#gotta catch up on all the Knuckles series clips i missed

[number-one-shadisper-shipper]

I HAVE RETURNED! 😁

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Eccentricity [Chapter 11: You Don’t Come Around No More]

A/N: I apologize profusely for the long wait. Thank you all so, so, so much for your support. Every single reblog, message, comment, emotional rant, and/or screech of despair makes my day, and I couldn’t do this without you. 💜 Only THREE more chapters left!!!

Series Summary: Joe Mazzello is a nice guy with a weird family. A VERY weird family. They have a secret, and you have a choice to make. Potentially a better love story than Twilight.

Chapter Title Is A Lyric From: “More To Life Than Baseball” by Petey. 

Chapter Warnings: Language, angsttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttt.

Word Count: 7.5k. 

Other Chapters (And All My Writing) Available: HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii​​​​ @bramblesforbreakfast​​​​​​​ @maggieroseevans​​​​​ @culturefiendtrashqueen​​​​​ @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark​​​​​ @escabell​​​​​ @im-an-adult-ish​​​​​​ @queenlover05​​​​​ @someforeigntragedy​​​​​ @imtheinvisiblequeen​​​​​ @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhyee​​​​​ @deacyblues​​​​​ ​ @tensecondvacation​​​​ @brianssixpence​​​​​ @some-major-ishues​​​​ @haileymorelikestupid​​​​ @youngpastafanmug​​​​ @simonedk​

The Rain

I wish I felt empty.

I’m supposed to feel empty, right? I’m supposed to feel steeped in grey, oceanic misery; I’m supposed to dip in and out of depressive naps all day and sob delicately over creased photos and fading, wistful memories. I always envisioned heartbreak as a soft and inherently feminine sort of affliction: the hems of nightgowns and bathrobes sweeping along hardwood floors, Kleenex boxes and concave couch cushions, weepy phone calls to friends and aunts and mothers, Queen Victoria wearing black for the rest of her life after Prince Albert’s death, Mary Todd Lincoln sinking into dark and hushed obscurity. Women, hollowed out by despair, cross the history of the earth like lines of latitude.

I don’t feel empty at all. I don’t even feel sad. I feel razored by sharp, red, ceaseless anxiety. I am consumed by thoughts of what I did wrong, what I said that started the wheels of doubt spinning in his mind, if he had known how it would end from the start. I dream of white, clawed hands dragging me down through cold waves. I hear words scream to me as I toss at night in my suddenly too-spacious bed, words that now hit me like knuckles to the gut: Shhh, hey, it’s just me, don’t get up, as Joe slipped beneath the Arizonan blankets, wrapped an arm around my waist, kissed my collarbone as I tumbled back into sleep; I love you to death, as his Subaru idled in Charlie’s driveway; Baby Swan, listen to me, nothing is supposed to hurt, okay, so if anything hurts, ever, at all, you tell me and we stop, deal? as we stood in the doorway of our hotel room at the Four Seasons in Chicago. And now...and now...

And now everything fucking hurts.

It doesn’t make any sense; and yet it does. Look at him. Look at me.

The Polaroid photo from Homecoming was still taped to the top of my full-length mirror. I peeled it free like a layer of translucent, friable reptilian skin, tore it straight down the center, burned both halves over a brand new three-wicked, lemon-scented Bath And Body Works candle—a gift from Renee and Paul—and closed my eyes like a child casting a wish over her birthday cake like a spell. I wished for my memories to vanish with the photograph. I wished to get hit by a truck and wake up in the hospital with no recollection of the past two and a half months. I wanted the Lees to dissolve into distant, enigmatic mystery; I wanted to join the rest of Forks in believing that they were nothing more than bewildering and yet harmless freaks, barely worth noticing, one of those glitches of the matrix that were better off ignored like liminal seconds of déjà vu. I wished to carve out every part of myself that they had ever touched.

And Joe’s voice came rushing back from where we stood by that star-lit fountain outside the Church of Saint Lawrence, accompanied by falling raindrops and a crooked grin: I can make wishes come true.

The three tiny flames flickered in the breeze that sighed through my open window. The bright, citrusy scent of the candle reminded me of Lucy. I couldn’t fucking win. What else is new?

I turned back to the mirror. I flinched when my gaze snagged on my reflection: bloodshot-eyed, swollen-faced, utterly unbeautiful, restless like a caged animal. Look at him. Look at me.

I ripped the last memento off the mirror—Official Citation!! No More Sad Spaghetti!!—and watched the yellow square of paper catch fire, curl up around the edges, become unrecognizable, turn to ash. And I wished over and over again, like a poem, like a prayer: Let me forget, oh god please let me forget.

Charlie keeps asking if I’m okay. The answer, of course, is no; but I can’t tell him that. So I wear a serene smile like clip-on fangs, a cheap polyester cloak, crimson smudges of lipstick like trails of spilled blood down the side of my neck. Every day is Halloween for me now. I dress up as someone who isn’t haunted, who hasn’t become a ghost.

And when Charlie turns up the World Series or I’d Do Anything For Love on his geriatric, staticky kitchen radio—the same radio he’s had since my mother was the one joining him for daybreak coffee and Pop-Tarts—I choke back tears like dragonfire.

Missing In Action (Revisited)

Joe wasn’t here. Neither was Ben.

Lucy, Rami, and Scarlett were sipping cups of tea at the Lees’ usual table, their eyes downcast, their voices low and murmuring, their pristine lunches neglected. Lucy and Rami were dressed in matching charcoal grey turtleneck sweaters; Scarlett had come from Fencing Club and was wearing royal purple yoga pants and a black tank top, her duffle bag of gear on the floor by her sneakered feet. Her hair was in a long fishtail braid. Archer hadn’t mentioned her since Joe broke up with me. That either meant that it was going blissfully and he didn’t want to injure me further, or that Scarlett had ended things as well.

Since Joe broke up with me. That sounds so fucking pedestrian.

I stared at the three present Lees, almost leered, commanding them to see me, to acknowledge me, to admit that I had once meant something to them, that this hadn’t all been some transitory delusion to fill the cavernous void of losing my home, my life as I knew it in Arizona. They took no notice whatsoever.

Jess kicked me beneath the lunch table. My attention snapped back to her.

“Sorry, what?”

“You want to go shopping with me and Angela tonight?” Jessica’s hands were folded just beneath her chin, her voice gentle, her eyes large and sympathetic and watery. This was her version of being supportive. I appreciated it...in a perpetually tormented and preoccupied sort of way.

“No thanks.” I forked my cold, sauceless spaghetti listlessly. I’d forgotten to pack a lunch. I didn’t have an appetite anyway. I had deleted the GrubHub app from my iPhone and had no intention of using it ever again in my comparatively short and calamitous human life.

“You could come to temple this weekend,” Jessica pressed.

“Uh.” Mingling with a churchful of sociable, wholesome, marriage-obsessed adolescent Mormons sounded like the absolute last thing I’d want to spend my evening doing. “That’s a really generous offer, but I’ll pass.”

“Well you have to do something,” Angela said. “You can’t just sit in your bedroom alone all weekend and stare at the wall and wallow in self-pity.”

We’ll see about that. I turned to Jess. “How’s Vodka Boy from your Indigenous Peoples of the Arctic class? Did he ever reappear? What’s his name again, Elmo? Ellington? El Chapo?”

“Ellsworth.” She frowned as she slurped her patron-drink-of-Mormons Sprite. “And no, he definitely failed out or overdosed or something, because he never came back.”

“Tragic,” I noted.

“But I’m pretty sure Mike’s coming over this weekend, so we’ll see if I can get some Netflix and chill action going.”

“Jess,” Angela chastised, widening her eyes and nodding to me subtly (but not quite subtly enough). No talking about getting lucky in front of the heartbroken single loser, that look said.

“I think I can be emotionally supportive without taking a goddamn vow of chastity, Angela!” Jessica hurled back.

“I gotta go.” I stood, threw on my backpack, discarded my nearly untouched lunch.

“You’ve barely eaten anything!” Angela protested. “You’ve barely eaten for a week!”

“I’ll live.” I picked my umbrella up off the slippery tile floor—peppered with muddy shoeprints and pearlescent drops of water fallen from coats and limp, sopping locks of hair—and headed out into the pouring rain. I hated the rain. I hated it. Maybe I had forgotten that for a while, but it all came hurtling back now like a hurricane, like a hand cracking across my face. I ached for the desert, for blatant and unapologetic heat, for palm trees and cacti and naked stars in the night sky. I had been researching marine biology graduate programs in the Southwest. There were good ones at UC San Diego, UC Santa Barbara, Texas A&M, the University of Southern California, UCLA. I would miss Charlie and Archer—and maybe Jessica and Angela on occasion—and absolutely nothing else about Forks. At least, that’s what I promised myself.

This is a no-giving-a-fuck-about-Lee-boys zone, I thought morosely.

Ben was brooding at our table in Professor Belvin’s classroom. It was the first time he’d shown up to Chemistry since that day Joe met me on the beach at La Push, since the place I’d once occupied in his universe had closed like a wound. I took my seat beside Ben. The window was shut today, the downpour outside torrential. Ben recoiled, just enough for me to notice; he was wearing his oversized black hoodie and practicing his Welsh, his handwriting messy and unbalanced.

“You could have warned me,” I said.

Ben didn’t glance up from his notebook. “Would that have made it any easier?”

“No,” I realized in defeat. I guess it wouldn’t have. I pulled my own notebook, my favorite pen, and a can of Diet Coke out of my backpack.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Ben said. “You really need to know that. It had nothing to do with you. And none of us are happy with the current situation. None of us.”

None of them. That included Joe. “Interestingly, that didn’t stop him from creating it.”

Ben was thoughtful, debating his next words. “We’re probably going to be moving soon.”

“What?” I startled; my turquoise blue pen dropped out of my grasp and rolled across the table. Ben snatched it up and returned it to me. “Really?”    

“Yeah.”

“And what, just redo this whole college thing?”

Ben shrugged. “We’ll probably start our junior years over again. Gwil will say there was some horrible family tragedy and we needed a few semesters off. I could use the extra time to figure out Calc anyway. Parametric equations make me want to kill myself.”

I just stared at him. It didn’t make any sense. “But...why would the whole family leave Forks? Because of me? One pathetic, aggrieved human? Do you all pack up and relocate every time Joe fucks and dumps someone? That must be exhausting.”

“It’s better for everyone if we get some distance. Put more space between our world and yours.”

“But...” I tried to imagine never seeing any of them again: no Mercy humming merrily as she tossed handfuls of homegrown carrots to the alpacas, no Dr. Lee dabbing away my blood with an ageless sort of patience, no Scarlett or Lucy or Rami, no brief glimpses of Joe as he avoided me in the campus library. It’s exactly what I wanted; and yet it wasn’t. It so, so, so, so wasn’t. It keeps getting worse. How is that possible? My voice was flimsy and quivering, absolutely pitiful. Disgustingly pitiful. “Who will be my lab partner?”

Ben peered over at me with wide, confused green eyes. And then—gingerly, awkwardly, like holding an acquaintance’s baby for the first time—he laid his hand over mine. “I’ll miss you too.”

Professor Belvin lectured about coordinate covalent bonds. I didn’t absorb a word. I conjugated Italian verbs with my turquoise blue pen, sketched disordered whirlpools of ink, tried not to think about whether this was my last-ever Chemistry class with Ben, whether it was my last-ever weekend sharing Forks with the Lees. Those rageful, frantic thoughts were back. What did I do wrong? What didn’t I do right? Why did he have to leave?

My nomadic gaze caught on a flier on the wall next to our misted window. I had assumed it was a leaflet for some club or protest or seasonal dance that I would definitely not attend, but it wasn’t. It was a missing poster.

Have you seen this student? the flier asked in bold, businesslike black font. It was urgent, but not quite despairing; not yet, anyway. I could hear a Dean of Student Affairs cajoling some affluent, strings-of-pearls-adorned mother over the phone: Yes ma’am, you have my full attention and I can assure you that we’re very concerned, but I’m sure it’s all just a misunderstanding...he’s probably gone backpacking or sailing with some friends and forgotten to call home. You know how college students can be. Beneath a large photo of a grinning blond kid—pink polo, flushed cheeks, clever crop job to nix a can of Natty Light clutched in one fist—was a name: Ellsworth Jonathan Griffin.

Ellsworth, I thought, my stomach plummeting. The guy from Jessica’s Indigenous Peoples of the Arctic class. He hadn’t failed out. He was missing. Missing like a 20/20 episode or a true crime podcast, missing like the pregnant stillness before a murder is confessed in some glaringly florescent-lit interrogation room, before a distended and bloodless corpse washes up on shore.

I turned to Ben. He noticed me eventually, crinkled his brow, shrugged in that way that seemed so petulant if you didn’t know him well enough to not be offended.

I pointed to the flier and raised my eyebrows. Ben twisted around in his chair to look. Then he sighed, scribbled a sentence in the corner of a piece of notebook paper, tore it free, and slid it across the table.

Ben’s note read, in atrocious penmanship: Are you seriously asking me if I ate that guy?

Maybe, I wrote back after a moment’s hesitation. Maybe that wasn’t exactly what I was asking; maybe I just wondered if he knew anything about it.

In either case, Ben’s reply was swift and resounding, and underlined three times: No.

Sorry, I wrote, abruptly remorseful. I am a jerk. And I added a frowny face for good measure. Ben chuckled when he saw it, shook his head, gave me a drawn little smirk. His words tiptoed around in my skull, leaving searing imprints like footprints in the sand. I’ll miss you too.

I have to forget about them. I drummed my turquoise blue pen against my notebook as Professor Belvin drew families of molecules on the whiteboard with squealing dry erase markers. I have to find a way to make myself forget.

Jessica was waiting for me in the hallway after class. It was part of her convince-Baby-Swan-not-to-jump-off-a-cliff initiative. “Hey.”

“Okay,” I told her with steely resolve. “I’m ready for you to set me up with one of those guys from your church or temple or whatever. I’m ready to be a nice wholesome wife, pop out like six kids, learn how to scrapbook, give up caffeine and horror movies, do the whole white picket fence thing. Sign me up.”

Jessica blinked at me. There were flecks of fallen mascara on her cheekbones like ashes. “What?”

“You’re a Mormon, right?”

“Girl, I’m not a Mormon,” Jessica said, puzzled. “I’m a witch.”

Lucille

I found Joe where he usually was these days: sprawled on the sofa, engulfed in the same blue Snuggie he’d been wearing for thirty-six uninterrupted hours, gazing catatonically at the big-screen tv. A 90 Day Fiancé marathon was on. Some rodentish guy named Colt was apologizing to his gorgeous, aspiring-green-card-holding Brazilian love interest for calling the cops on her during their last screaming match. He was also apologizing for the fact that they lived in a two-bedroom apartment with his mother. I didn’t need clairvoyance to see where their future was headed.

“Hey,” Ben said when he spotted me. He was sitting next to Joe and occasionally tried to shove pieces of popcorn into his mouth, which Joe accepted passively like coins plinked into a gumball machine. Ben had been his shadow for the past week; he was perhaps the best equipped of us to understand this degree of melancholy, of hopelessness.  

“Ciao.” And then, to Joe: “How are you?”

“Terrible,” he replied, not tearing his eyes from the tv.

“I figured.” I squeezed between them on the couch, curled up next to Joe, rested my chin on his shoulder. He ignored me completely. I could hear Mercy tapping at her laptop keyboard out in the dining room; she was browsing through Zillow listings in Portland, Buffalo, Pittsburgh, Cleveland. Dear god, please don’t let us end up in fucking Cleveland. “Guess what.”

Joe stared at the tv for a long time before he answered. “What.”

“I had a vision of you. Just now, as I was doing laundry. Crystal clear and very scenic too, I might add.”

“Fascinating,” Joe said flatly.

“What happened in this vision?” Ben asked, far more invested, which I was thankful for.

“It was pretty far away, maybe a year from now. I saw you in the desert at night, under a full moon. There were cacti everywhere. The shadow of the Milky Way was threaded through the sky, and the stars were very bright. I could make out the constellations Pegasus and Cassiopeia. You were filling up a tiny glass bottle with dirt.”

“That’s remarkably helpful,” Joe said.

“It is, a little bit,” I insisted. “It means you get through this. That you have a future. I get nervous when I go too long without a vision of someone in the family. But now I know you’re going to be okay.”

The reflections of the feuding 90 Day Fiancé couples danced in his glassy eyes. “Being alive doesn’t mean you’re okay.”

“That’s dark,” Ben said. “Even I think that’s too dark.” He pushed a handful of popcorn into Joe’s mouth. “Are you gonna hunt at some point or what?”

“No.”

“You’re just gonna sit on this couch and waste away?”

“Yeah.”

“You want me to bring you anything? Grizzly bear? Brown bear? Fuck it, I’ll get you a polar bear if that’s what you want. There’s probably some on the black market. Rami would know.”

“He what?” Mercy called from the kitchen. Her typing had stopped.

“Nothing, Mom!” I shot back.

“I don’t want anything,” Joe said. That was a lie, of course. We all knew what he wanted. Rami couldn’t stand to be around him; the thoughts were relentless, smothering.

I linked my arms around Joe’s neck, laid my head against his chest, sighed deeply and mournfully. “I’m sorry,” I told him. “I know that doesn’t fix anything. But I’m so, so sorry. And I’ll help however I can. We all will.”

And I had accepted that Joe wasn’t going to respond at all when he finally whispered: “I just wish I could forget.”

Cato

My rolling suitcase snagged on the cobblestone driveway. The tiny spinning wheels bashed against concrete as I scaled the front steps. As the taxi pulled away, I dug around in my suit pocket for my keys, found them, unlocked the enormous front door, stepped inside the palace as my suitcase trolled along the marble floor.

“Cato’s back!” Charity announced as she breezed down the nearest staircase, beaming and embracing me. She was a lovely, innately warm woman from Pointe-Noire, Congo; she still wore the silver cross necklace her mother had once given her around her neck. “Did you have a nice flight? Wait, let me check.” She pressed the fingertips of her right hand to my cheek. I felt the memories rush up like blood to a flushed face: the bite of sipped champagne against my tongue, the thin semi-transparent newspaper pages gliding between my fingers, the husky voice of the bearded, bearish naval officer who sat in the seat beside me, the misted silhouette of Vladivostok as it rose up out of the Pacific Ocean. “Uneventful, but pleasant enough. You flew commercial?”

“The jets were otherwise occupied, apparently.” Charity could see things with the predictability and precision that Lucy so often lacked, but only the past. I pushed her hand away. “Was that really necessary?”

“You’re not mad,” Charity declared, confident, impish, helping me shed my suit jacket and draping it over her arm. “You’re never mad.”

She was very nearly correct. “Where are the rest of the kids?”

“In the kitchen. Go say hello, they’ve missed you dreadfully.”

“I know the feeling.” I kicked off my Berlutis, ran a palm over the wiry fur of the Irish Wolfhounds that appeared to greet me before they resumed padding watchfully around the palace, and went to the kitchen, my black socks slipping a bit on the marble floors.

I could hear their voices before I reached the door: laughter, teasing, complaints, requests. The scents of pancakes and cold butter and maple syrup were thick in the air. Charity was one of our four newest recruits, and they all still had that energetic lightness of being human, a youthful enthusiasm, a relative normalness. I spent quite a lot of time with them. It was my job—to help with the transition, to keep them happy, to facilitate the welding of their individual parts into the beastly machine that was the Draghi—but oftentimes it felt more like a reprieve. Some would stay close to me as they matured, others would grow in different directions, like ambitious vines climbing the skeleton of a garden trellis. I usually missed them when they ‘grew up,’ so to speak...although there were exceptions. I had never liked Liesl. I had always liked Ben. I opened the door.

“Ah, you are home!” Ksenia cried from where she stood over the stove, a spatula in her right hand, bouncing excitedly in place on her small bare feet.

“Hey!” Max and Austin called together. They were both sitting with their shoes propped up on the unglamorous kitchen table. There was a massive formal dining room that could accommodate up to twenty-five guests, but we rarely used it.

“Good morning,” I said, aware that I was smiling for the first time in days.

Max groaned as he scrolled through his Google search results on a burner phone. “What the fuck. My name is one of the top five dog names again. I think I’m gonna have to change it.”

I ruffled his long blond hair, stealing a piece of bacon from his plate. Max had grown up a trust fund kid in Perth, Australia. His mother was old money; his father was a professional surfer. “Your name is fine.”

“Really, Kato Kaelin? Is it really? How am I supposed to intimidate people when I have a fucking dog name?”

“So make them call you Maximilian,” offered Ksenia in a heavy Ukrainian accent. She’d only been with us for eight months, but her English was coming along swimmingly. She flipped a massive A-shaped pancake on the sizzling griddle. That one was for Austin.

“Seriously?” Max said. “That is just way too many syllables. They’ll be halfway down the block by the time I’m done introducing myself. ‘Hey, come back mate, I haven’t killed ya yet.’”

“At least you aren’t stuck with a basic-white-boy-circa-1992 name for all of eternity,” said Austin Tyler McInerny, originally of Sheboygan, Wisconsin. He was chomping on a multicolored Fruit Roll-Up, which swung from his mouth like a lizard’s tongue. He’d been working at an ailing skatepark when Larkin found him. He still enjoyed showing off his kickflips, and kept insisting that he was going to teach me how to ollie. I didn’t have the faintest idea what an ollie was.

“Do you want a pancake, Cato?” Ksenia asked, passing Austin his plate and wiping her hands on her pink apron. Her black hair was tied in a high ponytail with a matching rose-colored ribbon. She looked so young. She was so young, actually. Nineteen. And she would be forever.

“No, thank you dear. I’m alright.”

“I like Alaric,” Max decided. “First king of the Visigoths. Alaric is a name fit for a vampire. Creepy, yet dignified. Or maybe Silas. Or Draco.”

Austin shook his head as he swirled a river of viscous maple syrup over his A-shaped pancake. “Definitely not Draco.”

“Why not?”

“Well, the Harry Potter connection is unfortunate. People will hear Draco and think of that obnoxious white-haired kid from the evil snake-people house or whatever.”

“Oh, right,” Max sighed. “Like I said. Alaric would work.”

“So many A-shaped pancakes!” Ksenia poured a K on the griddle for herself.

“It’s good for you,” Austin replied, pointing at her with his fork. “We’re practicing English.”

“Alaric Luther,” Max mused, scrolling through his phone. I didn’t think he’d find that on any list of trendy dog names. “Alaric Lothaire...Alaric Lucian...”

“I like your name, Max,” Larkin said from the doorway. None of us had heard him arrive. He was leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, wearing a deep maroon suit and a ring on every finger, grinning hugely. He was exactly as I remembered him: stunning, captivating, terrifying. The kitchen fell quiet. I could smell Ksenia’s pancake beginning to burn.

At last Max chuckled nervously, pushing soggy pancake hunks around on his plate with his fork, averting his gaze. “Guess I’ll keep it then.”

“I thought I heard you come in,” Larkin told me.

“It’s always a pleasure to be home.”

He nodded out towards the hallway. “Come. Regale me with the stories of your travels.” Then his eyes flicked down to my socks, and he grimaced—slightly, briefly—before turning away. “And find your shoes.”

I followed him through the hallway, the living room, the grand front foyer with the crystal chandelier, into the elevator. Larkin did not speak, but he hummed as we ascended: House Of The Rising Sun.

It hadn’t always been like this. It was difficult for me to pick out the details of what had changed—the tone of his voice, the proportion of wonder and gratitude I associated with him versus fear, the way this palace (or the one in Reykjavik, or Juneau, or Ivalo, or Murmansk, or any of the others) felt when I stepped inside it—but I knew something had. It had begun before Ben left. It was much worse now. Older vampires, in my fairly learned opinion, are something like the stars. They mellow as they age, temper their character flaws, grow wise and patient like Nikolai or Honora or Gwilym Lee; or they rage until they burn away every last atom of humanity, until they destroy themselves and take entire solar systems down with them. Increasingly, I harbored fears that Larkin was a vampire of the latter variety. And we were all his planets.

In his study, Larkin dropped into the chair behind his desk, brought a hand to his forehead, surveyed a disarrayed flurry of papers: letters, notices, deeds and titles, meticulously managed accounts of finances and disciplinary actions. Larkin had a laptop and burner phone, of course, as we all did; but he liked to work in paper as much as possible. That’s how he’d done things for centuries, since long before the name of the inventor of the internet (or harnessed electricity, for that matter) was a whisper on his parents’ lips. The sky outside was clouded and seeping soft rain.

“Things have been busy?” I ventured.

He frowned, gesturing to the cluttered desk. “I’m in purgatory.”

“I’m terribly sorry to hear that. Can I help?”

“The Lancaster coven says they’ll need an extension for their dues. That’s the second year in a row, now it’s not just an exception, it’s a precedent. If you let one coven bend the rules, others will follow. So something will have to be done. Then there’s Stockholm. Anders’ coven has eaten a few too many locals—including the mayor’s favorite niece—and now the city is launching an investigation. Fucking idiots. They’ll probably all have to relocate. There’s some new territory dispute in Lima between Alejandro’s coven and a group of strangers that just came out of the Andes. We’ll have to make their acquaintance, of course. And as if all that weren’t enough, Rigel accidentally fed on a heroin addict and he’s currently detoxing in a cell in the basement. Would you check on him for me? I’m sure your presence will be a...” He waved his hand distractedly, almost dismissively, searching for the words. “A comfort to him.”

“Of course.”

“How are the Lees?”

“Fine. Typical. Gwil’s putting in a lot of hours at the hospital. Rami’s planning to get another law degree. Ben is, uh, adjusting. Slowly, very slowly. He’s not particularly content. But he hasn’t murdered anyone that I’m aware of.”

“How nice.” Now his eyes darted up to catch mine: focused, luminous, unreadable. “Nothing new at all?”

And instantly, I wanted to tell him everything. I forgot why I had ever planned to blunt the girl’s existence, to conceal her talent entirely; I felt her name rising in my throat. And then I remembered again. I’m doing this for Gwil, for Ben.

I pretended to ponder Larkin’s question, as if it was so difficult to remember, as if there was nothing left to sift through but a trunkful of mundane details from the trip like a grandfather’s tattered correspondence and tarnished war relics. That was something an average family might have squirreled away in their attic, I assumed; I’d never met my own grandfather, and he sure as hell wouldn’t have had anything to leave me if I had. “Joe’s got some new girlfriend, but I don’t think it’s serious. I doubt she’ll be around long. You know how Joe is. Scarlett’s seeing someone too, actually. A Quileute kid.”

“Poor boy.” And Larkin grinned like a shark beneath burning eyes. “He’s in for a lifetime of disappointment. Who will ever be able to hold a candle to those memories?”

Larkin had a moderate preoccupation with Scarlett’s beauty, her...tenacity. Her lack of talent was a great disappointment to him, a somehow more egregious fault than Joe or Gwil or Mercy’s. What a shame, Larkin often said. And I believed I knew what came after in his mind, although never aloud: What a partner she could have been.

He was still grinning at me. His expression was hollow, vacuous. A shiver clawed down my spine. He was waiting for something. No, he was searching. I stared back, and I willed for that intangible, contagious harmony I carried around like a wedding ring to hit him like carbon monoxide or bromine: undetected and yet inexorable, knocking him off his path of inquisition.

What does he suspect? What does he already know?

“Anyway,” Larkin continued abruptly, turning his attention back to his paperwork. “I’m glad there’s nothing to worry about in Forks. Liesl will be back in the next few days, Rigel will be ready to work again, I’ll come up with a plan to handle all this and my mood will improve tremendously.”

And where has Liesl been? I almost asked; and then I didn’t. It was a good sign that she was coming home. I had looked for her once while I was in Forks. When I made up my mind to find someone—when that switch flipped in my skull or in the tangle of nerves of my solar plexus or wherever it lived—it wasn’t like poking around on Google Earth: zooming in here, scrolling over there. A goldish trail lit up on the floor, a ‘Yellow Brick Road’ Honora and I sometimes joked, and I followed it. And I had no way of knowing how far that trail might lead. A route heading dead east from the palace might stop in the next town over or continue across the Pacific Ocean; my search might last one day or a hundred. In Forks—as I perched in a soaring western hemlock tree in the forest outside the Lee residence on a cool October evening—Liesl’s trail had led north. North to Vancouver, to Victoria, to Dawson, to Alaska? Who the fuck knew. I was just relieved it hadn’t led to the tree next to mine.

“Well, as always, I’m happy to assist however I can,” I told Larkin. “Just let me know and I’ll be on the next flight out of Vladivostok.”

“I appreciate that, Cato.” He smiled, paternally this time. And then he spun his chair around to peer out the window into the episodic flares of lightning that illuminated great dark clouds like neurons in a celestial brain. I hate thunderstorms. They remind me of South Carolina. “But I think you’ve earned a rest.”

After checking in on Rigel—irritable, frenetic, pacing, and yet predictably pacified somewhat by my visit—I trotted up the main staircase to the second floor of the palace. I found her in our bedroom: sitting at her easel, a paintbrush held in one graceful hand, an image like a photograph on the canvas. I promptly pried off my Berlutis for the second time today and tossed them into the closet.

“Ciao, amore,” I said.

“Ciao!” Honora replied, beaming. Her curly brunette hair was pinned up and away from her face; wayward tendrils spiraled down to brush her bare shoulder blades, the back of her neck. “Just give me five minutes...I have to finish the shadow of this tree...”

There weren’t many in the Draghi who survived the transition from Nikolai’s leadership to Larkin’s, but Honora had. She was gentle to a fault, a hopeless warrior, turned into an immortal on her forty-fourth birthday when Rome was still an empire; and she was without any talents whatsoever, except for one which was useless in combat. Her paintings, drawings, and sculptures adorned every palace the Draghi owned. Each year, Larkin would ask her to paint all of us together, incorporating any new faces, erasing the memories of those who had proven themselves unworthy. One such portrait, I knew, hung in Gwilym Lee’s home office.

I went to the woman I called my wife, laid my palms on her shoulders, leaned down to kiss the top of her head. “Take your time, love.”

“Everything’s alright?” Honora asked, looking hopefully up at me with large, wide-set jade eyes. No, not just hopefully. Trustingly.

“Everything’s alright,” I agreed, not knowing if I believed it.

Shadows And Spells

“He just...just...disappeared?!” Jessica sputtered, scandalized, gaping at me as she held a Styrofoam cup of spiked apple cider in her clasped hands.

We were on a quilt near the outskirts of the sea of beach towels and blankets that circled the bonfire. Women—wearing flowing dresses or robes or tunics or not very much at all—flounced around the flames banging tambourines and reciting chants that I didn’t know the words to. Some carried torches, beacons of heat and light in the darkness. Jessica was wearing a short black shirt, fishnet tights, and a black crop-top turtleneck sweater; I had opted for a bohemian blue dress patterned with stars, an old thrift shop find and the closest thing I owned to Wiccan festivities apparel. I had a cup of hot apple cider as well, enhanced with a generous splash of Captain Morgan, but hadn’t quite conjured up the rebelliousness to drink it yet.

I suddenly recalled Mercy bringing me an endless supply of virgin autumnal sangrias as Joe and I swam in the hot tub on the Lees’ back porch. As soon as you turn twenty-one, you can have the real thing. I frowned, shuddered, took a bitter and burning sip.

“Yeah,” I replied. “He told his roommate he was going to a frat party or something and never showed up and never made it back home either. The parents are blaming the university, the university is insisting he must be off with a girlfriend or on some hipster soul-searching nature adventure or whatever, it’s a mess.”

“Jesus,” she murmured. “What does your dad say?”

“He’s been helping the state police with the investigation. There’s really no evidence of anything. No witnesses, no footprints, no surveillance footage, no handy anonymous tips...”

“No body,” Jessica finished.

“That’s morbid.” I downed the rest of my cider. Was the world already beginning to list like a ship on choppy waves, or was that just my imagination? I guess it would be possible. I’d barely eaten all day.

“You were thinking it.”

“Well, one’s mind does tend to wander towards homicide under such circumstances.”

“It is the season of the dead.” She grinned wickedly, then took my empty cup. “He’s probably fine. I bet he wants to drop out to become a weed farmer and hasn’t worked up the guts to tell his parents yet. You want another?”

“Sure.”

“Cool. I’ll be right back.” Jess rose to balance on black boots with five-inch heels and staggered off to the foldable table piled high with cans and bottles and snacks. I was getting the impression that her Wiccanism was more of a novelty than a spiritual commitment.

The season of the dead. Now that’s VERY morbid.

There were some guys laughing, smoking home-rolled cigarettes, and toasting glasses of red wine on a nearby mandala blanket, bespectacled intellectual types who were probably getting PhDs in Anthropology or Medieval Studies at the University of Washington. One of them—curly-haired, pale-eyed, wearing a sweater vest and a cautious smile—raised his wine glass in my direction. I waved back without much enthusiasm.

“He’s cute, right?” Jessica asked, plopping back down onto our quilt and shoving a full cup of spiked cider into my grasp. She motioned for me to drink. I did. “That’s Sebastian, but he likes to be called Bash. He’s twenty-three and speaks fluent German.”

“Charming.”

“He’s very...uh...gifted. I’m not saying I know from personal experience, but I’ve heard it from a very reliable source. And his parents own a beach house in Monterey. You could go skinny-dipping.”  

“In the ocean?” The world was definitely wobbling now. I was warm all over, numbed, fuzzy; it was becoming difficult to picture Joe’s face, to hear his voice. This was good. I kept drinking. “No thanks. Too many sharks. They have great whites down there.”

Jess tossed her long, loose hair and sighed impatiently. “I’m just saying that the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else. So you should pursue that.”

“I’ll totally consider it.” I lied. I would not consider it.

She smiled, sympathetically, fondly. “I can’t believe you thought I was a Mormon.”

“I can’t believe I’m out in the Washington wilderness commemorating the Gaelic festival of Samhain, but here we all are.”

Jess glanced over my shoulder. “Oh my god. He’s coming over here.”

“Ugh.” I craned my neck to see. Sebastian—whoops, my mistake, Bash—was approaching. “Please distract him. I don’t want to talk to anyone. Also I’m pretty sure I’m getting drunk and I don’t want to do anything humiliating, like sob uncontrollably about how much I miss my ex-boyfriend.”

“Don’t worry. I gotchu, Baby Swan.”

“Hey Jess,” Bash said, but he was looking at me. He pitched his cigarette off into the trees. What the fuck, who does that?

“Only you can prevent forest fires,” I told him in a woozy, mock-Smokey Bear voice.

“What?” he asked, baffled.

“Ignore her, she’s drunk,” Jess said quickly. “So what’s up? Come on, sit with me. Keep me toasty. Teach me some German...”

As they chatted and giggled and snuggled closer together—I’m starting to think that Jessica might have been her own reliable source—I studied the forest, watching to make sure the cigarette didn’t begin to smolder in the damp brush. The voices and crackling of the bonfire and sharp ringing of the tambourines faded into one muted, uniform drone. The trees reeled in the haze of the spiked cider; the cool wind moaned through them. And then, for only a second: a glimpse of something impossibly quick, something silvery and reedy and sunless.

What was that?

I blinked. It was gone. I blinked again, staring penetratingly. The swarming heat from the cider evaporated from my skin, my blood. There were goosebumps rising all over me.

What the hell was that?

I remembered how Calawah University students sometimes reacted to Ben: flinching, withdrawing, autonomically fearing him on some primal, evolutionary level. They knew he was a predator. They knew they were prey. It was chillingly similar to what I was feeling now.

I have to get out of here. I have to go home.

I shot to my feet. Oh, wrong move, that was too quick. I swayed, and Jessica reached up to steady me. “Are you—?!”

“I’m fine,” I said. “I gotta go home now.”

“What?! We just got here! Look, chill out, let me get you some vegan samosas or something—”

“No, seriously, I have to go.”

“Okay, okay,” Jessica conceded. “I’ll finish my drink and we’ll call an Uber, alright?”

“Really?” Bash asked, crestfallen.

“I’ll call an Uber,” I told Jess. “You stay, I’ll go.” Maybe she shouldn’t stay, I thought foggily, irrationally. Maybe it’s not safe.

“I can’t let you go alone. I got you drunk and now you’re a mess and if you end up murdered it would be my fault. There are unsolved mysteries going around, you know.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Girl, there’s no way I’m gonna—”

“I’ll call you as soon as I get in the Uber and I’ll stay on until I’m physically inside my house, okay?”

Jessica considered this. Bash leaned in to nibble her ear. I could smell the red wine and nicotine and animalistic lust sweating out of his pores. And unexpectedly, agonizingly: a biting flare, a muscle memory, Joe’s fingertips skimming down the small of my back and his scent like winter nights saturating the capillary beds of my lungs. Stop, stop, stop. “Okay,” Jess agreed at last.

“Awesome.” I was already opening the Uber app on my iPhone.

My driver was a Pacific Northwestern version of Santa Claus: wild grey beard, red flannel, L.L.Bean boots, rambling about his upcoming trip to hunt caribou in British Columbia. I honored my promise to Jessica and kept her on speakerphone for the duration of the twenty-minute drive. I rested my whirling head against the seat, let my eyes dip closed, watched the intermittent streetlights appear and disappear through my eyelids. I let myself into Charlie’s house when I arrived, wished Jessica goodnight (and reminded her not to get pregnant), and meandered clumsily into the kitchen for a glass of water and a cookie dough Pop-Tart to ward off a possible hangover. Charlie was snoring quietly on the living room couch. I watched him for a while, smiling and achingly grateful, before heading upstairs to my bedroom.

My window was wide open; that’s the first thing I noticed. I didn’t remember leaving it that way. I was always neglecting to lock the window, sure—I kept forgetting that there was no one to leave it unlocked for anymore—but I hadn’t left it open when I went to meet Jessica this evening. Icy night air flooded in. The stars were bright and furious in an uncommonly clear sky.

“You trying to give me pneumonia, old man?” I muttered, thinking of Charlie. I tossed my iPhone down onto my bed and crossed the room to close the window. And as it creaked and collided with the sill, I heard my closet door open behind me.

Someone’s here. Someone’s in this room with me.

I turned, very slowly; it felt like it took a lifetime. She was standing in the doorway of my closet, sinuous and white-haired, wearing black leather pants and stiletto heels and a long-sleeved lace blouse the color of blood, the color of her eyes. And she was harrowingly beautiful; not like Lucy or Mercy, not like Scarlett. She was beautiful like a prehistoric jawbone, like a serrated crescent moon, like a blade.

The owl. The goddamn albino owl.

I recognized her immediately. I heard Joe’s words as he introduced each vampire in the immense painting hanging in Dr. Lee’s upstairs office to me, though I desperately didn’t want to: She’s literally Satan, only blonder.

Her name tumbled from my trembling lips. “Liesl.”

“Wonderful, we can skip the introductions.” Her voice was like windchimes, cutting and brisk, with a hint of an Austrian accent like a shadow. Now she was at my bedside and picking up my phone, scrolling through it with lightning-quick and dexterous thumbs. “Hm. No texts from any of the Lees in the past week. So we don’t have to worry about them dropping by, I suppose. Joe got bored with you already, huh?”

“Evidently.” My own voice was brittle, anemic, weak; just like my ineffectual human body.

“That’s quick, even for him. How sad.” She sighed, tucking my iPhone into her red Chanel purse. “There’s a private jet waiting at the Forks Airport. Pack a bag. You have five minutes.”

“Please don’t hurt my dad,” I whispered, scalding tears brimming in my eyes.

“Of course not,” Liesl replied with a savage, saccharine smile. “Not yet, anyway.”

[livesincerely]

dress you up, dress you down ch. 2 - the clothes make the man

aka the Tie Fic. Chapter one here.

Also on Ao3

00000

It’s early Monday morning. Davey is working on coaxing Les into his school uniform when there’s a knock on the bedroom window.

“Jack!” Les greets, the untucked tails of his shirt flapping behind him as he rushes over to open it.

“Hey, bud,” Jack says, climbing in from the building’s fire escape with easy grace. “How’s it hangin’?”

“What are you doin’ here?”

“I’m workin’ on some cartoons for Joe today, but I hadta come pick up some stuff from Dave before I head over.”

Les’ expression brightens. “Oh, you mean your new suits and stuff?”

“Got it in one,” Jack confirms, ruffling Les’ hair. “Your brother and Kathy ganged up on me yesterday and made me buy a buncha fancy geddups. They was real serious about it—said it was important for my ‘tential growth as an employee.’”

Jack leans closer, then continues in a conspiratorial whisper, “I think it’s all a waste of dollars, but if it’s important to them I guess it’s important to me.”

“Well it’s real important to David!” Les chirps. “He brought your stuff home but he wouldn’t even let me look at it. He hung it all up in the back of our closet and told me if I touched anything he’d murder me!”

“Well, they did cost a fair chunk of change,” Jack says slowly, blinking several times in rapid succession. “And I’m pretty sure if they got ruined before I hadda chance to wear ‘em out, Kath would kill us all.”

“Go brush your teeth,” Davey tells Les. “Jack needs to get ready.”

“But I wanna see the fancy geddup,” Les whines.

“You can see it when he’s dressed,” Davey says. “Brush your teeth.”

“But—“

“Go!”

Les lets out a huff but finally does as he’s told. Davey turns to Jack.

“The garment bag’s all the way in the back on the left,” Davey informs him, waving a hand towards the closet.

He goes to follow Les out of the room to give Jack some privacy but he only gets as far as grabbing the door handle before Jack’s voice pipes up behind him with, “Wait, where are ya goin’?”

Davey’s brow furrows. “I’m letting you get dressed.”

“But you gotta get dressed too,” Jack says with a frown, gesturing at the pajamas that Davey’s still wearing. “Distribution opens in a hour.”

“Oh, well, I was gonna wait for you to finish,” Davey explains.

“Don’t be stupid,” Jack says, shaking his head. “I don’t wanna make you late. Just go ahead and change, don’t mind me.”

Davey hesitates. “If you’re sure it’s okay...”

Jack rolls his eyes. “Dave, you’ve seen the Lodging House—it ain’t exactly private quarters. If it don’t bother you it don’t bother me.”

Well, actually, it bothers Davey quite a lot, though probably not for the reasons Jack thinks. But he’s not sure how to excuse himself without seeming suspicious so he swallows down his reservations and steps more fully back into the room.

Jack unearths the garment bag and works the clasps open. Davey catches a glimpse of soft cottons and sturdy wools and feels his cheeks getting warm—just the thought of what’s to come is enough to send his heart racing. He takes a steadying breath, then throws open the trunk at the foot of his bed and starts looking through it for a clean set of clothes.

His only plan is to get changed as quickly and quietly as possible. So naturally Jack choses this moment to strike up a conversation. 

“So how’d your meetin’ go?” Jack asks. Davey instinctively turns towards the sound of his voice and is treated to the long expanse of Jack’s bare back as he wriggles out of his shirt.

“...What?” Davey says. His voice sounds distant to his own ears.

“Your meetin’?” Jack repeats. He lets his shirt fall to the floor at his feet, his hands dropping down to start undoing his belt buckle. “Didn’t you and Albie have a thing last week? Down by the water?”

It takes Davey a moment to shake off his stupor. Flushed and flustered, he quickly whirls back around but it feels like the sight’s been seared into the space behind his eyes. Good god.

“Oh, right, of course,” Davey stammers out, keeping his gaze fixed carefully on the wall in front of him as he fumbles through unbuttoning his pajama top. “Yeah, it went well. Better than I thought it would, anyway. We still need to figure a few things out but we’re off to a good start.”

“And Brooklyn didn’t give you no trouble?” Jack questions. “Spottie was nice and hospitable?”

“It was fine Jack,” Davey says, and the familiar banter is working wonders on calming his frazzled nerves. “Spot and Hotshot stopped by and checked in with us, just to make sure we were being honest and keeping to the agreement and all that, but they mostly left us alone.” Davey folds up his pajamas and leaves them in a neat stack on his bed, slips on a clean pair of underwear, then steps into his selling pants and fastens them up. “Honestly, I think they were... not happy, exactly, but proud? Honored? It’s a respect thing, right?”

“Well, ya only get asked to be neutral territory if everyone else trusts ya to play fair,” Jack explains. “So, yeah, it’s a sign of respect. But Brooklyn’s always been real particular ‘bout who’s all allowed to cross the bridge, so they don’t usually do it—I still can’t believe Spot agreed to play host for ya.”

“It helps that I can get through a conversation with him without picking a fight,” Davey comments lightly as he works his arms into his shirt sleeves. “Unlike certain others I could name.”

“I still say he started it,” Jack responds, and Davey doesn’t have to look at him to know he’s pouting.

“Uh huh,” Davey says. “Sure he did.”

“Hey, now,” Jack says, grabbing at the hem of Davey’s shirt and tugging him around to face him. In the time since Davey’s last looked he’s put on his pants and suspenders, his shirt done up but only partially tucked in. He should be easier to deal with now that he’s covered up, but the disheveled, partially dressed look is somehow just as enticing as the bare skin. It’s honestly not fair. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“I’m always on your side,” Davey says, perhaps a little too sincerely, feeling a touch lightheaded. “But that doesn’t mean I won’t call you out. And you definitely started it last time.”

“He’s been mackin’ on Racetrack!” Jack says, and he’s adorably grumpy about it. “I can’t just let that go!”

“They’re dating, Jack,” Davey reminds him for the thousandth time. “Obviously they’re gonna be holding hands and kissing and whatever else—you might as well get used to it. And regardless,” Davey pokes Jack in the chest, a gentle scolding, “you shouldn’t be letting your personal feelings about Spot affect your dealings with Brooklyn. You’re supposed to be professional, mister Union President.”

“It’s Racetrack,” Jack insists. “It’s my god-given right to give his boyfriend,” Jack makes a face as he says the word because he’s ridiculous, “a hard time. It ain’t my fault Spottie’s got such a short fuse.”

“And that’s why you’re not allowed to handle business with Brooklyn anymore,” Davey says, and he’s trying for disapproving but he can feel the start of a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“Worth it,” Jack says, utterly unapologetic. Davey just shakes his head. Jack’s bad enough now when it’s just Racer—he can only imagine how overprotective Jack’ll be if Crutchie decides he’s interested in dating too.

Davey finishes buttoning his shirt, then leans down and starts digging around in his trunk for a pair of socks and a set of suspenders.

“Hey, but back to your meetin’,” Jack starts after a moment, picking up the previous conversation where they left off. “You know who you really needta talk to? There’s a kid over in Flushing—I don’t think you’ve met him yet, name’s Paulie—but he’s got crazy connections with somma the dock workers. One time he managed ta—” 

Jack stops mid word, a sudden, sharp inhale interrupted by a series of coughs.

“You alright?” Davey calls over his shoulder, still searching.

“Uh, yeah,” Jack says, an odd note in his voice. “Just, uh, swallowed wrong, but I’m fine.”

“Oh, okay,” Davey says, absently. He straightens up, then frowns when he realizes he’s grabbed a pair of Les’ socks instead of his own. He throws them aside, then bends back over his trunk, rifling even more vigorously through the assortment of clothes. 

Jack mutters something under his breath, too quietly for Davey to make out the words.

“What was that?” Davey asks, finally coming up with the right items. 

“Nothin’,” Jack says, head ducked low as he buttons up his vest. It’s a little hard to tell, but it looks like he’s gone a bit pink in the face. “I just⁠— it was nothin’.”

Davey watches him for a moment longer, brow furrowed. But when Jack doesn’t say anything else, he goes back to his task, pulling on his socks and carefully tucking his shirt into his pants. 

“How’s that?” he asks Jack, turning slowly in place. “Did I miss any spots?”

“Lookin’ good Dave,” Jack says with a smile. “Here, hold still,” he continues, patting at Davey’s hip with one hand and picking up the end of his suspenders with the other. “I’ll fix you up.”

“Oh, thanks,” Davey says tentatively. 

Jack steps in close, his knuckles brushing against the small of Davey’s back as he clips his suspenders into place. Davey swallows heavily around a suddenly dry throat, trying his hardest not to think about how he can feel Jack’s body heat like a tangible weight along his spine, how there’s the barest whisper of Jack’s breath tickling at the nape of his neck. 

He hopes Jack can’t hear the hitch in his voice as he asks, “So what are you working on today?”

“Hmm? Oh, nothin’ much,” Jack says. “Just some line work, and maybe sketching out some ideas for the Friday edition.”

“Is your, uh, desk mate still stealing your drafting pencils?” Davey asks. 

“He sure is, the prick,” Jack answers. “Which is so damn annoying⁠—it ain’t like they don’t give us plenty.” His hands slide up over Davey’s waist: “Turn around for me.”

Davey obediently turns. “Maybe you should call him out,” he offers.

“Maybe I should stab him in the neck with his stupid compass,” Jack says with a snort. He follows the line of Davey’s suspender straps up over his shoulders and down to the front of his pants, clipping the other pair of buckles into place. “There, you’re all set.”

“Great,” Davey says, his eyes flitting across Jack’s face. He’s very handsome. He’s very close. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Jack says, his voice a little husky. His fingers are still curled around the straps of Davey’s suspenders. “Happy to help.”

“Right,” Davey breathes out. 

“Right,” Jack echoes.

They stare at each other.

“I should, uh, grab my vest,” Davey says, clearing his throat. His pulse is pounding in his ears. 

“Yeah, of course,” Jack says as he shuffles back a couple of steps, running a hand through his hair. “Of course. I’ll just⁠, I’ll finish doing… over here.” 

Davey spends a long while shaking the wrinkles out of his vest, then pulls it on with clumsy limbs. He smooths his hands nervously down the front of it, then pretends to pick away a few pieces of lint, just to give himself another minute to calm his fluttering heart. Oh god, oh god, oh god.

For a brief moment there’s no noise except the rustling of fabric and the sounds of the city drifting in from the open window. Then Jack calls, his voice tinged with a hint of alarm, “Uh… Dave? Help.”

Davey glances over. Jack’s made an attempt at putting on his tie and it’s ended in absolute disaster, the collar of his shirt crumpled beneath a too tight and incredibly tangled knot.

“What on earth did you do?” Davey asks, his lingering embarrassment burnt away by sheer bafflement. 

“I thought I had it handled!” Jack says. He tries to pick the knot loose, but only manages to make things worse. “Christ, these things are death traps.”

“Stop, or you’re gonna strangle yourself,” Davey says, smacking Jack’s hands out of the way. “Just let me⁠—”

Davey reaches up, undoing the mess of a knot with deft fingers, then expertly re-ties the strip of red silk into a perfect four-in-hand.

“There,” Davey says, carefully tucking the tails under Jack’s suit vest, then folding the sides of his shirt collar back down into place. “How’s that?”

“‘S good,” Jack says.

“Not too tight?” Davey checks just to be sure, noting the raspiness of Jack’s voice. He adjusts the knot one more time, then presses a neat little dimple right in the center of it. “I can do it again if it doesn’t feel right⁠—”

“No, it’s great, Dave,” Jack says lowly, and his hand closes around Davey’s own so that their hands are clasped together over Jack’s sternum. Startled, Davey’s eyes dart up to meet Jack’s and their gazes catch and linger⁠ again with that same soft, simmering intensity from earlier. “It’s perfect.”

“Good,” Davey says hoarsely⁠, held captive by Jack’s stare. He almost can’t breathe around the pressure building somewhere deep in his chest; Jack somehow feels even closer than he had before, all dark eyed and broad shouldered and just far too much for Davey to handle. “Good, that’s…” Davey swallows, licks his lips, and tries to think of something to say that isn’t absolutely asinine. “I’m glad.”

An expression flickers across Jack’s face, too quickly for Davey to identify. Then his hand curls more firmly around Davey’s, and Davey can feel the warmth of his skin, the callouses on his palms. Jack takes a breath, opens his mouth to speak⁠—

“David!” Les shouts as he bursts back into the bedroom. Davey jolts away from Jack like he’s been burned, his hands dropping back to his sides. Jack’s mouth clicks shut⁠⁠—whatever he might’ve been about to say is lost. “Davey, stop hogging Jack! You already saw the fancy geddup, I wanna see too⁠⁠—”

He skids to a sudden halt, his eyes going wide. “Wow, Jack, you look swell! Like a real, pr’fessional artist.”

“Hey, I’m already an artist,” Jack counters playfully, though there’s a hint of tightness around his mouth. “All this stuff is just window dressing, ya hear?”

“Yeah, but now you look all serious and business-y and confident,” Les stresses. “Like you actually know what you’re doing.”

Jack laughs. “That’s just the clothes talkin’, bud,” he says. “Believe me, I ain’t gotta clue what I’m doin’ most the time. ‘S what I keep Davey around for⁠, to make sure at least somebody knows what the hell is going on.”

“Well, I think you look nice,” Les declares, like that’s the final word on the matter. He looks at Davey and says, “Mama says we gotta leave soon or we’ll be late.”

“Okay, I’ll be right there,” Davey answers. Les nods, then skips away to put on his shoes and hat.

“I guess I should head on out,” Jack says, wandering towards the still-open window. “I’ll see you in a few hours⁠—”

“Jack Kelly, you are not going down the fire escape in your brand new suit,” Davey says, exasperated. “You can walk out the front door with us like a normal human being.”

“Oh, but where’s the fun in that?” Jack says with a grin, but he slides the window shut and dutifully comes back over. Once he’s close enough, Davey elbows him in the ribs. “Ow, what was that for⁠—?”

“Stop talking down on yourself,” Davey huffs. “You don’t give yourself enough credit⁠.”

“Or maybe I give myself exactly enough credit,” Jack counters. 

“Oh, please,” Davey says, rolling his eyes. “I know you’ve got a functioning brain in that head of yours⁠, you don’t need me to be successful⁠—you’ll get by on your own merits.”

“My own merits, huh?” Jack says with a rueful smile. “You make it sound so easy, Dave.”

“I know it’s not easy,” Davey says. “But I also know that if you really wanted something, you’d figure out a way to get it.”

“But, see, there’s a lotta things I want,” Jack says, and he’s gone a bit quiet in his contemplation. “Probably too many things. I ain’t figured out how to get hardly any of ‘em, and especially not the most important things.”

“But you will,” Davey says. “I’m sure you will.”

Jack stares at him, and for a split-second Davey can see the raw yearning in his eyes for... whatever his latest dream is. Davey hopes he finds it, even as his heart lurches at the thought of some new, Santa Fe-esque fantasy stealing Jack away, maybe permanently this time. 

“God, I hope so,” Jack breathes.

00000

Chapter three here

Tag List: @yahfancyclamwiththepurlinside

[takadasaiko]

Movie Night (a Veronica Mars one-shot)

Part of the Spanning Years. Continents. series of one-shots set between the VM movie and S4.

FFN II AO3

Warning: While my guess is that most people have seen Top Gun, I didn't see it until just a few years ago for the first time, so I feel like I should mention there are some spoilers in here for the movie.

Summary: In attempt to try quell some of the awkward tension between her two best friends and her boyfriend since his return from deployment, Veronica declares a movie night.

Movie Night

It had been a long time coming and a much needed event, even if not easily planned. It should have been. Movie nights weren't complicated. At least not for normal people, but Veronica Mars had tossed normal back out the window when she'd returned to Neptune.

The first step had been getting all parties involved to admit that the awkward tension needed to stop. Both Mac and Wallace had voiced their concerns when she had first come back to help Logan pick a lawyer and then stayed to help in the investigation, but when he had shipped out the subject was dropped. Out of sight, out of mind. That only worked as long as he was out of town, but since he'd been back there was a strange vibe in Mars Investigation every time he dropped by, and the crazy thing was it wasn't coming from her dad.

Mac would stumble around the conversation, managing to make even the most mundane of topics painful as if she were keeping a lid so tight over her own thoughts that nothing coherent was making it through when she was speaking to him. She had even called him Not-Piz at one point when she thought he was out of earshot. Spoiler alert: he hadn't been, and Veronica had to hear about it way more than she preferred.

Wallace was marginally better, but he always seemed to be waiting for the relationship to implode in some firestorm of chaos kicked off by one or maybe even both of them. Not that that was entirely unfair. He'd had a ringside seat to their on-again-off-again relationship during high school and college, but still not something you'd like hanging between one of your best friends and your boyfriend.

And it didn't help that Logan had always met tense situations with an offhanded quip and a sharp remark, especially if he felt even remotely attacked.

Getting all of them into a space where they could take a breath was the goal, and that led to the second step: figuring out what to do about it. The consensus was a movie night. They'd pick something everyone liked, have a pizza and some drinks, and give Mac and Wallace a chance to get better acquainted with Logan and vice versa. A lot had changed in nine years and - even if she'd never admit it out loud - Veronica wanted two of the most important people in her life to see what she saw in the man she loved.

Finally, the third step had been finding a time that worked for all four of them and that had been where the real hang up had happened. After nearly two weeks of missed nights - not just on Veronica's end, thank you very much. Logan has gotten stuck on base one night and Wallace on campus for some kind of planning committee another - they finally landed on a Friday night in which none of them had plans or last minute mishaps. And people say miracles don't happen.

The pizza had just been delivered and Veronica was dancing around Logan in the kitchen when the knock came and she heard Mac call out, "We come bearing booze!"

"Just the four words I was waiting to hear," Veronica cheered as she pulled the door open to reveal her two best friends with bags of what were likely filled with beer and snacks of choice to go with the pizza.

"We realized after we got there that neither of us knows what kind of beer Logan drinks, and someone doesn't answer her texts," Wallace said pointedly.

"I like the kind with alcohol in it," Logan deadpanned from the kitchen where he was pulling down plates and a bowl for chips.

Wallace feigned shock. "Oh, so the ginger beer wasn't what we were going for?"

"Only if we're adding Vodka. Good to see you, man. Mac."

"Hey, Logan."

Logan cracked a smile and Veronica pointed at him before the quip could dance off his tongue. "Behave."

He shrugged at that and dropped it, receiving a quirked eyebrow from Mac. "It's like you've got him trained."

"He just knows what happens if he brings up the Not-Piz thing one more time."

She grimaced at that. "I swear I didn't mean it to come out that way."

"Which way is that?" Logan asked, his tone still light as he grabbed a bowl of chips in one hand and the oversized pizza in the other and set both on the kitchen counter for them to dig into. He leaned over to peck a quick kiss against Veronica's forehead. "You said it, not me."

"Yeah yeah," she grumbled, swatting at home as he bobbed quickly out of reach.

Mac made a face and dug into the bag she'd brought in. "On any other note, I found this amazingly tasty cider down at the corner market last week for anyone who's a fan."

"Oh, love a good apple cider," Veronica said, reaching for them.

"They're pear, actually."

She risked a glance at Logan who was loading up his plate and managing to do an excellent impersonation of someone who had not been listening. "Yeah, let's pass on those."

Mac's excitement turned to instant confusion. "You love pears."

"Logan's… allergic." Well she was usually a better liar than that, but how do you explain away how someone couldn't even smell a specific fruit after a childhood trauma without referencing said trauma?

"Well he doesn't have to have one," Mac pointed out.

"It's the smell," Logan volunteered from where he was taking a seat on the floor to leave the couch open, plate of pizza balanced on one bent knee and his beer set on a coaster on the coffee table. "Every time I smell it I puke. Not so fun for movie night."

Wallace shot him a skeptical look from where he was circling around the couch to take a seat on the opposite side. "Okay, there's gotta be a story there."

"There is."

"And in the spirit of getting to know each other a little better….?"

Veronica opened her mouth to tell Wallace to drop it, but she saw Logan tilt his head curiously. She and Mac took their seats on the small couch and Veronica waited to see how he'd handle it. He was a big boy and this was about breaking down some walls. While she didn't think that would likely include stories about Aaron's abusive nature that Logan didn't like sharing with even her if he could help it, it would only keep things awkward if it looked like she was fielding questions all night.

Logan pulled in a deep breath and popped the top off of his beer. "My dad tried to force feed me twelve pears when I was a kid."

"All at once?" Mac asked, her nose screwed up and her tone suggesting she was looking for the piece of the puzzle she was missing.

"Yeah, one right after another."

"Wouldn't you choke?"

"Yep. Hence the reaction to them. What'd we decide on?" Logan grabbed the remote like he'd just made an offhand comment about it being sunny outside.

There was a beat of shocked silence as both Wallace and Mac seemed to catch onto what wasn't being said and Wallace cleared his throat. "You gonna hate me if I say Top Gun?"

Logan flashed a wide grin. "Love that movie."

And just like that, the weight lifted as they flipped it on. Veronica watched and listened as both of her friends asked questions about Logan's job. What was his call sign, what kind of planes did he fly, if anything in the movie was actually accurate, and the list went on. In turn he seemed genuinely interested to hear how Wallace had ended up back at Neptune High as a teacher and a few fun stories Mac had since she'd come to work at Mars Investigations. All in all, the evening was going a lot smoother than Veronica would have banked on and all three seemed to be really trying. Not just trying. Actually enjoying it. Who knew?

"You know we have someone come in from the Naval Station every year for the career fair," Wallace said as he returned with fresh beer bottles carefully balanced. "If you're here, we should have you in this year."

"Oh yeah. Clemmons would love that," Logan chuckled and leaned back against the couch so that he could tilt his head against Veronica's leg. She refocused on the movie that she hadn't really been watching and felt her chest tighten a little at the scene. Everybody knew it, no matter how long it had been. The difference was that the last time she'd watched it the man she loved hadn't been flying fighter jets for a living.

Logan seemed to sense the shift and reached back his hand finding hers.

"You said you're testing the jets to make sure things aren't broken, right?" Mac prompted.

"Yeah. The mechanics need a certain level of field testing to run diagnostics."

"To make sure that doesn't happen?" Her question was perfectly timed with the sickening crunch of Goose's neck as the seat tried to eject him faster than the canopy opened.

"Among other things." Veronica felt Logan adjust his hold on her hand before pulling her knuckles to his lips for a kiss.

The two pilots on the television parachuted down towards the water, one limp, and Veronica squeezed his hand before standing. "Let me grab that," she mumbled as she snapped up their plates.

"I wasn't…. okay cool. Guess I'm done now," Wallace grumbled.

She barely slowed down as she dropped the plates on the counter and shot off towards the bathroom. Door closed, she leaned against it and closed her eyes, struggling to get the image out of her head. She hated the possibility that something like that could happen to Logan and she hated even more that there was absolutely nothing she could do to protect him from it.

From the other side she could hear their muffled voices.

"Okay, what just happened?" Wallace sounded even more confused now.

"It's, uh…." There was a short clip of silence and Veronica imagined Logan flicking those long fingers of his at the TV. "I didn't think about that part when we started it."

"Yeah, me either," Mac said. "She doesn't talk about it, so I just…. I guess that kind of stuff could happen to you, couldn't it?"

"Could. It's not like either of us have particularly safe jobs. Give me a sec?"

Veronica sucked in a breath, moved to the toilet and flushed it. She then flipped the water on to further sell the charade and was grabbing the towel by the time the soft knock came at the door. She opened it to find Logan shooting her an apologetic look. "What's up?" she asked, hating the small shake in her voice.

"You okay?"

"Just had to pee," she lied, and while her tone was flippant she hoped he caught the unspoken request. This didn't need to be a big deal. She didn't want to make this a big deal.

"Ah," he breathed out and leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to her forehead as if he were telling her he'd gotten the message loud and clear. "You're gonna miss the good part at the end."

"I wasn't in there that long," she huffed, but could see where one of them had fast forwarded over the rest of Goose's death scene and the movie was paused at the glory moment towards the end.

"Sure you were. Hence the checking," he answered with a tilted smile and a quick wink. He slipped his hand into hers and no one said a word as they rejoined to watch the end of the movie.

Despite pear cider and a moment that could easily be Veronica's worst fear played out in a movie, the rest of the evening could be counted a success. As the credits rolled and music played they laughed and teased and chatted until it was finally time to call it a night. Veronica was a little surprised to see Mac offer Logan the most awkward hug of all time and he gave her hell over it even as she pointedly said his name. Wallace lingered back and gave Veronica's arm a light nudge. "When'd your boy grow up?"

She snorted. "Sometime in the nine years between our freshman year at college and our ten year high school reunion. Sadly I can't take credit for that." She shot him a look. "You gonna finally stop giving me shit for dating him again?"

"Only because it might actually last this time."

"That's the plan."

His lips quirked up at the corners. "I'm happy for you, V."

The quip died in her throat and she found herself smiling instead.

They said their good nights and closed the door, locking it behind them. Logan turned towards her and she saw amusement in those brown eyes. "So, what's the verdict?"

"I'm afraid we're going to have to break up. Just no getting around it." She made it most of the way through the tease before her mouth betrayed her and she found herself fighting the smile.

"Uh-huh," Logan chuckled and leaned in, his lips hovering dangerously close to hers.

"I think this could become a thing."

"I'd be okay with that."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Wallace is fun and Mac gives as good as she gets when she lets herself."

"Oh no. Am I going to be replaced as your verbal sparring partner?"

"Never," he promised and closed the gap between them.

Veronica wrapped her fingers up in his t-shirt, pulling him deeper into the kiss and felt his arms around her just before he hauled her up off her feet, pulling a surprised laugh from her as he carried her back to the bedroom. Yeah, she thought she could count this one as a success.

[audreycritter]

Summer Reading Program

A short fluff for @cerusee . Thanks to @preciousthingsareprecious for brainstorming!  ~2700 Words Robin!Jason, Bruce Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth Gen/Family Bonding Tooth-rotting fluff Summer Reading Program

The Manor library was quiet except for the ticking of a clock and Bruce Wayne was plowing through a stack of papers that needed signatures. He'd been working on it all day and had moved from the study an hour ago just for a change of scenery. If he finished enough of the thick ream of contracts and disclosures and other legal documents he'd previewed ahead of time, he wouldn't have to do as much when things got crazy at night.

It had been a slow week for patrol and Bruce wasn't sure how much longer it would last.

With a bang, the door flung open and Jason Todd shuffled into the room. His eyes were just visible above the tower of books and fliers balanced in his arms and he made a beeline for the desk Bruce was sitting behind. He eased the pile onto the edge of the desk and then set a flier right in front of Bruce, on top of a paper waiting for a signature.

It said SUMMER READING PROGRAM in large purple letters and had the Gotham County Public Library System seal printed in one corner. The illustration was a cartoonish crowd of fictional characters with various identifying costumes or trinkets.

“I need your help,” Jason said bluntly.

Bruce flipped the trifold open. Inside, on the line for a patron name and phone number, Jason had already filled in Bruce’s name in his childish but improving cursive scrawl.

“What is this?” Bruce asked.

Jason gave him a look that told him just how stupid he thought that question was.

“It's for your book list,” Jason said, tapping the numbered lines. “You gotta read ten. I already picked out mine.”

“Why do I have a summer reading list.” Bruce read over the poorly chosen italic font. It wasn't the easiest to read.

“Because I'm asking you to help me,” Jason said. “If you turn it in, they put your name in a drawing. The grand prize is a Kindle and $25 in Amazon credit.”

“This has my name,” Bruce said, switching his gaze to the stack of books. It was a mix of middle school fantasy, Hardy Boys, and something that looked like a survival series about mountain climbing. “These are books for you.”

Jason gave an exasperated sigh and put both hands over his face and then dragged his fingers downward, pulling at the tender skin beneath his eyes. Bruce reached out and moved one hand away, worried for his exposed sclera, and Jason yanked away with an irritated huff.

“You have to pick your own books,” Jason said. “This is for my list. I need you to hurry. I just found out today and it ends in eleven days. Three chances are better than one.”

“Alfred is helping,” Bruce surmised.

“Yes,” Jason said. “All hands on deck.”

“For a kindle.”

“Do you need coffee? Are you asleep?” Jason waved his hand in front of Bruce’s face and this time Bruce leaned his head away. “I just said that. Pay attention, B. It's urgent.”

“Why do you need to win a kindle.” Bruce felt like he was missing some crucial piece of information and he scanned the flier again. Was there some kind of school credit involved? It didn't look like it.

Jason took a deep breath and launched into a rapid-fire bullet list that sounded rehearsed and bordered on pleading.

“I know I'm supposed to have limited screen time but is it really a screen if it's e-ink? It's not the one with games or movies and it has parental controls and it would help with school and I could borrow books from the library website and save money and it'll be easier to pack for trips and when I come spend the day at the office and heavy backpacks are a source of bad shoulder strain and it's not good for me and I can get books in Spanish to practice my—”

Bruce had said Jason’s name three times with no break and he finally gave up and pinched Jason’s lips together. Jason kept trying to talk, mumbling through his pressed lips.

“Jason.”

The boy stopped.

“I didn't ask why you needed one. Why do you need to win one? If you want one that badly, we can talk about buying one for you.”

Jason looked affronted and immediately after Bruce let go of his face, Jason’s fingers were pinching Bruce’s lips shut in return.

“Are you conspiring to interfere with an educational pursuit?” Jason asked just as seriously. Bruce looked into his frowning blue eyes and considered for a moment the enthusiasm with which Jason had entered the room, the way he'd dragged his feet about school the previous fall and then drastically changed his tune after just a few weeks.

He considered the stack of books and gently took Jason’s wrist and moved his hand away from Bruce’s lips. He thought Jason pinched much harder than he had, but he wasn't sure it was intentional.

“You think you can make it through all those?” Bruce asked, thinking about a balance between realistic goals and pushing one’s boundaries. He admired challenge but didn't want Jason to be overwhelmed; he was a steady reader and becoming a better one all the time, but was still slow for all his heart. They'd spent a lot of time the past year playing academic catch-up in almost every subject.

Jason scowled at him with a bright flash of anger and Bruce internally scolded himself for being an idiot.

“Why? You don't think I can?”

It sounded like defensive daring, but Bruce had spent enough time with Jason to know he wasn't Dick. Whatever bubbled to the surface was often a mask for some fear or anxiety and he'd become aware (sometimes with Alfred’s pointed help) that Jason deeply needed their simple belief in him.

“Of course you can,” Bruce said quickly, hoping it wasn't too quickly. “And I'll help. I think I can spare you from patrol for a night or two if you need it.”

“You'll do it, too?” Jason asked, brightening instantly. He was thumbing through the stack of books and looking over covers.

Bruce looked at the papers spread across the desk. He thought of the ones he'd left in his study. He glanced over at the shelves lining the walls of the room he often sat in but rarely used recently.

“Eleven days?” he asked.

“Mhmm,” Jason nodded, already with his nose in a book. It looked like something about animals with swords. “Ten books.”

“If I win, I'll let you borrow the kindle sometime,” Bruce teased, standing and pushing the papers to the side. Jason kicked at his shins when Bruce walked by, and missed, but didn't look up from the book.

Bruce plucked a book off the shelf and snagged Jason’s t-shirt collar with a finger and tugged. The kid was leaning, half-sitting, on the edge of the desk. “C’mon, Jay. Couch. Keep me company.”

The boy trailed after him without lifting his eyes and his lips moved when he was sounding out longer words. He sank into a corner of the couch with his feet stretched out and pressed against Bruce’s leg.

Neither of them moved except to turn pages until Alfred rapped his knuckles on the door frame to call them to dinner. Jason looked up and blinked owlishly, then his eyes widened even more and he was on his knees peering over Bruce’s shoulder in a second.

“What are you doing?” he demanded breathlessly. He flopped back on the couch and threw his arm over his face. “Bruce! That's like a million pages. How are you gonna finish ten books if you start with that one?”

Bruce held a finger to mark his place in The Count of Monte Cristo and held out a hand to cushion Jason’s head when he rolled off the couch toward the floor.

“I’ll finish, Jay,” he promised. Jason shoved his hand away.

“Can we read while we eat?” Jason asked. His face was buried in the plush rug but he fumbled around for his book, abandoned on the couch. “I’m at a good part.”

“I don't—” Bruce started.

“—see any issue with a temporary allowance?” Alfred prompted from the doorway. He was holding a slender volume of essays. “I wholeheartedly agree.”

Bruce thought it was pointless to argue this on the grounds that he had long been strongly discouraged from bringing work of any kind to the table in the dining room.

They ate while reading, all three of them. The only conversation was when Jason asked for a definition of a word and Bruce was halfway through an etymology of Latin roots when he saw Alfred’s raised eyebrow and Jason’s impatient lip-chewing.

“...but we can talk about that part later,” Bruce finished a bit lamely.

“I want to,” Jason said, and he sounded like he meant it. “Twelve days from now.”

The next nine days brought four patrols without Jason and a boy who was reading so constantly that one night, he missed both reading and patrol when Alfred forced him to bed early with a headache from eye strain. Jason sulked more than he slept and Alfred tried to make it up to him by reading a chapter from his current book aloud, and Bruce read another before going out for the night.

He was less than impressed with the child-protagonist’s climbing skills and problem solving abilities but kept his opinion to himself.

Despite Jason’s worry, Bruce himself made blazing progress through a whole slew of novels he'd wanted to revisit or read. He hadn't had such a good excuse to set aside work and other tasks and read for a long time and wished he'd done it sooner.

Alfred didn't seem to mind the excuse either, and Bruce frequently found him cooking or cleaning with a book in hand and unapologetic about the distraction.

Eight days in, Bruce took the whole day off of work and spent it shut up in the Manor library again with Jason and a steady stream of snacks from the kitchen. In the afternoon, Alfred joined them for a while.

Alfred was the first to finish his list, two days in advance. He clipped it to the fridge with a magnet and read another book anyway.

Bruce was two away and slightly regretting his choice of Le Morte d’Arthur when Jason kept checking his page number progress and humming worriedly at the calendar.

When he got back from patrol early, early that morning, Jason was sitting in the cave with his own final book in his hands and Bruce’s next to him.

“Read,” Jason ordered, pointing. “You have over a hundred pages left and tomorrow is the last day.”

“Jay,” Bruce said, worn out to the middle of his bones. It had not been an easy night.

“B,” Jason said, verging on pleading. “We’re almost there.”

With a sigh, Bruce pushed back the cowl and dropped into the computer chair and propped his booted feet on the desk. If he got any more comfortable he wasn't going to make it.

He wished Jason could just ask for things. Dick hadn't come from much money, and had been a frugal kid, but had few qualms asking for needs or mentioning wants. He didn't take money for granted, exactly, but also seemed more like a normal kid in his acceptance of provided material goods.

Jason swung wildly between actively resisting money being spent on him and gleefully allowing himself to be spoiled, only to collapse into guilt or self-punishing behaviors later in an attempt to retroactively earn whatever they'd given him. He'd balked at tickets to a Knights game, gone happily on the day of the event and come home with a jersey and stuffed full of junk food, and then disappeared for a day a week later.

They'd found him with a bucket of soapy water, worn out after washing every car in the garage.

But when Bruce tiredly looked up from the text to Jason, sitting on the computer desk with his face reacting to every development in his book, occasionally sounding out words under his breath, his eyes rimmed red and a happy, secure slackness in his posture, none of the comparisons or worry mattered. Bruce reached out and ruffled his hair. Jason didn't pull away but instead flipped back a page and said, “B, just listen to this part.”

Bruce didn't mind anymore.

Fifteen hours (and some sleep) later, Jason watched him like a hawk while he filled out the final line of the flier. After dinner, Bruce double-checked the spelling and legibility of Jason’s own list minutes after Jason triumphantly slapped the last book down on the dining room table.

They went to the public library together, all three of them, per the library’s policy of turning in one’s own reading list. Bruce had to fill out a form to replace an expired library card under Jason’s accusing glare.

The glare faded when Jason watched the librarian drop all three names into a decorated glass jar.

Jason talked non-stop, almost without breathing, the walk to the car and ride home. Bruce and Alfred listened to every recalled detail of the ten books Jason had read, and his opinions (with occasional profanity) on those details. It seemed like he'd been saving it all up in his rush to move on to the next book and it was all spilling out of him now.

He didn't stop through the trip up the stairs into the house or until nearly dinner, when he sighed happily and announced gravely that they had to start earlier the next summer.

The weekend passed without incident at the Manor or on patrol or otherwise. Jason roamed the house with nervous energy when he was awake and kept borrowing Bruce’s laptop to double-check the library prize drawing date.

Monday rolled around with a morning forecast of summer storms and Bruce got ready for work and offered to take Jason with him for the day. Jason usually liked going to hide in Bruce's office for the day but today, he refused from his spot by the kitchen phone.

“Should I keep him busy with something else?” Bruce asked Alfred in the foyer, slipping his arms into his raincoat while casting an eye back toward where they'd left Jason.

“I doubt it would be very effective,” Alfred said with an equally worried frown.

Around three in the afternoon, right around the time Bruce had been planning to head home early, his cell phone rang.

“I won!” Jason yelled in his ear as soon as he answered. “B! I never win anything but they drew my name! I won!”

“That's great, Jay!” Bruce said, thanking whatever gods were listening. It wasn't even the idea of not having to console a disappointed kid. He would have read twenty, thirty books in the same time frame to hear Jason so excited again.

“I gotta go, Al’s driving me over right now. The library closes at five. Bye!”

The line went dead and Bruce decided to call it a day. He drove himself home in the rain, under ominous flashes of lightning and cracks of thunder. He made it home before Alfred and Jason by not much more than twenty minutes and the rain had let up by the time they pulled into the drive.

He helped Jason set up the device in the kitchen while Alfred cooked and the wide grin didn't leave Jason’s face for hours.

They were on a stakeout later that week, hunched down in the Batmobile, when a faint glow lit the interior of the car and Batman looked sidelong. Robin was curled up in the seat reading.

“We’ve gotta couple hours,” Robin said. “You told me yourself. Is it too bright?”

Batman studied the alley and streetscape outside the windshield of the hidden car and almost said yes. Then he changed his mind, shifted his cape, and threw it over Robin’s head.

“No,” Batman said.

“Okay,” Robin said happily from under the cape. The glow didn’t make it through the dark fabric and the interior was pitch black again. “Thanks, B.”