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#after that they all think Danny drinks his enemies like a soup
justwannabecat · 1 year
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DC/DP but Danny doesn’t explain why he has a thermos as his main weapon
Danny (ghost form): It’s soup time Skulker!
Nightwing: I’ve been meaning to ask… why do you have a thermos? Surely there are better weapons
Danny: Lol no
—————
Red Robin: What is this even made of? It’s like two pounds! I mean, that’s not a lot, but for a thermos?
Danny: Oh, you know, a special ghost-proof metal
Red Robin: *sarcastically* Oh, of course
—————
Red Hood: Seriously though, why a thermos?
Danny: I dunno, I didn’t make it
Red Hood: Then who did???
Danny: :)
Red Hood: ?????
—————
Robin: I have noticed that your catchphrase seems to be “Soup time”. Does this mean you cook and eat your enemies when you defeat them?
Danny: what the fuck
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brylcool · 7 years
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Hell
His hands, six-and-a-half inches from the tip of his thumb to that of his middle finger, a fact of which he was quite proud, seemed made for violence. He would regularly make fists and challenge friends to strike him or them, retaliating ruthlessly, standing proudly once his opponent scrunched his eyes and shook the pain out of a crushed hand after a duel of Bloody Knuckles, or gripped his arm in agony after being delivered a blow that felt as if it were courtesy of a a mace and not a 12-year-old-boy.
The rumors were that girls would put on make-up and gossip during sleepovers, but of course, no boy could verify this for himself. With Dima, though, guests were often instructed to imagine an enemy of their choosing, often in the form of a wall or pillow, and to deliver a thrashing as savage as they could manage. He would then do the same, with far greater ferocity and power.
This is how Paris spent many of his nights as a child, though tonight the other boy and his hands were in Paris’ house, and they were folded over their owner’s face.
He was crying.
“Hey,” Sam started. “Are you okay?”
“I was just…thinking about Hell.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your mother was saying how that’s where we go if we don’t stop sinning and shit. If we don’t love Jesus.”
“Yeah. She says that stuff a lot,” said the son, avoiding looking directly at his friend, trying to find something worthy to fixate on on the fridge, perhaps his drawings of trees or wildlife would do. The cast of Saved by the Bell didn’t make it to the Kenmore, though, as per his mother’s objections.
“It’s true, though. And it scared me. I’m scared. Like. I just thought about it being dark. Like black. Pitch dark. Pitch black?”
“I don’t really know what pitch is.”
“It’s black, I guess. But just darkness, all right? Just dark all around. And you can’t see anything. And you just hear…screaming. Like people screaming.”
“Sounds boring. Like Pantera. Heh.“
“No, not constant screaming. Just like…a scream…and then nothing. Like the screams were there just to scare you. And they do. Every time. Forever. I can’t do that, man.”
Sam noticed that his friend was breathing heavily, like he would really cry. Like a little boy. Weren’t they practically men at 12? What was this? He wasn’t prepared to see that, or stop it. He knew nothing about such things.
“What do you think Hell is like? Aren’t you scared?”
“Fire, I guess? I wouldn’t want to burn forever. But I’m not really scared. I don’t think about it, I guess.”
“You say your prayers, though. I need to say my prayers. Let’s pray tonight.”
“All right,” Sam said. “We can do that.”
Hours later, the boys got ready for bed.
“We gotta pray,” Dima said. “We need to pray.”
He was on the floor almost immediately, kneeling next to the bed. Sam had already laid down, forgetting about the holiness he had agreed to. He rolled out, hoping to make this quick.
The rambling talks they had next to each other as they drifted away from consciousness was his favorite part of these sleepovers, where they worried not about who could punch the hardest or who could come up with the most vulgar intentions directed toward the popular girls in class.
Here they would wonder aloud about the future – Dima a hockey star, Sam an author of some kind – wives and kids, photographs and adventures. They would still be friends, Sam thought. An improbable pair, bonded through their dreams. A prayer could only further forge their bond.
Sam assumed the position next to his friend and put his elbows on the bed and threaded his fingers between each other. It was quiet. The mother had gone to bed if not sleep. The television was off. There were no cars or cats outside.
“You lead. You know this shit,” Dima said.
“Okay,” Sam cleared his throat. “Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the Lord my soul to keep. And if I live another day, I pray the Lord will guide my way.”
Dima turned, opening his eyes. “Did you make that up?”
“No, it’s a traditional prayer. You’ve never heard it?”
“Nah, man. That was deep. Especially the last part.”
“I saw that on TV the other day.”
“Okay, keep going.”
“Dear Lord,” Sam began. “Thank you for this day and, uh, everything we enjoyed in it. Please bless us with a good night’s sleep and a good morning. Bless, uh, the Red Wings tomorrow against the Rangers. Not that I mind the Rangers, but, You know, Dima.”
“Dude.”
“Bless our parents. Bless our friends. Bless Fernando and Venus and Brian,” here Sam hesitated. He only included Brian because Dima would notice if he didn’t. He lived just down the street and was a constant companion, for good or for ill, in Sam’s life. God would understand elementary school politics, right?
“And bless Renee,” he quickly added.
“Bless Danny and Simen,” Dima added. “And Duke.”
“Definitely bless Duke,” Sam chimed in, with a laugh. “The best dog.”
“Amen?” Dima said.
“Amen.”
The next morning they were back in the kitchen. Dima imperiously opened the fridge looking for something to eat. The mother was asleep still, and Sam didn’t trust her in the kitchen.
“I’ll make eggs,” Dima said, seizing a cardboard tray from the sparsely furnished fridge. “You got cheese?”
“Check in the drawer. Next to the leftovers.”
“Leftover what?”
“No idea. I don’t eat any of this stuff.”
Dima opened a drawer and pulled out a small plastic box. “Can I smell it?”
“Sure. I wouldn’t advise eating it.”
“Mm,” he said, looking confused. “What is that?”
“I don’t really know. Curry?”
“What’s curry? Is it stew?”
“I guess? I don’t know. There’s curry and there’s curry powder.”
“So it’s like soup?”
“Not exactly. Or maybe that is exactly. I don’t know.”
“Think it would go on eggs?”
“I said I wouldn’t recommend it.”
“No cheese in here, dude – oh, here. In the other drawer. Hell yeah, Muenster. Germans aren’t shit but this cheese is the best.”
It took him only a few minutes to crack, beat, and sauté the eggs before wrapping them around a large stick of cheese that he cut from the block. Sam didn’t have anything to contribute to this endeavor save for microwaving some water for tea. Main course and drink finished together. Sam placed the two mugs on the table in the dining room, an extra-long banquet affair that only saw use during Thanksgiving and Christmas when relatives would come.
“Do you want to be Batman or Two-Face?” Sam asked.
“Two-Face!” Dima shouted from the kitchen. “Tommy Lee Jones fucking gangsta.”
“All right,” Sam said. He placed the Two-Face mug by the chair facing the window and sat with his back to the view of the deck and meager forest behind the townhouse.
Dima brought out the eggs, garnished with parsley flakes.
“Приятного” said Dima, sitting across from Sam.
“What?”
“Like bon appetit,” he answered, half of his omelet hanging out of his mouth.
“Oh, cool. Yeah. You too,” said Sam.
The boys ate in silence for a couple of minutes, Dima somehow drinking the just-below boiling hot tea without waiting for it to cool. Sam was about to ask how this was possible but decided not to. Maybe this was part of being a man: drinking tea that burned your tongue without caring. The eggs were good. Better than anything he could expect for breakfast alone.
“So,” Dima said, polishing off the eggs by drawing a long string of cheese with his fingers from his mouth before sucking it back, “you asked God to bless Renee.”
“Sure,” said Sam, looking straight at his friend.
“Why?”
“You know why, dude,” Sam replied, hoping that would be the end of it.
“Have you talked any more to Marie? I think she likes you. You should talk to Marie.”
“Marie is my friend. I don’t need to talk to her about anything special.”
“What do you talk to Renee about?”
“Why are you asking?”
“Just curious, just curious,” he said, putting up his mitts in a gesture of peace.
“I don’t know. I mean. If I can’t bless her, God should. I guess that’s how I feel about it.”
“Don’t you think you’re taking this a bit too…seriously? We’re only kids. It’s not like you’re in l–”
“You don’t know that!” Sam rarely raised his voice with Dima. Not only did he want to avoid confronting him physically, he was afraid that his slight frame and overly sensitive manner would eventually turn him off of their friendship entirely.
“You’re right, you’re right, okay. I don’t know. I’ll give you that. But we’re still 12."
"You're 12. I'm 11 for a few more months.
"Okay, whatever. There’s still Marie. Or Terri, really. You should fish a little.”
“I’ve never fished in my life.”
“You know what I mean, man! I’m just saying. I worry about you sometimes, a little bit.”
“Did I sound sad while praying?” replied Sam with a laugh. “I want her to be happy! It’s not really about whether I’m the one to make that happen.”
“You wanna touch her bre–”
“Dude could you not?”
“What? You do, don’t you!”
“That’s not–” Sam got quiet. He didn’t want to argue about this, especially if the mother was in earshot. If she heard any of this he would have to relive the conversation again, perhaps with the father, too, and unkind descriptions about Renee, Dima, and other things. Sam felt that his feelings were too deep to dispute, especially with such crass language.
“The eggs,” he continued, “were good. Where did you learn to do that?”
“My mother. Yours never cooks with you?”
“No.”
“Well,” Dima continued. “She taught you to pray. That’s something better than eggs.” He gulped down the last of the tea.
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