#house of secrets was horrifying to me when i was younger. i still have vivid images from that book in my head | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

violetsmoak · 5 years

Text

Tabula Rasa [4/?]

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20183281/chapters/47927632

Blanket Disclaimer:

Summary: Tim and Jason have known they are soulmates for years, though neither has said anything about it. Tim thinks Jason doesn’t know, and is just trying to live with it. Jason thinks Tim knows but doesn’t care, which is fine with him, he thinks the soulmate thing is a crock anyway. But one night, a minor mishap forces them to confront the issue head-on, leading to a series of events no one could have predicted.

Rating: PG-13 (rating may change later)

JayTimBingo Prompts This Chapter: #a lie #bright vivid colors #enemies to lovers #i’ll protect you # secret identity #soulbond #soulmark tattoo #soulmate aversion

First Chapter

________________________________________________________________

Jason’s body moves before his mind catches up, prompting him to drag them both to one side and out of any easy line of fire. There’s a small alley several yards away, and he does his best to get there without jarring the man in his arms. Tim’s eyes are wide in shock and pain, body crumpled and limp. Jason’s brain is numb as it scrambles to understand what just happened.

Tim’s been shot. Tim’s been shot in the head.

There are screams from the other passersby on the street, people running and scattering like rats. It’s the middle of the day, but shootings aren’t out of place here; people know how to take cover. They also know not to relinquish that cover to help someone down by a bullet.

Even a Wayne.

Especially a Wayne.

No one wants to provide another target to whoever’s decided to shoot up Crime Alley.

Except, Jason notes dimly, there hasn’t been another gunshot.

Maybe whoever it is won’t waste bullets when there’s no target.

Jason’s fingers are slick with blood, slipping against Tim’s neck as he looks for a pulse. It’s there, though weak, and Jason shifts automatically, angling him upright to keep him from choking on his own blood.

As he does his best to use his hands to staunch the bleeding, he snarls, “Don’t…you…dare…”

Jason can’t remove his fingers to tap his comm; several seconds pass before he can nudge his ear hard enough with his shoulder to turn it on.

(He’s beyond thankful he put it back in when he returned to Gotham—doesn’t want to think how this could go if he hadn’t.)

“Drake’s been shot,” he barks when the telltale static hiss informs him, someone, somewhere is on the line. “GSW to the head, get a fuckin’ bus to Park Row and West.”

“En route,” he hears Batman growl immediately, followed by a series of horrified exclamations from other Bats.

Batgirl and Signal, he thinks, but he honestly isn’t paying attention to any of the entreaties over the line anymore. He’s too busy monitoring Tim’s condition, counting the younger man’s breaths, and the pauses in between. They seem like they’re getting longer. He tells himself it’s Tim, using that absurd Bat training to slow his breathing, but he knows better.

“Stay awake,” he orders. Tim’s breathing is wet and choked, and his eyes roll like he’s on the verge of unconsciousness. “Come on, you’ve never taken anything I’ve said seriously before, don’t you dare start with this.”

It’s the longest three minutes of his life, but then Batman is there, looming over them both. People across the street are staring—Batman doesn’t show up in daylight as much as Gotham’s other vigilantes do. Robin lurks at his side, normally dark skin pale as he regards Tim with a clenched jaw. For once, the kid has no smart-ass comments.

Instead, he moves forward and makes a gesture as if he intends to take Tim’s weight from Jason, who shakes his head sharply.

“I’ve got him,” he snaps. “If we move him more than we need to he could bleed out. Go check those rooftops across the street. Look for evidence of a sniper, any clue about what fucker did this.”

For a wonder, Robin doesn’t even argue; he’s gone between one blink and the next.

“The ambulance will be here in another minute, and Dr. Thompkins is on the way to Gotham General,” Batman says. Of course; brain injury is more than she can handle in her clinic. “What. Happened.”

“High-velocity bullet entered from the back of the head,” Jason says, automatically switching into report mode. “Based on the angle it was—”

“That’s not what I meant. What were you doing here?”

It’s not a question, and the tone is almost accusing; Jason recoils as if slapped. Only practice keeps his hands immobile on Tim’s wound.

“This is my fucking neighborhood!”

“And normally you avoid Tim. What were you doing with him?”

“Exactly what are you implying?”

There’s no answer as the ambulance arrives, two technicians jumping out and hurrying over to Tim. Another unloads a stretcher and gear, which they start to set up. Batman vanishes and Jason focusses all his attention on whatever the techs are telling him as they work on Tim.

He’s not sure how long it is before they finally lift Tim out of his arms. Suddenly Dick is there, dressed in colorful tropical clothing too ridiculous for February, bare arms and legs chapped from what appears to have been a frantic ride on a motorcycle.

“I thought you were in Hawaii,” he thinks he says; thankfully, Dick isn’t paying attention.

“Tim? Oh my God, Tim! What happened?!”

“Sniper,” Jason says as the paramedics hurry the still form of the youngest former Robin into the back of the ambulance.

“I’m coming with him,” Dick announces, already climbing into the vehicle with the techs.

“Sir, you can’t—”

“I’m his brother, and I’m a cop,” he snaps. “And if none of that matters to you, my father’s fucking Bruce Wayne. You’ll never work again if you don’t get my little brother to the hospital now!”

The doors slam shut, and the ambulance tears around the corner. Jason remains standing in the middle of the street, blood still soaking his clothing as the crowd of onlookers grows.

“What about you?” a voice asks, and Jason jumps when he notices that Robin has returned.

“Did you find anything?” he responds, ignoring the question.

“Nothing.”

“What?” Jason snaps, glowering down at the thirteen-year-old. “That’s not possible.”

No sign of a sniper my ass. There must be something. Even fucking Deadshot leaves evidence.

“I know how to survey a scene, Todd, and there was nothing—where are you going?”

“Somewhere I can make a damn difference,” Jason retorts, already stalking away.

“I’m coming with—”

“Batman needs you more than I do, kid.”

He doesn’t wait to see if Damian listens, too intent on running far and as fast as he can. He won’t wait around to answer questions from the cops, could still be a target—

How the fuck did I become a target, to begin with? How did they figure me out?

He heads for Byron Avenue, keeping close to the buildings and out of open space that might prompt another attack, then ducks into the subway station. Besides his safe houses, he has several caches all around the city with spare gear and basic medical kits.

After double and triple-checking that he isn’t being followed, he heads for a storm drain where he’s stashed a waterproof bag with everything he needs. There he changes into his helmet and gear, leaving the blood-soaked hoodie and jeans behind.

Returning to the scene of the shooting, Jason makes his own investigation of the rooftops. The building he thinks was the sniper’s nest provides an excellent vantage point. Down on the pavement, he can see the drying puddle of Tim’s blood—but it’s as Damian said. There is no sign of a shooter—no footprints, hair, bullet casings.

So, whoever this is got wise since the last time, or…

His thoughts stutter, interrupted by the memory of Tim’s wide-eyed stare and he swears.

That’s not going to help find the fucker who did this.

He refocuses, tries to put himself in the sniper’s position. What would he do once he didn’t hit his target?

Honestly, he’d have kept shooting, so why didn’t this guy? Unless Tim was the target—which is possible, but unlikely. Red Hood’s the one that’s had some kind of silent war declared on him. The last time Jason checked the only major grudge against Red Robin from someone who knows his identity was Ra’s al-Ghul.

And he has a gigantic, creepy crush of Tim’s brain, so probably not going to risk breaking it.

Jason’s thinking in circles now and it makes him want to punch something—so he does. The wall doesn’t give, and he’s sure he sprained one of his knuckles, but the pain focuses him.

“He’s gonna be okay.”

Jason jerks around, hand flying to his hip holster as Signal appears beside him. “Christ, kid, don’t sneak up on me today.”

“O says he’s in surgery,” Duke goes on as if he didn’t almost get shot. “They had him in the operating room within fifteen minutes of him getting shot. You did a good job of keeping him stable.”

“If I’d been doing a good job, I’d have noticed some asshole taking a shot at us,” Jason growls. A moment later it dawns on him why Signal is here. “Did he send you to read the area?”

Duke nods and surveys the rooftop. “This the place?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re sure?”

“Pretty damn,” Jason replies. “A bullet’s trajectory doesn’t lie.”

“Point.”

“So what can you see?”

“Gimme a minute, it’s not like a switch I can just flip,” Duke retorts. He takes a few steps toward the edge of the building and stands still for a moment. Jason recognizes his posture as one of the standing meditative stances Bruce uses.

It’s several long minutes, where the only change is Duke’s breathing becoming a little more labored and his shoulders tensing a bit.

“Okay, I think…I think I got something,” he says, cocking to his head to one side as if he’s listening to something Jason can’t hear. “Yeah, there was definitely someone here—set the gun up here—” He waves a hand over the edge without touching it. “—but that’s it.”

“What.” Jason narrows his eyes.

Duke’s shoulders relax as if in defeat. “Exactly what it sounds like. I can’t tell anything, man.”

His frustration matches Jason’s. “You just said you saw someone.”

“I did. But whoever they are, they’re dressed all in black, wearing a balaclava and visor. Average height, average build—I guess more on the athletic side? I can’t even tell if they’re male or female. Could be government, could be a new mask, could be ninjas for all I know.”

“In my experience, ninja favor swords and shuriken instead of high-caliber sniper rifles.”

“Hah.” Duke pauses, and when Jason remains silent, tilts his head to one said. “Wait. You’re not kidding.”

Jason doesn’t answer, instead takes out his grapple gun and shoots a line to rappel down the side of the building.

“You’re welcome,” he hears Duke mutter behind him.

Jason needs information, and none of his people are talking to him right now. He could contact Oracle, but—no, probably with the Family right now, if Dick’s here already.

But she’s also protective as hell, so she’ll be working this even if she’s in waiting to find out if Tim’s…

Jason’s brain stalls again, the image of Tim in his arms, the stickiness of the blood, expression resigned after what Jason says—

Against his will, against his attempts to keep busy, his brain seems keen to remind him that his soulmate was just shot in front of him. That he very well might die—could be dead already.

“Yeah, well, my life would have been a lot easier if you didn’t exist!”

Suddenly it’s of dire importance that he finds out how Tim’s doing.

Gambling on Dick’s presence signifying a fortuitous early return of the honeymooners, he flicks through the channels on his comm until it gets to Oracle’s frequency.

“Is he…?”

“Are you coming to the hospital?” she interrupts, her regular voice sharp in his ear.

“Don’t think I’d be very welcome there.”

“B isn’t here. He’s been doing the same thing as you. It’s why he sent Signal your way while he tracks down possible witnesses.”

“Are you fucking kidding me? That’s his kid in there!”

“When have you ever known him to sit around and wring his hands when something like this happens?”

Jason growls at that.

“Listen, I get why you might not want to come. But you should. It would make Dick feel better at least. He’s a wreck and needs his siblings right now.”

“Cass and the brat aren’t there already?”

“They are. But you’re his brother too.”

He snorts.

“Don’t give me that. He is. And Tim is too.”

“No, he’s not.”

“Oh, for god’s sake, why do you have to be so difficult!” Barbara snaps. “Pull your head out of your ass for once in your life and be here for your family. Gotham General, Room 1602. If you don’t show up at least once, I’ll load viruses in all of your tech for the next year.”

There’s a definitive click that closes the conversation.

Jason scowls into the distance.

She would, too.

Another ten minutes of debating with himself, and he heads toward the hospital.

⁂

Jason can’t bring himself to enter the hospital, to sit around with the rest of the Family and pretend that he’s one of them. Not with Bruce’s cold question ringing in his ears.

“What were you doing?”

Still, he brings up the floor plans to the building on the screen in his helmet, uses it to pinpoint where Tim is. He climbs the nearest fire escape and fixes a grapnel to the window outside the conference room that has become an impromptu private waiting room for the Wayne family.

They’re all there, talking in hushed voices like it’s already Tim’s funeral. The undercurrent of tension and fear is so tangible it permeates the walls of the building. It sounds like even Bruce is there now, and Jason wonders if Barbara threatened him, too.

Jason’s got his microphones tuned into the sound inside and can hear every whisper. None of it is relevant to Tim’s condition, so he ignores most of it.

“Okay, you harpy, I’m here,” he mutters into his comm, digging with his free hand into his pocket for. “But I ain’t comin’ in, so don’t push it.”

The words it’s a start flash across his screen, and he rolls his eyes as he fits the cigarette to his lips.

Jason stays there for what seems like hours, hanging along the wall like a living shadow and smoking like a chimney. When his hand is empty, he’s not staring at it, watching his soulmark as it fades in and out of existence. He’s never focused so much on the eddying patterns of color before, or what they mean.

He’s also not sure if he’s relieved or terrified to realize he has a more accurate idea of Tim’s condition than the Family waiting on updates.

It feels like forever before there’s movement inside, bodies jumping to standing, and the sound of a door opening. Jason presses closer to the window, his entire body rigid in anticipation. It’s Doc Thompkins greeting them.

Instantly, everyone is clamoring around her.

“Is he okay?”

“How much longer will the surgery take?”

“Will he be alright—”

“He will be out of surgery soon,” Thompkins says, cutting everyone’s questions. “And as of right now, his odds are as good as they can be.”

There’s a collective sigh of relief; Blondie gives a half-sob and Alfred murmurs a prayer of gratitude under his breath. Something in Jason’s chest, which he hadn’t noticed has been clenched since he processed the fact that Tim was shot, loosens.

“The bullet went through clean,” Thompkins continues, “and it didn’t stay in the brain, which has kept the damage minimal. From what Tim’s neurosurgeon Dr. Scherr described, it entered from the back and exited the front, traveling the length of the left hemisphere. He’s still extracting the skull fragments from the brain matter and dealing with the other injuries to his head, but otherwise, Tim should be out of surgery soon.”

Dick makes a choked noise, and Bruce begins, “The team working on him—”

“Have all been vetted,” Thompkins assures him. “I have complete trust in their discretion. And I will continue to monitor him myself once I finish updating you.”

A collective wave of relief settles across the room.

“He’s not out of the woods yet,” Thompkins warns. “The surgeon had to remove part of his skull to allow for swelling without compression. It will need to remain open for a while. They’ll keep him in an induced coma for some time to allow his brain to rest.”

“How long will that be?” Blondie asks.

“They won’t replace the piece of the skull until they’re sure there are no bacteria from the bullet remaining, which could be awhile. As for the coma, that will depend on him. It will last as long as it needs to last.”

“But he’s…he’ll live?” Dick asks.

“That remains to be seen,” the woman sighs. “A person’s chances of survival depend on the areas of the brain that struck, the velocity of the bullet, whether the bullet exits the brain.” Jason hears a shift of clothing, no doubt something like a shrug. “I can say this, it’s a good thing it passed only through the left hemisphere; if it had been both, the damage would be worse, if not fatal.”

“I don’t understand,” Cass says. “He is…okay. But not.”

“The brain can sometimes tolerate losing one half,” Bruce explains to her, though his voice does not sound as optimistic as that news might call for. “Sometimes.”

“The bullet didn’t touch the brain stem or the thalamus and missed the major blood vessels, the ventricles…that’s good news,” Thompkins says. “As for the bad news…”

“The left side of the brain controls language and speech.”

“Exactly. So, in the coming days, he’ll be under observation and when he wakes up, we’ll see if he’s able to process anything.” Thompkins sighs. “I won’t lie to you. His recovery process will be a long one.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time for one of us,” Dick says, trying to sound hopeful.

“When can we see him?” Blondie wants to know.

“As requested, a private room is being set up for him. Once he’s brought in, you can go see him one at a time. He won’t be awake for a while, though.”

It’s as promising a prognosis as it can be, and Jason decides that the kid’s in good hands. He’s met Barbara’s ultimatum, and he’s assuaged any minor concern he might have about Tim. There’s nothing else for him to do here.

Jason turns away from the window and releases the grip on his grapple to allow him to rappel down the wall.

Back to the drawing board, he decides. Maybe if he looks at the scene from a different vantage point, he’ll get some inspiration. Track down any witnesses and if Batman hasn’t scared the piss out of them yet, ask his own questions.

It’s time to put the fear of Red Hood back into the hearts of the criminal underworld.

⁂

Two weeks later, as Jason numbly stares up at the fiery remnants of his last safe house in Gotham, he realizes it might be time to go underground.

Every day since Tim’s shooting, it’s been another attack on him, either with his boltholes' destruction or the people on his payroll turning on him. The word is out that he’s got a price in his head, and everyone’s trying to collect.

The smart thing would be to leave Gotham for a bit, regroup and plan his bloody answer for his latest challenger in the shadows. But Jason’s always had a stubborn streak. If a soulmate crisis can’t keep him out of his city, some upstart trying to take over the Gotham underworld won’t do it either.

But until he can get a better understanding of what’s going on, he’s putting more and more people in danger. Two of the working girls were attacked since the first safe house was bombed. And there’s that horrible, needling sense that what happened to Tim was because of Jason that won’t go away.

No one’s going to work with Red Hood right now, and it’s too dangerous to start asking questions outside of the mask. Especially if someone has a vague description of him in mind.

But he has a plan.

Unfortunately, the plan requires Red Hood to die for a little while.

It’s easy to find a body to stick in the ruins of his safe house. He’s got an in at the morgue and his pick of John Does for the right price—someone of his height and build. The most difficult bit is transporting the body and wrestling it into his spare gear and a helmet.

And then he disappears; grabs a go-bag from another cache (those haven’t been found, which is at least one thing going right), sneaks through sewers and backstreets to avoid being followed. He’s been switching motels every day—sometimes twice a day—and paying in cash, so if anyone’s watching his online presence they can’t track him that way.

A trip to an outlet mall in Otisburg provides him a new wardrobe (one that more closely resembles something Bruce might wear, albeit at a lower price and quality). After the last stop in a pharmacy, he’s got everything he needs to bleach his hair and tint it closer to his natural shade; he’s stopped shaving, so the stubble will eventually grow in a matching color. Finally, he takes a page out of Superman’s book and adds a thick-rimmed pair of glasses.

He frowns at himself in the cheap mirror of his temporary room, unable to see anything of himself in the reflection.

I look like a douchebag grad student.

It’s time to begin the next part of his plan, but he finds himself hesitating. His eyes stray to the mark on his hand, which he’s looked at more in the past two weeks than every year since it appeared on his skin.

Tim’s still alive, but there hasn’t been any news on that front. Nothing mentioned in the news beyond replays of someone’s shoddy cellphone recording the shooting. He’s looked that footage over from every angle, hoping to find a clue in it as to the identity of the shooter, but there’s nothing to find.

He hasn’t run into another cape for two weeks now. Though he’s heard snatches of conversation on the comms suggesting they’re still around, he suspects it’s not in full force. If things are dire, that would explain the lack of vigilante activity in the city right now.

Jason sits on the decision for another two hours before deciding to bite the bullet and head to the hospital. He should at least check in once more before going into hiding.

(Not because he’s worried about Tim beyond the cursory sense of not wanting him to be dead.)

Alfred is the first to see him as he ambles through the door, eyes widening imperceptibly. “Master Jason.”

The words cause an immediate reaction. He didn’t tell anyone he was coming, figuring they’d tell him not to bother or call security on him. As such, the sudden rise in tension as he shuffles into the room is understandable.

Steph sits bolt upright from where she was lying head in Cass’s lap, and Babs mouth draws into a thin line, though she gives him a nod. Duke pushes off from the nearby wall, uncrosses his arms like he’s ready to throw down if something goes wrong. Dick, though, seems lost, stumbling from his chair and over to Jason, looking torn between hugging him or shaking him.

Bruce and Damian are nowhere in sight, for which he is both grateful and a bit resentful.

There’s no way they went on patrol tonight, is there?

And then there’s Tim. Lying in the hospital bed, bandaged and bundled into something like a hockey helmet, his usually pale skin impossibly white. Jason can see the veins beneath it even from this distance. He looks so much smaller and weaker than Jason remembers him being.

He has the bizarre urge to check his pulse again, just to feel it beating, even as the monitor he’s hooked up to beeps out a steady rhythm.

“What the hell is he doing here?” Steph demands though Cass reaches out to squeeze her hand. She shakes her head at her soulmate and then looks up at Jason with a small, encouraging smile.

“He is here. For Tim.”

There’s a sharp stab of fear just then, that Cass might know. That any or all of them might, but like Tim, just never mentioned it. It wouldn’t be out of the realm of possibility for the Bats to keep something from him to protect one of their own.

Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.

He shifts his weight, ready to step back into the hallway, but Dick seems to come to a decision then. He envelops Jason in a sudden hug which makes him tense up and clench his fists so he doesn’t reflexively punch him.

“Thank you,” Dick breaths, pressing his head against Jason’s shoulder. “You kept him alive. If it weren’t for you…”

“Don’t go thanking me yet,” Jason dismisses, pulling away. “He’s still in a fuckin’ coma.”

“But he could be dead,” Dick says, not seeming bothered by Jason’s rejection. “You saved him.”

Or got him shot in the first place.

As inaccurate as Dick’s sentiments might be, they do the job of diffusing the tension; everyone relaxes, and Alfred gets up from his chair to greet Jason. He doesn’t hug him, but in an uncharacteristic touchiness, squeezes his shoulder.

“I can only echo Master Richard’s sentiments,” he says, and then considers Jason. His mouth quirks in a smile at his hair. “And that is a look I have not seen in many years.”

It takes a moment before Jason understands, and then he shifts in something like embarrassment. “Yeah, well, it’s only temporary.”

“A shame. Do you know how many chemicals and carcinogens are in those awful dyes you continue to use?”

“I think at this point, cancer is the last thing that’s going to kill me,” Jason replies dryly.

“Should have known he was a ginger,” Steph mutters not quite under her breath. “It’s the lack of soul that should have given it away.”

“Want to run that one by me again?” Barbara asks lightly, but there’s a dangerous glint in her eyes.

“I already know you don’t have a soul, boss lady,” Steph replies. “Not with how many times you’ve sent me into Gotham’s sewers. You’re Beelzebub as far as I’m concerned.”

“Steph, knock it off,” Dick says.

“I’m just saying, it’s not beyond the realm of possibility. I mean, he was dead, who knows what kind of Hell STD he might have picked up.”

“He’s here to check on Tim, not pick a fight.”

“I don’t know, I could probably use one,” Jason replies thoughtfully.

Steph bares her teeth. “Me too.”

“You will do no such thing. Either of you,” Alfred pronounces, in the voice that even Batman doesn’t argue with. “Master Richard, perhaps you might update our new arrival as to Master Timothy’s condition? If only to stave off any further bloodshed?”

Jason and Steph both slump, chastised, but Dick is already nodding.

“The first two or three days were hard,” he says, motioning for Jason to come further into the room. “They woke him every few hours to check for responsiveness, and he was able to make some noise, which the neurologist said was a good sign. But then the third day the swelling got really bad. They were worried they’d have to go for another surgery to relieve the pressure, but it went down on its own.”

“The neurosurgeon says we won’t know if that caused any other damage until he fully wakes up,” Barbara adds.

“The next day they reduced to sedation to see if he could breathe on his own, which he could,” Dick goes on. “They had to put him back on at the time, but Leslie says the fact he had the ability so early in the healing process is a good sign.”

“Then the day after, when they changed his bandages, he opened his eyes.”

“Was he okay?” Jason asks before he can stop himself, eyes flitting to Tim and back.

Dick shakes his head sadly. “He couldn’t see anything. The doctors tested that first thing, and nothing. He was trying to speak, though, and kept choking around the tube in his throat. They had to put him under again.”

“Shit.”

“That was last Tuesday. Friday they decided to check his breathing again, and that time they brought him in for a tracheotomy to give him a smaller ventilator tube. They want him to get used to breathing on his own again, slowly. Then on Sunday, they fixed the damage around his eye-socket.”

“As much as they could, I guess,” Steph adds with a sigh, settling back against Cass. “He’s going to have a scar there even if he gets reconstructive surgery.”

“Luckily we have no need to create a cover story for that scenario,” Alfred says. “The press has been airing the news about the shooting for two weeks now.”

“He has been shot. Twice. In the last year,” Cass points out. “Big news for them.”

“I think Vicki Vale might actually be crouched in a corner somewhere in the hospital live-tweeting the whole thing,” Steph complains.

“She is not,” Alfred snorts. “Master Bruce gave explicit orders that the hospital would be losing significant financial contribution if his family’s privacy was not prioritized at this time.”

“Must be nice to own the world, huh?”

“They downgraded his condition from critical to serious this Tuesday. We’ve all just been hanging out here in case he wakes up,” Dick concludes, and he seems exhausted after going through all of that.

“No one’s out there?” Jason asks, jerking his head toward the city beyond Tim’s room window.

“Everyone takes shifts. B and R were on tonight, but they should be back soo—”

“What is this?”

Everyone turns to face Bruce, who looms in the doorway, brows drawing downward; there’s some swelling in his jaw that even make-up can’t quite cover, no doubt a souvenir from tonight’s patrol. Behind him is a petite nurse and Damian, who peeks around his father’s bulk and imitates his scowl.

“Todd. What are you doing here?”

“Mr. Wayne, is there a problem?” the nurse considers the sudden tension in the room, and then frowns at Jason. “Young man, only family should be in here right now.”

“I was just leaving,” Jason says. It’s easier to run than to explain that, technically, he’s family, even if Jason Todd Wayne has been dead for years. He doesn’t belong here anyhow.

But then Dick, the fucker, opens his goddamn mouth.

“He is family,” he insists, shooting Bruce a warning look. “J—Todd lives with Tim. It’s not exactly a matter of public record, though, so we’d appreciate your discretion.”

The nurse blinks and then understanding passes across her face. “I apologize, I didn’t know you were partners. I’ve never seen you here in the past two weeks.”

There’s a note of reproach there.

Jason almost swallows his tongue at the implication, wanting to deny it immediately, but the look on her face is full-on judgment. And he kind of wants to put her in her place.

“Stationed in Syria. Manbij,” he tells her with a glare. “Only just got approved for leave.”

As expected, she flinches. “Oh. I see. Well, thank you for your service.”

And she makes herself scarce as if worried she’s going to put her foot in it again.

Damian snorts, unimpressed. “Really, Todd? Impersonating a veteran?”

“Fuck you, we’re all veterans in one way or another.”

“Language,” Alfred reminds, and motions them all inside, “And if we might take this discussion away from prying ears?”

Bruce lets himself be guided in, still watching Jason with the air of someone waiting for a bomb to go off. Jason shoots Dick a glare. “You couldn’t have come up with a better story?”

“It’s more believable than you being Bruce’s dead adopted son that got resurrected in a pit of green goo. Or were you hoping to make an Oliver Queen style comeback?”

Jason has nothing to say to that, but eventually manages an uncomfortable, “Point.”

“Mazel tov.”

And there’s a shadow of a grin there, an attempt at humor in the face of the dark situation they’ve all found themselves in.

Though he probably wouldn’t find it as funny if he knew the truth.

“Isn’t there something you want to say to Jason, Bruce?” Barbara prompts, tone hard.

There’s a pause, and then the older man’s frown eases the slightest bit.

“The life-saving measures you employed were integral to Tim’s survival.” His shoulders lose some of their tension, then. “Thank you, Jay.”

It’s on the tip of his tongue to acknowledge it, to say ‘you’re welcome’, and accept the praise. But the idea he might be responsible for Tim even being here keeps him from getting the words past his lips.

“I need a cigarette,” he says, and heads for the door.

“Wait, Jason, you don’t have to—” Dick begins.

“Cool your jets, Dickhead, I’m coming back,” he mutters. “I just need some air.”

“You know you just completely contradicted yourself, right?” Damian points out.

“You’re staying?” Dick asks, hopeful.

Jason has been lying, but there’s something desperate on Dick’s face. He remembers what Barbara said, about Dick needing his siblings right now. And the last time he outright rejected someone they ended up getting shot.

His eyes flick back to Tim, the image of blood and wide blue eyes flashing in his mind.

“Yeah,” he sighs and mentally postpones his plans. “Yeah, I guess so.”

⁂

It’s two more days of waiting before Tim wakes up.

Early Saturday morning, Dr. Scherr and Dr. Thompkins announce that his condition has once more been updated, from serious to good. It’s decided to wake him up to check his functionality.

The private room is big enough to accommodate everyone, but they hang back quietly against the wall as the doctors go about bringing him out of the coma. Bruce parks himself beside Tim’s bedside, holding his hand, while Alfred takes up space behind him as the nurse injects something into Tim’s IV.

It feels almost like everyone is holding their breath waiting for him to regain consciousness.

There are several minutes of silence before the eye that isn’t bandaged flutters and droops open. The blue is dulled by the medication, but the shade is exactly the one that’s been haunting Jason’s thoughts since the shooting.

“Good morning, Timothy,” Dr. Scherr says with a small smile. “You’ve been asleep for a while. Can you understand me?”

Tim groans.

“No, don’t try to speak. You have a tube right now that’s been helping you breathe. We’re going to take it out, in a moment. But for now, just blink once for ‘yes’, two for ‘no’. Understand?”

Tim’s eye droops closed and then slowly opens again.

“That’s great,” Scherr says, and then turns to Bruce. “He has some comprehension. This is an excellent sign.”

Bruce leans forward. “It’s good to see you awake, Tim. We’ve all been very worried.”

Tim’s brow wrinkles as he stares at Bruce, eye blank, and he squints into the distance at the group of people gathered in chairs along the wall.

“Do you remember what happened to you?” Dr. Thompkins prompts, drawing Tim’s attention to her. It’s a slow process, and she has to repeat the question once he focuses on her again.

Two agonizingly slow blinks.

Thompkins and Scherr look concerned, but continue on, asking a series of simple questions and asking if he can move certain parts of his body. There is an astounding number of negative responses that have them exchanging grim looks with Bruce.

“Tim, do you know who we are?” Bruce says at last, wary.

He receives a pained look in response like Tim is trying his best to recall, but the information isn’t there. At last, he blinks twice.

Alfred makes a sound like he’s been punched, Bruce’s expression darkens, and the others give varied noises of dismay.

He doesn’t remember anyone. Fuck, that’s not good.

Worse, Tim appears aware of this failing. The monitor on his heart is beginning to speed up, and his breathing becomes choked.

“What’s going on?” Dick asks, voice strained.

“Tim? Tim, are you okay?” Steph clamors. “Can we get you anything?”

“He has a tube down his throat, Brown, you really think he’s going to answer you?”

“Shut up, gremlin, it’s the thought that counts!”

“Perhaps you should all take a step back,” Thompkins suggests. “This is stressful enough for him.”

“He doesn’t recognize us,” Bruce states, having caught the same thing Jason did. “I want to see the chart. Exactly what parts of the brain were compromised?”

“This isn’t your company, Bruce, you can’t order people around, I don’t care how much money—”

“Would you guys knock it off?” Jason speaks up in irritation, taking a few steps forward. “You’re freakin’ him out.”

Tim’s good eye darts in the direction of Jason, and there’s a moment of non-recognition that hits him a little harder than he would have thought. Then Tim frowns, attention going to his right hand, where the fingers have begun to twitch.

And in front of everyone, his wrist suddenly explodes with swirling blooms of red and gold knotwork. The colors travel along his forearm and almost all the way up to his shoulder and beneath the cotton of his hospital gown.

Jason experiences the corresponding heat in his left as his own mark reacts and shoves his hand in his pocket, hoping no one notices.

No such luck.

While everyone else is focussed on Tim, the bedridden young man is zeroed in on Jason. His drugged gaze seemingly instantly drawn to the color, something like recognition flickers within his eyes. When he looks at Jason again, there’s an unmistakable glimmer of hope. His mouth parts, like he wants to speak. He can’t quite shape the words, though, beyond a raspy moan at the back of his throat.

It’s clear, though, what he’s trying to say, and everyone is now glancing from Tim to Jason in confusion. Except for Bruce, whose face is awash with conflicting emotions: shock, dismay, and concern.

Of course, he saw it.

“Is this true?” he asks Jason, eyes piercing.

“Is what true?” Dick wants to know; he’s confused and worried, and there’s a hint of protective anger there.

Everyone is staring at him now. Jason can’t help the sudden swell of panic, imitating a deer in the headlights as everyone in the family is suddenly laser-focused on him.

He could lie.

His mark is still covered, Tim’s the only one who saw it in full, Bruce is only guessing. Jason could deny it and back out of the room and not come back. Everyone might be happier if he did that, and it would keep the peace; keep them off his back about it.

But Tim looks so small and lost there, unable to recognize anyone there. Right now, he’s completely alone but for Jason.

And isn’t that fucked up?

He squares his shoulders, deciding that he’s gotten used to doling out the blunt honesty by now, hang the consequences. And for everything else’s he done, lying outright about being Tim’s soulmate is very different from pretending not to know. It’s wrong somehow, in the same way selling drugs to kids is wrong.

“Yeah,” he says, though the word cracks in his throat and he has to clear it, say it louder, “Yeah, I am.”

“Bullshit,” Steph says automatically, disbelief and anger evident in the snap of her eyes.

“Miss Stephanie Alfred chides, but it sounds vague, like a reflex instead of actual admonition.

And it’s that more than anything that gets Jason tugging off his glove and rolling up his sleeve. Everyone else can look at him however they want, but he doesn’t want Alfred to think he’s the type of person to joke or lie about this.

There are murmurs from all around as everyone watches his mark blossom across his exposed skin, moving in the same manner as Tim’s—reaching out for its mate.

Tim’s mouth twitches, like he’s trying to smile, but can’t quite manage it. Then his eyes blink a few times, slowing, before closing completely.

“What’s happening?” Jason demands. Did he do something to mess him up again?

“It’s alright,” Thompkins says. “It’s a lot of energy for him to expend, even for short times, and the sedatives are still in his system. He’ll wake up sporadically until he kicks them.

“…Right.”

“Can we come back to the fact that Todd’s his soulmate?” Damian points out. “I think that’s more of a cause for concern.”

“I can’t believe it. You’re actually…” Dick falters, looking like he’s trying to reconcile bits of knowledge together like pieces of two different puzzles.

“I don’t understand,” the nurse says, having watched the exchange from her spot beside Tim’s IV stand. “You implied before that they lived together—how could you not know?”

“They just started seeing each other,” Barbara speaks up from her corner, only the tiniest hesitation before the lie. “I guess they didn’t want to tell us yet. I mean, Bruce and…Todd don’t get along.”

“Well, you had better get over that quickly,” the nurse states, frowning at Bruce. “Because as now, that young man has more right to be here than any of you.” She turns to face Jason. “Timothy’s under a lot of stress right now, you don’t want him picking up on yours too. You want anyone here gone, I’ll get them out of here.”

Jason can’t hold back the choked laughter at the idea of the four-foot-nothing nurse looking at Bruce like she’ll kneecap him if he questions her.

And wouldn’t that be a trip? Insisting everyone leave because by some ridiculous twist of fate he’s connected to Tim more than anyone else is? Normally, he’d get a kick out of the power he’s suddenly got.

Today, it feels hollow.

“No. No, they stay,” he says after a breath. “They’re his family.”

Another almost unnoticeable release of tension in the room, like they all expected him to kick them out after all.

I’m not that much of an asshole.

The nurse nods, eyes softening in something like respect or approval, and turns to leave. “Well, if there’s anything, you call me. Just ask for Judy”

When she’s gone, Jason forces him to look up at Bruce at last. The man’s expression is dark, looking more like Batman than Bruce Wayne, and it’s directed at him.

Should have taken my chance on the streets…

⁂⁂⁂

Next Chapter

This blog isn’t my primary, so my reblogs don’t show up very well. As such, please reblog the fic, otherwise not a lot of people are going to see it :)

<3 Violet

14 notes · View notes

medea10 · 5 years

Text

My Review of The Promised Neverland

#anime review #the promised neverland #yakusoku no neverland #isabella #emma #ray #norman #phil #sister krone

17 notes · View notes

huntertales · 6 years

Text

Let’s Write a Different Ending.

Pairing: Sam Winchester x Prophet!Reader

Word Count: 4,343. // Episode Setting: The Monster at the End of This Book.

Summary: What if the “Supernatural” book series wasn’t written by Chuck Shurley? Instead, by a young woman named Y/N Y/L/N? She finds herself living out her most recent story—about the end of the world, an archangel whose sworn to protect her is moonlighting as a trickster and two fictional characters by the name of Sam and Dean are about to drag her straight into it. (Semi-rewrite from episode 4.18 The Monster at the End of This Book to—?)

Full Masterlist | My Other SPN Rewrite

Note: Is this a possible semi-rewrite of the show for my Sam girls???? Yes, it is! And no...This is not like my regular rewrite where I do it episode by episode, this is more like I’m taking Chuck’s entire plot line and writing it as the reader up until the season five finale. Along the way I’m gonna try to focus on a Sam/Reader element ‘cause my boy needs some love.

And before you fret...this is a side project. My original rewrite will always come first. Plus I’m still figuring out the details of what I want to do, but updates for this are gonna be really scarce. I don't know how many parts this will be or how many episodes I will cover, but it'll be part by part. Updates are probably gonna be scarce until I finish season six. More importantly, if you guys like this and want to see more, please let me know. I hope you guys enjoy possibly a new series!

Chapter One: It Started With a Knock.

Carver Edlund: it was a name nobody would be probably familiar with if you asked a stranger on the street who he was. To Sam and Dean, he was a man who knew too much. A thief who made a buck and gained an underground cult following from a book series he wrote called "Supernatural." Twenty four books detailing the lives of two hunters who traveled across the country in their 1967 Chevy Impala, saving people from monsters and seeking revenge on the yellowed eyed demon who killed their parents. Each action, every little personal aspect of their lives—from their upbringing, to every internal thought—was all in paperback for the world to read.

The brothers made the horrifying discovering when they were working a case in town, the first stop on the list of places to check out was some run-down looking comic store. The guy behind the counter mistook their questioning as a game of "LARPing" and failed miserably in attempting to remember the main character's names, only for the younger Winchester to correct him after the third time. That's when they discovered the first book in the bargain bin, a hidden gem abandoned with other comics no one bothered to read. The cover alone looked like a seedy romance novel someone might find on their middle middle-aged mother's nightstand. Sam and Dean found every copy they could find and examine each word.

Sam tried to figure out who this Carver Edlund was, but he was shady as the characters he wrote about. There wasn't a single paper trail or photograph of him in an attempt for either of the boys to recognize his face to figure out who he was. Best guess the guy was using a pen name to keep his identity. All they knew that the books started rolling out in early of'05, the year Sam left a life behind after tragedy hit. His girlfriend Jess, the only woman he was weeks away from asking to marry him, was killed in the same gruesome manner as his mother. The finale of the "Supernatural" series ended in of Dean being torn to bits by Lilith and Sam alone, just like reality they were forced to live in.

Sam and Dean doubted it ended here. There was someone behind this name, a person the boys were itching to have a “formal” chat with to figure out how he knew so much about them. The boys decided to start with the most obvious place to track down the author’s real name, the publishing company that printed the crap. A lovely young woman held the possible trail to finding out who it was, only it came with a test when Sam and Dean claimed to be journalists wanting to write an article about the books.

The publisher wouldn’t give up any sort of information so easily. She grilled them with all sorts of questions each of the boys got correct, but only seemed satisfied they were the real deal as she sat in her office chair, watching with a close eye as Sam unbuttoned his flannel and under shirt slightly to reveal the anti-possession tattoo on his chest. She had one of her own, right on her bare ass to show the boys. But the view that made Dean’s day wasn’t the only parting gift she gave the boys. She might not have known the true identity of the person who wrote the books, she had a current address the boys could visit. All though she warned them—authors were temperamental people.

“He’s very private.” She warned them. “Like Salinger.”

You lifted your hands away from the keyboard when you attempted the second draft of the newest edition to a series that ended months ago. But it didn’t mean the adventures that ran through your head would stop. It flowed vividly as it did after the first dream you had them and sat down to write the first page of the "Supernatural" series. You read the words back to yourself as another part of the newest story printed, waiting for your approval to join the rest of the story you were working on.

Writing was a tedious process. Some people could whip out a beginning line to sink the reader in, others thought to start in the middle and figure out the rest later. Your process was a jumbled mess. You wrote down fragments until everything connected itself together into a perfect story you were happy with. However, the newest story you were working on was a bit...different.

You sat in your office, a small room containing a desk pushed up against the window to enjoy a spacious backyard and the rainy days when you felt the most inspired. Behind was you as book shelf taller than you, crammed with novels your family collected over the years along with bound and unpublished books that haven’t seen the light of day. You reached out to grab the second cup of coffee you made for yourself and the still warm papers from the printer. Skimming the words, you snickered into the ceramic mug at what the hell you were attempting to write late last night.

You took pride in being a creative person since early childhood. Maybe it came with having both of your parents being successful writers and having a hunger for all sorts of adventures you tried to seek in reading endless books. Ever since you could hold a pen and form proper sentences you were writing down all your crazy stories. You were a daydreamer, with a wild imagination to match. Never did you think any of it would be good enough material to be published.

It was the summer before you were supposed to start your freshman year of college when you had a dream that felt so real. Normally you forgot the dream you had the night before the second you woke up. But this one stuck like glue. All day your mind wouldn’t stop replaying what you dreamed about, thinking about these characters you named Sam and Dean. For a week you had dreams that felt so vivid about them, the first adventure of many to come. Over the years you had some that were pleasant and quite enjoyable to form into words. Other ones made you wake up in a cold sweat, terrified from the horrendous things your brain could think of all on your own. You showed the first fifteen pages you had wrote nonstop in the span of three days to your parents—who suggested you to go for it. Write a novel and see where it took you.

It took you farther than you ever expected. You made the decision to publish the name under a pen name of Carver Edlund, You were afraid nobody would take an eighteen year old with no prior experience seriously. You sent the books off to every publishing company you could think of and waited for nothing but rejection letters. Almost all of them were a fail, until you got your lucky break with an Indie company that loved your work. She gushed over the first "Supernatural" book and how good it was, so good that she was reading for the second time after finishing it all in just a day. The work was so good, she desperately pleaded for more. You agreed to work on more stories, if you were granted complete and total privacy. She agreed.

You placed the cup back down on your desk in favor for a pen, deciding to edit the part you were working on last night. You felt a tinge of embarrassment from what the kind of nonsense your mind was able to come up with. It was always the day after you decided to edit. A fresh perspective to edit the mistakes you might have made and correct words that might flow better. However, it didn’t take much effort to slip back into the fictional world you thought you created.

“Sam and Dean exited the Impala and stepped onto the sidewalk. Dean took out the ripped piece of paper with the address scribbled down and read it one more time, wanting to make sure it was correct. All though he wasn’t sure what kind of house a man who wrote the lives was to look like, what they saw wasn’t what they...perceived. A small two-story house laid in front of them didn’t look like it belonged to a person they never met. It looked like every other one on this street, a white picket fence and a flourishing garden blooming this early spring. The boys knew looks could be deceiving. They wanted to make sure this was the residence of the man who knew personal details about themselves, things nobody should know.

The boys waited not a second longer. They approached the front door with trepidation. Did they really want to learn the secrets that lay beyond that door? The brothers traded soulful looks, answering the question without speaking a word. With determination, Dean pushed the doorbell with forceful...determination."

You furrowed your brow when you noticed you accidentally repeated the same word twice. You clicked on your pen and scratched out the word for something better. Before the tip of the pen could even touch the paper, you found yourself looking over your shoulder when the doorbell rang. Your dog, who had been peacefully resting at your feet, raised his head in curiosity. You rolled your eyes when he followed the behavior by a series of loud barks. You shushed the German Shepherd, mumbling for Winchester to calm down as rubbed a hand across his fur. You weren’t expecting any visitors today. And it’d been ages since you ordered any packages. You pushed yourself up to your feet, deciding to answer it anyway.

You heard a set of nail tap across the wooden floors, Winchester followed behind you to join you in the adventure of who was bugging you this early afternoon. You lived in a safe neighborhood, it was the reason why you moved here in the first place. Plus the rent was cheap. You unlocked the dead bolt and opened the door a crack to see who stood on your porch, two men you’d never seen before.

You noticed their hands were empty—no bible, no useless products to sell you. It meant the “No soliciting” sign worked. But the “Beware of Dog” didn’t ward off strangers who weren't’ here with a good explanation. You were a single woman living on your own and two men that looked to be twice your size were visiting you. Nobody could be too cautious these days with all those sickos running around. Winchester peeked his head out from behind you to see who it was.

“Excuse me, we don’t mean to bother you, but…” The man standing closest to you greets you with an expression that makes it look like he’s having a bad day. He trailed off momentarily when he saw Winchester peek his head out, the dog staring at him. The stranger continued on by asking you a question that made your welcoming smile drop slightly. “We’re looking for a Carver Edlund.”

“Never heard of the guy.” You lied straight through your teeth, shrugging your shoulders. You gave the two strangers another smile, this time, more sympathetic. “You got the wrong house.” “We’re looking for the man who wrote the ‘Supernatural’ books.” You turned your head to the second man, who’s taller, but much more nicer looking. “We know he wrote them under a fake name. But we didn’t get his real one, just his address. We were told he lives here.”

“We really need to talk to him.” The man standing next to you said, urgency in his voice. You could tell he was trying to be polite. Your swallowed slightly as you wrapped your fingers around the door frame. It seemed he could read your hesitance. “Let me guess, he’s your boyfriend. He probably likes his privacy. But this is important. Is he home, by chance? It’ll just take five minutes. That’s all.”

“Why do you want to meet him so badly?” You questioned the both of them.

“We’re...We’re really big fans.” The taller one said. You narrowed your eyes slightly when both of them share a look before directing their attention back to you. “You see, my brother and I are journalists and we were hoping to have an interview with him, see who the real man is behind these books. Shed some light on the series to gain more attention. That’s all.”

You looked at the two of them for a moment, wondering if what you were hearing was true. You had never had something like this happen before. Most journalists, all three of them, contacted you through email to try and get a personal interview with you. You never had someone show up on your front door, trying to figure out the true identity behind a book series that paid your way through college, something that started out from a vivid dream. Your body relaxed as you let out a sigh, deciding if they were big fans, you’d let him in on a secret.

“Well, since you guys went all this trouble...Hi,” You opened the door slightly wider and leaned yourself against it, your lips stretching into a smile when you spoke the truth you had been trying to hide for over four years. “The name’s Y/N Y/L/N. I’m the author of the ‘Supernatural’ books.”

"Wait, you? You’re the sucker who wrote all those books?” Your face scrunched up slightly when the man standing closest to you changed his attitude. He suddenly broke out into a smile, acting as if you told him a funny joke. You slowly nodded your head and gave him a dirty look. If he was here to make fun of your work, you’d be more than happy to tell him to shove his arrogance where the sun didn’t shine. It seemed that wasn’t the case. He sobered up when he realized you were telling the truth, he was in the right place, and he was speaking to the author. “Well, nice to meet you. Let me tell you who we are. I’m Dean. This is Sam.” He pointed a finger to the taller man stan is next to him. “The Dean and Sam you've been writing about.”

You stared at the two men standing on your porch, trying to process what they just said as the ends of your lips slowly stretched into a smile. You didn't know what you should laugh first at. The fact that these two men went through all the trouble of tracking down your publisher that you hadn't talked to in almost five months for an address to figure out who the real writer of a barely popular book series. Or they were crazy, pretending to be fictional characters you made up. You didn’t even bother wasting your breath to give a response. You stepped back and slammed the door right on their face. You reached up a hand to lock the door, but before you could, you heard the doorbell go off again.

You contemplated for a moment if you wanted to do the right thing and ignore them. Worst case scenario if they got rowdy you'd call the cops and get their asses hauled off. However, you found yourself suddenly overcome with anger when you heard them switch from the doorbell to furiously pounding on your front door. You rolled your eyes, you decided to confront the two very delusional men who needed a dose of reality.

“Look, uh... I appreciate your enthusiasm. Really, I do. It's, uh, it's always nice to hear from the fans. But how about you be like everyone else and drop me an email or something. Not show up on my doorstep like a bunch of freaks. The reason why I wrote under a fake name was so I could keep my privacy. And I’d like to keep it that way.” You spoke in a serious tone, informing them they needed to get out of here. “For your own good, I strongly suggest you get a life.”

Your left the two men with the words of advice they should take as you swung the door shut to end this conversation once and for all. Instead the one who called himself Dean thought it was a good idea to reach out a hand and slam it against the door, using his strength to keep it open.

“See, here's the thing, sweetheart. We have a life.” He said. You scoffed loudly at his words that sounded like a lie from how they were acting. You attempted once more to shut the door and lock it, but he was quicker than you. He inched himself closer so his fingers wrapped around the edge of the wood. “You've been using it to write your books.”

“Right.” You mumbled, chuckling at the tough guy act this idiot was putting on. You didn’t try and make Winchester calm down when he prowled closer to the two strangers. He let out a low, threatening growl when he sensed a changed in the atmosphere. “You have five seconds to get your hand off my door and off my property before I call the cops.”

It seemed “Dean” would take his chances with your threat. He pushed his way into your house, making you stumble slightly into the place as Winchester jumped in between the both of you, making the men suddenly stop dead in their tracks before they could do anything else. The dog began to bark incessantly and growl at the strangers when he thought one of them might try and do something stupid.

“Look, we’re not here to hurt you.” The one who thought he was Sam reassured you. Your face scrunched up from his words that sounded the least bit comforting. Their actions spoke louder, and it screamed they were a bunch of lunatics. “We just want to know how you’re doing it.”

“Doing what?” You asked them. “I’m not doing anything.”

“Are you a hunter?” The other man questioned you.

“What? Are you high or something? Get out of my house. Now” You ordered, as if you had any sort of authority to do such a thing. It took all of your control to keep your voice steady as your heart pounded roughly against your ribcage. The two men didn’t listen, they just stared at you, waiting for an answer. "I'm a writer. That's it."

“Then how do you know so much about demons and tulpas and changelings?” Dean threw out a few fictional monsters you wrote about in your series. You backed away slowly, wondering how to stop this situation before it could escalate to the nightmares a single woman had while living on her own. Murdered, robbery...other things that made a shiver run down your spine just form the thought.

“I read a lot of science fiction and horror books. H.P. Lovecraft, Stephen King all that stuff. That’s where most it came from. And I did research, too. I wanted it to be realistic as possible.” You admitted. You thought the answers would be enough, but the one who thought of himself as Dean wouldn’t back down so easily. “Look, is this some kind of weird ‘Misery’ thing because I killed off Dean?”

“It’s not a ‘Misery’ thing. Believe me, we are not fans.” He said, shaking his head at the accusation. You didn’t believe one word he spoke. The man looked down at your dog when he heard it stop barking but showing no signs of backing down. Because it thought his owner was in danger. He quickly realized barging in like this made a wrong impression. They didn’t think a twenty something year old woman wrote their lives. The man changed his tone of voice, into more of a calm one. “Look, we aren’t here to break your legs. We just wanna talk. That’s it. Five minutes. And then we’ll be out of your hair for good.”

You didn’t feel the least bit reassured by his promise, but as a sign of good faith, or stupidity on your part, you stepped forward and shushed Winchester to keep quiet. You ushered him to back down and reassured that everything was fine. You stared at the two men in front of you, wondering if they were going to keep to their word.

“Fine. Who are you?” You asked them. “Really?”

“I’m Sam. This is Dean.” The taller man must have thought you were stupid when they tried to keep pulling this little act.

You rolled your eyes and pushed yourself back up to your feet, trying your hardest not to lose your patience with them. “For the last time, Sam and Dean are fictional characters.” You told them in a quiet, strained voice from what was going on. “I made them up! They're not real!”

The two men thought they could change your mind with some proof. You didn’t know why, but you found yourself following outside to their car—which was a 1967 Chevy Impala, color black and in mint condition, kept a single scratch on it. You’d never seen one in person, but she was a sight for sore eyes. Winchester trailed behind you to the outside and sat himself down on the sidewalk after you told him to. He was quiet, but he remained diligent, waiting for one of them men to try something.

The one who called himself Dean wanted you to take a look at the inside of their trunk, the words were a bit more creepier than he expected. You crossed your arms over your chest, expecting it to be empty and for one of them to shove you inside before locking you in there. When the trunk opened up, it wasn’t empty and you remained where you stood, but what you saw was even more horrifying. You inhaled a deep breath as you felt your eyes jumping around at all the stuff they had in there, an arsenal for a mad man.

“Are those real guns?” You asked in a meek tone.

“Yup.” The one who thought of himself as Dean said. You swallowed when he pointed out all the things you mentioned in the book. “This is real rock salt, these are real fake IDs.”

“Well, I got to hand it to you guys. You really are my number one fans. That’s,” You scratched the back of your neck as you felt yourself choosing the flight option in this situation. You nervously chuckled and began to slowly back away, hoping you might be able to dash inside the house and call the cops before things got too far. They were crazy, you thought. Obsessed. “That’s awesome. So, I-I think I've got some posters in the house.” You turned so fast on the back of your heels, you had a shot at running for your life. But before you could take a single step to safety, you heard the one who was pretending to be Dean spoke up. “Y/N, stop.” He called out to you, and for some reason, you listened to him.

“You lay one finger on me and I’ll start screaming.” You warned them as you turned back around to face the two men. You gave them a deadly glare as Winchester pushed himself back up on all four legs and came back over to you. "What the hell do you want?"

“How much do you know?” The taller one, Sam, questioned you with all sorts of things that you had written about in the secrecy of your own office. “Do you know about the angels? Or Lilith breaking seals?”

“Wait a minute. Wait a minute.” You mumbled, shaking your head from what he was asking you. You looked at the two men in front of you with a confused expression from what was going on, all of a sudden you had a few questions of your own. “How do you know about that?”

“The question is,” This supposed Dean asked, “how do you?”

You furrowed your brow slightly, "'Cause I wrote it."

“You kept writing?” Sam, or so he called himself, wondered.

“Yeah, even after the publisher went bankrupt, but those books never came out. Nobody's ever seen them except for me.” You said, telling them as you pointed a thumb over your shoulder and to your house. You suddenly felt a nudge against your leg, the dog was growing funny all of a sudden when he let out a low whine. You rolled your eyes and gave him a command, speaking his name for the first time in front of the boys. “Winchester, sit.”

"You named your dog Winchester?" You nodded your head, knowing this was the conversation that you would make up the lie that it was about how your dad was a big fan of guns and you named the dog after him. The man decided to formally introduce himself. "Well, nice that's a mighty fine coincidence. Cause you see, like I said...I'm Dean Winchester, and this is my brother, Sam."

You looked up from your dog after you began to subconsciously ran a hand through his fur to try and calm him down. You felt your face fall in surprise from what they told you. "Last names were never in the books. I never told anybody that. I never even wrote it down. Nobody knows I even wrote those books. People only think I named my dog after a freaking gun. You mumbled. You suddenly felt yourself hit with a dizzy spell from the things that were slowly connecting in your head. You stared at the two men in front of you, the ones you had wrote God knows how many books on and years of dreams about. Alive and in the flesh. “Sam and Dean Winchester...Well, nice to meet you.”

[Next Part]

203 notes · View notes

dangan-stray-dogs-blog · 7 years

Text

Day Three of Soukoku Week- prompt: Historical AU

ao3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/11334882/chapters/25369455

words: 1697

@soukokuweek

“Sit up properly! You’re a prince, aren’t you?”

Yes. No. He didn’t want to be.

“Absolutely not even the slightest tilt in your posture!” His tutor shouted. “How many times have we gone over this?!”

Nothing would be enough. Straight to punishment was always his fate.

“I suppose you’ll have to learn posture the painful way, then.”

It didn’t matter. At least it made Mori stop his incessant shouting.

And it wasn’t as though Mori hadn’t been expecting this outcome, Dazai thought to himself as he noticed the cooking pot with bubbling candlewax boiling over the stone fireplace in the front of the room.

----

“Dazai, why is your back always covered in bandages?”

Chuuya Nakahara. An innocent soul, a poor peasant boy raised near the castle. About his age, 14, perhaps a few months older. Dazai would often visit him whenever the opportunity presented itself. Chuuya had no idea he was a prince, but Dazai wanted it to stay that way. He’d listen to Chuuya groan about the misgivings and unfortunate things of his daily life.

One in his position could argue that for how much Chuuya complained, he had it so much easier than Dazai, and thus had no right to complain. But Dazai surprisingly didn’t mind it as much as he’d thought. Chuuya lived in such a stark contrast of a world compared to him, and Dazai treasured every word he could hear about it. Not to mention, it was very nice to be treated so normally for once. In a place where no one knew him was a place he clutched dearly to his heart.

However, sometimes Chuuya was too curious for his own good.

“It’s nothing, Chuuya!” It was not nothing. Dazai still could barely breathe without the burns on his back spiking with the phantom pain of boiling hot wax being poured on his bare back. “You should stop worrying so much, or else you’ll get grey hairs!”

While he’d said it as a joke, it was a genuine issue. While hiding from Mori, he’d seen a slave kitchen boy with choppy, uneven white hair, in the midst of a severe punishment from his superior. What was it? Ah, that’s right. The poor young boy was told to hammer a nail in his own foot, only to hesitate and allow the superior to carry out the deed instead. Screaming was not allowed in the castle from poor servants, so he’d been dragged off to the dungeons for more punishments. Extreme stress wore down your hair, bleaching it, thinning it, and even more. Dazai didn’t want that to happen to Chuuya’s pretty red hair. It was long, luxurious, and an even fiercer fire-like color than the flames in the stone fireplace of Mori’s torture room.

Chuuya stood up. “Hmph, is that so? If that’s so true…” He stepped closer to Dazai, before raising a hand and plucking out one of Dazai’s hairs with unmerciful precision.

“Ack! Chuuya, what are you trying to do?” Dazai whined, but didn’t move an inch. It would have hurt too much to try to move again, and he wasn’t prepared to risk visibly flinching and worrying Chuuya again by moving.

Chuuya raised his eyebrow condescendingly as he looked down at Dazai. “What, you’re not going to get it back? You’re so lazy.” Yes, yes, he was lazy. Let him believe that. It was for the best. “Anyways, if you’re right about worrying making your hair get grey, what’s this?”

He held out the hair he’d plucked from Dazai’s head in front of his face. It was a single, white/grey hair.

Crap.

Dazai feigned surprise. “Whaaat?! Where’d that come from!” He moaned in fake despair. “Agh, I know who must have done it. My younger brother Q must’ve wanted to prank me while I was sleeping.”

If only Yumeno was sane enough to prank him again. It had hurt to be the one to lock him up in the dungeon. It was another attempt of Mori’s to break Dazai’s spirit.

Heh, it had almost worked, too, had it not been for Chuuya.

“Q?” Chuuya echoed. “You never told me you had a younger brother.”

“Hmm, really? I could have sworn I already mentioned him…” Dazai already knew he hadn’t. He didn’t tell Chuuya a lot of things about himself.

“Nope. Not a word about this supposed younger brother.” Chuuya narrowed his eyes, emphasizing on ‘supposed’.

Oh. Chuuya thought he was lying about Yumeno. “What, Chuuya doesn’t believe me when I say I have a younger brother?! Such betrayal, I’m wounded!”

“Oh, quit your whining already. Honestly, you’re a complete waste of bandages.” Chuuya muttered.

“Your words cut me deep, Chuuya!”

Chuuya sighed impatiently. “Whatever… What’s under those bandages, anyways? You already avoided my first question, so you have to answer this one!”

“It’s a secret, Chuuya! I can’t tell you that!” Dazai put on a kid-like façade. He hoped Chuuya would stop prodding.

“Stop it!” Chuuya hissed annoyedly, looking as though he would throw a tantrum right then. How childish. “Tell me the truth, or else I’ll rip those bandages right off your skin!”

Dazai couldn’t let Chuuya do that. He prayed he hadn’t let any fear slip through his false face for Chuuya to expose.

But it appeared he must’ve, as Chuuya suddenly sobered from his previous anger. He looked concerned. No.

“You… are you…” Chuuya mumbled, blinking. “are you scared?”

Dazai had no answer to offer Chuuya. His voice had died in his throat ever since Chuuya had threatened to tear off the bandages.

“Hey… tell me what’s going on!” Chuuya looked scared for Dazai. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”

“Dazai!” He called out again. Dazai snapped his head up to face to look Chuuya in the eyes.

How beautiful of a face it was.

“Burns.” Dazai’s words slipped from his mouth before he could stop himself.

After all, who could say nothing to a face like that? No point in hiding now.

“My teacher poured boiling candlewax on my back, and melted it off with a torch as soon as I’d proved to him I could stay even-faced despite the pain, and maintain proper posture.”

Chuuya looked absolutely horrified. “Your voice is too empty for words like that! At least… cry or something!”

“Excuse me?”

“No! Ergh, I meant, that's so horrible, and you pass it off like it's nothing more than an inconvenience!” Chuuya corrected himself, his face burning red from either frantic embarrassment or from yelling so much. “You haven't moved a millimeter since you plopped down on that grass, so clearly you're not moving because it hurts so much!”

Dazai couldn't keep up with Chuuya’s yelling. “Uh, and your point is what exactly, Chuuya?” He asked dumbfoundedly.

“My point is, you're being a dumbass! If it hurts that much, cry about it! Moan in pain! At least show some suffering, rather than hiding it for god-knows-why!”

“I can't just do that, Chuuya.” Dazai sighed.

“Why not?” Chuuya sassed back.

“Because I can't compare this pain to what it would feel like not to be in pain. I can't remember what it feels like.”

Chuuya was silent for a moment, before he stood up slowly and walked over to get behind Dazai. Dazai didn't bother turning around to see what he was doing.

Smack!

“Agh-” Amidst the pain, Dazai almost let out a cry, but he quickly cut himself off.

Chuuya had just smacked him on his back, right in the middle of his burns.

“Quit being dramatic! You felt that, didn't you?”

Dazai could only barely nod. The spot Chuuya had hit was still burning in intense pain.

“But you still won't show any pain, even though any grown man would be howling if they were you. Who the fuck are you being so righteous for?” Chuuya wasn't yelling anymore, but his words still carried the same seriousness as before.

“Me? Righteous?” Dazai wheezed shakily. “How absolutely hilarious.”

“Want to tell me what's so funny, bastard?” Chuuya growled, frustrated by Dazai’s uncooperative, passive attitude.

“Screaming, crying, moaning, what you call these in relations to expressing pain, what others may call as showing weakness, is not allowed in the torture room.” Dazai explained lazily, raising his finger in a manner mocking a teacher. “I suppose I've just gotten used to not voicing out the pain.”

“That's what's so strange! It's normal to cry if you're hurting! I just smacked a spot where candlewax was poured and melted off of your skin, and you barely fucking flinched!” Chuuya was yelling again. “That’s not normal! You are human, aren’t you?”

Dazai was positive any answer he could give to Chuuya for that question wouldn’t satisfy him, so he chose to treat it as rhetorical. “It’s probably… not very normal for someone like you.”

“Someone like me?”

“I’ll say it as my tutor does.” Dazai cleared his throat in preparation to do an impression of Mori. “A noble should be as proper as his predecessors as not to shame his legacy. A noble shows no weakness, no twitch or false of face, but remains forever even-expressioned and tempered in the face of anything. A noble maintains posture and manners, is properly educated on all customs of the house and beyond. You must become this noble, the ideal, perfect sovereign.” Dazai had exchanged prince in favor of noble, but besides that, it was word for word. Mori had said it so many times it clung to him like dried shit on a pheasant's foot.

“The ideal sovereign?” Chuuya mocked. “What kind of shit is this tutor of yours spouting? It’s not like you’re the prince.”

“Try not to scream it to the world, Chuuya.” Dazai chided blandly. “In a place where no one knows me is a place where I am happiest.”

Chuuya was quiet for a moment. Dazai would have loved to see his wide-eyed expression at the realization.

“If this place makes you happy, why not stay and escape your tutor?” Chuuya sat down next to him again, his tone growing calmer and more genuine than his previous yelling.

Dazai turned his head and stared into Chuuya’s vivid blue eyes.

If only it were that simple.

#soukokuweek

14 notes · View notes