#like wally with the steel chair too

[fightwing]

Two panels i have not been able to stop thinking about are:

And:

If there’s one thing tita.ns (2008) had its the audacity

[joz-yyh]

Love Host - Ch. 8 (Preview)

SUMMARY: Miles and Waylon meet up for some diagnostic testing that takes a very drastic turn. No beta. Read at your own risk.

RATING: T (for this chapter ONLY!!)

PAIRING: Walmiles (WalriderxMiles)

WORD COUNT: 1,211

A/N: Doing my best to keep focused on these two long enough to finish another chapter. Comments and likes are very appreciated.

——————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————–——

Clang, Clang, Clang--!

Waylon looks up from his computer chair at the pedantic knock, knowing who his pertinent guest should be, double checking the security feed just to be sure Murkoff wasn't paying him any surprise visits.

There on the monitor, is a quiff of black hair and ugly olive jacket he'd recognize a mile away. Speaking of Miles –

Waylon opens the bean hole to the main door, the grinning blue eyes of Miles fucking Upshur waiting for him on the other side.

“Hey there, WayWay, I am here for my check up,” he greets with a smile, the wave he offers just out of sight, “Oh yeah, and Wally’s here too.”

The words barely register before the nanomachine has its whole face pressed against the peephole, staring back at Waylon, completely eyeless.

The techie nearly jumps out of his skin, shutting the slat out of paranoid instinct, body wrecked by a wave of heebeegeebees.

He can see it. Why can he see it when he couldn’t as much before?

“Heeeeyy,” Miles whines, voice dampened by the steel barrier between them, ”I am still waiting out here.”

Waylon internally groans, trying to collect himself enough to unlatch the many bars securing the entrance shut.

When the final lock cracks loose, Miles is too busy comforting the Walrider to notice, holding its caricature of a face and daresay, petting it.

“Ah, you can c-come in now,” Waylon offers, standing in the doorway, watching on with morbid fixation.

“There, see,” Miles exclaims, a consoling note to his voice, “He wouldn't invite us in if he didn't like us.”

Waylon swears this scene must be slowly melting his brain from the inside out.

“Hey, Way,” the brunette asks, turning his attention to his fellow asylum survivor, “could you tell Wally that you like him, please? He thinks you're scared of him. Isn't that silly?”

He isn't scared, he's terrified.

“Yeah, s-sure. I like him,” Waylon offers weakly, swallowing down his dread.

This was absurd. A machine couldn’t have feelings and even if it did, they were none more important than his own.

“Told you! Everything's fine,” Miles chippers, the Walrider finally appeased by this discovery.

The machine gazes toward Waylon again, breaking it’s body down into smaller pieces, swooping in close to swirl around Waylon knees, then higher, drifting in a cyclone of miniature storm clouds up to his shoulders.

“Uhh, hello again, I guess,” the engineer offers shakily, trying to appear fearless and brave, even lifting a finger to touch the nanite mist surrounding him. It feels like water.

“Thanks Waylon,” Miles says, patting him on the shoulder in good sportsmanship, stepping inside.

“Yeah, sure. No problem.”

And just like that, the nano machine leaves him to follow it’s host, the dazed software engineer reminding himself that he needs to rearm the door.

Before the reporter can poke his nose in further, Waylon locks the paddock, turning on the electric fence to deter any unwanted trespassers.

“So this is where you’ve been holding up,” Miles asks, taking in the abandoned barracks, a dimly-lit trailer filled with a junkyard of abandoned tech.

The Walrider is equally curious, ghosting around the layout, dosing the army green interior in supernatural mist.

“Not quite,” Waylon amends, running a hand down his face, feeling overwhelmed by the quirky demands of his company, “This is where I work. Keeps me a safe distance away from Lisa and the kids in case anything happens.”

“Safety is important. I am sure there are no OSHA recordables in here,” the snarky brunette remarks, dodging under a duct of loose wires.

“Ha ha funny,” the blonde remarks, devoid of amusement, “the device I want to show you is over here.”

Waylon grabs him by the wrist cuff before Miles can slip away to snoop, escorting him to the testing room.

“Aren’t you going to give me a tour first,” the sleuth whines, taking in as much of the space as he can, “you can’t tell me you have a secret lair and not show me around.”

“There's really not much to see,” Waylon growls, noting his companion’s inquisitive fingers, “Also please stop touching everything.”

“Awwww,” Miles whines, dragging his feet in disappointment, a frown setting in.

“Fine, maybe later,” the techie relents, his stride persisting, “We're kinda pressed for time.”

“Oh, somewhere you gotta be,” Miles asks, perking up at that confession, raising a brow at his companion, letting himself be tugged along more easily.

“Yeah, I’d prefer to be home every night to be with my wife and kids.”

A long pause, their combined footsteps echoing off the iron grates that line the floor.

“Am I invited,” the reporter asks, smirking at the back of Waylon’s unkempt head of hair.

Another aggravated tug on his sleeve.

“Let’s just get through the testing first.”

They arrive at their destination, the very back of the bunker, a T-shaped hub. One of the doors is sealed off, making Miles wonder what could be hiding in there, the rest of the room encased by steel shelves filled with gutted parts, radios, computers, phones and the like.

In the center is a chair outfitted with restraints, a litany of auxiliary cords hooked up to various loadouts, a desk and computer terminal set up in the corner, no doubt to collect the data of whoever sits in it.

“So … this is it,” Miles says judgmentally, unimpressed, “Looks like an electric chair, but somehow more revenge of the nerds-esque.”

Waylon smacks his lips and rolls his eyes. He won’t deny it bears a striking resemblance to Mount Massive’s brainwashing devices, ones he had the untimely pleasure of experiencing for himself.

“Yeah, everyone's a critic. Just get in.”

“Is it safe,” Miles asks, skeptical of the bad vibe he was getting just looking at the creepy thing.

“As safe as any of this experimental tech is gonna be.”

Miles supposes he can’t complain, given the circumstances. He doesn’t get any of these gadgets, but there was no one else he could turn to (aside from maybe Wernickle) who could give him the answers he seeks. Still, the reporter can’t help feeling a bit uneasy about entrusting himself to diagnostic tools on a budget.

The Walrider manifests itself as a disembodied head, whistling through it’s cheeks, seeking to reassure it’s host with a trill of sound. Miles smiles, close-lipped, stroking the odd contours of its face with a gentle hand.

“Alright. I mean we’ve come this far. What other choice do we have?”

With that, the anxious human hybrid takes a seat, the next test subject for this experimental apparatus going on torture device. Waylon straps him in, tying the buckles too tight to be comfortable, but Miles suspects it's punishment for trying to pry into the engineer's private life. His head too is bridled in place, another belt across the forehead to keep him securely in an upright position.

“This will monitor your heart rate,” Waylon says, electrode pads stuck to Miles’ temple, and then after a moment a disclaimer, “I am not a doctor, though.”

“You’ll be able to tell me more about the Walrider, right,” the brunette asks, nervously clenching his hands on the arm rest.

Waylon hesitates, less than confidently offering a, “Yeah,” in response.

[babyflash]

wallaway but as the it (2017) scene

16(you’ll know which one when you read)

fair warning this is probably totally ooc and it also may not make sense but idc bc its fanfiction and i can write whatever silly little au i want SO high school setting that i shove all my little fictional people into. 

find it on ao3!

prompt: For the writing prompts, maybe something about Wally and Hartley's friendship when Wally was Kid Flash? I love the potential of the two trying to keep it a secret that they're besties with a hero/villain from the team or other supervillains, and just the sheer chaos of those two as teens.

tags, warnings, etc.: just wally west being hartley’s manic pixie dream girl, no warnings! meet cute??? this doesn’t really fit the prompt but it’s wallaway and they sure do meet. 

word count: 1,816

requested by: @mossycrumpet

-

     Hartley hated new schools. He especially hated new schools in small towns. Keystone City, Kansas has a population of too-few and all the teenagers in the town attended the same high school. The same high school that Hartley’s parents moved him to over the summer. Junior year, hello Keystone City High! Luckily, he didn’t have to join in the middle of the semester and the Rogues are just a train ride away. All he has to do is get through the next two years without incident, get into some fancy school his parents will approve of, and then he’s free! Maybe. Hopefully. Hartley refocused himself, it was his first day and he had arrived. Well, it was everyone’s first day. That was a comforting thought. As he walked towards the suddenly very imposing doors, he tried not to think about how everyone here already knew everyone else and he was the outsider. He was a lamb entering the lions’ den, he’d be lucky to make it to first block alive. 

     Hartley counted his blessings when he saw the very clearly labeled front office as soon as he entered the building. He beelined for it, having not been in town for open house and therefore not having his schedule, and steeled himself before heading for the small woman sitting behind the desk. Wordlessly, and before he could speak, she held up a finger. A little shocked, Hartley obeyed and waited for her to finish her snail’s pace tapping on the keyboard. While he waited, he observed her and her red cat-eye readers, the faux-gemstone glasses chain hanging around her neck, she had an almost comical beehive. There were huge filing cabinets lining the walls behind her. Hartley felt like he’d entered a time bubble. After several agonizing moments, she turned to him and smiled. 

     “Hello, dear, so sorry about that wait,” she pulled the glasses off her face and dropped them, letting the chain catch them against her chest. “What can I do for you?”

     “Uh,” Hartley’s brain felt a little like mush. The second she spoke and actually gave him her attention, the entire script he had for her had left his mind. Stupid traitor script. He remembered himself and pulled one of his earbuds out, fiddling with it. “Uh. Um, my name is Hartley and… and I need to pick up my schedule.” She stared a little bit. “I’m… I’m new in town.” 

     For a brief, terrifying moment, she remained silent and staring. Then, as if a switch flipped, she smiled at him again and picked up the phone sitting on the desk in front of her and pressed a couple of buttons. It made a strange crackling noise and she spoke into it without putting it to her ear. 

     “Mrs. Stevenson? I need you to send Mr. Wally West to the front office, I need his assistance.” She paused, listening for a response that Hartley didn’t hear and didn’t think she heard either. “Thank you.” She turned back to him and smiled again. “What’s your last name, sweetheart?” 

     He flushed. He thought he’d done a good job introducing himself, but apparently not. “Oh, um, Rathaway.” 

     She blinked, and a brief shocked expression crossed her face. Then, she schooled her expression back to the kind grin she’d had moments before and pushed against the desk to send her rolling chair to the filing cabinets behind her. She yanked on one of the drawers and it opened with a loud whooshing sound. Her bright red nail polish shined as she quickly sifted through the contents, giving a small “ah-ha!” as she brandished what she was looking for with a smile. The secretary rolled back towards him and placed a schedule in his hands. Then, she leaned in, conspiratorial. A little mesmerized by her, Hartley leaned in, too and she spoke to him in a whisper. 

     “Dr. Haven insists on a paper filing system, though,” with this she lowered her voice further. “Between you and me? I think he may be a time traveler from the fifties.” 

     He stared at her. Was she joking? Could she read his mind? She winked. He grinned. At that moment, a blur of color and fabric came bursting through the door. The blur nearly knocked a potted plant over and Hartley braced for an impact that never came. There was something achingly familiar about the way the newcomer moved, the chaos and simultaneous self-assuredness. 

     “Hi, Miss Darlene!” The boy (not a blur) spoke. “Sorry it took me so long, I was wrapping up a quiz when you called.” 

     Hartley looked at the secretary (Miss Darlene, his mind supplied) with what had to have been a bewildered expression because she laughed lightly at his face. 

     “Just the entrance I expected from you, Mr. West! Not to worry, I just need you to show our new student around. He missed the open house last week.” 

     When had he told her that? Miss Darlene winked at him again. What did she know that he didn’t? He narrowed his eyes at her, but before he could say anything, the kid grabbed his arm and tugged, a little impatiently. Hartley shoved his earbud back into his ear and followed his tour guide out of the office. The guide began chattering away as he led Hartley to what seemed to be a central area for the school. Some students sat on benches and picnic tables scattered throughout the area, and there were plenty of bulletin boards filled with flyers for events, clubs, and classes that wanted advertisement. Hartley observed the school with a bit of scrutiny. The walls were white, and the floor was checkered with dark green and a light gray, the school’s colors. 

     “... schedule?” 

     Hartley snapped back into focus, pulling an earbud out once again and finding his tour guide’s face. 

     “Sorry, what?” He asked. 

     “Can I see your schedule?” The kid - Wally West, as Miss Darlene had called him - didn’t seem upset at having to repeat himself. He smiled, pleasantly and a bit lazily. His smile was crooked, the left corner of his mouth rising higher than the right. He had freckles all over his face, and his cheeks were rosy. Hartley zeroed in on a small freckle on his bottom lip without thinking. Wally’s green eyes sparkled with vague amusement, and Hartley remembered where he was and what was happening in an embarrassing rush. 

     “Right!” Hartley said, probably a little too loud. A couple heads turned as he sheepishly handed the kid his schedule. “Sorry. About that.” 

     “It’s alright, new kid,” Wally’s voice was soft and tilted a bit when he spoke. Hartley felt the tips of his ears heat up. He really liked this kid’s voice, it almost had a musical quality to it. He watched with bated breath as Wally looked over his schedule. The crooked grin was back, and the schedule was slid back into Hartley’s hand. “You can follow me.” 

     So, Hartley did. He followed Wally West to his locker, studiously kept his eyes on the door of it as he deposited his things, he was led to his first, second, third, and fourth blocks, then shown the gymnasium, the cafeteria, the quad (which - what kind of high school legitimately has a quad?), and the athletic fields. The whole tour only took about twenty minutes, but Hartley hardly recalled anything. He was too focused on the kid’s voice, the intonation and the way he pronounced his words. Too focused on the sound of it to register what was being said. 

     “... got the same homeroom, so I’ll probably see you around. Do you have any questions? Need anything else?”

     “Sorry, what?” He felt like a broken record.

     “We’re in the same homeroom. And we have the same lunch. You can sit with me and Linda today, if you’d like.” That smile was back. “I’m Wally West, by the way. I don’t think I ever told you that.” 

     “I know.” He said it without thinking. Wally’s eyebrows raised, and Hartley felt like cursing himself for his lack of impulse control. “I… uh, Miss Darlene said it. A couple times, I think. I’m Hartley Rathaway, I’m -”

     “The new kid?” Wally hooked his thumbs into the straps of his backpack. 

     “Yeah,” the word left Hartley’s mouth in a rush of breath. He smiled, feeling at ease in an instant. “I moved here in July, but my folks took me out of town last week, so…” 

     “So, no open house.” Wally nodded, not needing Hartley’s confirmation. “Hey, whatcha listening to, new kid?” 

     What was he listening to? 

Step by step,

Ooh, baby,

Gonna get to you, girl!

     Oh God. He was listening to New Kids on the Block. That was the most distinctly embarrassing music he could be listening to! Before Hartley could change the song, Wally had the free earbud up to his ear. Through his embarrassed haze, Hartley noticed that Wally didn’t put the earbud fully in his ear, which was appreciated. A small smile grew on Wally’s lips, and Hartley kind of wanted to curl up and die. Wally would think he’s a total dweeb for listening to an 80s boy band, and then he’d take back his lunch invitation and Hartley would sit alone and never make any friends because Wally totally had to be super popular and then he’d end up dying alone with only the Rogues caring. This was the worst case scenario. 

     “New Kids on the Block.” Wally’s lovely voice was thick with amusement. 

     “I don’t even like them! It’s… it’s a friend’s playlist!” Lies. Total bullshit lies. Hartley didn’t even believe himself, why would Wally? 

     “Right.” Wally drew out the vowel, and then winked. Actually winked! Hartley felt his heart beat a little faster. “Well, I gotta run.”

     Hartley’s heart sank a little bit. He took the earbud that was handed to him back and held up two fingers in a peace sign. A peace sign?! Wally, somehow, found that charming, because he laughed a little bit and held up a peace sign of his own. His nose scrunched and Hartley’s knees went a bit weak. 

     “I’ll see you at lunch?”

     The lunch invitation! Had not been taken back! A little starstruck, he nodded mutely. 

     “Cool, hang tough, new kid!” Wally threw another wink over his shoulder as he walked away. 

     Quick! Say something cool! Something suave! A voice in his head (one that sounded suspiciously like Lisa) whispered to him. 

     “Uh, please don’t go, girl!” Lame! Lame! Totally lame. He saw Wally’s shoulders shake as he disappeared around the corner, and maybe it was the light, but he totally caught a hint of that crooked grin, too. Wally was, despite Hartley’s brain’s best efforts, charmed. Hartley felt a bit of satisfaction as he straightened his messenger bag and started off towards his first block. Until he realized he had no idea how to get there.

[mrspanky]

The Time We Lost: pt 1.

Jason Todd x Reader (female pov).

Content: Angst and language.

Readers note: Hi love, I hope you enjoy this! I had so much fun coming up with this story. Can’t wait to put out part two, because that’s when it really gets good. For the best experience listen some sad music while reading, I wrote this to the songs “Last Cigarette” by Ruby Waters, “What Are You So Afraid Of” by Videoclub, “All My Friends” by the Revivalists, “Ghost of Mine” by Kailee Morgue, and “I Didn’t See You Coming” by Fefe Dobson.

𓅫𓅫𓅫𓅫𓅫𓅫𓅫𓅫𓅫𓅫𓅫𓅫𓅫𓅫𓅫𓅫𓅫𓅫𓅫𓅫𓅫𓅫𓅫𓅫𓅫

It was freezing outside.

You hated asking for help but you broke a little when you stubbed your toe on the pavement and didn’t feel anything through your boot, only to take it off on a nearby doorstep and realize that your toe was broken.

Should’ve worn sturdier boots.

You pondered what to do, stranded on the step, fuming. You knew where you’d end up going you just hoped he wouldn’t be there.

You were in the heart of the city but you remembered the way to his apartment like the back of your hand.

It had been so long, but it felt just like yesterday as you looked around remembering the landmarks that would lead you to your destination.

“Fuck”, you muttered.

There was the coffee shop you two used to go to. Overwhelmed by emotional memories of bad days, and days that hadn’t been so bad, you started to panic. You looked in your wallet. $7.00 looked back at you pitifully.

“That’s enough for a coffee, and if I get a coffee it’ll keep me warm, AND give me enough mental power to think of a solution other than going back to his place”.

Your mind was made up. You walked in the direction of the coffee shop with stubborn resolve. As you entered the door, you bumped into a man.

“Sorry”. You mumbled.

You weren’t really sorry, you were actually quite annoyed, but you were too tired to get into an argument.

“No, my bad”, said the man. Your jaw tightened.

“Tim”, you thought.

You’d recognize his and all his brother’s voices anywhere.

“Well what the fuck do I do? Do I say something? No, I don’t want to talk. Wait, but he might.. know if.. he’s home”. You sighed, and turned around.

“Wait, Tim?” Tim turned around, looked at you, and raised his eyebrows in realization.

“...Y/n?”

••••

“Y/n not to be rude, but you look like shit”.

Tim slid a coffee across the table to you.

“What happened?” He looked concerned. You sighed.

“I’m fine. I was just in the area and I was taking a walk and forgot how cold it was. I left my jacket at home”.

“Which is where..?”

“...Not too far”.

He furrowed his brow.

“You have cement on your shoe and there’s only one street in Gotham getting redone right now. It’s in the middle of the city. Not close”.

He paused and glanced down.

“Also you were limping on your way over to the table just now”.

“Damn”. You thought.

You’d forgotten that it was annoyingly difficult to lie to Tim.

“You’re not ok, are you”. He leaned in.

“Y/n, why are you really going to see Jason?”

You stayed silent.

He looked at you closely, seeming to make up his mind.

He sighed, and got up out of his chair, grabbing your coffee cup.

“Come on”, he gently took your hand.

“Tim..I don’t-“

“-He’s not home right now.” Tim cut in.

He helped you up, and started for the door, then paused.

“Look, I get it. But me and a couple of the other’s are just crashing there right now for a mission. You probably won’t even see him, and you really look like shit. Let’s at least get you a bed for a couple nights”.

You tried to consider his offer.

You didn’t really have any other options.

“Let’s face it y/n”. You thought.

“Todd manor is probably at least a little warmer than the streets”.

Even thinking that name hurt you deeply, but you pushed it down.

“Alright”, you solemnly nodded your head and let him lead you out the door, a wave of anxiety washing over you about the impending painful memory rush you knew was coming.

•••••

The red front door.

You hadn’t seen this door in ages.

He had been so excited to walk through it the first time. You remembered it so well.

He had called you on a Friday afternoon as you were getting ready to suit up.

You had thought he would be calling about the mission you two were working on, but that hadn’t been the case, and you had been so glad for it.

You teased him mercilessly and he teased you right back: But you really enjoyed his company, and you got excited whenever he called, as much as you would deny it back then.

“Hey. I’ve got news”, his voice had solemnly announced over the phone.

“I’m king of my own castle now. I’m gonna call it Todd manor”.

“You got the apartment! Wow. Your very own manor. Time for you to adopt a million kids”. You could practically hear him smirking on the other end.

“Well do you want to see it or not? I’m at the front door right now. I sent you my new address.”

Images of you grabbing your motorcycle and riding over as fast as you could, rushed through your mind. You had pulled up to see him standing there, right where you stood now. You had sauntered up to him, teasingly.

“Ok bird boy, let’s see the new cardboard box”.

He’d looked so happy.

You gasped quietly.

“Tim I don’t know if I want to do this”.

He looked at you quietly.

“He’s not the same, but if you see him, he’s still…Jason. You of all people know how stubborn he is. Not even death could kill that...personality of his”.

He smiled with a twinge of sadness.

“He’s not gone anymore”.

You looked at him, with panic in your eyes.

“Come on. The others miss you.” He opened the door, and you both walked inside.

It was just like you remembered. So much so that it felt like a dream you’d had over the past years countless times, of life before Jason had died.

Tim ushered you forward into the kitchen space. You looked up hesitantly, steeling yourself for whatever your eyes would be greeted with.

Positioned around the kitchen were Dick, Wally, Damian, and Jaime.

You tried to hold down your emotions. You hadn’t let yourself feel how much you’d missed them fully until now.

“Hey guys”. You smiled a little.

“Y/n?”

Dick’s eyes widened in surprise.

Wally was characteristically swift to reach you. He raced over and stood at your side, putting his hand on your shoulder.

“How are you?”

A tear fell from your tired eyes.

“I’m ok”, you smiled softly.

“I missed you guys”.

Wally’s brows were furrowed with worry.

You realized that none of them had ever really seen you cry.

You tended to be too embarrassed and see it as a sign of weakness, but you were too exhausted to hold back right now.

“We missed you too”, Dick said as he walked over.

“Yeah”, said Jaime. “We haven’t been able to find you all this time, we’ve all been worried”.

“I’m fine,” you shrugged. “Just needed to be on my own after...after... you know. And I have been, and I’ve been ok I just got caught up a little I guess. No big deal.”

Tim met Dick’s eyes in silent communication.

The older brother pursed his lips together with recognition and resolve.

“Let’s get you some food”.

After you finished eating you trudged upstairs to shower. When you got the water going, you let the steaming water run down your hair. It felt so good after the freezing gotham streets you’d been experiencing the past week. You sighed. You couldn’t stay here long. Everything was a reminder of what your life had been like before Jason was murdered and you went off the deep end. You didn’t want to remember all the hope that you had had, and how naïve you’d been. For a while after he died, you had broken away from everyone for this exact reason.

You wrapped a towel around you, and examined yourself in the mirror, wiping away the steam so you could see your reflection clearly. Over the time that Jason had been gone, you felt like you’d changed completely. Your naturally y/h/c hair was now a shade of y/c/c, and your previously youthful face looked hardened. Not necessarily in a bad way, you just felt sharper. “Amazing”. You thought. Stress had given you a jawline. You laughed to yourself bitterly. You needed a vacation. Badly. This past year of fighting crime on your own and making somewhat questionable decisions had taken its toll on you. You slipped into the large white t-shirt Tim had lent you, dried your hair with the towel as best as you could, and walked to the room he’d told you that you could stay in.

The room was Jason’s, but he wasn’t home so it was empty right now. It was going to be extremely painful to be around his things for the first time again and you were a bit overwhelmed already, but like everything else today, you didn’t really have a better option. You felt like you were invading his privacy somehow even though you knew it was technically fine. “This is so fucked up”, you thought. You hadn’t even ever been brave enough to not mask your feelings for him with banter, and now you were staying in his room while he was away because you had been homeless for the past week. And you had been homeless all because you couldn’t pull your life together after he fucking died and you couldn’t save him. “I couldn’t save him. I couldn’t fucking save him”, you whispered to yourself, holding back more tears as you reached the door. You took a deep breath, wiped your eyes and opened it.

Cautiously, you looked down as you closed the door behind you, not ready to face everything yet. As you began to turn your eyes upwards, you heard a noise in the direction of where you remembered the window to be, from the tour Jason had given you so long ago. Your fighting reflexes kicked in on instinct and you raised your fists. A red helmeted man entered your line of vision as you stared at where the noise had come from. Your arms fell limp to your sides as you registered what you were seeing. Who you were seeing. “...Jason”, you whispered.

To be continued...

[supermanshield]

Naps are overrated, anyway

~~~

There is a picture in the watchtower cafeteria of Superman and Batman, asleep on the Javelin. 

This is the story of how it came to be, and why Batman let it be.

~~~

Words: 4,092

Relationship: Clark/Bruce

A/N: I had the idea for this story a year ago. For the longest time, the summary you see right now was all I had typed out. Only now, after reading a bunch of JLA vol. 1 did I finally find the right characters, the right feeling and overall vibe, and wrote this in the past three days. 

It doesn’t completely comply with continuity, because while I imagine this set somewhere in the 1997-2006 JLA run, Bruce mentions 6 kids (he would have only had 2 at the time + a dead Jason), although they don’t make an appearance. And I'm actually not sure if the Javelin is a thing in that run, maybe that's just a DCAU thing. Just go with it.

Also, Bruce is a bit of a boomer in this. idk, I had fun writing him. 

Read on AO3

______________________________________________

Batman doesn’t nap.

.

However, that is not to say that Bruce doesn't. He's nearing 45 years of age, not a grey hair on his head, but if he were to grow a beard now, or a moustache like his father, it would show a mix of salt and pepper, so he shaves it off, vigorously and every day. Moustache and beard, those are the first things to turn grey. Then the eyebrows. When that happens, Bruce will lose. He will give in to his age and keep his beard. Not yet. If Clark ever walks in on him during his morning ritual (probably soon), he will look at him with that forgiving smile. He will say what he thinks of it, because that's what he does. (Keep it, I like it, Bruce hopes secretively, but there is a sadness present in Clark's eyes that he will never completely understand, and that's exactly why he shaves).

Clark has seen it already though, he's sure. His 5 o'clock shadow must look like a foggy forest to Clark’s microscopic vision, and even worse in the morning, right before his shave. Clark hasn't mentioned it. A conversation for another day.

If his children ever found out about this particular insecurity, all 6 of them would laugh.

 Bruce never really napped, or took time out of the day to simply rest, but now, Clark is there. To pull him onto the couch in the study when he's on his way to his desk. To keep him in bed after sex and before patrol. To fly through his window at WE at 50 floors up and pat next to himself on the couch in Bruce's office, door locked, and red cape hung up in the corner.

"It's time," he says. Every time. "You need one."

Bruce will raise his eyebrows. "Already, hmm?" he asks, almost every time.

He's made the mistake of sending him away before. (He won't do that again). Clark is the most stubborn man Bruce knows. He will say the same thing about Bruce, but that's beside the point. And It's not as if Clark distracts him from a case or work; he knows exactly when he has some time and is unable to make excuses.

Bruce is used to taking 20-minute power naps in uncomfortable positions on his desk chair, at the kitchen table behind the newspaper, with his feet up in the batmobile.

Clark sets the alarm for one hour. He pulls Bruce into a horizontal position against that broad chest, either spooning him or facing him, encasing him in his large arms (there are still 76 ways out of his hold, but Bruce can't think of a single one worth a try). They sleep.

Apparently Clark needs naps too, even though he doesn’t need sleep. Bruce has been meaning to ask him about that, wonders if it's a mental thing, a kind of meditation. Therapy.

His naps are dreamless. Afterwards, his return to consciousness is quick, he reorients on the surroundings, on Clark. Kissing him is a good strategy for grounding, Bruce has found. And just like that, they get on with their day again, because there is no time for dwelling, for another moment together. Nevertheless, Bruce is happy with what he does get. It’s more of Clark - and more time with him - than he deserves already.

 So, Bruce naps.

 ---

 After a long mission off-world, the league is on their way home towards the watchtower in the javelin. Diana is flying, with J’onn at her side in the co-pilot chair. The rest of them are hauled up in the back of the vehicle, they’re tired, exhausted, just trying to get some rest. Even Wally sits still. Only Batman is pacing up and down, his mind already on Gotham, on home, the cases that were open, the ones that he was *this* close to cracking. Batman doesn’t nap.

His mind is wandering, going at a speed that would make even Clark dizzy, but the puzzle pieces don’t make sense. Yet. His heavy boots are silent on the metal floor of the javelin, his cape a mere whisper of wind behind him as he turns to pace the other way again.

“You’re driving me crazy,” Hawkgirl’s voice cuts through the relative silence of flying through space (beeping, machinery, turbines, the jet - there’s a lot). She holds up one of her large wings, cutting Batman off from his path. “Sit down.”

He does. Next to Superman. A big mistake, although he doesn’t realize it until much later. No need to upset his teammates. He can meditate instead, stay awake. The noise of the jet doesn’t make it easy, but it can be done. Clark smiles calmly at him.

He sits straight, eyes open, breathing focused, and the turmoil in his brains slows down. Soon, they’ll reach Earth’s solar system and he’ll have access to the batcomputer. Not soon enough. Next to him, Superman is a steady support of a brick wall, but his shoulder feels warm and soft against Bruce’s, even through the suit. Underneath the cape and hidden from view, Clark’s thumb rubs circles into his side, lower back. He knows exactly what he’s doing. A Pavlovian effect has Bruce relaxing his shoulders, if only slightly. None of his teachers ever taught him how to deal with a superman when trying to meditate. His superman. His annoyingly super man.

His last thought is of Clark, and that it must be irritating to have a bat ear poking into his cheek. But then again, rarely anything physical ever annoys the Man of Steel. Then, finally, he dozes off, the roar of the jet diminished to a distant snoring.

 ---

 Bruce is proud of the watchtower. His watchtower. It stands erect on the bright side of the moon, pointing towards earth. Always looking out. Within such an enormous structure however, some simple rules are needed. There is a long list next to the fridge in the break room, and one in the meeting room. No running unless there is an emergency. Masks on outside of one’s own room. Food is to stay in the cafeteria (he’s found everyone and Clark with various wrappers and chips bags in the monitor room, so he gave up on that – it’s crossed out). Training gear stays in the gym. The coffee machine has to be cleaned once every 2 days - the stuff isn’t that good, not what Bruce is used to, but it has helped him through several meetings and dull monitor duties in the past.

. 

A couple days after returning from their outer space mission on the javelin, Bruce returns to the watchtower. There are several new members to have a meeting about. He has made up his mind on all of them already, the meeting is merely a formality.

Connor Hawke runs past – one of the new proposed members, codename Green Arrow after his father – and Supergirl flies over his head. “No running.” He stops them both with one move of his arm and a line on a batarang.

Kara turns towards him and slips out of his trap easily. “I wasn’t even running, B,” she says while she floats down. Connor has crossed his arms and looks out the window, Batman’s line still taut around his upper arms.

“There are rules. If you want to be in the Justice League, behave like it.” He reminds her of the proper use of code names too, for good measure, and unties Connor.

With a sigh, both young heroes are off, making their way towards the break room. Bruce follows them and finds Wally and Kyle already inside, but as soon as they see Batman turn the corner they scurry out through the door on the other side.  

It’s the first clue that something is amiss. The newer heroes standing around the fridge and chuckling, the second. Bruce lays eyes on the offending appliance and feels his body tense. If smoke could come out of his ears, it would.

“Flash!”

 ---

 The standard size piece of paper lies on one of the metal surfaces in the computer area of the cave. Bruce tries to ignore it while he works, but the primary colours of Superman’s suit in the image are a thorn in his peripheral vision. With a swift move and a smack, he turns it around, and gets back to his files. He has sent his notes for the meeting to the watchtower, reported that he’s too busy to attend.

He works on some of his own active cases, gathering data and looking at evidence. Most of it is paperwork, boring but necessary. He slowly makes his way through every file, meticulously and efficiently. Everything gets reported and written down in case a pattern reveals itself later. The puzzling can be done when he’s more focused. Meanwhile, the cases that are solved and closed get a little custom-made bat-stamp on the front of their manila folder before they get filed away. Alfred brings down coffee, the good kind. Time passes quickly and he’s still busy when Clark flies in.

“Hey,” he walks up to Bruce and bends down for a quick kiss. “I thought you’d be at the meeting today. Diana said you were busy.”

Bruce points to the piece of paper in explanation, Clark turns to grab it. “Wally happened. And I’m always busy.”

“I see. He seemed almost unnaturally giddy today. Oh hey, look.” Clark holds up the picture of Batman and Superman, asleep on the javelin. In it, Clark’s face is peaceful, his mouth open, despite one of the ears on the cowl that is indeed poking his cheek. “We look cute.”

“Batman doesn’t do cute, Clark.”

Clark sighs. But you do, his eyes seem to say. No, I don’t, Bruce replies with his. “Where’d you get this, anyway?”

“Wally put it up on the fridge in the watchtower cafeteria. You didn’t notice him taking it last week?”

“Clearly,” Clark points to the Clark in the picture. “I fell asleep.”

“And here I thought you always listened to your surroundings.”

“We were in space. Not exactly much I can hear out there.”

Bruce gets up from his chair. Having a Superman has once again proven useless. Only Clark can do something so silly and time-wasting as sleeping, on purpose. Naps are overrated, anyway. They’ve had this discussion many times, Bruce knows the outcome. *Always* be on high alert, he will say. Clark will push back, it’s not that simple, he will say. Everyone needs sleep, his eyes pleading, apologetically somehow. They do.  But it has taken Bruce obtaining Clark’s powers in a freak magic accident and chasing after the sun and every criminal on the planet for 72 hours straight to realise that. Now he knows the desperation, the feeling that it will never end, the knowledge that in the end, not everyone can be saved, even if you try.

Everyone needs sleep, even Superman.

Clark watches him milling through these thoughts, it must be written on his face, and holds out his hand when Bruce’s features finally relax. He’ll just have a stern talking-to with Wally and Kyle next time he’s on the watchtower.

 .

 If only it were so simple. The next time he’s on the watchtower, the picture is back on the fridge. And in the main hallway. And in the transporter room, the trophy room, and the ground level bathroom. Bruce groans, suppresses the urge to face-palm. He takes the things down one by one, systematically going through the entire watchtower. Then, he has that talk with Wally. And with Kyle. Best to keep them separated. They snicker that it wasn’t them *this* time, and don’t seem scared of him at all.  

He’s either gone too soft in his old (not old, mature) age, or he should have designed the watchtower with a lot more corners for menacing shadows.

Wally and Kyle are both telling the truth, Bruce finds out in the next couple of days when more pictures return while Kyle is off in space and Wally is busy on earth. This time, it’s not just the one of them sleeping on the Javelin. A bunch of pictures have been put up in the break room. There’s one of Clark, asleep on monitor duty with his feet on the console (Bruce makes a mental note to talk to him about that). There, right there, that’s the reason why there always have to be two leaguers watching the screens. J’onn looking desperately at a small pile of Oreo crumbles on the floor of the meeting room. Diana vigorously devouring a tub of chocolate ice cream. And Batman, pointing at the camera, the other hand on his hip.

He has no idea who took it, but it has to be one of the speedsters. All he knows is that this has to stop. No matter if one finds this kind of thing funny, there are rules, privacy issues, secret identities and all that.

The security footage that Bruce watches back in the cave that night reveal some of the newer, younger members of the league sneaking around the watchtower with a roll of tape. They don’t know where all the cameras are, clearly. They don’t know the rules, clearly. Wally and Kyle have to have set them up to do this, clearly.

Clark watches with him over his shoulder. He chuckled when Bruce showed him the evidence earlier, but now his face is serious. He mouths an Oh. “This is getting out of hand. I’ll organize a meeting tomorrow.”

---

 The next day, in the biggest meeting hall on the watchtower, over 30 faces stare at them from across the large round table. Diana and J’onn are seated on their side, for good measure. They’re victims in this too. It’s intimidating to be called to the watchtower by Superman and Batman for a meeting on professional conduct, and even more intimidating to sit across four of the original members, especially for the new ones in the crowd. Good, Bruce thinks. He stands up, and so does Clark.

“Welcome, everyone,” Clark starts, the warm and commanding baritone all Superman. “We’re glad you could all make it on such short notice…” While Clark talks, Bruce regards the crowd of heroes standing nervously, or sitting on the few available chairs. Firestorm’s flame burns smaller than normal, the new Green Arrow has his bow clamped between both hands, and even Plastic Man seems to genuinely pay attention to Superman. Wally has his chin in his hands on the table, pretending to be interested, and Kyle only seems to pay attention to a scratch on the table’s surface. “…today is not an emergency, but it is important nonetheless…” Get to the point, Clark. “It seems that whilst we acquire more and more members for the JL, some of you think this is some sort of club and not an international organization to protect the earth,” he drones on. Arthur sighs, and for once, Bruce agrees with him.  

“I will not tolerate this any longer,” Bruce cuts Superman off brusquely, in his most serious bat-voice. “Take all pictures down. And if I see another one…”

Wally huffs, interrupting him. “No fun allowed on this godforsaken rock.”

Before Bruce can retort, Clark puts a hand on his tense shoulder. “What Batman is trying to say, is we can’t do this. Even if it seems harmless. Because if we get careless about the little things, we get sloppy, and if we get sloppy, the wrong information might fall into the wrong hands.”

“You’re just as paranoid as he is,” Plastic man points at Batman. “It’s a couple of harmless images.”

“And what did I just say?”

“You’re saying no fun allowed,” Kyle supplies this time. Once again, Bruce takes tremendous effort to suppress a face-palm, and crosses his arms instead. He grunts. Really, they have 37 children here. Not just the 6 back home – a rookie number. 37, except maybe not Diana. Maybe. “Man, we bust our butts for you guys. I’m behind at work, barely get any sleep or free time and you’re getting on our case for something as dumb as this!” Kyle throws his arms up in anger. Behind him, Connor tries to shush him.

“This is work just as much as your civilian job. And more important on top of that. If you want to slack off, you can do that back home. Not here.”

“Grumpy much, bats? Someone missed their morning coffee today…” Wally mumbles.

They continue staring at each other, but it’s Superman who breaks first, uncrosses his arms and sighs. “You can have a couch in the break room… and a tv.” he looks at Bruce. At his expense, of course. “That’s it. No more images of JL members. Leave your personal lives at home.”

“Fine,” Wally sits up. “We’ll take them down.”

 ---

 A couple days later, Bruce is back on the watchtower. No weird pictures greet him this time. Much cleaner. He steadily makes his way to the break room to grab a coffee before the current meeting, but only because he didn’t have time to wait for Alfred’s Italian brew anymore. Clark is with him, already more cheerful because of Bruce’s relatively better mood.

The cafeteria is still empty, the little kitchen still clean. Save for the fridge. There, prominently in the middle of the door, the original picture of Batman and Superman on the Javelin stares him squarely in the face. It’s held up by a pair of small Wonder Woman magnets this time. Clark says something behind him, but Bruce isn’t paying attention. As he gets closer, he can tell it’s different. The paper is thicker, a nicer quality. The image is not a print, but hand-drawn in a mix of coloured chalk and high-quality pencil. The lighting, especially, is magnificent. Kyle Rayner. A new addition is the caption in curly handwriting underneath the image:

 Even the world’s finest heroes need to sleep

 Now, Bruce face-palms. Hard. Clark mutters a fuck, but regains control quickly. “I’ve got to hand it to them; they have nerve.” Bruce ignores him as he opens the fridge to grab the milk for Clark’s coffee. “It’s a good quality to have.”

“Or a bad one.”

Clark shrugs. His face breaks out into a grin. “And, I have them on my side now.”

Oh, no. Bruce whips his head up from the coffee machine to look at Clark. “Batman doesn’t nap.”

Clark inclines his head, raises an eyebrow. But *you* do. It’s so goddamn frustrating when he’s right.

“Hn. You already have Alfred on your side, that’s enough. And I’ve been good about it.”

“According to your standards, sure. Don’t you think it’s time for one later today? After the meeting?”

“Not here,” Bruce whispers.

“Back home.”

Home. It’s a good thing the security cameras don’t record sound. “Okay,” he mumbles. “I’ve got some time before patrol.”

Clark’s grin turns victorious, and Bruce burns his tongue on the coffee while he tries to hide a smile himself. He’ll decide what to do about Kyle’s art project later. Right now, they have a meeting to attend to.

 ---

 The next morning, Bruce wakes up to Clark kissing his jaw, his mouth. He tastes like Alfred’s coffee. Too early, as always. Not early enough, as always, because Clark is already getting up for work. He considers pulling him back into bed and just straight up explaining to Perry that Clark is late again because he’s fucking the owner, but then he remembers yesterday’s incident. He’ll have to do something about it, obviously, but he’s not looking forward to acknowledging the whole thing yet again, maybe even admitting that the younger members are right, if only a little bit. Stupid watchtower clubhouse. His foul mood must be showing on his face, because all he gets is a “Let it go, Bruce” before Clark disappears into the bathroom. He comes back out in record time, fastening his tie. “Just, let it go. Let them have a little bit of fun. They’re young.”

But not doing anything about it is not an option. Not for Batman, and not for Bruce. “If I don’t retort, they’ll keep going. This won’t die out.” He sits up in bed. At the foot end, Clark is putting on his shoes. 

“It will. You can’t fight fire with fire, sweetheart.” He walks over to Bruce and kisses his cheek. That’s it.

“That’s it. I’m going to fight fire with fire.” Get down to their level. He has kids, knows what teenagers and twenty-something year olds think like.

“No,” Clark groans. It turns into a sigh. “I’m going to be late.”

Bruce gets up. “Then go. Have a good day at work, honey.” 

Clark clenches his jaw, and swings his messenger bag over his shoulder, giving up. “I’ll meet you for lunch,” he says, already halfway out the window.

Bruce closes it behind him, and then quickly makes his way down to the cave. He lets Alfred know he’ll have breakfast on the watchtower, dons the batsuit, makes a quick stop at his desk in the cave, and beams up to the watchtower. 9 am. He’s still on time.

---  

 At lunch time, the cafeteria is buzzing with excitement, more and more heroes gathering around the fridge as they point and whisper Really? And Do you even think it was him? And Wally, this must be another prank of yours. Bruce hears shushing and He’s right there while he drinks his coffee on the other side of the room. Finally, Clark walks in and takes a second to behold the spectacle, his brow furrowed, listening in. He clearly gives up on going to the fridge to get food, and instead makes a beeline to where Batman is sitting at one of the tables. “What’s going on? Did you remove it?” he asks as he sits down across from Bruce.

“I did not.”

Wally sticks his head out of the crowd and looks at the two of them. “Hey Bats! Does this mean we can keep it?”

Calmly, Bruce sips his coffee, pointedly ignoring the younglings and the little victory he supplied for them. But of course, and without skipping a beat, Clark notices his smug mood. He leans closer across the metal table. “What, did you put your bat-stamp of approval on it?”

“As a matter of fact, I did.”

Clark looks back over at the fridge with his spectacular vision to see what Bruce has done earlier, before anyone else was in the vicinity; his bat-symbol stamped onto the lower right corner of the caption. Later, he’ll add a rule to his original list next to the fridge. Only approved art and trophies allowed on the watchtower.

“I also hacked their phones and made sure there are no digital copies anymore,” he explains. “That should teach them to think twice next time.”

“You’re unbelievable, you know that?”

Bruce shrugs. After all, he’s heard it all before. Only this time, Clark is unable to suppress a smile, he puts a hand over his, and adds “I love you.” Even that is nothing new, he knows it already, but it hasn’t happened on the watchtower yet. He allows a smile to form on his face while Clark holds his gloved hand. The rest of the league is too busy with the commotion around the fridge, anyway.  

A few days later, he finds a copy of the drawing in the cave, this one with a small Superman stamp in the lower-right corner. It may just be exactly what he needs to see after a long night of patrol. Alfred seems happy about it too, and not just about the two people in it. He now simply points to the text with a stern face instead of obnoxiously and repeatedly clearing his throat whenever Bruce comes back from patrol battered and bruised or refuses to go up to the house and his bed.

There is another one in the fortress, although Clark doesn’t spend much time there. Bruce figures he can use the reminder whenever he does go there, so far away from humanity, to work on a case. And in Blüdhaven, Dick has one on his bedside table. The last time he visited Titans tower he noticed one in the hallway. Both of those not Bruce’s doing. He lets it slide, right of his cape and cowl and cool exterior. He just hopes everyone can keep it within their inner circles and that Batman and Superman won’t get turned into one of those ‘memes’.  

[serrj215]

2nd Room

There was so much to do, too much to do. Raven was starting to regret refusing Bart's and Conner's offer of help. They would have been moved in less than 30 seconds. Of course it would take days to figure out where everything was, and if Bart’s room in the tower was any indication she would be finding her clothes in the dishwasher.

Moving is exhausting despite mystic talents or super powers. It was a mental drain trying to figure out where everything went, where it was supposed to go and what they were missing. Raven had spent half an hour trying to place a small protective statue of Athena. A house warming present from Donna Troy. It was a lovely piece but there was no obvious place to put it. It was the same story with an area rug given to them by Wally and Linda West. It was thick and well made, and it was obvious that Linda picked it out. It was still rolled up leaning against the statue of Athena.

It took Raven hours trying to get the kitchen in order. It didn’t help that her boyfriend's packing style was a little haphazard. She had found most of the utensils in a box labeled bathroom, and the mugs were hidden under Garfield's anime dolls, no sorry figurines he was sensitive about that sort of thing.

It also didn't help that their friend Victor had given them every kitchen gadget known to man as his housewarming gift. It was very sweet of him but Raven was not sure if she trusted herself to operate a microwave, let alone a blender with 26 different speed settings.

Garfield had been a whirl of green energy since she had said "Yes" and agreed to move in together. He had started packing before they even found the apartment. Then he insisted on loading and unloading the moving truck himself. Every time she got close to lifting a box no matter how small or light he was there. "I will get that for you Rave" She started to wonder if he suspected. Maybe he knew on some unconscious level.

Still even without the heavy lifting it had been an exhausting day and each room still had a small mountain of boxes. Where did either of them get so much stuff?

"VICTORY!" Garfield shouted

"And who have you defeated?" Raven shouted back though the apartment as she opened another box labeled kitchen to find two spatulas and a bunch of video game cartridges.

"Come to OUR bedroom and look!" Gar had been doing that all day. It was not the kitchen it was 'our kitchen', not the bathroom it was 'our bathroom'. You have never met someone so happy to be sharing a space.

Raven walked into the bedroom just in time to see her boyfriend flop onto the bare mattress of the newly assembled bed. Once settled on his back he lifted up a small brass L shaped tool and threw it across the room behind a mountain of boxes he had hoped never to see again. This was his 5th attempt to turn a box of wood and steel into a bed.

"I never thought I could hate a piece of metal so much. " he said breathing hard like he had just ran a mile full out.

"Well it's finished. Congratulations. " She said leaning over him.

"Not Yet!" He reached up and pulled her into the bed with him.

"What are you doing!"

"Testing phase, the most important part of the process." He said with a laugh as they tossed together for a moment settling with Raven lying on her side resting her head on Gar's shoulder.

"Satisfied?" She asked pushing her hair out of her face.

"Not even close." He said pulling her closer starting to kiss down her neck. The warmth from his lips flooded into her and started stirring something.

"Not now." she groaned out reluctantly pushing him back a bit. It was sometimes too easy to give in to him. Raven knew if she did they'd be spending the rest of the day “testing” their new bed instead of getting anything done. "We still have to finish unpacking."

He groaned and let his head fall back. "I know we still gotta get the living room setup, the Wifi, we got to find out if the neighborhood pizza place is any good."

She craned her head to look him in an eyebrow raised.

"What? A guy has to eat, and we haven't hit the grocery store yet all that’s in the fridge is water and empty ice cube trays".

She thought for a moment. “The Thai place up the street, it's menu has a big vegetarian section.”

Garfield ears perked a bit. “That does sound good” He sat up a bit in the bed. “I could go for noodles and peanut sauce”

“That and you eating a little less bread a grease might be an idea.”

“We have been moved in for 17 hours and you're trying to change me already?” he said with a laugh.

Ravens arm wrapped around his chest “I just want you around for a while, I promise Pizza is in our future just not tonight. “

"Speaking of the future, what do you want to do with that spare room?" He asked. "I mean we could just do a guest room but maybe a home gym would make more sense?"

"We do still have the Tower for that, I did have another idea."

“You're going to let me turn it into a man cave?” He said with too big a grin to be taken seriously.

“As much as it appeals to me to sequester you, your xBox, your plastic anime girlfriends and eventually Victor so the rest of the house is available for my own peace and quiet, no. “

Garfield tried to hold back a laugh. "How about Raven’s little library. Get some comfy chairs, floor to ceiling shelves for your books, a sign on the door that says SHHHH, the whole 9 yards. All the peace and quiet you could want."

"Tempting, but not what I had in mind.” She squeezed him a bit. He could live there just wrapped up in her.

“Raven, this is our place, You tell me what is going to make you happy, I am just so glad that you are here with me. “

"A nursery" she said quietly.

"You mean like plants?" His mind immediately jumped to an image of a room full of lush green and potted flowers.

"No Gar, there is something that I need to show you.” Raven said getting up. She straddled his waist”

“Oh I like where this is going”

Raven ignored the obvious innuendo and placed her hands on either side of his face. Her eyes closed “Azerath Metrion Zinthos” she chanted opening up a pathway between her and the man she loved. It was not the first time that Raven shared something like this with him. It was another way for her to be close to someone, and it was time to share a secret she had been keeping. Garfield got lost in the sensation and the rhythm of her words, his own lids fell.

Thoughts and images poured into Garfield mind. Playgrounds,joy, stuffed animals,excitement, names,trepidation flashed at random then he felt it. There was another presence, un-directed curious and simple. When Garfield focused his other senses came along. Raven’s familiar scent had changed, intensified in some ways softened in others. Her skin had taken on more color, he had written it off as some extra time in the sun but then he heard it. The gentle but regular thumping of a small heart.

His eyes shot open and his surprise the shock breaking the link. “Raven you're pregnant? I mean that's what I felt right! You...we... are going to-” his voice started shaking.

“Yes Gar.”

“We're going to have a baby?” he said just above a whisper.

“Yes Gar”

“I am going to be a dad?”

“That's generally how it works. “

Garfield was still as a statue for a moment. Then it happened. Raven didn't know what she felt more the tidal wave crash of emotion or the fierce hug wrapped around her. He buried his face in her neck.

"Baby!" He declared “Rave, I didn't think we could, I mean, I thought that this was impossible." His voice shook. “You are going to be a great mom!”

Raven’s arms came around him. “Thank Azar, I wasn’t sure how you would react.”

“I have never felt something so big in my life!. I want to tell everyone, I want to go out and get toys and diapers and you're going to, and things and that things and-” He was talking too fast and his mind was jumping to a dozen places at once.

“Slow down.” Raven said softly one of her hands slowly stroking the back of his head. She kissed his forehead.

He wiped his eyes with his hands, trying to steady himself. The last few minutes was like getting hit by cold lighting. He wanted to tell Vic, and Bart, and Conner, the justice league, he never met Darkside but if he did the first words out of his mouth would be “Me and Rae are having a baby!”

Then a horrible realization hit Garfield square in the face. “SHIT!”

“What’s wrong?”

“The kid is going to need a crib, and a changing table and a dresser, I am going to have to find that damn Allen key” Garfield said flopping back into the bed.

Raven gave a small laugh. “Yes our child will need those, later. Right now can we just enjoy the moment?”

“Your right, we need to celebrate.”

“Gar, the aprt-”

“Can wait!” He sat up taking both her hands. “The boxes are not going anywhere. Let me take you to dinner tonight. Then maybe we can open Dick’s housewarming gift.”

Raven was almost afraid to ask “What did Dick get us?”

Gar’s face broke into a smile a wild look in his eyes. “Satin bed sheets” he said before pouncing on her. The next thing she knew, Raven was on her back. His hands quickly ran under her shirt to do deliciously sinful things. His mouth biting that one spot on the base of her neck taking a sledgehammer to her self control.

“Gar” she moaned out. “What are”

“Trying for twins.” He said before capturing her mouth with his.

@westernfan1​ Requested this story and asked for it to be based on the Geoff Jones version of the characters. This was an interesting challenge for me since most of my stuff I write I base on the TTA universe borrowing from other cannons when I need to and where it doesn't conflict.  So I do hope you all enjoy it and please be forgiving if a few details are a little off. 

I would also would like to thank @loubuggins​ who gave me a dissertation worthy of university admission on this subject.  Thank you Lou in my mind you are the foremost expert on Jones version of Beast Boy and Raven.  

[furniturewith]

How to Build an Outdoor Fireplace Without Eating Up an Entire Weekend

How to Build an Outdoor Fireplace Without Eating Up an Entire Weekend

Outdoor furnishing is a fantastic way to provide appeal to your patio as well turn it into a more comfortable place to enjoy quiet days. Choosing furniture for the patio takes some careful considerations since it is not something you can buy everyday. Such is quite a great investment, so picking the one which will take probably the most advantage that's definitely worth the money you purchased it for is usually best. Among the many choices for patio furnishing, wood, iron, steel and plastics remain to be one of the most popular through the years. Sure wood, steel and iron makes appealing options. However, they could possess a lots of downsides too. Outdoor furnishing is consistently exposed to a lots of weather change, constant exposure to heat and rain may degrade the standard of wooden chairs. Oftentimes, if not probably the most durable materials are widely-used, the risk for breakage is always there. More so, its being expensive makes this approach quite unattractive. Steel and iron, almost in competing in price with wood, is not a suitable choice when placed outdoors since the rain as well as other climate factors could easily cause rusts in order to create.

Wooden Furniture is the most accepted type of furniture mainly because it blends within the surrounding and imparts it a natural, cozy and synchronized feel. Tables, chairs, swings, lawn bridges, rocking chairs etc all belong to Outdoor Wooden Furniture. They are readily available and can be found almost anywhere, whether it is online retailers or local stores.

If you are having tough time choosing your patio furniture however, here are some ideas. Basically, the toughest moment you will find yourself in when you are furniture shopping is seeking the fitting chair. Why? For there are a lot of chairs as outlined by construction, brand name and material within the furniture shop. There are also seating according to the shape, the paint, the craft etching, and the like that can just make you lightheaded and lost. But the moment you've picked the chair of one's taste, count on me, picking out the rest of one's exterior furniture set would likely be considered a breeze.

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These are only a few inside benefits we could enjoy if our patio is well-designed. One from your best approaches to put these areas into good use is usually to put a practical and cute garden furniture included. An outdoor dining furniture, a resin wicker outdoor furniture with an outdoor living furniture are great ways for these outdoor areas.These furniture sets can transform these dull and unutilized areas into livelier and functional addition, placing one of the brilliant furniture sets may help in enhancing the appearance from the areas that's well suited for having the admiration individuals guests. Many quality manufacturers provide you having a range of quality teakwood furnishings that could fit your entire outdoor needs. Their extensive various outdoor teak furniture and Teak Outdoor Patio Furniture, including tables, chairs, chaise lounges, sofas, bar tables plus more, will certainly perform best with any outdoor area. Your purchase of quality outdoor furniture is undoubtedly an investment in craftsmanship that will stand test of the time, weather sunlight and rain after which satisfy for years at any given time. Living your health is hard please remember exhausting. With the daily responsibilities outside and within your home, the body must relax and rest following your entire day. And you need not look for another destination to get comfort. All you need is garden furniture as part of your backyard or patio to pamper yourself with comfort whenever you'll need to unwind your whole body and mind.

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Hummingbird Metal Garden Bench Alvah Slatted Stainless Steel Garden Bench Gabbert Wooden Garden Bench Ismenia Checkered Outdoor Cast Aluminum Patio Garden Bench Elements Storage Bench Ketcha Wood Garden Bench Slate Outdoor Wooden Picnic Bench Sawyerville Poly Lumber Picnic Bench Dragonfly Metal Garden Bench Appleby Aluminum Garden Bench Silvia Outdoor Wooden Storage Bench Montezuma Garden Bench Englewood Wood Garden Bench Cat Metal Garden Bench Arendtsville Picnic Bench Adrianna Vinyl Park Bench Chippendale Bench Tillie Wood Garden Bench Emmalynn Wood Garden Bench Manchester Wood Picnic Bench Wallie Teak Garden Bench Conner Folding Acacia Wood Garden Bench Square Wood Planter Bench Earnest Wooden Picnic Bench Ebron Metal Garden Bench Frank Gehry Entryway Bench Spero Traditional English Plastic Garden Bench Teak Sauna Bench X-Back Hardwood Garden Bench Dock Holiday Bench Swerve Modular Picnic Bench Crockett Picnic Bench 3 Layer Floating Oasis Park Bench Picnic Bench Sickles Outdoor Leopard Shaped Concrete Garden Bench Shullsburg Hourglass Stone Garden Bench Needville Wooden Garden Bench Lisabeth American Pride Flag Metal Garden Bench Snell Sunset High Rise Teak Garden Bench Northgate Metal Park Bench Sakura Teak Garden Bench Fairway Re-Purposed Metal Truck Park Bench Baker Metal Garden Bench Midcourt Park Bench Entryway Iron Garden Bench Laney Garden Bench Milligan Metal Garden Bench Samuel Outdoor Wooden Park Bench Golfer Aluminum Garden Bench Abrego Aluminium Garden Bench Hae Curved Leaf Bench Skyline ArchTec Stainless Steel Garden Bench Margaritaville Southern Most Point Wooden Garden Bench Pitchel Owl Bench Carin Aluminium Garden Bench Uluwatu Picnic Bench Classic Teak Garden Bench Hardwood Doweling Garden Bench Riptide Plastic Bench Linntown Garden Bench Teak Marlboro Lutyens Garden Bench Plastic Garden Bench Jackie Bench Xenia Mesh Glider Bench Wilmoth End Solid Wood Garden Bench Cramden Bench Del-Amo Teak Garden Glider Bench Sparta Wood Picnic Bench Traditional Adirondack Tete-a-Tete Bench Dunloy Wooden Garden Bench Finkel Classic Garden Bench Courtyard Steel Park Bench Classic Westport Plastic Garden Bench Phil Curved Bench Peters Outdoor Rattan Garden Bench Beach Indoor/Outdoor Aluminum Garden Bench Etonbury Solid Wood Garden Bench Adirondack Shell Wood Adirondack Chair Contour Recycled Plastic Park Bench Riptide Wishbone Plastic Bench Cambridge Teak Picnic Bench Butler Park Bench U-Leg Perforated Metal Park Bench Fenham Acrylic Picnic Bench Club Aluminum Picnic Bench Isanti Wooden Garden Bench Sheffield Garden Bench Rod Steel Park Bench Otha Iron Garden Bench Crespin Aluminum Garden Bench UltraSite Recycled Plastic Backless Surface Mount Bench Aire Aluminum Garden Bench Croce Park Bench Picnic Bench Teak Wood Stafford Garden Bench Victory Steel Park Bench Varick Wooden Picnic Bench Victory Perforated Steel Park Bench Standard Expanded Metal Park Bench Courtyard Series Iron Picnic Bench Iron Picnic Bench

[whateverthought]

A full(ish) outline of my ‘Evil WestAllen’ AU or Earth 6. It's kinda long. 

------

  On Earth 6, 11-year-old Bartholomew Henry Allen awakens to a ruckus downstairs only to go and see his mother encompassed in a whirlwind of electricity and color. He calls out as his parents scream for him to leave. And there he sees, the Yellow Man thrust his hand into his mother’s chest before finding himself down the block from home.

As he makes it back he hears police sirens and screeching tires. He watches his father, stunned and resigned, get put in the back of a police car. He goes inside and sees Mr. West, a family friend, standing over something covered in a blanket.

Something-  His mom.

He knows. He knows she’s under the blanket.

  And Mr. West turns, sees him, and rushes to move him out of the house. Away from the crime scene. Away from his mother. And wasn’t that what his mother told him last? To leave?

 Months later he is living with the Wests, with Joe and Iris, but his father is in jail. His father who did nothing. Who was innocent. But he pleaded guilty. Barry saw him plead guilty. Saw him in a prison jumpsuit, in that courtroom. Saw him look anywhere but at Barry.

 And he had tried to help. Barry told them everything. The lightning, the wind, his mother and the Man in Yellow. But no one believed him. No one truely let him finish. They only doubted him. Telling him what he did and did not know.

  He couldn’t have seen the crime, all the police officers saw him run from down the street. He wasn’t in the house, he must have ran away when he heard his father attack his mother. There was no way a Man in Yellow stabbed his mother with his hand. It was ridiculous! Except it wasn’t.

 And he tried to see his father. Ask him why he lied. Why he wanted to be in jail. Why he would rather be in prison than with his son. But each time he would be stopped. Each time Joe West would force him back. He’d sit him down and tell him he couldn’t see his father. Because he was dangerous. Because he was a criminal. Because he didn’t deserve it.

 And Joe, much like every officer and detective, didn’t believe him. He believed his father was a monster and kept Barry from visiting.

  Each time he did get closer. Until, finally, he got to his father. Finally, his father laid eyes on Barry. In the months since the crime Barry was looking at his father in the eyes. Yet, his father sat down, picked up the phone and told him to leave.

  He shouldn’t be here, he shouldn’t have come, he should just forget about him, his father. And then he got up, and left. He left Barry there, sitting in the plastic chair on the other side of a plastic window in a cold concrete room inside a prison.

-

 At 6 years old Iris Ann West loses her mother. Her mother had been sick for weeks, on and off for years. And one day she wakes up to see her mother gone. Maybe she went out, her father doesn’t seem too bothered. But later that week her father sits her down, and  tells her her mother died. And she cries.

 But life keeps going and nothing happens. They move some her mother’s things but there’s no funeral. Dead people have a funeral, right? And she asks her teachers, and they say, sometimes people have Wakes or Memoerials.

Her father does neither.

  So, at 6, her mother is just gone. And she loves her father. He was a cop, a detective, a hero who fought bad guys. So he couldn’t be wrong.

  And then her bestfriend loses everything. And now he lives with them. And then she wonders, a man who she knew, a man who was nothing but good to her was now a murderer. Not just a murderer, but someone who killed his wife. His love. Something, Iris thought, was nothing but evil. And her father agreed. He told her he did it. He put him in jail himself!

  But, Barry didn’t. Barry told her what he saw, what really happened and, truly? Really truly? Iris believed Barry.

  At 15, she hears her father talking to Barry’s therapist. He was worried, too many fights, too many bloody noses, and broken wrists. She knows she shouldn’t listen. But its Barry. Barry tells her everything, more than the therapist espesially. So she listens, because what if her father tries to send Barry away again? Another “Summer Camp” full of doctors and bodyguards. Another few months of being alone.

 She asks, what about a mother figure? Well, he has Iris, but what about a good female role model? Iris almosts gets caught when she snorts at that. Barry had a mother, and he’d never take some replacement. But thats not important. What is, is that her father admits its been hard since her mother left.

Left.

 And Iris knew her father, he said it like that for a reason. So one night, when her dad was asleep, she searches the Internet. And thats when she saw it. Her mother. Her mother after 9 years.

Francine West. 39. Mother. Of a Son.

Alive.

 Iris yells, and raves and sobs and screams but in the end, he lied. Her father lied to her. A good man who believed in justice and honor lied to her about her mother. But worse, he looks her in the eye, and tells her to not reach out. She left, and she didn’t deserve Iris’ love.

He was right. She didn’t. Neither did he.

-

  At 16, Iris decides to reach out to her brother, not because she cares, but because her mother doesn’t deserve to have a family after leaving Iris’. Later they move back to Central, and Wally slowly joins Iris and Barry’s little bond.

  During Prom, Iris goes with a girl covered in piercings and Barry takes an older boy with a record. Francine looks uncomfortable as all hell, and Joe looks one second from getting into a fist fight. Neither of them get home before 1 in the morning, and they do it in a police car.

  As collage approaches Barry decides to go to Med School, he’ll take after his father if it kills him. Iris decides to go for law. They leave together, far from Central and there they meet other students from the area. One is Political Science major Lisa Snart, Iris’ PA for her floor. Soon, as things tend to be, they grow close. Lisa tells them about her brother, Leonard, who died young, protecting Lisa from their crooked cop of a father. Of what she saw, of dirty cops and criminals working together. The law wasn’t on their side. Not Barry’s, not Lisa’s and definately not Leonard’s.

-

  They all go back to Central, Barry becoming a surgeon and Iris a lawyer. On that day, December 11, the S.T.A.R. Labs particle accelerator explodes, sending chaos through the city. At that time Iris is driving with her father, in a rare moment of happiness. Then the storm starts, and a wave of chaos begins. A car in front of them swerves and in an instance, multiple cars are crashing and flying. Iris and Joe included. As their car stops, Iris realizes she’s stuck. Pinned by the car and varying metal parts inbedded into her body she sees her father take his last breathe. She stays there for hours, barely concious, and stews. Her father, who moments ago was actually having a nice time with her, is dead. Her father who she loved and hated in equal measure. Who, maybe, just maybe was finally reconnecting with her. Who she might have finally forgiven.

 Barry is in the hospital when it happens. Moving between emergancies, he stops for a breathe. And the power goes off. The silence lasts a moment before everyone is scrambling to check on patients. Everyone, but Barry. Because he knows something bad has happened.

  Later Iris is brought in for surgury and, days later, has yet to wake up. As Barry watches he feels a knot of bitterness and resentment tighten in his chest. They, the hospital staff, tell him to leave. He can’t help. And he watches Wally and Francine cry over his Iris. Francine doesn’t deserve to cry. If nothing else she should be the one in the bed. Iris is worth 100 of Francine.

  Iris is out for 7 months. In that time Barry turns back to their, Iris and his, old criminal conntacts. They are small, and few but are in no way insignificant. He builds it, and reaches out. He sees the growing number of freaks and weirdos who can do things they shouldn’t. With that, he makes enemies and allies alike.

   One of those is Talia Al Ghul, the run away daughter of the Demon’s Head. He watches her take down mobs of people. He has her come back with information she shouldn’t have. He sees her take down small, powerful criminal organisations. So he makes a deal, he will protect her and she will teach him. She gets shelter, protection, money, connections and he gets to learn how to snap a man’s head between his thighs. She gets a shadow to hide in and he gets a well of toxicology knowledge.

   When Iris wakes up, its to a growing criminal organization. Its during a meeting for this that she first shows her power. A bullet flies toward her Barry and as she jumps infront of it her skin turns silver. Flawless and smooth Iris West becomes The Woman of Steel. As the group lies dead at her and Barry’s feet they realize. The game had changed.

  Over a year later, the Central City Underworld finally descends into chaos. Whispers of a sadistic doctor, his right hand robot and pet assasin lerking in the shadows spread. It’s like a plague, causing fear and paronoia everywhere you look. Crime Lords getting trigger happy and cops twitching at every noise.

  Barry Allen is the leading surgeon in Central and Iris West is a prominant member in many court proceedings. Lisa Snart is campaning for Mayor and Talia Al Ghul is as good as dead to the rest of the world. And its at this time that the Man in Yellow starts showing up.

   Slowly it becomes obvious this is the same man. He always happens to arrive in Barry’s radious. Taunting him. And they bite. Every villian and criminal in their way gets struck down. Every lead and every possibility is followed. As this happens Barry is asked by Harrison Wells to join his business. Deciding the labs can be used to find the Man in Yellow, he agrees.

  Soon Central City gets a hero. Hot Pursuit, a man who can run at lightning speed, who drives a motorcyle going just as fast. The man seems to have a grudge with Central City’s biggest criminal trio, the Good Doctor, Titanium and Shadow Hunter. Never succeding, he still breathes down their neck.

  Despite their bitter resentment, the CCPD is too easy to manipulate. Captain Edward Thawne is a rough man with an agenda against the rising metahuman problem. He hates Hot Pursuit just as much as he does any criminal. This leads to the idenity of the Man in Yellow.

   Its Iris who finds out. From his fights with Hot Pursuit and Barry’s memories, Iris finds the pattern. And as she searches S.T.A.R. labs she finds him. Harrison Wells, standing in all his yellow glory, working on a machine Iris knows doesn’t belong. He catches her, and while he can’t kill her, her powers beat his, he does imprison her. He laments he would rather just kill her, everything has already gone wrong.

   When Talia finds Iris they learn the truth. Eobard Thawne killed Nora Allen, got stuck in time, and killed Harrison Wells. He blew up the accelerator early, on purpose but everything was wrong. Barry was wrong. Wrong job, wrong powers, wrong life. And now, now Eobard could never leave, and Barry couldn’t fight back. He would just run.  Leave.

   Barry wouldn’t run. He was tired of running. Wouldn’t leave. He poisoned the man, and Iris mutilated his arm and he still got away. They would never get a chance like that again.  

   So Iris decided to get rid of him. She hunted down Thawne’s ancestor, Captain Edward Thawne. A good man, but if it would kill Eobard then Titanium would make it quick.

Its during this that Titantium found out Hot Pursuit’s idenity.

Wally.

   “Harrison Wells” left them everything. S.T.A.R. labs, millions of dolars and a confession. Henry Allen was let out of Iron Heights. And Hot Pursuit now has partners. Bomba, a woman who could blow up anything she touched. Solarflare, a woman made of fire who could change anything into something completely different. And two very condensading hawk people.

   As Lisa becomes Mayor of Central City, politicians from around come and go. One such person is Jennifer ‘Stormy’ Knight, stone faced daughter of Senator Henry Knight and former Wild Child. After an accident, and an attack, Stormy took on the moniker ‘Phantom Lady’ and fights crime in the battle against dirty politicians. An ally of Titanium and future member of Iris’ ‘Furies’.

  Barry proposes to Iris in a beautiful club they recently claimed, and murdered the former gang of, with a private show, just them, and they made love on the stage.

They have a small beautiful wedding and honeymoon in France. Of course, the wedding was inturrupted but nothing Titanium and her Good Doctor couldn’t end.

-----

Barry becomes a bendy assassin who uses needles, poison, scalpel, and knowledge of the body to fight. He doesn’t like to back down and is petty when he feels like he’s been insulted.

Iris is a metal tank. She’s sharp, observational, a great detective and an amazing at deception. Silver tongue, y’know? She’s ruthless and protective. She doesn’t trust people easily and usually, she only believes Barry. Also, the only person who can tell Barry what to do, not only that he also always listens (100%).

Decided to add Talia cause no one ever lets her make her own decisions not based on her father or lover. Also added Lisa cause I mean?? Lisa. Also, I’ve recently fallen in love with Phantom Lady sooooo.... bias

Heroes include Wally West as Hot Pursuit, Bette Sans Souci as Bomba, Lily Stien and Valentina Vostok as Solarflare and Carter Hall and Kendra Saunders as Hawkman and Hawkwoman.

This is in reference to lostinthespeedforce ‘s post about Evil WestAllen. So. Feel like I could have done better but... 

@lostinthespeedforce

[dragonydreams]

Fic: Is This Real Life? - Captain Canary

Title: Is This Real Life? Fandom: DC's Legends of Tomorrow Rating: Teen Pairings/Characters: Sara Lance/Leonard Snart, Team!Legends Summary: Unexpected visitors on the Waverider leads to very happy reunions. Timeline: Sometime late S3 - no Avalance Word Count: 1,903 Disclaimer: I claim no ownership over these characters. I am merely borrowing them from Berlanti Productions, DC Entertainment, and Warner Bros. Television. Betas: Thank you to angelskuuipo and shanachie for looking this over for me. Author's Note: Written for @wordsfrompictures Prompt 3

"Captain Lance, please come to the bridge," Gideon requested.

Sara closed the magazine she wasn't really reading and sat up on her bed, swinging her legs over the side.

"What's up?" she asked, pushing herself to her feet.

"I think that it's better for you to see with your own eyes," Gideon responded cryptically.

Frowning, Sara walked hurriedly to the bridge. Something must be really wrong if Gideon didn't want to tell her why she was being summoned.

As she entered the room, she saw a familiar young man, shifting nervously from foot to foot.

A grin spread across her face as she quickened her pace. "Wally, what are you doing here?" Sara turned her face to the ceiling. "Gideon, you didn't have to be so vague about Wally being on the bridge."

"Hello, Assassin," drawled an all too familiar voice from the door to the office. "Or should I say, 'Captain'?"

Sara froze and did her best to force herself relax as she slowly turned around.

The voice belonged to the face she expected it to come from. Leonard Snart. She knew without a doubt that it was Leonard and not Leo, back for a visit.

"Leonard," Sara acknowledged stiffly, her voice cracking just a bit. Sara swallowed, trying get moisture into her suddenly dry throat.

Then she turned and walked straight to the cargo bay and outside into the field they were still parked in after their last mission.

She stumbled blindly down the wide path towards the mist-covered mountains, barely seeing anything around her.

"Sara, wait," Leonard's voice called after her.

She could hear the heavy footfalls as he ran to catch up with her and she stopped walking. She didn't turn to greet him, though, her shock too great.

When he caught up to her, Leonard stepped in front of her. His eyes hungrily took in her tear-stained face and she saw him fighting the urge to touch her. Something that should have been out of character for him, but not with her.

So she raised a fingerless-gloved hand to his face, her fingertips grazing his stubble-covered cheek and she choked back a sob.

"You're real," she marveled. "How?"

Leonard turned his face into her palm, encouraging the contact. "I'm not entirely sure," he admitted. He gave in to temptation and raised a hand of his own until he was stroking her hair. "One minute I was cursing the Time Bastards and the next I was standing in some kind of government office."

"The Time Bureau," Sara said and Leonard nodded. He cocked his head in question and Sara answered as if he'd spoken the words. "They're the new Time Masters, but without the controlling destiny thing."

Leonard nodded his understanding.

"What does Wally have to do with this story?" Sara asked.

Leonard trailed his hand down her arm and took one of her hands in his. "Let's go back to the ship so he can fill in the blanks," Leonard suggested.

"Yeah, just… in a minute," Sara said. "I'm not ready to share you just yet."

"Now how can I deny a request like that?" Leonard drawled. He glanced away, then met Sara's eyes again. "How long has it been?"

"Wally didn't fill you in?" Sara asked, surprised.

Leonard shook his head. "Kid was too excited about getting me back to the Waverider."

"It's been about three years for us," Sara said.

Leonard's hand in hers tightened and he stumbled back a step. "Three years," he repeated. He looked around; lost. His eyes snapped back to her face. "Lisa?"

Sara gasped. "I'm sorry… We thought you were dead. Mick and I told her…"

Leonard waved her off. "We'll go see her and tell her it was all a misunderstanding."

Sara raised an eyebrow. "A three-year misunderstanding?"

"We lost track of time?" Leonard suggested.

Sara laughed and pulled him closer. "For three years?"

Leonard shrugged and pressed closer. "We had a lot of time to make up for."

"Do we?" Sara asked, seriously.

"It's only been an hour for me; since you kissed me," Leonard said. "I suppose I should be asking you that question. Is there still a chance for me and you?"

Sara's hands cupped Leonard's face. "I never gave up hope that we'd someday find a way to save you without ruining the timeline."

Her fingers flexed as Sara drew Leonard's face towards hers. She poured all of her longing and joy into the kiss, pressing against his body when Leonard wrapped his arms around her waist to pull her closer.

Time stood still as they reaffirmed that the other was real through their lips and hands. They didn't break apart until Mick came barreling out of the ship hollering, "Is it true?"

Sara broke the kiss, turning, but not leaving Leonard's arms. She was grinning with kiss-swollen lips as she called, "It's true."

"Mick," Leonard said, squaring his shoulders.

Mick slapped Leonard on the back. "Knew you weren't dead."

"You did?" Sara questioned. "And you didn't tell the rest of us."

Mick shrugged. "Like you would have listened to me."

Rather than voice that he was probably right, Sara reluctantly said, "I guess we better go back in. I wanna hear how Wally got you back to us."

Sara finally stepped out of Leonard's embrace, but caught his hand as they began to walk back to the ship.

Ray was waiting for them at the top of the ramp, his arms extended in preparation of hugging Leonard.

"Don't," Leonard said, holding up a finger when Ray took a step towards them, grinning widely.

"It really is you," he beamed.

The group headed into the office, settling themselves in the more comfortable chairs - Sara sitting on the armrest of Leonard's chair - as Sara called out, "Wally, come tell us a story."

The rest of the team followed Wally into the room, curious about this man that supposedly wasn't the Legion of Doom Leonard Snart, but also wasn't Leo; and why Sara was sitting so close to him.

"Okay," Wally began, "so, you know how before I joined your group I was off meditating? Well, when Rip came and got me, I'd been contemplating the speed force and time travel, because while I hadn't done it, Barry has gone back in time, a couple of times. This last time when Rip and I got drunk, in between karaoke songs we were talking about how the speed force and time stream were similar. Both conduits for time travel."

"I hadn't thought of that before," Ray interjected.

"Neither had he, since he didn't know any speedsters personally," Wally said.

"You and Rip sang karaoke?" Zari asked at the same time Mick said, "Thought you couldn't get drunk."

To Zari, Wally said, "It's our thing. We've done it a few times since the night he recruited me."

Then he turned to Mick to say, "Cisco made me something special so I can get drunk. It doesn't last very long, but it does the job for an hour or two."

"Care to share?" Mick asked, hopefully.

"No," Wally firmly stated. "Anyway, you know how now they have the wrist things, the time couriers?" Everyone except Leonard nodded. "Well, Rip was truly pissed; his word, and was going off about regrets and how he wished they'd had the time couriers when they blew the Oculus so that they could have gotten Snart out. So I said that we could just go get him now since the courier could take us to any point in time. He said we still couldn't get him out fast enough and still have the wellspring destroyed, when I reminded him that I'm a speedster. And voila!" He gestured towards Leonard as he finished his tale.

"So, you sped him out of the wellspring and through a time door as it was exploding?" Ray asked.

"Pretty much," Wally beamed.

Mick stood and pulled Wally into a rough hug. "Thanks. I need a drink." He muttered as he stalked out of the room.

"I'm starving after all that running," Wally announced and headed after Mick towards the galley.

"So you're the man that destroyed the Time Masters we've all heard about," Zari said, looking Leonard up and down. "Welcome back."

"Thanks," Leonard drawled.

"You can't have your room back," Zari said, crossing her arms.

"After three years, I suppose that I can hardly call it mine," Leonard acknowledged.

"Just so we're clear," Zari said and headed out.

"That was Zari, she's a hacker from the future," Sara said. "And the other people you don't know are Nate - our historian who turns to steel - and Amaya, who joined us after a mission to 1942."

"Are you evil or from another universe?" Nate asked, his voice full of steel.

Leonard looked quizzically at Sara, who mouthed that she'd tell him later, before answering. "Neither. A crook, yes, but I never aspired to be evil. Just the best."

"We'll see," Nate said, coldly.

While Nate interrogated Leonard, Amaya slowly approached him. Not close enough to touch, but she wanted to look him in the eye. Her fingers brushed the amulet around her neck as she smiled and nodded at what she saw.

"I look forward to getting to know you, Mr. Snart," she said before dragging Nate out of the room.

Standing, Sara said, "I suppose we should see about getting you settled. We have several bunks open…"

Sara glanced over at Ray, who nodded.

Only then did Leonard voice his questions about who was missing from this little reunion. "Wait a minute, where are Firestorm and the Hawks? And where's Rip?"

"After we defeated Savage, Kendra and Carter decided not to rejoin the team," Ray stated.

"A few months ago, Martin was killed in action fighting Nazis from an alternate universe," Sara added. "Jax decided to leave the ship after his funeral. And Rip decided he no longer had a place here."

"Isn't this his ship?" Leonard asked.

"Mine now," Sara said with a smirk. "His bunk is also now mine."

"So your former bunk is available?" Leonard drawled, his eyes gleaming wickedly.

Ray saw that look and beat a hasty retreat, stammering out an excuse about checking on Mick.

"You that eager to sleep in my bed?" Sara asked, both ignoring Ray and grateful that he'd left them alone.

Leonard stepped closer to her. "I do have some awfully fond memories that took place in that room," he admitted.

Sara grasped the edge of his open coat, drawing him closer. "What do you saw we go make some new memories in that room?"

Leonard smirked, lowering his head until their lips were only inches apart. "Thought you'd never ask," he said huskily before stealing a kiss.

Before the kiss could get too heated, Sara grabbed Leonard's hand and dragged him towards her former bunk.

"I only have one more question," Leonard said as he followed Sara down familiar corridors. They were just passing the galley as he asked, "Where's my gun?"

Ray's guilty squeak, which was followed by Mick's delighted laughter, almost drowned out Sara's response of, "You'll have to ask Ray."

Leonard started to turn back towards the galley, but Sara's hand in his jerked him back around. He turned to glare at her, but the heated look in her eyes stopped any objections.

"Later," she said, huskily, as she resumed the journey towards her old bunk.

 The End

[joz-yyh]

Love Host - Ch. 8

SUMMARY: Miles and Waylon meet up for some diagnostic testing that takes a very drastic turn. No beta. Read at your own risk.

RATING: T (for this chapter ONLY!!)

PAIRING: Walmiles (WalriderxMiles)

WORD COUNT: 4,190

READ ON Ao3: -> HERE!!

A/N: Wishing you all a belated Monster May, but also happy first day of Pride~ Excited for next chapter because there will be smut~ Comments and likes are very appreciated.

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Clang, Clang, Clang--!

Waylon looks up from his computer chair at the pedantic knock, knowing who his pertinent guest should be, double checking the security feed just to be sure Murkoff wasn't paying him any surprise visits.

There on the monitor, is a quiff of black hair and ugly olive jacket he'd recognize a mile away. Speaking of Miles –

Waylon opens the bean hole to the main door, the grinning blue eyes of Miles fucking Upshur waiting for him on the other side.

“Hey there, WayWay, I am here for my check up,” he greets with a smile, the wave he offers just out of sight, “Oh yeah, and Wally’s here too.” 

The words barely register before the nanomachine has its whole face pressed against the peephole, staring back at Waylon, completely eyeless.

The techie nearly jumps out of his skin, shutting the slat out of paranoid instinct, body wrecked by a wave of heebeegeebees. 

He can see it. Why can he see it when he couldn’t as much as before?

“Heeeeyy,” Miles whines, voice dampened by the steel barrier between them, ”I am still waiting out here.”

Waylon internally groans, trying to collect himself enough to unlatch the many bars securing the entrance shut.

When the final lock cracks loose, Miles is too busy sympathizing the Walrider to notice, holding its caricature of a face and daresay, petting it.

“Ah, you can c-come in now,” Waylon offers, standing in the doorway, watching on with morbid fixation.

“There, see,” Miles exclaims, a consoling note to his voice, “He wouldn't invite us in if he didn't like us.”

Waylon swears this scene must be slowly melting his brain from the inside out, along with Miles’s seemingly endless list of pet names for him.

“Hey, Way,” the brunette asks, turning his attention to his fellow asylum survivor, “could you tell Wally here that you like him, please? He thinks you're scared of him. Isn't that silly?”

He isn't scared, he's terrified.

“Yeah, s-sure. I like him,” Waylon offers weakly, shoving down his dread.

This was absurd. A machine couldn’t have feelings and even if it did, they were none more important than his own.

“Told you! Everything's fine,” Miles chippers, the Walrider finally appeased by this discovery.

The machine gazes toward Waylon again, breaking it’s body down into smaller pieces, swooping in close to swirl around Waylon knees, then higher, drifting in a cyclone of miniature storm clouds up to his shoulders.

“Uhh, hello again, I guess,” the engineer offers shakily, trying to appear fearless and brave, even lifting a finger to touch the nanite mist surrounding him. It feels like water.

“Thanks Waylon,” Miles says, patting him on the shoulder in good sportsmanship, stepping inside.

“Yeah, sure. No problem.”

And just like that, the nano machine leaves him to follow it’s host, the dazed software engineer reminding himself that he needs to rearm the door. 

Before the reporter can poke his nose in further, Waylon locks the paddock, turning on the electric fence to deter any unwanted trespassers.

“So, this is where you’ve been holding up,” Miles asks, taking in the abandoned barracks, a dimly-lit trailer filled with a junkyard of broken, decommissioned tech.

The Walrider is equally curious, ghosting around the layout, dousing the army green interior in supernatural mist.

“Not quite,” Waylon amends, running a hand down his face, feeling overwhelmed by the quirky demands of his company, “This is where I work. Keeps me a safe distance away from Lisa and the kids in case anything happens.”

“Safety is important. I am sure there are no OSHA recordables in here,” the snarky brunette remarks, dodging under a duct of loose wires.

“Ha ha funny,” the blonde remarks, devoid of amusement, “the device I want to show you is over here.” 

Waylon grabs him by the wrist cuff before Miles can slip away to snoop, escorting him to the testing room.

“Aren’t you going to give me a tour first,” the sleuth whines, taking in as much of the space as he can, “you can’t tell me you have a secret lair and not show me around.”

“There's really not much to see,” Waylon growls, noting his companion’s inquisitive fingers, “Also, please stop touching everything.”

“Awwww,” Miles whines, dragging his feet in disappointment, a frown setting in.

“Fine, maybe later,” the techie relents, his stride persisting, “We're kinda pressed for time.” 

“Oh, somewhere you gotta be,” Miles asks, perking up at that confession, raising a brow at his companion, letting himself be tugged along more easily.

“Yeah, I’d prefer to be home with my wife and kids.”

A long pause, their combined footsteps echoing off the iron grates that line the floor.

“Am I invited,” the reporter asks, smirking at the back of Waylon’s unkempt head of hair.

Another aggravated yank on his sleeve.

“Let’s just get through testing first.”

They arrive at their destination, the very back of the bunker, a T-shaped hub. One of the doors is sealed off, making Miles wonder what could be hiding in there, the rest of the room encased by steel shelves filled with gutted parts, radios, computers, phones and the like. 

In the center is a chair outfitted with restraints, a litany of auxiliary cords hooked up to various loadouts, a desk and computer terminal set up in the corner, no doubt to collect the data of whoever sits in it.

“So … this is it,” Miles says judgmentally, unimpressed, “Looks like an electric chair, but somehow more revenge of the nerds-esque.”   

Waylon smacks his lips and rolls his eyes. He won’t deny it bears a striking resemblance to Mount Massive’s brainwashing devices, ones he had the untimely pleasure of experiencing for himself.

“Yeah, everyone's a critic. Just get in.”

“Is it safe,” Miles asks, skeptical of the bad vibe he was getting just by looking at the creepy thing.

“As safe as any of this experimental tech is gonna be.”

Miles supposes he can’t complain, given the circumstances. He doesn’t get any of these gadgets, but there was no one else he could turn to (aside from maybe Wernickle) who could give him the answers he seeks. Still, the reporter can’t help feeling a bit uneasy about entrusting himself to any diagnostic tool created on a non-existent scrap heap budget.

The Walrider manifests itself as a disembodied head, whistling through it’s cheeks, seeking to reassure it’s host with a trill of sound. Miles smiles, close-lipped, stroking the odd contours of its face with a gentle hand.   “Alright. I mean we’ve come this far. What other choice do we have?”

With that, the anxious human hybrid takes a seat, the next test subject for this experimental apparatus going on torture device. Waylon straps him in, tying the buckles too tight to be comfortable, but Miles suspects it's punishment for trying to pry into the engineer's private life. His head too is bridled in place, another belt across the forehead to keep him securely in an upright position.

“This will monitor your heart rate,” Waylon says, electrode pads stuck to Miles’ temple, and then after a moment, adds a disclaimer, “I am not a doctor, though.”

“You’ll be able to tell me more about the Walrider, right,” the brunette asks, nervously clenching his hands on the arm rest.

Waylon hesitates, less than confidently offering a, “Yeah,” in response.

The programmer returns to his computer chair, swishing around his mouse, loading up a program with a few swift clicks. 

A gray and white window pops up, waves on a grid, a number of statistics waiting for action.

“OK, I am going to turn it on now,” Waylon warns, looking over at the subdued reporter, about to flick the switch, "you might feel some … discomfort.”

“I am ready,” Miles braces himself, waiting for his electrotherapy to begin, the stiff shock he expects not so much more than a mild tingle. A part of him relaxes at this, the vibrations reminiscent of a massager, one of those fancy La-Z-boy recliners. Nothing he can’t handle.

Miles can’t turn his head to see the screen, can only speculate what his friend is doing over there, but the rapid clicking and typing does make him feel a little less relaxed.

“So, how you're feeling now, this will be our constant, what your readings look like normally. Which we’ll then compare to your reactions when introduced to stimuli.”

Waylon sounds like an exemplary salesman, confident, in the zone. Miles supposes all he needed was to have a computer in front of him to accomplish the feat.

“Sounds harmless enough,” Miles laughs raggedly, trying to calm his breathing.

“I am turning up the gain,” Waylon says, dialing up the voltage, the green-yellow-red LED indicator flashing, whining with excess energy.

The Walrider whimpers, a swell of crackling electricity causing the prescribed discomfort. It hurts Miles to see the creature suffering, tries to calm his symbiotic partner through their subconscious, saying it'll be over soon, but he can’t shake the nagging feeling that something is wrong.

“More,” Waylon advises, cranking the voltage up to maximum.

With this, the Walrider blips and flashes in and out of its corporeal form, unable to maintain it’s physical body. The nanites are raging like storm clouds, booming like thunder as it roars in pain, but this was Miles' idea -- he brought it here, subjected it to this. How could he call it off? 

Perhaps the Walrider had acted as a shield, protecting him from the worst of it, but now Miles can feel it too, an electric surge consuming him, making him wrestle against his restraints, so wired every vein in his body is popping. 

Then, it finally clicks in the struggling journalist's head.  This was bordering on lethal. 

"You're trying to kill us," the reporter barks in realization, and he doesn't want to admit that there's tears of betrayal gathering in his eyes, “What is it? Some kind of virus?!”

"I am trying to disable it,” the blonde corrects, his shout cutting through the charged shocks in the air, over Miles screaming, “Put yourself in my shoes. Murkoff is going to come at us with much more than this. I had to test it’s limits." 

"This isn't what we agreed," the reporter bellows, grasping onto consciousness.

"If I had told you, you wouldn't have agreed,” Waylon grimaces, trying to get the reporter to look past his personal bias and understand common sense, “For godssake it's a machine Miles. It's not human. It's killed people. Use your head!" 

"The same machine that saved your ass from getting sliced up," the reporter grits out, trying to reroute the pain, blocking his mind of it.

That makes Waylon falter, rethink his ethics, but he finds his courage again.   "I am trying to fix this, fix you. After Murkoff, what then, huh? You think society is just going to let you go running around loose, a living bioweapon? They’ll call you a terrorist! A threat to national security." 

"You don't know that!" 

“Do you hear yourself?! Just listen to me –" 

"–Turn it off!" 

"Miles–" 

"– No! If he dies, I die!”

Waylon stares at him numbly, shaken to his core, never considering that possibility.

“Turn it the fuck off, Waylon,” Miles reminds him, swiftly approaching his breaking point, “How will your kids feel, knowing that their father is a murderer?!”

That line ultimately causes the engineer to relent, doing as he's told. The chair powers down, the Walrider dissipating along with it, fading into thin air, too weak to exist.

The heat generated by such a powerful current leaves behind a steam, a faint smoke wafting up from around Miles’ person.

Waylon stands, intent on helping him out of the restraints, getting shocked in the process when he strays too close to the magnetic field. 

How could he forget? Miles was a living powerhouse now, polarizing everything around him.

He grabs a pair of heavy duty rubber gloves from off the shelf, better equipped to thwart any more incoming sparks, starting from bottom, unbinding the reporter’s feet first, then the buckle on his waist, his wrists, and then finally the band around his head. 

The electrical hazard of a man collapses by the time he’s done, a harsh rattle echoing throughout the space as his knees hit the mental grate under him, causing another shock to rumble across the bunker, the lights flickering. Good thing Waylon is wearing insulated shoes.

Miles is shaking, eyes blank and crazed, gaping in silent horror. He can feel the faint presence of the Walrider still inside him, barely a wrinkle, a wisp of life, his relief drowned by sinking fear.

"I am sorry," Miles mumbles through ragged panting, hugging himself, hoping the nanomachine can hear him, though he doesn’t know how much merit his words will hold after this, “Just wait. Everything's going to be OK now.”

Waylon is aghast. He's never seen Miles break before, that snarky exterior he donned like a suit of armor brought low, stripped to such a sad and sorry state of despair.

The whistleblower bites his lip, clenching his fists. He reminds himself that what he did was a necessary evil, to not regret his decision. 

His stomach is in knots, kneeling down to comfort Miles, a hand resting upon his pious back in a gesture of peace.

"H-hey, are you … OK?"

In a fit of anger, Miles pushes the blonde away, knocking Waylon into the nearby wall, shocking him with some of his excess energy. Miles only regrets not being at full strength, because, if he was, he would have hurt the backstabbing liar much more. 

"Drop the good boy act,” Miles growls, ruthless, seething hate in his eyes, “We both know it's a crock of shit. And fuck you!” 

Waylon admits he probably deserved the insult, his mind still reeling, his chest tight, electrocuted.

“When are you going to get it,” Miles shouts, stumbling to his feet, reaching for a nearby shelf to compensate for his weak knees, knocking over some of the equipment in the process, “I am not the same man anymore and neither are you, no matter how hard you try to deny it. What happened to me in Mount Massive … it happened to you too, Waylon."

Minutes ago, when his head was still getting fried inside a microwave, when he and the Walrider were both on the brink, he'd seen memories, not his, but the machines. It showed him Waylon dressed in a patient’s uniform, hiding from a cannibal with a circular saw, falling down an elevator shaft as a runaway bride, a piece of lumber stabbed through his ankle.

Waylon stares at him, speechless, still in a discombobulated heap on the floor, where the product of Miles’ attack had landed him, held up by the weak limbs of his forearms.

"Unlock the fucking door," Miles spits, shuffling along in disgust, clinging to anything substantial that will crutch his weight, “I need a smoke."

More parts crash onto the floor, thunder shocks raining over everything Miles touches, the emotionally charged brunette punching the wall, a spark igniting into a starburst of charred black, the power shock rippling through the bunker.

“The door, Waylon,” orders a very pissed off reporter.

The man in question scrambles to his feet, pushing past his living battery of a companion to input the deactivation code for the fence, unlocking the door for him as well. 

—--

It feels good to be outside, feet planted on solid ground, Miles finding the nearest thing that he can use as a seat (which just so happens to be a concrete jersey barrier) and flops his blue jeans onto it, fumbling with his lighter. 

"C'mon, light goddamn you," he curses, trying to ignite the end of his cigarette, but his fingers are shaking far too much, the flame stalling every time he flicks his thumb over the wheel.

The fits are getting worse, even his lips are too damn chaotic, Miles abandoning his task in favor of clutching at his head, elbows on his knees, sobbing. 

As much as it's killing him not to feel the Walrider’s touch right now, he's trying to find some way to fill the hole, but if this is what life felt like without it, he’a pretty sure he'd rather die.

What would it take to bring it back? A few more fingers? An eye? An arm? His legs? How many parts was he willing to give up?

“What the hell am I supposed to do!? You can't leave me here!”

He's shouting, his voice a booming threat, as if his fury alone could convince the universe to give him what he wants.

God, when did he start depending on his triquetra boyfriend so much? 

Something faint whispers in the back of his mind, but it's too distant, a ghost ship sunk to the bottom of the ocean, too deep for him to make sense of what it is. 

Next comes a prickle at his skin, like an itch, persuading Miles’ to blink, eyes still puffy with the salt burn of his tears.

The setting sun is almost too bright, but a veil surrounds it, an umbra of miasma so glaring it feels like a rippling mirage on the horizon.

"Tell me, I am not hallucinating right now."

The cigarette falls from Miles' mouth as he leaps towards it, grasping at what looks like the ulna and radius of a forearm, metacarpals made not of bone, but of glass.

The creature grunts painfully, as if Miles opened up a barely staunched wound, the crudely disassembled parts catching him, fragile pieces splintering, but not letting go.

"Don't ever do that to me again." 

It's spoken like an order, the beginnings of a spine taking shape under his touch, connecting vertebrae to skull and Miles sobs, squeezing the fragmented skeleton of his beloved monster even tighter.

 "I thought I lost you."

There's a whirring almost like a hiss that's permeating the air, comforting, acknowledging.

They stay locked together like that for a while, until the Walrider is a full body once more, Miles finally calmed down enough to think rationally.

"So, what now," Miles asks, gazing upon its beautifully disfigured face, twilight burning all around them.

The Walrider adverts it's mangled gaze, knowing Miles isn't going to like it, making a gesture towards the bunker.

"Oh, no! No, no, no, nooo! You're not telling me you want to go back in there," the man shouts, staring at his partner with a new wave of vehement, tear-streaked baby blue eyes.

He pulls away from the mechanized menace to stomp his Timberland boots around in the dirt, arguing with himself why it was a bad idea.

The Walrider allows its host this moment to cool off, expel his frustrations before it goes to the human's side, steering Miles away from his thoughts and back into its arms.

Miles is having none of it, holding the nanobot off, trying to resist its pull, but the machine squeezes him into a suffocating embrace anyway.

"No, don't try to–" 

‘– sweet talk me,’ he finishes the thought inside his head, but he's not sure his thoughts are all that private anymore. 

He sighs, playing captive for a few precious seconds before he wriggles out of the hug, pushing the other away, pinching his sinuses, aggravation plain on his face.

"Let's just think about this for a second," the sleuth tries to reason, his other hand on the entity’s chest to keep a healthy distance, "What am I supposed to do if something goes wrong?” 

(As if things haven’t gone horribly wrong already.)

“How can we trust Waylon after this?"

The Walrider hovers there, compiling a solution. Bony phalanges take hold of Miles' hand, upturning it. 

An onyx box is placed inside its host's bandaged palm, circuits spreading all throughout each corner, making it shimmer and glow.

“It's pretty,” Miles says, watching the ebb and flow of energy, “but what am I supposed to do with this?"

The Walrider taps it's claw on one of those art-deco type microprocessors that adorns each side, the compartment opening to reveal a strand of DNA, the miniature double helix spinning inside like a gothic ballerina.

"Yeah, alright," Miles says, recalling his high school genetics classes, "I think I get it. It's a spare copy of you, right?"

The synthetic skeleton's eyes are black voids, a flash of pupils pulsing with energy, but Miles knows what it means.

With a delicate touch, the reporter stores the replica of DNA back inside it's jewelry box, depositing it into his jacket pocket for safe keeping.

"Going to finish my cigarette before we go in," Miles scoffs, retracing his steps, looking around for the tube he haplessly discarded. 

He's tempted to take a fresh one from the pack (cigarettes being one of few luxuries he bought alongside the road map at the gas station), but he’s not exactly in a position to waste perfectly good tobacco and these things were expensive as hell.

He spots the white cylinder amidst the dirt patches in the grass, plucks the filter off the ground (not too dirty) and sticks it between his lips.   It lights on the first try, that sweet inhale of nicotine (and god knows what else) feels like a hit of ecstasy. He's the epitome of James Dean in that moment, slick, cool, and aloof.

The Walrider floats over, snuggling it's jaw against it's host's ear, a clack of teeth in its best impression of a laugh.

"Yeah, Yeah," Miles dismisses, a stubborn pout clinging to his lips as he jerks away, annoyed by the fact that he gave in too easily.

The entity dissolves, bio smoke curling around its host, patiently waiting. Halfway through his second cigarette, Miles speaks again.

"If we’re doing this, then, I want you to possess me, like you did before.”

Now it's the Walrider's turn to act surprised, manifesting its jaws to growl an objection.

“If we're going back in there, we go together or not at all," the brunette declares, forthright with resolution, pointing accusingly with his cigarette.

Miles would rather die on this hill, then budge from it, but the Walrider has its own methods of persuasion.

Obsidian claws drag him up by his weather-beaten jacket, all 6’1” of him teetering on tip-toes, the half-spent drug falling to the ground, still burning away.

“Hey, not again,” the human whines, but there's no real anger behind it, no matter how hard Miles tries, “That's a forest fire waiting to happen, you know. Haven't you heard of Smokey the bear?” 

As the man twists to retrieve his lost cigarette, the Walrider distracts him with a kiss, one Miles resists just briefly before surrendering to it.

"Hnnn… Mmm…" 

A billow of smoke writhes between them, ebony and ivory, Miles opening his mouth to the Walrider’s wandering cable of a tongue, and OK, fuck it, time to make out.

—--- 

Miles struts back into the bunker, slamming the door shut behind him with a flick of the wrist, the nanites taking care of the rest, latching all the barrel bolts tight.

Waylon jumps from his desk, anxiously awaiting the outcome of Miles' smoke break, standing up to meet him halfway.

Judging by the cacophony that marked his return, Waylon assumes Miles must still be a prickly flume of outrage.

Not that appearances matter, but Waylon folds his hands over his hair, still inflated from the static, patting it down, reluctantly approaching the other male, trying to do the right thing by apologizing first, "Miles I thought about what you said and I am sorry–"

Waylon chokes on his own fear, recalling the same palpating collision of dark energy when he escaped Mount Massive, the same shape that faces him now, a man-made demon that watched him burn out in a stolen jeep.

"Miles … is that … you," he asks quietly, backing up, hands reaching for something solid to steady his nerves.

"Chill out, Waybaby, I ain't gunna hurt you.”

His brain can't seem to connect the vaporware voice to the bastardization of the man that's saying them, almost wants to laugh, having no other logical response.

“Just thought you needed a visual demonstration of the point I made earlier so, here we are," he ends his intro by holding his hands out like a showman, a little pièce de résistance.

For as smart as Waylon is, the words just don't come. He swallows, nods even if he doesn't comprehend what's happening.

"Anyway, Wally's convinced me,” the man turned machine explains, looking sheepishly smug, “We're following through with your plan so hook us up, operator, we're going back in."

"What?"

Just what kind of masochistic freak has Waylon gotten himself mixed up with if Miles wanted to be zapped to high heaven willingly?

"You said you wanted to test our limits. So, I say: Let's. Get. Dangerous."

Waylon remembers those ridiculous work related survival videos he had to watch as part of his onboard training. Suddenly, those scenarios don’t seem so far-fetched anymore, playing hostage to Miles’ special brand of crazy

[you-want-fuckign-cicadas]

Into The Abyss, part 8

henroy

Felix belongs to @smoresthehalloweenqueen, as does Ink.

More below the cut

It is dark, cold, and wet. Felix would much rather be doing anything but wading around in an ink puddle, trying to find his glasses. But of course that's what he's doing, because why wouldn't this be the perfect time to lose his glasses in a hecking puddle of ink that perfectly matches the color of his glasses?

He sighs and rummages around in the ink. At least I seem to be mostly ink-proof like this. It's still annoying, though.

Lines of ink spread across the walls, first forming intricate patterns and then just becoming small rivers of ink. Felix frowns and steps back a little before continuing to rummage around for his glasses. Stupid glasses getting lost in a stupid puddle of ink. In fact, just stupid ink. Though I do wonder how it's doing that.

Finally finding his glasses, he holds them up triumphantly and inspects them for damage. They seem to be fine, so he wipes the ink off on his shirt (it's probably fine, right?) and puts them back on his face. “That's better. At least now I can see farther than ten feet away.”

There's a thumping noise as something very large realizes that he's there. His eyes widen as the creature comes around the corner and looks right at him.

“Bendy?”

The Bendy tilts his head at Felix, who simply tilts his head back at him in response. They stand like this for a while, a distorted monster and a strange cartoon, until the Bendy makes a rumbling noise and startles Felix, who, in a flash of 'brilliance', dives into a deeper pool of ink in a valiant attempt at hiding.

Just a note, Felix can't swim. At all.

Flailing around, he attempts to not drown in a puddle of ink, and fails, miserably. Instead he just kind of...flops around, slowly drowning and internally screaming at himself for doing something this stupid. That is, until he's abruptly hauled out of the ink and onto land.

He looks up and sees that his savior is the Bendy, who has apparently decided that he's going to keep Felix and is now making a weird purring-like sound. Felix never agreed to this, but as long as he's not being murdered, he's generally fine with it. Though I do wonder what exactly he plans on doing, considering I'm about two times shorter than him and a good deal weaker...wait.

And now he's started worrying. Great. Just wonderful. I really need to stop thinking too much.

As Henry walks the halls of the studio, he notices things. Mostly the fact that it looks like half the studio was swept up in a tsunami of ink. And all the plushies around. He makes a move to grab one, but decides against it and leaves it alone.

His board didn't hold together for too long, breaking apart after he hit a few Searchers with it. So he's weaponless as he wanders around, solving various 'puzzles' and occasionally needing to hit things with chairs. Chairs are surprisingly good weapons, when thrown hard enough. However, they also tend to break when thrown that hard, so maybe it wasn't so good of an idea after all.

Not that Henry cares. At least it gets his anger out and gets the things out of his way. He's not quite ready to die. Nor will he ever be, especially not in this haunted hellhole full of abominations. In fact, it would be great if I just didn't die, period. That'd be fine. Or, well, at least not for a while.

He doesn't notice that he's wandered into a room full of stuffed toys until he crashes into a large Boris plushie. Upon crashing into it, he realizes that he's stumbled into what looks like a plushie death trap, completely with, well, plushie death traps.

The room is covered with shelves upon shelves of plushies, each of various characters. Boris, Alice, Bendy, the Butcher Gang, even a few from that ill-fated merger. Small plushies of various side characters are hung up on the ceiling, surprisingly in okay condition. There's even a few plushies of old studio workers holding something related to their work, probably the ones that were the most memorable, and all of those are in good condition. Henry walks over to the plushies and inspects them. Looks like Shawn's handiwork to me.

The plushies of Grant Cohen and Thomas Conner probably had the most work put into them, with details that Henry himself hadn't noticed about the men when he'd worked with them. (Then again, he hadn't interacted with them much, only seeing Grant when he picked up his paychecks and really not interacting with Thomas at all.) After that, the next most detailed was Norman's, if only because of the projector. Half of the plushie itself is obscured by it. Though half the time Norman was carrying around a projector, so it's not...wrong...

His plushie is holding a pen, and while he admires the fact that Shawn put as much effort as possible into these, he's slightly grumpy that his is shorter. Even if I was one of the shortest workers in the studio, it's still insulting and it's bad enough “Alice” wouldn't stop pointing it out.

Wally's is, of course, holding his ever-iconic broom. However, it is also holding a real set of keys, which Henry manages to wrangle out of its hands without breaking it. He looks at it. “See, this one I just don't understand. Wally almost never held his keys. Half the time they were in a trashcan.”

Predictably, no one answers him, and he moves on to the next plushies, which are of Susie and Allison. They used to be pretty close, until Joey gave the Alice role to Allison. Don't know why, and don't care to know why. Both plushies are holding tiny little Alice plushies and VA mics.

Beside of those two plushies is a Sammy. Even in plushie form, Sammy manages to look grumpy, holding a banjo and frowning as always. The plushie looks like it's one misplaced set of keys away from flying into a rage, which was Sammy's default mode. The man probably had a few screws loose, but he was good at what he did. Too bad he's an ink creature now.

The last one is ripped apart, but it looks like it was of Joey Drew. Most likely, Shawn used (uses?) this one as a way to feel like he's getting back at Joey without doing illegal things.

There's a shuffling noise from one of the other shelves. Henry whirls around, keys raised like he's going to hit someone. (The keys are hilariously dull and won't cut anything even if Henry wants them to, so it's an empty threat.) There's nothing behind him except the shelves of toys, but...I could have sworn that that Boris plushie wasn't there ten minutes ago...and where did that rabbit plush come from?

He walks over to the plushies and pokes them cautiously, half expecting them to attack him. They do not. They don't move. See, they're not alive, he reassures himself. Just your mind playing tricks on you, Henry.

When he turns his back, though, the plushies rearrange themselves again, this time with a muted giggle from the rabbit. Henry turns around again, this time with a chair. “Okay, now I know someone's messing with me. Come out before I hit everything in the room with this chair!”

Nothing.

Not a single thing in the room moves. There's no breathing, no shuffling, and not even a twitch. Henry frowns. “Well?”

Still nothing moves. The silence is stifling, even if there is the noises from the studio now. Henry lowers the chair a little. “I promise not to hit you with the chair, okay? Just come out, please.” Or I think I might go insane, he adds internally.

The shuffling noise comes from behind one of the shelves as a tiny duo of a plush Bendy and Alice peek out. The toy rabbit hops off of the bigger Boris, who stays still but looks directly at Henry. Several other plushies move, though none of them are the studio workers. When all is said and done, there are about fourteen plushies standing in front of him, all staring. (Well, except for the Boris. And the fox plushie, who is the largest of the bunch, is half behind a shelf. But it counts.)

Henry puts the chair down, leans on it, and sighs. “Okay, Joey has a lot to explain, and I'm not keen on asking him after what happened earlier. Mind explaining?”

Meanwhile, the now much-larger army of ink creatures is swarming around the Angel's hideout. Their leader is throwing himself on the door, which is solid steel, and as such not going to be broken by a skinny-ass 'toon throwing himself on the door.

The Angel, of course, is not pleased by this development. “Why are all you rejects banging on my door? Can't you see that a lady needs her beauty sleep?”

“Sleep be damned! Did you kill Felix?” Ink yells, slamming himself on the door again.

“The human is dead?” The Angel asks. Ink simply slams himself on the door again. “How unfortunate. I didn't even get his soul. Have you seen it?”

“No, you bitch, because he's dead! Someone killed him!” Ink says, sitting in front of the door. He's bruised himself from slamming into various objects on purpose, and apparently the steel door has convinced him that it's not going to break. “And I'm asking if it was you!”

“I wish,” the Angel answers. “But no. Most likely it was Joey.”

“Which one?”

“What do you mean, which one?!”

And so begins the most ridiculous argument in the history of the studio.

Meanwhile, Felix is on top of a pipe, trying desperately to reach something above than him. Below him is the Ink Demon, a Swollen Searcher, and two stragglers from the army of Lost Ones, who had been separated from the Mind when they'd been stuck behind some doors.

Needless to say, it was a very strange group.

TL;DR: Felix makes a very tall, dangerous friends, Ink gets angry, and Henry finds living plushies. Also no one dies or gets hurt in this chapter, but don’t get used to it, because next one the army gets very very close...to the wrong person

[elfnerdherder]

Where the Wicked Walk: Ch. 24

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Chapter 24: The Oval Portrait

           Saul found Beverly out by the pond a little while later, devoid of a nosy journalist. His arms wrapped around her waist, snug and secure, and his head rested on her shoulder with the sort of familiarity that came with time and a soulmate connection. The agitation in the set of her jaw lessened somewhat at it, made her relax against him in acceptance of his affection.

           “I was looking for you,” he said. “Dr. Lecter is off to meet Clark Ingram.”

           “Did he need me to go with him?”

           “No, he just said that you should keep an eye on Will since Francis and Howard can’t.” Saul smiled against her neck and kissed it. “I thought to say something about Will not wanting to touch you with a ten foot pole, but…well, I didn’t.”

           “Not everyone gets your jokes,” Beverly said affectionately.

           Loving Saul was easy when he was closeby. When his skin was against her, it was enough to quiet the voice in the back of her head that demanded that she snap his neck and dump the body. Chemicals and all, and she’d learned to hide that aspect of herself from him.

           That part wasn’t easy. It was never easy to hide from a soulmate.

           “He’s got a black eye,” Saul said. “I think Will hit him.”

           “Well…we knew it wouldn’t be easy,” she said. “I’ve lived with him long enough that I knew it wouldn’t be easy. He’s stubborn.”

           “The others…have you heard the others, Beverly?”

           Beverly turned around, causing him to let go of her. His arm swung, wavered, and she responded in kind, reaching out to clasp it so that he felt grounded. She’d never considered herself the grounding rod for someone, but Saul needed it.

           How in the hell he’d gotten roped into following Lecter’s every word, she’d never truly understand.

           “What are they saying?”

           “They’re happy because he connected –Lecter said that he could create an environment in which staggered connections could occur, but…a lot of them don’t like Will Graham.”

           “Well, it doesn’t matter what they like,” Beverly said evenly. “What matters is what Dr. Lecter wanted.”

           “Do you think they’ll do what Matthew did?”

           “Saul, Matthew was supposed to attack Will,” she said impatiently. She felt the sting of her words along his emotions, and she tried to soften her tone. “The half-connection…that just made it more realistic. But he was going to attack Will no matter what. That’s the job Lecter had planned for him.”

           “So he…wanted Matthew to die?”

           “He wanted Will to embrace the darker aspects of himself that he’s kept so firmly locked away. To do that, he had to...make regrettable choices.”

           Saul had nothing to say to that. Once upon a time, he’d been a person of interest, someone to truly watch and follow as he carried out Lecter’s orders. The letters one of her guys had intercepted had been almost poetic, Saul’s words fluently conveying his admiration for the artwork that Lecter displayed. He asked how it’d felt, consuming one’s art, how it’d felt to see one’s desires and actually follow through.

           Beverly supposed that his faith in Hannibal Lecter stemmed from the fact that his own confidence and assurance were both sorely lacking. He’d looked to someone that needed no validation from anyone, and that was his messiah of sorts.

           “Saul, you trust Dr. Lecter, don’t you?” she asked.

           “Of course,” he replied without hesitation. “I just wonder…what if we…traded someone for Matthew, and that someone never thinks of this place as his home?”

           “He got Will’s eyes to change in a month,” Beverly said with a kind laugh. She kissed him on the mouth, marveled at the fact that his kisses never failed to make her heart pound. Having a soulmate…just felt so right. “He’ll get Will to come around. He’ll be able to see this as his home. Give him time.”

           “I love you,” Saul said softly, kissing her again.

           “I love you too,” Beverly replied, and her smile was utterly sincere.

           It’s a shame that I’m going to have to kill you.

-

           Loving Will Graham was like loving a house of mirrors; with each and every angle, you’d see another facet of yourself reflected back at you with careful distortion.

           Molly did anyway, though. From his rumpled hair to his well-loved leather coat that smelled of fresh earth and kindness, she loved him with a fury that burned deep in her belly and made the aches and pains of her lost love ease. He wasn’t anything like her late-husband, but that was alright. There was something steady in the way that he looked at her, like he’d already found a way to strip her down and actually liked what he saw beneath.

           She didn’t have time to introduce him to Wally before Hannibal Lecter got ahold of them, though. Hell, he didn’t even know that there was a Wally.

           “I’ll see you tomorrow?” she asked, juggling a few grocery bags and her cell phone. It was pressed tight to her ear as she fiddled with her house key, and when she found the door already unlocked it was an irritating surprise. Wally always forgot to lock the door.

           “Barring working late, yes.”

           “You know, you work so much that it’s becoming concerning,” she teased, and she nudged the door shut with her foot, elbow catching the light switch to the side. “Workaholics are a thing, you know.”

           “I know.”

           “Besides,” she continued, “if you don’t come, I may be forced to bring someone else with me, and we all know how much I hate having to invite Tiffany.”

           “Tiffany’s nice,” Will offered lamely.

           “You hate Tiffany.”

           “She’s not my friend, so I’m given leave to dislike her.”

           It was always like that, with Will. The way he looked at people was so acutely good. He had a way of knowing their turn of mind, of knowing their thoughts and personality without really having to engage too much with them. The first time he’d met Tiffany, he’d nursed a whiskey all night, maybe sharing four or five words at a time before sitting in a dour-like silence.

           On the way back to his house, he’d admitted that her jealousy of Molly felt like, to him, a thick scab that’d been picked far too soon. Alcohol gave him mildly loose lips where sobriety normally kept his thoughts behind a steel wall.

           “Right, right, you’re allowed to dislike her,” Molly agreed, and she turned on the kitchen light as well, setting the groceries down. Wally’s lack of presence was an irritant; likely upstairs on that X-Box that one of his friend’s mother’s said that he ‘just had to have’. “I’m just saying, I’d like you there with me instead.”

           “I’ll do my best,” Will said with a warm laugh, “barring tackling my boss on my way out of the door.”

           “That’s all I ask,” she teased, and she sighed. “I’ve got to go.”

           “Have a good night, Molly,” Will said warmly. “Have sweet dreams.”

           “You too.”

           It wasn’t until she hung up that she turned to holler for Wally, and as she sucked in a deep breath to do so, it was cut short, something that left her reeling as she stumbled back against the counter and scrambled for the mace that she kept on her keys.

           The man sitting at her dining room table with a gun leveled at her barely blinked.

           “If you reach for that mace, your son will die,” he said dispassionately. His mouth fumbled with the ‘s’. “The son that Will Graham is unaware that you have.”

           Silence. That was what sat between them as Molly’s hands pressed down flat against her keys and contemplated his threat. There were many people that froze as a deer in the headlights when they were afraid –Molly always hated that comparison. Deer didn’t just freeze in the headlights; when they saw them, they had a brief moment of shock before they almost always, always attempted to run because animals were flight or fight and as prey animals it would always be flight, only they flew right out of the pan and directly into the fire. Deer didn’t die because they froze in the headlights. For the most part, they died because they tried to run from the headlights.

           Rather than run, Molly held very, very still.

           “Where is my son?” she asked slowly. Her voice shook, but she couldn’t fix that. Fear was natural as she eyed the gun that he held, not with a casual demeanor, but with taut and careful deliberation.

           The man tilted his head slightly to consider her, then gestured with his free hand. “Come closer. Away from your things.”

           Molly took a couple of steps closer. She felt dread as the sweat that prickled along her hairline, mussing the foundation she’d laid over her skin with careful strokes of her brush. She paused a few paces before the chairs, but he crooked his hand and gestured closer. She gulped an unsteady breath, then took another deliberate step.

           “Where is my son?” she repeated, a little stronger.

           “Not far. Sit.”

           She thought of Wally, afraid and in a place he didn’t know, and her fear ebbed in the wake of a gust of fury that rippled along her spine as she sat, locking her in place next to a stain on the varnish from the one time Wally had gotten into her acetone. That day was a smudgy memory, but Wally had learned that acetone did more than just eat away nail polish; her hand protectively covered the spot, as though she could hide his mistake.

           “Who are you?” she asked.

           “My identity isn’t important right now. You are Molly Foster, widow with a young son that had to watch his father die of cancer. Tragic.”

           Molly glared at him, palm pressed flat to the sore spot on the table.

           “Cancer is an ugly way to die,” the man continued, unflinching. “The body rejects liquids. It secretes. The smell is unbearable. The hair falls out, and there is no end to the vomit. They are weak, frail. They Become, but it is a wasted becoming. The family is left worse off, not with the death but with the time wasted trying to prolong a pitiful life.”

           “Stop.”

           The man stopped, potentially due to the level of fury that rippled with her voice. He tilted his head the other way, and in the dim kitchen lighting Molly could faintly see the healed scarring of what once was a cleft palate. It explained the faint lisp that made his brows twitch to a frown as he spoke.

           “You are dating Will Graham,” the man began again, after a moment. “My boss is rather interested in that.”

           “And just who is your boss?”

           “Hannibal Lecter.”

           Hannibal Lecter? Molly recalled the newscast on him –serial killers weren’t really always what the news went to, anymore. It was bad publicity about ‘who the public should really fear’ in truth, so they were mostly quiet. Their focus was more on terrorism from the Middle East, gun control debates, and the polarized elections that kept everyone up in arms. When it was revealed that he was cannibalizing them, though, they’d been all over that.

           And Will Graham had survived him.

           “He’s in prison,” she said faintly –her voice was tinny, far away.

           “His reach extends past his bars,” the man assured him, as though she needed that assurance as he pointed a gun at her. “And you are dating the one person that he currently has any form of interest in.”

           Molly saw quite a few options, in that moment, sitting across from a man and what looked to be a rather capable 9 mm XD. She wouldn’t say that she was necessarily a professional in dealing with stress, but losing her husband slowly –painfully –had taught her a lot about separating her mind from her emotions. She’d overcome that grief; this was no different. In the quiet that was too quiet because Wally wasn’t upstairs playing his X-Box that’d been a gift after her husband’s passing, she took a breath and made a choice, something that felt too heavy for a setting like a low-income household with poor laminate on the floors and a scuffed table she’d found at a Habitat for Humanity for five bucks and some change.

           “If you were going to kill me, you wouldn’t have abducted my son,” she said slowly. “A wasted expense.”

           “A waste,” the man agreed.

           “What do you want, then?” Her voice trembled. “Will Graham?”

           “We want you to keep dating him,” the man said. “And we want you get close to him.”

           That took her aback. “…Why?” Better yet, “No, where’s my son? You’re holding my son hostage so that I keep dating Will Graham?”

           “In due time,” he assured her. “If you comply, your son will be safe. Get close to Will Graham. Keep him under your thumb emotionally; Dr. Lecter said that he takes on the emotions projected around him. Love him. Give him a sense of peace that he has never known.”

           Her mind twisted, wrenched. She thought of Will on the first night they’d met; drunk, swaying, and so sad it somehow made her want to tuck him in close and hold him until the pain trickled away from skin that smelled like pine needles and regret. She thought of the way he’d followed her from the bar, his words awkward and fumbling but so sweetly tender that it made her laugh. They danced in his front room to music playing from tinny laptop speakers cranked far too high, and in the darkest part of the night she let him strip her clothing from her body, inch by inch as he kissed her skin and left marks that she admired the next morning rather than felt shame for.

           He asked if he could call her when they were sober, and she’d said yes.

           “If I do this,” she said quietly, “are you going to hurt my son?”

           “No.”

           “Are you going to hurt Will Graham?” she pressed, insistent.

           “No.”

           “He doesn’t talk about what happened to him,” said Molly, scathing. “But I see how it marked him. How it follows him. You think that if or when he finds out what you’re asking me to do, it won’t hurt him?”

           “There are many kind of pain, Molly Foster,” the man said. The cursed gun hadn’t moved even a centimeter. “Some pain buds new growth. When roses die in winter, you cut back their stems to the dirt, that they grow anew. The flowers that come after are somehow more vibrant from the harsh but necessary attention.”

           “You’d compare him to a fucking flower,” she sneered, “he is a human being.”

           “You struggle with nature versus nurture,” he noted. “Is this your final answer?”

           It wasn’t, and he damn well knew it. Molly could see it in the set of his shoulders, the way he didn’t move to put his finger on the trigger because he knew he didn’t have to shoot.

           “I want proof of my son’s life,” she said, curt. “I want to know how you’re containing him, and I want to speak to Dr. Lecter myself.”

           Wordlessly, he reached into his coat pocket and retrieved what looked to be a cheap version of a smart phone. He tapped a few icons on it, then set it on the table.

           A video of Wally played with the small speakers on as loud as they could go.

           “So…you knew my dad?” Wally asked. His voice was small, so small. It’d been a couple of years, but God did it feel so fresh sometimes that it took her breath away and made her tongue feel fat and heavy in her mouth.

           “He was my cousin,” a man with sandy hair and green eyes said. “I was sad when we drifted apart…then when I heard he passed, I had to give my condolences.”

           “When’s my mom going to meet with us?” Wally asked, all innocence and wide eyes of a child.

           “Oh, soon,” the man assured him with a laugh. “If I’m lucky, I can maybe be part of your family. Would you like that, Wally?”

           “If mom likes it,” Wally decided. He held the same tone that every small child did –what mom liked, they liked. What mom disliked, he abhorred. “We’ll see.”

           “You’re a smart kid, Wally,” the man decided.

           “Yeah,” Wally agreed.

           Molly lunged for the phone, but it was snatched from her grip. The sob that tore from her was barely stifled by her furiously shaking hands, and she glared at the man in front of her as he exited from the app and tucked the phone away.

           “That is a live video,” he explained. “I have access to your son at all times, Molly Foster.”

           “You’re a sick fuck,” she hissed.

           “Do we have an agreement?” he asked. His lip curled.

           “How often do I get to see him?” she demanded. “How long until this is over?”

           “In due time,” the man said calmly. It belied the hawkish stare he’d settled on her, as though she could lunge at any moment. Fuck, but she felt like it, that need to take her son and run and run and run. Her foot twitched, and her muscles clenched and unclenched, waiting.

           “I’ll do it,” she said, and it hit harder than it should have, that feeling of giving in. It sounded so innocent, ‘watch Will Graham’ but she knew it wasn’t, couldn’t possibly be so fucking simple. “I’ll do it, but only if you let Wally think it’s really like that. That we’re one big family, and he doesn’t have to know the truth of the monstrous things you’re planning on doing.”

           “We’re doing,” he corrected, softly.

           “What do you want? Information, access; I don’t believe that it’s really just to make Will-fucking-Graham feel like the most important person in the world.”

           “Information, naturally. A way to keep him from straying too far. You are to be his anchor, and his place to go when the darkness bites too hard. It should be easy for you, I’m certain. There is already a foundation of affection between the two of you, as it’s been noted.”

           “Fine, done,” said Molly curtly. “Are we finished?”

           The man smiled, something small and cruel. “Yes, for tonight. Dr. Lecter thanks you, Ms. Foster, for your cooperation. I’ll inform him of your desire to communicate.”

           Molly had nothing to say to that, and he didn’t seem to care to wait for a reply. He kept the gun leveled calmly at her, and when he saw himself out of the back door, he locked the bottom knob behind himself as the door closed. A jab, in truth. She had no doubt he had every way and means of getting back in, should he want to.

           It was only once he was gone and the smell of his aftershave faded that she allowed herself to tuck her face into her hands and honestly, truly let the horror of what’d just happened sink in. Molly wasn’t much of a crier –childhood, she supposed. There was always a threat from her parents that if she didn’t stop fucking crying there’d be something to really cry about, so instead she gulped. Molly Foster, widow at the tender age of twenty-three was very much a gulper, so she gulped. She gulped down the sob that was hammering nails into her throat, the sob that she could already feel echoing in her ears, a sob she felt would one day rip from her despite the breaths she struggled with now. She thought of Will Graham and how he always looked a breath away from a bad decision, how he seemed both dangerous and safe at the same time, and she wondered if that sob would come when she least expected it, when he was holding her close and whispering his sweet poetry into her ear; she’d let out a scream so horrendous that even he’d run from her, then where would she be?

           Where would Wally be?

           She sat there with her face in her hands for a long time, gulping. The house felt too open, too invasive, and after a couple of hours she found her way back to the counter where the milk was getting to room temperature and the lettuce was looking a bit soft.

           Will answered on the first ring.

           “Miss me that much?” he joked. Will had a deep, mellow sort of voice that softened around words that ended in harsh consonants. Her throat tightened, burned enough to make her gasp out a breath.

           “Yeah,” she said, and she pressed her hand to her eyes. “I…yeah.”

           “What’s wrong?”

           Did he always pick up on everything so fucking quickly? “…If I came over and stayed the night, would you be mad at me?”

           “Did something happen?”

           “Yeah…you know, you don’t talk much about Dr. Lecter. And by much I mean…ever.”

           He stayed silent at that, ever an impenetrable wall after what’d happened.

           “And you know that I…you know, sometimes grief just sets in,” she said with a strangled laugh. “You know how that is, don’t you? How you’re looking at an orange, and maybe you think ‘oh, wow, Dr. Lecter used to eat oranges before each session’ and suddenly you’re feeling everything you thought you’d put behind you?”

           “He didn’t eat oranges, but I know what you mean,” Will replied gently. “Come on over, Molly. I’ll tell Beverly not to lock the door.”

           Molly’s steps echoed with sharp, staccato taps after she’d put the groceries away and saw herself out of the bleak, dark house. It was a house, not a home without Wally in it, and throughout the entire drive to Will’s, throughout the evening where he held her and didn’t try to pry words from her lips, throughout the night as she gulped against his chest and tried to sleep, Molly wondered just how safe Wally could really be if she dared to open her mouth and tell Will what really was leaving her puffy eyed and stoic during an episode of their favorite show.

           She ultimately gulped the words down, though. It wasn’t safe otherwise.

           Molly gulped down a shuddering breath at the sight of the man that climbed out of the passenger side of a rather austere and spacious car. There are some things that a person knows because they’re told; there are some things they know because they are quick enough to stay quiet and observe. Some things, though, are complete and utter instinct, and despite the fact that Francis Dolarhyde of all people was a complete and utter monster to Molly Foster, she found herself taking a minute step closer to him at the sight of Clark Ingram, hands planted on her hips to steel herself.

           The man looked like a rapist. Cold, empty eyes, even red-rimmed from hangover, conveyed a deep-seeded and utter dispassionate care of women as he glanced over her, then along the rest of their small group thoughtfully. The woman beside him, Emma, gave him a careless glance before she tucked her keys into her coat pocket and lingered by the headlights.

           “Dr. Hannibal Lecter, in the flesh,” Clark Ingram said with an amiable smile. He extended his hand to shake Hannibal’s, which was returned with a professional, thin-lipped smile.

           “Clark Ingram. Welcome,” Hannibal greeted. “With me are my associates: Agent Francis Dolarhyde, Ms. Molly Foster, Mr. Howard Chapman, and of course you know Miss Emma.”

           “Nice to meet you all,” Clark said with a grin. “This is…wow. You really had me jumping through hoops, you know.”

           “Did I?” Hannibal asked. His brow lifted briefly, a flicker so fast that Molly almost hadn’t caught it. Seeing it, though, filled her with a sort of dread that nothing but instinct could give.

           “Yeah, the back roads, the FBI, the whole thing was really exciting, but that last leg was just a doozy.”

           “A doozy,” Hannibal echoed, and he smiled just enough to flash incisors that seemed entirely too sharp on a human. “But here you are, now.”

           “Here I am, and I’m ready for whatever else you’ve got for me, Dr. Lecter. You can ask Emma; I did my job.”

           “Oh, yes, the job,” Hannibal agreed amiably. “Only, Mr. Ingram, you didn’t do the job.”

           The cold wind whistling was the only noise that accompanied his words. Clark Ingram frowned, something confused and mildly childlike. Petulant.

           “I don’t understand,” he said at last.

           Hannibal nodded, as he’d expected this. “Your job was to kill Agent Zeller. You didn’t.”

           “I did,” Ingram returned irritably, “and he bled like a stuck pig.”

           “Agent Zeller is currently in my basement awaiting questioning, actually,” Hannibal returned pleasantly. It was the sort of sweet that made one’s stomach ache. “My informant in the FBI informed me of his location, and he was retrieved from a hospital where he’d just been taken out of surgery.”

           Shock was something Molly was more than used to seeing. She’d had her own twists and turns with Dr. Lecter in regards to shock and how one both registers and reacts to it. Seeing it on Clark Ingram was mildly cathartic, as she was more than aware of his track record and the things he’d done to women whose only mistake was being fooled by a pretty face and a 100-watt smile. First, he paled; his cheeks turned a ruddy sort of red, then the air squeezed from him with a slow and painful look to his ribs, like they’d soon break.

           “Bull shit,” he said shakily. “This is ridiculous. I did my job, and now I want my payment for it.”

           “Payment,” Emma echoed, and there was a smirk to her voice that didn’t register on her granite face. “Are you so stupid that you didn’t notice the circles I drove you around while I waited for the word from Dr. Lecter?”

           “You really were invaluable, thank you,” Hannibal agreed, glancing to Emma.

           “I stuck him good, and I strolled right by that god damn FBI agent, and he didn’t even notice! What the hell did I risk everything for? I made that fucker bleed for you, and this is the thanks that I’m going to get?”

           “In reality, it turns out that he is one of the few to know the location of a person in question that I wish to meet with, so I am relieved to find that he is very much alive; that being said, however, I’m in no position to allow you into this house and its sanctuary.”

           “You promised me women, you god damn-”

           “Oh, yes, the women.” Hannibal nodded thoughtfully, and it was that sort of aloofness that made the hairs on the back of Molly’s neck stand on end. “Emma?”

           The silencer on the end of her gun muffled the shot, although it was nothing like Hollywood. Suppressed shots sounded more like something far, far away, with the impression of an echo from a canyon that reverberated back to the ears and left one feeling somehow wanting. It was not the first time Molly watched someone die, nor was it the first time she’d watched someone shoot them to do it. Over the years, enough experience had given her the sort of schooling to keep her features calm, even as Emma’s eyes grazed over her with an acute level of scrutiny, assessing.

           Years had given Molly something that she wasn’t sure Emma had –a perfectly controlled, shuttered face. Not even Will could see past it, it seemed. She stood alone with her thoughts, the craggy rocks against an unrelenting ocean.

           “Lovely, as always, Emma. Where you were the one to engage with him personally, I thought the honor should be yours,” Hannibal said warmly. The false tone of affection was grating. “If you’ll have Mr. Hobbs take care of this, we’ll be back inside where it’s warm in no time.”

           “He lost his wallet,” Emma said curtly. “I didn’t notice a tail, but there could be problems.”

           Hannibal glanced to Francis, who nodded grimly.

           “Without Matthew at the sheriff’s department, I haven’t heard much chatter,” he said after a moment. “Someone could come sniffing if he doesn’t show up to work soon.”

           “Someone that could have a missing wallet and a hunch?” Molly asked.

           Francis nodded. “I’ve lost word from the other house. No report yet,” he said.

           “Emma can deal with Matthew’s disappearance,” Hannibal decided. “And we’ll double security at the perimeter. Will is particularly…displeased with the notion of what’s occurred. We need to be prepared for him to attempt something rash.”

           Rash, like attempting to carve out your eye wasn’t rash. Rash, like the faint bruising around Hannibal’s eye wasn’t rash. Rash, like how it felt for Molly to see him with mismatched eyes, the one person in the world that she felt couldn’t have possibly ever been moved by Hannibal Lecter.

           God, and she’d led him right to him. Hook, line, and fucking sinker.

           They headed back, and she lingered towards the back of the small procession, alongside Francis. She thought of the way he’d looked, following after Will who’d swayed and shook after his stunt with the phone. Pained. Afraid. Disgusted.

           “You must be happy,” she said, quiet.

           Francis hummed non-committedly.

           “No, really. All of your planning…your watching, your meticulous notes and careful actions…it all finally came true. Hannibal Lecter has his soulmate because of you.”

           She wasn’t quite sure what it was, her poking at him. She’d witnessed the Red Dragon surface before, and it’d left nightmares that clung to her eyelashes and stuck whenever she tried to blink. Perhaps she, too, was feeling rash now that everything was spiraling.

           “When you took him to the bathroom,” she said, softer, “to clean him up after killing Matthew, what’d you say to him?”

           At that, he did speak. Francis didn’t speak unless necessary, unless there was something ultimately important that he felt the need to convey. He opened his mouth, then closed it. He wet his lips, almost a nervous gesture, then tried again. He stared straight ahead, gaze fixated to the house. She knew that he had no love for Matthew Brown, the same way that she had no love for Matthew Brown.

           “I said that he had to survive us.”

           “Survive,” she murmured, and she nodded. “And now you have to survive watching him be a soulmate to Dr. Lecter.”

           Francis stopped walking and fixed his intense, probing stare to her. She thought of that fateful night, when she’d first turned and found him at her table with a gun trained on her. He’d somehow seemed so untouchable, then, so formidable. Now, facing her with that same look, it didn’t seem so black and white. If anything, lurking beneath that dangerous edge, there was a glimmer of fear, of utmost uncertainty.

           “Say what is on your mind, Molly Foster.”

           Molly stopped and met his gaze head on. “I’m just wondering how you’re going to live kow-towing to Hannibal Lecter while he tries to twist and manipulate his soulmate bond to get Will Graham into his bed. First I fucked him, and soon enough Hannibal will try, too…it must be difficult for you.”

           If it stung him, it didn’t show. Francis blinked lazily, then reached calmly into his jacket pocket and produced a cheap-looking, poor man’s smart phone. A fancy burner phone, all things considered. He tapped on the screen a few times, then lifted the camera to show an angle of one of the parlors.

           Wally sat beside Abigail, coloring.

           “I still have complete and total access to your son at all times,” he murmured thoughtfully. “Your position as Hannibal Lecter’s romantic proxy to Will Graham means ultimately nothing now that he has what he wants. You and your son are disposable.”

           He left her with that haunting reminder as he smiled kindly and put his phone away. Left alone on the gravel path back to the house, Molly shivered in her coat and glanced to the doorway, unsettled to find Hannibal looking back at her, the light of the house silhouetting him and leaving his expression in the shadows. She could hazard a guess to what it was, though. Cold. Calm. Calculating. Cruel.

           Clark Ingram was disposable, too. She gulped down the same sob she’d been holding back for four miserable, haunting years, and she hurried into the house to find Wally.

A special thanks to my patrons: @sylarana, @frostyleegraham, @jenacar, @starlit-catastrophe, @matildaparacosm, Laura G, Superlurk, Duhaunt6, Mendacious Bean, @frostylicker, Cecily, and @evertonem <3

[camsthisky]

Life’s But a Walking Shadow

ao3 | ff.net

Day 3: Monsters

It loosely fits, so. Yeah. This is for @caramelmachete, who asked for some Dick and Wally bromance. Thanks for donating!!!

Summary: The puzzle pieces aren’t fitting. Dick doesn’t know what’s happening. But one thing that he does know is that he has to get to Bruce. He has to.

Dick doesn’t know where he is.

Well, that’s not completely true. He’s sitting in the middle of the sidewalk, somewhere in the middle of Gotham. There’s not a lot of people, but the weak sun is still occasionally breaking through the clouds, so Dick thinks it must be before rush hour. The people around him give him a wide berth, but Dick hardly notices. He keeps getting distracted by the shadows in the corner of his eye. He could have sworn he saw—

No. Batman doesn’t come out during the day. Not unless there’s an emergency. And Dick can’t think of anything that’d be classified an emergency when it seems so calm. Actually, Dick’s having trouble thinking at all.

But he knows for sure that it’s not Batman. Can’t be. He wouldn’t be scared of it if it was, right?

There’s—something. Something he’s supposed to remember. Something to do with Bruce. He thinks that maybe he should find Bruce. Or call him. Maybe it’ll help him remember, think. He’s supposed to tell Bruce about—about—

Something to do with water. Other than that, he can’t grasp it. He can’t make his thoughts form anything coherent.

There’s another—it’s not a flash. It’s more a growing embodiment of fear and darkness on the edge of his vision, creating a dark mass that catches his attention. But when he turns his head to look at it, it’s gone. Nothing there. Poof.

Unease grows in his stomach, and Dick thinks that maybe he should get up now. There’s something seriously wrong, and he needs to get to Bruce to tell him about the water. He hopes that the shadow doesn’t follow him all the way home. Dick doesn’t know how to get rid of it, so if it does, he’ll have to risk exposing his family to the danger of it.

That thought makes him slightly sick, and Dick makes no move to get up. People pay him no attention besides a cursory first glance. Dick watches the shadow creep closer, morphing and contorting as it makes its way towards him.

When his phone rings, Dick barely hears it. He keeps his eyes on the shadow, but it starts to feel like he’s falling apart. Like his grip on reality is slipping and sliding all over the place, and it takes a few more minutes for Dick to realize that he is literally shaking apart.

He’s sitting on the sidewalk, shaking and sweating as he watches a shadow he can’t take his eyes off of, and his cell phone rings. There’s something wrong. He just can’t figure it out.

Dick picks up this time without looking. “Hello?”

“Dick!” a voice says, and behind the distortion, there’s relief. Dick listens to the voice babble on about something before he realizes that whoever’s on the line is trying to talk to him. “—are right now and I’ll come get you. We can get pizza and eat our hearts out to drown out whatever’s on your mind, bro.”

“Wally?” Dick asks, his forehead crinkling in confusion. Why is Wally calling him?

“Yeah,” Wally says, his words a beat slower this time. “Yeah, it’s me. You okay, man?”

Dick thinks about that for a minute. He licks his lips and thinks about the growing shadow he can’t stop tracking. He thinks about the bad feeling in his gut. He thinks about how he can’t tell whether he’s shivering or shaking. He thinks about the need to get to Bruce and tell him about the water, but the absolute fear of bringing the shadow into contact with the people he loves. And then he thinks about how absolute none of those pieces seem to make any sense when he tries to fit them together. It’s like they don’t even belong to the same puzzle, though he’s sure that he’d gotten them from the same box.

“I don’t think so,” Dick says, and he’s feeling a little dizzy now, too. Light-headed. Everything but the shadow has gone fuzzy around the edges, and finally—finally—it clicks into place what’s happening to him. “I think I’ve been drugged.”

Wally sucks in a sharp breath, blows it out, and speaks slow enough that even Dick, in his hazy, drugged state, can follow.

“Okay,” Wally says. “Okay, first things first. Do you know where you are?”

“A street,” Dick tells him. Easy question.

“Which street?” Wally asks.

Harder question. Dick doesn’t know. And he doesn’t get to answer before he’s shuffling back from the middle of the sidewalk to press his shoulders against the wall of the building behind him. The shadow—the one morphing and contorting and growing—shoots out a tendril and almost curls around his ankle but—he jerks it away at the last moment, and the shadow retreats for the moment.

He’s left with his lungs feeling tight. Like he can’t get enough air. Wally’s small and tinny voice sounds from the phone still clutched in Dick’s right hand, but Dick can’t pay attention to him right now. He’d just talked to Wally for a second and the shadow had made a grab for him. He has to watch for it, make sure it doesn’t try to—

Wally’s in his face in a moment, shielding him from the shadows, and Dick blinks. Wally’s hands are like steel as they grip his upper arms, and Wally’s presence is just so much. Like a hot bath after sleeping in the snow. It’s overwhelming.

“Breathe,” Wally orders, and Dick does. Wally doesn’t seem satisfied, though. “Again.”

Dick tries to suck in another breath, but his chest hitches and his eyes screw up and his hands grip the front of Wally’s jacket and there’s just too much. Any moment now, Wally is going to move and the shadow will come roaring after him. It’ll grab him and drag him into the unknown, and he doesn’t think he can handle that.

Not after it’d already practically consumed him last time.

Wally cups Dick’s face in his hands. “Hey, hey. Hang on, Dick. Bruce is on his way. He’s going to fix whatever’s wrong with you.”

“Water,” Dick manages to choke out. “It was—water. Bruce.”

Shaking his head, Wally brushes away tears Dick hadn’t even realized were falling. “Dick, I don’t—I don’t know what that means.”

“Move,” someone else says.

Wally’s head snaps up, but when Wally’s eyes go wide and he makes to pull away, Dick shakes his head and grips Wally’s jacket harder, whispering, “No. No, no, no,” over and over again, until Wally covers Dick’s hands and squeezes, shuffling to the side to make room for the new person who—oh.

Bruce is here. Dick thinks that maybe he’s going to cry in relief, but then he remembers that he’s already crying.

“Hey. Look at me,” Bruce says, his voice low and calm and gentle like it is in his memories and those quiet moments just after a life or death situation. Bruce’s eyes don’t waver, and Dick focuses on his dad’s face, his fingers uncurling from Wally’s jacket to reach instead for Bruce’s. Bruce pulls him in slowly, gently, and Dick falls forward and buries his face in Bruce’s chest, closing his eyes against the dizziness.

He can’t remember what’s happening, but he knows—just like he’ll always know—that he’s safe here. He’s okay. The shadow—it can’t get him as long as Bruce is here.

“Let’s get you home,” Bruce says quietly, and he pulls Dick to his feet, supporting his weight when Dick’s feet threatening to collapse out from underneath him. Bruce’s arms are around him, Wally’s hand is on his back, and Dick keeps his head tucked Bruce’s shoulder as they lead him towards the street.

Dick still feels dizzy and light-headed, and he can’t put the puzzle pieces together very well, but he manages a sharp breath and a quiet, “The water, Bruce.”

And Bruce tightens his arms around Dick and says, “I know. Tim’s taking care of it as we speak.”

And, of course, that’s when Dick collapses, darkness taking over and the echo of his name in his ears.

When Dick wakes up, it’s slow. And when he opens his eyes, it’s hazy. But not the fuzziness he can hardly remember from before, full of shadows and monsters and puzzle pieces that don’t seem to fit as he sits on concrete in the middle of the sidewalk. All alone and scared of something that’s not actually real.

Well, in a sense. He knows what those shadows represented in his head, and just the thought of them make him unbelievably tired and world weary. So he doesn’t think about it anymore.

Dick’s lying on a medical cot in the Cave. He’s attached to an IV, and Dick wonders just how long he was out. He feels bone tired. Exhausted in a way he hasn’t been since maybe the day he’d been strapped to a bomb and had to stop his heart in order to stop said bomb.

“Hey,” a soft voice says, and Dick blinks at the redhead sitting at his bedside. Wally doesn’t look so hot, either, and he’s looking at Dick with wary eyes. “How are you feeling?”

Dick hums, and croaks out, “Tired.”

Wally chuckles. “You should go back to sleep.”

“The water?” Dick asks instead of acknowledging that last statement. He’ll go to sleep when he knows that everything’s okay. “Did Bruce get to it on time?”

Wally blows out a sigh and leans back in his chair. “You know, I still don’t know what that means.”

“It means,” Bruce says before Dick can even open his mouth to answer, striding into the medical wing of the Cave in sweats and a T-shirt, “that Scarecrow was trying to drug the city’s water supply, and the only reason that he didn’t was because Dick had enough sense in him to activate the tracker at the plant and alert Tim into checking it out when we couldn’t get a hold of him.”

“Tim okay?” Dick asks.

“He’s fine,” Bruce tells him, standing on the other side of Dick’s bed, across from Wally. He looks hesitant about something, but he finally sighs and drops a hand in Dick’s hair, sweeping a thumb across Dick’s forehead in a rare show of comfort. Dick closes his eyes under the ministrations. “You, on the other, are not.”

Dick frowns, but doesn’t open his eyes. “I’m okay.”

“You weren’t,” Bruce says, but it’s Wally that elaborates since they both know that Bruce won’t.

“We almost lost you a couple times,” Wally tells him softly, and Dick feels Wally grab his limp hand and squeeze. “It was—well. Terrifying. We’re just lucky that Bruce and I managed to isolate the new component in Scarecrow’s new toxin when we did.”

“Thank you,” Dick whispers, but no one responds. There’s silence for a while, and Dick feels himself floating away, back into a doze. He only hums when Bruce moves his hand from Dick’s hair to Dick’s shoulder and drops a gentle kiss on Dick’s forehead, like Wally isn’t sitting right there.

“Get some sleep, Dick,” Bruce says.

And Dick, already seconds away from floating back into slumber, lets himself relax. With Bruce and Wally here, and everything okay, he’s safe. No more shadows or monsters or puzzle pieces. Just his dad and his best friend. So, he sleeps.

[lizartgurl]

Waiting (Torpedo/Aquarocket)

Word Count: 1900+ Characters: Raquel Ervin/Rocket, Kaldur’ahm/Aqualad, Amistad Ervin, Zatanna Zatara (sort of), Nightwing (sort of), Artemis Crock/Tigress (heavily mentioned) Set during the invasion. Raquel knows Kaldur’s secret. Written for @sand-son and anyone else who’s wondering who the fate Raquel’s getting married to, whether it be lady or gentleman.

---

"You're getting married!?" Karen squealed.

Raquel nodded, grinning as she held up the hand with the diamond ring sparkling for all her friends to see.

"When's the big day?" M'gann asked.

"Who's the lucky guy?" Zatanna added.

Amistad burbled loudly, and spit out half a dozen bubbles from his spot on Artemis's knee. the women all laughed, and Zee turned on him, her fingers wiggling threateningly.

"Maybe you can tell us, Ami. Who's your new dad gonna be?" She tickled his ribs, and Raquel smiled as her little boy laughed.

"You'll just have to wait and see."

-------

Amistad was put to bed and Raquel poured over a draft with a critical eye, tapping a pen against her gritted teeth. She should be getting some rest too, Amistad rarely slept, but she had English homework to finish, and that was almost as important as sleep.

A tapping at the window made her jump, literally, out of her train of thought. And then she saw who was at the window and smiled.

"Hey, fishface," she said, helping him in the window. He'd ditched the suit, opting for an inconspicuous hoodie and jeans.

"Hello my dear," Kaldur took her hands in his and kissed her on the lips.

"Oh lord, I missed you," She gasped a moment later, wrapping her arms around his neck.

"And I missed you," Just as he was about to kiss her again, Amistad started whining.

Raquel was annoyed at being interrupted, but Ami was too cute for her to stay mad at him for long. If Kaldur was annoyed, he didn't show it. He obediently followed Raquel to the nursery helping her tend to their son.

"You are wearing the ring," he observed, handing her a warm bottle of milk.

"Well yeah, did you think I wasn't?" She asked, bouncing Amistad gently as she tried to coax the bottle into his mouth.

"Didn't people ask questions?"

"Well sure they did, but I didn't tell them. Look, I know it's a risk, but I want to wear it. I want people to know that I'm taken, that I'm yours," she squeezed his hand.

"Besides, it's fun to see the looks on the girl's faces when I refuse to tell them who I'm getting married to," she grinned.

"Raquel Ervin, you are too much."

"Don't pretend you don't love it," She sang, walking Amistad up and down the hall while she burped him.

Kaldur smiled to himself, watching her pace and coo at their son.

"Yes," he said quietly, "that is why I proposed to you."

-------

Zatanna had just called to tell her about Malina island the next time she saw him. She made up an excuse about Amistad being fussy, hung up, and quickly let him in.

"I just heard," she said, noticing his heavy breathing. She helped him stumble into a chair at the kitchen table and got him a large glass of water. Amistad was sitting in his high chair, and banged his tiny fists against the tray. He was always excited to see Kaldur.

"I couldn't save them," Kaldur said, staring at the glass Raquel placed in his hand. "I couldn’t save the Kroloteans.”

He raised his glass half-heartedly. “But at least Manta has sealed his place within the Light and I have won his trust," he said sarcastically. Amistad cooed, raising his arms like KAldur did and flinging food everywhere.

"I know, I know, don't beat yourself up, Kal," she squeezed his empty hand. "You did all that you could, I know you did. And that's all we can do."

Kaldur set aside his cup, and kissed Raquel, much to Amistad's delight.

"I love you, Raquel Ervin."

"I love you too, Kaldur'ahm. Even if you are a hopeless idiot. Now help me feed the baby before he tosses out all his food."

-------

The next visit was much shorter than the last two.

"I have to report to my father, but had to tell you-"

"Artemis and Wally are in on it and you had to win the trust of the other Light whackjobs. Nightwing told me." She told him, placing her hand on his chest.

Kaldur held her close, kissing the top of her head. "It's getting more dangerous. Nightwing thought that sending Artemis undercover would give me a boost, she has more knowledge of the criminal world workings than anyone else."

"Well you cost me my best babysitter, Fishface. You owe me." She warned.

Kaldur leaned down so that their foreheads touched. "Then let me make up for it."

-------

She felt guilty having the bridal shower Karen and Dinah threw at her, both keeping the identity of her fiance and the knowledge of Artemis's survival from them, from her friends, the ones who loved her so much they put together a bridal shower for her without even knowing when the wedding would be or just who the heck she was getting hitched to.

"To the bride!" M'gann cheered, wearing that same smile she used to give everyone years ago, back when she was still that peppy cheerleader that Raquel only found slightly annoying.

And as everyone toasted her a happy marriage, Raquel made her own silent prayer that she'd actually get to be married.

-------

She left Amistad with the elderly next-door-neighbor and barged into the team's makeshift base the moment she heard.

"What the heck happened, Nightwing, you tell me right now!" She shouted, lifting him by the collar of his kevlar suit. Rick looked to Connor for help, but the boy of steel was staying out of it.

Impulse, Beast Boy, and Wonder Girl had gathered at the commotion Rocket was causing, and long story short that's how Nightwing's plan came out to the rest of his team.

"Tigress- who is Artemis- took M'gann to help Kaldur. So long as the three of them have each other, I think they should be okay." He finished up. "All we can do is wait."

"You think!?" Raquel snapped as the freshman watched in terrified awe. "You're the freaking boy wonder, Richard John Grayson, you'd better darn well know that they'll all be safe the next time you try to pull a stunt like this."

-------

Zatanna visited that night, finding Raquel on the couch watching informercials with Amistad asleep on her lap, the two surrounded by unfinished homework and empty junk food containers.

"Oh, Raquel," she whispered, taking Amistad from Raquel to let her friend curl up and cry.

"I knew it was gonna be like this when I said yes, why did I say yes?" she sobbed as Zee rubbed her back in circles. "He could be dead right now! And so could M'gann and Artemis!"

"They aren't, you know they aren't!" Zatanna insisted. "Artemis is a fighter and M'gann is so incredibly powerful, they won't let anything happen to Kaldur. And now that we know that he's not evil, neither will the rest of us."

"So you know?"

Zee giggled, "You're not the only one with an affinity for bad boys," She admitted.

Raquel leaned her shoulder on Zee's head. "I miss when we were on the team, back when everyone trusted each other."

Zee kissed her forehead in a totally platonic but completely loving way. "I think I know just what you need."

-------

She came home from Zatanna’s suggested mission to Bialya tired and sore, pondering if she still had some ice cream left over in the fridge or if she had enough energy to take Amistad out to the frozen yogurt place down the street. She said good-bye to the sitter, and then the tapping came at the window.

With Amistad still propped on her shoulder, she ran back to the kitchen. And there he was, still there, still alive.

He opened the window himself, whispering her name over and over as he held her and their son in his arms.

"I love you," he said.

"I love you too," she sobbed. Then Ami started crying too. Kaldur took him without hesitation, carefully bouncing him and rocking him as he'd seen Raquel do.

"So what happened?" She asked at the two sat on the couch, watching Amistad play on the blanket with his toys from Auntie Dinah and the rest of the League.

"M'gann was able to fix what she had destroyed, I feel fine, nothing out of place, and my memories are still intact-" he paused suddenly, looking at Raquel's hand.

"Why do you have a ring on your finger?"

Raquel grabbed pillow after pillow and lobbed them at him. "And you said I was a tease!" She spluttered as they both laughed. Amistad gave a laugh of his own.

Kaldur blocked her pillows with his arms, and grabbed Raquel, holding her in his arms.

"Soon, my dear," he promised soothingly, "The team is pulling Artemis and me out in a few days. You do not have to wait much longer."

-------

Like any good mother, Raquel made sure her boy was far from the danger of aliens threatening the world. She put him on the Watchtower with Catherine Cobert and Simon Carr to watch him, while she and literally every other League member, team member, and ally gathered outside of Lex Luthor's building, of all places, to stop the Reach's Endgame.

She stood by Kaldur's side, while Luthor droned on, holding his hand so tightly you'd think the heavy winds would suddenly carry him away from her again.

They were each put on different squads, Kaldur with his old friend Lagoon Boy, and Raquel with the, er, strange Doctor Strange.

"Good luck," He whispered, quickly kissing her forehead. Dang, he looked so good back in his old red-and-black uniform again.

"Go save the world, Fishface," she smiled at him.

And they did.

-------

Raquel had been waiting for six months. You'd think that two weeks would be easy.

It. Was. Torture.

Since they didn't really know when Kaldur would finish his job undercover, and since Raquel couldn't quite tell everyone exactly who she was engaged to without blowing his cover, plans that would have spanned over a few months or maybe even a year were crammed into those two weeks.

Raquel wanted to just have a plain and simple wedding to get it over with, but then Dinah and Oliver stepped up and offered to pay for the whole thing, and she couldn't refuse that. And then there were Atlantean and surface cultures clashing where both Kaldur and Raquel each wanted their partner to be able to have their culture represented as much as possible.

Somehow, it all worked out.

It was held in a small church in Dakota city, on the edge of the street where she grew up. Atlanteans and metas and normal human friends crowded the tiny white building, each fighting for a better view of Augustus helping Amistad walk down the aisle as the ring bearer, or Roy Harper carrying his daughter and her basket of petal bombs which she promptly pelted at the guests more so than the floor, and of course, the beautiful bride herself.

Raquel met eyes with Kaldur as she entered the chapel, watching his face glowing and his smile growing as she approached him step by step.

After all she'd been through and all the time she'd waited, the ceremony flew past, and soon enough they were kissing and people were cheering and Amistad was clapping his chubby little fists as he was handed back to his parents.

"So was it worth the wait?" Kaldur whispered lowly, kissing her again.

"Oh it was, Fishface," she grinned, "Worth it and more."

[kindaangelic]

My Pure, Lovely, Children - A Story of Bruce Wayne's Life

Alfred loved having a full house. With the Kent Farm undergoing renovations due to a freak hailstorm, Jason, Roy, and Kori's apartment having burned down because, well, Gotham, and Wally coming over to help run forensic analysis on some samples, Wayne Manor was full to the brim. Everyone was generally happy, had paired off with bunkmates, and all seemed to be well. Reality was a cruel mistress, though. Currently, Reality had tied Bruce down and was whipping him with his own belt, in a scene straight out of "Mistress Aurora: Dominatrix Extraordinaire - The Spanking". Bruce frowned, remembering to have a word with Jason about watching pornography in the house. The Dark Knight and his brood had just returned from their nightly patrol, and most of them had retired for the night, leaving Bruce to brood alone in the cave. He pored over the floor plan of the manor and flinched, considering the rooming arrangements. Mr and Mrs Kent were in the guest bedroom, Alfred in his own quarters, while Clark was taking up precious oxygen and space in Bruce's room. This left his children and their roommates. Dick was rooming with Wally, whom he was probably having sex with. Jason was rooming with Roy and Kori, both of whom he was definitely having sex with. Bruce shuddered, remembering the groans and moans as he walked in on Kori and Jason tag teaming a very naked Roy. Jon was away at space camp, which meant that Damian was alone, and being ten years old, was most certainly not going to have sex for at least another decade, not if Bruce had anything to do with it. That left Tim, who was rooming with Connor, where the possibility of sex was most certainly on the table. Dick and Jason were adults, and were thus beyond Bruce's considerable parental authority, but Tim was sixteen, and still within his power. Bruce growled, thinking of the times that he had caught the half-Kryptonian horndog eyeing his delicate, unsullied, Tim like he was a piece of juicy meat. Bruce leaned back in his chair and sighed heavily, trying to formulate a plan to keep his third son pure and free of Kryptonian spunk. Just then, Damian pottered into the cave, clad in the pinstriped pajamas and nightcap, complete with pompom, that Alfred insisted on for all "young gentlemen of proper standing, Master Damian. It will not do to wander down the hallways in the morning dressed in...underwear," he had said, shuddering at the last word and glaring at Dick and Tim, who had ambled in in their undershirts. Bruce considered his son for a second before reaching down to scoop his youngest into his lap. Damian fidgeted angrily, but settled down. "Enjoy this while you can, Father. I'll be a hulking teenager before you know it," he declared bitterly. Bruce grinned, reveling in the feeling of having a child small enough to cuddle. "It doesn't matter. Once you're grown, I'll just get another child," Bruce teased. "Father!" "Just kidding," Bruce said flippantly. "Dick or Jason would have spawned or procured a grandchild for me by then," he said, hope coloring his words. "I would place my money on Todd," Damian snorted. "There is a female in his relationship. Grayson is fornicating with another man." Bruce frowned, his mood crashing like a blimp with a puncture. "Speaking of your fornicating brothers, I need you to go on a mission," he said. "I hope you won't refuse me," Bruce hummed, petting Damian's head, causing the boy to purr contentedly and nuzzle closer to his father. "Name it," he said happily. "We have to protect your brother." "Grayson is in danger?" Damian gasped, jumping to attention. "No," Bruce shook his head. "Tim." "Tt. What about him?" "Conner Kent is showing a...less than savory interest in Tim. We need to make sure that nothing...sexual happens between them." "I thought that people enjoyed such things," Damian mused. "Todd is always moaning or groaning when he does it with his two partners." Bruce panicked. "That's because...um...he's groaning because he's in pain," Bruce improvised. Damian lapsed into quiet thought before sitting up. "That means Grayson is being hurt as well!" He cried. "I've heard him scream!" Bruce felt his soul shrivel at the information on his sons' sex lives. "Yes, yes, he is. We have to save Tim from the same fate before he gets drawn into it as well." "And then we can save Grayson?" Damian asked. "Yes, yes, then we can save Dick," Bruce agreed hurriedly, noticing the clock striking 4:00am. Almost bedtime for Tim. "Let's go." "But Father, what about a plan?" Damian asked, as Bruce tucked him under his arm as they made their way up to the manor. "Don't worry," Bruce smirked. "I have a plan." ----------- "Goodnight, Kon." "Goodnight, Tim," Kon replied genially, rolling into Tim's bed. He eyed Tim as he did the same, his heart speeding up at the sliver of exposed ankle as Tim got into bed. "You know-" Kon's next words were cut off as Bruce barged into the room, carrying Damian on his hip. "Ah, good, you're still awake," he said, smiling at Tim. "The roof of Damian's room is leaking," he said, dropping Damian onto the bed, between Kon and Tim. "He'll be staying with you for the night." "Um..." Tim said, eyeing the scowling boy, "why us? Why not Dick? He's his favorite brother." "Person." "Come again?" "Grayson is my favorite person. That he is my brother is a bonus." "Right..." Tim trailed off slowly, and looked back up at Bruce. "So, why can't he stay with Dick?" "Dick is rooming with Wally," Bruce informed him. "I don't want Damian to witness any...unsavory action." Kon gulped. "What about Jason?" He asked, as Tim nodded frantically at the suggestion. Bruce simply *looked* at the pair, who mumbled something along the lines of, *yes Mr. Wayne, we're sorry for our stupidity, of course you know best*. "Wait, what about you!?" Tim asked, pointing accusingly at Bruce. "Clark takes up a lot of space," Bruce grumbled. "I don't want Damian being crushed by one of his SuperLimbs." "Ma and Pa?" Kon asked in his Smallville drawl, making it sound like "Maw and Paw". Bruce shuddered at the hickness, and glared at Kon. "They're probably doing it too," he said vindictively, watching Kon shrivel into a husk of his former self, thinking about his parents doing the do. "That leaves the two of you, and I know that you won't be engaging in any, ahem, adult activities," Bruce said menacingly, glaring at Kon, who shivered under the full intensity of the Batglare. Tim didn't reply, having been watching bemusedly as Damian crawled in between Kon and himself, and pulling the covers around him. Bruce smiled at his youngest, and patted him on the head. "Goodnight, Damian, Tim." "Goodnight, Father," Damian replied. "Goodnight, Drake, Clone," he added, nodding to either of them in turn, before lying ramrod straight and closing his eyes, looking not unlike a tiny Dracula in his coffin. Tim allowed Bruce to ruffle his hair before going to sleep himself, leaving Kon and Bruce the only ones awake. "Goodnight, Kon-El," Bruce whispered menacingly. Somehow, he timed the words so that he spoke just as lightning flashed outside, bathing the dark room in harsh, white, light, which illuminated only a sliver of Bruce's face. His menacing, evil, bat-like, face. Kon ducked underneath the covers in fright, and Bruce went back to his own quarters with a serene smile adorning his face. ----------- Breakfast was a raucous affair the next morning. Bruce had shown up with a lovely shiner on his eye, courtesy of Clark, who had flailed about in his sleep. The Man of Steel kept looking at his friend with guilty cow-eyes, like a dog that knew that it had deposited a doodoo on the Persian carpet, which was likely where Clark would be sleeping later that night. Having successfully preserved Tim's virginity, Damian had shifted his focus to saving his favorite brother from the clutches of the evil redheads speedster, and was shooting poisonous looks at a confused Wally from where he was situated on Dick's lap. Dick was oblivious to all of this, of course, and cuddled and fed Damian jam sandwiches with not a care in the world. Kon was doing his level best to avoid looking at Bruce, while simultaneously trying to catch Tim's eye, the latter of whom only had eyes for his coffee. Kon settled for watching Tim's blessed out expression through the haze of steam rising from the coffee, thinking that the younger boy looked like a caffeinated angel. Just as Bruce was contemplating breaking his Code and committing murder, Roy, and Kori ambled in, with Jason in Kori's arms, bridal style. Roy hurried about setting out a cushion which Kori gingerly placed Jason on, before tousling his hair and floating away. Jason shifted slightly and winced, and turned to grin at Dick, who was looking at him bemusedly. "Do you need me to have a word with Roy?" He asked seriously. "Don't bother, it's a good hurt," Jason groaned. "If you need to talk to anyone, talk to Kori. Tamaranean physiology is pretty amazing. All kinds of surprises under there." Dick burst into nervous giggles as Bruce blanched. Clark gasped and clutched his pearls like the maiden that he was, and Tim didn't register anything, not having gotten through his first coffee of the day. Damian clicked his tongue in annoyance before wriggling off of Dick's lap and stalking away, grumbling about masochistic fools who rebelled in pain. "Just don't let your injury affect your performance on patrol, Todd," he scowled. "I'm going to go and call Jon. He's the only one who may have retained his brain cells." Damian walked away, but paused at the door and turned around, leveling a cold glare at Wally. "And don't you try anything, West," he growled. "I'm watching you." Having said his bit, Damian flounced off to go and talk to his friend. Wally sat, quaking in his seat, while Dick tried to get him out of his stupor. Bruce grinned after Damian and sat back, happy that for the time being, all his children were happy and accounted for. Suddenly, a thought hit him, and Bruce sat upright. "Where is Cassandra?" "Miss Stephanie came by this morning intending to treat Miss Casandra to breakfast," Alfred supplied, while tipping six eggs onto Bruce's plate. "Ah," Bruce breathed, relaxing once more. "Nothing like a good, friendly, breakfast to strengthen a bond. Where did they say they were going?" "They have balcony seats at The Kiss Kiss Café," Alfred replied, with just a twitch of his moustache. "I believe that Miss Stephanie has similar views of strengthening and forging new relationships as you, Master Bruce. After all, what better way to the heart than through the stomach?" Bruce sat stunned, cursing the purple menace that frequented his house. "...and Cassandra?" "Well, Miss Cassandra does love her pancakes," Alfred said mildly. Bruce's subsequent rage fest could be heard all the way across Gotham.

[themarginalartist]

Monster in the Closet

Joey told him he wasn’t allowed down there... 

This is part 9 of Sweet Dreams for the Devil. Click the link to go to the rest of the series here on tumblr, or you can find it on Ao3 under the same name.

Bendy was fed up. Joey had started locking off access to the lower parts of the studio, acting strange if he was questioned about it, eyes shifting to the side and chuckling nervously. Bendy deemed it high time that he had a look into what was going on down there.

He had taken Wally’s keys. He didn’t want to get Wally in trouble, the man was constantly getting yelled at by the different department heads for something, but he had to know. Making sure that no one had followed him over to the door, especially Alice and Boris as they were too willing to let Joey get away with whatever he was doing, he carefully fit the key in the lock and turned it gently so it wouldn’t make a sound.

Opening the door all he found was darkness. The stairwell was pitch black at the halfway point of the staircase from what he could recall. Shivering slightly he closed the door and went to a supplies closet nearby to grab a candle, stored away incase of a power outage in the studio, as he returned to the door he took a deep steadying breath. He had to do this. He had to know. Joey hadn’t been acting the same the last couple months. It was time to find out what he was up to. He struck a match and lit the candle.

He gently closed the door behind himself, making sure that it remained unlocked to be safe, he stepped onto the first step towards the now unknown that lay below. Even darker now, only illuminated by the candle that he had, the staircase was terrifying. Making sure to step lightly while he was still near the door so that any creaks wouldn’t give him away he descended.

The darkness was all consuming.

Bendy shivered and hugged himself as he continued on down the staircase. He didn’t remember it being this long. A sudden draft through the staircase threatened to blow out the candle that he had brought. Cupping his hand around the light he paused where he was at. It wasn’t too late to turn around…

No, he had to know what Joey was hiding, he steeled himself and continued onwards.

Finally reaching the bottom of the stairs he looked around the walls to find a light switch. Coming up short he did find an array of candles sitting on a shelf. Watching his hand carefully as he slowly tipped his candle to light the others was the only task on his mind. Finishing lighting those he was terrified to find a pentagram with a huge black splotch in the center with strange symbols surrounding it. Backing away slowly he looked around the area that he had illuminated. The workspace of a crazed scientist came to mind as he looked at the scattered blueprints and pages on the desks and floors.

“What the heck is Joey doing down here?” Bendy said out loud quickly slapping a hand over his mouth. He shouldn’t have spoken in the workspace, he didn’t know if anyone was down here with him, but nothing happened. There wasn’t anyone that came to shove him up the stairs and back into the main studio. Removing his hand he looked about the workspace again a bit more freely knowing that nothing was coming for him.

The blueprints looked like parts for the machine that created him. He swore he’d never look at it again, the vile machine made so much noise and he hated the constant little drip hitting the puddle below, it grated on his nerves. It was so sad too because the machine was so close to Henry’s old animation desk. He wanted to be able to sit in the chair where his creator sat and at least have some connection with the mystery man. Joey had no pictures of Henry in his office. Bendy had checked every nook and cranny of the studio that he had access to in order to find anything that had Henry’s face, but no one in the studio had anything. It was infuriating. But maybe one of the desks here had one.

Bendy quietly opened the top drawer of the first desk he was at, finding nothing but diagrams and papers, he moved through drawer after drawer of the desk to no avail. He was at the third and final desk when he found it, delicately holding the small picture he brought it closer to the light, a cast of people stared back with smiling faces. He recognized the voice actors and band members, Sammy stood aloof to the side but had a small smile on his face, more people stood out to him but he was looking for a specific one. Finally he found him, Joey was standing alongside another man both with arms around each other’s shoulders, it had to be Henry. He gripped the picture carefully and continued to look through the drawer. There was nothing left but some paperwork and a few drawings signed by Henry and what looked to be a thin sketchbook. He stashed them in an empty manilla folder that had been lying on the desk and continued to look around.

Getting to the last drawer of the desk he reached to open it until a noise distracted him. It sounded suspiciously like moaning. He started to edge his way towards the sound finding his destination was a door with a heavy padlock and a prisoner viewing slider on it.

“Hello?” Bendy asked cautiously. The moaning didn’t change. “Hello?” A little louder this time. The moaning paused for a moment. Then scuttling towards the door. Confused as to why such a door would exist in the studio, and wondering what could possibly be behind the door, he decided to grab a chair and take a look into the room. Standing somewhat precariously on the chair he moved the slider open.

Gloved fingers, coated in sticky black goop, immediately shot through the opening of the door causing Bendy to fall backwards and land hard on the floor knocking down the chair. A growl sounded out through the room as whatever the fingers had been searching for came up empty. Bendy scrambled to right the chair and shut the slider so that whatever it was didn’t do anything else. Significantly shaken he returned  the chair, grabbed the manilla folder, blew out the candles that he had lit, and booked it up the stairs.

Whatever that thing was he didn’t want to find out. Whatever Joey was doing was wrong. Whatever that was shouldn’t exist.

He finally reached the last couple stairs and took a deep breath to calm his pounding heart and to seem less suspicious when he returned to the main studio. He listened at the door, no one was talking and he didn’t hear any footsteps, he hesitantly opened the door and blew out his candle grateful for the electrical lighting the rest of the building had. He placed the candle into the supplies closet and ran to Henry’s office, there wasn’t anyone around at this point of the evening having spent so long in the basement area, so he was unimpeded as he made it to the office.

He sat in the armchair to look over his prize. In the sketch book there were assorted sketches that Henry had done of him and Boris mostly. There were also a few of an early concept for Alice in there too. Some of the loose papers in the drawer had sketches in the corners of them. He smiled at the delicate lines. Paperwork that was unimportant at first look actually was the copyright information for Boris, Alice and himself, basically their birth certificates, he chuckled at the thought. And finally the photograph. Everyone looked so happy in the photo...

A small inky tear hit the now empty manilla folder.

“Why did you leave Henry…” He whispered to the empty room. “Why did you leave…” He put the items he had collected on the small table next to him and let the tears slip out one by one. It wasn’t fair. At least Alice and Boris had one of their creators, he didn’t, he was Henry’s and Henry was gone.

He wiped his hand at his face and looked at the inky tear on his hand.

“Oh no… That hand… That hand was my hand.”