thinking about a world in which RR actually committed to the path he set Percy on in hoo (wherein Percy has become jaded, angry, and resentful at the gods for breaking their sworn promises, is frequently sympathizing with Luke, is getting more and more powerful, and frequently losing himself to wrath) and instead of the subsequent Percy Jackson books being about getting recommendation letters, we could have gotten a trilogy exploring a fallen hero arc for Percy (that would ultimately have a positive resolution to it.)
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phil's dad circa 2009 playing through the interactive christmas adventure to support his quirky son and his new friend in their creative endeavors, getting to the end and hearing "congratulations, you've won a copy of me and phil's sex tape!" as the weird kid he let into his home starts undressing for the camera
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forever thinking about tim drake stumbling into one of the wayne manor unused nurseries through the window at 5 a.m., knowing damn well that he doesn't have much time before alfred or dick realize that there's been an intruder — so he does his best to move as quickly as possible, while simultaneously trying not to disturb the precious bundle against his chest, with the baby snoring away like tim's arms are the safest place on the planet to sleep in. something tugs painfully inside tim as he lowers his baby son mistake into the old wooden cradle, the emptiness of it — no blankets, no toys, just one of kon's t-shirts wrapped around baby's body as poor excuse of comfort — is a sudden sharp knife to his mind, which is still coming to terms with what happened in that sickly green underground lab; nothing felt quite real since then, not even the warm weight of another living breathing creature pressed against his own body. the moment tim's hands leave the baby, there's immediate sniffing and shuffling as if it knows that tim's leaving, and tim knows that he has to go, he has to find bruce because bruce would know how to fix everything, but something about this lonely dark room filled with shadows and the cold morning air outside open window reminds tim of something he's been trying to bury all of his life — and the baby crying so softly (tim used to cry softly; soundlessly, even, until it wasn't enough anymore and he had to start screaming against his own palm pressed to his mouth) somehow glues tim to the place where he's standing.
"shh, shh, i know, i'm so sorry", he's not even sure what he's saying sorry for at this point. it just feels like the only word that he knows, "they will take care of you, i promise, okay? no need to cry, please don't cry"
his hearts throbs to live at the pain, some new kind of pain that he doesn't know how to numb yet as he takes off his glove to touch baby's tears-wet cheek, and something blooms at the contact, first skin to skin contact since the moment tim pulled his experiment out of the test tube.
why can't he just leave?
the effort it takes to pull away once again almost leaves him gasping for air, and it takes a few seconds for baby to start crying in earnest this time, but tim can't afford himself slowing down; though he keeps talking desperately as he moves back to the window, tugging his glove back on.
"i'm so sorry, i'm sorry. i promise i will come back as soon as can"
we'll be back around christmas, tim, there's no need to cry. you're a big boy already, it's time to start acting like one
tim leaves with the first break of dawn, knowing damn well that this heartbroken wailing is going to haunt him to the other side of the world the same way kon's phantom touches still haunt him to this very day
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