#but i already had to unearth my laptop to go through security so it was at the top of my (NEW!!!) bag anyway so i was like eh fuck it

[clumsyclifford]

“We’re not gonna die today, though.” “No, we’re not.”

a demigods!malum moodboard inspired by Win or lose I’m screwed by my sweet betrothed and recipient of my holiday edit exchange edit @cringeycal

[batsandbugs]

The Great IKEA Game

Chapter 4: The Three Stooges 

AN: At least it hasn’t been two months again 😅. Let’s check in with the other batboys and see how they’re handling Damian and Marinette’s chaos. 

Chapter 1 Chapter 2  Chapter 3

Tim wondered when his day took a solid dive off the cliffs of normal and into the waters of weird.

It probably started when Dick dragged them out of bed at eight in the morning – on a Saturday – piled them into the car, and drove them an hour and a half out of the city to an IKEA. If they had actually been there to shop they would have either burned the store down or killed one another. 

Not that those things were off the table yet. 

Tim had work, actual work, that he could be doing. But no, instead he was playing a demented game of hide-and-go-seek, which was careening into an all-out war. The destroyed shelving units, shopping carts, and forklift were unmistakable evidence of that.

How had the demon spawn accomplished this in less than a minute?

Bruce would kill them, once he came back from off-world.

That is if Alfred didn’t get to them first.

“Uh, order 177? Shit, my pay isn't enough for this.”

The words shook Tim from his stupor. He walked over to the counter.

“Hi,” he said, flashing his most charming CEO grin. “I have a quick question?”

The server's fixed smile contrasted with his dull eyes.

“I need to know what way the boy who ordered this headed.”

“No.”

Tim sighed, “Look, it’s important. My brother-”

“I mean, no, it wasn’t a boy.”

Tim paused. “Huh?”

“It was a girl, a teen girl. Black hair, big blue eyes, French accent. She was sitting over there,” he waved at an empty table. “But I think she walked away before that happened.” Referring to the giant train wreck occurring a few aisles over.

“Oh,” said Tim. “Thanks.”

“Do you want the order?”

Tim held back an annoyed sigh.

“Sure.”

So that’s how he, Jason, and Dick, sat at the abandoned picnic table, staring at the abandoned meal bought with Damian’s credit card. Jason grabbed a couple of fries and shoved them in his mouth.

“That’s evidence, nitwit,” hissed Tim.

Jason ignored him, stabbing a meatball with the plastic fork. “What? It’s going to go to waste. Girlie obviously ain’t coming back for it.”

“We should be more worried about how a random girl used Damian’s credit card!”

“She could have stolen it?” offered Dick.

“Demon spawn would have broken her arm before getting pickpocketed,” countered Jason, eating another fry. Silence. A weird glint appeared in Jason's eye. He turned to Tim. “What did you say the girl looked like again?”

“Black hair, blue eyes, French accent.”

“Shit,” muttered Jason.

“What?”

“I think I ran into her earlier, about an hour and a half ago. Asked her if she had run into demon spawn – she sounded confused and tourist-like. But maybe…”

“Maybe she’s working with him?” offered Tim.

“Could be.”

“Damian? Working with another person? A stranger?” Dick shook his head. “Doesn’t sound like him.”

Jason shoved another fry into his mouth. “The brat’s a competitive little shit, if he thought teaming up would help him get ahead, he’d do it in a heartbeat.” He pointed a fry at Tim. “Can you look at the security footage?”

“I’m already two steps ahead of you,” Tim said, flashing his phone with the hacked in security camera footage on-screen. Jason and Dick huddled in close as a small girl walk on screen and stood at the counter.

“Yep, that’s her. Can you ID her, Timmy?”

Tim rolled his eyes, “This is a smartphone, Jay, not a laptop.”

“I thought Mr. World’s Second Greatest Detective would be prepared for anything.”

“Well excuse me for not having facial recognition software, on my phone.”

“Guys chill.”

“Shut up, Dick,” Jason and Tim said in unison.

The footage played out and they watched the girl order two meals and pay with Damian’s credit card. They switched to another camera when she left and sat at the picnic table. A few minutes later Jason and Tim walked into frame.

“Look, there! She tenses. Look at her body language, she’s panicking. She knows who you two are.” Dick looked shocked that, yes, Damian had teamed up with a partner.

They watched the girl panic, although she managed to keep her body from reacting too much. She placed her phone to her ear and walked away from her spot.

“Who is she talking to?”

“Maybe Damian was watching out of sight?”

“Shoot, Tim, she’s out of frame. Do we have another angle?”

It took another minute or so, but Tim found the right security camera catching the mysterious girl leaving the food court. As she walked away the image on the screen flickered, and a moment later the shelving units fell.

“Oh crap,” swore Jason. “Do you think she has magic? Fuck, it would be just our luck if demon spawn teamed up with someone dangerous.”

Dick shook his head. “It could be a coincidence. We didn’t see her do anything. The chaos could have been a coordinated effort between her and Damian.”

Tim wasn’t so sure. “Come on Dick, you’ve been in the game long enough to know just because something looks one way, doesn’t mean it's true.”

They watched the girl hurry out of sight, this time it was much more difficult to follow her progress through the store. She would randomly duck in and out of showrooms, coming out differently than how she came in. If the three boys hadn’t been trained in stealth and detection for years, they would have had a challenging time tracking her.

Jason whistled low. “Who is this chick? I’m impressed. She has serious skill.”

Finally, she ducked into a showroom and didn’t come out. Tim couldn’t find a camera giving them an unobstructed view, but it didn't matter. They had a destination.  

“This was ten minutes ago, they could already be long gone,” said Dick.

“Or they could still be hiding there,” countered Jason.

“We’ll find out when we get there.” They walked out of the cafeteria and past the closed aisles. The forklift that had been buried under the collapsed shelving unit was being unearthed by a flock of bewildered employees.

“Ten bucks says she has magic,” said Jason.

“Yeah, no.” Tim was good at math and the odds of everything happening just as she left was too big to be a coincidence. “I’m not stupid enough to take that bet.”

“Come on you guys, let’s focus here,” chided Dick.

Walking back through the showrooms Tim kept an eye out for any sign of his brother or his accomplice, but it was as if they had disappeared into thin air. Arriving at the last location they had spotted the girl, they waited for a touring couple to leave before descending on the tiny, boxed room like the detectives they were trained to be.

It didn’t take long to discover the lasered off vent.

“Shit,” groaned Jason. “They could be anywhere by now.”

“Tim can you-”

Tim had his phone in hand, “I’m already on it. I’ll have the vent layout in a minute.” He felt insulted they even needed to ask.

Jason peered into the vent, “Damn, I think we’re too big to follow.”

 Dick sighed. “I miss my vent crawling days; they just don’t make them as big as they used to.”

“That’s what she said,” snickered Jason.

“Focus you two,” Tim snapped. “I’ve pulled up the air duct plans.” He flashed the screen to his two brothers who settled down. “This particular vent runs a couple of places. We have one entrance at the back of the store in the storeroom. Then another veering off near the daycare center, and the last which comes out near the unloading dock.”

“I’ll take the one next to the daycare center,” said Dick. “I’m the only one who isn't demented,” pointing to Jason, “or sleep-deprived,” pointing to Tim.

“Hey!” exclaimed Jason.

Tim sneered, repressing a Damian-like growl, “I wouldn’t be so sleep deprived if you hadn’t dragged us out of the house at eight in the morning. I arrived in from patrol at three.” He hadn’t had coffee in hours, and the weight of his body pressed on him like a panini maker.

Dick ignored them. “Jason can take the one at the loading docks, and Tim you’ll be able to bypass security and get into the back the easiest.”

“Sounds good to me,” grunted Jason.

“Alright,” agreed Tim. “The second any of us spots them, text the group chat, will box them in from there.”

They nodded and headed off their separate ways. Despite the tiredness in Tim's bones, there was a heady rush of the hunt thrumming in his veins. Damian, and whoever he had decided to pair up with, were going down.

Tag List: (Closed, sorry!! I’m so glad you all like it though.)

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[jmeelee]

The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Stiles and Derek’s Cat

Sterek Week 2019 • Mystery

Rating: T (for swearing and lite innuendo)

Word Count: 2.1 K

***********

Derek flips on his blinker, and the taxi driver riding his ass swerves around the Camaro, rolling down a window and shouting something indecipherable while Derek pulls into the fire lane in front of the airport. His sister walks through the automatic doors as he climbs out and pops the trunk, a parting blast of air conditioning blowing her dark shoulder-length hair around her head like a demonic halo. She’s dressed in an old band t-shirt with a black blazer layered over top, and ripped skinny jeans, one hand gripping the handle of her rolling luggage, the other pressing a ratty book to her chest.

“It seems stupid for a werewolf to be superstitious,” Cora greets, handing Derek the leather-bound album, “but I didn’t want to take the chance of it getting lost in the mail.”

He pulls her close in a one-armed hug; Cora was never the overly affectionate type, but distance and pseudo-death make the heart grow fonder. “I appreciate you lugging it all this way. Stiles has been asking me a lot of family questions since he started emissary training, and I wanted to put some faces to the names he’s been hearing.” Pictures that aren't attached to obituaries, he silently adds.

She tosses her suitcase into the trunk, dusty wheels leaving a streak of dirt across the upholstery, and slams it closed, climbing in through the passenger door Derek holds open. “Alpha Varela had a decent amount, and Alpha Ogden gave me a half-dozen,” she supplies as he slides behind the wheel and pulls out into traffic, “but they only fill up a quarter of the pages. It’s pretty pathetic.”

She reaches out a hand, lovingly runs fingers over the brown cover embossed with a triskelion.

“It is,” Derek concedes, “but it’s better than nothing.” His fingers itch to flip through the meager pages immediately, pour over the pictures like Cora’s been able to do, and bring his long-dead family back to life, but it will have to wait through rush hour traffic and a trip to the pet store. They’re out of cat food, and Agnes Nutter—the stray orange tabby Stiles fell in love with when he started spending so much time with Deaton at the vet clinic, and proceeded to drag home—has been known to take claws to the curtains, leather couches and freshly painted walls when dinner isn’t served on time.

“We’re back!” Derek calls through the front door an hour later, pulling his key out of the lock.

Cora drops two five-pound bags of dry food to the entry-way floor. “How much does this damn cat eat?” She laughs. Derek shrugs, wet food cans clanking in the bags hanging from his hands. The album is tucked securely under his armpit.

“I’m in the family room!” Comes Stiles’ disembodied voice. Derek detours to the kitchen to stock the cat food in the walk-in pantry and Cora heads to the back of the house to greet her brother-in-law. He’s only moments behind her, but when he finally rounds the corner into the family room, his little sister’s face is shifted, snarls twisting out of her throat through elongated teeth, and Stiles is sitting on the couch, eyes wide, laptop in one hand and the other raised, palm out, sparks sizzling along his fingertips. Acrid ozone spikes the air.

“What. The. Hell.”

“I don’t know, dude!” Stiles’ voice trills and Derek doesn’t have the time to admonish his husband for calling him dude. “She rolled in here and didn’t even say hello! Just went all grrrr-” his nose does the scrunchy little thing Derek secretly loves, top teeth bared like an adorably angry hamster- “and scared the shit out of me.”

“It’s that...thing,” Cora rasps, pointing a claw-tipped finger at Agnes Nutter, calmly lording over the room from Stiles’ blanketed lap, like a ginger queen on a throne.

Stiles drops his laptop to the couch cushion, wrapping his now free arm around Agnes, who’s yellow eyes squint in annoyance at the vigorous display of affectionate protection. “What’s your problem with my cat? Does the lupine-feline rivalry actually run that deep?”

“Really, Stiles? Dog jokes? Now?” Derek rubs at a tension headache brewing over his left eyebrow.

“Stiles,” Cora commands through sharp white teeth, “get away from it. It’s a demon.”

Agnes answers the accusation with a charming little “meow,” and rubs a paw over her docked left ear.

“Put your teeth away. She’s my pet!” Stiles shrieks.

“Derek. Get the photo album,” Cora orders.

Derek glances back toward the kitchen. He can see the book sitting on the granite countertop, but is loathe to leave the room. “Is this really the best time for a Hale family history lesson?”

“You bet your hairy ass it is. Go get those pictures. Now.”

Derek’s never been more grateful for supernatural speed. “Here.” He hands the album to his sister, who flips open to the second page, turns the book around and hands it back to him.

At first, Derek’s baffled. What do his unearthed family photos have to do with a c—

An orange and white striped cat that’s sitting on his grandmother’s lap, when she was roughly thirty years old. A cat that twists around his mother’s ankles as she stands on tip-toe to kiss his father on the cheek, while toddler Laura plays in the background. A cat that lingers behind his great-grandfather as he cuts the ribbon at the dedication ceremony for the Beacon Hills preserve. The last photo is in black and white, but this cat, like the others, has a docked left ear.

“Stiles…” Derek looks up at his husband. Agnes stares at him with slanted eyes. He does the math in his head. At least fifty years…

Stiles groans, head lolling on the back of the couch. “Don’t tell me she’s a Flerkin. I knew I should have named her Goose.”

“Not a Flerkin,” Cora says. “But definitely something.”

Agnes jumps off Stiles’ lap and calmly pads over to her empty food dish, flops down next to it, and lets out a loud, piercing howl.

“Get the cat carrier,” Derek says. “We’re going to Deaton’s.”

———-

“Why did you let me adopt a time-traveling cat?!”

Deaton, as usual, says nothing in face of Stiles’ hysterics. Agnes dangles from Stiles’ outstretched arms, held at a forty-five-degree angle like a domesticated lion king. She blinks, whiskers twitching. Derek feels her pain; the overlapping scents of animal, iodine and industrial-grade disinfectant makes him want to hurl.

“I was surprised you even got a cat,” Scott chimes in from the waiting room chair. Having a pet who turns out to be old enough to collect social security merits calling your alpha right away. “I didn’t think you liked them. Remember my old Maine Coon, Louis? You used to pelt him in the ass with spitballs.”

Everyone’s mouths drop collectively, and Stiles reels Agnes back to his chest, hiding part of his blushing cheek in her soft orange fur. “I was seven, Scott! And in my defense, Louis used to bite my toes through my sleeping bag.”

“Well, thank goodness it was in retaliation,” Derek deadpans. “I wouldn’t want to be married to an animal abuser.”

A war plays out on Stiles’ flushed face; narrowed eyes shooting daggers at Derek, while the corner of his generous mouth cocks up. “I didn’t hear any complaints from you the other night.”

“Gross,” Cora bemoans. “Get a room.”

“Already did.” Tucking Agnes under his arm like a football, Stiles holds up his free hand and wiggles his fingers, white-gold wedding band flashing under the fluorescent lights. “Made it legal and everything.”

“Did you bring the photos?” Deaton inquires, enigmatic face as placid as the surface of the little pond in the preserve. Cora hands them over, and everyone watches Deaton slowly flip through the pages, eyes skimming over each picture. “Hum,” he says, laying the album on top of the reception desk, open to the picture of Derek’s parents with Agnes at their feet.

“Hum? That’s all you have to say?” Stiles scoffs.

“I’m surprised at you, Stiles,” Deaton says softly, crossing arms over his lab coat. “I thought you knew what Agnes was when you took her home.”

“Obviously not,” Stiles grumbles. “I’m supposed to be learning from you, aren’t I? One would assume the teacher would tell the student if the class pet was an immortal demon waiting to eat their face off when they fell asleep.”

Derek feels a hysterical giggle crawl up his throat and clamps his lips closed.

Deaton spins the album around to face the waiting room, and Scott extricates his butt from the chair to creep closer. Deaton taps the top right corner of the Hale’s photograph. “I took this picture in nineteen-eighty-eight. Derek,” he says, glancing up into his face, “your parents had just gotten the news they were pregnant with you.”

The giggle threatens to turn into a sob.

“Talia and Sebation celebrated their good fortune with a pack dinner. As you well know-” Deaton turns toward Scott- “emissaries are invited to important pack events.” He turns back to the room at large. “I came that evening, and Agnes, as you are fond of calling her, came with me.” He flips to the picture of Derek’s great-grandfather. “Emissaries protect their alpha’s, so I assume the former Hale pack emissary was somewhere in the crowd during this ceremony.” Deaton blinks, letting the pregnant pause come to full gestation. “Familiars tend to follow witches wherever they go.”

“So…” Cora trails off, tilting her head to the side and pursing her lips while she studies Agnes. “She’s a familiar? Familiars are demons, right?”

“Fantastic,” Stiles sighs, shoulders slumping. “We all know my track record with demons.” His face is carefully blank, except for the bottom lip caught between his teeth.

“No concrete evidence exists to say familiars are demons,” Deaton lectures. “In fact, that tends to be an antiquated belief held over from the witch trials. Some believe they are fae, or goblins, sent to assist fledgling witches in the practice of magic. Others believe they’re guardian angels.”

“Ha!” Stiles crows, sticking his tongue out at Cora. “She’s not a demon after all. She’s an angel. Take that!”

“Hey!” Scott helpfully adds. “You could change her name to Aziraphale!” Stiles looks like he’s considering it.

“I’m not trying to rain on the parade,” Derek cuts in, ignoring Stiles’ mumbled Sourwolf, “but you’re saying Agnes is here to help Stiles? She mostly just eats, craps, coughs up hairballs in my shoes and knocks shit off the counters. Like that time she broke the vial of ground-up Mucuna pruriens, and we all broke out in that horrible rash.” Derek’s butt itches just thinking about it.

Scott snaps his fingers, goofy smile stretching across his face. “Yeah! And then Stiles used it to make those smoke bombs we attacked the hunter’s compound with the following month. It’s like she knew exactly what he needed to use.”

Everyone stares at Agnes, baffled and impressed.

“Legends say familiars most often take small animal forms,” Deaton continues, “but some are human-like, or can shape-shift. One was a horse.”

“No,” Derek says to both his husband and Agnes, on the off chance any ideas are forming in their heads. “No horses in the house. We don’t have the room.”

“So, you’ve told us what legends say, and what other people think about familiars.” Stiles bounces on his toes, jostling Agnes. She yowls, and he plops her onto the reception desk next to her portraits. “You’ve been an emissary for years. What do you believe?”

Deaton inhales deeply through his nose, exhales through his mouth. “I believe they’re an extension of our souls.”

Stiles smiles, scritching Agnes behind her mangled ear. “You’re the Pantalaimon to my Lyra. The Salem to my Sabrina. The—” Agnes hoists one leg straight into the air and starts licking her butt.

“Yup.” Cora smirks. “That makes total sense.”

“In conclusion, Stiles, your pet is not a demon who’s waiting to eat your face off. Now, can I please go home for the evening?”

It takes half a bag of treats to coax Agnes back into the cat carrier, and Deaton locks the doors to the clinic on their way out.

“I thought she was a stray,” Stiles says as they all head out into the moonlit night, voice a little wobbly. “I didn’t realize she was... Do you want her back?”

Deaton’s smile is as mystifying as ever. “She’s yours now, Stiles.”

Derek notes that, unsurprisingly, Deaton didn’t actually answer the question.

“One more thing,” Derek says, loading Agnes into the backseat of the Camaro. He’s strangely curious, even though he’s heard what curiosity did to the proverbial cat. “If she was yours for years, you must have given her a name. What was it?” Even arcane Dr. Deaton must be human enough to name his cat. Right?

“Some things,” Deaton answers before he slams his car door, “will have to remain a mystery.”

[afni-fics]

Bruce Wayne gets in contact with a retired Justice Leaguer in Gotham City and approaches them regarding the Paris Incident.  

(a pre-New52 DCU/Miraculous Ladybug crossover fusion)

First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | Chapter Index

A bell rang out across the campus of Gotham Academy. A moment later, the relative peace of the campus’s exterior was erased by the flocks of uniformed students pouring out of the hallways at the end of their school day. Some were heading to their various extracurricular activities, others heading for their dorms or off-campus to head home. Occasionally a teacher appeared amidst the throngs of teenagers, clearly visible due to their ages and work attire.

One such teacher stepped out of the school’s side entrance closest to faculty parking. He was zipping up a black leather motorcycle jacket over his burgundy dress shirt. The man had just settled atop a sleek black and red motorcycle and was about to put on a helmet in matching colors when the headlights of a black luxury car flashed at him twice from where it was parked on the other side of the iron fencing that surrounded the campus. The teacher shook his head wordlessly before the helmet was pulled on and the visor snapped shut. The motorcycle growled to life.

As the motorcycle turned towards the driveway that would lead to the street, the headlights of the black car flashed again. Twice… Pause for a full second… Twice again.

A full body sigh of resignation went through the teacher as he turned off the cycle’s engine and walked to the car. He didn’t bother to pull off his helmet until he’d settled on the back seat, and the driverless car was in motion. Then he looked at the man sitting to his left.

“Hello Bruce.”

Though he was midway into his sixties, Bruce Wayne still looked good for his age. His once jet black hair was now peppered with silver, and while his age showed in the deepening lines of his face, he clearly continued to work out and maintain his imposing physique.

“Tim.”

Timothy Drake-Wayne, a now fully grown man in his early thirties, sat silent for a long moment before he finally spoke to his adopted father. “Did someone die?”

“No.”

The tension in Tim’s shoulders eased. He didn’t bother to mask the relief on his face. “Ok.” He closed his eyes and relaxed back into the fine leather cushions.

It was about a minute before he asked his second question. “Do you need me to be present for a stockholder meeting at Wayne Enterprises to form a majority voting block with you and Damian?”

“Possibly.”

Tim sighed and opened his eyes. “I told Damian that Derek Powers was going to be trouble.”

“What makes you think this is about Powers?”

“Am I wrong?”

Bruce’s silence spoke volumes before he finally answered. “We’ve got our eyes on him.”

“Right. And when Damian is done playing with his food, and when you’re done wasting the company’s time and money let me know. I’ve unearthed a couple of Powers’s buried skeletons and have them in my back pocket for a rainy day.”

“Do I want to know how you unearthed them?”

“Plausible deniability is a beautiful thing, Bruce.”

“That doesn’t sound very legal.”

“Men like Powers don’t care about legality. They care about winning. And I already have. Powers just doesn’t know it yet.”

Despite himself, Bruce chuckled fondly and regarded his son with an affectionate expression reserved only for him when he knew Tim had done something remarkably clever.

Tim’s own expression softened into something more genuine himself. Whatever unspoken tension between the two of them that had been present was finally broken and both men seemed to finally be willing to relax around each other.

“So why am I really here, Bruce?” Tim finally asked. “No one’s dead and the company isn’t imploding. It can’t be a case. If anyone needed a consultation they’d just have Barbara forward me the details.”

Bruce’s smile faded into something more serious.

“It is a case?” Tim asked with a touch of confusion.

His father brought out a tablet secured in a black leather case that was stamped in gold with the insignia of the Justice League on the cover. “Not exactly,” Bruce said. “It’s a mission.”

Tim’s hand had been reaching out for the tablet, but the moment the word “mission” left Bruce’s lips, his hand snapped away from it as if he’d been shocked. He looked at Bruce startled for a moment before settling into an expression of betrayal. “Stop the car,” he ordered.

“Tim-”

The younger man cursed under his breath before speaking again. “Computer. Unlock the Back Door.“

To Bruce’s visible surprise, his car’s AI responded to Tim in a polite British accent. "Password?”

“B-I-A-F-A mark 101.”

“Password confirmed. Administrator access granted. How may I serve you Mr. Drake?“

"Stop the car.”

Obediently, the driverless car pulled over safely to the curb. Before he could open the door, Bruce laid a hand on Tim’s shoulder.

“Wait.”

Tim stiffened at the commanding tone of Bruce’s voice. When he responded, his voice sounded even but tight. “No missions,” he said. “No field work. Nothing to do with the League or Batman Inc. aside from the odd consultation here and there. That’s what we agreed to when I retired.” He turned to glare at Bruce. “That’s what you promised me,” he hissed.

“I know.”

To Tim’s visible surprise, Bruce looked remorseful. Still, he jerked his shoulder out from under Bruce’s hand and put as much physical distance between himself and his father as he could within the confines of the car. “So why are you breaking that promise now?”

Bruce motioned to the tablet again. “It’s the situation in Paris.“

That piqued Tim’s interest. “Paris?”

His father gave him an odd look. “You weren’t aware of the situation there?”

Tim shrugged. “Just what I’ve heard on the news. Though I would’ve thought the League would’ve stepped in by now to take control of the situation.” He regarded Bruce suspiciously. “Why haven’t you?”

“The situation in Paris is delicate and requires a specific set of qualities in whoever we send to investigate.” Bruce offered the tablet to Tim. “Before you say no, can you at least review the materials here? You don’t have to tell me your answer now, but at least look this over and consider it.”

With a sigh, Tim reluctantly took the tablet and placed it in the leather satchel he wore across his body. “I’ll look things over, but no promises.”

Bruce nodded. “Thank you Tim.”

—–

After being dropped back off at Gotham Academy, Tim rode his motorcycle back to his private home, which was still the refurbished movie theater near Crime Alley he’d taken ownership over a decade and a half earlier.

Once inside, Tim removed his satchel and jacket. He pulled out the leather-bound tablet and ran his thumb over the embossed insignia of the Justice League. Then he took a secret elevator downstairs into the sub-basement level of his home where his office resided.

As soon as he entered his office, the scanners scanned his biometric signals and immediately came to life. The lights came on, his coffee maker began brewing a fresh pot, and the most recent track on his favorite playlist, an older song from Jagged Stone’s first break-out album, started playing in the background.

“Rise and shine, Archimedes” Tim said as he approached his custom built supercomputer. “Time to get to work.”

“Of course Timothy,” the computer replied in a voice similar to that used in Bruce’s car. "You have twelve unread messages from your Gotham ISD email account and eight unread messages from your combined personal email accounts.” A small tablet on Tim’s desk flickered to life and the list of emails were displayed. “The homework assignments from your students today have been uploaded and are ready for review and grading.” A laptop bearing the crest of Gotham Academy on its case turned on as well and the assignments were preloaded for his convenience. “Finally there are no new cases from Oracle. Which would you prefer to start with?”

“None of the above,” Tim set the Justice League tablet on a scanner. “Please reopen the case file labeled Miraculous Incident - Paris. I need you to download all the data from this tablet and cross-reference it with the information already collected. Ignore any redundant information and highlight anything new. I’ll review those personally and decide how they fit into the bigger picture.”

As Tim went to collect his first cup of coffee for the evening, the three biggest monitors of Tim’s workstation blinked to life. A large amount of information regarding the Miraculous conflict in Paris was stretched across all the screens, connected by straight lines like a giant spider’s web. Tim sipped from his coffee and watched as his AI Archimedes stripped data from the tablet and flung them into various folders on the web. Occasionally, he would bring up a specific folder and review it on one of his own personal tablets while Archimedes continued its work. While the AI had completed parsing out the League data within 20 minutes, it was a solid two and a half hours later before Tim finished his own review of the new data.

“Damn it,” he muttered as he leaned as far back as his desk chair would allow. He sighed before addressing his computer.

“Archimedes. Bring up my travel itinerary on the main screen.”

On the central monitor, Tim’s passport, his plane ticket to Paris scheduled for this coming weekend, and his hotel reservation were all laid out, all under an alias. Everything was done modestly, as if he were an unassuming lower middle income American tourist looking to visit Paris for a few weeks.

“Ok. Cancel all of that and shelve the alias. Resubmit all reservations under my own name and passport and at the appropriate income level adjustments for a Wayne and set the departure date for the weekend.”

“First class or private jet?”

“First class on a red-eye.”

“Hotel preference?” Archimedes brought up a list of choices. Tim glanced through the most recent notes regarding the Miraculous conflict from the Justice League.

“One week reservation at Le Grand Paris,” Tim said. Then he paused. “Also, show me the current unoccupied Batman Inc safehouses in Paris.”

Archimedes pulled up a map that showed where each one was located. There were thirteen.

“Highlight those that are available for long-term civilian cover occupancy for a single person within walking distance of College Francoise Dupont.”

The choices on the map were reduced to three.

Tim nodded to himself. “Good. Now locate the contact information for the head of the Neon Knights Paris branch. Draft a request for a teleconference meeting from Executive Director Timothy Drake-Wayne for sometime tomorrow that is amenable to both of our respective time-zones.“

Archimedes sent the email draft to Timothy’s tablet. "Request complete. Anything else sir?”

“Call Bruce on the cave line.”

A few moments later, “Have you made a decision?” Bruce asked.

“I’ll take the mission.”

“Thank you Tim. Who would you like to go with you?”

“No one.”

Bruce paused on the other end of the line. “You want to take this solo? Are you sure?”

“Positive. I wouldn’t mind having a link to Oracle for tech support, but I don’t need anyone else for this.”

“Don’t need or just don’t want?”

Despite not being able to see his father, Tim’s face reflected mild irritation at the question. "Bruce…” Tim said, a hard edge to his voice.

He heard the sigh on the other end of the line that signaled Bruce was trying hard not to start an argument with him. “So what do you need for this mission?”

“Besides Oracle access and a list of gear I’d like to have shipped to Paris from the armory that I’ll send later, I also want one of the safe houses in Paris to set up as a personal apartment for a few months.”

“You think the mission will take that long?”

“What I want is for this to be wrapped up within a week of me touching down in Paris so I can get back to my life here as soon as possible.” Tim said as he glanced at a side desk where a collection of personal photos were displayed. Most were of his family and friends, past and present, both as a civilian and a former hero. There was one  photo that was resting face down on the desk. With a somber expression, he lifted it up to gaze at the image contained within.

“However, what I want and what will happen are often two vastly different things, if history is any indication.”

“What alias do you want the safe house registered to?”

Tim set the photo back on the desk, face down. “None. I’m going as myself.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’ve got a plan.”

Tim could hear the fondness in Bruce’s voice. “Of course you do.”

“I’ll send you the details in the morning.”

“By the way,” Bruce said. “Because this is a League sanctioned mission, we need a code-name for you to use while in the field. Do you want me to reactivate Red R–”

“No!”

Tim clapped his hand over his mouth and there was a long moment of silence. He hadn’t intended to shout and it caught him completely off guard.

“Tim?” Bruce spoke up cautiously after a long moment.

Slowly Tim brought down his hand. He took a slow deep breath to steady the sudden rush of nerves. “It’s ok… I’m fine,” he said. Then he took another long breath and tried to will the lump in his throat to fade. “I’m fine.” After another breath, he felt more steady and back to his baseline.

“If the League needs a code-name for me,” Tim started more calmly. “Use Mockingbird .” He sighed. “Now I have some papers to grade. I’ll touch base with you tomorrow after classes are done.”

“Alright. Talk to you tomorrow.”

Once the connection was closed, Tim slumped into his desk chair and ran his hands over his face.

“What the hell am I doing?”’

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

Notes:

For those of you unfamiliar with the original Red Robin series pre-New52, here is a brief description of the Neon Knights organization:

The Neon Knights is a social foundation created by Timothy Drake and supported by Wayne Enterprises to help at-risk teenagers from turning to crime by providing youth shelters and community activities for youth gangs. He founded this alongside one of Lucius Fox’s daughters (Tamara Fox) back when he was seventeen. Originally it was a Gotham-centric non-profit, but has since expanded across the United States and several international locations over the years.

—

Derek Powers is a reference to a major villain from the Batman Beyond animated series.

—

“B-I-A-F-A” stands for “Bruce is a f*cking ass”.

[outlanderfandomproject]

UNEARTHED by @jewelsbrooke & @livinginafanficworld

An invitation from the Forensic Anthropology Society of Europe sets Claire Beauchamp on an exciting path of murder, mystery, and intrigue. Little does Claire know, bones aren’t the only things being unearthed in Edinburgh, Scotland. 

Chapter One [AO3]

Author’s Note: Each chapter begins with a short flashback. These flashbacks are not linear and there could be any number of years between the flashback and main storyline. Additionally, we highly recommend blaming Bones if you are upset by any scientific inaccuracies you may read from here onwards. This story is just for fun! J & A x

Claire couldn’t stop staring.

“Do ye like what ye see, Sassenach?” Jamie smirked. “Or is it what ye canna see that’s got yer eye?”

Claire glanced up at his face only to look straight back down at his crotch again.

“What in the name of Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ is… that??”

“This?” replied Jamie, dramatically tilting his pelvis forward to showcase his belt buckle. “My clan motto, ye ken it. Je suis prest… I am ready?”

“Are you sure you’re ready to go out in public wearing that?” Claire raised an eyebrow. The buckle could only be described as both oversized and garish. Perhaps once, she figured, Highlanders wore the emblem as a sense of pride but where it sat now attached to Jamie’s belt... it just seemed loud and obnoxious.

“I’m always ready - for anything” Jamie blinked slowly at her in a manner she was certain he had intended to be a wink.

“Aren’t you a witty one,” she responded dryly, having no doubt that her glass face was giving away her true feelings on the matter. It was taking everything she had not to start laughing out right.

“Come on, Sassenach,” said Jamie, wrapping his arm around her and pressing a kiss into her curls, “Let’s go see what everyone else thinks about my buckle, aye?”

-----

Claire relaxed as much as she could into the stiff airport lounge chair. Closing her eyes and tilting her head back she mentally assessed the past two days.

As expected, her presentation at the 43rd Forensic Anthropology Society of Europe Annual Convention held here in Edinburgh, Scotland had been a success. The invitation that had arrived in the mail two months prior had been a surprise but a welcome one. As much as she loved working for the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner in Boston, Massachusetts, her true passion lied in archeological forensic anthropology and it seemed the recent publication of her article in the Journal of Forensic Anthropology had caught the eye of organisations around the world. While this was both flattering and exciting, she was ready to go home all the same.

Which is why she really shouldn’t have been surprised when someone interrupted her peace.

“Excuse me, ma’am? Dr. Claire Beauchamp?”

Claire opened one eye and immediately sat up to address the man standing in front of her. With just one glance Claire could see that he was not only tall but also extremely fit considering the way his black suit fit across his torso upon which a gold Union Jack was pinned.

“Yes, I’m Dr. Beauchamp.”

“I must ask ye to come with me, Ma’am,” said the man, gesturing towards the main terminal with his hand.

“What is this about… Agent?” Claire questioned in an attempt to extract any information at all.

“Ma’am. I must insist,” replied the agent, unwavering, as another similarly dressed man came to stand behind him.

Claire sighed. She may as well have been directing her questions at a brick wall and there was no point delaying the inevitable.

“Very well,” said Claire as she gathered her purse and laptop bag. “Can I at least ask where it is you’re taking me?”

-----

Flanked on either side by stone-faced agents, Claire was escorted through the flurry of reporters and spectators held back by neon yellow crime scene tape.

“Dr. Claire Beauchamp for Sergeant Dougal Mackenzie,” one of the men reported when met with a young police officer who was obviously doing her best to ignore the questions being yelled at her by the small crowd.

“Dr. Beauchamp! Thank you for agreeing to join us,” said the officer as she held the tape up, inviting Claire to step underneath. “Sergeant Mackenzie is this way.”

Claire followed the officer through a copse to where a number of uniformed and non-uniformed personnel were gathered.

“The Sergeant is the one overseeing the crime scene,” said the officer as she pointed out an older looking man who carried himself with an obvious sense of authority. “He doesn’t usually attend this sort of things in person but word is that the Captain is taking this one very seriously.”

“Thank you, Officer...”

“Mackenzie, ma’am, Officer Mackenzie” replied the officer with a smile before turning back towards the boundary line.

Claire adjusted the travel bag she still carried over her shoulder and made her way through the number of people working around the site.

“Sergeant Mackenzie,” Claire held out her hand, “Dr. Claire Beauchamp. I believe it was you who requested my services here today?”

“Aye,” replied the Sergeant, acknowledging Claire’s proffered hand with little more than a slight grunt. “This is the third case we’ve seen in just two months. We’re officially labelling it the work of a serial killer. The Captain’s called in not just yerself but also the NCA - we need to catch this person before they hurt somebody else.”

“NCA?” questioned Claire as she crossed her arm over her chest in an attempt to curb her building frustration with Scottish law enforcement personnel.

“National Crime Agency. We usually handle these kinds of cases but the NCA has a much more detailed database and the monetary resources necessary to deal with something like this. I believe ye’ve already met our resident forensic anthropologist, Geillis Duncan?”

“Yes, we met this past weekend at the FASE Convention. Perhaps it would be best for me to check in with Dr. Duncan and see where my skills would best be utilised?”

“Aye,” the Sergeant nodded. “And if ye have any questions or need anything in particular ye best talk to Senior Officers Rupert Mackenzie and Angus Mackenzie over ‘ere. They’ll see to it.”

“What’s the deal: you won’t let anyone other than Mackenzies work on the force?” asked Claire, only half joking.

“Keeping the clan tradition alive, lass,” responded the Sergeant. “Ye’ll find most precincts are much the same.”

“How every progressive of you,” replied Claire dryly before moving away to join Geillis who was taking notes in what appeared to be a leather pocket book.

“Claire! I’m glad to see ye again - although I will admit it’s much sooner than I expected,” Geillis pulled a spare set of gloves out of her pocket and handed them to Claire. “This here is my assistant Jeannie Hume.”

The young woman lying on her stomach at ground level carefully brushing dirt from what appeared to be an exposed femur paused to look up at Claire and Geillis.

“Dr. Beauchamp,” smiled Jeannie, “it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Claire dropped her bag to the ground and moved around the edge of the site to crouch down beside her.

“I’m happy to be working with you, Jeannie,” Claire smiled as she pulled on the gloves. She picked up an already exhumed metacarpal bone and held it up to view it with better lighting. “These bones appear to have been exposed to fire prior to being buried.”

“Aye, just like the two previous sets of remains that have been discovered,” replied Geillis. “It was determined that on both occasions the victim had been deceased when placed into a hole before being doused in accelerant and set alight. It was hours later that the remains were buried beneath a pile of earth.”

“And you suspect this is what also happened to whomever these remains belonged to?”

“Aye, there appears to be a pattern,” replied Geillis.

“A serial killer, they’re saying” exclaimed Jeannie excitably.

“Well, I must say I prefer conclusions based on detailed scientific analysis rather than the assumptions of law enforcement personnel,” Claire set the bone back down and stood to take off her gloves. “I really won’t be much help until I am able to examine these bones in a sterile environment.”

“I agree, Claire, there’s nothing more we can do here,” said Geillis before turning to address Jeannie directly. “I will leave it to ye to see that everything is shipped back to the Marion Institute of Science where we can examine the remains properly.”

-----

Claire picked the camera up and started documenting the bones laid out on the table before her. She knew that the Institute was both well staffed and adequately equipped but she intended to send some images back to Joe Abernathy, her partner in Boston, all the same.

“What do we know so far, Mr. Mackenzie?” Claire asked Willie, Geillis’ apprentice whom was yet another Mackenzie. She suspected this job would become very confusing very quickly if she didn’t pay attention to those around her.

“Initial findings suggest female, caucasian, early 30’s. Just like the two bodies found previously, blunt force trauma to the skull is evident despite the body being burned,“ Willie listed as he handed the file over to Geillis. “Police report says the remains were found early this morning by a couple hiking through the woods. The husband had left the path to relieve himself only to literally stumble across the bones.”

“I doubt he felt very relieved,” Claire chuckled distractedly as she crouched down to capture a particular angle of the victims’ clavicle.

“Aye, I doubt it verra much,” said a voice behind them, noticeably thick with Scottish accent.

“This,” Geillis started as both she and Claire turned to face the person whom the voice belonged to, “is a closed examination room! I told security specifically to....”

Geillis kept speaking but for Claire time came to a halt. She couldn’t move, she couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t even feel the heavy camera in her hands.

It couldn’t be him. It couldn’t. For years she’d been working to avoid seeing - or even remembering - his face.

And yet…

“Jamie?”

She hadn’t spoken his name out loud since the day they parted yet it left her lips almost involuntarily, as if she had never stopped.

“Aye, Sassenach,” he smirked as he leaned casually against the door frame, left thumb tucked behind that garish Fraser Clan belt buckle of his. “I hear there’s a murder ye need help solving.”

[serpentjulian]

Discoveries || Julian Self Para

Where: Sunnyside Trailer Park

When: December 16, day

Warnings: Descriptions of strangling

Word Count: 1,292

Julian had stayed put at the library as long as he could manage but he was going stir-crazy in the library and there weren’t enough Pokestops around for him to justify staying there for much longer without going outside. He was going to lose his streak if he didn’t catch something soon.

It was fine. He’d be in and out before Santana or Roman or god forbid Darius could notice he was gone. Besides, there were only so many places in the library where he could hide from Hooks, and he was getting a bad feeling that the other Serpent was going to corner him soon if he didn’t get out of there. It’d been two years but he really would rather die than be alone with Hooks ever again.

It had taken some careful timing to make sure everyone keeping an eye on him was occupied before he made his careful escape from the basement, and then darted out of the library’s front doors.

He did a little fist pump and happy dance once the fresh air hit him, and then pulled his phone back out, loading the app up.

“Alright, alright. Come on, Shiny Charmander, pull through,” he said, pulling his hood over his head — he wasn’t completely careless — and starting to walk, eyes glued to his phone.

He idly caught a few Pidgeys and Natus as he walked, not really paying attention to where he was going but his feet automatically carried him back towards the trailer park.

He spun a Pokestop once he got to the park, and then grinned as one of his 5 km eggs hatched into a Treecko. Leaving had really been worth it.

He finally looked up from his phone and realized abruptly how far he’d wandered. Oh no...Santana’s gonna fry me up for dinner.

Of all the places he could’ve gone, the trailer park was one of the stupidest. He was lucky he hadn’t already been ambushed or something. But I mean...I’m already here...I might as well look around and grab some stuff from my trailer.

He adjusted his hood over his head and began walking through the park, still flicking his eyes back to his phone to make sure he didn’t miss anything that might’ve popped up in the game.

He narrowed his eyes when a new silhouette appeared in his ‘nearby Pokemon’ box. A Dragonite!!!

He mashed his finger onto the silhouette, waiting for its location to pop up on the map, before he took off after it, his attempts to be stealthy momentarily slipping his mind.

His foot hooked on something and he went flying, landing on the ground with a hard thud, his phone bouncing out of his hand, but he scrambled to grab it, flipping it around.

“Oh my god, oh my god.” Not only was his screen still intact but the Dragonite had appeared.

He hit it, and then squealed when he realized it was green instead of orange and a shiny, and then frantically threw a few Ultra Balls, finally snagging the beast on his fifth throw. He let out the breath he was holding, and then slowly sat up.

He slipped his phone into his pocket and finally looked around at where he was. He’d wound up on the part of the trailer park that had gotten the brunt of the Northside’s rage. What he’d thought was just a rough patch of dirt and grass was actually rubble and ash.

He got up, brushing some ash off his jeans. Well...now that he was here, he might as well look around, right? That couldn’t hurt.

He kicked around some of the rubble, unearthing a scorched mug, a surprisingly hardy book, and a couple other knickknacks that had survived the blaze, before he stumbled upon a box.

It’d been locked but clearly its security measures hadn’t survived the fire.

He picked it up, curious, and opened it, tilting his head to the side when all it contained was a small flash drive.

He looked around again, making sure the trailer park was still a ghost town, before he quickly pocketed the drive, dropping the box and then scurrying away from the rubble and towards his own trailer. He needed his laptop.

Julian’s laptop was a busted old thing. He’d gotten it from a thrift store after it had passed through probably five or six previous owners. But it had gotten him through high school and it would get him through the flash drive’s mystery.

He opened his trailer door, and slipped inside, shutting and locking it behind him. Ah, home sweet home.

He dug his laptop out from under his pillow, and then booted it up, tapping his fingers on his knee impatiently as he waited.

A few moments later, it was up and running. He slipped the drive into the USB slot and waited for it to load.

He opened the folder once it popped up, and frowned. The only thing on it was a video file.

He double clicked, and held his breath as the video player loaded up.

The footage was kind of fuzzy, but it cleared up in a second. There was a battered looking girl tied up in a chair, a strip of duct tape covering her mouth, What am I looking at?

He stiffened, squinting. The video wasn’t HQ or anything, but the Smythe family had been in the paper for weeks. It was hard not to recognize their deceased daughter, Sebrina.

An imposing man entered. Julian nearly dropped his laptop when he recognized Adrien Smythe.

He suddenly really didn’t want to finish watching, but he had to. He had to be sure that the bad feeling in the pit of his stomach wasn’t unwarranted. 

The video didn’t have any sound, but the Smythe patriarch said something to his daughter before he crouched in front of her, wrapping his large hands around her throat and squeezing viciously.

Julian felt sick. The poor girl was thrashing, trying to free herself from her bonds and get away from the man.

He didn’t understand what would — why would....and the strangling....it was slow. It was deliberate. Julian wanted to throw up, suddenly wishing he’d just shoot her and be done with it.

A few more minutes passed and Sebrina’s fight slowly faded from her body. She eventually slumped, her head falling forward, but Adrien Smythe didn’t let go of his daughter’s airways for a few moments longer.

He finally stepped back, surveying her for a moment, before he called out something. Julian didn’t know who he was talking to until two men in Serpent jackets entered the frame.

Bruce Anderson and slimy, little Geico. Julian didn’t like him very much either. He hung around Hooks a little too closely for Julian to ever really trust him.

Julian realized his fingers were shaking, but he had to watch the video through to the end. 

Bruce pulled out a knife and sliced through Sebrina’s bonds easily. Her body fell forward, onto the ground. He tucked the knife away again and he and Geico picked the girl up, balancing her body between the two of them.

Smythe seemed to instruct them to do something, and then the three of them walked out of the frame.

The video cut a few seconds later.

Julian let out a breath, and scooted back from his laptop. His nausea finally got the best of him, and he had to rush to the bathroom to hurl.

When he was done, he went back to his laptop. He ejected the flash drive and pocketed it again, before pulling out his phone.

Darius and Santana needed to know about this. And someone needed to get Sebastian Smythe away from his father fast.