#he like originally kind of helped set up hell database a few years ago so when he volunteered i was like

[bright-and-burning]

[for context one of the more senior staff said he’d do something for this project (due TOMORROW) with that Hell Database that im kind of in charge of. like volunteered for it.] literally this morning i told one of my fellow young people coworkers like “im kind of worried [senior staff guy] isn’t gonna be able to figure it out and it’s gonna get dumped on me last minute lol”

just got a message from senior staff guy. “are you familiar with the process of pulling [hell data] for this project? from running the scripts to making the map. and do you know where all the output files are saved?”

like. lmfao. lmfaooooooo. what did i sayyyyy. what did i SAY!!

he just sent a follow up (i explained the process. well no actually i said hey if you look at the documentation and code it kind of explains what to do. and then explained a little more. and then half offered to just do it myself) and he was like “it would be great if you could do it. once you figure it out, could you let me know? i think [boss] wanted it tomorrow. i will keep exploring and check back in later.”

[love-peterparker]

In Extremis || Peter Parker x Reader

Summary: After the reveal of Spider-Man’s secret identity and the release of Quentin Beck’s murder video, there isn’t a lot going right for Peter Parker. But he has you. 

Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader

Warnings: Cursing, protests and rallies, mentions of murder, a gun that is never shot, and some hair description for Y/N for plot purposes (but it should still be generic enough).  

Word Count: 2.3k

A/N: I’m first a Captain America and Agent Carter fan, and I wanted to recreate what makes their relationship so special, but with Peter and Y/N… ‘cuz I also love Peter Parker. I really loved writing this, and I hope you enjoy it.

Also, thanks to @marvelouspeterparker, @sinisterspidey (she actually has a blurb called I’ll Follow You and it builds off of Spider-Man’s identity reveal) and @stuckonspidey for answering my anon asks for general writing tips and Peter’s character. And @spideyspeaches with her kind words after reading one of the final drafts of this fic. Lastly, a special thanks to @peterbenjiparker encouraging me with this fic and for making me so emotional with her series Invisible String (Read this!... but only if your heart can take it) that I needed to write something. This story has nothing to do with it, but it does make some small generic references to her fic, and I would like to think that Y/N and Peter are soulmates in this story.

***

This takes place in a universe where a FFH-esque identity reveal happens when Y/N and Peter are young adults.

***

This fucking city didn’t deserve him.

Peter rarely admits it, but you say it all the time. When you hit a dead end in the Avenger’s database. When checking for your gun before leaving another safehouse. When reaching for him in the dark of night.

This fucking city didn’t deserve him.

It had been over a year since Peter’s identity as Spider-Man was revealed and the dubious video of Quentin Beck’s murder was released. But it felt like a lifetime.

These two Peter problems were like ivy. They rooted, twisted, and spread. Winding into chokeholds around their victims.

But heroes knew how to play with fire.

Peter’s identity was dealt with in a straightforward fashion. Plenty villains who would do anything to exact revenge on Spider-Man, but they would have to find Peter Parker and identify his loved ones first. And for someone like Peter? Well, it was going to take some time.

To you, Peter was lifegiving. A shining ray of golden hope. You fell to sleep and rose to press kisses into his face. To cherish and hold. To share tears. But to the world, or even New York City? He was a nobody, one who couldn’t even hold a steady job.

You all worked fast while the wicked played catch-up. The Avengers searched and wiped all, but ultimately little personal information Peter had on the internet, as well anything that might connect him to your shared inner circle. Everyone was given an Avenger’s signal watch. And both you and May opted to move as a precaution. May to Brooklyn. You to Avenger’s Tower.

The case of Quentin Beck’s murder was a much more grinding process. Through polished superhero reputations, the lawyers secured an Avenger’s Tower house arrest during court proceedings. An overwhelming amount of evidence in Peter’s favor was gathered. Press conferences were held. Speeches were given. And when it all seemed like it was too much for too long, you and Peter would lie in bed, arms and legs entangled, whispering that everything would turn out all right. Good will win. You just had to keep going.

It was taxing, but not impossible. And just when you all thought you were pulling at the end of the thread with the jury in your favor, the ground beneath you crumbles into nothingness. You spiral and crash into a labyrinth, lush and high-walled. Maybe this was the way out- oh wait, you’ve been here- or have you? You all turn and turn only to face a new dead end. A new set of incriminating videos were released. Spider-Man’s videos took the spotlight, but videos of Wanda and Bucky were also revealed. The streets of New York bustled in whispers.

Can we really trust these heroes? What if these videos are the truth?

And what happens when these powerful people think they are right when they are wrong?

When public protests against Earth’s heroes sprouted and jury members started to disappear, it was clear that the whoever or whatever was behind this had greater motives and powerful allies. It was time to buy time.

Everyone had tried to convince Peter to go into hiding somewhere else. Anywhere else. He had enough super-friends where anywhere was possible. Lay low while everyone else above ground scrambled to unweave this massive web of lies. But Peter was infuriatingly adamant that New York, regardless of her wavering loyalties, was his to protect.

So two months ago, he started bouncing around New York City, investigating when he could, and making polarizing headlines with every swing he took.

You tried to continue as if Peter was still by your side. After being terminated from your junior journalist job for “suspect ties to Spider-Man,” Spider-Man became your mission. You originally attended press conferences and rallies as moral support, but after Peter’s first awkward mumbles of a speech, it was painfully clear that he needed a new voice. The public herself needed a normal person who interacted with superheroes. Who better than Spider-Man’s girlfriend? But after the last kidnapping attempt and the Avengers’ numbers shrinking, it was clear that this wouldn’t last. The world now knew who you were too.

The thick ivy had caught up, and you were on fire.

But to hell with it because there was no universe where you would be leaving this nightmare without him. So the next time you looked in the mirror, you donned short red hair and heavy eyeliner.  

Days were spent questioning possible witnesses. Nights were spent in the light of a computer. And when you could barely drag yourself to continue, moments were spent staring at your beautiful boy’s picture. He needed you.  

You had only heard from him twice since he went into hiding, though there were a few times answered unknown number calls would lead to abstract rustling and distinct web shooter noises. To those, you always whispered “I love you,” before hanging up.

That was until last night, when you noticed small slip of paper in the crack of the window of the safehouse you had been staying at. Only a time and an address were written, in messy, but undeniably Parker script.

You spent the next day visiting arbitrary places in the Bronx, trying to determine if anyone was following you and collecting items in an unsuspecting backpack.

It was a balancing act between comfort and practicalities. An extra stealth suit. A waterproof jacket you both shared. Protein bars. Extra web fluid and a first-aid kit. A hefty wad of cash, just in case. And in the smallest pocket, things to help him in the darkest days to come. Letters from you, May, Ned, and your other friends. A few packs of gummy bears. And a picture of you and him, laughing in Central Park on one of your many dates. Sunlight casting halos on your heads. Bright. Carefree. Brimming with love.

Your heart cried and cried and cried, begging for those days.

But they were gone. And as much as you didn’t want to admit it, so were the people in that picture.

You travelled to the building location and made your way to the rooftop. Rows and rows of white sheets were hung, all whipping in the wind to dry.

A small smile graced your lips. You had to hand it to him. He was smart.

You folded yourself into one of the corners of the rooftop, gun in hand and waited. Eerie silence slowly lulling you to…

You woke up to the soft footsteps, sleepy eyes registering a shadowy figure behind one of the bedsheets.

“Hans?” you whispered, pointing your gun with a finger on the trigger.

“Leia,” the figured replied, equally hushed. The shadow lifted the curtain. It took a second to register, but it was really him. You raced towards each other, quick hold each other, beaming. Today, you existed in the same place at the same time.

“That was so stupid. I can’t believe you got me to do that,” you laughed, pressing your face into him, holding him tightly as if he could disappear at any moment.

“Oh, come on, you loved it!” he quipped. You hummed in appreciation.

“True, but I love you more.” His eyes brightened at your confession, pink dusting his cheeks.

“I know.” You shook your head, smiling at his response before turning your head and taking in who he had become. Gone were the luxurious curls, replaced with a buzzcut. A pair of fake glasses perched on his nose in further attempts to conceal his identity. Hallowed eyes. His skin tinted gray from the stress. You ran your fingers through the fuzz on his head, massaging his scalp. A sigh escaped his lips, eyes fluttering shut, with hands reaching to caress yours.

“You cut your hair.”

“You did too.” His fingers danced in the ends of your own tresses. A sad smile furnished your face.

“It had to be done,” you replied, before pressing your lips to his cheek and gently removing yourself from his embrace to get your laptop. “We need to get started. We’ve found a lot since you left.”

With his head on your shoulder, fingers laced with yours, and your laptop on your lap, you recounted the on-going investigation to him. The deep web that just kept going and going. Your theories and suspects. And when that was done, you kept talking. How Aunt May and his friends were fine but missing him. How the remaining Avengers were fairing. Peter was oddly quiet, sharing only a few thoughts here and there, but you attributed it to his weariness.

As the sun continued to dip, the silences between sentences stretched, but you mustered more words. As if your sentences were the delicate string that grounded him to you.

“Y/N,” he interrupted. You looked at him and hummed in reply. He began playing with your fingers, eyes never meeting your own. “I love you more than I ever I thought I could, and I’m really thankful for everything you’ve done. And you’ve done so much. Like, I don’t know if I would have even made it this far without you, but here you are, and well, you can’t keep doing this.” You cocked your head, before shaking your head, hair rustling.

“What? Peter, we are getting somewhere! I just need to visit the-“ He lets go of your hand, fingers clenching into trembling fists.

“No, no more visits. No more investigating. This can’t be your life. When this started, we thought there was a way out. But it’s been over a year. Clearly whoever or whatever is doing this won’t stop until we’re all gone. This may never stop. I can’t have you throwing away your life for me. Hell, I don’t even know when I’ll see you aga-“

“Peter,” you cut him off, your voice pitched lower in concern, “Where is this coming from? We’re gonna make it. It is just a matter of-”

“I can’t give you what you deserve! I’m Spider-Man, so we don’t get to have a house and two kids! We get this-, this fucking disaster! I live like this because I have to. I don’t get a choice. And you shouldn’t be stupid enough where you are doing the same thing!”  

Your mouth fell open, ready to spit back poison when he looked at you. It was in his eyes. Behind the falling tears and redness was the glint of insecurity that Peter had always carried. This was the child whose parents died. The teenager who didn’t stop his Uncle Ben from getting killed. Who held Tony Stark in his last moments. The man who was on the run.  

The hero who would never stop giving to a world who would never stop taking.

Your thoughts frenzied. If you held on to him too tightly, he would resist. The more he would thrash, determined to save you while slowly sacrificing himself until there was nothing left. Your brain was frozen, so your heart gave you the words-

“Marry me.”  

Peter’s eyes widen before retracting into a tight furrow, scrunching his nose.

“What?! No! Did you not hear anything I just said-“

“I’m not leaving you. I will never leave you. The one thing you never get to doubt in the world is us. So, I’m gonna ask you again; will you,” you took his hand, went to one knee, and let your voice soften as you held his gaze, “Peter Parker, marry me?”  

You both bathed in silence. His chocolate doe eyes boring straight into yours, searching for truth. The thought that maybe you had gone about this the wrong way started to crawl into your mind, but then a smile slowly creeped onto his face, bright red with blush. More salt-water pooled in his eyes. He pulled you into a near lung-constricting embrace, smothering wet kisses into every inch of your face. Mine. Mine. Mine. You could practically hear his thoughts as you basked in each kiss. I missed you. I love you. And oh my god, you’re here to stay.

“What did I ever-, I have no idea know what I ever did to ever deserve you.” A smirked formed on your lips.

“Is that a yes?” The gold stars in his eyes shined at your playfulness. There was the man you always loved.

“Yes, yes, oh god yes. I do, Mrs. Parker,” he said pulling you in for a passionate kiss. And you both stayed there, melting into the ground beneath you. Breathing each other in as moments passed. Tender “I love you’s” flowing generously from both of your lips. As if the world had vanished and all that existed was you and him, and him and you, and this understanding that this, this was a love until death do you part.

Peter was the one to break the string of kisses, leaving you to chase his lips before touching his forehead with your own. His breath hot on your face. “I- , if you go to my lab there is a secret compartment. In my desk. The code is your birthday. I was going to ask you myself, but then, well… this.” You chuckled as he stumbled on his words.

“I’ll get it as soon as I can.” You both leaned in to close the gap again when a cacophony of sirens and lights echoed in the streets below.

Frustration filled Peter’s eyes as he sat up. “Shit. I-, I gotta go. Are you gonna be okay?” You let out a shallow breath, but quickly forced a smile.

“Go get’em.” And with the whip of his webs, he was gone.

You sat there for a moment, taking in the new quiet. Your fingers graced your lips, still warm with the memory of his. A lightness had settled in your chest, and with every breathe you could feel it pulse stronger.

Because no matter what it took, no matter how long the wait, there was two things for certain.

He was going to protect the city. And you were going to save your husband.

[rainandhotchocolate]

Movie Star

A/N Hello! This is another fun idea I’ve had, I want to write more so let me know if u like it! It’s Sirius x reader fake relationship trope cause I’m yet to do that and YES PLEASE anyway enjoyyyy lel

Y/N stared in the mirror. She was wearing her nicest pair of jeans and cropped black flowing top with matching black boots that she had spent three hours shining last night. She’d even done her hair so it curled softly down her shoulders, having practiced it for the last week. She’d done everything she had planned for today, a whole binder sitting in her bag (that she’d also polished), healthy snacks and sunglasses and a small bottle of vodka, just in case, but she couldn’t move from the mirror.

It was her first day on set. Ever. Living in LA had been one of the most challenging and painful thing Y/N had ever done, and she had been very close to driving home and just fucking becoming a full-time taco bell server but she received a call two days previous for a tv series role because the girl originally offered it had been offered to play Meryl Streep’s daughter in some likely million dollar movie.

“Y/N, get the fuck out of the bathroom and leave!” Lily’s voice screamed from the hall, her fists banging loudly against the door.

“I just… I just need a minute!” Y/N called back, flattening out her hair again. You can do this. You’ve read the script. A lot. A lot a lot. You’ve got this. Or maybe you’re going to fall flat on your face.

“I swear to god, Y/N, if you miss your first day I will actually kill you.” Lily was banging with her foot now and Y/N groaned.

“Ok, ok, fine. I’m coming out.” Y/N steeled herself and turned on her heel, marching out of the room. “How do I look?”

Lily gave her a once over, her lips pursed.

“Hot as hell, but just professional enough.”

“Perfect, ok I should go shouldn’t I,” Y/N picked up her bag and swung it over her shoulder.

“Please do.”

Y/N pulled Lily into a tight hug and moved quickly out of the room. Lily called ‘Good luck’ loudly as Y/N slammed the door shut, struggling to pull her keys out of her bag with the amount of crap she had put inside it.

The drive was thankfully quick, and she pulled up to the lot in 23 minutes and 30 seconds feeling increasingly nervous and slightly worried that she might puke.

“ID,” the security guard sounded incredibly bored.

“Yes, right of course! It’s my first day so…” Y/N trailed off as she noticed the security guard had turned back to her phone. “Uh, here it is.”

The guard looked at it, checking the database before waving her through, the boom gate opening slowly. Y/N thanked the guard and drove through to the parking lot.

“Ok, lot 34, 34…” Y/N mumbled as she checked her phone, “Where the fuck is this.”

There seemed to be no numbers on any building, people moving left and right and screaming aggressively for her to move out of the way.

“Sorry! Fuck I cannot be late,” Y/N swore under her breath, feeling her heart rate increasing at the thought of being late and the director just firing her on the spot for being a trash actress who can’t even find a bloody set on time. She re-opened the email sent to her with the maps and details about the set, zooming in on 34 and trying to match it up where she’d walked from the parking lot, and smoothly slammed into someone’s back.

“Oh my god I’m so sorry,” Y/N winced, leaning over to pick up her bag and the things that had fallen across the floor.

“It’s totally fine,” a deep voice replied, the person she’d bumped into turning and bending down to help her out. “Here’s your… vodka?”

Y/N stood up and met the person’s eyes, nearly choking on her own spit. In front of her was the stupidly gorgeous, incredibly famous Sirius Black. He looked even better in person, and, frustratingly, had a goofy smile playing on his face as he handed her the bottle of alcohol.

“Oh, uh, I just am not really sure if I might need some kind of bribe and now that I’m saying it it sounds really idiotic, thank you.” Y/N grimaced, wanting to crawl into a hole.

“First day on set, huh?” Sirius laughed, popping the bottle into her bag.

“How did you guess,” Y/N sighed, “I’m very lost, any chance you would know where lot 34 is?”

“I would actually, it’s where I’m going as well.”

“I… oh.” Y/N had forgotten to read the cast list. In all her planning and panicking and memorising every aspect of the script and characters that she could, she’d forgotten to read the fucking cast list.

“You must be Y/N then? Replacing Amanda?” Sirius began leading the way towards set, Y/N struggling to keep up with his long legs and attempting to avoid staring at his perfectly styled dark curls that hung just above his shoulders.

“Yes! I got the call a few days ago.”

“You look familiar, what else have you been in?” Sirius pulled open a door to his right, letting Y/N go in first.

“Oh I actually… um… haven’t – “

“Y/N, Sirius, please get into hair and makeup we needed you on set 10 minutes ago!” A girl with bright blonde hair and a wild expression pointed towards two caravans to the side of the room. Y/N apologised and moved quickly away, having never been more thankful to be interrupted. She pushed the door open to hair and make-up, looking around awkwardly.

“Hey there! Y/N?” A girl with short brown hair and bright pink spiky earrings grinned at her.

“Yep, that’s me.” Y/N followed her into the small room that was covered in boxes of different make up, paints and wigs hanging up against the walls. The entire front of the caravan was covered in mirrors, a chair in front of each one.

Y/N sat down in the chair the girl directed to, staring at herself awkwardly in the mirror.

“I’m Alice, I’ll be your hair and make-up gal for this season, hopefully the next one but here’s hoping it’s picked up,” Alice began to fiddle with Y/N’s hair, pulling it up and around her shoulders whilst she spoke. “So have you read through the whole script? It’s definitely the coolest thing I’ve worked on so far, and lets be real we’ve all dreamed of working with Sirius.”

Alice actually waggled her eyebrows, grinning at Y/N.

“Yeah it sounds like a cool story,” Y/N mumbled, her eyes watching Alice’s hands closely, wondering what she was going to do to her.

“So cool!” Alice pulled her hair up into a bun, pining up the loose strands and standing in front of the mirror to look at her face. “I’ve gotta ask, how did you react when you found out you were getting to kiss Sirius? I think I would have screamed the house down.”

Alice giggled, grabbing out a brush and primer, beginning to smear it across her face. Y/N resisted closing her eyes and smiling absent-mindedly as the feeling of the brush swishing across her face almost made her forget what Alice just said. Once she’d lifted the brush Y/N replied.

“Is Sirius… is Sirius playing Aramis?” Y/N felt her stomach twist, Alice, testing a couple of foundation types on Y/N’s wrist before dabbing it across her face.

“Yes! Didn’t you read the cast list?”

“Apparently I’m not that smart,” Y/N muttered, wanting to kill herself. She could have prepared for this, researched him, previous roles, kissing style, not panicking when he leans in. You fucking idiot.

“Don’t worry, the amount of people who haven’t read the script by the first day on set would surprise you,” Alice’s warm smile seemed to calm her slightly, likely alongside with the soft brush sweeping over her cheeks and eyes.

“Are there…” Y/N paused, unsure if she wanted to admit that she was sort of new to the whole filming thing, or if she would be accidentally humiliating herself.

“Hmm?” Alice gave her a look, holding the brush back, “You ok?”

“Yeah, just nervous.” Y/N gave her a small smile.

“Well either way, you look amazing,” Alice stepped away from the mirror and behind Y/N’s chair so she could see herself in the mirror. Y/N leaned in to look at herself, or herself 2.0. Alice had somehow highlighted angles in Y/N’s face that she didn’t even realise she had, her eyes highlighted by the subtle brown eyeshadow and liner.

“Holy shit, you are good.”

“You’d hope so,” Alice breathed out a laugh, letting out Y/N’s hair. “Now I’m sorry in advance because you’ve done your hair so nicely, but we are starting with the second scene today and you’re about to have your hair absolutely destroyed by some back combing.”

“I’ll forgive you,” Y/N laughed at her genuinely apologetic expression, grimacing when she held up the brush like a knife.

“Here we go.”

Alice gave her a hug when she left the caravan, wishing her luck like they had been friends for the last seventeen years and pointed her towards costumes. Four girls and two guys swarmed around her, holding up multiple tops and pants that looked exactly the same but with slight differences in the colour. Y/N wondered if they’d made them after the previous girl had cancelled, Y/N had given her a thorough stalk and immediately noticed the very big skin tone difference. They handed her a peasant blouse and linen pants, letting Y/N slip them on behind a curtain before circling her again once she’d changed, handing her a pair of lace up brown boots.

Y/N walked towards set, sucking in a deep breath and letting it out slowly with each step. Someone knocked her lightly on the shoulder.

“Love the new look.” Sirius smiled at her, his hair looking somehow better.

“Yes, it’s called the ‘my hair is secretly a bees nest’” Y/N matched Sirius’ quite fast pace, drinking in his loud, dog-like laugh, his head shaking back.

“Alice is honestly an artist,” Sirius grinned at her, leading her towards the director and producer who were huddled together next to the set of large village facades, a gravel path along the front.

“She is, this isn’t my real face,” Y/N felt her heart flutter as she made Sirius laugh again.

“Y/N, Sirius! Glad you’re here, we are running short on time today because apparently we’ve been bloody double booked,” the director hissed at the producer who grimaced apologetically.

“I just want to see how you guys run through the second scene, doesn’t need to be anything fancy, just want to see you on the set and then we will start blocking properly. Sound good? Good.” She didn’t wait for them to answer, pointing them towards the gravel pathway.

“Great,” Sirius smiled fixing his collar and moving towards the set, Y/N followed close behind him. Y/N took a deep breath, sitting down on the path, trying to stop herself from fidgeting and calm herself. You know this, you can do this.

“And, action!”

It was a mixture of exhausting and exhilarating, and a couple of times where Y/N became slightly too mesmerised with Sirius’ impeccable acting skills. Once she’d been dismissed Y/N began to walk awkwardly back towards the caravan where the costuming team had moved her clothing, a large set of letters with her name on it across the front. It was probably the most exciting thing she’d seen all day.

As she reached it, she was pulled sideways by a small girl with a sharp brown bob and perfect cat-eye.

“Hi, Mary, PR, I just need to chat to you and Sirius for a quick sec ok?” Y/N was dragged towards Sirius who had been chatting animatedly to Alice, leaning against one of the set facades. “Sirius, a second?”

“Yep, see you tomorrow, Al,” Sirius winked at her and she waved him off.

“Ok, don’t have a lot of time, need to be at a marketing meeting in 10 minutes. So as you’re aware you two are love interests in the show and we are already getting some great hype given that the books have been getting steadily more popular. We want to lean into the pairing, a couple of staged outings, nothing confirmed just hints, ok? I’ll set up some time to run through the times we are going to get you two to be together, and what to post up on your socials.”

“Wait sorry are you talking about pretending to be together? Like… like a relationship?” Y/N interrupted her, stuttering awkwardly and berating herself internally.

“Yes, I’ll call you tomorrow with more details, just want to keep you in the loop.” Mary shook both their hands in quick succession and sped off towards the exit, heels clicking loudly against the concrete. Sirius and Y/N said nothing to each other for a few awkward moments.

“Well, I guess we will be seeing a lot more of each other,” Sirius broke the tension, his hand tucking into the front of his jeans.

“Yeah, I guess so.” Aha. Shit.

 Taglist:  @averytruerayofsunshine @siriuslyjanhvi @blushingskywalker @blackpinkdolan @thebabblingbookworm @cherrie511 @imlukesnirvana​ @avengersassemblee​ @maraudersandco​ @sly-vixen-up2nogood​ @katbernoulli @sirius-lysad​ @evyiione​ @minerva26love​ @aikeia​ @gollyderek​ @greatwombatblaze​  @songforhema​  @your-typical-giggle @myownviperroom @hermionie-is-my-queen @demiwitch527

[dottie-wan-kenobi]

Broadcast Torture + Jason Todd & Tim Drake

Written for the @badthingshappenbingo​ . X’s are finished & can be found on my AO3 (under the same username!!), asterisks are requested. Thanks to @whateverrrrwhatever​ for making this way better than it was <3

----

The entrance to the Cave Jason takes is old and rarely used anymore. He isn’t sure if the kids even know about it, and really, he hopes they don’t. It feels like a little secret just between him and the Cave (and a few other assholes, plus Alfred). Anyway, he’s only going to the Cave tonight because no one else is here. B is out with the Justice League somewhere, Dick off with Kory and Roy, and all the rest of them, Duke included, are holding down the fort here in Gotham.

None of them will come back any time soon unless they’re grievously injured. Knowing, like, all of them, that’s a distinct possibility. He seriously hopes they can keep their shit together tonight, though, because if not? He’s going to have to interact with them. And he can only handle so much interaction with people, period, much less his intense family members. He worked with Damian the other night, and that’s enough time with another Bat to last him for at least a few more weeks.

Thankfully, what he’s here for shouldn’t take too long—he just needs some files on the drug trade down at the docks. The more he can get the better, especially ones from at least a few years ago, since he has suspicions that remnants of the Lucky Hand Triad have regrouped.

Technically, Jason can go without them. But they’ll help, and as long as he gets done before 3 am, it’ll be fine. Three is, of course, the witching hour of Bat injuries. (Trust him, he knows all about those.)

Really, the only person who might see him poking around—getting his files, he means, because poking around insinuates he’s here for anything else, and he is not —is Alfred. And Alfred won’t tell on Jason, so if he does happen to come down to the Cave and see Jason, well, it’ll be no big deal. It’s always been easier to interact with Alfred than any of the rest, anyway.

When he steps into the main part of the Cave, he can’t help but notice how weirdly small it seems. Wasn’t it bigger? It’s as empty as it’s ever been, though, the only sounds the humming of machines and the bats flying and screeching.

Maybe Jason should be scared by how dark and confined it is. Anybody in their right mind would be, but he’s never been frightened of this place and he’s not going to start now. Determined, he starts over to the big computer, trying not to think about how familiar everything feels, no matter how long he’s been gone. How every corner brings up a new memory, but all the new keepsakes mean nothing to him. How he still knows his way around. Or how he feels… weird here, almost like an apparition or something.

He casts his eyes on the place where his old suit used to be on display, and can’t help the feeling that maybe he’s just a ghost, the shadow of a boy in a picture who’s climbed out of its frame to haunt the city.

Shaking the thought away, he hurries over to the computer bay, flinging himself into Bruce’s chair with false ease. Sitting here doesn’t help him feel any better—it holds so many memories from his childhood that feel more like dreams, muted and far away. In soft focus like that, he can’t be sure what’s real and what’s imagined, what’s a lie. But ugh. God, he’s got to stop, now. He came here for a reason, and the sooner he can get his shit and go, the better.

Just as he’s about click into the huge storage drive of reports and files that Bruce has amassed over the years, he realizes something.

Babs has to know he’s in the Cave right now. There’s no way she’s not going to tell B or Dick, or both. Probably both. And probably Alfred, too, because why not, right? But what can she tell them besides the truth, which isn’t even that bad?

On the other hand, if he’s going to get told on, why not mess with the others a little bit?

Detouring from his original intentions, Jason cracks his knuckles and sets off to open up all of the weirdest porn Google can give him.

It gets old after a few minutes, and it’s best if he gets out of here sooner rather than later, so he moves on. (He leaves the pages up, of course. Let Dick or Tim find them when they get back. Hah.)

He goes to click into the database, but the cursor on the screen doesn’t move. He tries again and it still doesn’t work.

“What the fuck,” he says, because, seriously, what? The Batcomputer doesn’t get slow. And it can’t be Babs, because although she’s not shy about putting up her logo and locking people out of their hardware... no logo. Not Babs, then.

But if not her… by all rights, it shouldn’t be possible.

Discomfited, Jason wonders if he should try to fix it, or tell Babs. He leans down to make sure the mouse is plugged in, but a noise on the screen has him looking back up.

A video has popped up on the screen.

At first, it’s just black. Jason is confused and annoyed. Maybe Oracle is messing with him.

“Babs,” he says, because whether this is her or not, there’s no way she’s not tapped into whatever bugs she has down here. “Stop playing. I’m just here for some files and then I’m gone.” When that gets no reaction, he adds, “Won’t even take the originals, just need some copies.”  

Nothing happens. Jason looks around, struck once again by how empty and dark the Cave is.

Okay, his gut was right. It’s not Babs. But what, or who, the hell is it?

Before he can even begin to figure it out, the video changes, revealing a laboratory splattered with what looks like paint. Other than that, it’s practically devoid of color. The tall, peeling walls remind Jason of the warehouses at the docks. Medical equipment fills out the edges, somehow even more rudimentary and broken down than he’d expect.

As far as he’s aware, there’s nobody out there with a hospital gimmick. He looks closer, taking in as many details as he can. The paint catches his attention again, and he curses as he recognizes the colors. White, green, and red. Fuck. 

A huge metal table sits in the middle of the room, angled upwards, and there, strapped down on the table, unconscious, is the fucking Replacement.

Jason honestly doesn’t really like the kid. They’re civil enough. Jason has apologized for everything that happened when he came back and Tim has forgiven him, if not forgotten. Not that Jason can blame him. But other than a few conversations outside of the capes and a few missions they’ve teamed up on, they don’t interact much.

There are still days where Jason thinks about being replaced—he knows that’s not how it happened, exactly, but whatever. In those moments, he sees sickly green and has to forcibly calm himself down, punch a wall, something to get the feeling out. He has to tell himself it’s not Tim’s fault, not really.

Replacement or no, it’s hard to see him on the table like this. He really is just a kid.

The Joker moves into view on the screen, his hands clasped behind his back, casual as can be. And Jesus Christ, his smile is still as big and inhuman as it ever was, sickeningly amused by a 17 year old under threat of torture.

"Oh, Batsy,“ he sings, and the sound of his voice sends furious, painful shivers down Jason’s spine. Oh fuck no , he thinks, and wants to get up, but he finds himself rooted to the spot.

It’s the same spot where Jason’s dad sat for years, protecting the city, making it better , or so Jason had thought. But sitting here now, it feels like he’s Bruce. It feels like he’s that little kid who was murdered. It feels like a lot of gut-churning, ominous tangle of emotions he doesn't have a name for and doesn't care to learn.

"I’ve got another of your little birds,” the Joker says, leaning close to the camera.

Part of Jason wants to walk away. He can’t stand this. He doesn’t want to hear another word out of that fucking thing’s mouth ever again, and it’s better to just let the voice pass by over him than to actually listen.

But the other part of Jason, the part that’s been fighting this war since he was born, won’t let him ignore what’s on the screen. He has to know everything, all the details, can’t have only half the picture.

So Jason pays attention and catalogs everything. Forces himself to listen as the clown talks about kidnapping Tim off the street. How he distracted him and snuck up on him and beat him over the head until he was unconscious. How easy it was to capture the oh-so-weak Robin.

Eventually, the Joker stops talking. Must be bored, since he’s not getting an immediate reaction. The dramatic piece of shit only loves attention.

He walks over to Tim. The way he moves is disgustingly familiar to Jason. There’s a kind of switch near the table, far enough that there’s no way Tim could reach it, and then. Then. The Joker flips it.

Tim’s body convulses and shakes as electricity burns through him. He screams, straining against the table.

Jason clutches the armrests of Bruce’s chair, the leather creaking under his hands. Leaning forward, he finds he can’t look away, jaw jumping. He shouldn’t be surprised by anything the Joker does by now, but all he can think is an unending loop of what the fuck?

The Joker flips the switch again and goes over to Tim, crooning something the camera doesn’t quite pick up. A little louder, he says, “I think you need some air, little birdie.” He pulls an oxygen mask from  somewhere out of view and puts it on Tim’s face.

Alarm bells ringing in Jason’s head, he watches as Tim struggles, twisting his head and attempting to bite the Joker’s fingers. There’s nothing he can do but watch as Tim loses the fight. The mask is secured, and within a few moments, it fills with horrible green gas.

All he’s got to breathe is Joker toxin.

Jason watches for another minute as the Joker takes the mask off, deceivingly gentle. After a few moments, Tim starts hysterically giggling, the sound a wheezing and crackling and painful thing.

A message shows up on the screen, listing an address and quickest route to the location. Signed: ‘O’.

“Fuck this,” Jason says, because he doesn’t even want to think about what comes next, what’s going to happen to the kid’s body, how badly the kid is going to be hurt. He stands and hurries over to where all the keys are hung up, grabbing the first set he can reach. He runs to the motorcycles and high tails it the fuck out of the Cave.

Jason thinks he might throw up. The thought of seeing the Joker in person again is too much to bear even on his best nights, but. Whatever. He has to get through it. He’s managed it before, with other traumatic things, and he can manage it now. He can do it for Tim.

He doesn’t like the kid. They aren’t friends and they certainly aren’t brothers, but he’s not about to just let the Joker kill another Robin. Abso-fucking-lutely not.

—-

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[talltalesandbedtimestories]

A View To A Winchester (Part 12)

Series Page

Summary: Julie’s starting a new life after divorce in a home with a very nice view.

A Dean X OFC story. I got this idea staring out the view of my home office window and thinking how nice it would be to have Dean Winchester to ogle.

Section Word Count: 4,300    

Section Content: angst, R-rated language, show level violence

~~~~~

“Welcome to Makenzie’s.” The same chipmunk-cheeked twenty-something from last night smiled at Dean when he approached the hostess stand. Her smile extended a bit wider in recognition. “Winchester, right?”

He flashed his best smile back. “Devin, right?”

She nodded with exuberance. “What can I do for you?”

“Some information would be great, Devin.”

“Sure, just a sec.” Devin handed the waitress standing next to her a few menus and chatted. The obvious flaws in Dean’s original plan smacked him in the face. I’m just going to get escorted out if I try the FBI approach at a place I’ve already been to. Badge says Barrow. Dean canvassed the dining area with his eyes. There was no sign of the woman he was trying to track. The smell of charred flesh made his stomach grumble. He realized he hadn’t eaten anything since lunch, a couple cold pieces of pizza at Cas’s.

“Actually, if it’s alright, I’m just going to head to the bar?”

“Absolutely. Tables are all booked up for a good two hours, at least.”

He nodded and beelined to the bar.

~~~~~

Dean left the bar fifteen minutes later when he got what he needed from the chatty male bartender. Picking up on the gay vibes immediately, Dean turned up the flirting and got Chad to overpour two bourbon shots along with the information. A healthy tip accompanied the cash for a half-eaten plate of onion rings and the liquor. Dean had the first number on speed dial ringing with a flippant push on the exit door.

“Dean?”

“Hey, Sammy. I need your nerdiness.”

Sam huffed. “My computer skills, you mean?”

“Sure. If that makes you feel better.”

“What’s up?”

Dean eased into the driver’s seat and loosened his tie. “I’m not sure, yet. It’s one of my neighbors. She’s gone missing today.”

“Missing?”

“Yeah. I’ve got the name of one of the last people who saw her. Think you can get me an address?”

“I’ll try. Who am I looking up?”

“Ina Rever.”

“I-N-A? Rever, like lever?” Sam confirmed.

“Yep. See if anything comes up in Delaware.”

“Alright, gonna take a little time.”

“I’ll wait.”

Sam sighed.

“Unless I’m interrupting something?”

“No. Well, I was studying. I could actually use the break. Eileen’s out, getting groceries.”

“I thought you two just foraged around in fields for your food.”

“Funny. I can’t get Eileen to eat healthy for shit. Maybe now with a baby on the way...”

“I still can’t believe you’re going to be a dad,” Dean interrupted. “Poor kid.”

“Jerk.”

“Bitch.”

“So, who went missing?”

“Neighbor. Name’s Julie Felton.”

“Wait. Julie? The Julie?”

Dean sifted through his spotty memory rolodex. He was pretty sure he hadn’t mentioned Julie to Sam in any recent conversation. They’d only spoken a handful of times over the past couple months. “What do you mean ‘The Julie’?”

“Cas called this morning and told me all about her… and your date last night.”

Of course he did. “Nothing much to tell, Sammy. It’s just important that I find her.”

“Right, right, of course.” Sam shifted to consoling mode. “You can tell me all about her after you find her. Okay, I’ve got an address for Ina.”

“Great. Text it to me.”

“Yeah, Dean, already done.”

Dean’s phone buzzed at the text from his brother.

“Do you need me to see if I can track Julie’s phone?”

“If you can. But, I checked her mom’s phone - they have one of those family apps that share location - and, it looks like it last shows her at the house this morning. Called up my connection at the police station to see what he could find. Her car turned up in a parking lot at a shopping center, not far from the house. Cop’s goin’ store to store.”

“You called Marty? How’s he doing?”

“I didn’t get a chance to ask.” Dean had mentioned the detective to Sam a few times, being one of the handful of people he could call a friend. “Just sent her number to you.”

“Maybe I can get something else from the cell towers. Finding a car out in the open is pretty good news, Dean. It might all be nothing and she’s safe and sound. You know, a big misunderstanding. Wait, though.” He hummed. “Weird.”

“What?” Dean plugged the address into his phone’s GPS and started the engine as the route calculated.

He switched Sam to speaker. His voice wielded priority over the robotic female starting to spout directions. “Well, I’m not finding anything else on this Ina Rever. No history. Nothing before her poofing into thin air in Delaware.” Dean could hear computer keys tapping. He shifted into drive and rolled out of the parking spot. “Let me just…”

“I’ve got ten minutes before I get to this place, Sammy. Whatever you can find, find it quick.”

“I ran the photo from the driver’s license through a bunch of databases. Got facial matches, all under different names, all over the country… over the past five decades it looks like.”

“Five decades? Woman’s maybe in her thirties.”

“Her Delaware license says she’s 33. Dean…”

“Shit.” No. Julie.

“Something supernatural.” Sam finished.

“What the hell? I got nothing to go on here! No idea what I’m walking into! Vamp nest? Werewolf pack?” Dean yelled at the phone.

“Calm down, Dean. Let me dig into some of the places where this woman’s been. Do you know anything about her?”

“Julie can’t spare a minute for a trip down memory lane.”

“She can if it helps find her. And, you’ve got eight minutes before you get there.”

Dean split his focus between the GPS directions and anything he could remember that Ina mentioned over the dinner table last night. “She’s a waitress at a restaurant. Sounded like she just moved to Delaware a couple months ago.”

“Okay. Whatever it is, if it’s got a routine or needs to…” Sam cleared his throat. Dean knew Sam stopped himself from saying “feed”. “Some weird stuff might have happened a couple months after she moved into these other places. “Missing persons, maybe?”

Dean clenched his jaw, not wanting to speak the next request. “Look for missing persons that turned up dead.” Keyboard clicks went on for a while. “Five minutes, Sammy,” Dean reminded.

“Not helping, dude.” More agonizing seconds ticked by. “Got something. One of the missing persons was found a week after they disappeared.”

“Alive or dead?” Dean took the ramp off the highway, staring out at the business and industrial section of New Castle to his right.

Sam sighed. “Dead.”

Dean kept his focus on the job at hand and took a deep breath. “Where’d they find the body?”

“Looks like it was in an abandoned warehouse.”

“Fuck me!” Dean barked.

“What?”

“This thing’s place of residence is like a minute away from warehouse central! Miles of it.”

“Stick to the plan, Dean. Check out the house first.”

Dean nodded with intent even though Sam couldn’t see him.

“Oh.” Sam mumbled.

“What?”

“The cause of death was exsanguination.”

“Vampire?”

“Maybe. But, I got into the police records. Does this sound familiar? Body was found hanging by its wrists, trussed up. The reporting officer said it looked like a blood bank in there. Needles, tubes, collection vials. Like the person was being drained. Slow.”

Hope sprung back into Dean’s mind. “A Jinn? With an MO like the one that was feeding off me for days? That means there’s time to find her.”

“Maybe. But, it could still be a vamp or some other bloodsucking variation.”

“But if it’s a Jinn, she’s got a shot.” Run down houses lined the blocks of the neighborhood he rolled through. Parked cars squeezed into every inch of available space along the narrow streets. Soft, setting rays angled onto the cheap, dirty vinyl siding on the house that matched the address. “I’m losing sun, Sam. What kind of car does this thing drive?” He parallel parked Baby into a tight spot and shut off the engine, glancing around the street.

“Green, Honda Civic.”

“Great. Nondescript and basic. Like every other car. But… I don’t see one here.”

A barking dog barreled towards Dean’s car in the unkempt yard of the house. It stopped feet short of the chain link fence, whining, as the long leash went taut.

“Son of a bitch. Cocoa’s home.” Dean mumbled.

“What?” Sam asked, confused.

“Nothing.” The car door squeaked. He hurried to the back. A swerve of his head noted no one out on the nearby street or sidewalk. No one hung out in the vehicle behind him, either. He popped the Impala’s hood and readied to hang up. “Let me get in there.”

“Dean?”

“What?” The phone pressed to his ear, pinched between his shoulder and cheek. He lifted the false bottom of the trunk up for peek, reached for his Colt where it always was, and checked the cartridge had silver bullets. They’d been the standard go to for years now. His backup monster insurance. Fresh out of lamb’s blood to dip a silver knife in. Plan B - Bash the thing’s head to chili if it is a Jinn.

“Keep me on the line. You know, in case something happens. I might be able to help.”

The hood clicked close. Dean sighed. “Alright. The phone in the pocket, camera thing?”

“Yeah, that works.”

Sam requested a FaceTime connection. Dean squinted at the screen, walking and talking on the path toward the front porch. “Dude, you look like you’re auditioning for the lead in a Jesus musical... ‘Go Tell It On The Mountain” or some other hippie shit. Your hair. And again with that fucking beard.” Cocoa kept up on the other side of the fence, no longer barking. It didn’t look out of the ordinary. Tail wagging, begging for attention.

Dean could barely make out Sam’s bitchface under all the hair. “Shut up. Remember…”

“Switch the camera angle. Put yourself on mute, would ya?” The phone slid into the jacket’s chest pocket.

“I will.” Sam’s voice was muffled. “That’s perfect. Be careful. Going radio silent.”

Geek.

Dean knocked, surveyed anything he could of the small cottage house through the window panes. “Hello?” He called out and knocked again. The knob rattled under his grip, locked. Flimsy ass door. He looked around to ensure no one was passing by or in his sightline. Dean stepped back and kicked the door dead center. The weight and force behind the sole of his dress shoes propelled it open on its hinges. It swung back almost to the original closed position.

Sam’s probably busting a blood vessel right about now. He tapped the door with his foot to get a lay of the land. “Hello?” Strolling in, he called out. “Door was open.” His hand reached around to his back under the jacket, ready to pull out his gun if needed. “Ina Rever?”

The inside of the house was neat, tidy, and what he thought would be called shabby chic or some shit. It smelled of incense.

“Fuck this.” He mumbled and pulled out his gun. Around every corner, he rounded with an unflinching focus on the front sight and the view just beyond. His feet were quick, two stepping all throughout. His breathing steadied to control his grip and aim. Every closet and room searched, including the basement. The backyard was empty. Nothing.

Dean slipped the gun back under his jacket before stepping onto the porch, shutting the door with the mangled lock best he could. “Still there, Sammy?” He could hear the irritation in his own voice.

It took a couple seconds for his brother to respond. “Yeah.”  

“Anything on Julie’s cell?” He rushed to the car, phone in hand and glanced at his brother’s face.

“Nothing.”

He shook his head and stared out at the countless warehouses on the horizon. “If the car’s not here…”

“She probably drove to where she’s got Julie. I was searching near your location while you broke into the house.”

The undertone of disapproval from his little brother was obvious. He placed Sam on Baby’s hood and removed his jacket and tie, tossing them in the back seat. “And?”

“Three abandoned warehouses.”

“Let’s go.”

~~~~~

“So, this girl?” Sam glanced at Dean from the phone’s screen, mounted on the dash.  He was giving Dean directions, using his location tracker to monitor his movement. A clear blue sky framed Sam, sitting out in his backyard. It was still sunny and 6:00 pm in California. The sun, however, had set on the east coast. The road in front of Dean was dark, lit up golden by Baby’s headlights.

Dean knew what Sam was up to. His way to distract his older brother from spiraling. Act first, think later was never Sam’s approach. And, almost always his.

“She’s not a girl, Sammy. Every ounce of her is all woman.”

“Yeah.” Sam cleared his throat. “I checked out her social media accounts. Very nice, Dean. Another two miles. Make a right at the next crossroads. It’ll be a half a mile on your right.”

Dean closed his eyes as he drove the straight patch of road to the second warehouse on the list. No way my luck would have had her at our first stop. Images from last night flashed in his mind. Julie staring down into his eyes with those big brown ones while he worshipped her. Gorgeous, thick, wavy brown locks of her hair tickling the tips of his fingers kneading her ample chest. Her plump lips parting in arousal and want. The curve of her breast dipping over and above his mouth as he suckled. He could almost taste the slight sweat and salt. The way her hard yet pliable nipple rolled against and pushed into his tongue. She struggled to moan his name. It was the sexiest thing he’d heard in forever.  

A truck coming at him on the two lane road blared his horn. Dean jolted and steered back into his lane. Dammit.

“You okay?” Sam’s forehead wrinkled like the skin folds of a Shar Pei puppy.

“Yeah.”

“Cas said you were pretty wound up last night, about Julie. Really upset that you had to cut the date short.”

“Are you really talking to me about this? Now?”

“I can never keep you on the phone for more than five minutes, Dean. Captive audience right now.”

“And you think I stick my foot in my mouth?”

“Sorry. It’s just… you like her. A lot. Yeah, saving people, it’s ingrained in us, part of our DNA. But you wouldn’t knock a door down the way you did for just anybody.”

Dean drove way over the speed limit.

“When we find her, safe, you’re going to tell me all about her.”

Dean refused to reply, to reveal the thoughts tripping over each other, as he continued down the road. He didn’t speak again until Baby’s headlights washed over the back bumper of a Green Honda Civic parked around the corner of a two story warehouse by a large dumpster. He slowed down and killed the engine, rolling to a quiet stop.

“Looks like the jackpot is behind door number two.”

Sam’s face lit up. “Let’s get in there.”

Dean shook his head. “No. This is what I need you to do. I’m texting you Marty’s number. If you don’t hear back from me in ten minutes, you call him. Tell him who you are, where I am, and what we think we’ve been tracking. He’ll take it from there.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. I got this, Sammy.”

He nodded. “Be careful.”

Dean gave him a small smile and ended the call. He texted Sam the number, made sure he got a response back that Sam had it, and set his phone to Do Not Disturb. He rummaged through the glove box and found his pocket knife. A small flashlight gripped tight in his fist as he left the safety of the car.

Gravel crunched under his feet, eventually merging into a blacktop near three loading bay doors. The roll-up of the center door was not flush to the ground; left open enough for someone to slide under. Here we go.

Dean wasted no time and scooted on his chest into the building, no longer concerned about the condition of his dress shirt and pants. He jumped to his feet in the pitch black of the warehouse. Breathing slowed. Eyes adjusted while he refrained from using the flashlight. He always wondered how good a Jinn’s eyesight was in the dark. Ceiling high racks and shelves of steel framework came into slight focus. They created three long rows in front of him.

A lingering smell of sawdust filled his nose. He afforded seconds to close his eyes, tilting his head like a satellite dish to zero in on the slightest noise. Aside from the ramping of his heartbeat, there was nothing to hint of occupants other than Dean. Might as well make my presence known. She has to be here. He swallowed, pulled out his gun and turned on the flashlight. His body steeled into a military stance. Grounded, steady steps marched forward. A path down the center aisle would give him the best view of the massive warehouse floor. The flashlight above his gun lit the way, sweeping back and forth along the concrete.

“Julie!” His voice boomed, echoed back. Empty cardboard boxes, pilfered through by vagrants or scavengers, lay along the floor with packing material. Dean zigzagged through the maze. Bubble wrap popped under one foot. He froze, waiting for the sound to subside. “Julie!” He called out again. Not sure if it was his eyes playing tricks on him, he thought he saw a shadow flicker farther down the dead end he was headed straight toward. Movement got his attention along his right in the other aisle. God, I hope it’s just one of ‘em.

More boxes came into focus. But these were neatly stacked, forming a partition and one narrow entrance Dean would be forced to take. He made certain no one was behind him. He inhaled and exhaled slow, then rounded the corner and inventoried the space.

It was a bare bones phlebotomy lab. Three rolling carts had needles, tubes, IV bags, and other random medical equipment atop them. He opened a cooler with the tip of his shoe and noted two filled blood bags atop ice cubes not even melted. Definitely still here.

His eyes were drawn to translucent sheeting hung from steel shelving in the back corner. The halo of light revealed a silhouette behind the milky colored plastic. He straightened, cocked his shoulders back, and approached with his gun aimed, ready to fire if necessary. One of his hands reached for the side of the plastic and ripped it away, hard.

Material swooshed. Clips clanged onto the floor. “Julie.” Dean whispered.

Julie’s wrists were bound in thick twists of rope. Her body hung from the shackling. Dean’s eyes widened at her disrobed state. She’d been left in only a tank top and panties. The toes of her bare feet were the only part touching the floor. A needle had been inserted into her inner thigh. Julie’s blood traveled through the tubing, filling another bag by her feet. Femoral artery. Quick drain.

His neck craned from one side to the other. He peered into the adjacent aisle to see if they had company. When he was certain there was no one, his mind assessed the situation. He holstered the gun behind his back into the waistband. Placing the flashlight on the closest cart illuminated Julie’s grim and dire state. Gotta get her down, at least slow the blood flow.

The pocket knife sprung open in one hand. His heart ached as he stepped toward Julie. He stared down at the disheveled hair falling in front of her slumped figure. “Julie?” He whispered. Two of his fingers went to the side of her neck. Hope sprung back when he felt the faint pulse. “Can you hear me? It’s Dean. Gonna get you out of here, okay.” He wrapped an arm around her waist and held her in a vice, pressing his body to hers for support. Her body lifted off the ground an inch or two. The rope went a bit slack. The knife’s blade pushed taut against the give and sawed.

Julie’s head lolled back between the arms still tied above her. Her hair parted to display the face he’d grown fond of staring at. She looked peaceful, with closed eyes and the hint of the tiniest smile. Dean knew from his own run in with a Jinn that there was a good chance she was in some idyllic dream state. Hopefully not the nightmare kind. “Gonna be okay.” He murmured more to ease his own thoughts. “Come on.” He voiced his impatience at the rope.

He grunted when the frayed rope released its hold. Julie’s arms tumbled to her sides. He let the knife fall to the ground and embraced her tight with both arms, cradling the back of her head with the palm of one hand. “Gotcha.” He whispered and brought her to the floor, resting her gently on the concrete.

Dean rose. Gotta get her help. Before he could search for the phone in his pocket, something barreled from behind right into his lower back. He arched backward at the force and slammed into the side of one of the medical carts and finally into the wall of cardboard boxes. His mind at work the entire time, he righted himself in an instant. A quick hop to his feet and he pulled out his gun, aiming where the attack originated.

All five feet of the petite Jinn, using the name Ina Rever, stood between him and Julie’s slumbering frame. Her blue eyes shone in the shadows. He could make out the intricate tattoos forming on the surface of its skin. She’s charging up her poison. Can’t let those hands touch my skin. Dean closed the distance between them. She knelt to the ground.

Shit. If he took a shot at her now, he risked hitting Julie. The Jinn rotated and spun, extended a leg outward, connecting into Dean’s shins. He dropped to the right. The gun flew out of his hand and he landed face forward onto his chest. Shit.

A tiny elbow with concentrated energy rammed into the center of his spine. He groaned. Fast little fucker. She sprung back up, stepped back, and landed on top of him again, elbow in between his shoulder blades.

She stood up and sounded out of breath. Dean could only see her sneakers shuffling from side to side like a boxer. Julie lay behind her, dead to the world. Dean’s eyes lit up at the pocket knife a couple feet behind the Jinn as well.

“This one wasn’t much of a challenge. Dangle a lost dog in front of her and she willingly offers to drive me back to my car at the shopping center and hand out flyers. Of course, if it wasn’t for naive, helpful people like Julie, I might starve.” Ina’s perky little voice wafted down to Dean. The pain in his back radiated into his limbs. “I didn’t think she’d be missed so soon, though. But, I should have known it would have probably been you, after seeing you both at dinner last night.” He hooked his fingers into a deep grout line on the concrete floor and pulled his body a few inches. Ina kicked him in the stomach, which only helped spur Dean closer to the knife. “She’s got it bad for you. When I fed off her just a little while ago, straight from the tap, I got a glimpse at her happy place. She is all about the happy endings with you. Dean, right?”

“What can I say,” he groaned. “I have that kind of effect on women.” Keep monologuing, bitch. I just need to get a little closer.

“I guess her occupation with you is another reason her guard was down. So, thank you for that.”

“Don’t mention it.” He slammed his hand onto the pocket knife and then catapulted up, plunging the blade into Ina’s thigh. She screeched. He held on with everything he could and forced the knife through the muscle like a lever. Crimson splattered and flowed down Dean’s arm and white dress shirt.

She collapsed to the floor, clutching at her leg. He was on her in a flash and captured her between his kneeling frame. A slash of the blade along her neck sputtered blood. Then, he pummeled at her face over and over again until the body stilled.

Dean was pretty sure she was dead. He slammed her head a few times into the concrete for good measure. He huffed, rose to his feet and closed the pocket knife. He caught sight of his gun on the floor, grabbed it, and slipped it into his pants. When he pulled out the phone he saw Sam had tried to call him numerous times. He called him back.

“Dean? What’s going on?”

Dean kneeled next to Julie. He swept her hair away and checked for a pulse again. “I found her. She’s alright, I hope. But she’s in one of those fairy tale comas, I think.”

“So, it was a Jinn?”

“‘Was’ being the key word.”

Sam huffed. “Well, I hope Marty is as good of a guy as you say he is. He’s on his way there.”          

“How long ago did you call him?”

“I called him as soon as I hung up with you. Maybe twenty minutes.”

He smiled against the phone as he heard the bay door roll up. “Dean!” Marty called out.

“Thanks for not following my directions, Sammy.”

“Anytime, Dean.”

Part 13

Series Page

[psyched2b]

One Touch - Part Three - Soulmate AU

Note: This is a soulmate AU that when you first touch someone, you feel tingles all over your body and your soulmate can channel different emotions through the bond. In this piece, the reader is not originally aware of soulmates.

A/N: This is dedicated to @mermaidxatxheart. You is kind, you is special, and you is important. 

P.S. Feedback is always welcomed and appreciated.

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader

Warnings: Mild panic attack(s), Description of Accident, Swearing

Recap:

Sam was the first to break, his face breaking out into a look of unease and uncertainty. “Yeah, about that...you can’t leave because you’re supposedly dead.”                   

Panic blossomed in your chest. Was this hell?                   

“Jesus, Sam. You’re going to scare her,” Bucky growls, fingers twitching, itching to smack his comrade upside the head. He then turns his attention to you, an apologetic look. “He doesn’t mean that you’re actually dead. What he means is that we ran your DNA through a database and that the only match we found matched that of a four-year-old who died in a car accident twenty years ago.”                   

“With your name,” Sam finished.

“I’m sorry, but what the fuck did you just say?”

You feel yourself reeling and you stagger against the wall. This is just too much, you think to yourself. Your chest feels like it’s collapsing in on itself and you feel yourself gasping for air. You lean forward, place your hands on your knees and let your head hang down. This was absolutely crazy. Your thoughts are racing, trying to make sense of this mess.

You recognized the accident that they were talking about. You knew all about it. It was the accident that claimed the lives of your parents and brother. Except, you had survived.

What kind of sick joke is this?

“Hey, hey, hey. It’s okay.” You look up, still panting, to see that Bucky was crouched in front of you, his blue-grey eyes watching you with concern and empathy. “Just breathe in, breathe out. Follow me.” He exaggerates his breathing, in through his nose, out his mouth, chest lifting with every breath.

You mimic his actions and you can feel your heart rate slow and your breaths become more even and regulated. Your thoughts began to slow down and you felt more steady.

Your mind clears and you realize something. This is all in your head.

You were in an accident. Not the one from twenty years ago that claimed the lives of your family, but more recently.

You had been on your way home from work, having just received a promotion to partner in your law firm. You were crossing a bridge over a highway when a coworker sent you a text. Distracted, you hadn’t realized that you swerved into the next lane over until a semi-truck was blaring its horn at you. Shocked, you dropped the phone and jerked the wheel in an attempt to get out of the way, but it was too late. The semi clipped your side of the car, sending your car spinning into the guardrail. The cement guard broke on impact and your car went tumbling over the side. You remember a broken piece of concrete crashing through your windshield and hit you in the head before your car smashed into the highway below.

You know that there is no logical explanation for how you could have survived. Either this is the afterlife or this is your brain trying to protect you from the trauma.

Trying to figure it out right now was futile.

You take a deep breath to settle yourself once again and you feel the tension leave your body. You brush the invisible dirt off your hands, stand up straight, and turn to face Sam and Bucky.

In an eerily calm voice, you say, “I’m good now.”

Bucky and Sam share a worried look, but otherwise, don’t question it. Sam goes over to Bucky and whispers something in his ear that Bucky gives a nod to in response, both not taking their eyes off of you.

“Well,” Sam drawls out, stuffing his hands into his pockets, “As much fun as this shindig is, I’m going to...go do...things.” And without a further goodbye, takes off out the door.

You look to Bucky, raising an eyebrow in question of Sam’s strange actions, but otherwise, don’t say anything. He just shrugs, not offering any explanation before saying, “Let’s go on a tour.”

Bucky heads down the hall, not looking back to see if you would follow.

You stand there for a minute, debating whether to follow along or try to make a run for it. Since you had no idea the layout of the building or knowledge of what Bucky’s skills were, you erred on the side of caution and decided to chase after him, catching up in just a few steps.

He leads you through the building, pointing out different areas of interest, but you aren’t paying much attention. Instead, you’re lost in your thoughts.

The one thing you were certain of is that you crashed off of a bridge and that you had hit your head. Logically, this reality that you were in was just a projection your mind is giving you in order to protect you from the real trauma. What you couldn’t figure out is if this’ was just some play-by-play of some deep set fantasy. You were never someone who had been into Marvel Comics, nor were you the type to romanticize relationships. Yet you were in New York, surrounded by bickering idiots, and had Captain America claiming to be your soulmate.

Trying to make sense of anything was giving you a massive headache.

Instead, you turn to face the mountain of a man. "So, how come Sam called you grandpa? Is that a kink of yours or something?"

Bucky stops walking, turns around to look down at you, and gives you an amused look. "He thinks it's so funny just because I was born in 1917."

What the fuck? You think to yourself, but manage to keep a straight face. "Well, you should tell me what skin care product you use because you don't look a day over twenty-five."

“Skip the ageing cream,” he comments casually, starting to walk down the hall again. “If you want to stay this fresh, I recommend experimentation by either German scientists or terror groups. Really does wonders for the body.” He pauses, tapping his chin with a silver finger, feigning that he was deep in thought. “Oh! And being frozen either in ice or cryogenically. That helps too.” He gives off a sardonic laugh, shaking his head at himself.

His response makes you pause, needing a moment to process everything that was just said. A half second later, you give a small shake of your head, clearing it. “Sounds realistic.”

Bucky comes up on an unmarked door, stopping and turned to give you a smile. “Yeah, we’re an interesting bunch.” He doesn’t leave room for you to comment, quickly changing the subject. “Do you like to read?”

“Are you implying that there are people who don’t like to?” you retort, crossing your arms over your chest, raising an eyebrow at him.

He lets out a little laugh before opening the door and gesturing you in.

You’re in awe. Never in your life had you seen so many books in one room beside in a library. Without further invite from Bucky, you rush forward to the first group of shelves and begin to peruse the section. Your eyes go over the classical literature that was sitting before you, flickering through the many titles. Glancing over at Bucky, you point to a certain book and ask, “Can I grab one to read?”

Bucky comes up over your shoulder to see what you were pointing at and gives you a look of surprise. “You want to read Animal Farm over some trashy romance novel?” he questions in a skeptical tone. You nod in affirmation and he just shrugs. “Go crazy.”

With a smile, you pull the book out from its spot and turn to face Bucky. Giving him a quick pat on the head, you happily skip over to where a group of plush armchairs are and plop down in one of them and immediately begin to read. Bucky grabs his own book from the same shelf and you glance over the cover of yours to see it was The Picture of Dorian Gray. Seems like you weren’t the only one who like classical literature.

You’re only half a chapter in when Bucky speaks up. “What do you do for a living?”

You look up from your book, quirking an eyebrow. “Are you going to ask me what my favorite color is next?”

Bucky rolls his eyes at your sassy response and closes his book, setting it down in his lap. “I am curious what life looks like for normal people.” He pauses, glancing at you sideways. “Normal being a relative term.”

His last comment has you snorting. “Yeah, who’s normal anymore these days? Normal is boring.” You dog ear your page and close the book. “I work as a child psychologist. It’s….a difficult job. Not a lot of people want to work with children just because every single child is different. Adults are arguably easier because they can articulate their thoughts and feelings better whereas children, you have to be incredibly intuitive. There are only three of us in the county where I’m from, but I had just received word that I was given funding to start a larger program…one where I’m in charge of recruiting other child psychologists, developing family groups, teaching my ways of treating these children and so on and so forth.”

Bucky was silent. When you looked up, you were amused at the awestruck look on his face.

“What, cat got your tongue?” You tease.

He shakes his head in disbelief. “Not at all, doll. I’m just...that’s amazing. I can’t believe how far we’ve come from locking up people in looney bins.”

“Primitive asses,” you mutter, pinching the bridge of your nose. “It’s still not perfect, people wanting to medicate their children at any sign of not being immediately compliant, but at least we don’t shame and degrade them.” You allow yourself a deep sigh and change the topic. “Anyways, what do you do?”

“I keep Captain America from getting into too much shit,” Bucky chuckles, getting a fond look on his face. “That man has no sense of self-preservation but, he comes from a good place. You wouldn’t believe it looking at him now, but he was a scrappy little punk back in the day. Didn’t matter, I was constantly pulling him off of guys three times his size. I always told him I looked forward to 70 years down the line when he wouldn’t be picking fights anymore. I shouldn’t be surprised that’s not the case.”

You take note of his “back in the day” story to investigate further at a later time. “Bucky, do you have a man crush on Captain America?,” you ask in a teasing tone, raising an eyebrow in mock speculation.

Bucky just laughs, “Steve’s a good guy, but he’s not my type.”

Before you could respond, you hear a knock on the door followed by a familiar face walking in.

Steve Rogers stands by the door awkwardly, rubbing his hands together in a nervous manner as he looks to you.

Bucky looks over and his face splits into a large smile. Stomping his feet on the ground, he gracefully leaps up from the couch and heads to Steve, grabbing him in a quick hug before pulling away. “Steve! Glad you could make it! I’m going to go catch up with Mama Red Wing!” He then turns to you and nods a goodbye. “I’ll see you around.” And with that, he’s out the door.

Traitor, you think, slightly irritated he just left you alone with this man who was notorious for making outrageous claims.

You’re sorely tempted to ignore Steve’s presence and just continue reading, but Steve had this pathetically soft look on his face and you find yourself taking pity on the man. “You can come take a seat, I don’t bite.” Hard.

Steve takes the invitation and walks over, moving surprisingly graceful for a man of his size and stature, and claims the same chair Bucky had previously occupied that faced you.

He sits there and stares at you for a moment in silence and you take the opportunity to check him out yourself.  You have to admit to yourself that he’s a very attractive man for a delusional person. Then again, you've always been a sucker for blond hair and blue eyes. A part of you wonders what that says about you, that you created this gorgeous man and he's completely insane and supposedly your soulmate.

Steve clears his throat and gives you a nervous smile. “I imagine you have some questions?”

Tags for Everything: @mermaidxatxheart @bettercallsabs @thinkwritexpress-official

Tags for One Touch: @blackcat-midnight-thatsme @kittylovesfandom @angryteapot @chonisberonica @delusional-of-love @unknownuserhasjoined @toews-a-peek @dryerpet

*Can’t tag you

[typetypetypetypeface]

Lucinda & The Case of the Winter Rose

Fan fiction set in the Harry Potter universe, featuring original characters, with a spy-adventure noir atmosphere. Usually there’s swearing, smut, and some sexy scenes.

6,507 words.

I was in my usual booth at the Leaky Cauldron. I like to spend my time there – the landlord Tom and I go way, way back to before the first war. I’m one of the few people who get automatic table service, and I always pay my tab on time. It’s a useful place to read the various newspapers, get a good gauge of the atmosphere of the whole wizarding world, and at least once a day it’s a good place to make contact.

             I was reading my paper and mulling over my response to a letter I’d received when someone sat down in the booth opposite me. The wooden seating creaked beneath him, and I lowered the paper just enough for my eyes to burn a stare over it. They were a tall, long-faced man with black hair and a scrubby, awkward little beard. He kept glancing around suspiciously, warily, and my paranoia flared up – I’m paranoid at the best of times, so this was exceptional.

             “Are you Lucinda Baker?”

             “I’m not,” I lied, “But I know who is. What do you want?”

             “My name is Aldermath Reeve, of the Somerset Reeves. You have heard of me?” he asked, officiously.

             “Never heard of you,” I lied, even employing my most sincere cockney accent. It wouldn’t fool a genuine Londoner, but I was testing him.

             “Well, nevertheless, I have business with your mistress,” he said. I had to supress a snort of laughter, but I lowered my newspaper.

             “Business?”

             “I’ll discuss it with her alone.”

             “Listen, Aldermath, to get to her you need to get through me. So tell me your story and let’s see if you’re worth her time, eh? You look like a man who needs something.”

             “Well, yes. I need her help.”

             “You’ve got my ear. What do you need help with?”

             “Um, I’m very uncomfortable discussing it out here, in public,” he muttered, leaning forward. I learned forward too, close enough to smell his breath. It was peppery.

             “We’re alone,” I said in a low growl. I glanced into the pub, and so did he – sure enough, the pub was nearly empty. After all, it was the late afternoon on a Tuesday.

             He pulled out a quill from his cloak. It was a long, dark, ostentatious quill. As he scribbled on a napkin, it flicked his face. Then he pushed the napkin towards me, and I saw that he had written one word: ‘murder’.

             I pulled the napkin towards me and plunged it into my pint glass that was still half full. The wet ink and the paper dissolved in the beer, and I pushed the glass away.

             “You owe me a drink,” I told him. He looked from the glass to me, taking in my eyes and expression, then nodded and got up.

             He seemed furtive enough that he wasn’t a Ministry operative. He might have been a paid snitch or a vigilante, but his accent made that unlikely. He seemed a legitimate, welcome customer. I watched him walk back from the bar. He hadn’t tried to put anything in my glass of wine, and he’d got a pint of beer for himself. Assumptive of him that a lady must drink wine, despite my beer being right in front of me – I liked how unobservant he was. And like I said, I’m paranoid. I keep a decent store of cures to poisons in my pockets at all times. I drank, and detected nothing expectant in his eyes beyond the eagerness to do business.

             “Who?” I said.

             “I told you, I’m Aldermath Reeve,” he said, looking puzzled like a fool, drinking from his pint.

             “No, I mean who are we discussing?” I said.

             “Oh! Of course! Well, it’s my sister,” he raised his glass to his lips again.

             “What?”

             “Yes, my sister. You see, our mother died a long time ago, and quite rightly left all of our finances and the estate to our father. But my father died recently, and left my fortune to my sister. She’s intent on wasting it on stupid gardening, and all sorts of nonsense.”

             “I see. So you want to spend a portion of that fortune on getting your fortune away from your sister, right?”

             “Yes,” he whispered, and gulped down more beer.

             “What’s her name?” I asked.

             “Adda Reeve,” he said. While I’d heard of Aldermath – a loud and obnoxious duellist – I’d never heard of his sister, Adda.

             “In a few days, you will receive a letter. It will have a number on it, along with further instructions. That number will be the fee,” I said, in a brisk, business-like way, “I should warn you now, it will probably be more than you expect.”

             “It’s gone beyond money, at this stage. It’s now a matter of pride,” he growled, and I had to hide my grin. I was eager to see how far beyond money I could charge. He drank the last half of his drink and got up unsteadily. “I look forward to her letter,” he said with a curt nod, and then he turned and strode out of the pub. His swirling cape attracted a few idle glances. I sipped at my wine glass thoughtfully.

             *

Later that night, I visited my favourite ‘freelance troubleshooter’. He was a mercenary assassin, and organising a meeting with him meant leaving marks on two different trees in Hyde Park. I was sitting on the pre-arranged park bench when he approached, wearing a long trench-coat. Myself, I was just wearing a simple woollen hat and long, dark, heavy coat with a light scarf. In the cold winter air, I was the less conspicuous. It wasn’t his long coat, it wasn’t his dark glasses, despite the dark of the night, and it wasn’t his huge stature, hauling around his bulk like a troll. It was his cheap, comical wig like a small dog which made him stand out.

             “You took your time,” I said, trying to keep my teeth from chattering.

             “There is a procedure,” he said. He looked over his dark glasses at me, pushing his wig back into place.

             “How are you?” I asked – he was my favourite assassin, after all.

             “I’m not bad,” he said, dusting the snow and frost from the bench next to me, “The baby is starting to sleep at nights. Or maybe me and the missus are starting to adjust to the weird hours.”

             “I’d have thought you’d be used to weird nights and strange sleep patterns,” I commented as he sat down.

             “I prize silence. It was a mark of my trade. Let’s just say I’m not used to the screaming,” he said with a sardonic grin and a sidelong glance, “How are you?”

             “I’m okay. I saw William the other day.”

             “How’s he doing?” asked the wig-wearing man, knowing that William had been in Azkaban for several weeks having recently lost his eye.

             “He’s not very happy,” I said, “But that’s to be expected.”

             “After what he did, he’s bloody lucky,” the bald man growled.

             “You didn’t need to blind him.”

             “He didn’t need to snitch,” he said, shrugging, “Anyway, it wasn’t me.”

             “I know,” I said, shrugging too, “I just feel bad for him, is all. You know what he’s like.”

             “I do. He’s a dreamer and a fool. But then, he’s always been bloody lucky,” he said, grinning at me once more without turning his head. I shot him a look.

             “William is useful. Listen, I have a target for you, and I need a quote.”

             “Go on,” he sighed.

             “Adda Reeve,” I told him.

             “Eh?” he said, looking alarmed.

             “Adda Reeve?” I said again, less certainly.

             “Of the Somerset Reeves? No fucking way,” he said, shaking his head, “Don’t you remember? Back in school her little boy used to be in the year below us. Then he came home one summer to the ancestral home and boom, he was killed by one of the traps. That whole family is fucking psycho, you know? I bet the contract is from the fucking brother,” he said.

             “What do you know about him?”

             “Not much. I’m sure you probably know more than me - I only know what everyone else knows. He’s a ruthless duellist, a cheater, and I’m pretty sure you’d have to have eyes inside his head if you were going to outthink him.”

             “He seemed to like his drink, when I met him,” I said, “And I mean, yeah, if a man wants to kill his own sister then I’m thinking he’s not exactly husband material, right? But if his money is good…” I said, leaving the sentence hanging.

             “Lucinda, don’t get me wrong,” said the bald man, standing up, “I’m up for the odd contract here and there. I mean, it keeps the money rolling in. You know how useful that is, with another little mouth to feed,” he said, “But if you want to invade the Reeves house, you need to be fucking insane or fucking well paid. With my new baby, I can’t take missions of complete and total suicide.”

             “How much do you think someone would charge?”

             “Hell, I don’t know. Twenty thousand galleons at the very, very least,” he said, “And that kind of money is too hot for my tongue. Sorry, Lucinda,” he said, turning as snow started to fall.

             “A definite no?” I asked him.

             “This time you’ll need to find someone else. See you later!” he said, waving a gloved hand as he strode off down the asphalt path into the snowy night. I sighed heavily, sending a great cloud of steamy breath into the air. Then I stood up, the frost making tiny, flaking noises on my long dark coat as I walked away.

             *

It seemed I was on my own. I sent off a letter with a thirty thousand quote, and got one back saying Aldermath would pay twenty-five thousand but no less. I accepted twenty seven thousand, five hundred. The next day I received half of the payment. To be fair these letters were just buying time – I was prepared to accept twenty, but I was conducting research. It started when I acquired the architect’s plans of their ancestral home from four hundred years ago, and every record I could scavenge about the changes to the buildings since. I also found a lot of paperwork on the traps and curses installed on the property. All of this is easily discovered using the wizarding tax office as a database. The records are meticulous, and if you have a well-paid friend on the inside then it’s the perfect place to start this kind of research.

             At the same time I was asking around about the sister’s habits, as anonymously as I could. It seemed she lived in the family mansion exclusively. Once a week her house-elf came out for groceries and various gardening supplies, which were delivered to the gate with the minimum of personal contact. It seemed I couldn’t fake my way inside with a delivery note and a uniform.

             I wasn’t put off by how every contractor rejected the work. The money was enough that I obsessed over the plans of the estate and started to see how I could accomplish it myself. I was also no stranger to murder.

             So it was that late one winter night, with thick snow on the ground, I levitated myself over the wall of the estate and perched in one of the high pine trees inside the grounds. I was wearing a balaclava with enchanted goggles that gave me night-vision, with thick black clothing and heavy black boots. I’d enchanted every article of my clothing with as much protection as I’d thought worth my time. But as I landed on the tree branch, I became instantly aware that I’d been thinking like a damn wizard.

             A steel axe came swinging down out of the higher branches. It was chaotic, merely attached to a slightly cursed rope, and it missed me by a mile. It was unexpected enough that it took me by surprise, but it was unwise – it made me more alert. I didn’t even need to dodge the thing. I climbed closer to the trunk of the tree, delicately keeping my balance as I pushed snow off the branches. It fell silently beneath me.

             I slung a rope around the tree and shimmied down it. Every footprint would be one I had to erase. I curved around to the east wing, now converted into a greenhouse. The least defended section of the house. There was a wide, snowy expanse between me and the building. Devoid of trees, I would stand out like soot on a bed sheet. I curdled the snow in front of me, swirling it up into a cloud as if a gust of wind had disturbed it. A few lights were already turning on inside the building, and I was sure the falling axe had triggered some silent alarms. But I’d come this far and made so many plans, and I was wearing my murder boots.

             I approached the wall, the snow settling behind me without a footprint. I crept up the old bricks to where the glass began. It was easier than trying to undo the spell that prevented levitation near to the house. Peering in through the enchanted greenhouse walls, I saw a mass of greenery that was completely alien to the desolate wintery landscape behind me. I looked up to my target – a newly installed window, wide and vulnerable, high above the pointy greenhouse roof. It was five stories up the huge Eastern tower. I lightly stepped along a foot-wide shelf formed by the ancient stone, finding both handholds and treachery in the glass wall beside me. I disturbed more snow as I walked, landing silently below me. I proceeded up the wall like a child’s toy. I swung my arms up and used the sticking charms on my gloves, letting my legs and slim torso dictate the speed of my climb. I was rubbing against the wall, and the scraping of my durable clothes against the stone was uncomfortably loud. I passed a tiny window that lit up as I came near it, and I froze against the wall.

             The light passed quickly. Some sort of guard, descending the tower to check out the alarm below. This suited me perfectly. I continued up the wall, swinging my hands quickly, trying not to think about the distance below me to the glass panels. In my paranoid mind, I could vaguely hear shouts and alarms below me, around the snow I had disturbed. In reality there was nothing but the cold, gentle wind. I vanished the wide pane of glass, silently. Every other glass window pane in the building was enscribed with wards to protect against being vanished, but this one had been recently installed to replace one broken by a falling bird. I gripped the windowsill with one firm hand, curled around the wooden frame like a claw. I hauled myself up, letting the sticking charms of the gloves do most of the work. Finally, I was inside the ancestral home of the Reeves.

             I made it to a landing, and hid gratefully behind a statue, far away from any light. There were cobwebs and dust everywhere – clearly the ancestral home was falling into disrepair. A few suits of armour stood along the dark walls.

             The door to the westerly wing was right in front of me. I was seven feet away, hiding across the corridor in complete shadow. I was behind a mundane suit of armour, brushing spider web and dust from my goggles before I tried the bedrooms. But then a vision of pure white emerged from the double doorway, dramatically pushing open both at once. I pushed my shoulder and cheek into the shadow while she stood in complete innocence before me. She had long, white hair but a youthful face, with the slightest suggestion of crow’s feet. Her eyes were bright pink, but her expression belied her inexperience. She ran to the left, her thighs shuddering beneath her long night gown as she ran.

             Before the door closed behind her I was sneaking through where she had come from. It sucked shut behind me as she rushed down a stairwell far away. I found myself in a gigantic master bedroom. The silence within it was that peculiarly specific quietness of someone having just left. The air smelled like someone had just been sleeping in here. I thought at first it was stark and barren, like a mighty cave, but then I saw the delicate floral motif in the wallpaper. There were no vases here, but there were a few trophies and awards lying haphazardly on the wall-mounted shelves. No makeup, but discarded medals. There were several thick dressing gowns hanging from the wall, with several thick wellingtons beneath them. The few childhood photographs on the wall were animated, waving in glorious naivety, pale and delicate.

             She was pictured next to her much sulkier brother, or her invalid mother. Her father was consistently resolute and strong, despite his greying hair as the years wore on. My plan had been to wait in the bedroom while they searched the house, and then strike later when everyone had settled back down again. But the only place to hide was beneath the bed, which was dangerously obvious. I snuck back into the main body of the house to track her through territory unknown to me.

             I was circling around a large stairwell when I heard a voice below me. It was light - feminine and posh but strained from stress.

             “I locked all the doors in the west wing when I saw him coming across the grounds,” someone was saying. I assumed it was the voice of Adda Reeve, who I had seen running from the west wing looking distressed. She continued, “In the east there’s nothing but the greenhouse.”

             “You check the greenhouse, then. I’ll check the kitchens and the cellar, okay?” said another voice, and I recognised the tiny resonance of a house elf. He was strong, blustery and officious.

             “Do you think he’s after the seeds?”

             “They’re the most valuable thing in the house, madam, and they can be easily carried. I think you should preserve your life’s work,” he said.

             “Yes, okay,” said Adda with relief, her voice echoing off the tall ceiling.

             It sounded like these two were the only ones in the house. I waited, listening to the footsteps fade away across the marble floors. I had memorised the layout of spells and landmarks outside the house, but stupidly paid less attention to the interior. It was a combination of guesswork and dimly remembered architectural plans that led me now, through the dark hallways. After a few minutes I only needed to follow the smell of rich earth and humid plants. It led me through a door standing wide open into the huge, pitch-black greenhouse space. A few dim lanterns glowed green through the huge, tropical leaves. The foliage was denser than Kew Gardens. The greenhouse was silent. I stayed close to the trunks of the trees, moving slowly. I listened for the sound of footsteps, but there wasn’t even a rustling leaf in the windless environment. Every step I took on the damp greenhouse floor made me worry.

             Suddenly there was a tiny rustling noise. I pointed my wand from left to right, trying to locate the source. It seemed to be coming from everywhere, unceasing. Too late, I realised it was literally coming from all around me. Two vines curled around my torso and before I could bring my wand up they pulled me into the trunk of a tree. Another one darted out of the dark leaves around me, seizing my wrist before I could even fire a spell, forcing me to drop my wand. I was completely trapped, and the more I struggled the harder it became to breathe.

             Adda walked through the black and green shadows, appearing like a glowing ghost. She looked at me fearfully, her wand pointed right at my head. With one trembling hand she reached forward and pulled my goggles off. I looked up at her with a calm, level gaze. All was not lost – I could still talk my way out of this.

             “You’re a woman,” she said, blinking in surprise. She gripped my chin, looking deep into my eyes. I continued staring at her for a fraction of a second. Her hands were rough and strong from gardening. I tried to avert my eyes, but she put her face closer to mine so that it filled my whole vision. I could feel the power pushing down on me. It only took one foolish glance back into her eyes, and she’d made contact. I was summoning all my willpower to keep her out, but she had a watery, silvery way of leaking through the cracks. Her mind was swift and agile. I could feel her rifling through my mind, flicking through my memories like a filing cabinet, exploring each one briefly. I only had one possible course of action, I realised. There it was – when she learned who had contracted me to kill her, there was a flare of emotion. Shock, pain, betrayal, sadness. It allowed me to trigger a sort of mental feedback, and use legilimency in return. Her occlumency was strong, but now she was uncertain from finding out how ruthless her brother was.

             There was no specific purpose to my raiding her mind, I just needed something. I could have found a crippling weakness, or some other way to escape. I could appeal to her mercy, or lie to her. At the very least I could predict how she’d react when we broke the mental connection a fraction of a second later.

             Her mental defences must have been powerful once, but they’d clearly atrophied after a decade of isolation. I was sorting through her memories just as she had done with mine – flowers, everywhere. Flowers and petals and even some scents, flooding my senses, swarming around me like angry wasps, trying to keep me out. It was another defence, but an effective one. All I snatched were quick glimpses of her childhood, being home-schooled by her parents and grand-parents. The swarms of hallucinatory flowers changed to daisies and dandelions, and other simple growths. She was sixteen when sent off to Hogwarts. It was a strangely old age for her to join the school. Of course a few of the kids picked on her for being a weird, isolated albino, but her brother had been at the school since a normal age and he helped look after her. Enthusiastic in herbology and gardening, of course, but unremarkable in every other class. Suddenly the flowers were chaotic, but there were irises and foxgloves and other small, delicate flowers. There were memories of boys – mostly harmless flirting, but a stolen kiss here and there. Her first boyfriend and the unrewarding intimacy. An orchid blooming then withering on its stem, feebly trying to bat me away from continuing my march through her life.

             She found when she returned from Hogwarts that her grandmother was increasingly senile, until finally her death while bedridden. Lilies and black roses. Discovering a stockpiled collection of the senile old woman’s bodily fluids, including blood, urine and faeces – so disgusting. The flowers stopped then, for a while. She took several apprenticeships working for famous herbologists around the world, and the blooms came flooding back past me, slowly at first. She fell in love with another herbology student, and the flowers all became pink and green, moving sickeningly, scarily fast through every memory like a hurricane. Finally there was a moment that crystallised around a potion.

             It involved urine, which reminded her of her grandma. A sample of her piss was mixed into a solution. It turned blue. She was pregnant. The man she loved went back to Brazil, and she was left to care for the baby in the ancestral home. She was just twenty. With her mother and father, both furiously shame-faced, and her brother who could barely look at her – despite being a womaniser himself, with several scandals in his past. She gave birth in her room, attended by a Healer who stayed in the house for several days until she was confident that Adda could care for the baby. Everything was orchids again, and huge fluttering bells of flowers twisting and flapping through the air. They were hardly attacking me now.

             Then there was the death of both her parents, and struggling to prevent her brother from selling off everything in the house to pay for gambling debts and duelling fees. More lilies and black roses, forget-me-nots and even a few thistles made their way past me. Her son, Andrew, was walking now. He could climb up the huge stairs, but Adda worried he was too lonely. She sent him to a muggle school for the first few years of his life, which her brother hated. Then he went to Hogwarts, and it seemed like he would grow up to be a strong, sensitive boy with his father’s colouring but his mother’s delicate, youthful features. All manner of flowers were cascading around me now – all of them flying and swirling happily.

             Her son was killed by one of the forgotten traps set up by her paranoid father. He had been fourteen when it happened, while Adda was thirty four. In the memory, a single black lily bloomed in the darkness on the night of his meagre funeral. The lily grew and grew, and then it turned, and I saw that it had eyes. Gigantic goat’s eyes, which were staring fixedly at me. It lunged towards me, giving off an intense stench of death and mould. I thought it would have harmless petals, but it had teeth that sank into me. I hurtled out of her mind in shock and pain; I exited her mind so violently that I hit the back of my head against the trunk.

             It was a strange experience. I had never had one like it, so abstract and surreal with flower petals floating around like ridiculous snow. I can’t explain how it felt to be batting at flowers swarming at me, while on another level of awareness my body was still bound by thick, leathery vines. Adda was still standing over me, looking at me expectantly.

             “Oh, Aldermath,” she sighed, muttering to herself, “He’s such a fool. Well, listen, Miss Baker. I’d rather live, so if you agree not to kill me, I’ll compensate you for your loss. I’ll pay you twenty seven thousand five hundred, if that’s all I’m worth to him,” she said. I stared at her mutely, thinking.

“Of course, the alternative is that I kill you here and use your body as fertilizer. I know several plants who would thrive on genuine human meat. There’s nothing quite like it,” she said, turning her wand idly between her fingers.

             “I’m listening,” I said coldly. She looked at me for a very long time with a sceptical air.

             “I know you like money. But I’ve also seen your memories of killing people. Quite a lot of people,” she said quietly. “What does it feel like?”

             That was when I started to panic. I make my money from keeping secrets, or exposing them. I’ve always been so, so careful about preserving my privacy, my information, the thick layers of lies and deceit between me and the rest of the world. Somehow she had squirmed through it all, like water that seeps into a stone then freezes, smashing it open. She was full of tricks, sure enough. I think she must have seen the sudden terror of exposure in my eyes, because she tutted.

             “I know you’ll want to kill me for what I might have learned. But you’ll know that everyone I cared about is dead now. Apart from Aldermath, I suppose, but… well,” she continued, “I only care about the plants. I don’t care what you’ve done, and I don’t want your money. Honestly, Lucinda, this deal will only work if you trust me. I know you’re capable of it. I’ve seen it in your memories. I’m going to untie you now, but if you make a sudden move then you’ll be plant-food before dawn, okay?” she said.

             She stepped away from me, into the leaves, muttering something. The vines around me relaxed, and collapsed to the ground like they were suddenly dead. I stumbled forward and holstered my wand. Her wand was shaking in her hand, and although her voice was flat and level and her eyes were stern, there was a tear running down her cheek, shining wetly in the dim light.

            “Was that thirty-five, you said you’d pay me?” I said, rubbing the feeling back into my fingers.

             “I want you to know that you can trust me,” she said, “So that you don’t come back later and kill me, of course. If I feel you can’t trust me, I’d have to kill you first. Does that make sense? It feels backwards somehow.”

             “Yeah, you know too much about me now. But if I don’t kill you, someone will,” I said frankly, “Your brother wants the family fortune.”

             “I know,” she sighed, “It’s sort of a good thing that my parents were so paranoid.”

             “I don’t know how you can say that,” I said quietly, “After losing your son, and being cooped up in here for so many years.”

            Her face went through several emotional transformations. I thought for a second that she’d curse me out of spite.

             “I’m protected here,” she said coldly. I considered trying to talk her into letting me kill her, but then I had another idea.

             “You’ll never be safe, as long as your brother lives,” I said. She took a step to the left and looked at me in a new light. Almost half a minute passed until she finally seemed to understand what I was offering.

             “You think he can be killed?” she asked, as if tasting the idea.

             “He’s only human. Of course he can be killed. I’ll do it for thirty-five,” I said.

             “How much of that is your management fee, and how much goes to the man you’ll get to actually do the deed?” she asked, smiling briefly, sarcastically.

             “It’s hard to negotiate when you’ve read my mind,” I said.

             “You’ll do it for twenty seven thousand five hundred, the same price you were charging me not to kill me,” she said.

             “No, you don’t understand. That’s thirty-five for your brother, on top of the thirty-five not to kill you,” I said. She laughed, then.

             “You’re impossible!” she exclaimed.

             “I have a friend who used to say that we make the impossible happen all the time,” I said.

             “Yes, your friend William Grey. A shame about his eye. When does he get out of Azkaban?” she asked, and I frowned. “I’m sorry. Like I said, you need to trust me in order for me to live. I’ve seen how your mind works. Come and look at this,” she sighed, beckoning me into the jungle.

             “I’m going to show you the most precious thing in this greenhouse. It’s my life’s work. There are plants here for all sorts of purposes.” I followed her at a distance. I considered just smacking her across the back of the head with a log or something, and I could tell from the stress in her neck and shoulders that she knew I’d be thinking it. But she continued on regardless, determined to prove something by not turning around.

             “There are plants here that can keep someone young for decades. There are plants that can put people into a magical sleep for thousands of years. Some people are very excited about my work here, thinking it might be something to do with Merlin. And there are plants here that one day might be able to heal all sorts of ailments beyond our current magic, if I can breed them correctly. Ailments like your mother’s brain damage, Lucinda,” she said softly. I was almost dismayed enough to stop walking, turn around and leave the estate, washing my hands of this whole family and its mess. Let some other assassin kill the sister, or the brother, or hell even both. But I’ve always kept good control of my emotions, so I continued to follow her, wondering if what she said was true.

             We reached the end of the greenhouse, and she started climbing a wrought iron staircase. At the top, there was a glass door with the same enchantment engravings as the rest of the glass panes. She unlocked it with her wand, and motioned for me to go through. There was a stone balcony inside a cage of heavy black iron bars. Everything was thick with snow, and the air was surprisingly still at this high, exposed altitude. Adda wrapped her arms around herself, rubbing her torso. She must have been freezing in the cold, wearing only her nightgown. Our breath fogged in the air. In the centre of the balcony there was a wrought iron podium, the black metal standing out against the white snow. On top there was a black vase, with a white rose growing from it. The soft, white petals were almost blue, and almost beige, but really neither. There was a soft glow coming from it, shining off the snow and the obsidian vase. Its long black stem held it high above the snow lying in the vase.

             “It’s magic,” she said, “Normal roses use fertilizer. I’ve never liked it, and if you saw my nana in my memories then I’m sure you understand why. But this rose is incredibly rare and magical. It uses snow like other plants use soil. It can only grow in the winter.”

             “Why does it glow?” I asked.

             “So that animals can find it and eat it, spreading its spell. But that’s not important. The point is that it’s delicate, and beautiful, and almost entirely useless. This is the pride of my entire collection. This single plant. The most difficult to grow, and the most beautiful. All my other research ideas, growth experiments, hybrid projects, they all serve a function. Better medicine, better food, more knowledge. This one is just for me. It’s a Winter Rose,” she said.

             “It reminds me of you,” I said, “Flowering here all cold and alone. Kept safe by the bars but also trapped by them.”

             “Strange. I was about to say the same about you,” she said, turning to me. I felt her hot breath mist on my freezing cheek, “So distanced, always forcing yourself to be apart, alone, private. Your bars are in your mind, obviously. It’s a metaphor.”

             I looked at her in the snow, trying to understand her. As I looked at her I realised we were too much alike. She tried to kiss me, darting in quickly, shyly. I turned my head, so she got my cheek. Her lips were soft, and warm, but even from the brief contact I could tell they were shivering.

             “Sorry,” I said, stepping away as if to look at the glowing Winter Rose. That wasn’t what I had wanted, even though she was beautiful, fragile, elegant and tragic all at the same time.

             “No, I’m sorry,” she said, “I shouldn’t have tried to do that. Maybe I’m more alone than I thought. But you get the idea now, yes? I’ve shown you my most precious possession, frozen and locked away up here, aloof. We’re very similar, you and I. So now you don’t need to fear what I know. Now you don’t need to kill me, and I don’t need to kill you, alright?”

             “Alright,” I said, and crossed my arms – more hugging myself than shrugging. I let out a long, shuddering breath of released tension, “So, let’s settle on forty thousand for the whole package?”

             “Okay,” she said sadly.

             “It’s a very beautiful thing,” I said quietly, “But it’s such a sad kind of beautiful.”

             “I know,” she said, and stood next to me. Her thin, cold fingers found mine and we held hands as we looked at the white, glowing rose lighting up the snow around it. More flakes started to fall from the sky.

             *

It wasn’t difficult to kill Aldermath. I arranged a meeting in the pub saying I’d been successful and wanted the final half of my money. Adda had agreed to take a brief holiday, which terrified the poor recluse but thrilled the younger, adventurous woman trapped deep inside the recluse’s body. Meanwhile her house-elf let everyone know that she had died mysteriously. 

             He sat down at my booth, pushed a plain brown envelope towards me and then toasted to his ‘dear, departed sister’. Of course I was controlling my expression. But I toasted with the pint I had already been drinking, rather than the glass of wine he’d bought me. He paused, wondering at my actions, then shrugged and drank like a fool. If he had been suspicious for a second then he should have paused to inspect his own drink. As he gulped his wine down I worried that he’d pre-emptively swallowed one of the many so-called ‘poison cure-alls’, which might interfere with the thing I’d dosed him with. But he seemed stupid enough not to suspect.

            I had paid Tom (the barman at the Leaky Cauldron) to put a tiny, brown ball of feathery earth-like substance into Aldermath’s drink. It dissolved instantly, noiselessly – without bubbles or any sign that it had ever existed. I’d acquired it from my favourite poison provider.

             He chatted idly about what he’d do with his family’s fortune – pay off his gambling debts, buy several duelling instructors – and then he left. It would take one or two hours, then the poison would react suddenly in his veins and he would die without a noise, without a thought.

             Adda was as good as her word, and paid me as much as we’d agreed. She’s always been a very reclusive woman, but I still see her sometimes to discuss her work. Especially how it might relate to curing my mother’s condition. It turns out now that I did manage to keep a few secrets from her, and I’ve built many more since we first met. One that I hope she never somehow discovers is that I’ve borrowed her mental techniques, pretending to harass people with a weak defence while showing them a narrative that actually leads them right into the biggest mental trap of them all. I’ve also learned how to squirm into someone’s mind rather than smashing my way in. There is one, huge secret that I will always, always have and shall always keep to myself – that in my heart of hearts, deep down beyond every layer of mental defence, at the very core of my mind, there is a white rose glowing in the snow. It’s not big, important or useful in any way, but it’s worth every protection I can give it.

[hysterialevi]

In the Smoke pt. 7 (Cobblebats) Also thank you guys for 30 followers!!

From Oswald’s POV

I grabbed Falcone by the neck, squeezing hard enough just to make him struggle as he wiggled helplessly in the air, a dangerous, groaning creak emitting from the beam he was hanging from. 

“I don’t got all day,” I snarled at him, “and neither do you. This tower ain’t holding your weight forever, mate, and the GCPD will be here soon. So just tell me what I need to know before I lose my patience, and I might let you go.”

Falcone scoffed. “You expect me to believe that? You just blew my club to hell, and look at my men!” He gestured to the bodies lying around us. “They’re all dead! What’s stopping you from doing the same to me?”

I stepped closer to him and pointed my gun under his jaw, glaring. “Nothing.”

He still refused to comply, and kept his mouth zipped tight. I pressed the gun even harder into his skin, leaving a dent.

“You have the technology to hack into Arkham’s records,” I explained. “And you’re gonna tell me how to do it.”

“And what if I don’t?”

I chuckled. “Then you’ll be of no more use to me, and I’ll kill you. And once I’m done with you, I’ll go after the Waynes, and repeat the exact same process. You think you’re being a hero by defying me? All you’re doing is makin’ it worse for my other enemies...your friends.”

Falcone tried to turn away from my gun. “Why the hell are you even interested in that loony-bin? What could you gain from it?”

My eyes narrowed in anger. “Gain? I didn’t gain shit from that hellhole, but you clearly benefited from it.”

He still looked confused, so I decided to spell it out for him.

“...about twenty years ago, there may have been a woman who was part of a rich family. She had a loving husband, a piece of land that you stole...and a little boy. A son...who was left all alone because of what you did.”

Falcone took a better look at me, his mouth dropping open. “...no. You can’t be--” He blinked rapidly a few times, completely dumbfounded. “...O-Oswald?”

I grinned behind my mask. This was too fun. 

“I told you I’d come back one day, didn’t I?” I taunted. “That I’d destroy everything and everyone you cared about, and send your fortune spiraling down in flames.” I moved my pistol from his jaw to his forehead. “You’ve lived in peace for long enough, Falcone. Time’s up.”

Before I could pull the trigger though, a sharp pain suddenly stung my hand when something hit it, flicking the weapon out of my grasp as it was sent sliding across the floor. I whirled around to see who else was here, and prepared for another attack, only to spot an iconic Batarang sticking out of a nearby wall with its blade barely lodged into the sturdy surface. 

“Let him go.” A low voice said. 

Not too far away from me, lurking in the shadows, was a pair of glowing, white eyes. I smirked, spreading my arms out to my side.

“Batman!” I exclaimed, approaching him. “It’s. About. Time. You set a bomb off, you’d expect a visit from Gotham’s number one vigilante.”

He took a step forward in an intimidating manner, clenching his fists. “I said let him go.”

I glanced over at my bodyguard, Roland, who was standing somewhere off to side. “You hear that, Roland? That sounded like an order.” The blue giant came out of hiding and began prowling towards Batman, cracking his knuckles.

“I’ll crush him.”

“Now, now,” I stopped him, “have a little respect for the Bat. Think he underestimates you.” 

As expected, Batman said nothing in return and simply stared at me, observing the situation like a hawk.

“Listen,” I told him, getting his attention. “I doubt you came here for small talk. You’re obviously here to save Falcone’s arse, which we’ll get to in a moment, but my only question is...why? This man,” I threw a firm punch directly into the crime-boss’ gut, causing him to reel, “don’t deserve being rescued. He’s a bloody gangster--if you can call him that--and he’s been running away from justice for ages. I thought ‘Batman’ was all about justice.”

The vigilante grimly examined the scattered corpses. “This isn’t justice.”

“Pfft, what, and a courtroom is? You can take Falcone to jail as many times as you want, Batman--but he’s always gonna get out. And he’s only gonna go after more victims.”

Interrupting our conversation, the sound of police sirens started to near the club, and I could hear the speedy footsteps of police offers as they tried to break in. I retrieved my gun from the floor and let out a dramatic sigh, Roland blocking off the vigilante from me.

“So sorry this didn’t work out, mate. I’d stay to watch--I really would, but I’ve got a Wayne problem to deal with. Perhaps we can continue this at a later date.” For some reason, that seemed to strike worry in Batman.

I turned to Falcone. “As for him...”

Casually waving goodbye, I shot the rope tying Falcone’s hands to the beam, causing him to plummet immediately through the air with a frightened shriek. Batman instantly bulldozed his way past me and Roland, ignoring the original reason why he came here, and took out that grapple-gun of his, diving off the edge after Falcone. He really was crazy, wasn’t he?

Before either of them could make it back up here however, I decided to take this chance to escape and sprinted out of the club with Roland trailing behind me, evading the GCPD along the way. So, I may not have gained any information from Falcone as I planned, but at least I had a new weapon in my arsenal--and that weapon was waiting to meet me at this very moment.

From Bruce’s POV

I sat patiently in Oz’s office, waiting for my friend to return as I watched the news. So far, there was a recorded count of eleven deaths, and over twenty were injured and in critical condition. Whoever this Penguin was, he certainly caused a good amount of damage, and by attacking the Skyline Club so blatantly, it was obvious that he was trying to send a message. As for Uncle Carmine, he had been saved by the famed Batman, and was now being treated in Gotham’s precinct. As far as I could tell, he wasn’t as badly harmed as the other victims, but he was still in dire need for medical attention. Despite hating what he did for a living, I couldn’t help but worry a little for my uncle. He was still family, after all.

Shutting off the TV, I started to think about what Harvey said back at the café. As obvious as it was, I was still surprised that he actually admitted to being infatuated with me. I didn’t get a chance to respond to his confession, and to be honest, I was kind of grateful for that. Even if that bomb hadn’t gone off, I wouldn’t have known what to say anyways. I mean, Harvey was a friendly and compassionate guy--there was no doubt about that--but I just didn’t share his attraction. My mind was already occupied with fantasizing about someone else.

After a while of waiting, the office’s door finally swung open, revealing Oz in the entryway. He was only wearing his white v-neck right now, and his black coat had been slung over his shoulder. There was a deep, red gash on the back of his hand, and he looked like he had just gotten out of a fight. What happened?

A smile came to my face. “Oz, you’re back. Are you all right? You look like hell.”

Oz looked at me as if he were thinking about something. “Oh, this?” He lifted his hand. “It’s nothin’. Just had a run-in with Batman.”

I froze. “Wait, what?”

He didn’t elaborate much on the subject and simply carried on as always, until his brow raised with realization and he began wrapping a bandage around the wound. “Oh, that’s right...you don’t know about Penguin, do you?”

Was he implying what I thought he was? 

“Oz,” I said suspiciously, “...are you the Penguin?”

He grinned. “The one and only.” Cutting the bandage, he walked towards me. “I would’ve told you sooner, Bruce, but I was worried it’d scare you off.”

“I get that, but if we’re gonna be working together, we need to be honest with each other. All right?”

Oz nodded. “I can work with that. Anyways, we’ve got a lot of work to do. That debate is just ‘round the corner, and it’s the perfect opportunity to expose Falcone, Hilll, and your father.”

“How do you mean?”

“Think ‘bout it. All of Gotham is gonna be watching that night. The entire city’s attention will be on the debate. If we show the evidence there, there won’t be a man, woman, or child who don’t know about the mayor’s crimes.”

I was still a little lost. “But what evidence do we have?”

Oz raised a finger. “That, mate...is where you come in. Apparently, your father’s got access to the records and databases of...pretty much everywhere in Gotham. City Hall, the GCPD, you name it.”

He grabbed a chair and sat on it backwards, scooting closer to me. “I need you to find a way to pull up the records of Arkham Asylum, and send them to me. They’ve got an endless supply of security footage and patient files that could help us tremendously, and we can play ‘em at the debate. What d’you think? Can you handle that?”

I had no idea that my father had such resources, and I didn’t know how he was able to access so much information, but if growing up around criminals helped me do anything--it was being sneaky. I would have to keep a close eye on my father, and watch his every move, but also avoid suspicion at the same time. With enough patience, it was definitely possible.

“I got it covered.” I said.

He winked at me. I melted inside. “Thanks, Bruce. Well, I should get to work on preparations. In the meantime, you just focus on getting that evidence, all right? I’ll take care of the rest. Oh, also--” Oz shrugged, “--sorry for ruining your date with Dent.”

I chuckled. “It wasn’t a date, Oz. I mean, he likes me, but...”

He caught on pretty easily. “You don’t like him back, do you?”

I shook my head in guilt. “No.”

“Who do you like, then?”

My words got stuck in my throat at that question, and I felt myself blushing, but my silence alone was able to say more than enough. Oz grinned flirtatiously.

“Oh, I see. Well...can’t really blame you.”

“I should mention that arrogance is a huge turn-off for me.” I joked.

“Oh, but blowing up a tower on live TV isn’t?”

“You have a thing for theatrics. I respect that.”

He laughed. “I’ll keep that in mind. Anyways,” Oz stood up from his chair and headed for the door, “I’ll start getting everything ready. You just do whatever it takes to find those records, okay?”

“You got it.”

And with that, Oz was out and off to work once again, leaving me alone with one of the biggest tasks of my life. I assumed that my father would have some complex security system to keep out people like me, and I didn’t even know where to begin when it came to hacking. Though, he was away from home right now. This was a good chance to snoop around. I just had to avoid Alfred.

Exiting the office, I shut the lights off behind me and made my way out of HQ, wondering just exactly what the hell I was getting myself into. I loved my father, and the last thing I wanted to do was fight against him, but if he was going to keep harming Gotham like this, I didn’t see any other option. He had to be stopped. 

Even if it meant he had to die.