eye closed. He pulled in a deep sigh that uncoiled every hidden line of stress in his body. She could feel the tension in his muscles unravel beneath her fingertips and transfer directly into her as she clutched the edge of the sink counter. 

That sigh might have bought her a few years out of purgatory. 

Jacky had managed to interpret the new map of his face in its entirety, but this expression now was utterly foreign. His undamaged side faced hers, good eye still closed. She wanted to reach out and brush aside his hair, tell him she couldn’t work for him. This wasn’t a job. Maybe start telling him about all the impossible things she’d gotten very good at boxing up and locking away. 

Instead, like the coward she always was, she moved her hand away.

Harvey opened his eyes. 

And Jacky continued her work without comment.

She knew there were more burns down his shoulder and chest that she could not get to, and she had to get out of this apartment soon or she was going to lose what little she still had of her mind. She was about to close up the bottle when Harvey held out his hand, letting it rest, palm up in her lap. The only quiet insistence that she wasn’t done yet and the closest thing she was ever going to get to him admitting she had been right about the medicine. 

He flexed his fingers as she soothed more of the medication into his palm. The scars on his hand were the ones she could handle the least. The disfigurements were an adjustment, but the burns on his hand were the reminder of the real brutality. The sudden instinct to defend, the recoil. Jack knew she lingered for a second too long, fingers tracing directionless along the edge of his wrist. 

Some excuse was about to escape her lips when, with his free hand, Harvey reached up to tuck back a loose strand of her hair. “Hey,” he whispered in a voice that sounded like his own, incredulous, and strangely surprised. Why did it sound like he had only now noticed it was her sitting here the whole time? “Hey, Jacky…” He let the piece of hair fall from between his fingers, the backs of his knuckles trailing down her cheek as Jacky forgot to breathe.

His fingers tilted her chin up as he leaned in closer and oh, good Christ, she was going to let this happen. There were no more reasons to stop herself. Her whole world was already upside down. It wouldn’t fix a damn thing, but the medicine wouldn’t magically heal those scars either, that didn’t mean it hadn’t helped. 

She had just about convinced herself to give in when Harvey pulled away, opting instead to dive for the coin in his pocket, his breath coming in short, almost panicked bursts. He tossed it up once and Jacky had to restrain the sheer mania that nearly made her snatch the coin out of the air. Instead he caught it as he always did, uncovering it to reveal the scarred side of the dollar. He stared at it hard, brow knitting into a frown and Jacky felt her heart sink from the unexpected heights it had managed to reach seconds before. She hoped it didn’t show on her face. She looked down, fumbling with the cap to the medicine, pretending none of that had happened. 

“Still want that overtime pay?” Harvey placed his unburnt hand over hers. What remained of his lips tried to smile.

“Didn’t come here for the money.”

“Yeah...yeah I know,” his fingers curled around her wrist, thumb rubbing a half circle around the back of her hand. Jacky felt every pinpoint of pressure; a reminder of how far out to sea she was. 

“You shouldn’t be here, Harvey,” Jacky blurted out, a modicum of real courage seeping into her veins. He shook his head even as the first words left her mouth, rising to his feet, pulling away from her. “I think you should let me drive you to a hospital, a doctor...anyone...I think you should let Miri and I put you up until you can get back on your feet so you’re not hiding out in this slum,” she was losing him. His back was to her as he tried to wave her off. 

“Not going to happen, Jacky,” he said, and was she hallucinating or did she detect a note of genuine disappointment. “You get out of here. Go home. When we got work for you we’ll call.”

“For what?” Jacky hopped down from the sink, grabbing her jacket from the tub and shoving her arms through furiously. “When you need a bank robbed? A hit put out on more of Falcone, or Penguin’s men? You think you’re really gonna take this city?”

“We know we are,” he glared at her, from over his shoulder, his red eye unmoving, unblinking. “We’re gonna give this city back what it gave us double.” He stepped away, idly tossing that damn coin in his good hand. Whatever quiet spell had overtaken them just moments before was gone now. The would-be-mob boss was firmly back in his place. 

“That’s not what you told me,” Jacky said. Maybe he’d shoot her after all. Her fingers were still slick with the gel, she could still feel the map of the burns under her skin. “You told me you were gonna change this city. It’s not too late.”

“If you’re not with us, Jacky, you’re against us.”

That snapped a raw nerve she didn’t even realize she had left. She shoved him back, hard, watching that already snarling face twist further. “You gotta ask me that, Harvey?”

“The name’s Two-Face.”

“Your name is Harvey Dent and I’m not letting you forget it! I think you should come with me, but I can’t make you. So screw it,” she ran an exasperated hand through her hair as a desperate laugh choked out of her. “You want me to shake down a few civilians? Put a bullet in the right person’s head? Yeah, sure, Harv, I’ll do that easy. Whatever you want. But I think you should flip that coin of yours again.”

“Not how it works,” his voice had gone quiet again, but it was still the same persona. “Fate isn’t always fair, Jacky. Please just...go.”

If she was a braver woman she would have ignored fate and finished what they had started. “You gotta remember to use that medicine,” she said leaning hard against the door. 

“We will.”

“You’re a terrible fucking liar, Harvey.”

“So are you.”

“Well,” Jacky sighed, a tired laugh escaping her as she opened the door. “Guess that makes us two sides of the same coin.”

[fanfictrashdump]

Queening a Pawn, 9

[Am I procrastinating? Damn right, I am! 2020 is just a throw-away year, y’all. Strap in, it’s a long one.]

Summary: During the Time Heist, Loki stole the Tesseract and escaped. He did not expect, however, to be pulled through a Time Loop that delivered him to a Midgard more than a decade older, wiser, and bitterer. Having just lived through his unsuccessful attack in New York, Loki must learn to live in Midgard after the defeat of Thanos (post-Endgame). The question is, who is Loki without a quest for a throne or total domination?

Pairings: Loki x OC

=

Delilah flipped through the papers in her hand, filing cabinet drawer open, as she put them away in their designated location. Her day had been the normal array of meetings and putting out imaginary fires before she had been left alone to her fortress of paperwork a half hour earlier. It was getting late into the evening, and though Lilah knew she should have called it quits hours ago, she had decided that finishing this menial, mindless task, would be the perfect excuse for sleeping in tomorrow.

She slid another file into its allotted slot, when the hair on the back of her neck all stood at attention. It wasn't that playful sensation in the back of her head when she felt Loki was trying to scare her, and it wasn't the cursory glance of the maintenance staff cleaning up, after hours. No, she was being well and truly observed. She couldn't see anyone out of her peripheral vision, but she could practically feel their heartbeat. 

Bending to lower some files into the lowest drawer, she silently unholstered a pistol taped to the side of the furniture. She wanted to groan. That gun had been there since her first day of work nearly a decade ago and this was the first time she had ever needed to reach for it.

Straightening up, she took a few steadying breaths. Turning on a dime, she shot a single round, catching the intruder in the chest. For a moment, she debated between throwing up and screaming for help, but neither would do her any good at this time of night. Instead, she stepped lightly to the lifeless figure. He was dressed head to toe in tactical gear, several guns strapped to his person, and Delilah had managed to catch him just above the bullet vest. This was unlikely to be an isolated incident, and she didn't want to wait for his friends to show up.

With a weapon raised, she quietly hurried down the corridor, using any and every shortcut she knew to get back to the rooms. If she could have FRIDAY wake the agents, they could possibly live to see another day, but she did not enjoy the fact their fate depended on the least trained individual in the entire building.

"I really need to go to more voluntary training," she muttered to herself, turning down a hallway, only to find a group in the same tactical gear. She shuffled backwards, gasping. Her feet lost their grip on the ground below and she was forced back into a closet, hand over her mouth to keep her quiet.

"It's me. It's only me." Her struggles settled down to a bare pant at Loki's voice. "There was a patrolman coming up behind you." He turned her to face him, moving her face this way and that to assess the damage. "Are you alright? I heard gunfire."

"That was me." Loki looked oddly impressed at the response. "I'm not entirely useless."

"You're entirely too modest. Where were you scurrying off to?"

Delilah sighed, puffing her cheeks out as she thought. "They disabled FRIDAY. I need to reach a securely rooted computer to sound the alarm." There was shuffling just behind the door. Loki and Delilah held their breaths, trying to think themselves invisible as the intruders ran past. The echo of gunfire further away made her start, and she found herself clutching onto the front of Loki's shirt, rooted to the spot.

"Hey. Hey! Where's the nearest secure whatever you need?" Loki cupped her face with both hands, forcing her to focus on him, rather than the thunder-like sound of bullets. It was a helpful distraction, but it made her no less terrified of what lay beyond their door.

Delilah stuttered, her brain a mess. The adrenaline had started to fade and her fear had begun to take over. Not to mention the guilt of having put a bullet through someone's chest just a few minutes prior. "Um… I–I… er…" Her eyes caught the barest piece of an insignia for Stark Industries and lightbulb came on in her brain. "Tony. We need to get to Tony's case."

He rolled his eyes, groaning. "Nowhere better, really?"

"Loki–!"

He clapped his hand over her mouth. "Don't yell, you imp! You'll give us away!" Eyes wide, she nodded frantically, and he lowered his hand. "On the count of three, we'll go through the door, take a right and we'll walk as quietly as possible to the Memorial Hall. OK?" She nodded again. "If someone comes and they shoot, you get behind me. If I die, you run. Do you understand?"

"No, but–"

"Do you understand?"

There was a beat of tense silence between them before she nodded and Loki grasped at the doorknob with determination. He mouthed his count: One, Two, Three, and swung the door open. They crept away to the right. As they turned the corner, two figures were incoming. With a flourish of his hand, there was a dagger in one of their chests, but before he could reach for another blade, thunder rolled beside him, leaving him slightly deaf in one ear. The figure crumpled to the ground in a heap.

"Color me impressed," he whispered, taking Delilah's hand and pulling her along. He stopped only to collect his dagger, as well as the daggers attached to the fallen men. Loki sighed. No magic meant he had to police his daggers like a commoner, but it didn't mean his aim was any less true.

Down the hall, they could see the shining beacon of Tony's hologram in the darkened room. Lilah ran ahead, sliding to a stop in front of the case while Loki dealt with a couple of intruders who had just stumbled into the hall. She dropped to her knees, opening the panel just below the hologram as Loki rejoined her.

"Pygmy puff, what the hell is going on?" The hologram whispered, bending down to talk to her.

"Not sure. All I know is that someone's put FRIDAY offline. I need to sound a warning."

"Behind you!" Tony warned, and Loki spun, digging the blade of his weapon to the hilt before kicking the attacker back to retrieve it. "What's he doing here?" Tony eyed Loki distrustfully, and on any other day Delilah would have thought it was sweet, but right now, she had to figure out what the hell had happened to their security system.

"Saving my ass. What’s it look like, Tony?" She groaned. "Where the fuck is the keyboard!?"

"Jesus, settle down, Li! It's under the external drive." The projection held his hands up in defense. "Be gentle. It's my first time," he joked as she stuck her arm into the box and dislodged the keyboard from its hidden recess. "It's gonna get a little loud here, kids." From atop the box, two miniature missiles flew out and locked onto a new wave of attackers. Neither Loki nor Delilah were surprised.

"Tony, someone's been tweaking your algorithm." Delilah commented, her fingers a blur over the keyboard.

"What?" He bent over her work with a frown. "That's not my coding."

"I know! Do you recognize it?"

"No, I don't know anyone who's that sloppy," he retorted. "Other than Criss Angel here."

"Not the time, Tony!" A peal of automatic gun fire echoed the room. Loki had snatched her back so fast, she felt a little like a ragdoll, and the hologram was quick to wave them both behind the display. "Really? Bulletproof glass?"

"I'm worth it!" He said defensively. "You didn't seem to mind when I was saving your behind earlier."

"Well, yeah, but–" More gunfire followed, and Delilah let out a scream of pain.

Loki bundled her up, pulling her further behind the display, leaving the extra screen and keyboard forgotten. He smoothed his hands over her, looking for a source of pain. "Delilah? Talk to me."

"Fucking ricochet off the fucking glass," she hissed, holding onto her leg with a groan.

"We need to get you to the infirmary and–"

"I'm fine." She groaned, though he continued fussing over her. It took a jolt of her pulling on his shirt to rouse him from the panic. "Loki, I'm fine. I swear. It's just a graze."

"Oh, God. Are you two–"

"Shut up, Stark!" Loki and Delilah both echoed, narrowing their eyes at the projection.

Delilah reached for the keyboard and continued trying to restart FRIDAY from Tony's hub, to no avail. "Tony, how do we get FRI up and running?"

"There's a failsafe in the basement. It'll override any programming that they've coded into her. In it’s a drawer labeled Taxes. Problem is, you're gonna need Bruce for the final jolt."

She nodded, pulling herself up to test putting weight on her leg. It was blindingly painful, but she could walk. "That's fine. Lo, you go get Bruce, and I'll start the resetting FRIDAY downstairs, OK?" She had intended to just run the opposite direction to Loki, but he reached out to grab her wrist at the last moment, pulling her back roughly.  

"I'm not leaving you, if that's what you're suggesting." Loki announced, decided.

His human companion growled. "For fuck's sake–we don't have time for this, Loki! Just go get Bruce."

"Are you mental? You'd have to navigate several floors on your own. They might be waiting to ambush you!"

Delilah pushed at his chest, trying to usher him the other way. "Loki, you are the patron sinner of logic and thinking three steps ahead and you know splitting up makes sense!"

His thumb, index and forefingers gripped her face at the hollows of her cheeks. In the low light, he looked eerily like a nightmare creature, angry and out for blood, but more importantly, worried out of his mind. The expression wasn't a particularly common sight on his face, and his hesitation sent a cold drip of fear down her spine. "I don't give a flying fuck what I would do on my own in the name of logic. Those rules are non-existent for you." Delilah raised her eyebrows in surprise. Cussing wasn't Loki's style (at least any cuss words used in the current century), so it was particularly impactful when he slung the phrase out like it was nothing.

Delilah bit her tongue, taking a deep breath and concentrating, instead, on the burning in her leg. "Where's Bruce, Tony?"

Tony looked like he was thinking as he accessed the building cameras. "Mess hall. Trying not to go savage." Loki and Lilah nodded to each other. "Hey, hey, hey. You keep an eye on her, Danny Phantom. Got it?"

"Won't let her leave my sight, I assure you," Loki called over his shoulder as he ran after Delilah. 

He pressed her back against the wall as a group of soldiers in black, trying not to stare at the long swooping eyelashes that were fluttering against her cheek. Loki shushed her quietly when she went to say something, holding a finger to her lips. Another three watchmen strolled past and neither moved for a few seconds after the coast was clear. It was an open area to the mess and they'd be exposed all the way there. Not to mention, they didn't know what would await them on the other side of the door. Taking in a shuddering breath, Delilah offered her hand, waiting for Loki to thread his fingers through hers. With a nod, they shot off, Loki dragging Delilah after him because of his significantly longer strides, and they slid into the mess hall with a sigh.

Bruce swept Delilah into his arms and squeezed her as tightly as he dared before setting her back down, leaving her to teeter uncomfortably on her feet. "Finally! Are you OK? Who the hell are these people?"

"I don't know, but they took down FRIDAY. I need you to help me reboot."

"Are they with him?" His voice grew into a roar as he stared down at Loki, eyes dark.

"No," she assured, turning back to glance at Loki, who seemed fidgety around the gentle giant. "At least I don't think so. It'd be too much of a hassle to keep me alive all night if this were all him."

"It wouldn't be the first–" The snarky remark was cut short by a knife whizzing through the air beside him and finding its mark in the chest of an intruder who had attempted to sneak up.

"Not that I don't adore the scathing review of my character, could we please not give these people an opportunity to kill agents in their beds?" Loki rolled his eyes, his hand instinctually reaching for Lilah to have her lead ahead.

The basement was nothing remarkable. There were boilers, power switch boxes, and server panels that kept the compound running. Loki looked at the room as if it were the landscape of some distant planet. Delilah had tugged him to some dark recess in the room, past mountains of circuit boards and wires. She opened a drawer in one of the various cabinets against the wall, labeled Taxes, and just as Tony had promised there were two terminals and a set of relays with the words Smash Here written on some silver duct tape. Beneath, there was a set of laminated instructions which she quickly glanced over, bottom lip trapped between her teeth.

"Loki, I need some help!"

He was beside her a moment later, wiping blood off his knife. "Yes?"

"I need you to help me type. To reset FRIDAY, commands have to be typed into both terminals at the same time," she explained, pushing one of the keyboards towards him.

Loki hesitated. "I… maybe I should get Banner in. He's better at this–"

"You can drive spaceships. I'm pretty sure you can handle typing."

"We have no use for this crude technology."

"Yeah, well, right now this crude technology is all that's standing between us and reinforcements, and Bruce's fingers are too big for this keyboard."

He looked like he wanted to protest, but her narrowed eyes offered little purpose in complaining. "What do I have to do?" His dagger disappeared into a sheath behind his back and he reached for the keyboard.

"There's a reset code, but in true Tony fashion, it can only work if they're typed at the exact same time. I'm going to need you to keep perfect pace with me, or…"

"Or?"

"It might completely wipe FRIDAY's interface off the server, but, you know, no pressure."

"Just keep pace with you." He stared at her for a second too long, enough for her to shift her gaze at him and tilt her head in question. "I can do that." He studied the keys with rapt interest. "Norns know I try hard enough," he added under his breath, leaving Delilah to ponder the severity of his words.

"Alright. Take a breath and in 3, 2, 1…" She started calling out the code, line by line, watching as Loki carefully matched the clacking of her keys with his own. It was a long program and Lilah was sure the Science Bros™ had made it so infuriatingly difficult just for giggles– she didn't think they could ever foresee FRIDAY going dark because of some crappy Trojan. When the final return was entered, the screen flickered with the message Pressure realignment pending. "Bruce!"

A scuffle was heard just outside the door before Bruce peeked into the server room, carefully skirting towers of data to avoid collision and potential loss. Delilah set the relay on a countertop and gestured the green genius with her hand. Banner stared at the thing for just a second before letting out a roar and driving his fist down on it, leaving the counter creaking and slightly dented. A second later a beep, followed by a Good evening, Strongest Avenger echoed.

"Oh, thank God! FRIDAY, code purple. Security code three-six-eight dash fourteen thirty."

"It looks like someone jammed the locks on the agent barracks. Do you want me to remotely unlock the hallway, Del?"

"Yes, please!"

"It's too bad you won't be able to see them free, Lilah." The trio turned. At the door stood five men, guns raised with Dwyer leading the pack. Banner lumbered, ready to pounce, but a small dart cut through the air and stuck into his neck before he even had a chance to make any headway. He fell unconscious with a mighty thud.

Loki hastily shoved Delilah behind him and brandished his dagger. "Oh, I knew I didn't like you even before you drugged me."

"And if you had just died, Delilah wouldn't have to die now." Dwyer sighed.

A sadistic sort of smirk tilted the corners of Loki's mouth. "If you come near us, I'll slit your throat, you pustulous bilge snipe."

"Oh, I'm not going to do a thing. You are." If the Asgardian was confused by the comment, he didn't mention it. "Those drugs weren't just for me to watch you trip. They had a special little ingredient to help ply your mind. Thor will be so distraught, he'll beg to join our cause. Magic is the devil's plaything, after all."

Loki caught Delilah by the wrist, pulling her back behind him when her ire got the better of her and meant to smack the self-satisfied grin off his face. "Thor trusts me about as far as I can throw Mjolnir. Why would he be surprised if I went feral again?"

"I'm afraid you've missed a lot. It's not your fault, really." He sighed wistfully, though it was all for show. "I mean, he didn't even want you out of your prison cell. Said it was better for everyone if you were kept there or taken back to New Asgard. That you didn't belong in the world." Loki glanced over his shoulder. Lilah was staring at the floor with a frown and his heart sank. "If it wasn't for Delilah you'd still be rotting in the dungeons. Not that she's any better. I mean, she'll let you walk around with the rest of the humans, but will sure as hell leave you collared like a dog. When's the last time you even thought about doing magic?"

"He never asked me to take them off, so I haven't. He's already adjusting to a whole new decade, much less–" Delilah snapped, nearly growling.

"You don't fucking trust him!"

"Standing next to Loki is a risk. There's nothing he wants that he doesn't get and the bracelets can only motivate him. I wouldn't be in this room, with him if I didn't trust him with my life!"

"Then take them off!"

"No," she hissed, glaring daggers at the man. "If the choice is you killing me or turning him into a weapon, then shoot me now."

Dwyer laughed. "Oh, I’m turning him into a weapon regardless." He dug into his pocket and pulled a glowing yellow stone that made Loki blanch even paler than his usual self and take a half-step backwards. "What? You don't like your friend, anymore."

"You don't know what you're playing with, Dwyer," Loki said, carefully. "The Stone controls you as much, if not more, than you control it."

"Oh, this isn't the original stone. Stark got desperate, at one point, and tried to recreate the stones to undo everything Thanos had done. This was the only one he got close to replicating with Vision's help." He tossed it into the air, like a penny. "Much less fuss, just as effective. Now, ask her to unbind you."

"What?"

"She said she would do it if you asked. So, ask her. It's obvious Lilah already kneels for you quite readily. Might as well make it worth my while. I don't want to waste the stone's power on her."

"Keep her name out of your mouth or I'll relieve you of your tongue!" Loki growled and it was Delilah's turn to hold him back.

"It's OK." Loki pulled away from her, holding his hands to his chest. "It's happening one way or another. I'd rather consciously free you, if that's alright with you."

"You have nothing to prove to him," Loki whispered.

Delilah smiled and brushed his cheek with her thumb. "I know, Lo. It's not for him."

"Or me." He added, passionately.

Lilah sighed, looking between the men before gesturing to Loki's hands. "No. Keep the dagger," Dwyer urged when Loki offered her the hilt without hesitation. 

Delilah slid her fingers over the pressured pins on his wrists, the metal detecting her fingerprints before clicking quietly and dropping to the floor with a deafening clatter. Her fingers twisted into his and squeezed reassuringly. As much as he tried, he couldn't find it within him to look away from soft eyes. It hurt how little fear he saw, the blind trust. When had he earned this no-questions-asked vote of confidence? He felt the magic trickle down his spine and couldn't even bring himself to feel glad to have it back. Not when he was sure that was coming would be awful.

"How's it feel to be a big boy again?" He hated Dwyer's voice for breaking through what should have been a private moment; that he too could see Delilah laying herself bare to his tempest. "It's not going to feel good for long." He whispered some words to the stone and it only glowed brighter, forcing Loki to look away.

"Loki," she whispered as he teetered, his head bowing. "Focus. You can do this."

Loki straightened up, his eyes wrenched closed. Blindly, he reached for her, closing his fingers around her wrist uncomfortably tight. "Delilah, please go."

"Don't give up on me, Lo. Just–"

"LILAH!" He snapped in a half-growl. He was gritting his teeth now and the hand on her was shaking uncontrollably with effort. "Lilah, please. My love, please run." He blinked his eyes up, eerie blue and shining with tears. "Go now. Run." She hesitated again, frozen in place. "RUN!" With a start, she stumbled back, bolting out the back of the room and into the emergency stairwell.

Despite the blood rushing in her ears, she could hear the pounding footsteps behind her, like a predator stalking her every move. A blade whizzed past her. Then another. And another. He was playing with her, enjoying watching her squirm as she feared for her life and scurried like a mouse. When she exited the stairwell at the next floor, he was standing right outside the door. She yelped, stumbling back against the slab of metal when he swung a blade at her head and just narrowly missed her. 

Lilah drove her elbow against the still-sore ribs on his left side, watching him stumble back with a hiss, but return with even more fervor. A swipe of the blade cut a path across her jaw, just shy of slicing into her jugular. With a jolt, he rammed her into the wall, knife at her neck just barely skimming as he slowly pressed the blade into her warm skin. The pain radiated through her body, fueling her adrenaline and she kicked him square in the chest, knocking him onto the floor. The crack of his head on the floor jarred his brain enough that he blinked in confusion for a moment.

"Loki, snap the fuck out of it!" He hoisted himself back onto his feet and charged. Delilah remained in a fighter's stance, fists up, aiming at anything she could reach while also avoiding his daggers. She managed another jab at his head and stomach, slowing him down. "What are you doing? Letting your mind being invaded by some mortal with some sick delusion of grandeur to get you to act for him? You know me–I’m your friend!" He faltered. "Since when do you obey anyone other than yourself?"

The dagger ready to fly towards her head dropped to his side as he considered. Lilah would have laughed if she wasn't in active danger– leave Loki's ego to save the day. If she could count on two things in the Universe, it was that the Sun would rise and Loki would think very highly of himself. She inched carefully towards him, his ghostly stare following her across the hallway, though his body remained unmoving. He was now within arm's reach. He didn't react when she touched his chest, her palm sliding up his front, winding up his neck and onto his cheek. There was the slightest change of pressure and she realized it was him barely pressing his jaw onto her palm out of instinct.

"God, I'm so sorry for this," she whispered as she reared back and decked him in the jaw so hard it made her whole arm ache. Loki raised a hand to his face and hissed, turning his eyes back on the panting woman for her to notice that his eyes were the seaglass green she was so familiar with. "Good to know this stone has the same design flaws as the other one."

It was a minute or two of quiet contemplation and confusion before Loki managed to return to the present. There was blood on her neck that he knew he was responsible for. The reality of the situation flooded him with a gasp and he threw his arms around her form and pulled her into his chest. "I nearly killed you. Oh, gods, I very nearly killed you."

"You're OK. Everything is OK." She whispered, carding her fingers through his hair as he panted. Delilah bridged the gap between them with her lips. She had nearly died and she would be damned if she dared feel guilty for indulging in a kiss. Not when he tasted like cinnamon from the pastries he hoarded in his rooms, spicy and familiar. He clung to her form, fists grabbing handfuls of her shirt as if she'd disappeared if he let go.

"You're bleeding. I– I… you're bleeding and I nearly–"

Lilah smiled through tears. "You didn't. Thankfully, you obey no one but yourself."

"No," he objected, vehemently. "It was you. No one but you." His mouth desperately searched for purchase on hers repeatedly, as if it were the only thing keeping him from breaking. And it may as well have been, for all either of them knew. "I'm so sorry."

"I know you are, Lo. And you can make it up to me later, but right now, maniac with a Mind Stone– what are we doing?"

"Running sounds like a champion idea," he said after a moment's hesitation.

"Loki–"

"I know, I know." He was silent before reluctantly loosening his grip on her with a sigh. He rubbed at the marks where his manacles had been with a conflicted look in his eyes. "I may have an idea."

Ten minutes later, he marched back into the basement, eyes glowing blue and tossed the bloodied, carved body that was once Delilah onto the floor before Dwyer's feet. He let out a chuckle, nudging her slack head with the toe of his boot. "Oh, that didn't end too good for her, did it? How'd it feel, Loki? Dispensing with the only person who would have given you a second, third, or millionth chance in the world? You really are just a snake in the grass." Loki stood still, shoulders squared and awaiting his next command. "You seemed to fawn after her, too. Did you like her?"

"More than anyone," he replied, mechanically and the villain laughed.

"Oh, that's even better! You've always been such a good pawn– for your parents, for Thanos, the Avengers, me. Now, before you make your exit, how about you leave your brother a little goodbye note. Make it poignant, OK?" Loki flourished his hands and a projection of him glimmered in pale blue light, moving as it spoke a pre-recorded message of revenge on humans and vengeance on his enemies. "Good boy. Now, put the shackles back on." Loki collected the metal manacles and slid them onto his wrists, feeling the instant relief of no magic in his veins to cloud his judgement. "Any last words?"

Loki smirked, the expression looking manic on his bloodied face. He sank slowly to his knees with one fist over his heart. "My Queen. Precisely on time." Dwyer turned, suddenly. At the door, Delilah stood, gun loaded and raised with Sam, Bucky, and a dozen SHIELD and STARK agents, in tow. The body on the floor had lost its glamour and turned into one of the black-clad intruders.

"You tried to trick the trickster god? How stupid are you? Really?" Bucky asked, weapon at the ready.

Dwyer cackled, hands raised in surrender. "This is cute. You think this was the big one? You haven't even seen the tip of the iceberg. How's your Doctor Strange doing?"

"I'll check in with Stephen– you rally these people up and destroy that stone replica." Delilah's gun lowered, clicking softly as she put the safety back on and sliding into the back of her trousers. "Lo?"

Loki shook the cobwebs out of his mind and offered her a weak smile. He felt heavy and confused. The short freedom from his shackles should have been a breath of fresh air, and it turned into the worst nightmare he had had in a long while. Not to mention there was the issue of his brother. He had never expected Thor to simply give up on him, much less without a needlessly emotional conversation beforehand.

"Are you OK?" Lilah looked worried and it was actually painful for him to see her bleeding by his blade and still worried about him, of all people– Loki of Asgard, a snake in the grass.

He nodded, his eyes falling to the ground. "Mind is a little muddled, is all."

Delilah offered him a sad smile. “How about we get you home?”She gestured with her head to the door. "Come on. I'll call Stephen on my way to yours."

[tinytonysnark]

Written from the fall starters! (x)(x)

🍂🍂🍂

Heading into the new month, the air takes on a sharper smell that brings about the specific feeling of being wrapped in freshly laundered blankets still warm from the dryer. The air is crisp and Bucky is crunching on leaves with his every step as he’s walking hand in hand with Tony.

God, Tony has somehow gotten cuter during the Fall, stunning against the backdrop of the pretty red and golden hues surrounding them.

He’s wearing Bucky’s orange beanie on his head, curls poking out around his forehead and his glasses keep incrementally slipping down his nose with every sip he takes of his coffee. 

They’re heading back to Tony’s dorm after having lunch together, cutting through the park as a shortcut when the sound of a leaf blower startles the both of them, Tony flinching into Bucky’s side. 

“It’s fine, babe, just a man wasting perfectly good leaves,” he says, rubbing circles into Tony’s back. 

“Yeah, just scared the hell out of me is all,” Tony exhales. “And don’t act like you didn’t jump too Mr. Tough Guy, that was loud as shit.’

“I didn’t jump, I was merely caught off guard is all,” Bucky tells him, tugging him closer. “Leaf blowers are such cheats anyway. Everyone knows raking is the way to go; makes jumping into the leaves more satisfactory.”

“Jump- jumping into the leaves?” 

“Yeah, Stevie and I used to do it all the time when we were younger,” Bucky says as they continue walking. “Both our Ma’s thought were were gonna get sick with how often we’d be out in the cold every day, just raking the leaves, jumping in them and then doin’ it all over again. On the other hand, the caretaker for the apartment building was thrilled by the child labour.”

“Wow, the both of you were so easy to scam,” Tony says, smiling but he’s looking back towards the park, a little wistfully.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I’ve just- it sounds fun is all. I’ve never done it,” Tony admits, trying to give Bucky a reassuring smile but it just makes Bucky’s stomach uneasy. 

He forgets sometimes, just how much of Tony’s childhood was taken from him.

He has a lot of things he’d like to say, not all of them to Tony but he only asks, “What would you and your Ma do for Fall? Any traditions?”

The smile he’s graced with then is a little more real, but as they got closer to Tony’s dorm, the other boy talking about how the yearly tradition of baking Pumpkin Bread with his Ma started, he’s already trying to think of a way to get his favourite type of smile from Tony. The one that reaches his eyes and lights up his whole face and makes Bucky feel that he could do just about anything whenever it’s directed at him. 

It’s deadly, that smile. 

He drops Tony off in the lobby of his dorm, making an excuse that’s not technically a lie about forgetting to meet with Steve, and heads back to the park.

He calls Steve on the way, telling him to get his butt there and to bring Sam along. 

Steve huffs at him and tells him he’s a sap, but says he’ll be there in 20 before hanging up without a goodbye. 

The old man with the leaf blower, who’s got a name tag that reads Stan, is still at the park and he turns of the machine when he spots Bucky trying to get his attention. “What can I do you for, son?”

“Afternoon, sir. Was just wondering if you wouldn’t mind if piled up all the leaves around here? Trynna relive some childhood memories, you see and well, create new ones,” Bucky explains, colour flooding his cheeks over how ridiculous he must sound to this man.

Stan only huffs a laugh though and points to three rakes that are up against a tree. Huh. “Had a feeling I should be bringing those with me today and my feelings ain’t ever wrong. You’re more than welcome to take over. I’m tired of this anyway,” Stan tells him before walking off and leaving Bucky alone in the park.

“Well,” he stares at all the leaves Stan blew haphazardly around the trunk of a tree, “looks like it’s time to rake the leaves.”

“Nat, you never want to go for a walk in the park,” Tony whines as Nat drags him out of his room. “You like to say that a park is where you’re going to be murdered and you say it with certainty because I know you’re a witch who can see visions of the future.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous, I will not be killed here at this park. It’s far too soon.”

“I thought you said you were busy this week and quote, ‘can’t hang with you losers’, which one, rude and two, makes you a loser just by association, so ha.”

“As if I’d ever be mistaken for a loser,” she sniffs. 

“Alright, that’s fair, but what is going on with the outfit today?” he asks her, eyeing the knitted wool beanie on her head, the candy apple red scarf around her neck, the fingerless gloves and brown suede boots ensemble she got going on. “Not that it’s bad or anything, but you look like what the physical manifestation of Taylor Swift’s Red album looks right now.”

“Shut up, I’m season appropriate and Red deserved a Grammy, that’s just a fact.”

“True, but certain songs really should have been aco-” he trails off as they come in sight of the park and sees Bucky, Steve, Sam and Bruce standing there among piles and piles and piles of leaves.

Nat nudges him in the side, grin wide on her face. “Bucky wanted a fun day in the park to surprise you.”

“Hey, doll,” Bucky calls out, jogging over to him. “What do you think? Wanna head in?”

Tony can’t help it. He smashes his lips onto Bucky’s , and it’s terrible, their teeth clack and he’s grinning to wide for it not to be awkward and their friends make gagging noises behind them but god, he doesn’t care because this man, this stupidly gorgeous lovely man did all this for him and it’s feels like he’s gonna combust from how warm he feels. 

He pulls back, looking at the pile of leaves that go up to Bucky’s knees and asks, “How do I- Do I just jump?”

He doesn’t even have time to process the mischievous glint in Bucky’s eyes before he’s scooped up. “Best way is to be thrown in.”

“Thrown?”

Bucky tosses him into the pile and he lets out a shriek of laughter as he goes sinking in. 

He pops out and his glasses are halfway down his face and bits of leaves are poking at him in every direction but when smiles up at Bucky, the smile he gets in return lights him up in a way nothing else ever has. 

It’s deadly, that smile.

[letgraysonsheart]

remember that post i made about having to whump dick myself? well here ya go though this is more angst than whump, add-on for Titans s2ep5! thanks to @liathgray for helping me so much with this, you’re amazing

tw: suicidal thoughts

-

Jason’s falling. He’s falling, slipping through Dick’s fingers and flying towards the ground with increasing speed. Dick’s yelling, even though he doesn’t know what exactly. And Jason is screaming, and his face, Jason’s face - he’s terrified.

Dick was supposed to save him.

He feels like he’s not in his body anymore. Frozen in place. Cold all over.

Jason pummels to the ground.

“Dick-” there’s a hand on his shoulder, dragging him away from the window, from the view of Jason’s desperate face. He doesn’t get to see Jason hit the ground. The world around him has become muffled. It’s like he’s underwater where there are no sounds besides the piercing ringing in his ear.

There’s an utter agony spreading through his body, and not just from the heartbreak he lived only seconds ago.

He can’t stop seeing Jason’s face. But now, there’s a sandy floor under him, not a concrete ground. The sound of a circus tent moving with the wind is filling his ears. The yells. The screams.

“Dick, come back to me, look at me,” Kory, sounding more frantic than ever, says. Dick opens his eyes, when did he close them? His vision is swimming, both from the pain that makes it feel like there’s fire eating away at his body, and the tears he can’t force away. It hurts to breathe.

It hurts to live.

Jason is dead.

“You’re bleeding,” Kory states, brows furrowed. Dick looks down, his hand feeling along to find the epicenter of his pain. There’s a bullet wound there, blood oozing out of it. He shouldn’t even be standing, how had he been able to run to Jason? How had been able to hold on to Jason, for that small window of time, before Jason slipped from his hand?

Maybe that’s the reason he couldn’t hold on. He managed to get shot, it drained his strength, and Jason slipped. Jason fell. Jason died.

It’s his fault. Like it always seems to be these days.

His knees buckle. Kory’s there, grabbing him before he faceplants.

“Oh, oh god - Dick,” she says, “I didn’t see you get hit,” there’s a hand in his hair, trying to comfort him. He doesn’t understand how she can care about him now, about the hole in his abdomen matching the hole where his heart used to be, when Jason’s gone.

Much like how the skin around his wound must be shredded, so is his heart.

Jason fell.

Dick deserves this pain.

But maybe this is it. The moment when he’s finally freed. He was already ready for it, for it all to be over, when he tricked the other Titans so he could go sacrifice himself. He was so sure that Deathstroke wouldn’t be able to resist the chance to bring revenge down on them, on him. He thought Deathstroke wouldn’t be able to say no to the opportunity of killing him in the cleanest most dramatic way.

But apparently, he isn’t even worth that. Even his death isn’t a big enough price to pay for all the hurt he’s caused.

“Dick, shh,” Kory says, and Dick didn’t even know he was speaking. What was he saying? Tears are glistering in Kory’s eyes when he looks up at her, and it makes them look so blank, like glass. He’s laying in her arms, he realizes, and he doesn’t remember how he got from sitting on his knees on the floor to laying there. He can feel the warmth of her body, so different from the cold that is spreading through his own.

“J-Jason,” he stutters out, “he fell.”

Kory’s eyes soften, he didn’t think she was able to look more beautiful and yet there she is. Her hand continues combing through his hair, in an almost frantic but still soft motion. The ringing in his ears has lessened, but that only means he can hear how ragged his breathing sounds as he struggles through the pain.

“It wasn’t your fault,” she says. It’s a lie, but Dick can’t make himself call her out on it. He’s dying, and he doesn’t want his last words to Kory be an argument.

“Just try to stay calm,” she continues, and Dick doesn’t know if there’s any way for him to stay calm at all. Jason’s dead. He’s failed, yet again. Just like Bruce - Oh, oh god. Bruce. How will Bruce come back from this? What will Bruce say, what will he think?

He’s dying in vain, Dick realizes. He couldn’t even finish his last quest. Couldn’t even redeem himself before dying. Couldn’t save anyone. All he wanted was to save Jason, and even that he couldn’t manage to do.

At least he won’t be there to see it when Bruce gets the news.

At least he’ll see Jason soon, and his parents too.

“-Ik? Dick?” Kory brings him out of his thoughts, she might have said something before, he doesn’t know. “Open your eyes again, please, please just hold on,” she begs. He forces his eyelids open, and Kory smiles watery at him.

“I’- I’-” he tries to talk but the words get caught in his throat. It hurts too much. Everything. His heart, his mind, the bullet wound in his gut where all his blood is leaving his body. He wants it to end now. He’s sick of all this pain.

“Shh,” Kory whispers and places a hand on his cheek, “you don’t need to talk. Just keep on breathing.”

He doesn’t know how to make her understand that he doesn’t want too. That he wants to let go now. There is no coming back from this. He can’t live with having killed Jason, someone who’s supposed to be his brother. The biggest responsibility Bruce has ever laid on his shoulders, and he’s messed it up beyond saving.

“Oh god- Dick,” someone says. It’s not Kory, her lips don’t move, and the sound of it is too deep for it to be her. There’s another set of gentle hands touching him now, someone has sat down on the other side of him, opposite Kory. It takes so much energy, but he manages to move his eyes from where they’ve been resting at the redness of Kory’s hair to the newly arrived face.

It’s Hank. Hank, with eyes full of emotion and face full of anger.

He can’t take this, can’t take more of Hank’s disappointment. He had hoped he could escape before any of the other Titans arrived.

“Jason-” Kory starts, and her voice cracks, and it feels like someone’s taking a sledgehammer at Dick’s already broken heart.

There’s more pressure at his wound, and Dick can’t help but scream. His throat feels raw when his voice gives out, and he can’t help the whimper that escapes from his lips.

“He’s - he’s alive, you - Donna said it over the coms, you didn’t hear?” Hank is saying, but the words make no sense in Dick’s brain. It’s like he’s shortcutted.

Alive?

“My com - I think Deathstroke messed up the frequency, my com stopped working once I got up here,” Kory says, voice sounding more distant, “But Jason - how?”

Jason. He needs to know before he goes. He forces himself to listen, to try to calm his breaths. There’s something cold on his stomach, over his wound, and he bites so hard onto his lower lip from the pain that it splits and starts bleeding. He has to hold on long enough to hear about Jason.

“There - some guy came swooping in, from nowhere. I thought it was Supes’ at first, but it wasn’t. Donna and Dawn are with them, they ordered me up here, and thank god they did,” Hank rambles, his voice shaky.

“You stupid idiot,” he says then, and Dick realizes Hank is talking to him, angry at him. Not that he doesn’t deserve it.

But Jason’s alive.

No thanks to Dick. But still, Jason’s alive. Maybe Bruce won’t be as mad. Maybe Bruce will be okay. Perhaps the Titans can forgive him, or at least not be as mad at him as they would be if he lost Robin for good.

Dick feels his eyes slip shut. He’s so tired. The pain is lessening, his body feels colder than before, even when held in Kory’s warm embrace.

“Oh no, you don’t!” Hank yells, and a sudden hard pressure at his bullet wound forces another scream from him, his eyes snapping open. “You don’t get to do this,” Hank raves at him, face swimming over Dick’s. It’s hard to see, his vision tunneling.

Dick thinks he loses some time after that, maybe only a few seconds, because suddenly it feels like his stomach is forced into his throat and his head is swimming - he’s in the air.

Is he falling? Oh god - no, no he can’t be -

His eyes open and he can’t remember having closed them, just like he hasn’t remembered closing them all the other times tonight. He’s in someone’s arms, being carried, he realizes. He’s not falling, not now, at least. Fierce red hair swims into his vision.

“Hold on, okay?” Hank says, from somewhere to the side. He can’t stop his head from lolling as Kory walks, almost runs, and it makes his vision move too fast to focus on anything. His limbs dangle uselessly too, his arm brushing against the soft fabric of Kory’s clothes.

It’s so cold. Why didn’t he wear anything more than a t-shirt? He didn’t think death would feel this cold.

He’s so tired. Everything hurts too much.

He wants it to stop.

“Don’t say that,” Hank says, and Dick doesn’t even know what it is he’s said out loud and what’s only been in his thoughts.

There’s a too loud sound. It hurts his ears and he wants to turn away from it, but there’s no energy in his body and Kory is holding onto him so hard. He knows he’s shaking, some of the pain is still there, and he’s still cold - growing colder. There’s wind hitting his face and the sound isn’t ever stopping-

“Get him into the helicopter!”

Bruce. That’s Bruce’s voice. Oh god, no. No. He can’t face Bruce now.

He can’t breathe. His throat feels blocked, and he panics, the broken pieces of his heart beating wildly in his chest. Now, even when he tries to force his eyes to keep being open, the darkness he so wanted before comes for him.

There’s still so much sound, too loud for his hurting ears, but not the same as the loud mechanical noise of the helicopter. There are voices. Yelling, perhaps, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t care.

Dick wants to sleep, he wants to escape this hell he’s fallen into while trying so hard to fix everything. He can’t take this anymore, not right now.

So he gives up, and welcomes the darkness.

-

He opens his eyes only to see darkness again. But not to the same absolute dark he had seen before. There’s a small glow in the room he’s in, the light from the city outside trying to force its way past the curtains blocking the window.

The bed he’s in is soft, the blanket covering him warm. His skin itches from where he got shot and the area of skin around where there’s a needle stuck in him and connected to an IV looks red and annoyed too.

His throat feels so dry, like sandpaper.

And, he squints, someone’s sitting in a chair by his bedside, but he can’t see who. A broad frame, a masculine one, and short hair.

Using more energy than he wants to admit, he manages to push the oxygen mask placed over his face off and tries to speak. What comes out is a pathetic scratchy sound, not sounding like any kind of word. It sends him into a coughing fit that pulls at the wound in his stomach and brings big fat tears to his eyes.

“What? Oh, oh! shit, shit!” he must have awoken the person sat in the chair. And that voice. He remembers it from right before it all went dark. Hank. Hank’s here. Hank’s the person in the chair.

There’s a straw pushed at his cracked lips, into his mouth, and he sips desperately. He’s still sat hunched over from all the coughing and the cold water is a blessing for his aching throat.

“Easy there, bird brain,” Hank says, and Dick recognizes the try for humor but it’s kind of useless when Hank’s voice sounds wobbling and unsure.

Much too soon the water is snatched from his lips, some drops escape the straw and hit the warm skin on his hand as the glass is moved away. He hears the sound of the glass hitting the tabletop of the nightstand beside his bed, a low clunk. Someone, Hank, it has to still be Hank, eases him back into place in the bed.

“Of course you wake up now,” Hank huffs, and Dick flinches at the tone of his voice, can’t help it. God, he must be on some strong pain medication. “They said it could still be days, but no, of course, you were never one to stay still for long,” Hank continues. Rambles. Its something he always used to do before, whenever he was nervous. Lash out with words, keep on talking. Dick always suspected it was to keep the darker thoughts away. They’ve always been similar in that way.

“You okay?” Dick asks because it’s obvious Hank is struggling. Dick doesn’t even understand why the former Titan is there, by his bedside, in what has to be the middle of the night. Thankfully his voice works now, even though it’s still raspy from being unused and the coughing.

Something dark drifts over Hank’s face. The little light they have in the room magnifies the shadows on the older man’s face, and if Dick’s body wasn’t so damn heavy he would kick himself. He keeps messing up, doesn’t he? Saying the wrong things, never managing to be the good leader he used to think he could be.

“Am I okay?” Hank says, voice dripping with something Dick can’t pinpoint. “You almost died, in Kory’s arms, after trying to fucking sacrifice yourself, and you ask if I’m okay?” Hank’s voice grows in volume as he talks, words coming faster and harsher, and Dick’s worried that there’s a bomb about to drop on his head.

Instead, Hank surprises him by growing quiet again and taking in a sharp wet breath. It almost sounds like Hank is about to cry. And God no - Dick isn't prepared to handle that, he can’t handle that. He doesn’t know what to say nor how to comfort the older man. It used to be easier, before. Before there was a huge wall of pain and hurt between them. Before, when they used to be like brothers.

“When did you get this - this death wish?” Hank says through gritted teeth, and Dick wishes he could’ve been like a normal person and slept the estimated time. He doesn’t want to talk about this, everything he felt in that building, it’s still too raw. He hasn’t had the time to think about it or figure out what to say to calm his friends down. He has no idea how to explain it, or if there even is a way to do so.

“You didn’t use to, before, when we started. You didn’t..” Hank’s voice trails off like he can’t bring himself to say it, “You were a self-sacrificing dumbass back then too, but not… not to this extent. Not as I remember it, at least.”

“I’m too tired to talk about this, Hank,” Dick replies because it’s the truth. And also he doesn’t want to talk about this. He never does. He wants to move on, or at the very least, get some more sleep.

“Too bad. You decided to wake up while I’m on watch, and the last thing you said to me before going under was that you wanted it all to stop,” Hank says, voice forceful as he moves closer to Dick.

“I was almost out of it, Hank, you can’t take that seriously,” Dick argues. He sees how Hank’s face hardens for a second like he’s about to burst out in anger, throw his chair at the wall and storm out. But, for the second time since he woke up, Hank surprises him. Instead of the expected anger, Hank’s face softens again, the corner of his lips turning downwards.

“You were prepared to die. Even before that bullet hit you, you wanted Deathstroke to kill you if it meant Jason and Rose could go free. You had accepted it, Dick, for fuck’s sake!” Hank says, his voice is lower than before but still full of emotions.

Dick doesn’t answer.

“You should’ve told us, or trusted us enough to come up with a plan that didn’t evolve you killing yourself,” the older hisses. Dick drags his arms around himself. The aching in his gut is becoming more prominent. The emotions filling up his throat makes it hard to breathe and prevents him from making even a single sound.

“Jason?” Dick manages to force through his lips after a few seconds. Just the name makes his chest throb with a whole different kind of pain.

Hank shakes his head at the obvious change of topic but still answers.

“He’ll be okay. He’s traumatized, who wouldn’t be? But his injuries weren’t too serious, he’s sleeping now,” Hank explains, “It didn’t help that he saw you get shot though, and that you didn’t seem to care as you dove after him.“ Hank takes a deep breath before he continues his rant, "Nor did it help that he right after being saved got told you were a hairbreadth from dying. Didn’t exactly calm him down.”

God. Fuck. Dick’s so thankful, more than he’s ever been for anything else, that Jason’s alive. That he’ll be okay. Still, it hurts to hear how much distress Dick’s put on the kid. Especially when all he wanted to do was save him, and not traumatize him even more.

“Bruce showed up in the helicopter, saved your ass, I don’t know if you remember. It did wonders for the kid to see him when we got back here, even if the little asshat tried not to let it show,” Hank says while studying him.

Bruce. Shit. Dick will have to face Bruce now, explain what happened. How he’d scarred Robin, more than Batman had ever managed to. Dick would have to tell him exactly how he’d gotten the new Robin almost killed. He and Bruce, they’d just started getting better. Started working past everything that’s happened, and mending their fried relationship. And now…

“How could you not realize you’d gotten shot? Like, I know you’re good at pushing away your pain, but an actual gunshot wound?” Hank asks, sounding a little curious on top of the anger.

“Jason fell,” Dick replies then, refusing to meet Hank’s eyes.

Looking dumbfounded, Hank leans forward, his brows furrowed in confusion.

“What does that have to do with anything?” He asks incredulously, and Dick can feel how Hank is watching him, it prickles on his skin.

“He fell,” Dick repeats, finally turning to meet the older man’s eyes. He can see the gears turning in Hank’s head until finally - click.

“Oh,” Hank slumps back into his chair, realization coloring his features, a hand scrubbing over his face. “Shit. Shit, Dick. I’m sorry. That must’ve… Sorry. I just-” Hank cuts himself off, and now it’s him that’s looks away, refusing to meet Dick’s gaze.

An uncomfortable silence falls over them. It makes Dick want to run out of the room, lock himself in somewhere and never come out. The increasing pain from his wound stops him from moving at all. He doubts he would even get in two steps before collapsing to the floor.

“You can’t help yourself, can you?” Hank asks, breaking the silence and grabbing Dick’s attention again. Dick sends him a puzzled look. Even if the meds seems to be wearing off, they’re still affecting him. It’s making his brain slower and his emotions more open. He can’t read people, Hank, as easy as he usually does. He hates it.

Being on pain medication has always lessened his ability to keep his words to himself, to keep his emotions secret. This time seems to be no exception.

“Help what?” he asks, between two deep breaths he takes in a try to keep the pain further away.

“The guilt. Blaming yourself for every little thing that’s happened,” Hank states, looking at him in a way that Dick hates. Full of pity, like Dick is a mystery that suddenly makes too much sense. Hank isn’t talking about just recent events anymore, no, this goes even deeper.

“It’s not like I’m blameless,” Dick replies, already regretting opening his mouth but still continuing, “You’ve been pretty open yourself about how much I’ve messed up.” He can’t hide the bite in his voice, can’t help the bitterness he lets slip through. Hank had once been his big brother, and they might have fought, but it still hurts when Hank flinches back at Dick’s words.

Another point on the “how much can Dick Grayson hurt his friends” scale.

“That doesn’t mean I want to see you die!” Hank is up from his chair now, yelling, looming over Dick.

Dick flinches at the sudden movement. It makes him jump a little in his bed and then there’s so much pain, spreading from his wound. He can barely contain the scream that wants to burst out of him. Curling up around his stomach, into a ball, he gets over on his side and god, god it hurts.

“Shit, Dick,” Hank says, and he hears the man fumbling around, kicking something - the chair, maybe. Then there’s something cold, spreading out from his arm, from the IV that by some miracle is still in place even after all the motion.

There’s a big calloused hand on his bare arm, squeezing softly, as Dick tries to breathe through the pain, waiting for the medication to settle in.

“You should’ve told me you were in pain,” Hank says, voice void of any emotion. Dick stares at the wall, still feeling the pain pulsing from his wound, not able to talk again yet. He doesn’t think he’s pulled any stitches, there doesn’t seem to be any wetness spreading. There’s only the horrible thought-consuming pain filling him.

“I’m sorry,” he says through his gritted teeth. It sounds more like a sob, but he can’t bring himself to care. Everything, not just the bullet wound, - it hurts so much.

“Don’t say that,” Hank answers, barely above a whisper, as he makes Dick turn to lay down on his back again. Dick forces himself to stretch out from the ball he’s tucked himself into as he moves. He waits for the pain to paralyze him again and finds himself thankful when he discovers the meds have already started lulling it.

“I’m tired,” Dick states, staring up at the white roof above him.

There’s a hand, hovering just above his own for a second. It accidentally touches parts of his hot skin, before it commits and grabs it. It’s a little awkward at first, the huge palm fitting over his smaller one, but it then settles, warm and comforting.

The higher amount of drugs pumping into him is making him more sleepy. He’s teetering on the verge of unconsciousness. He tries to stay awake, for Hank, because he’s caused so much hurt and fixed nothing.

“Relax, Dick, go to sleep,” Hank says like he’s reading Dick’s thoughts. He sounds as tired as Dick feels, and Dick’s eyes are already slipping shut. “Jason’s okay, we’re all as okay as can be,” Hank reassures. “I’m not mad at you, I don’t - I don’t blame you for wanting an out,” He then continues, squeezing Dick’s hand. It’s a move more intimate than anything Dick ever thought he would receive from the older man again. He tries to find the will to answer, squirming a little in his bed, hoping to find the energy to say anything, to at least open his eyes. He doesn’t.

“Don’t feel like you have to answer that,” Hank quickly adds, “we.. we’ll talk more, tomorrow, when you feel better and you’ve slept.”

Hank lets go of his hand, and Dick finds himself missing the warmth. A blanket is being draped over his body, up to his shoulders, and tucked around him. The only part free from the blanket cocoon is his hand, still poking out from under the blanket. It’s resting open palm up on the bed, where Hank left it.

As Dick starts drifting off properly, he hears Hank sit down. It makes the chair screech against the floor, and he hears Hank curse under his breath. It brings a small smile onto his face, the first one in a while. Some things never change it seems.

Seconds later, he feels a big hand slip into his own again.

He hears Hank whisper something, a soft, “why”, followed by something more he can’t quite catch. He’s already slipping into the kind of comfortable sleep only the real good drugs can gift him with.

Hank’s last question will have to wait, Dick’s not even sure if he was meant to hear it anyway. He has a thousand questions himself, the paranoid detective in him itching to get all the details. Who was it that saved Jason, and what’s happened while he was unconscious? Is everyone else okay?

Right now, though, he feels whatever care he had about it slip away into nothing. Another problem for another day. For now, he can let it go, mostly thanks to the drugs.

For the first time in a very long time, as he lets the comforting darkness consume him, he feels safe.

[ficklefics]

Safe With You - Sid x Reader

Your secret relationship with renegade Sid can't stay that way forever.

MASTERLIST

Requested by @bitweird1​ - hope you enjoy!

“Night, mom!” You close the door to your room, muffling her response, and lock it before hurrying over to the window that sits over your bed leading to the fire escape. The lock clicks open and you slide a wedge of paper underneath the frame to keep it open. The cold draft that immediately enters makes you shiver but you leave it. He’s supposed to be coming over tonight.

Sid.

You had met a few months ago just after the breakout at Arkham and everything that had happened with Indian Hill. Straight home from school. That’s what mom said. No shortcuts. But band rehearsal had run on and you were already late. So when the moment came to decide between the brightly lit street or the dark alley that would take five minutes off of your walk, you chose the alley. Your heart pounded as you hurried past shadowed doorways. With every step, you splashed through puddles which soaked through your shoes. You were halfway through, the midpoint between two streets – almost home – when you heard gunshots from directly in front of you. Run! But you were frozen. Frozen in the middle of the alleyway as people shouted. A whoosh of air and someone was colliding with you, the two of you falling to the ground. He had appeared out of nowhere, almost like he had teleported. Or… He was staring at you, paused halfway into standing up, so you stared right back. A shock of white hair hung partially in his face, the rest sticking up like a birds nest. There were dark shadows around his eyes, bruises around his nose. His clothes grey and torn. “Are… are you okay?” He flinched when you spoke to him and stumbled to his feet. You quickly copied him and reached out a hand, which he eyed warily. “Do you need help?” He was about to respond when a door slammed open, the sound of fighting getting louder. A split-second decision, he grabbed your arm, and it felt like you were flying. You screamed into the stranger's shoulder as you moved, your eyes squeezed shut. After only a few seconds of the fear-inducing sensation, you slammed to a halt. The boy pulled away from you and held you at a distance. “Are you okay?” This time he asked you the question as you tried to settle the churning sensation in your stomach. “Who are you?” You responded, staring at his pale face. “I-” He stepped back, suddenly nervous, and you frowned at him. “Wait,” Suddenly you realised, “You’re one of them. One of the-” “The monsters?” “The people from Indian Hill.” You finished. He eyed you up and down, distrust radiating from him. “And? What are you going to do about it?” “Do you need help?” You knew you might be putting yourself in danger, but you had to offer. You could only imagine how difficult life must be for him. You reached a hand out but he stepped away from you. “I don’t need help.” “Okay,” You stepped back, giving him space, “What’s your name?” After a moment of hesitation, he answered, “Sid.” “I’m (Y/N). If you ever need anything,” He was glancing around nervously, “Come find me.” He shifted on his feet, as though he didn’t like being still for so long. You supposed that made sense considering the super speed. “I might. See you,” As soon as he’d finished speaking he was gone, leaving only a rush of air behind him. You assumed that would be the end of him.

You were wrong.

The next time you saw him was a week later. You were sitting in your room doing homework when a knocking at your window made you jump. You looked up to see the pale boy sitting outside your window, a pale sheen of sweat coating his skin. On instinct you opened the window, letting him crawl in to sit on your bed. “Sid!” You looked him up and down and gasped when you noticed the bloody wound on his arm. “What happened?” “Don’t worry. I’ll be gone in a minute.” He glanced out the window. You huffed and slid off the bed, reaching under your bed for the first aid kit. “You’re not going anywhere until I help you with that.” “You don’t need to-” You gave him a look and he stopped talking, his face slightly guilty. “What happened?” You repeated. “There was an explosion. It’s just a shrapnel wound.” You clambered up on the bed to kneel in front of him, pulling out antiseptic wipes and a bandage. “This’ll sting,” You pulled his arm towards you and kept talking in an attempt to distract him. “How did you get involved in an explosion?” He hissed at the feeling of the wipe against the open wound and tried to pull away, but you held tight. “I can’t tell you much. There’s a group I’m with, other people from Indian Hill; we’re working together.” You nodded as you finished cleaning his arm. Next, you applied the dressing and began wrapping the bandage tightly around it. “Are you safe there?” It’s a stupid question, but you have to ask it. “Safer than anywhere else I could be in Gotham.” “I guess so.”

After that, you saw him practically every week. At first, it was only for a few minutes, then longer, then he started coming over a few times a week. Eventually, he kissed you. And now you’re curled up in bed excitedly waiting for him to arrive. The silence is disrupted by the sliding of the window, and you feel him climb onto your bed. You sit up in excitement, grinning at the sight of him perched there. He gives you a small smile. “Come on,” He nods towards the window. “Wait, what?” “I want to show you something,” He offers his hand and you take it without hesitation, letting him pull you out of the window and down the fire escape.

“Where are we going?” You giggle as he pulls you through the dark city streets. Part of you is nervous – Gotham’s dangerous at the best of times – but you know Sid can and will protect you. “Just trust me.” “I do.” He suddenly stops and spins around, and you bump into him. “Do you?” He grips both of your arms and you’re flying through the streets, clinging to him and yelling in fear and delight. Sid’s laughter fills your ears – it’s a rare sound, and hearing it makes you grin. The pair of you skid to a stop outside of a warehouse by the river. You wobble to stand on your own, stepping haphazardly to stand by the wall and look across the river at the city lights. “Where are we?” To be honest it doesn’t matter to you; just being able to spend time with him was good enough for you. But you still wanted to know. “This is our base. I know I can trust you.” You turn to find him standing immediately behind you. Smiling, you wrap your arms around his neck, and his slip around your waist. “I want you to know where you can find me, in case you ever need help.” “Are you saying dating you puts me in danger?” You’re only teasing, but the flash of horror on his face is adorable. “Joking.” You reassure and he smiles, tension releasing from his shoulders. You push yourself up onto your toes and press your lips against his, and he holds you tight against him as he kisses you back.

*

Selina almost dropped the bag she was holding in shock at the sight in front of her. Checking in with Fish the last thing she had expected to see was (Y/N) and Sid kissing less than 100 metres away from the side door she had left through. How they even knew each other she had no idea, but she knew that (Y/N) most likely didn’t know what she was letting herself into. They might be unlikely friends, but Selina cared about (Y/N), and she didn’t want to see her getting hurt – she didn’t know Sid that well, but she did know that he was one of Fish’s favourites, and that meant he was constantly in danger. And if (Y/N) cared about him – which she clearly did – then it was almost inevitable that one day Sid might not be fast enough and she might lose him. Selina didn’t want to see that.

*

Sid had taken you back home before leaving again. The dawn light breaking through the still open curtains wakes you only moments before the ringing of your phone does. You answer groggily, still half-asleep. “Hello?” “(Y/N), it’s Bruce.” His voice crackles over the speaker, making you smile sleepily. “Hey, Bruce. What’s up?” “We need to talk. How soon can you get here?”

*

Bruce and Selina sit across from you on the sofa with Alfred stood behind them. You pick nervously at the hem of your skirt, feeling as though you’re about to get in trouble from your parents. “Guys, what’s wrong? Has something happened?” “I’m just going to get to the point,” Selina leans forward to rest her elbows on her knees, her stare digging into your soul, “I saw you two together.” “Who-?” You instinctively play dumb but immediately stop, knowing that there’s no point in lying. “And?” “What do you think you’re doing running around with someone like that, (Y/N)?” Alfred butts in, clearly frustrated. “Guys, come on-” “He’s dangerous, (Y/N). His life is dangerous.” Bruce interrupts you. “And?” You stand up, refusing to let them speak over you or try to control you. “You think I don’t know that? That stuff doesn’t matter. I care about him, and he cares about me.” “But-” Bruce and Selina stand up in sync. “No “Buts”! Let me make this choice, guys,” You stare at them desperately, pleading with them to understand. Bruce and Selina exchange looks with each other, and then with Alfred. “Look, (Y/N),” Bruce speaks for the three of them, caring evident in his voice, “Does he make you happy?” “Yes,” You smile at them hopefully, “He is honestly the best person I could ask for.” “Then, I suppose,” Selina rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling, “We can deal with it. But if he hurts you-” “You’ll kill him, yeah.” You step around the coffee table grinning and pull them into a hug. “Thank you, guys.”

*

You sit on the back of a bench waiting for the familiar sound of Sid’s arrival. When you hear it you stand and hop down, smiling at the nervous boy standing in front of you. Now you don’t have to keep him a secret from your friends, you’re not going to hold anything back. “Hey-” You interrupt him by grabbing him and pulling him towards you, capturing his lips in yours and making him yelp in surprise. “Let me talk. You’re important to me, Sid, and you need to know that. I’m all in on this.” “I do know that. And so am I.” He smiles, the first time you’ve really seen him fully confident and not hiding behind a façade. “Come here then.” You pull him back closer and bury your face in his shoulder, clinging to him in a hug that you never want to end.

MASTERLIST

[mattzerella-sticks]

Let’s Play - Batflash Week Day 2: Parents are Alive AU & Jealousy

One night, the Wayne family decided to take a shortcut through an alleyway. Unknowingly a mugger was waiting in the shadows, and because of this fateful run-in their lives were changed forever.

By a stroke of luck all three Waynes escaped with their lives. But, fearful of the dangers of the world, Thomas and Martha decide it's better to lock their canaries up than let them soar free. When being under the constant watchful eye of bodyguards becomes too much, Bruce finds freedom with the strangest boy who won't shut up.

“...and it’s actually really amazing what the artist did, using the canvas to tell a story pushed forward with each minimal stroke of the brush…” The guide carries on with his explanation of the painting, Bruce squinting at it while racking up a list of criticisms. Sitting on top, his largest complaint had nothing to do with the art on display. Instead his parents shared the number one spot. Baffling how they could entertain the meaningless blather coming from their guide.

He tugs on his father’s sleeve drawing Thomas closer. “Can we leave?” he whispers.

Thomas frowns at him. “No,” he says, “and please stop asking, Bruce.”

“But I’m bored .”

“We’re guests ,” Thomas hisses, “it would be rude.”

Returning to full height, his father leaves Bruce to stew in his increasingly horrible mood. His mother pays no mind to their conversation, giving her full attention to the guide. Even though Bruce can tell her mind wanders like his, lips stretched thin like cellophane when she pretends to listen. It’s a common feature during galas and gallery opens, like this one.

Why his parents continue attending these events Bruce will never know. What made it worse was how they were miles away from their home, stuck in Missouri until tomorrow.

“The artist is truly grateful that you all came and showed your support,” the guide finishes, leading them away from the painting and the collection as a whole. Bruce’s spirits pick up, trembling at the possibility presented. He imagines the thin-stick man slipping through a stray crack in the floor, freeing them from the torturous tour. Or a door opening and blowing him across the room, crowd piling through the exit without care.

Unfortunately neither of these happen. Instead the guide brings the crowd to a small room off to the side of the wing cluttered with tables, waiters bustling between them.

“And we here at the museum want to show our gratitude, too, with a lovely banquet in the artist’s honor,” he says, “Please find your seats and enjoy the food. In an hour the artist will give a speech, but before and after that he’ll be walking around, fielding questions.” He left then, mission accomplished.

Their group dispersed. Martha and Thomas tried leaving, but Bruce barely budged.

Glancing behind at the statue of his son, Thomas sighed. “Bruce…”

“I want to go .”

“Please, Bruce, we’re almost done here,” Martha says, running gentle fingers through his hair, “All we need to do is listen to the artist and then we’ll go back to the hotel room.”

“Can’t we skip the hotel and head straight for Gotham?”

“You know we can’t,” she frowns, “your father has a very important dinner meeting with a few investors. First thing in the morning, though…”

Bruce groans, uncaring to the wry stares he draws. His parents squirm under the attention, shuffling him closer to the shadows.

“Please, Bruce,” Thomas asks him, “your mother and I would rather be in Gotham, too. But this is one of those situations grown ups find themselves in where they make obligations and need to see them through. Now do you want to be a grown up?”

Two answers present themselves - the one Bruce wants to pick and the other his parents want to hear. “Yes,” he relents, tucking his chin to his chest. Thomas squeezes his shoulders, saying how proud they are of how mature he is. That with a full plate he’ll hardly notice time flying by. They try and leave again, only a sudden idea hits Bruce that very moment. “Wait!” he says, stopping them, “I… have to go to the bathroom.”

Martha and Thomas look at each other, brows furrowed.

Bruce carries on, adding to his lie. “We passed one on our way here, it won’t take long. I promise -  I promise .”

He pouts, using every dirty trick he has to earn a few minutes of reprieve.

It works. His parents waved him off, telling him to be quick. “And don’t forget to take Willoughsby with you,” Martha says, “in case anything happens.”

The plan sours as the guard in question steps up, bald head shiny under the harsh lighting. Willoughsby nods at Thomas, ushering Bruce over to the bathrooms. “Right this way, Master Wayne.”

Bruce sneaks a final peek at his parents conversing with the others on their security team until they’re blocked by the door. Out of the room Bruce shrugs Willoughby off. “I can walk fine on my own.” The guard stays stone-faced, curtly huffing as he paces towards the nearest bathroom. Bruce walks three steps behind, glaring at the guard.

All it took was one mugging for his world to upend. Not as dangerously as it could have, the mugger inexperienced and oafish. He aimed his gun at his mother and fired only for nothing to erupt. With nothing on him but an unloaded gun, Thomas made quick work of their attacker. Tied him up with his shoelaces until the police arrived.

His parents were alive and well, but the night’s events left them shook. Immediately they placed feelers within their community of socialites and entrepreneurs, asking for references on building a team of security guards. To protect them in case of another wrong turn down a dark alley.

Once they assembled the perfect team, the guards never left their family’s side. They hung about the house like the paintings in the gallery, serving a purpose that needn’t be filled. Assembled because a mind was allowed to run wild.

Bruce entered that alleyway a child, but left an adult. Shoulders burdened with the heavy responsibility someone his age shouldn’t know. Unable to break free from the chains of fear or the watchful gaze of his bodyguards.

That didn’t stop him from trying, though. Especially with Willoughsby, Bruce’s personal guard. Strictest of all the others, with as much of a concept for boundaries like a squirrel.“What do you think you’re doing?” Bruce asks.

Willougshby had one hand on the bathroom door, pushing it open halfway. He cranes his neck to answer, “Going to the bathroom.”

“Do you have to go?”

“No, but you do.”

“I can go perfectly well on my own.”

“It doesn’t matter if you can or cannot,” Willoughsby answers, frowning, “my job is to protect you -”

“Which you can do from out here,” Bruce tells him, pushing past and entering the other room. Pausing halfway through the entrance, he mimics his mother from earlier. The smile as asphyxiating as it is sweet. “It doesn’t make much of a difference, right? Good. Won’t be long!”

He shuts the door. Advancing halfway, he waits for Willoughsby to enter after him. When the door doesn’t budge, he relaxes his fist. Bypassing the stalls he shuffles towards the mirrors. Stares at his reflection like it could jump out and take his place for him. So Bruce can remain hidden in the bathroom, alone.

But not totally. A flush echoes, startling him. In the mirror Bruce sees a boy around his age leave the middle stall, bouncing over to the sink beside him. He dresses opposite Bruce, shorts and t-shirt making Bruce feel uncomfortable in his tiny suit. Tugging at his tie, he rakes his gaze over the collection of buttons decorating his backpack. A few he recognizes from the comics his classmates pour over during lunch and the moments between classes.

“Yeah, they’re cool aren’t they?”

Bruce looks to the boy, finished washing his hands and now facing him. Blushing, Bruce shrugs and runs his hands under the faucet. “Really cool,” he mumbles.

“My name’s Barry,” the other boy continues, grinning madly, “It’s short for Bartholomew - that’s my grandfather’s name. But I don’t like being called Bartholomew because it’s so long and usually whenever my mom uses my full name it means I’m in trouble. So I go by Barry - which sounds like berry and I like blueberries, but not strawberries. Raspberries, I’m on the fence with. What’s your name and favorite type of fruit?”

He reels from the seventy turns Barry forced him through during that one sentence, water pouring from the faucet and dampening his cuffs. Blinking, Bruce snaps his jaw shut. “Bruce,” he says, “And I don’t know.”

“You don’t know what your favorite fruit is?”

“Never thought about it.”

“Really?” Barry squints, leaning closer than comfortable, “Usually when someone asks about favorites a thought immediately pops into their heads. It’s not something you need to think about, it should just be. Unless you don’t have any favorites, which is cool I guess. I don’t have a favorite vegetable. Or maybe you have too many ! Like, my bag!” Barry spins, showing off his backpack again. “There are just too many cool heroes to choose from so I put all of these on my bag. My mom helped me with each one ‘cause the first time I tried I kept stabbing myself with the pin…”

Bruce watches the boy ramble with amazing speed, frighteningly intelligible. Like breathing was a suggestion and not a necessity. Instead of focusing on what Barry says, Bruce instead drifts to wonder about the boy and his willingness to talk to a stranger. How, if Bruce had tried the same approach anywhere else, he’d be shunted away by Willoughsby and his bodyguards and his parents. To protect him from shadows that exist in alleyways after movies.

He hates Barry a little bit for the ease of his life.

“Hey,” Barry shakes him, “are you okay? You look like Molly Dorchester in math class?”

“What?”

“Molly Dorchester,” he says, “she’s this girl in my grade who thinks it’s funny to take my lunch and throw it in the trash. Anyway, whenever the teacher switches over from history to math her eyes kind of lose focus and sometimes she drools a little. One time I pointed this out and she had Kyle Dombrowski and Manny Ortiz pants me during recess but… yeah…” Barry steps back, finally red-faced, “Was I like math class right now?”

The kernel of jealousy explodes at the way Barry shifts to mask his energy, inspiring some of it to rouse Bruce into wakefulness. “No,” Bruce says, “I… I was having trouble following along.”

“I get that a lot,” Barry tells him, “Every year on my report cards my teachers say that I do really well, but I could learn something from slowing down. My mom says I shouldn’t have to slow down, though. There’s nothing wrong with running at your own pace!”

Bruce matches his timid smile. “She sounds great.”

“She is!” Barry jumps, enthusiasm returning, “She’s waiting for me right now, actually. We were on our way to the park when I had to go to the bathroom. Since this is right across the street we stopped in here because I don’t like going to the public bathrooms in the park, they’re really gross, y’know?”

He wouldn’t, but Bruce nods all the same.

“What about you?” Barry asks, “What are you doing here?”

His question, innocent in theory, reminds Bruce of what’s waiting for him on the other side of the door. He sighs, hunching over. “Stuck at this event my parents forced me to go to,” he says, “and I’m bored .”

“And they won’t let you leave?”

“No…”

“That’s awful!”

Bruce looks up at Barry’s sympathetic frown. He feels a fresh gust of air fill his lungs, except he knew he didn’t breathe. The shiny blue of Barry’s eyes were the cause, glinting with concern at the injustice of his situation.

It forces a giggle from Bruce, the first in a long while. Barry grins again, joining him.

“I know,” Bruce says, “I wish I could just… get out of here.”

“Why not?”

“I’m… under a lot of supervision right now.”

Barry tilts his head to the side. “Are you in some sort of trouble?”

Bruce frowns, “No, but my parents… they’re afraid that I might get into it.”

Nodding, Barry’s eyebrows furrow over his eyes. Lightning crackles in the sea of his eyes, stoking the fires of Bruce’s curiosity. Like a switch Barry’s levity floats the brows high again, disappearing under his baseball cap. “Don’t worry!” Barry says, “You won’t get into any trouble with me!”

“What?” Barry latches onto Bruce’s hands, dragging him towards the exit. Bruce digs his heels in, panicking. “What are you doing?”

“We’re gonna find your parents and tell ‘em we’re gonna go play!” Barry says, “I’m very hard to say no to.”

“I… That’s probably not a good idea.”

“Why’s that?”

Bruce rushes for an answer, the simplest explanation waiting on the other side of the door. “Someone is waiting for me, just outside. The second I leave the bathroom he’s gonna drag me back to my parents. I doubt he’ll let you follow - he’s mean .”

Barry pouts, but doesn’t let go. Instead he squeezes tighter while he thinks, storm clouds reappearing. They erupt with an idea that booms in the small space.

Letting go, Barry zips his bag open and digs around. Bruce waits, wondering exactly he looks for. Blanching when the other boy finds it and tosses it at Bruce.

“What’s this?”

“It’s a hoodie!” Barry says, slipping his shoes off, “Put it on, and switch shoes with me!” Bruce does so, stuffing his feet into the dirty Sketchers. The hoodie smothers him in warmth, smelling so different from anything he’s ever smelt. Instead of the rich jasmine Alfred uses, it smells like a cheap soap that cloys at his nose. Still he finds it refreshing.

Barry rubs at his chin, scanning him. “Almost perfect…” He pulls his cap from his head, freeing his unruly blond locks, and stuffs it onto Bruce’s head. “There!” Barry says, “You look really cool .”

Bruce blushes, fiddling with the hoodie strings. “Really?”

Nodding, Barry reaches forward and eases the hood over his head to obscure more of his features. “Yeah. It’s not hard to look cool in red - it’s the coolest color. But you’re making it even better! How do you do that?”

“...I’m not sure.”

Shrugging, Barry grabs at Bruce’s hand again. “Doesn’t matter. We’re wasting valuable play time !”

Time plays out slowly in the seconds they leave the bathroom. Bruce tucks his head into his chest, wincing, ready for Willoughsby to spot him and yell. However all he hears is the squeaking of Barry’s shoes against the linoleum and the swinging of the bathroom door. The farther they get from the bathroom the softer his heart beats.

Risking everything, Bruce glances behind him at Willoughsby. The bodyguard watches the door, back rigid.

He floats after Barry, riding a sugar rush of freedom. Only crashing when he hears someone clearing their throat.

“Barry?” an older woman asks, tone suspicious, “Who is this?”

“This is my new friend Bruce!” Barry introduces him, “Bruce, this is the mom I was telling you about. Her name’s Mom.” He turns to his mom, “He and I are gonna play in the park together.”

“Are you?” she asks, looking at Bruce. “Bruce? Do your parents know about yours and Barry’s plans?”

Wide-eyed, Bruce nods. Not trusting his own voice. He expects Barry’s mother to drag them back where they came from and ruin their plans. However, glancing between him and Barry, her features softened.

“Okay,” she says, “as long as they said it’s okay.”

Bruce keeps silent. Barry groans though, hand not in Bruce’s to tug on her jacket. “Mom! I wanna go play.”

She chuckles, taking his hand and guiding them out of the museum. “Patience, sweetie. We’ll be at the park in a few minutes. Then you and Bruce can have your fun.”

Barry turns to Bruce, beaming. “You’re gonna like it, we just got this new jungle gym. It’s pirate-themed !”

Bruce finds himself excited the more Barry describes the game of make-believe they’ll play.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Thomas knows he looks insane, puffing and shouting his son’s name like an animal. Except it’s all he can do besides break down into tears. Martha busied herself with her terror by firing their bodyguards and driving with Alfred to the police station while Thomas stayed behind to scour the area.

All hope seems lost, and visions of the alleyway flash into awareness. The glinting of the gun as the mugger raised it, ready to fire if necessary. How Bruce clung to his leg with a fear no boy should ever know. Remembers the prayers he said, hoping that a miracle would appear in the moment between the man stopping them in the alley and him demanding for Martha’s pearls. Pearls she doesn’t have anymore. That she donated after spending too many nights staring at them with half a glass of scotch in her hand because she couldn’t sleep.

He shakes the foggy tendrils of the nightmares away, sure that if they clawed their way in finding Bruce would be impossible. Instead he waits for the light to change then dashes across the street.

Staggering, he readies himself to find the nearest phone booth to call Martha at the police station. Except he hears a shrill laughter that echoes in his heart, and another boy yelling, “Bruce!”

Thomas follows the sounds towards a playground, spying the familiar dark curls as they chase a blond boy around a grounded pirate ship.

“Bruce,” he breathes, shuffling over. The closer he gets the reassuring feeling of seeing Bruce safe gets corrupted by the anger of realizing nothing happened to Bruce. A thought creeps into mind, that he ran away knowing full well how his parents might react. His son’s name readies itself in his mouth again, sharper than before, only for a hand on his shoulder to interrupt.

“Hi,” a woman stops him, “Are you Bruce’s dad?”

Startled, his plans fall apart. “Uh - yes… I - I am.”

She smiles, “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Nora, your son is playing with mine.”

“...I see,” he says, following her gaze over to the boys, “They seem to be having fun .”

“Yeah,” Nora nods, “it’d be a shame to interrupt them, wouldn’t it?”

He whips around to stare at her, Nora remaining calm. Thomas glares, “I don’t know. Considering all the worry he put me and his mother through, playtime is far from over.”

“Figured he was lying when he said you were okay with this.”

“And you still allowed him to come here?”

She shrugs. “My son is a whirlwind. He wanted to play with your boy and… well, Barry doesn’t have many friends. So maybe I was a little selfish.” Nora faces him, finally, smiling in the sad way only a parent can. “Sue me.”

Thomas raises a wry brow, lips stretching thin. “If you knew who I was you wouldn’t be joking around with the ‘sue’ word.”

“Maybe not, but I can tell that your suit probably costs more than my lemon of a car,” she says, “C’mon, a bench just opened up. Let’s grab a seat and chat.” Nora walks away, leaving Thomas with no other option but to follow. They sit with their children still in view. Barry swings an invisible sword in the air, Bruce shaking his fist from below.

“So,” she starts, “what were you and your family doing at the museum?”

He crosses his legs, sinking against the cold wood as his body gives into the tremors of exhaustion coursing within. “We were invited to an artist’s gallery opening, someone who benefited from a grant we created a few years back. Although after what I saw I wish my wife never suggested it.”

“Art is subjective.”

“If you’d suffered through his explanation on how a squiggle represents the unknown possibility of his future since his parents’ evicted him from their house you’d become pretty objective.”

Nora laughs loudly, head tossed back in joy. “I’ll take your word for it.”

They hear a shout and a slam, both turning to see the cause. Thomas’s heart seizes at Bruce crumpled on the ground, tiny hands wrapped around his knee. Standing above him, Nora’s boy gapes with worry.

Thomas readies to stand, except Nora’s grip keeps him tethered to the bench. “Excuse me,” he grows, “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Bruce is fine.”

“He’s not fine, he’s hurt .”

“It’s a skinned knee,” she says, “Barry gets them all the time, mostly because he always forgets to tie his shoes. He’ll know what to do.” Nora gestures to their kids, Bruce joined by Barry who hopped down from the ship. Digging around in his bag, he searches for something. It becomes obvious to Thomas exactly what it is when Barry fiddles with Bruce’s knee. He relaxes in the bench as Barry finishes patching his son up, dropping a kiss on the wound for extra measure. “I taught him what to do after the fifth time,” she says, “for when he falls and I’m not around to help.”

“But you are here,” Thomas argues, “And I’m here. Shouldn’t we go and help our children when they need us.”

Nora agrees. “But I don’t think they need us now, do you?”

Bruce stands as if he didn’t tumble, the only evidence being the tear in his suit pants. Barry shoves him and runs away, Bruce chasing after with the wildness of youth.

“Kids are kids,” Nora continues, “They’re going to get hurt. But they’ll pick themselves up and keep going… it’s inspiring really. The older we get the easier it is to be afraid. To live our lives like whatever’s waiting around the corner can smash us into a million little pieces. I was like that, for some time.”

Thomas watches Nora slip into the past, a far away gleam dancing in her eyes. “I got home a little earlier than planned and the door was unlocked. Figured Barry left it open, as usual. So I thought nothing of it and walked in - only to see a man standing in the middle of my living room with a knife . Neither of us expected the other to be there. I rushed for the phone only he… he grabbed me. Grappled me to the floor and held the knife up to my throat. He was going to kill me and if… if Barry hadn’t come home just then I…” She breathes deeply, wiping at a few stray tears. Thomas reaches across and squeezes her hand. Nora smiles at the gesture, thanking him. “Anyway, he hesitated for a moment. That’s all I needed. I kneed him in the groin, flipped him over, and thanked every self-defense class my parents forced on me as I held the knife to his neck while telling Barry to go call the cops.”

“And the after?” Thomas asked, “What happened after?”

“We moved on with our lives.”

“... How ?”

“It wasn’t easy at first,” Nora admits, “I was scared. That the breeze behind me was the man breathing down my neck, ready to finish me off. I’d wake up screaming in my husband’s arms because I thought ht was someone else. I could barely eat, I wasn’t as present as I was with my family.”

“But then Barry…” she smiles, returning to the present to watch her boy, “one day I was sitting on the couch, letting the TV play while I was somewhere else… he climbed up beside me and laid down on my lap. I was nervous, asked him what he was doing. He said that he was spending time with me… that all I ever seem to do anymore is sit in the living room and watch TV. So if that’s what I liked than it’s what he wanted to do, too, because it meant we could spend time together like we used to.”

Thomas reflects on the past year since the attempted mugging. A montage of family dinners where his family stretched away from him, growing more distant with each day. Blocked from view by bodyguard after bodyguard. Bruce’s excitement never returned since that fateful night watching Zorro, but since he was safe it hadn’t occurred to either him or Martha that it meant anything was wrong.

They went to bed each night thankful that Bruce was safe and their family was together. When in reality the mugging shattered their family and the shards of what was continued to hurt.

“Barry gave me the push I needed to turn things around,” Nora tells him, “I went to therapy… joined a support group. Over time I felt like my old self again, doing the same things I used to with the people I love. Because I wasn’t going to let that bastard steal me away from my boy. I might not always be around to patch up a scraped knee or a paper cut, but when Barry really needs me… I’ll be there.”

Thomas clears his throat, unable to say anything with enough gravity to compare with the unburdened trauma Nora presented him. A few words string together, though, after staring at Bruce playing with Barry. “It’s been awhile since my boy’s been a… well - a boy. We, him, my wife, and I, we actually suffered a similar circumstance. Martha and I might have… overreacted . Put a bandaid over a gouging wound… I never considered Bruce wasn’t happy.”

“But he looks it now?”

“Very happy.”

“So does Barry,” Nora smiles, “I meant what I said about him not having that many friends… he always had trouble finding kids who wanted to stick around. It’s disheartening watching your kid get turned down again and again, left alone by everyone else.” She slips her hand free from Thomas, blushing. “I really am sorry about taking Bruce. I ignored every good instinct I had just to give Barry an hour or two of having a friend.”

“Parents will do anything for their kids,” Thomas shrugs, “Even if it’s not the best decision.”

“Exactly.”

A few more minutes pass contedly of Bruce and Barry running around, playing. Thomas and Nora sit together in silence, wind blowing between them.

“You’re not from around here are you?”

He hums. “Afraid not.”

Nora chuckles, shifting in her seat. “I figured things were too good to be true.”

“But,” Thomas says, “I’ll be spending more of my time here in Central City, especially if this new deal I’m working on pulls through. And maybe on my visits Bruce will come along… and he won’t want to be stuck with me all day long in meetings. Better he has someone his own age to play with, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I definitely agree,” Nora says. “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship, Mr…?”

“Wayne. Thomas Wayne.”

“Do you always introduce yourself like you’re James Bond?” “Unfortunately I’m the furthest thing from a spy, but if you need a doctor…”

“No kidding, my husband is a heart surgeon.”

“Really? Small world…”

They talk while their kids tucker each other out, playing to their heart’s content. Of the four of them, no one is whole. But they’re all healing. Growing past the trauma inflicted, building something new, magnificent, and strong.

Thomas incorporates all this into his toast, sniffing past the tears as he congratulates Bruce and Barry on their wedding. After the clapping he sits in his seat beside Nora, watching Bruce guide his husband onto the dance floor.

“That was a touching speech,” she starts, sipping at her wine glass, “I see you decided against embarrassing him.”

“Figured you’re better at that, Nora,” he says.

“I mean I had a few memories picked out,” she said, “About how I stumbled on them practicing kissing with each other when they were thirteen, or Bruce flying over to throw Barry his own dance when he wasn’t asked to his. Maybe the summer after high school graduation where they were arrested for nudity… Although who can compete with your speech.”

Martha chuckles, sliding her hand into Thomas’s. “I told him to go easy but he wouldn’t listen.”

“It’s okay,” Nora says, “it just means he owes me. Which I’ll collect on when they have their first child named after me.” The joke tickles everyone, both the Waynes and Allens laughing. Thomas sighs and grabs for his glass, drinking. Over the rim of his wine he sees Barry whispering to Bruce, causing the smile on his son’s face to grow wider.

Barry Allen is the best thing that ever happened to his boy, even if he almost caused Thomas to experience his first heart attack.

[the-blind-assassin-12]

Passing Through

Part three: Whiteout 

A/N: Woah. This story got a little derailed. Things happened, then things didn’t happen and then all of a sudden BAM things happened again. That makes little to know sense. But Passing Through is back on track, mostly thanks to Bruce Springsteen, but also @its-my-little-dumpster-fire and @something-tofightfor and @benbarnestongue so this (and the fried rice) is for you. 

Word Count: 4,569 

Songs Referenced: I’m on Fire & Atlantic City, Bruce Springsteen

“Let’s get out of the city, what do you say?” You kept your hand on his bent elbow as you pulled him toward the alley between the convention center and the building next to it, not waiting for his response. He could answer when you had shelter and could actually see him standing a foot in front of you. There was a shortcut to the light rail stop on 18th that was mostly covered if you traversed the alley, and the snow had started increasing its intensity, so you dragged Ryan towards the overhang.

Under the shelter of the royal blue vinyl awning, you released his arm, slightly embarrassed for having grabbed it in the first place. Brushing snow from your shoulders and shaking it from the ends of your hair, you looked up at Ryan, and waited for his response. His quiet, curious eyes were slightly narrowed as he weighed his decision. “Well, I was supposed to stay with a friend’s brother here in the city, but…” he reached into his pocket and pulled out the small black flip phone, checking the screen. “But I haven't heard from him yet so…”

“Well, I don’t want to interfere-”

“So lemme just-”

You spoke over one another again, prompting a nervous inspection of your shoes and a small, sideways smile from Ryan.

“Lemme just give’m a call, see where he’s at.”  He stepped away to make a phone call, pulling his phone out of that secret inner pocket of his canvas coat.

You used the brief moment of separation to try to collect your thoughts. Okay. Yes, he’s very attractive. He’s nice, he’s talented...I like him. He’s fun. I...yeah. Okay. But this is how it’s gonna go. I’m inviting him to stay- because it’s snowing!- and nothing else. We’ll have dinner and we’ll talk...maybe some more music. But that’s. It. Okay. Here goes. He was walking back towards you, something between a smirk and a frown on his face, puffs of vapor in the cold air emanating from his lips. “Bad news?” you asked.

He shook his head. “My buddy’s brother is stuck up in the mountains...says the roads are closed an’ he can’t get back down here.”

You nodded. “Yeah, that happens up there. A lot, actually.” He stuck his phone back into it’s safe spot, zipping the secret pocket. “So. As I was saying. I have a place not far from here.” You shrugged nonchalantly. “You’re welcome to come stay with me until you can get in touch with your friend.” We played all day together. I trust you.

He opened his mouth as if to protest, then shut it, smiled and shook his head again, giving a small scrunch of his nose. “Yeah?”

You nodded and smile. “Yeah. Don’t get too excited. It’s not the Ritz. But it’s warm and I have space and it’s not some overpriced hotel. And I’m making fried rice for dinner, so…” You winked.

“Why would you do that for me?” he asked simply, out of pure interest, and with no expectation of what your answer would be.

“Today’s a special day for me. You helped me out in the coffee shop this morning, we played together...you’re a nice guy, Ryan, I like you. If offering up a few square feet of my floor helps you out then I’m happy to do it.” You looked up at him and saw something shift in his eyes, like he’d heard something in a new language for the first time.

“Thank you,” he said, eyes on you as he bent down to pick up his things. “Okay. Let’s get outta the city, Junebug.”

.  . .  . . .  . . . .

You’d taken the light rail from 18th back to Littleton, hustling down the snow-covered sidewalk of Littleton Blvd. to get to Jake’s. You’d hoped to catch a ride back to your complex with Missy; she lived in building B, you were in H. You also hoped to pick up a big ‘ole jug of beer from your place of employment with your discount. Just like when you were walking down the mall in Denver, you watched Ryan notice all the signs, and the stones in the foundations of the buildings, the way the snowflakes fell in the beams of light from the street lamps. It kept the cold of the storm from getting to you, even as you felt your sweater get soaked with snow. You made it to Jake’s just as Missy was shutting the lights, gave her a “pretty please” and got both your growler and your ride, Ryan stuffing his bag in the trunk of Missy’s ‘98 Malibu. In eight minutes you were home, and Ryan was hauling the bag back out.

“Home sweet home,” you gestured vaguely at the building before you, leading Ryan to your front door.

You kicked your boots one at a time against the siding, noticing Ryan’s amused smirk at your abrupt action. Once the snow had been sufficiently stomped off, you gave them another swipe on the mat, then turned the key to throw the door open. Ryan was right behind you, making sure to clean his shoes, though less aggressively than you, before stepping inside. He closed the door behind him, turning the lock. You flipped the light switch and the lone, circular overhead fixture above the table-less dining nook flickered on. It cast a soft yellow light onto the plain white walls, onto Ryan’s face. You watched him deposit his backpack and guitar case against the wall, straightening to look around, eyes narrowing just a bit before turning to you. You unwound your scarf and peeled off your soaked through sweater and hung both items on the hook by the door, setting your bag on the counter between the dining nook and the kitchen.

“You just movin’ in?”  He cocked one eyebrow and tilted his head, unzipping his coat.

You let out a little laugh that was drier than the sand dunes down south in Mosca as you knelt down to untie your laces. “Four years ago.” You stood back up and stepped on the back of one heel to pull your foot free before doing the same with the other.  

Ryan folded his coat and dropped it next to his things. “You leavin’ soon then?” He followed your lead and removed his own boots.

You snached up both pairs before any residual slush could soak into the carpet, and placed them on the brick flooring in front of the fireplace. Of course it looks like I’m coming or going. Who the hell has a place and doesn’t bother to fill it? ...or, re-fill it I guess… You turned to him with a shrug. “I… my lease is up in three weeks but… I don’t know, I’ll probably stay. Need somewhere to sleep, you know?” Oh shit. You realized too late what you’d just said, and your heart began to hammer in your chest.  

He just gave you a sideways smile and removed his hat. “No, I don’t know ‘bout that.”

“Ryan, I-” you chewed at your bottom lip, dropping your eyes and stuffing your hands in the back pockets of your jeans. I can’t believe I said that. Your hair fell over your face and you didn’t push it out of the way, grateful for the chance to hide. “I didn’t mean anythi-”

“I know you din’ mean anything by it, s’okay,” he took a step towards you and dipped his head to look at you through your snow-soaked hair.

You looked up to see the kind smile that he was still wearing. “No,” you said, pulling your hands back out of your pockets. “No, it’s not okay. I-“

“Hey, it is. It’s okay. You’ve done so much for me today...an’ I know you’re not lookin’ at me like that…You’re just...you’re just doin’ a nice thing. And you don’t have to apologize, okay?”

You swallowed. You could tell him why that upset you another time. “Okay.”

“Okay?” he asked again.

You nodded and laughed. “Yeah. Okay. So… I’m gonna take a shower really quickly...then you can, and I’ll start dinner.”

Ryan nodded and smiled. “Sounds good. I’m gonna step out on the balcony, that okay?” He produced a hand-rolled cigarette and a silver lighter from an altoid tin he’s produced from a pocket.

“Yeah,” you pointed towards the side door. “Just out through there.” He turned and headed towards the red trimmed door, disappearing out into the snowy evening as you headed for the warmth of a steamy shower. What a day.

.  . .  . . .  . . . .

After your shower; after warming up and sorting thoughts and trying to make something less than cosmic meaning out of the day’s events, you found Ryan finishing his cigarette, the reddish glow of the burning paper held between his fingers the only color in the all white squall. “Hey,” you called, poking your head out the door as he stomped the butt out under his boot and turned to you. “Shower’s all yours.”

He came in and you could feel the cold come in with him. Showing him where the bathroom was and instructing him on how to wiggle the handle on the shower door so he wouldn’t get stuck inside, you left him to get cleaned up while you started dinner, like you’d said.

.  . .  . . .  . . .

Hips swaying freely and separately from your upper body, ribs and shoulders shimmying a little less vigorously than your bottom half, you rapidly stirred the vegetables and got lost in the old familiar song. You sang along; not every word although each lyric was etched permanently in your memory, alternating between singing and humming, sometimes supplementing the music with your own backup of oooooh’s and yeah yeah’s. Your phone was propped up inside of a metal 9 pan that had made its way home with you from one of your many serving jobs. A Haitian cook you worked with once who spoke not a word of English had taught you that if you didn’t have speakers, sticking your phone inside of a 9 pan was the next best thing. The two of you had bonded over your love of music, teaching each other a few choice words in English and French that were necessary in the restaurant industry: “onions”, “allergy”, “milk”, “fuck”, “jackass”, “son-of-a-bitch”, “tomatoes”... the essentials.

You switched the wooden spoon from your right to your left hand without missing a beat in the rhythm of the song or the stirring. Steam was rising from the pot in swirling, aromatic wisps, filling the air with earthy smells from the soy sauce, and spicy ones from the togarashi you were sprinkling in time with the drum beat. Setting the spice down on the off-white counter next to the few other shakers that you’d taken down from the cabinet, you grabbed the small bowl of chopped scallions and, with a flourish, dumped them into the hot sesame oil. A satisfying hiss let you know that the oil was at the right temperature, and the count you’d been keeping in your head let you know that the lyrics were about to pick back up in the song.

“Sometimes it’s like someone took a knife, baby edgy and dull and cut a six inch valley through the middle of my skull.” You never missed your favorite verse, and, eyes closed, you shook your head freely as you felt the words come from your heart to spill from your lips. “At night I wake up with the sheets soakin’ wet and a freight train runnin’ through the middle of my head.”

Opening your eyes, you noticed that the veggies were sufficiently heated through. You didn’t want to cook them too thoroughly, preferring when they retained some crunch, so you turned to reach for the cabinet behind you in the narrow kitchen, looking for a bowl to hold the vegetables until they could be added back into the pot. But you spun to a stunned stop in your socked feet when you saw Ryan in a loose fitting heather gray tee shirt,  leaning against the breakfast bar that separated the kitchen from the dining nook. You’d been so engrossed in the song and the scallions that you hadn’t heard the shower turn off or his footsteps come down the long hall. But there he was, wet hair hanging over his forehead, light radiating from those soft leather eyes, and an amused quirk to his mouth that told you that he appreciated your performance.

“Oh!” you squeaked, feeling a slightly embarrassed grin pull up your cheeks. “Hey, didn’t hear you…” you pressed your lips together and tucked a piece of hair back behind your ear, resuming your hunt for a bowl. You found the purple plastic one that was the perfect size for what you needed and pulled it down.

“Sorry,” he stood fully and came around the breakfast bar and into the small kitchen. With the both of you in there, it felt even smaller, and you were very aware of how close he was standing to you. “Din’ mean to scare you or anythin’, just,” he shrugged, “I could tell you like the song. S’a good one, I like it, too. Play it sometimes.” He shrugged and your embarrassed grin turned into a sunbeam. Ryan looked over your shoulder at the contents of the pot: peas, carrots, bits of green beans, and the chopped scallions you’d dramatically added. “Looks good,” he nodded. “Anythin’ I can do to help?”

You weren’t used to having help in the kitchen. Even when Kevin was around, it was only ever just one of you cooking; you never tag teamed. You weren’t sure if the kitchen could accommodate two moving bodies, chopping, stirring, opening cabinets and using the sink, but you appreciated the offer immensely. “Um, can you grab a couple of bowls? This is gonna be done soon, just have to do the eggs and they’re-” you snapped your fingers and saw his eyes light up, surprised at the loud crack that the action created- “quick.” He smiled and you pointed to the top left cabinet where you kept the serving bowls. There were only three, and none of them matched. Ryan nodded and moved back out and around to the other side of the breakfast bar, reaching up and opening the cabinet from the dining nook side. He set them down on the bar- one striped with all the colors of a sunset in the desert, the other a bright green fiestaware piece, as you whisked the eggs in a measuring cup with a fork. The sound they made when they hit the pan was even more satisfying that the hiss of the scallions, and you quickly picked up the wooden spoon to keep the quickly cooking eggs moving in the hot pot.  

“Where’d you learn to cook like that?” Ryan asked, back to leaning on the counter. He was behind you, but you felt his eyes on you, somewhere around your shoulder blades.

“Oh, I’ve worked in lots of restaurants. Picked up little things here and there.” You looked over your shoulder. “This one actually came from this real fancy place. Five star French inspired Cajun kitchen, but the cooks always made rice or taco dishes for comida- that’s what they called the family meal, for the staff, before we’d open for the day.” You looked back down at the pot where the eggs were about fifteen seconds from completion. “Emmanuel- friend of mine I worked with- he taught me this one. Fried rice on a budget. Frozen veggies and leftover sticky rice- oh, can you grab that for me? Should be a couple of cardboard containers in the fridge.”

Ryan stood and let his long legs carry him to the refrigerator, pulling it open and stooping down to see inside. It was relatively empty- half full carton of orange juice, the growler of beer you’d brought home, a few random condiments, eggs, and a couple of plastic tubs of leftover meals, neither of them enough to fill a hungry stomach. He reached in and pulled out two white Chinese food boxes, leftover from the lunch you’d had with Missy before your shift at Jake’s a few days ago. “These?” he asked, holding them up in his tattooed hands.

You glanced over and nodded, tongue poking out from your lips in concentration as you finished with the eggs and slid them into the bowl with the vegetables. “Yup, great, thank you.” Reaching over, you took the two boxes from Ryan, fingers brushing his and sending a sudden shiver down your spine. Oh come on with that, he’s going to be gone soon, stop with the shivers. You saw his eyes flick from the take out containers to your face and wondered if he felt it too. With a negligible shake of your head, you opened the boxes and dumped the cold  rice into the pot, hitting it with a few more splashes of soy sauce. As soon as the white rice was broken up and stained a light brown, you returned the eggs and mixed vegetables to the pot and stirred until the ingredients were harmoniously combined, adding a touch more sauce and a drizzle of sesame oil. “And, voila.” You tapped the spoon against the pot as the song changed, the 9 pan carrying the bluesy harmonica of Atlantic City into the kitchen. Grabbing the two bowls, you portioned out servings for Ryan and yourself, pulled open the silverware drawer and grabbed a spoon you’d gained from an Applebee’s you bartended- they had very distinctly shaped spoons- and a fork from Pappadeaux, the Cajun place you’d mentioned. Turning to Ryan you held up one bowl, then the other. “Spoon or fork?”

Ryan pointed to the violet and orange sunset bowl. “I’ll take the spoon, thank you, looks great, really.” You watched the little birthmark under his eye become lost in a crinkle of skin as his eyes narrowed with his smile.

“Bon appetit.” With a wink and a funny little laugh, you grabbed your impromptu speaker and your bowl, and led Ryan over to the empty living room. “Gonna have to be a floor picnic,” you shrugged. “All the tables have been reserved.” You set your things down as Ryan chuckled and did the same before sitting down on the beige carpet and leaning against the wall beneath the window. “You want a beer? I’m gonna have one.”

“Yeah, sure, thanks.” You we’re glad that he’d stopped being so overly appreciative and seemed more comfortable. He’s really doing more for me than I am for him. Having Ryan in your home made you realize that it had been more than a year since you’d had anyone over. More than 365 days had come and gone since a second soul had passed through your front door. And today of all days you were grateful for the company.

You smiled, eyes flicking up and out the window before you turned back to the kitchen. The snow was still falling with purpose, glowing orange in the muted light of the outdoor lamps in your complex. The air and sky and ground and trees were all a dull, dark grayish color; the night and storm slowly swallowing the the day. You were glad that Ryan wasn’t out there, scrambling for a place to stay since his plans had gotten whited out. The wind blew against the screens and whistled down the chimney. Should light a fire after we eat, it’s only going to get colder. You reached up into the cabinets that faced the dining nook and grabbed two mason jar mugs before swinging around the  counter into the kitchen to retrieve the growler of Seedstock Barn Beer that you’d brought home from Jake’s, and poured generous amounts into both of your glasses.

Returning to the couchless living room, you sank to the floor next to Ryan, offering him one of the mason mugs. “Cheers,” you said, holding yours up for hi to clink.

He held his glass just a few inches from yours, a quiet pause coming over his face. Setting his bowl down on the ground next to him, he gathered his eyebrows together and took your breath away with how he was keeping your eyes locked with his. “Today’s been really… I can tell today’s an important day to you.” You felt your cheeks grow hot and you swallowed, unable to look away from his deep, intense eye contact. “It’s been important to me, too. Just so you know. It’s…” he blinked and cast his eyes downward then, and you felt your heart fall with them. “It’s been a long time since I spent a whole day with someone...since someone wanted to spend that much time with me and...and even longer since it actually felt...right, you know?” He laughed at himself then. “I’m ramblin’. Just… thank you. An’ cheers.” He finally clinked his glass against yours and immediately brought it to his lips, filling his mouth with cold beer so more words wouldn’t fall out.

You took a sip, too, smiling against the rim of your glass as you saw color creep up and over the top of Ryan’s beard and onto the exposed skin of his cheeks. You both started eating in silence, Bruce Springsteen finishing off the last chorus: Put your hair up nice, fix yourself up pretty, and meet me tonight in Atlantic City. Through  a mouthful of fried rice, Ryan cleared his throat and spoke. “You like this song a lot, too, don’t you?”

You looked up from your meal and over at him, chewing slowly before you nodded. “Yeah...yeah, I do.” How did he guess that? You’d been singing and dancing before, that wasn’t a mystery. But here you were quietly eating your dinner, leaning against the wall, not moving or swaying at all.

One cheek rose on his face. “You were tappin’ your fingers against your fork, and you had your eyes closed for a second when the harmonica started.” He answered your unasked question, and you tried not to let another shiver pass down your spine at the level of detail that he was capable of noticing.

You swallowed your mouthful and cleared your throat, too. “Yeah. I’m… my mom’s actually from Atlantic City, so the song is... “

“It’s home,” he answered, spoonful of rice halfway between his bowl and his mouth, tone completely certain and sure, understanding exactly what you felt.

You nodded, stirring your fork through your food. “Home. Yeah. It is. A lot of his music is home for me. But that song… yeah. It’s home.”

“I have a harmonica,” he said casually. “We could play that together sometime. You could play piano an’ sing.” He shrugged and shoveled vegetables into his mouth. “This is really, really good, by the way.” He indicated the contents of his bowl with his spoon, long fingers wrapped around the handle in a mesmerizing fashion.

“That would be…” Great. Amazing. A dream come true. To play that song with someone so talented, so passionate...someone that you felt so linked to… it was… “I’d like that, Ryan.” You smiled. In the dim light you noticed the inked feathers on a bird’s wing tattooed on his forearm and used it as a welcomed change of subject. “That a Hawk?” you asked, curiosity in your eyes as you pointed over at his arm.

He looked down and you saw the veins in the underside of his arm move as the muscles flexed beneath his skin. When he raised his eyes again there was a wistful gleam there. “Yeah,” he answered enthusiastically. “Yeah. Hawks always remind me of freedom.”

You were pretty sure you knew why and where he was going with that, but you questioned anyway, to keep the conversation going; he was a man of few words and you wanted as many of them as you could get. “Not Eagles, huh?” You took a sip of beer, licking some foam off of your top lip.

Ryan shook his head and a still damp lock of hair fell over his forehead. “Nah, eagles are too serious. Hawks...they float on thermals...they soar and dive and turn...they have fun. They’re free.” He finished off another mouthful. “You have any?”

“Tattoos?” you asked and he nodded, washing down the last of his dinner with a long gulp. “Yeah, a few. I have the number 26.2 on my right foot- the distance of a marathon,” you explained, “and a branch of bleeding heart flowers on my ribs.”

“You ran a marathon?” There was excitement in his eyes as he asked the question.

“I did. Do not recommend.” you laughed and he followed suit. “It was...horrible, Ryan! I have never been in more pain!” Your cheeks pulled up as you stood to take both of your empty bowls to the kitchen. “I wanted to quit so badly. I was in agony from the halfway point on. Just… just miserable.” You were laughing heartily.

He waited for you to come back to the living room. “Why didn’t you, then? If you were hurtin’ that bad?”

Your laugh froze on your face and melted slowly into a fading smile. “I couldn’t,” you stated. “I was dedicating it to my mom...she uh… she’d just passed away about a year before the race, and she...she always loved watching me run, you know. When I was a kid. She was always there, cheering. So… so I gave her one last real big race. And so I couldn’t quit.” The laugh came back. “Ended up with a stress fracture in my right knee, which is perfect, because she was so stubborn, and that’s an injury of chronic...or stubborn...overuse.” You crouched down by the fireplace, and felt the air change in the room as Ryan stood. “Today was… actually today’s the anniversary of the day she… she passed. So...so-” You cleared your throat, reaching into the fireplace to open the flue.

“Hey,” his voice was soft and warm and right behind you. You turned, not ready for the way his eyes hit you. “Hey, I’m really sorry…’bout your mom. She’d...that scholarship thing at Max’s?” You nodded. “She’d be real proud of you, Junebug. You’re...you’re a real good person.”

Junebug. Why did it sound so right coming from him? Sure, Max called you that, but that’s just because of the name of the music fund. No one else but your mother ever called you that. Not Kevin, and not any of your boyfriends before him. You’d just met Ryan that day, so how was this possible?

“Thank you.” You smiled, and he mirrored it. His smile is… it helped to lighten your heart. His smile is a song. You cleared your throat a final time, turning back to the fireplace. “We should get a fire going. Heat is kind of…” you waved one hand back and forth and you heard his chuckle. “There’s wood stacked outside, where you were before? Could you...do you mind grabbing some?”

“Sure,” you heard the chuckle’s residual lilt in his honey sweet voice. He poked outside onto the covered patio and grabbed a couple of split logs, bringing them back to where you’d had crumpled newspaper lit already.

“Perfect timing, looks like we’re about to get snowed in…”

.  .  .  .  .  .

@something-tofightfor  @its-my-little-dumpster-fire  @suchatinyinfinity @lexxierave @benbarnestongue @banditthewriter @thesumofmychoices @songtoyou

let me know if you’d like in or out on this one! 

[lizartgurl]

I wish you would write a fic where Emma’s celebrates her first birthday at the manor

ANDI I LOVE THE NEW ICON IT’S MAGICAL

And this…this got way too long.

Mary and John Grayson were murdered on April 1, 2006. A little over a month later, on May fifteenth, Emma Mary Grasyon, her mother’s namesake, was supposed to celebrate her twelfth birthday in a place that was still strange, where the only family to celebrate with her was her little brother. Neither of them were in a mood for celebrating.

Emma woke up that morning with eight-year-old Richard snuggled against her, squeezing the life from his plush elephant, Zitka, named for their elephant friend from the Circus. She had been a “Welcome Home” gift from Mister Bruce, an attempt to make the vast and empty Wayne Manor feel more alive. 

Emma had lion of her own, named Simba. The circus had tigers, but not lions, so her little friend was named after the Lion King who also had to witness his father falling to his death. 

Emma tossed Simba across the room, he softly hit the door and fell to the floor as Alfred the Butler opened it.

“I assume Master Richard had another nightmare?” He asked quietly.

Emma nodded, slowly sitting up. Being called “master” or “miss” was still something she was getting used to.

“Then I will bring his uniform in here and make sure to keep the pancakes warm. I believe it would be best to let him sleep for now.”

“Yeah,” Emma agreed, and made her way over to the wide expanse of a vanity, brushing her back into a ponytail, just as she always did.

Alfred didn’t leave, dusting off Emma’s school uniform that had been pressed and set out on her desk chair the night before.

“Did you sleep quite well last night, Miss Emma?” He asked.

Emma snapped the elastic into place, “Just fine,” She assured him.

“If I may,” Alfred pulled a burgundy red ribbon from his pocket, carefully tying a bow around her ponytail.

“Happy Birthday, Miss Emma,” He gave the young girl a soft smile beneath his perfectly groomed mustache.

Emma made the effort to smile up at the old butler. “Thanks, Alfred.”

Thirty minutes later, Richard was running down the stairs, struggling to straighten out his school uniform as he sprinted to join Emma, Bruce, and little ‘Bella at the breakfast table.

“Morning, Champ,” Bruce said, not looking up from his paper. Emma noted that he was reading an article by Clark Kent, one of his friends, about the ridiculousness of the argument of “Batman versus Superman.”

“What’s he say?” Emma asked. Richard punctuated her question by piling tons of whipped cream onto his stack of pancakes, already drenched with syrup. Five-year-old Annabella watched Rick’s experiment of how high he could pile the cream before it fell over with wide brown eyes.

Mister Bruce grunted, “That Batman and Superman would work better together than fighting.”

Emma gave a “huh,” slowly chewing her strawberries and pancakes.

“I bet Superman would win.” She said, taking another bite. Bruce raised an eyebrow in her direction.

“No way!” Rick declared, already standing on his chair. “Batman has all those gadgets and stuff! And he’s smart! He’d find a way to stop Superman!”

“But why would they be fighting?” Annabella asked, forgoing the fork and eating her pancake with her bare hands. Alfred rushed forward with a damp cloth to stave off the syrup.

“That’s a good question, sweetheart,” Bruce leaned forward to kiss his daughter’s forehead, “But you are right, Richard, I bet Batman could take Superman down if he really had to.”

“Well,” Alfred interjected, “I happen to think that Superman could whip Batman’s tush if he so desired.”

Emma, Richard, and Annabella burst into laughter. As if Alfred’s accent weren’t already perfect, the way he said “tush” was still hilarious to a couple of kids.

“Okay, okay, I guess they probably wouldn’t be fighting in the first place,” Bruce stood up to help Alfred clear the dishes, “In fact, there’s been talk that they’re going to start a team with some of the other heroes.”

“Like Wonder Woman?” Emma gasped.

“And Flash?” Richard asked through a mouth of whipped cream.

“And the other heroes who helped them with that alien invasion a couple months ago. Now chew with your mouth closed, champ, and hurry up, we gotta get you two to school.

-

Middle School would have been absolute Tartarus for “charity project” Emma Grayson if it weren’t for Bette Kane, Bruce’s cousin and heir to her own fortune. Emma giggled as Bette stood up in the middle of social studies to give a five-minute rant about how the myth of Medusa was just a bunch of Greek men with their togas on too tight projecting all their fears onto a woman and how that was still evident in today’s society. The teacher was stone-faced for ten minutes while the class applauded her.

“Alfred told me it was your birthday, today, so I brought cupcakes!” Bette said at lunchtime. They were huddled in their own corner of the courtyard, no one was going to bother them here. There weren’t any candles allowed on school grounds, but Bette sang her the “happy birthday” rendition from Emperor’s New Groove, and Emma had another reason to laugh, though she regretted that the chocolate cupcakes Bette brought tasted nothing like Aunt Kayla’s birthday cakes.

Not even Rick had wished her a happy birthday, she sighed as the three Wayne children arrived home from school to an empty manor. Bella, still in kindergarten, ignored her homework in favor of the gardens, and since Rick was still in elementary school and summer break was fast approaching, he followed. Alfred went with them to supervise after making sure that Emma was content in the Manor’s library with a plate of milk and cookies. 

Emma soon abandoned her boring few assignments, scouring the shelves for anything interesting to read. Her eyes fell on a copy of “The Mask of Zorro,” novelization. It sounded only slightly more interesting than “Pride and Prejudice”, but it seemed that it didn’t want to come off the shelf. 

With a yank, she managed to pull the book forward, but not completely off the shelf. The floor beneath her feet shook, and that section of the shelf crawled forward, just enough that it could slide in front of another section.

Right behind the shelf was a cool, dark staircase, illuminated with tiny blue lights, curving down and out of sight.

She jumped back, unable to process this discovery, and a few minutes, the shelf returned to its proper position with a loud cranking noise.

She turned and ran from the library. 

Alfred was in the kitchen, patching Annabella’s knee, so Emma ran straight for Rick, lining up sticks and pebbles to create his own version of Gotham city.

“Richard! You gotta come see this, now!” It only took minimal dragging to get Rick all the way to the library, but a lot of cajoling to get him to stand right there and be patient while she found the right book. Then, he was the one dragging her down the stairs to see what was hidden at the bottom. Emma was the only one of them who noticed when the door shut behind them. With no apparent way out, she followed Rick to the bottom.

“Woah,” Rick gasped as the stairway opened up into a cavern. Stalactites still hung from the top, interspersed with small groups of annoyed, fluffy bats, but the stalagmites on the floor had been cleared for catwalks, computers, suits in display cases, a giant playing card, and a giant mechanical dinosaur, of all things.

“This is awesome!” Rick shouted to make his voice echo with the dripping water.

Emma had a sneaking suspicion that they shouldn’t be there, and tried to back up, only to run into a wall. But it wasn’t a wall. She turned, and it was Bruce, glaring down at the both of them, arms crossed over a giant, black, Batman symbol on his chest.

“You’re him,” she squeaked. 

“Batman!” Rick gasped. 

Bruce just sighed, “I didn’t think you would be home from school yet. Get back upstairs, both of you.”

“What? Why?” Rick whined.

“Because I’m Batman, and I said so.” Bruce growled.

Richard glared at Batman’s cape as he sashayed away, confident that was enough to make them obey.

“You can’t make me, you’re not my dad!” He ducked under Bruce’s arm and swung from one catwalk to the next, deftly balancing on the rails as he rain, taking shortcuts a grown man like Bruce couldn’t hope to achieve, even if he was Batman.

As out-of-place as she felt, Emma was curious, about the cave, and about her foster father being Batman. He had been there the night that her family died. Why didn’t he save them? Batman was supposed to be a detective, wasn’t he? So why didn’t he stop Mister Zucco? 

Inflamed by a sudden bout of anger, Emma leaped up onto the railing, copying Richard as she ran after Bruce. She landed on his cape for a moment, enough to distract him from grabbing Rick, and then leave him confused over which child to catch first. That gave her enough of a lead to make it to his giant computer.

Bruce caught Richard fairly quickly, a firm hand on the boy’s shoulder as he steered him to where his sister was waiting, but not quite hiding. He was a little ticked to find Emma sitting in his favorite chair- the only chair in his hideout, as a matter of fact- in front of the computer, eyes narrowed and arms folded tightly.

“You know where Zucco is,” She accused coldly, the GPS on display for all to see on the screen behind her.

Bruce couldn’t find an answer as Richard looked up to him, shocked and hurt.

“You were there that night,” Emma stood up, rigid and shaking, “You could have stopped him, and you didn’t. And now Mami, Tati, Aunt Kayla, and Jonny are dead, and Uncle Joseph is paralyzed for life.”

“You’re right,” Bruce admitted, which surprised both Graysons, “I could have stopped Zucco and his men, and I didn’t. I doubted that Zucco would do something so bold in plain sight, and it cost your family their lives.”

Emma’s eyes stung and Bruce released his grip on Richard and took her by the shoulders, kneeling in front of her. “That’s why I took you two in, because I know what it’s like to lose your family, and because I promised myself that I was going to stop Zucco from ever doing something like this again.

Richard sniffed loudly, and Emma wiped her own tears with the hem of her school jacket. “Let us help you,” She begged.

“No,” Bruce said with finality. He stood up, pulling Batman’s familiar cowl over his face. “You two stay here. I’ll take down Zucco and be back in time to tuck the two of you and Annabella into bed.”

Still, Emma and Richard persisted, following him down to the “Bat-Mobile, waiting on a rotating platform to shoot off in any direction at a moment’s notice. 

“You two can’t get involved with this,” Bruce insisted, “It’s too dangerous.”

“So was the acrobatics we did at Haly’s.” Emma huffed.

“No. Now get upstairs before I call Alfred,” the top of the Bat-mobile slammed shut, and shot off through the waterfall that concealed the cave’s entrance from the rest of Gotham.

Emma’s hands shook. She didn’t care if Bruce was really batman or Wonder Woman or whatever. Tony Zucco had killed her parents, and she wasn’t going to stand by and let him hurt anyone else, either.

“Emma,” Richard said quietly, “Do you know where Alfred put our old costumes?”

Emma knew her little brother was thinking what she was, and as she grinned at him, her eyes landed on a couple spare masks and sheets of kevlar, just big enough to be called a cape.

-

Batman caught Zucco and his men breaking into the Graysons belonging left in storage under Joseph Grayson’s name. When he woke up, he was strapped to a spinning target on the grounds previously occupied by Haly’s circus. You could still see some of the darkened dirt where the Graysons had fallen. Zucco was throwing knives at him with reckless abandon, while his men watched and laughed. 

“Look out, Batman!” Zucco cackled. Another knife flew through the air, aimed for his heart, but something knocked it to the ground. A dull batarang, one he’d left behind at the cave for Alfred to sharpen.

“Excellent shot, Miss Grayson,” Alfred’s voice manifested over his comms a moment later, as one of Zucco’s thugs had his feet yanked out from beneath him, and another was struck with a batarang to the shoulder.

“Alfred,” Bruce growled so that Zucco couldn’t heard over the sudden commotion.

“I’m afraid that they insisted, as you typically do,” Alfred quipped. “And I can’t very well quarantine all three children in the house at once.”

Bruce rolled his eyes as Emma Grayson, golden wings splayed across her red tunic top, eyes hidden behind a mask, and protected by a yellow skein of kevlar, sliced away the rope holding back his hands.

“Thank you,” He grunted, crouching to the ground. His belt had been stolen, but he grabbed a knife from the target board. With a flick of his wrist, it knocked the fedora clean off Zucco’s head.

Out of Batarangs, Richard and Emma each grabbed a couple knives that had nearly killed Batman to fend off the thugs that were now running at them.

Then Emma saw the gold dangling from Zucco’s pocket. Her mother’s necklace, a robin on a branch, made from solid gold. A Wedding present from John to Mary. She screamed with fury, using her knife to slice the hand Zucco was using to reach inside his coat for another knife. She went for his face next, but it was Batman who grabbed her wrist, blocking her from Zucco, who lay whimpering on the ground.

“He deserves it!” She spat, “He killed them!” 

Bruce kicked Zucco in the face with his heavy boots, down for the count as he gripped Emma’s arms tightly.

“It isn’t up to us to decide who lives and who dies. That’s how they think,” He nodded to Zucco, then to his men, who had been casually taken out by a few easy flips from junior acrobat Rick.

“Emma,” Bruce tried again when she refused to look him in the eyes. “Would your parents want you yo give in to your anger, to go down a path that’s very hard to return from, just for them?”

Lip trembling, Emma shook her head, and threw her arms around Bruce, sobbing. Rick joined them a moment later, also crying. 

They watched from a distance a few minutes later, as Commissioner Gordon arrived to arrest Zucco’s gang for murder, and thievery. Emma absently traced a heart in the dirt with her toe, holding Richard’s hand.

“I’m proud of you,” Bruce said as the police caravan drove away, “Both of you.”

He drew something from the pouch of his retrieved utility belt. “I believe that this belongs to you,” He held out Mary Grayson’s robin necklace to Emma, securing it around her neck.

“Happy Birthday, Emma.”

[scaryscarecrows]

Roots and Leaves, Pt. 5

Jason ends up making a new, not-dorky e-mail to get a hold of Sheila. He’s got two, it’s not that, but one he knows Barbara (and therefore Bruce) monitors, and the other, well…look. Dick made it for him when he was a kid, and…Dick…Dick is Dick. God help him, he thought ‘littlewing@gmail’ was a good idea and by the time Jason actually found out about it, it was too late to do anything.

Oh, well. Everyone hates their first e-mail address. And at least he didn’t come up with that, he had it thrust upon him. It’s something.

He makes a nice, unembarrassing, un-Bat-stalked e-mail and sends a generic ‘hey how are you’. And then promptly pretends to himself that he doesn’t remember doing that and goes to trawl Craigslist for any sketchy-looking ads. You’d think these people would learn that there’s at least a sixty-forty shot of a cop or worse answering, but whatever.

So far, there’s not much-lotta people lookin’ for a dom-oh. Ohhh, that movie came out last weekend, didn’t it. That explains so much.

He clicks back out and channel-surfs for a bit instead, catches two seconds of a promo for something with a bloody clown and figures fuck it, he’s playing Mario Party even though it cheats worse than Penguin’s professional card players.

He’s getting absolutely wrecked by Goddamn Waluigi when his laptop announces that he’s got mail. He pauses-mid-Goddamn Waluigi gloating pose, how unfortunate-and pulls it over.

She has sent him a…it’s a…cat. She’s sent him a picture of a smiling cat. Is this a thing? Is this referencing something? Is she, perhaps, actually related to Dick?

He’s so confused.

Whatever. A quick Google search says that the cat is a thing. He responds with a piano-playing one and an inquiry about work before shutting off the Gamecube because fuck you, Waluigi.

Now what? He’s not good at this kinda thing, never was even…Before…but now? Haha forget it. He can muddle, a little, when people don’t know things but she knows something, clearly, because Batman tracked her down. She knows enough, and invariably there will be pity because nobody, including himself, knows what to say.

He wraps himself up in the blanket that lives on the couch and wishes somebody had written a manual for ‘how to live your best life after spending a year with a mad clown’. But to be fair, there can’t be that many people who lived to tell the tale.

Heh. There’s that one Gotham-based advice columnist, the one who’s there for the weirdoes with questions like ‘I have a hardcore crush on the Riddler, but I know I shouldn’t, please help me’. He could write to that…no, no, that wouldn’t end well. Some weird Joker cultist might come looking for him.

The computer dings again and he shoves a hand free from the blankets. Another cat, and a ‘thankfully slow day. This is his life now, apparently; communicating with his maybe-long-lost-mother through cat pictures. What a world.

He’s not gonna lie, though, the cats are cute and it’s…they’re a good buffer. They’re making this all a little less awkward.

As it turns out, he may come by his ‘God help the dumbasses’ honestly-Sheila has a biting sense of humor and he knows he shouldn’t laugh at the schmuck who got his dick wedged in a coconut, but…but…he’s sure that guy’s probably the same type to take a shortcut down a dark alley. Hell, for all he knows, he’s saved that exact guy from that exact situation.

Bruce would roll his eyes and rub his nose and say nothing. He was never very good at realizing that yeah, you gotta save people, but sometimes…sometimes they’re in that boat because they’re really fucking stupid.

Or at least, he never told Jason that.

It’s another hour, easy, of light back-and-forth before he makes himself send a ‘I gotta get some sleep, I got the night shift’, shuts the computer off, and burrows into his blanket. Bed’s too far away and he’s comfy here.

For once, he’s out cold in five minutes.

* * *

He lives to regret sleeping on the couch. When he wakes up, it’s late afternoon and he. Is. Stiff.

I regret my life choices.

Well. Most of them, anyway.

His computer informs him that Sheila sent him a ‘sweet dreams’ e-mail and, um. It’s. It’s been a while and he’s torn between being gobsmacked and feeling stupid for feeling all warm inside.

Catherine used to-well, when she was…healthy…-she used to read to him from an old, falling apart book of Greek myths. Looking back, she did some heavy on-the-fly editing, because it wasn’t until later that he found out that oh, Hercules killed his whole family, but she did it and after, she used to kiss his forehead and tell him the same thing. He tried to do it for her, later, but he was never really good at it and she never seemed to notice.

He did it anyway.

Stretching gets several nasty pops out of his spine and hips, but he can now move a little easier. He wants a smoothie.

He’s just finished making it when there’s a knock on his door and he frowns, tries to remember if he ordered anything recently. No…so…

It turns out to be Mz. Melinda May, armed with Snickerdoodles. Hell yes.

“Hey, Triple-M.”

“Hey, honey.” She shoves the plate at him. “I don’t trust you not to eat.”

“I do!” he protests, moving out of the way so she can come in. “I just made a smoothie! I made Jambalaya last night!”

That was a bad thing to say. She cocks an eyebrow at him and asks, voice deadly calm, “Did you put a splash of Tabasco in it?”

Shit. He knew he forgot something.

“No?”

“Boy, I told you once, I told you a hundred times…”

“I spaced! I got distracted by something outside!”

She sighs and shakes her head.

“I’m not staying, it’s my bridge night and those old bitches are going down in flames.” Some part of him is, and probably always will be, amused and terrified that she swears like that. “But you don’t take care of yourself.”

“Thanks for the cookies.”

“Hm.” She hobbles into the hall, muttering darkly to herself about, “No Tabasco…absolute disgrace…” and he shuts the door. Shower, then cookie.

…

No. Cookie first. So it doesn’t go stale or anything. Can’t be too careful, after all.