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write-r-die · 3 years

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A Man’s World

Enemies to Lovers - After a solar flare ended the world as we know it, former spy August Walker becomes the most terrifying of the many warlords who pop up across the US. He leads his militia from town to town, taking what he wants and all killing those who resist him. Now he wants Lilah. And one way or another, she’ll belong to him.

Masterlist

I wake with a splitting headache.

I’ve got no idea where I am or how I got here. I’m in a tent, I think - one of those hardcore ones they have in the army. My vision won’t focus, so I can’t see any details, but I know there are other people in this tent with me. Some of them are talking, but I can’t process their words.

Pain stabs through me, originating in the back of my head and I raise my hand to it. There’s dried blood in my hair and it feels like there are staples in my scalp. Someone cared enough to stop the bleeding but not to clean the blood.

I hit my head. Yes, yes, I remember! There was an explosion and it threw me backwards and I must have hit my head.

I was running when the explosion happened. Running through the city. Running away from . . . something. Someone. I remember being afraid but I can’t remember exactly why.

I try to push myself up on my arms but it makes my head spin. I fall back onto the thin palette beneath me with a groan.

A blurry person shuffles into view. The only thing I can really make out is her dark skin, short hair, and heavy red earrings that dangle by her shoulders. She says something I can’t understand.

“Huh?”

She says it again but I still don’t understand. She makes an annoyed sound and reaches for something beside her and then she’s flicking cold water onto my face and neck.

My vision sharpens the slightest bit. I feel a little more awake, but not much, like after chugging a glass of water when you wake up with a hangover.

I must not be awake enough because the woman starts tapping my cheeks not-too-gently. “Stop,” I groan, weakly pushing her hands away.

That seems to satisfy her that I’m conscious enough. “What’s your name?” It’s not a friendly question.

I blink my eyes several times, forcing them to focus. “What happened?”

“August Walker and his war band raided your town,” the woman says. “I guess somebody decided you were worth keeping.”

“August Walker?” The name sends shivers down my spine. Since the solar flare two years ago fried the electricity, scorched the earth, and threw us back into the dark ages, warlords have popped up all over the place. Most of them are ex-military. August Walker is the most terrifying. “The August Walker?” I ask quietly, as though saying his name too loudly will draw him to me.

The woman nods. I can tell by the bored look on her face that she has this conversation all the time, probably with all the other captives Walker and his warriors bring back from their raids.

Some war captives are tradesmen that keep the warlords’ camps running. Others are people recruited as soldiers. Others are pretty girls for the victorious warriors to enjoy.

“What’s your name?”

“What?”

“Your name.”

I must have a motherfucker of a concussion because it takes me a long time to register what the woman is saying. “Oh. Lilah.”

“Full name.”

“Um, Delilah Reid.” At least I remember my own name. That’s a good sign.

“Age?”

“I’m . . .” It takes a bit longer to recall that bit of information. It feels like my brain is sloshing around inside of my skull. “Twenty-three.” I notice the woman is jotting down my words in a notebook. “What’s that?”

“Intake forms.”

Intake forms? In a war camp? “What?”

“We need your information to figure out your assignment in camp,” she says impatiently.

I have to repeat the words to be sure I heard them correctly. “My assignment in camp.” They’re going to give me a job? What would it even be? Soldier, laundress, prostitute . . .

The woman snaps her fingers in front of my face. “Focus.”

But I can’t. Things still look fuzzy and the wound in my head throbs in time with my heartbeat. I need to lie down. “I don’t . . . I don’t think I’m okay.” I slip down under my covers. The woman says something that I don’t understand. “Is there . . . can I get a doctor? I don’t feel right . . .”

I slide my hand under my bangs to rub my forehead. I shut my eyes again.

***

I remember someone carrying me away from the fiery buildings. The explosion must’ve set them alight. Whoever it was was walking, jostling me with each step, which made the pain in my skull flare.

“Let go,” I tried to say, raising one of my dangling arms to push my carrier away. I’m too weak for it. My hand just lands on a solid chest. “Let go.”

“Shh.” A man’s voice. He doesn’t try to sound gentle or soothing. He’s just telling me to shut up.

“Let go.”

I can’t see much of his face from this angle, and either way his features are swimming too much for me to make sense of them. I do see a mustache. That much I’m certain of.

I try to tell him that I don’t feel well but I can’t find any words. My eyes fall shut.

The mustache guy doesn’t say anything else, just keeps moving. I groan every time he jostles me but he ignores it.

“New toy, Boss?” someone - a young man, by the sound of it - called out.

“She’s off-limits,” is all the man says.

“Wait,” another young man says. “Isn’t she the one -”

The mustached man carrying me doesn’t reply, instead plopping me in the younger man’s arms. I manage to open my eyes long enough to watch Mr. Mustache mount a large horse. He opens his arms and the younger man hands me back to him.

I let my eyes close again. The last thing I remember is the mustached guy settling me onto his lap.

***

I feel better when I wake again. It’s nighttime, I note. I must’ve been out all day.

They bring over a doctor with a full brown beard - most men don’t shave anymore; most of them don’t have the time or supplies for it - who crouches down to be at eye level and shines a flashlight in my face. He’s dressed like a soldier in camo pants and a fitted black t-shirt. The only thing that identifies him as a doctor is the stethoscope around his neck.

“You’ve definitely got a concussion,” he says, rising to his feet. “You’ll be fine, but you should take it easy for a while.” He turns to the woman from before who stands beside him. “Give her an easy job to start with. Laundry or something. Keep her in the med tent another night or two. And try to keep the boys away from her once she’s moved.”

“Won’t be hard,” the lady says. “The boss brought her in himself. Said she’s off-limits.”

The doctor raises his eyebrows. He addresses me. “Well, kid, you’re either very lucky or very fucked.”

The woman snorts a laugh and the man moves to tend to the person on the palette next to mine. The woman looks down at me. “All right. Laundry it is. When you’re up to it I’ll probably give you something else. Unless the boss wants you for something else.”

***

A twentysomething man also dressed like a soldier comes in a few hours later while I’m nibbling at a protein bar. My vision has cleared up a bit, so I can see that he’s too young to grow a beard.

He looks me up and down, frowning, before turning to the woman. She’s seated at the center of the tent on one of those folding metal chairs, her papers spread on the small desk in front of her.

“Good evening, Miss Ally,” the boy says to her with a smile.

“Jack,” she replies. She seems pretty sour so far, but she gifts the bubbly young man with a smile. “What can I do for you?

“Boss wants an update,” Jack says. His hair is the same shade of dark brown as mine. We must be the same age. He might even be younger than me. Still a kid.

Miss Ally sighs, looking through her papers. “Brought back nine people this time. One of them died from his injuries, and Doc says that lady in the corner probably will, too.”

I look at the woman in the palette beside mine. She’s deeply asleep, covers pulled up to her chest. I can’t see anything wrong with her.

“Jobs?”

“One mechanic, two janitors, a middle school teacher, a tailor, and an exotic dancer,” Miss Ally reads. Jack perks up at that last one. “Don’t know about the dead one or the goner over there.” She nods to the woman beside me before looking me right in the eye. “Haven’t gotten anything from that one yet. Too concussed to tell up from down.”

Jack turns to me and the pair of them just stare for a moment. I should probably feel uncomfortable being scrutinized like a piece of fruit at a market, but honestly, right now, I don’t feel anything but tired.

“Name?” asks Jack.

“Delilah Reid,” Miss Ally says.

“Lilah,” I reply at the same time. He obviously wasn’t asking me, though. I may not know up from down right now, but I at least know that.

“That’s the one the Boss brought in,” Ally adds in a low voice.

“What happened to his last one?” asks Jack.

Last what? I know in the back of my mind that this is a simple conversation but I can’t follow it. Everything is so confusing right now.

Miss Ally shrugs. “Beats me. My money’s on a nervous breakdown.” She leans back in her chair. “I’m circling one of those myself.”

Jack’s smile returns. “Don’t say that, Miss Ally.” His Southern accent has come out. “We’d all be lost without you. The Boss may be the boss, but we all know who runs this camp.”

Miss Ally smiles ruefully, shaking her head. “Boy, if you were twenty years older and two inches taller . . .”

“If only,” he says, throwing her a wink. “Good night, Miss Ally.”

“Good night, Jack.” She looks back at me after he’s out of the tent. “Back to bed, girlie.”

***

I think I remember now. The soldiers rolling over the town, dragging people from their homes and forcing them to their knees in a line along the street. I remember a mustached man standing behind them. There was a gun in his hand. He asked them each a question and then shot most of them in the back of the head. He must not have liked their answers.

I remember holding something heavy as I watched from far off. I lifted it and set it against my shoulder and fuck.

It was a shotgun. And it was pointed at the shooter. The warlord.

August Walker.

I don’t remember pulling the trigger, but I remember the noise and the pain of the kickback as it threw me on my ass. I knew the shot went wide without looking.

Fuck, Lilah! You idiot! I should’ve used my bow and arrows. I still probably wouldn’t have killed him, but I would be able to land an arrow somewhere on that massive body.

There was shouting. Men raised their guns and leveled them at me, but the mustached man that was executing people held his hand up to stop them.

He took a step toward me and I fucking ran. I ran and ran and ran until I was out of breath. He was still following me. He wasn’t slowing down.

I didn’t even get the chance to turn around before the bomb went off in the building next door.

***

“Wake up. Delilah, wake up.” It’s a man’s voice with the slightest Southern lilt.

I force my eyes open and immediately shut them again. The sun must barely be up but the tent is already flooded with light.

I caught a glimpse of Jack’s face as he leaned over me.

“It’s the concussion,” another man says as I hesitantly reopen my eyes. The doctor. He pulls something out of his pocket and crouches beside the palette. “Here.”

The sunglasses he offers me look like the shit you get at the optometrist after they enlarge your pupils enough to swallow up your irises, but I put them on without question.

“Thanks.” My voice doesn’t sound nearly as bad as I expected it to.

He nods, pulling a rubber band out of his pocket, which he then offers to me. I take it gratefully and use it to pull my dark hair back into a ponytail.

I take stock of my surroundings. I’m still in the same tent as before - the medical tent, I guess. Miss Ally is nowhere in sight. In fact the place would be empty if it weren’t for me, the two soldiers, and two bandaged patients sleeping on the other side of the tent.

“Time to go.”

“Go? Go where?”

“Boss wants to see you.”

“Boss?”

Jack turns to the doctor in exasperation. “Is she a goddamn canary or is she just stupid?”

“Fuck you,” I snap. The insult is reflexive.

Jack looks back at me and he seems somewhat pleased.

“It’s the concussion,” the doctor says to him.

They each grab an elbow and lift me onto my feet. I’m wearing the same clothes as I was the night they attacked - white tee, flannel, jeans - only they’ve all been singed at the edges. My canvas and leather boots are nowhere in sight. They don’t provide me with an alternate pair - not even some flip flops - before Jack leads me outside into the light.

My first glimpse at camp is overwhelming.

Tents of all shapes and sizes are arranged like pieces on a chess board. A handful of them, like the one we just walked out of, are made from green canvas treated with some kind of chemical to make it water repellent. A lot of them are just plain old LL Bean models like the ones we used at summer camp. Some of them aren’t even big enough for a person to sit up in.

There are also larger tents that I can only assume were originally created for “glamping,” not actual camp life.

Frankly, I’m surprised there’s so much order to it all. Then again, from what I can tell, most of the men here were once in the military if their tattoos and fatigues are anything to go by, and militaries thrive on organization.

Jack pulls me along through rows and rows of tents. They all seem to be fully occupied. There are people everywhere I look - mostly men, but a surprising amount of women, too - and I’m genuinely surprised to see a couple of kids kicking a soccer ball around. I stop short when I see a woman in a fold-out beach chair nursing her baby as she supervises the children playing.

Jack stops for only a moment to see what I’m looking at before pulling me forward by the elbow again. He doesn’t offer an explanation for why children and babies are in a war camp and I can’t find the words to ask for one.

We turn this way and that, weaving through rows and columns of tents until we come to a clearing. At the very center is a big round tent - I think it’s called a yurt - which is clearly the command center of this whole operation.

A guy about Jack’s age with an automatic rifle strapped to his chest patrols the perimeter. “Ayyy, Jack!” he calls as we approach. The two bump fists in greeting. “Who’s this?”

“Boss’s girl,” Jack says.

The other soldier studies me. “Wait, is this the girl that shot at him? Gotta be, right? Nobody else has bangs anymore.”

I want to say something snarky in defense of my hair but it takes too long to pull the words together. Someone ushers us into the tent.

“Boss,” Jack calls.

Everybody looks up. There must be two dozen people in this tent, but I know right away who Boss is.

At the center of the tent is a heavy wooden table covered in maps. Mr. Mustache’s hands are flat on the surface as he studies the images. He slowly raises his eyes to look me over and fuck, fuck, fuck.

I was too stupid and concussed to put it together before now. Just like no women have bangs, no men have mustaches. None but the fabled August Walker.

The warlord takes a long time to look me up and down before he straightens up. He crosses his arms over his chest and walks over to me, and I fight the urge to run in the other direction.

He stops less than a foot away from me and I have to tilt my head back to meet his blue eyes. “Do you know who I am?” he asks after a moment.

I try to say yes but a weird, grumbled affirmation sound comes out instead.

“Concussion,” Jack explains. “Miss Ally says she’s been like a deer in the headlights since she got here.”

Mr. Mustache - Walker? What do I call him? - tilts his head to the side but otherwise doesn’t react to Jack’s words. “Do you know what happened?”

I don’t try to answer this time. Even under normal circumstances I don’t think I’d be able to speak when he’s looking at me like this.

“You tried to shoot me,” he says simply. “And people who try to shoot me end up dead.”

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pterodactylterrace · 4 years

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Guys Like You Chapter 6

Title: Guys Like You

Chapter: 6

Chapter Summary: More of a filler chapter, not much Henry, I’m sorry.

Rating: 18+

Warnings: Mentions of abuse, pregnancy, poor self image, bad coping mechanisms, low self esteem.

{Prologue} {Chapter 1} {Chapter 2} {Chapter 3} {Chapter 4} {Chapter 5}

"I already told you, Faye! I don't want anything to do with this!"

"So because I want to keep my babies, you're leaving me? Is that what you're trying to tell me, David?"

"Yes! Shit, I knew you were dumb, but seriously!"

"Excuse me?"

"Are you deaf too, whore? How do you even know I'm the one that knocked you up? You've slept with just about every guy in town!"

"Get the fuck out."

"Don't come crying to me later! You're nothing without me! No one is ever going to want you. Especially once you have kids. Who the hell wants used goods? Have fun living a life of regret!"

Faye jerked awake, her head spinning as she tried to catch her bearings. Did David really leave her just like that? Sure he wasn't the greatest, but he had never lashed out like that before. At least not where anyone else could witness it.

No. David's gone. He has been gone for almost four years now. New life. Starting over. It's all in the past now.

Have to get the baby up before the sitter comes. Work is coming up soon. Life goes on.

"Briar, what are you doing on the floor?" Faye chuckled, crouching down next to her daughter, curled up on her pillow by her bed.

"I'm a puppy." Briar yawned in explanation, holding her arms up to be lifted, promptly licking her mother's cheek as soon as she was up.

"Briar, we talked about licking people."

"I'm not Briar, I'm puppy."

"Ok then, puppy, no licking people. Now what do you want for breakfast?"

"Puppy food."

"Cereal it is."

Feed the toddler, quick shower, get dressed, throw her hair up away from her face, wait for the baby sitter, hugs and kisses goodbye, then off to work. The usual routine she had settled herself into.

Feed the baby, because she's hungry and she comes first.

Shower, because she probably has some sort of mystery goo on her from the toddler.

Get dressed, avoid the mirror. No one wants to be reminded of how much they've changed. The softness she wasn't used to around her lower stomach, hips and thighs. Her breasts no longer as perky as they used to be. The stretchmarks competing with her tattoo's for attention.

Then, the hardest part of the day. "Ok, Briar, Mrs. Anderson is here. Mommy has to go to work. I love you."

"I love you too, Mommy." Briar responded, hugging her mother tight and kissing her cheek before she was sat back down.

"Have a nice day, Miss Warren."

"I hope she's not too much to handle."

"Never is."

Some days, Faye likes to pretend she's ok. Like she has a handle on things. Like she knows what she's doing and not just blindly stumbling through her life while trying to do right by her daughter.

Other days, she would absently push her sleeves up and her eye would catch on the black lines decorating her forearm, just below her elbow. Some days she's reminded that life is a bitch, and you can't always get what you want. On those days she tried to stay out of her own head, though that rarely worked.

She could slap on a smile with the best of them, but she could never force it to reach her eyes. Her face always remained an open book, free for anyone to read. The past creeps up on you. There's nothing you can do to stop it some days. On a bad day, the ghosts of the past will haunt your mind, echoing the worst days of your life into the void of your shattered heart.

"No one is ever going to want you!"

"You're nothing without me!"

"Who wants used goods?"

"I'm sorry, Miss Warren. There was nothing we could do."

Over and over on a seemingly never ending loop, reminding her of the darkest times in her life.

Why would anyone want her? She's not the same hot twenty six year old she used to be. She was soft. She was saggy. She would never be as attractive as she used to be. Anyone in their right mind would turn around and run once they realized how much she had let herself go.

Days like today were best spent keeping people at a distance. Tell them some story about being tired. Avoid anyone that is going to call her out on her obvious lie. Therein lies the problem with dying your hair obnoxious colors. Among a sea of blonde and brunette, powder blue tends to stick out and make it almost impossible to vanish.

Lie your way out of it. Survive another day. Tomorrow might not be better, but at least it won't be the same.

"Mommy, you're back!" The sweetest sound she could hear all day.

"I always come back, my little love." Faye assured, kissing her daughter's head.

Need to care for the baby. She comes first. She deserves the world. Play time. Dinner time. Bath time. Story time. Bed time. The same after work routine she had established months ago when she decided to drop everything and run.

Her daughter thought the world of her. She would do anything to see her smile. She would wear the stupid costume. She would pretend to be a horsey. She would let her daughter use her as a jungle gym. She would make the same dinner again for the third night in a row for her. So what if she soaked the bathroom floor during bath time? She was a mermaid, and she wanted to show off her tail. Story time, always an adventure with her imaginative little girl. What world would they find themselves in today? Dinosaurs? Princesses? Mythology? A rhyming book?

Ah, yes of course. Her current favorite, the book about the dinosaur cleaning his room. She was a girl obsessed with dinosaurs at the moment.

"Mommy, where's my Papa?" Briar asked, staring intently down at the page depicting a mother and father watching the dinosaur throw away paper scraps.

"Don't worry about him, sweetheart. He wasn't a nice man." Faye explained, resting her cheek on her daughter's head.

"Can I have a new Papa?"

"Maybe someday, sweetheart."

"Can Spider-man be my new Papa?"

"Why do you want Spider-man to be your new Papa?"

"He's my boyfriend!"

"That's not how it works, silly. If he's your boyfriend, he can't also be by boyfriend! Pick another hero!"

"Batman!"

"Well, he is rich." Faye mused, Briar giggling happily. "Now it's time for bed, my love."

"Ok, Mommy. I love you!"

"I love you too, Briar." Faye whispered, kissing her forehead. The nightlight was switched on and the door was left cracked open, just in case. Now for her seldom used free time.

Should she sketch some more? Finish that painting she started forever ago? Ever since she started a "real" job, her art had fallen by the wayside. She was too drained to do much after work and caring of her daughter.

Maybe some drawing will lift her spirits and keep the nightmares at bay tonight. But what to draw? Not in the mood for still life. Brain too fried for something straight from her imagination. Her usual model was sleeping, and her last few self portraits had been a serious blow to her ego. She just drew what she saw in the mirror. Then, when she was finished, she decided she should have worn more clothing before she drew herself. What was supposed to boost her confidence and empower her as a woman instead left her wondering when exactly she developed that roll when sitting in that position.

"Fuck it. I'm drawing a moose." Faye grumbled to herself, turning the page from her self portrait to a blank sheet. Half an hour later when she was trying to remember what a moose's antlers looked like, she finally picked up her phone. Seven unread messages? That seems like a lot. When was the last time she looked at her phone? Oh yeah, when she got home, five hours ago.

All from one person. So she wasn't ignoring everyone at least. Seven messages, all from Henry. Shit. That's not good.

Are you ok?

You seemed off on set today

You didn't even talk to me

Did you at least make it home alright?

Can you send me a sign of life?

I'm sorry if I upset you or something. Can you please talk to me? I'm genuinely worried.

Please?

Well, fuck. Here she was playing unicorn apocalypse with her daughter, and this poor guy was worrying himself to death.

Sorry, I was drawing a moose

Perfect way of saying "I wasn't ignoring you" while also avoiding his persistent questions about her wellbeing. The good old 'drawing a moose' excuse. Works every time.

I think your moose aged me by ten years. Are you ok?

Just had a bad day

Anything I can do to help?

Squeeze me until I stop struggling and my spine snaps

That's called 'murder' Miss Warren

I knew there was a name for it

Is there anything I can do for you that involves less prison?

Nah, if you're not going to take me out, then I'm not interested

I'm not going to take you out by murder. I will take you out on a date.

Faye froze, staring at her phone. He was just playing around, like he always did. No way he was serious. Henry liked to flirt, and she wasn't about to throw herself at him over a joke. She had more dignity than that. So how does she respond? She can't just ignore him, and taking forever to respond is going to give the impression that she was freaking out over what he said.

She was completely freaking out over what he had said, but he didn't need to know that. Was he just looking to get laid or something? Probably. He had gotten pretty close the last time he had been over. There's a difference between dating and screwing, though. He was probably just looking for someone to fuck while waiting for a woman worth his time to come along. Faye was broken out of her thoughts by her phone going off again, alerting her to a new message. Didn't he know she was busy having an existential crisis?

If you're free on Sunday you can come over and show me that moose your working on

*you're

Smart ass

Sunday?

I'll have to see if Mrs. Anderson can watch Briar

Bring her along. She keeps asking me about Kal

Pretty on brand for her

Sunday?

Sunday.

Sunday. What to wear on Sunday? He was probably looking for a little something something for his time, so something slutty? She got rid of all her slutty clothes after she had Briar in a fit of self hatred toward her new mom bod, so that was out. Besides, he wouldn't have invited Briar over too if he was looking to get laid.

So what does one wear on a casual 'date' these days? She had until Sunday to figure that out.

Tag List: @Xxxkatxo @Weallhaveadestiny

#henry cavill #henry cavill x ofc #henry cavill fanfic #henry cavill fanfiction #guys like you #guys like you fic #triggering themes

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rubix-writings · 4 years

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Punisher Pt. 3

Third part of Punisher. I apologize it’s taking me so long to post these, but want to make sure they’re good for you all. Thank you for the support so far!! This is a Chicago PD/Fire imagine with an original character. I don’t own any of the plot points or characters from the show. Also, it doesn’t follow any particular season or sequence in the shows.

Series Summary: Josephine (Jo) never expected to find support and pure love when she left Los Angeles. She ran away to Chicago and was content with living an insignificant, hidden life. But everything changes when she walks into Molly’s to get a job.

Josephine (OC) x Jay Halstead

The italicized lines are internal thoughts of the character.

Warnings: language, mentions of drinking, long (!)

Things are going really well at Molly’s. It’s like falling into step during a choreographed dance. It feels odd to say that I’m comfortable and confident when it’s only my second shift. I’m working with Stella tonight, who to say the least had a lot of fun the night before. When she first walked into the bar she looked as if Casper made a stop in Chicago. At the start of opening she kept her jacket on and slammed down cups of black coffee. Her body seemed to stay in a permanent state hunched over the bar top while she only communicated through slow movements with her fingers. I couldn’t watch her pain any longer, so I used my break to grab a cheeseburger and fries so greasy the oil soaked the paper bag.

“You need to put something solid into your body,” I announce as I plop the white, greased bag on the bar top in front of Stella’s practically limp body. She slowly lifts her head with a deep groan and analyzes the bag.

“I’m a firefighter Jo, my body is a temple. I can’t eat this,” I can’t stop the laugh that escapes my lips.

“Are tequila shots a part of your ‘temple’s’ regimen?” she sniffs the bag and sighs.

“You see, the tequila actually kills all the bacteria in the stomach,” Stella examines the golden fry before taking a bite.

“Be sure to tell your theory to the doctors that come in later, I’m sure they’d love to hear that.”

“I will,” she says with a mouthful of cheeseburger.

Just like magic, Stella is back to her bouncy self. It amazes me how much like Hermann she is, she practically floats around Molly’s. She talks to everyone and makes sure they’re having a good time. Stella sets the tone of the entire bar, bringing life to every inch of the place. It’s nice to watch her interact with others, a part of me is envious of how natural it comes to her. A part of me is, also, envious of her relationship with Kelly. His eyes when he looks at her are filled with unconditional love and the way Stella looks at him when he’s not looking confirms that she feels the same. I’ve never had that… or will have it. The bar top serves its purpose as a closed door to the patrons on the other side, I open it as much as I want and they see what I want them to see. I’m in control.

It’s a busy Friday night, the bar filled quickly. The firemen I met last night stroll in with the same vigor as the night before, obviously hurting a lot less than Stella was a few hours ago. Stella plays it off as if she didn’t have a raging hangover, but Kelly quickly throws her under the bus. Cruz yells as he claims he’s known the truth all along, but Mouch steps in to deny it, leading to Cruz listing out facts about how he knew. I place a few beer bottles in front of the guys, trying not to get involved.

“I’m sorry about them,” Matt says.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for. They’re funny,” I smile.

“You don’t have to hear it all day long,” Matt grumbles as he takes a long sip from his beer.

“This is true. I get them in concentrated doses,” I excuse myself to collect empties at the tables scattered around the room. With my hands full I turn to head back to the bar top, but crash into a hard body. I stumble back from the blow and the mystery man swiftly grabs my arms to keep me from falling. Once I get my footing back, he releases my arms.

“Sorry about that. Are you okay?” His voice is like velvet that draws my eyes up to look at his face. Wow. My mind fell into a haze barely registering his question.

“Um, yeah. Thanks,” he smirks at how long it took me to answer his question. Really smooth Jo. “I should get back to work, sorry about running into you,” I walk backwards a few steps, he immediately steps forward keeping the same amount of space between us as before.

“Let me at least help you with those, I’m heading to the bar anyway,” before I could object, his large hand cradles the numerous beer bottles that were once in my hand. Before my brain can spiral about his large hands, I spin and head back to the bar. I silently weave through the customer’s of Molly’s, I needed to get back to my safe zone to hopefully make his charm less effective. He gently places the bottles on the bar top for me to discard, I smile and thank him. Before I can ask for his order, the firemen and Stella welcome him to the bar.

“Hey Jay, haven’t seen you around here in awhile,” Stella mentions.

“Yeah I know. Um have you seen my brother anywhere?” Stella shakes her head no. Brother? I try to seem like I’m not listening while cleaning up behind the bar and get any excuse not to look at him again. One embarrassing moment for tonight is enough. Out of nowhere, Will pops up and slaps Jay on the back. They go in for a quick hug before Will says hi to everyone.

“Hey don’t kill me, but I invited Nat. I know it’s supposed to just be us, but she had a really rough day,” Will whispers, Jay shakes his head to let him know he’s totally fine with it. “Great, thanks man.”

I put two glasses of red wine on the bar top for two women that definitely want to take a firefighter home tonight. After how many women these men turned down the night before I highly doubt they’ll have any luck, but I’m kinda rooting for them.

“Hey Jo,” Will smiles.

“Hi Will,” I say in monotone to mess with him.

“Have you met my brother Jay?” Will slaps Jay’s chest which startles Jay a little, making me smile. Geez, these guys must have gorgeous parents. Will is handsome of course, but Jay...

“We kinda ran into each other actually.” I smirk.

“Oh that’s great, he’s a really good guy. He’s a cop, detective, sorry,” Will corrects himself, Jay is glaring at him.

“I’m not making you a manhattan,” he slaps his hand against the bar top.

“Worth a shot. Can I get a glass of chardonnay and a beer, oh and whatever Jay’s having,” I nod and grab Will his drinks. He slides me his credit card to open a tab then walks off to see Natalie at the table.

“I’m definitely missing something, why does my brother want a manhattan?” Jay finally asks.

“Oh Jay it was great!” Stella jumps in to tell a very colorful version of the events that happened between Will and I. As she finishes up she is swept to the end of the bar to take an order.

“She was drunk last night” I mumble under my breath. Jay smirks, knowing Stella’s retelling was probably fabricated. “What can I get you?” I try to change the subject.

“A beer please,” I nod. “You’re new here Jo?” He phrases it as a question, but it's definitely more of a statement.

“Yeah, started yesterday,” I hand him his beer.

“Thanks. Are you from Chicago?”

“No, LA actually, lived there my whole life,” I lean my forearms on the bar top in front of him.

“Wow, big change.” “Yeah, I don’t know if I thought it all the way through to be honest,” he smiles.

“Well let me tell you if you haven’t figured it out already, snow and winter are incredibly overrated.” “Ah yes, that’s exactly what I needed to hear. I can go back to LA now.” “Glad to be of service,” he shrugs. Jay stayed on the same stoll at the bar for the rest of the night. It was strange how easy it was to talk with him, he offered stories about his job and funny stories about him and Will growing up. It’s so beautiful to have those stories, that he’s gone through life with someone that deeply and come out the other side. I tell him that I don’t have siblings and mostly spent time with my mom when I was young. Jay was quick to offer up Will to fill the void.

“I’ll keep you updated on that,” I laugh.

“Are you and your mom still close?”

“Um no, she… she died about ten years ago,” even though her death happened so long ago it still felt so weird saying it out loud.

“I’m sorry Jo. I lost my mom to cancer a few years back.”

“So you get it,” he nods and offers a somber smile.

It wasn’t till Will and Natalie announced their departure, that Jay made any moves to leave Molly’s. The bar was slowly emptying out as last call was already declared.

“I should head out, it was really nice talking with you Jo,” Jay stands.

“It was really nice talking with you too Jay,” I say sincerely. He smiles wide before making a beeline for the front door. I can’t help but stare until he’s fully out of sight, my cheeks start to hurt from fighting the smile on my face. I tuck my loose hair behind my ear and start grabbing the empty glasses from the bar top.

“Have fun?” Stella questions, I jump slightly not realizing she was standing there.

“Another good night for tips, yeah,” she looks at Kelly who’s the last of the firefighters at the bar.

“Sure, doesn’t hurt that Officer Handsome was here all night either.” “I… I’m going to wash the glasses,” I pick up the large plastic crate with dirty drinking glasses and head to the back where Hermann showed me where the sink was. Stella didn’t mention Jay again, but it didn’t matter. The damage was done, Jay’s blue eyes and the way he got so passionate during a story were ingrained in my mind for the rest of the night.

***

Hermann asked if I could open Molly’s for him the next day as he was running late with paperwork at the firehouse. I had a short shift that night anyway and could use the extra money no matter how little. Hermann told me to meet him at the firehouse to give me the keys since they haven’t been able to cut me my own yet. The firehouse isn’t far from Molly’s, a couple blocks on foot. I prepared myself with my warmest coat for the trek since the wind chill makes Chicago brutally cold. I focus on the sound of my shoes against the wet pavement to take my mind off of how cold I really am.

The firehouse is a ball of color on this cold, dark Chicago day. The plain brick buildings surrounding it emphasize the reds and yellows. It somehow feels untouched by the rest of the city, a true sign of purity. As soon as I walk through the doors of the firehouse I’m met with the sweet smell of food cooking. It’s as if my feet have a mind of their own and take my body towards the magnificent smell’s source. The kitchen was buzzing with people cooking, talking, and playing card games.

“Jo!” Stella yells, “what are you doing here?” she walks over to me, leaving her conversation with Matt and Kelly, who both wave at me.

“I’m here to get the keys from Hermann, do you know where he is?”

“Yeah, he’s in the garage let me take you to him,” I try to argue that it could wait, but Stella insists. “Hermman!” she yells once we get into the garage.

“What?!” he snaps back. She giggles as we both walk towards the outburst. As we turn around the big fire engine, I see why Stella was so insistent about not waiting. “Oh hey, Jo,” he says calmer.

Jay is standing tall with a notepad in front of Hermann. Stella silently excuses herself from the conversation and makes her way back inside. Hermann pays no attention to his surroundings as he’s searching for the three keys I need to open Molly’s.

“Hey,” Jay smiles.

“Hi.”

“Here you go, I labeled them for you so you know what lock they go into. Once you get inside, lock the front door, just in case,” I nod and take the keys from him. The silver keys have thin pieces of masking tape on them with dark blue sharpie stating what they open.

“Thanks, I’ll see you there,” I back away from the men to head back to the bar. Hermann nods and waves.

“Hermann we’re done here right?” Jay asks.

“Yeah, let me know if you find anything,” Hermann states somewhat hopeless. Jay puts away the notepad in his back pocket of his jeans and jogs to catch up to me. The sound of Jay’s thick boots hitting the cement fills the sound of the garage. When he finally catches up to me, he moves ahead to open the door to outside for me.

“So you’re stalking me now?” He jokes.

“Um how did you get to that? Hermann asked me to come here,” Jay quickly fell into step with me, not that it was difficult as he’s much taller than me.

“I was here first,” he says plainly.

“Oh well, with that bulletproof logic…” he laughs.

“You headed to Molly’s?” we stop walking once we get to the sidewalk.

“Yeah, I’m opening today,” Jay slips the keys to his car from his jacket pocket.

“Let me drive you.” “Oh no, you don’t have to do that. It’s only a couple of blocks and you’re working,” I spew out trying to find an excuse that’ll stick.

“Don’t worry about me. I’m parked right here,” he brushes off quickly. I roll my eyes at his back and get into the car. Jay puts the car into gear and sets off towards Molly’s.

“So, is Hermann okay?” I ask since I couldn’t get his hopeless tone out of my head.

“His house was broken into, they didn’t get a lot, just some jewelry and a few Alexa’s. His wife came home which freaked them out and they bolted before they did any real damage.” “Jesus. Poor Hermann. Do you think you’ll find his stuff?” “Probably not, that sort of stuff is so small that they may keep it for themselves instead of pawning it, but we’ll try,” the car is silent for a little while till Jay pulls in front of Molly’s.

“Thanks for the ride.” “Course,” I get out of the car and make my way onto the sidewalk. “Hey Jo,” Jay says out of his rolled down window.

“Hey Jay,” I say while playing with the keys Hermann gave me.

“Are you working late tonight?”

“Not too late, I have a short shift.”

“How about I meet you here later and we get a drink?” Jay says casually. I bite my lip and look down the street in hopes to take my mind off of what he just asked.

“Maybe,” I say as I make eye contact with him again. “See yah Jay.”

“See yah Jo.”

I’m losing control.

#Chicago PD #Chicago Fire #chicago one #chicago fire x reader #chicago fire imagine #chicago pd x imagine #chicago pd imagine #chicago pd x reader #jay halstead #jay halstead x oc #jay halstead x reader #punisher

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slater-later · 3 years

Text

Clarence x Reader Flirt at the Bar

Audience: General

Warnings: None, flirting

Notes: At Y/N, insert your own name, pronouns, and preferred complimentary words. That way, Clarence uses what you like!

Read below the cuff!

For: @da3m0ns-exe

The two of you had met at an Irish pub a few blocks down the street. Dimly lit under the cheap green ‘chandeliers’, at least, they were trying to be, hanging over a narrow line of booths. A green shamrock sign buzzing in the corner window, listing O’ Conners next to the four leafed sign buzzing beside it.

It was a fine dump, gritty and warm and thick with cigarette smoke. A few old geezers sat at the bar, buzzing back large thick dark beers as they chatted in Greek. It was Detroit after all, and everyone was welcome. The D brought everyone together. And if you had a few bucks to spare, it would make your night worth while. The jukebox buzzed in the corner, firmly set from the 70’s and stacked high with classic 45’s. A quarter would get you two songs, and it would flip through the rest. Buzzing Marvin Gaye’s Through the Grape Vine through the open speakers. There were a few TV’s in the corner of the bar, one showing a Tigers baseball game and the other the racetrack. A chestnut filly bending over the corner and splitting from the pack. Her jockey lit a firecracker from out under her behind as he rode her to the front, cracking his crop as they crossed the finish line. Taking home 50k- something a brod in the corner was upset by. Throwing her hands up as she watched, swearing! Because she had bet the bar that #5 would win. California Folly, the chestnut mare, bit her for the win, and she slapped up her cash to the house. Her buddy chuckled to himself at her anger. The bartender greedily took her cash, smirking, as he slipped it into the cash register. He changed the chalk boards odds for the next race. A commercial flashed across the screen.

It was a bettin’ bar, and it was a Friday night. That meant, the race tracks were on. They even caught the signal from the tracks out West. Meaning people could get drunk and lose their money all night long. At least, far enough into the night to be firmly fucked by 10, and either pissed from losing their money or giddy because they made a decent buck. Either way, it meant the crowd pounded back drinks. The bar took home a load whether it was packed full or filled with crickets.

Clarence was seated up at the bar, his army jacket slipped off and hanging on his chair. He slowly leafed through his comic, head buried deep in his book. He slowly drank, the rum and coke sitting at the edge of his lips, relaxed and quiet after a long day at work.

He had closed up shop and came in for dinner, a burger and fries, and read the newest edition of Deadpool in his freetime. He actually had a small stack of them next to them. He had cashed his check and sorted the freshly delivered boxes before he locked up. Making a mental note to pay the old man in the morning- he would stuff the bills in the register tomorrow morning.

The new stuff sold fast, and that was exactly why he needed to make his pick before it hit the shelves. He had to be strategic! Take advantage of the perks of running the store!

You slid into the stool a few spots down, gesturing over to the bartender as he made his way over. He was built, wearing a plain black shirt that hung over his body. A gold chain that hung from his neck. He looked kind and quiet, gentle. He had worked there for several years.

“Whatcha’ having?”

“Pabst,” You nodded, popping out your wallet.

“Pint or pitcher?”

“Pint.”

“Alright, but they’re $7 until 11.” He collected your cash and made his way up the bar, pouring your drink.

Clarence’s nose was in the comic, one hand holding the bridge of it while the other slowly set down the beer. Reaching out for a fry and mindlessly dabbing it into ketchup before it crawled to his mouth. Slowly inching closer.

His long and shabby fry broke off, falling into his lap and getting on his jeans. You couldn’t help but to laugh. “You okay over there bud?” The bartender handed you your beer, curling in the glass as you took a sip. The foam made a fine mustache on your upper lip.

“Jesus!” He bit, pissed. He had just gotten to a good spot- he fucking didn’t want to stop! “I don’t know man.” He shook his head, nabbing a handful of napkins out of the dispenser and cleaning his lap.

He finally looked up as you set down your glass. Catching the side of your face- “I ain’t pulin’ your chain, but ya got somethin’ on your face,” He grabbed another handful, passing it over. “A lil’ on here,'' He rubbed his upper lip, brushing his faint five o’ clock shadow.

You grabbed a napkin from him, quickly wiping it away before you got too embarrassed. Shit happens. “Thanks,” You muttered with a smile, softly laughing. Folding it afterwards and placing it under your glass.

He nodded, reaching for his comic again.

You were in a good mood and company always made it better. You had the urge to chat, he was attractive, after all. “So, whatcha readin’?”

He looked over, eyebrows raised. “It’s uh, Deadpool. Issue #7,” He put his thumb on the page and flopped it over to the front. Reaching out his arm to show you the cover. “It’ll hit the shelves tomorrow.”

“How’d you get your hands on that?”

“Oh,” He flashed a guilty smile. Caught. “I work at the comic book store down the street, this is next week's issue,” The cover showed Deadpool stepping forward, gun in hand, his red and black latex suite dressed with a heavy white jeweled overcoat and flashing plants. He was wearing the iconic Evil Presley suit, black wig and sunglasses and all. Finger-pointing at a very unpleasant Cable, probably cursing Wade for being alive. Or was it that he can’t die?

“It’s the new Deadpool and Cable issue. It’s a new series they’re doing, do you wanna look?” He offered it and you happily accepted. Taking your time as you flipped through the pages, reading the inside insert. The introduction.

He rattled on, “It’s not as good as some of his other series but then I saw the front cover. I wanted to grab it before we ran out. I’m a big Elvis fan,” He smiled softly. Watching you read.

“Oh?” You peered up, raising an eyebrow. A hook- Elvis wasn’t exactly your man, but it didn’t deter you. “Is he your favorite?”

He beamed as he sipped his glass, nodding as the glass left his lips, setting it down on the wet napkin. “Favorite? It doesn’t begin to describe how much I love that man,” He could rattle on for forever. Even blab again about how much he wanted to fuck Elvis. But, usually, that wasn’t the most widely loved small talk conversation? He was better off tabling that conversation for a later time. Unless he wanted to blow his chance when flirting with a hot person. A man needed to get lucky sometimes, alright? Sheesh, he didn’t think some bisexuality was a bad thing. Isn’t that, a, you know? A sexual fantasy for some folks?

He drilled a finger into the side of his temple, elbow up on the bar as he watched you. How your feet shifted in your sift as you curled up closer to him, leaning in, tenderly turning the page of a secretly, newly loved comic. Mashing up the two things that made him bounce up and down with pure excitement. He was delighted.

“I’m a huge fan, I’ve always been since I was a kid. My dad used to listen to him while I was growing up, and I’ve had the itch ever since. He changed rock n’ roll forever, for the better,” He would watch old tapes of his dancing and performing on stage, having become familiar and comforting to his body. It was something he could return to, regardless of how he felt, and know he felt comfort in.

That, and watching him dance up on stage was light lightening. A friend and a lover.

“What’s your favorite song?” You smirked, flipping a page. You were more interested in his eyes than the panel. Wondering if he had caught on.

He slid from his seat to the one next to you, dragging his beer along with him. The bartender snapped up his long forgotten dinner. Wiping down the table. “Do you mind?” He gestured to the seat, checking in.

“No,” You shook your head smiling, your delight so easy to read. “Not at all,” You swore you could feel your heart skip a beat. Your body felt fresh, warmed by the flash of heat spreading through your cheeks. You hoped another drink of your beer would help, at least to calm the giddy building up inside of you.

You would cut yourself off at two beers. At the rate of your drinking, you’d been in the hole after three. Too drunk to drive and by the soft patter of the rain outside, you didn’t want to be stuck in the rain. Trying to wave down a cab as it poured, head buzzed and tired, ready to flop down in your bed and forced to make it back. Getting fucked up was fun, but getting home could be a challenge.

The thought already sounded miserable. You’d much rather be here, with the jukebox, under the warm hum of the bear and its speakers. It switched over to You’ll Never Find Another Love Like Mine by Lou Rawls.

“Good,” He smiled with a surprising amount of soft charm. Voice low as his pinky mused with his lip, eyes slow as they took in your body.

He had to look away.

FUCK! It wasn’t polite to do that shit, he was either going to get a drink thrown in his face again or something!

He kept his eyes up at the bar, tongue flashing across his teeth as he chuckled to his mind. He could be so fucking stupid! This Y/N was going to beat him.

He fisted for his cigs in his flannel pocket, offering you one.

Okay, this guy was an idiot, but a cute one.

“Thanks,” You took a cig and slipped it between the side of your lips. Grabbing your lighter in your coat pocket, prepared as a common smoker should. You lit both of your cigarettes.

“So, you didn’t answer my question,” You shot, releasing a draw downward.

He snapped it out of his mouth, square in hand as he shook his head awake. “Shit, what was it again?” He laughed, he was losing his head around you. You sucked all the smarts out of his brain.

You elbowed him lightly, amused. “What’s your favorite Elvis song?”

He paused for a moment, getting his mind in gear. Quickly shuffling the different songs on his head- “Hound Dog, and then Blue Suede Shoes, and All Shook Up,” It was the fast, catchy beats of Elvis’s drawl that got him. The electricity that he exuded, that made him want to dance and grab the hand of a friend, a stranger, even an old person!

It made him want to boogie to the music.

You snickered, he hit right on the money. Damn, this guy had taste. Of the few you knew well, those were it. “Where does Jailhouse Rock rank?”

“8th,” He said clear as day, pointent. It was clearly not his favorite, but a hot contender. He had, in fact, listened to every single god damn song Elvis had published. Including the Hawaiian soundtrack album, which was a partial wash. He thought Elvis was at best when he was shaking it for a crowd, not trying to play at movie making. Yet, it hadn’t stopped him from consuming them all. “I paused not because I didn’t have a top three, but because…” Shit, he got himself in a hole? Wasn’t he playing the ‘cool guy’ really well?

“Because?” You flicked into the ashtray, bringing your arm in for a draw. Raising your eyebrows at him as you drew, feeling the air.

“Because I was thinking about you,” He slipped both elbows on the bar, facing forward towards the line of liquor and head turned towards you. Smirk painted on his lips, shameless in his expression, “You’re very Y/N.” He smiled, eyes stilling on you as they peered into yours eyes, then passed down your shoulder. “And I don’t normally get to talk to a Y/N like you.” Usually, they either weren’t interested in talking about comics and Elvis. So, what was there to talk about? Stupid small talk they he didn’t know much about? It was much harder, trying to find a Y/N with similar interests.

Your face felt warm again. You finished off the rest of your drink. Quenching your fuzzy head with the sharp inhale of nicotine, trying to peel the flush off of your cheeks. You couldn’t hide it- his soft pink lips looked beautiful when they moved. Especially when they were saying such sweet words.

You slicked a hand across your face, hiding the bite of your red cheeks, “How about we get a booth in the corner? And you tell me a bit more about yourself?” It seemed like a good idea. And it would give you a moment, to collect yourself, before continuing your chat.

You raised a hand to the bartender. He turned and you held up two fingers. A pint for you each.

“Hmph!” His spiky eyebrows peaked up, elated. “Sounds good to me!” He snickered, collecting his stack of comics and waiting for the drinks to come. You two stepped to the back to back of the bar, sliding in next to each other at the dark spot in the room. A place, where neither of you would be bothered. Holed up, until the bar closes, chatting about sweet nothing while you got to know each other. Maybe get, caught in the rain together, under his umbrella. Before turning in, to his apartment.

It was, in fact, closer than your apartment.

#true romance #christian slater #clarence x reader #fan fic #tristen writes #enjoy Ben!#This was fun

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vibranium-chakra · 5 years

Text

The Man Upstairs

A/N: Someone on here was interested in a tidbit where this happened with a BP guy, so I thought I'd try my hand at writing it lol. Something quick, something light.

________________________________________________________________

Faux locs still slightly wet and skin moisturized from a shower, you lay across your bed scrolling through Instagram. It was finally Friday and you'd been planning some self-care all week. Work was stressful, and a little drama between your friends left your brain fried and drained, so this time was vital. You planned on ordering your favorite meal via DoorDash while catching up on your favorite YouTubers, and then starting on a new Netflix series everyone on your timeline was talking about. Phone on Do Not Disturb. No friends, no annoying work emails; just Y/N and what Y/N wants.

Order placed and YouTube playing, you were cozy and at peace on the couch. To your dismay, you could've sworn you heard heavy boots stalk up the stairwell to the units above.You paused the video to listen intently, seeing if those footsteps would stop at the apartment above you. The acoustics and solidarity of the complex was shit, so if they took out their keys to open the door you'd hear it. A few moments passed by and nothing. Maybe they went away. A small sigh escaped your lips as you kicked your feet back up on the sectional.

CLANK

The sound of the metal door closing was audible. Were you trippin'? Just then, the heavy boots sound was back for a minute until it just sounded like regular footsteps, then the music started.

Shit. It was them.

Though the music was fairly low for now, you couldn't help the small rain cloud that crowded your mood. It wasn't a huge deal, but the Virgo in you hated when things didn't go according to plan. However, if he kept it at this volume, things may be okay you figured. A few clicks of the volume up on the TV and you continued your evening.

_____________________________

Your settled mood lasted for about an hour. As the music continued and got louder, you would just turn up the TV. But it was getting ridiculous. You tried to listen for it outside the door, and even asked your DoorDash deliverer if they could hear it. Between the constant beating of the bass between the walls and the occasional thump of feet, you were at wit's end. Your new neighbor needed an advisory welcome, and you were glad to give it.

You slipped into your brown plush slides, locking your door behind you as you sauntered up the stairwell to the third floor. The cold wind would've normally bothered you, but you were too tunnel-visioned to care. You took a deep breath once you arrived at unit 305, rehearsing in your head just how you would have this convo. Unfortunately, this wasn't your first time so you had a good idea. Would it be a college student? A young single mother with a rambunctious child? A drug dealer with no sense of hearing? You rapped 4 times with heavy knuckles against the door, wrapping yourself in your arms as you waited. You unintentionally stared down at your pedicured white toes as the door opened, light from the inside hitting your feet.

"Hey, sorry to interrupt you. I'm-" your speech was cut short as you peered up at this neighbor. You weren't sure what you expected, but you didn't anticipate this.

A black man, some inches taller than you, stood inside. The first thing you noticed was his torso, scattered with uniform cuts along his abs, chest and forearms. Did he do them himself? What did they mean? Why did they look so damn good? They glistened with sweat by way of the dining room ceiling light; as a matter of fact all of him did. He was shirtless. He must've been working out. The room released an aroma of some kind of oil and sweat.

"I was wondering how long it would take you to come up and say hi." His voice snatched you from your thoughts. Gruff, but buttery smooth and foreign. He wasn't from around here. For God's sake you would've noticed him anywhere in town. You looked up to meet his eyes nervously, swallowing spit before you spoke. Sexy man was expecting you?

"Ah-h yeah, hey I'm from downstairs."

"I know, you're the one with the plants on the balcony," he chuckled a little before finishing, "that's dope, ma. I'm Erik, I just moved in last month."

He placed his hand out to shake, sporting a killer smile that sat under gold fangs and a set of dimples. Did Jesus send this man? You placed your hand in his, plastering on a polite smile to cover your lack of words.

"Y/N, it's nice to meet you," you announced back, finding comfort in his surprisingly soft hand in yours.

"Y/N, pretty. What can I do for you miss Y/N?" He recited your name confidently, and you watched his lips move as if they were in slow motion. A cold breeze shivered up your arm, reminding you why you were out here in the 48 degree weather in the first place.

"I came up about the music, and the working out."

"Oh I'm sorry, I didn't think anyone was here," he paused to turn the music down from his phone.

"It's fine. Well it's not, but thank you. I know you're usually gone in the daytime and I'm gone at night, so I guess it never came up."

"You been clocking me miss?" He leaned against the doorway, smirking and folding his muscular arms. Okay nigga, relax.

"Actually I haven't, I just noticed the unknown Jaguar parked near mine and figured it had to be yours." You shrugged a little. "It's nice."

"So you haven't been watching me, just my car. Okay I'll take it, thank you." His boldness prompted shy chuckles from you. The smooth motherfucker. He knew he was attractive and had no problem using it to his advantage. Granted, you probably would've gave him some play in a heartbeat. But he didn't need to know that.

"Anything else I can help you with miss Y/N?" Stop saying my damn name like that, you thought. The offer sounded innocent, but his sly, lip-biting survey of your body up and down held an innuendo of something else. You looked down at yourself, noticing your semi-hardened nipples protruding against your shirt and the beginning of ash forming against your ankles. Your arms flew up in defense, folding against your chest. Erik wasn't the least bit fazed by your nervousness, facial expression still full of interest.

"Uhhh no, that's all. You know actually, there's a gym nearby if you need to work out. It's 24 hours."

"Yeah? I'll have to have you show me sometime beautiful. You seem pretty well acquainted with the area," he crossed his chiseled arms across his chest, drawing your attention back to his ripped torso. You needed to get out of this now.

"Sure, I'll show you sometime. Thank you again for the music."

"No problem, you feel free to come up and fuss at me anytime miss Y/N."You turned towards the stairwell, and heard the metal door meet the lock as you descended down. You let out a breath you didn't know you were even holding. While you did value your free time and peace, Erik was definitely worth the upstairs trip. The image of his smile and perfect body clouded your brain for the rest of the night in Unit 205.

#erik killmonger #erik killmonger fanfiction #Erik killmonger x Reader #erik stevens fanfiction #Erik Stevens #erik stevens x reader #black panther fanfiction

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loveau · 4 years

Text

You + Me = ? | Wendy

Genre: highschool!au, fluff

Word Count: 2,989

Request: Hi, there! 😁 May I request a high school!AU scenario with Wendy where the reader needs help with math and she becomes the reader’s tutor, then the reader improves in math and they fall in love and all that fluffy stuff?

Summary: While your math grade seems to be falling, it’s not the only thing that does once a pretty math tutor comes in to help you. You can only hope she’s there to catch you like she’s doing for your grade.

You curse at the dumb equations staring mockingly at you from your paper. Stupid algebra, stupid factoring, stupid polynomials. Nothing was sticking in your brain, and, at this point, it was pretty much fried. You bang your head on the desk and groan into the multiple eraser markings sticking on your cheek.

Yeah, you totally shouldn’t have convinced the counselor to let you take that extra elective instead of the math class. The entire year’s worth of not doing math had been both a blessing... and a curse. You sat in a class of mostly sophomores as the only junior taking that algebra course. It stung your pride to sit there staring at a low mark as they seemed to be passing with ease.

The only other junior in the class was the TA, and she stops by with a concerned look. However, one glance at your half done worksheet (with most of the answers wrong, by the way) she concludes that you’re frustrated and need help.

“Hey,” she calls. At this you put your head up and come face to face with her. “Do you need help with this? I can tutor you after school if you’d like to get help outside of class.”

“Oh my gosh, really, Wendy?! You’re literally an angel!” She smiles at you, only proving further to you that she not only acts like an angel, but she looks very much like one too.

She waves you off dismissively, but the red in her cheeks shows that she appreciates the comment. One look at your paper shows her that you really were in need of the help. No offense, of course, but the factoring you had done so far somehow led you to completely get rid of the variables. While this led to much confusion on her part where to begin, she was amused by your doodles on the page.

“You draw?” You peer down to see what she’s referring to. There’s small little sketches of your favorite characters from some show you were currently watching. A slight flush of embarrassment moves across your cheeks, as if it were a crime to like your shows. However, you just shrug to play it off cool.

“Kind of... I usually do this when I’m bored.” You realize that you’ve just admitted one of the reasons why you are behind in class. Wendy only reassures you with a smile, deciding not to point that out if she caught it at all.

She tries to help you as much as she can before the period’s over. You’re much too distracted by the curve of her bangs over her forehead and wonder how she must have done it. Done what? You know... looking so effortlessly stunning. You’re well aware of how she uses a hair curler in her bangs sometimes. You’ve seen it at lunch a couple times when she’s laughing loudly with her friends, but you could never bring yourself to look away.

About to be caught again, you quickly busy yourself with whatever problem you left off on. Wendy watches you for a couple more moments before deciding that she should start packing up and taking some last minute questions. You’re scribbling down the answers to the next couple of questions and she makes a mental note to check in with you later. In the mean time, she hopes you don’t mistake her number she wrote on the corner of your page for some polynomial without variables.

Luckily you caught it fairly quickly before the school day ended, when you had decided to continue your doodling on a previous sheet. And just like that, you were meeting Wendy after school to go over your homework that you had completed in class. Nerves began building up inside of you. Both at the idea of seeing Wendy again, but also... her relation to your math class reminded you of an upcoming test. As well as your low grade. It wasn’t that bad per se, but it wasn’t exactly ideal. You were bordering from a C+ to a B- and you knew you’d be in for it if your parents saw that as a final grade.

Your leg bounces as you wait by one of the lunch tables, and it distracts you so much that you miss the text from Wendy that she’s on her way and should only be another minute. By the time you’ve formulated your runaway plan and to make sure your FBI agent can’t track you down when you fail your next test, Wendy arrives with a chipper smile and taking a seat right next to you. Immediately her smiles drops at your worried face.

“Hey, are you alright? We don’t have to be meeting up right now if you don’t want to.”

“No! You’re fine.” Her concerned eyes don’t stop trying to figure out what’s eating you until it clicks.

“You’re worried about next week’s test, right?” You nod and Wendy pats your shoulder. However, she doesn’t take her hand away and instead squeezes your shoulder so that you feel the warmth through your shirt. You’re not that surprised to find that warmth has spread all throughout your body as well. “I can totally help you with that! I often see you looking frustrated in class but didn’t want to pester you. I figured today wouldn’t hurt.”

You shake your head and find that you were grateful she stepped up today. You could never with how preoccupied you were with trying to reteach yourself concepts as well as her being almost intimidatingly pretty. If it wasn’t obvious, your crush on her really made you freeze up. You remember developing your crush on her in your sophomore year, when the two of you shared a literature class together. The two of you got to interact some, but not much. What stood out to you was the reenactment of Romeo and Juliet where she played Romeo and you read the part of Juliet. Her character building and voice somehow made you feel as if you were really Juliet, easily swooning by her love confessions. You really began to daydream that they were real... and in modern english.

“If I bomb this next test, then I’m easily set to get a solid C instead of a C+. I have almost an 81 in the class, but just barely.”

Wendy hums and fixes her ponytail to stall while she thinks. Suddenly she brightens up and snaps her fingers. “Have you thought about doing the extra credit? It could definitely bring your grade up to an 85 at least! It can act as a safety net in case you do poorly on the test, but I won’t let that happen!”

“How so?” She takes your hands into hers and looks you earnestly in the eyes.

“Starting today, I will tutor you everyday to make sure you feel prepared and confident for the test. It doesn’t have to be just after school either. We can meet at lunch, during class, before school, or any time we can work it out. I promise you I will be there for you so that you don’t fail.” Your heart beats a little quicker at her promise, but the intensity also adds butterflies to your stomach. You can only nod in response and realize you’ve been holding your breath by the time she turns around to get some papers out. “Here, I keep these on me in case anyone approaches me outside of class for help. These are some of the extra credit sheets that’ll help you. They also pertain to the test so it’s a double whammy.”

She helps you get started on the sheets, telling you they’re honestly easy points to boost your grade. They really are with how much time Wendy spends talking you through the concept and making sure you’re not iffy on a problem. It’s like this the rest of the week. However, you also realize she’s been super affectionate once you get a problem right or giving herself whatever excuse to get as close as possible.

Sometimes her pencil might roll away from her as you work and she allows it to roll far enough so that it hits you. She either brushes her fingers against your hand or arm or she purposely touches her fingers loosely against yours if you happen to pick it up before she does. Some comments or corrections she makes on your paper also come in the form of hearts. It’s hard for you to keep your cool when she is being playfully flirty with you, but it also saddens you that it’ll most likely no longer happen once the week is over and you’ve taken your test.

“Here,” she interrupts during your last session on Friday. The two of you are sitting together at lunch and she decides to write down some problems for you to practice.

“Wendy, this is basic math. I did this in, like, second grade.”

“I just want to warm up your brain. Go ahead!” You look back down at the 2+2 written on the paper. Once you write down a hesitant 4, Wendy adds more simple math problems to your paper. The lunch bell rings signaling that you get to your next class. “Make sure to do the last one! I’ll see you next Monday on test day. Oh! And make sure to text me on the weekend if you have any questions.”

You’re too busy packing up to see what she’s written on your paper, but you assume it was something like 1+1. You figure that she must be doing this to reassure you and give you a slight break since all you’ve been doing is working on factoring for the past couple of days. By the time you get into your history class, a friend of yours points to the paper on the top of your notebook.

“How’s it going with Miss-I’m-too-pretty-to-make-you-function?”

“Shut up, it’s not like I’ll be seeing her after the test. She’s just tutoring me.”

“But you said the touches-”

“I’m overthinking it. It’s fine.” They roll their eyes at your dismissiveness. You’d been trying to swallow down the crush over the past couple of days, but Wendy honestly made it too hard. Her subtle touches and words of encouragement did nothing but make you hopeful. It also didn’t help that her bright smile plagued your mind whenever you went home and you were... looking forward to going to your math class.

“Hey, I think you’re overthinking the part where you think you have no chance.”

“That’s because I don’t.” They tap your paper and say otherwise. You’re unable to question them since they turn away to focus on the teacher beginning the lesson. You try to focus on the material about some revolution somewhere, but you can only focus on running through equations, the quadratic formula, perfect squares, and Wendy in your mind.

She stays on your mind the entire weekend as well, and you’re worried about the material even though you’ve run through it so many times you can practically do it in your sleep. On test day, you’re so focused on your work that you can’t even bring yourself to look at Wendy in fear of all your work together going to waste or seeing her be disappointed. But her quick squeeze of your hand as she passes by while handing out the tests lets you know that she’s rooting for you. She doesn’t mention the last problem she wrote down for you on that Friday. You don’t mention it either because you forgot.

It feels like time flies by so quickly, and you practically run up to the front desk to turn in your test. You’re unsure how to feel about it and wring your hands nervously. Wendy gives you a thumbs up with a determined look while mouthing “You did it. You made it through.” The gleam in her eyes sets your heart fluttering with all the confidence she has in you. It makes you disappointed that soon the two of you would part ways just like you had after the brief interaction during your Romeo and Juliet reading. However, Wendy makes sure to continuously check in with you about the material of the test to see what you thought of it.

The day you get your test back, Wendy looks just as nervous as you. It’s been only two days since the test, and your teacher has graded the test faster than normal. You look at Wendy while your hands are balled up into fists on the top of your desk. She’s biting her lip and you can she her feet are kicking at the floor in anticipation. It looks like she’s running while sitting, and you wish you could do just that. Run. The teacher has her pass the tests back while they begin writing up some commonly missed questions. Before they could, they call for Wendy’s attention right before she reached your row of desks.

“Wendy, could you pass me one of the tests? I can’t find my answer key.” She nods and immediately hands one of the tests over. Once she’s finished passing out the tests you realize whose test is up with the teacher. Ah, how fickle fate seems to be with you. Wendy realizes that she’s passed your test up when she looks over at you and your anxious form trying your best to peer at the front of the paper by the board. She hadn’t seen your score either, which makes her just as anxious as you. From where you were, you couldn’t figure out what red marks meant what on your test.

The rest of the period was spent with you writing down all the right answers on your test just in case you got something wrong and you could figure out why, hopefully with Wendy’s help. Throughout the class, the two of you had been communicating with nervous looks while trying to put each other at ease at the same time. It didn’t work for both of you since you had started biting your nails and she was picking at threads of her sweater. You absolutely hate that the test review spent the entire period. Especially the fact that the teacher asked to see you when the class ended. Dread fills you when you hear the bell ring. Your footsteps seem heavier as you walk up to the front desk.

Wendy wanted to hang back, she really did, but she knew that it’d be better to respect your privacy and head out with the students. She waits for you to come out and you find her tapping her foot to a song in the middle of the hall. The second you spot her you squeal and throw your arms around her.

“Oh my gosh, Wendy!”

“What’d you get? How did you do? Are you okay? I’m so nervous, I didn’t even know it was your test!”

You shake your head and show her the test. You got nearly full marks, some rounding errors or accidentally using the wrong amount of sigfigs cost you a couple points, but not enough to bring it lower than an A.

“I can’t believe you practically saved my grade!” You’re jumping now and she’s still in your arms. It’s not a problem since she’s also jumping along with you with a large smile on her face. You pull away with a frown.

“What’s wrong now? Did your grade not rise enough to where you thought it was?” There’s panic in her voice and you’re quick to deny her question, but a pout remains on your lips.

“I won’t get to hang out with you anymore since I won’t need any more tutoring...” Wendy pauses for a second and looks as if she’s trying to find something in your eyes.

“... Did you see the last problem I gave you on Friday?” You think back on it and return her questioning gaze.

“You gave me basic addition. Are you telling me I need to work on what I learned in elementary school?” She shakes her head quickly and asks if you still have the paper, to which you nod your head since you haven’t cleaned your binder yet. She has you take it out and you’re about to tell her you’re not that bad at math until you see the problem she wrote.

Underneath the 2+2, 4+4, 3+7, and 1+9...

You + Me = ?

You look up at her and she smiles, but it’s wavering. She’s nervous about your reaction, but she’s somewhat relieved. She thought you had seen it and decided to ignore it, thinking she was weird or that you were trying not to be mean by rejecting that.

“What... Wendy, does this mean what I think it does?” Wendy puts on an air of fake confidence and takes a pencil out.

“Well, it’s simple really. You, that’s you, plus me, Wendy, equals...” She trails off and begins to write on the paper. A little drawing of a heart takes place at the end of the equation and you can only look at her in shock. She decides that it’s now or never to explain what it meant. “I was just... too nervous to approach you since I didn’t want to scare you away thinking I was there to bug you about getting help. I thought you were really cute at the beginning of the year, and after I finally got to talk to you I started developing a crush... I really worked the courage up to write that.”

You look back down at the heart and can’t help but smile at her. Wendy smiles hesitantly in confusion.

“You know, since it took me that long to solve such a simple problem... I think you’ll have to continue tutoring me. Why don’t we set up another study date to work on it!”

#elli writes #red velvet #wendy #red velvet imagines #red velvet scenarios #red velvet fluff #wendy imagines #wendy scenarios #wendy fluff #neutral pronouns #fluff #high school au

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afishandatree · 4 years

Text

Days Fade (and nights grow)

Poison is struggling with being the face of the Killjoys, Ghoul distracts him and they draw each other.

Pointless melodrama and fluff.

[ Teen rated on Ao3, fair warning there is some implied stuff but it doesn’t actually happen]

The sun is just beginning to set in the zones, letting the marginally cooler night air ruffle through Poison’s hair as he leans on the 'am.

It’s strange, watching the sunset. He feels like it shouldn’t look the same anymore, but there it is. So much has changed since his biggest concern was going on a run alone and falling in love with his friend. There’s so much more at stake. He’s not the young rebel with nothing to lose anymore. He’s Party Poison, leader of the Fabulous Killjoys, the very face of the fight against BLI. He’s the protector of their best-kept secret: the small sleeping figure under thin blankets on a diner booth. Thank Destroya for Jet, he’s not sure any of them would be able to keep her happy or healthy without him. Alive, yes. Just not in the ways that count. It’s all too much for him sometimes. He’s just waiting for that moment, where he can’t take it, where he slips up, where it all ends like everyone says it will. Bloody. Caught in a firefight, when it all goes wrong.

Poison squeezes his eyes shut as if it will block out that train of thought. It doesn’t work. It feels like his jacket is suffocating him; like he’s overheating and can't get enough oxygen even in the cool night air. He didn’t want this, he didn’t want to shoulder all of it. It’s so much for one person, too much too much toomuchtoomuchtoomuchtoo-

“ Pois’? You out here?”

Oh. there’s another thing that’s changed. Party’s not alone anymore. Not that he was before, but it’s hard to bare your soul when one vital piece is missing. When you aren’t sure if you’re allowed it. Now, he has nothing to hide. He has his detonator. He has Ghoul. The way Ghoul’s had him for a long, long time.

Taking a moment to steady his breathing, Poison calls out to him,

“ Over here”

He hears the crunching of sand and asphalt and hears a small thump on the ground before feeling a familiar warmth next to him. In moments like this, Party isn’t Party Poison anymore. He’s him. He’s Ghoul’s. Then he’s guilty that he doesn’t want it to end.

“ it’s pretty, ain’t it?” asks Ghoul, and from Party’s peripheral, he sees him tilting his head towards the sunset while looking at him.

“ why, you compeatin’ or something?” cracks Party, smirking and turning to face Ghoul and, oh, the sly bastard. He’s wearing Poison’s shirt. If it still counts as a shirt if there are no sleeves. Or sides. Not one to let his composure slip, he traces his fingers along the tattoos on the other’s ribs, and a couple of bruises (that may or may not have been his doing) and smirks at him.

Ghoul cracks a smile and lets out a shaky breath. And damn, Poison needs to get out of his head, because Ghoul is a vision in the desert sunset. He itches for a time before all of this, when he could capture this moment in a photograph, or how he could paint the colours that bathe his lover’s face. He’s spoken to Ghoul about that before, and the conversation ended with Ghoul tackling him into a kiss. He had a little trouble walking the next day but, Destroya, was it ever worth it.

“ C’mon Pois’ I could practically hear you thinking from inside, what’s wrong?” asks Ghoul, sliding his palms against the warm metal of the car.

Poison sighs and lets his entire body relax into Ghoul.

“you know.”

And Ghoul does know. Somehow, he’s able to know when Party needs a distraction or a conversation, or when he needs to be reckless and stupid and blow things up. So, naturally, when Party gets like this, he knows why. He wraps his arms tightly around him and nuzzles his face into his hair.

“ Jet and Kobes finally got her to sleep. She was worried about you.” He runs his fingers through Party’s hair and laughs a little when his hand comes off slightly redder than before. “Which reminds me,” he adds, letting go of Party to pick up a small book and box from the ground, “ she wanted you to use this.

Party accepts the box from Ghoul’s calloused hands and smiles.

“Crayons?”

“Yep.”

“ Well Ghoulie, would ya be my model?” says Party, smirking, and he throws in an obvious wink just for the fun of it.

“ Only if I can do you too, Cherry Bomb,” agrees Ghoul, seemingly before realizing what he said, and they dissolve into laughter.

Party throws the red crayon and hits Ghoul right between the eyes.

“ Alright Sugar, cool it, I can’t draw ya if you’re movin’.”

“ ‘m sorry,”

They lapse into silence, as they study each others’ faces in the dimming light of the sunset, with no noise but the desert air, waxy scratching of crayons and the metallic creaking of the ‘Am. For the first time in a while, Poison doesn’t think. He just follows the colours in his hands, tracing the face of the man he loves onto the page, and loses himself in it. It’s a bit strange to be drawing someone else drawing, but Ghoul makes it work. Once Party’s finally satisfied, he smiles up at the other man, who seems to have long finished his drawing.

“ Done.” declares Poison, making grabby hands towards Ghoul, “lemme see the masterpiece”

His partner turns his paper around, snapping it back and forth. Ghoul’s drawing is, well, crude. It’s a caricature of Poison, barely recognizable but for the flaming red hair and the bright blue of his jacket. In a messy scrawl along the top of the page, “ sorry, you’re too pretty to draw. XoxoGhoulie.” a small cherry with a fuse instead of a stem is drawn beside it, and honestly looks much better than the main drawing.

Ghoul hands the drawing to Poison, smiling sheepishly, before ducking his head and chuckling softly.

“ ‘s not real good, but-”

“I love it.”

Ghoul rolls his eyes, as Party leans in and places a kiss on his cheek.

“ Alright, alright, your turn now,” he laughs, lightly pushing him away.

Ever the artist, Party’s drawing of Ghoul is much better. He tried to capture the sunset on his face, the rose gold light reflection on his hair and in his eyes. He tries to see it like Ghoul would, the way he didn’t quite capture the colour of his eyes, or how the drawing doesn’t quite match how symmetrical his face is, or how the tattoos aren’t sitting quite right, or-

“you see me like this?” asks Ghoul quietly, his eyebrows creasing slightly.

Party doesn’t have time to worry before he’s being tackled to the hood of the car and kissed senseless. Ghoul pulls back, breathless, and leans to whisper softly into his ear, warm breath sending shivers down his spine.

“ It’s beautiful.” another kiss, “ you’re beautiful.”

Party really wants to tell him that, while he’s not entirely wrong, the drawing wasn’t that good. That there are a million reasons why Ghoul is the better half of this equation, that Poison is the lucky one, that Ghoul, with his calloused caring, messy love notes and childlike drawings, means more than he can say. He does not, however, want to stop kissing Ghoul, so he doesn’t.

They stay like that for a while, mouths moving in sync until they really need to head in or at least take things to the back seat because they really shouldn’t mortify Kobra like that again, but before they do, Party takes the drawing Ghoul made of him and puts it safely in his jacket pocket, where it stays.

~~~~

Thank you for reading, sorry for any mistakes with grammar and stuff. love you all. ( if anyone has a better title please tell me my brain is fried and this is all I had. )

-Fish

#my chemical romance #fanfiction #mcr fanfiction #killjoys #party poison #fun ghoul #prompts #frerard #funpoison #party poison/fun ghoul #party poison x fun ghoul #fluff #angst

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iphoenixrising · 5 years

Text

For 900 Followers! Dr!Tim: Arkham Breakout

So, there was once upon a time this Ask aaaaand then this Ask. Then babe asked how things are going for a certain Dr. Drake, so...you know, it’s really a standard Wednesday when he’s literally caught in the middle of a massive Arkham breakout :D

Some day, he’s really going to have to reevaluate his life choices.

Volunteering for rounds at Arkham Asylum is definitely going to be on the list for review.

Sure, at the time, no one else from Mercy General was stepping up to volunteer (honestly, you’d have to be a patient here to willingly step up for this assignment. It’s fine, he’s been called worse).

Sure, he might have gotten friendly with some of the less insanely deranged inmates because really, considering how many times some of them had come through his ER to be patched up after a confrontation with one of the Bats, it was only a matter of time before they knew him by name.

Sure, he actually started to like wandering around the halls, talking with the inmates when they weren’t clutching stab wounds, contusions, and broken everything.

Sure, he might have been doing some side research on MacGregor's Syndrome (just some fun with genetics and incurable diseases), so the guards let him talk with Victor Fries a few times. And though short, their conversations were amazing, giving him a second thought about cryogenics.

Sure, maybe he enjoyed sitting outside Poison Ivy’s cell to ask her questions about her publication on cellular regeneration in plant hybrids.

(He brought her a sad, droopy orchid in thanks. She was actually smiling when he left, so he’s already got a resource when he needs it.)

Sure, he didn’t think it was dangerous enough to mention it to Dick or Jay.

The sounds through the Bluetooth in his ear, the lowly muttered curses from the Red Hood, the muffled boot falls, the rev of a massive engine, all of it is soothing in the fact they’re on the way to help him out here. Ass-kicking vigilantes for the win. But, still.

He’s well aware there’s going to be some conversations about why the hell he’s in Arkham in the first place once this is all over.

None if it makes him feel any better about the current sitch, not when the Joker, Scarecrow, Mr. Freeze, the Clock King, and Poison Ivy are moving through Arkham Asylum’s cafeteria, looking like a whole lot of shit has hit the proverbial fan in the works.

How do I keep getting myself in these situations? Is the real question here.

But Dr. Drake just focuses on the emergency at hand, fumbling through his doctor’s bag for more gauze with one bloody glove since what he’s pressing against the awkward stab in Jim Newman’s belly is already saturated, and his other hand is in mid-stitch.

He gives a customary glance to where the Mad Hatter is rolling around on the floor after someone took out his face with one of the trays.

The mashed potato mess is going to be such a pain in the ass to clean up later. Tim is pretty sure the perpetrator is one of the Hatter’s previously employed thugs, probably pissed off his 401-K got cancelled when the last heist didn’t really pan out.

Really, bad guys don’t have good medical insurance. Shouldn’t that just be, you know, a requirement?

He stays hiding behind his circle of protectors with the snatch-and-stich, most of whom are still tensely watching the progression of the Rogue Gallery through the general population, probably wondering if even one of those crazy fucks has some kind of mind-altering drug, high-test explosive, or some other painful way to die hiding in their jumpsuits.

Tim tries to make it fast, feels the pressure of the situation just by glancing down at Jim’s terrified eyes rolling back while he gets his side sewn back together without general anesthesia. It probably beats bleeding out all over the floor, but Tim knows that’s little consolation. At least the scar won’t be too bad.

(Probably.)

The guard with the nasal fracture in the circle with them is crouching low, fingering his side arm, looking pretty on the edge of terrified himself at the group of other guards with their hands up, prodded in the back with their own guns by some inmates that have obviously chosen crazy to side with.

Perfect.

They’re probably all going to die.

“Well, well, boys. We have a golden opportunity here,” the Clown Prince of Crime chorts with his sickening smile, makes Tim literally cringe with two more to go.

Even if his hands are shaking and the comm in his ear blanks out because they must be on the way (please, God, let them be on the way), Tim is quiet about it when he presses a fresh gauze pad from the already opened package and tapes that sucker in place without drawing too much attention to himself.

Mike Monohan, an inmate in his circle of protectors, plays a mean game of Uno, and flicks his fist open to a flat hand, the international sign for stay back and shut up.

Staying back and shutting the hell up it is.

“We could have so much fun now that we have the Warden here with us,” the Joker is saying, gesturing to the narrow-eyed Warden thrown down on the floor, right on top that wasted pasta salad.

While the rest of the formerly-fighting, raging inmates are wary and listening, Tim crab-walks back, finger over his mouth aimed at Jim. Sliding his arms under the inmate’s, he slowly, quietly, starts pulling his patient back in short bursts, trying to get them under a table without catching anyone’s eyes.

Dr. Crane has found his mask, is pacing around the frozen inmates and guards with the creepy mask, and the Clock King is standing behind the Joker like some kind of Enforcer.

Dr. Fries is leaning against the wall in his suit, the freeze gun holstered.

Dr. Isley is close to him, the two of them talking low whenever the Joker’s back is turned.

Harvey Dent shoves the Warden down on the floor, gives him a very pointed No moving, or it’s curtains for you.

Shauna Belzer waits serenely behind the Joker, the sock puppet on her hand snickering, eyeing the inmates over his shoulder.

Temple Fugate is tapping his foot impatiently, the glint by his right side is a pocket watch.

The inmate’s face is almost white with the effort to slide under the heavy table, even with Tim to help push him under.

“Fun, boss?” One of the inmates eagerly pushes through the frozen crowd, “is it the kinda fun what might break us outta here?”

“Chucko!” The Clown seems happy to see his previous henchmen, and from his point crouching by the edge of the table, Tim can see that sick smile gets wider. “If you aren’t a sight for sore eyes.”

“Hiya, boss,” the orange-clad henchmen seems just as happy to see the villain, “M’ sorry Mister Joker, but the cops took away my mask.”

“That’s all right, Chucko! The Gotham City Police never did have much of a sense of humor, but we’re all going to have a little fun before we break out of here anyway, huh huh huh.” It’s kind of sick how the Joker pats the henchmen on top the head like a dog, even worse considering the henchmen grins dopily back.

“As long as we stay on our time table,” Fugate interjects, “we have approximately one hour and thirty-seven minutes before the next shift arrives. Less if anyone makes it to the control room and radios for help. The, we will have Police and Special Forces descend upon us. Not to mention the Bat and his brats.”

“Hu-hu-hu, I guess you’ll have to keep an eye on the time, then, won’t you, Tempy?”

The Ventriloquists’ sock scrunches up, “we need to be out of here as soon as possible, Clown. I have a very important person to pick-up out of a locker in the bus station.” Which explains the sock instead of the creepy puppet, Ferdie.

Two-Face sneers at the circle of inmates effectively shielding the shaky doctor from first glance, turns to look at the gathering of other super villains, “I want out of this shit-show, Joker. I don’t get out, you are gonna have a bad fucking time on the inside. Any questions?”

But unruffled as ever, the Clown Prince of Crime just smiles at the group, eyes taking in the terror from half of the inmates, “of course, of course, Harv. We all want out, don’t we? And we’re going to do just that!...After we have play a little game with the Warden and his numbskull guards. Won’t that be worth sticking around?”

A hand tugs at Dr. Drake’s scrubs, and he glances down at the injured inmate, his eyes probably wide and terrified as he feels hearing the Joker talk about shit like games–

(Not fun for the whole family. Really, just your faces getting cut off, no big deal.)

“– gotta get to the infirmary and hide,” Jim hisses up at him, “who knows what they’ll do to ya. All of ‘em are nuts.”

“I can’t just leave,” he whispers back, eyes for the real problems here.

“Doc, there’s nothin’ you can do against these guys. They’re the real deal, and they will straight up murder you. I work for Two-Face, and you don’t wanna dick around with him.”

He’s listening, but his eyes are all for Fugate helping Jervis Tetch to his feet, trying to see if he’d broken his face in the first round of rioting–

And the idea, the plan, on how he could get everyone in this cafeteria out of this alive is right in his brain pan. Risky, but really the only shot he can think of.

“Stay down no matter what,” he tells Jim, pats the inmate’s hand gripping the hem of his scrub top, “I think I’ve got a way out of this.”

His legs shaking, knees knocking, Tim pulls away from Jim’s grip and takes a few steps closer to the inmates hiding him. He pockets the comm in his ear, leaving it on for when his vigilante boyfriends might actually make an appearance.

He takes a deep, trembly breath, watches intently as Fries walks over to look at what is obviously a very broken face.

“He probably has a nasal fracture,” Tim says loudly, cringing internally when everyone, everyone turns and stares right at him. “I’m a doctor. I can help.”

Mike is glaring at him, eyes narrowing in displeasure that he gave himself away, but, you know, thwarting break-out attempts means he needs to be able to move around the baddies.

None of that stops the painful lurch in his chest when that sick grin is absurdly delighted.

“Oh! I guess that answers that question, doesn’t it?” The Joker throws his head back to start laughing.

“What question?” One of the inmates interrupts the maniacal peals of laughter, looking around confused.

The shiny barrel, one of the guard’s side pieces, goes off like a bomb exploding, and the body drops with a hard thud in the sudden silence.

“That’ll teach you. Never ruin the punchline!”

And that sickeningly delighted grin turns on him, the barrel with a whisp of smoke still curling from the barrel.

“And as for you, well, I suppose there is a doctor in the house!” The laughter is loud and manic, echoing off the walls, a cacophony of insanity.

But.

Tim sees Victor Fries straighten noticeably, and hopes that maybe he can play his cards right to avoid getting himself killed.

“This is really going to hurt. There might be pain meds in the Infirmary, but I have no idea. I’m not permanent staff here,” he tells Jervis Tetch and Temple Fugate, gloved up at, looking critically at the mess that is currently the Mad Hatter’s face. “We can also check if they have a portable X-Ray because you are seriously going to need it.”

Tim clicks off the penlight and palpates the swollen area gently, “from what I can tell without any secondary evidence to support it, is you have a crack in the maxillary, which is why your eye is almost swollen shut. Yes, the swelling will go down, but cracking a bone this close to your eye could mean shards are going to cause more problems than you would want to deal with if you like being able to see.”

And even if the Mad Hatter is–

One. Scary. Mind-Controlling. Psychopath.

– his squashed face is obviously panicked.

“If you are a doctor as you say, then you will fix it – or you shall pay.”

“Mr. Tetch, I don’t know if Arkham is even equipped to do major surgery. Without the right tools, I could run the risk of permanently blinding you.”

He finally releases the swollen area, completely bullshitting with a straight face and intense eyes (he’s done more complex surgeries in a few back alleys and rooftops, but no one really needs to know those details), pointedly takes the villain’s pulse while glancing at his watch.

“Not to even mention your risk of infection here. Considering the number of organic material that could get into an incision on your face, it’s too much of a risk here at Arkham. There’s a reason why the Warden stopped allowing major surgery on inmates twenty years ago. One of them being nearly impossible to keep a sterile enough room in tact after the many escape attempts.”

Temple Fugate makes a strangled noise he covers up with a cough.

“Next issue is appropriate staffing. You’ve got RN’s, psychiatrists, one other medical doctor. But to be honest with you, Dr. Isley would be the best choice to keep you under during general anesthesia, taking her knowledge of chemicals into account, I mean. But, we run the risk of infection since her current state was caused by a combination of pesticides. That is not enough people to assist during major surgery and monitor your vitals while you’re under. If you code while you’re on my table, I don’t have enough qualified people to bring you back.”

While the Mad Hatter goes pale, blinking his good eye, Tim folds his arms over his chest and gives the villain his most sincere look.

“Your best bet to save vision in that eye is to take two inmates in an Ambulance and have them drop you at the hospital. They can say you got in a fight and the on-call here told them to get you to Gotham General immediately. Their OR has more state-of-the-art equipment than Mercy, and they could reconstruct your ethmoid flawlessly.”

He breaks a disposable ice pack and works it with his gloved hands, gently applies it to the area, and picks up the villain’s limp hand to hold it himself.

Jervis tries to slouch his eyebrows down, but flinches at the pain radiating from his injury, holds the ice pack tighter.

“After all those fights with the Bats, this certainly won’t be my last.” The neuroscientist mutters to himself, “Very well, Doctor, I’ll take my business into the city as you suggest, but don’t think this gets you any immunity from that pest.” And well meaning head nod to the Joker, gun still at his side while the Warden of Arkham is tied to a support pole in the center of the cafeteria.

“Perish the thought,” he closes up his doctor’s bag, giving the villain a wave before going back to where the inmates injured in the dinnertime scuffle were laid out on tables waiting for him. He figures it’s fine because he’s pretty sure he know how to handle that guy.

(Again.)

He leaves Fugate and Tetch to talk out the details, relieved neither of them realizing he dropped the tiny tracking device from his stethoscope in the band of Tetch’s hat when he turned the villain’s face to look closely at his injury.

He’s on his way to his next emergency because Jim is breathing hard and rapidly losing color, surrounded by four other inmates, but the dangerous gangster slash lawyer hovering by Jim’s hand is the real danger, not the muck they call potato salad still painting the walls.

“All right, let me through,” while he’s sliding between Rodney the Hammer (for obvious reasons) and poker-playing macrame enthusiast, Big Earl McCalister (a name from Jay’s life in the Narrows).

He re-gloves, puts his Arkham-specific bag down by Jim’s shoulder and unwinds the steth to check the usuals.

“Doc,” is the deep rasp of Two-Face’s I’m not happy tone. “This is one of my guys, you get me?”

“Read you like a book,” he replies without looking up, checking the skin around his stitches, “none of that changes the fact I don’t have what I need to help him.”

Tim curses softly, eyes going to Jim’s, noting the profuse sweating. The blade went in at least two inches, so they could be looking at intestinal perforation, which he is in no way equipped to handle in the fucking cafeteria of Arkham Asylum. He could possibly do a peritoneal lavage verify fluid out of his bowel is spilling into his abdominal cavity, but the slight swelling and discoloration are sure signs Jim needs laparoscopic surgery.

Now.

“I need you to listen to me,” he starts haltingly, but a hand on his forearm stops Dr. Drake cold.

Like he’s in a horror movie, his eyes go to where Two-Face has leaned over the injured thug on the table, and the ruined side of his face is prominent enough for him to see the excessive scarring.

“Yer gonna tell us what you need to take care of my man here,” is a not-fucking-around kind of dangerous, making Tim suck in a deep, deep breath just to try and keep himself calm.

(They’re on their way. They’re coming for him. They wouldn’t leave him here.)

“He needs an actual hospital with medical staff,” falls out of his mouth firmly, “I don’t have the people or equipment or the surgical staff I need to operate on him here. What I can tell you is that his lower intestines have probably been punctured, and he’s going to die of sepsis shock in less than an hour if we can’t get him into an OR.”

The sickly yellow eye narrows on him, assessing, and the pilfered gun in the gangster's other hand makes a soft click.

“There’s an ambulance here somewhere. Arkham has one for emergencies. Your guys can take it to Gotham General and no one would be the wiser,” Tim shrugs and looks back down at his patient. “As is, you can threaten me all you want, but attempting surgery here, is only going to end up in infection and probably death. I have no supplies of blood, IV fluids, antibiotics, or qualified staff. The nurses and MDs you do have here are good, but not trained at all for major abdominal surgery. There’s no way I can open him up and repair the perforation without killing him.”

And it’s a tense moment when Tim finally looks up at the gangster’s face, his own jaw set

“Then we gotta get ‘im out,” and Two-Face looks down at Jim Newman’s face.

Jim, eyes glassy with pain, reaches out a bloody hand, “ ‘Face?”

“Yeah, yeah. No worries, Jimmy. We’re gonna take care a’ ya.” And in what is an impossible-to-predict move, the burned side of the gangster’s face tries to lift up in a half-smile.

“M-My little Tracey, ‘Face. If I don’t–”

“Hey,” and it’s Tim drawing the sluggish eyes, “we’re going to get you taken care of, right?” And he glances up at Two-Face, swallowing hard, but keeping his gaze steady.

“Yeah,” the mass murderer looks back at him, an assessing something in his bulging eye, “yeah, we are. You, Doc, you gonna tell my man Vinnie what ‘cha need, and he’s gonna get it.”

The hulking thug still in his orange jumpsuit steps up to Jim’s side while Two-Face makes his exit, going straight for the laughing mad man gleefully shoving pies in the Warden’s face.

“Is your real name Vinnie?” Because honestly, his mouth is going to get him every damn time.

The thug just smiles.

Welp, okay then. “I need a gurney to transport him to the ambulance. I’m going to check his wound and re-wrap it.”

He’s already reaching in the bag for more gauze pads, pulling back the layers he’d already applied, checks the skin around the stitches, wishes he had a cuff to get Jim’s systolic pressure but estimates it’s down to 80 and dropping.

All it takes is for Vinnie to nod and two lackeys are scrambling to get down to the infirmary.

“Thought...thought I told ya ta get gone, Doc,” Jim wheezes, gritting his teeth as Tim gentle presses just his fingertips against the slight swell.

“Couldn’t leave you,” he replies without looking away.

After long seconds when he hurriedly pulls a syringe and antibiotic, hoping to give them some time then scrambles for a notepad and pen, scribbles instructions quickly while muttering aloud, “administered augmentin...probable perforation of intestine or bowel…”

He scribbles something at the very bottom and tears the paper off his notepad, slides it in Jim’s jumpsuit pocket.

“Make sure the ER doctors get that. It tells them what I’ve already given you so they don’t mix other antibiotics or painkillers.”

He pointedly ignores the fight breaking out between Two-Face and the Joker, but notices Vinnie turns completely away to watch the proceeding shouting match ending in guns pointed at other another.

“Fuckin’ stand down Clown, or I’m gonna make ya a stain.”

“C’mon Harve! Where’s your sense of humor? Ha ha ha haaa!”

“He’s going to get us out of here you ass!” Crane shoves his creepy mask right in Two-Faces peripheral, something probably dangerous clenched in the fist behind his leg.

“We can get ourselves out,” Belzer replies serenely, “we’ve all done it before after all.”

“That means we need to get going,” Fugate is pulling Tetch along with an arm over his shoulder, the other holding the ice pack against his face. The pocket watch makes an appearance, and Tim tapes fresh gauze pads down, mentally preparing to roll Jim off the table and shove it over if bullets start flying.

(Please, please, please hurry.)

Vinnie seems to get the tension suddenly in the room, milling inmates all freezing in place, eyes for the boatload of crazy in the center of the cafeteria by the salad bar.

“But we were just starting to have some fun!” The Joker almost screams, gesturing wildly with the gun to the hacking Warden.

“As usual,” Dr. Isley sighs, calmly walking in the middle of the two villains in the middle of the showdown, “you aren’t using your brain.”

“C’mon Red! I know you want to get out and visit our little Harl, but we have a golden opportunity here!”

Tim sucks in a hard breath when Dr. Isley’s eyes narrow dangerously, and oh God, oh God, oh God.

His eyes dart to the corner of the salad bar where Dr. Fries is leaning, the goggles over his eyes not showing at all what he’s thinking. But, but, Tim notices the ice gun is not longer in the holster at the side of his leg, instead it’s in hand with the doctor’s finger on the trigger.

A subtle shift, upper body moving because that suit has got to be heavy, and Tim isn’t imagining Dr. Fries is looking right at him around the Joker’s back.

Tim’s eyes shift down to his patient, muscles tightening in preparation for something.

“That’s enough,” is robotic through the suit’s speakers, kind of like Jay’s syths Tim thinks crazily when his heart starts to pick up when the Joker tilts his chin down and narrows his eyes right back at Poison Ivy and Two-Face.

If he wasn’t suddenly terrified about a Rogue Gallery Throw-Down, he would be fanboying right through the mashed potatoes.

“Stay out of it, Freeze Pop,” the Joker’s voice is low and utterly fucking terrifying.

“This accomplishes nothing but waste precious time,” Freeze deadpans, “it gives us less time to get far enough away from the Batman.”

“Oh, that’s easy enough to remedy!” And the Joker straightens, easily lowers the gun, smiling right at Two-Face’s shiny .45. “We just take some hostages along for the ride.”

Because, of fucking course, the Joker’s head swings over to stare him right the fuck down.

“Especially Gotham’s little darling, here! Why my stars and garters! I believe it’s the indomitable Doctor Drake! AH HA HA HA HA HA HAAA!”

And his heart jumps right up into his throat, choking him on his next breath.

Leaning to talk out of the corner of his mouth, the Joker’s eyes are all for the frozen civilian, “He was on the news, Harve, remember? The little do-gooder on the bridge.” The low drop of the Joker’s tone on that word, on bridge, hits Two-Face in the right way, making the gangster’s attention shift.

(Oh shit. This is bad, getting more bad, getting so, so, so bad.)

“That was you?” The other gun falls and Two-Face turns on him while the Joker is doing that cliche steeple-fingers-and-look-insane kind of thing, and that just really makes him want to take a step back. He should probably run, but it’s more likely Two-Face would shoot him in the back if he tried, so he’s got no other choice but to improvise.

With the copper taste in the back of his mouth, with the possibility he’s about to die horribly depending on the level of utter crazy in the room right now, Tim Drake straightens his spine, crosses his shaky arms to hide the fact.

“There were children, Mr. Dent. Children that didn’t deserve to die on a collapsing bridge.”

Jim Newman tenses on the table under him, still going pale, still on a ticking clock, and some of the other inmates are cowering back. The Ventriloquist looks eager to see what happens, her sock puppet whispering in her ear; Scarecrow, the Mad Hatter, and Clock King are looking at him intently, uncomfortably so. Poison Ivy sighs and arches a put-upon brow.

“I patched people up and put them in cars to get off the bridge. Your bombs did what they were supposed to do,” is more accusatory than he feels. “I just tried to keep the victim count down.”

“The other one didn’t go off. You have something ta do with that, Doc?” The question suddenly very, very important to how the next six seconds are going to go.

So Tim calculates what he’s going to say for a split second, “I was being hit with debris and pulling little girls out of cars,” which is true, “I only saw the Batman for a few minutes, and I didn’t have anything to do with another bomb.” Mostly true. B already knew it was Two-Face before Tim ever got a surprise ride on the Batplane courtesy of the blood-loss-and-shock express.

The new train leaving the station is I-might-die-in-Arkham-Asylum.

All Aboard

“Now Harve,” the Joker starts, tisking.

“Shut-up, Clown,” because the glint is the famous coin appearing in Dent’s unblemished hand.

Some crazy instinct makes him step away from the gurney, eyes all for the inevitable flip, hoping, praying his luck is going to hold out long enough to get a message out to the ER staff and stall long enough to keep them here until the vigilantes make a dashing, in-the-nick-of-time entrance, and really just save the day.

(Please please please save the day.)

“Got a fifty-fifty chance, Doc. I’m hoping ya got some extra luck.”

His breath gets caught in his chest at the twing when the coin rolls off Two-Face’s thumb into the air, is hyper-focused in the moment, doesn’t even notice Victor Fries straightening from his slouch to watch the proceedings. Fixes his eyes on the palm of that ruined hand–

–and the arm holding the gun slowly, surely rising.

The coin doesn’t make it back to that hand, gets slapped out of the air instead, and the gangster actually chokes.

“You-you son of a–!”

“Harve, Harve,” and for the first time, Dr. Drake can say he’s seen the Joker actually frowning, miffed that his plan is going sideways, anger simmering under the insanity, but it just goes to show he’s special kind of psychopath when he stretches his neck out to put his face less than an inch from the ruin side of Two-Face’s, and smile.

It’s telling how the Joker doesn’t even flinch at the cold rage across from him.

“He has more potential in the ‘hostage’ category, than the ‘dead’ category, Harve, and we need a nice little nest egg.” One white finger carelessly, comically pushes the barrel of the gun down to the ground with that sickening grin in place. “You and I both know–”

The he-he-he literally makes Tim’s skin crawl.

“–those caped do-gooders roll over for a nice hostage.”

The stare-down is like something you read about– the Joker is intense while Two-Face glares silently back, that yellow eye fixed.

The inmates around the Rogue Gallery are shifting, trying to stay out of the way in case the guns come back into play, and everything Dr. Drake has been trying to do seems to go immediately, irrevocably sideways.

The stand-off is interrupted when one of the inmates hurriedly scoops up the coin and brings it back, holding the scratched surface up, presenting it like a gift.

Two-Face doesn’t bother looking at the inmate, just snatches the coin, eyes narrowing on the Joker’s grin.

“As much as I fucking hate you, Clown, you got a point. We’re gonna need some leverage.”

“Oh, you flatterer. You don’t have to hate so much that I’m right, hu hu hu. Good! Now we can get this show back on the road and execute the Warden, right?”

The childish stomp jars Tim out of panicky brain-freeze, lets him suck in a choking breath at the crazily entertaining back-and-forth, and his knees wobble a little in weakening relief.

(He keeps himself calm by running through the last year of crazy shit he’s gotten his hands into since he’s been dating certain adorable, entertaining, and very, very late, vigilantes. He’s been up against some of these psychopaths, ninjas, and is the go-to guy for every kind of strange alien bacteria Booster Gold could possibly pick-up during his travels.)

Out of his peripheral, he sees Dr. Fries slouch back, head turned and looking at him, utterly unreadable with the goggles and glass dome.

The Ventriloquist, however, is pouting like she’s missing out on a good show. Great. At least someone wants to see him dead in the next few minutes.

“You have approximately forty-five minutes before the next shift will begin showing up for work,” Temple Fugate inserts, “and we need people to drive our Hatter friend to the hospital along with Dent’s right-hand man. It’s a perfect cover to get us through the gates without alerting authorities. Thus, whatever you intend to do, do it now.”

The impatience draws the Scarecrow’s attention, “expediency is preferable, ladies and gentlemen. I still have reserves hidden in Gotham, and I don’t need Bats on me before I get to them.”

“Fantastic!” The Joker laughs loudly, back arched, “then we get to–” and he spins on the heel of his spat, finger out to point at the Warden still tied up in the center of the cafeteria, pie remnants dripping off him.

But the Joker trails off with a “eww,” when the Warden is obviously gasping for air, his lips turning an unnatural shade of blue.

Like his life wasn’t hanging in the balance a few seconds ago, Tim snatches up his bag without looking away from the distressed Warden and takes off around the table while the guys waiting for Vinnie’s signal with the gurney move in to load up Jim Newman.

He skirts around the inmates, and already has his stethoscope in his ears, listening to the sickening sound of arrhythmia.

“He’s going into cardiac arrest!” Tim turns to shout at the gathered criminals, and his eyes slide up to the panicked Warden.

“...heart attack...last year,” the Warden gasps weakly, leaning into the ropes.

The Joker sputters, “I can’t kill him if he’s already dying! Where’s the fun in that?!”

And it’s a terrifying moment when the villain stalks up next to him to glare in the distressed Warden’s face, pointing a finger like he’s berating a naughty child.

“You’d better not shuffle off this mortal coil until I have the perfect joke to send you out!”

Tim ignores the villain fairly vibrating with anger, and keeps calculating, rooting around in his bag for a similar medication to the one he gave Nightwing back when the fear gas almost killed him, one that will help thin the blood and hopefully make sure the Warden survive the night.

He fills the syringe and quickly injects the Warden in the side of the throat, not bothering to waste time untying him to look for a vein.

“This medication is hopefully going to put him back to a normal rhythm,” Tim fills in as Dr. Crane, Dr. Isley, and Dr. Fries join their little pow-wow. “I don’t know any of his history to know if this is going to even work–”

Dr. Fries gets closer to the Warden, goggles seemingly fixed on his face, “do you have a history of arrhythmia, or a family history of heart problems?”

Still gasping for air, the Warden just nods.

“Give me a few details,” the villain demands. “Start with your parents.”

To Tim’s surprise, Dr. Isley and Dr. Crane listen intently to the Warden’s details about his family medical history while Tim keeps two fingers on the Warden’s pulse and listens closely, hoping the uneven pitter-patter evens out to at least under 100 beats per minute.

“I doubt they have an echocardiogram here,” Crane snarks to Isley when the Warden is gasping and Fries turns to a random inmate, demanding water and aspirin immediately.

“Of course not,” Dr. Isley sighs with a shake of her head, “anything more involved than a bandage is too much for these nitwits to handle.”

Multitasking like a boss, Tim looks at the biologist, psychologist, and geneticist over his shoulder, “there’s not even an electrocardiogram here to monitor his sinus rhythm. There might be defibs in the infirmary if we hit worst case scenario–”

“Those were removed the last time we broke out,” Scarecrow shrugs nonchalantly. “I think someone used it on a guard.”

Ivy steps up, fingers moving in a gimmie motion until Tim hands over his stethoscope. “It’s still faster than 100 per minute. What was that you injected? Beta blockers?”

“Yes, Dr. Isley,” he accepts his stethoscope back, not mentioning how there was a little more than just Beta blockers in that syringe.

“Good,” and she turns back to her fellow non-medical doctors that seem to have opinions on treatments. “If they get him to Gotham General in time, they can perform–”

“For now, we must get him down and elevate his feet. The staff can take necessary measures from there,” Fries is already behind the Warden, untying the ropes. “It will give them time to escape without impeding treatment.”

“Agreed,” Crane and Isley turn together and very pointedly stalk toward the mass of inmates still standing around the cafeteria waiting for how this little sitch is going to pan out.

The Joker and Two-Face flank them, making it an utterly terrifying meeting of bad guys.

“Listen up,” Crane makes a terrifying figure even still in his orange jumpsuit. “You are going to let the medical staff treat the Warden. If any of us find out he died, then there is going to be a reckoning.”

The Joker’s laugh punctuates the severity of the message.

“We’re the ones that get to kill him, understand? And once he’s back to his normal, healthy self, we’ll give this another go!”

“Until then,” Poison Ivy’s eyes glint dangerously, “we expect everyone to behave.”

Tim is helping Dr. Fries lay the Warden on his back, “since when has everyone been moonlighting as MDs?” He asks breathlessly while Ivy heards the full-time medical staff away from the general population and closer to the panting Warden.

“You would be surprised how much time one has for reading in here,” Fries fills in. “On a different note, I am impressed with your latest article on McGregor’s Syndrome.” Fries holds a hand down to help him stand, “Nora’s case is too far advanced, but your preliminary findings are exciting nonetheless.”

Shaky, Tim allows the medical staff he’s familiar with take over with the Warden and accepts Dr. Fries’ hand. “Everything is based off your research, so really, I’m the one that should be grateful for your help.”

The supervillain makes a humming noise and squeezes his hand, “whatever you do,” is low, just between the two of them, “do not antagonize any of them. You will make it out of this alive if you are careful, Dr. Drake.”

The hysterical laughter bubbling up in his chest really has nothing to do with things that are hilarious.

“Staying alive is my top goal tonight,” but the bravado doesn’t cover up how badly his hands are shaking.

“We shall see if you manage to accomplish it,” Fries deadpans as the huddle of supervillains breaks up.

While he’d been assessing the Warden, Jim Newman has been loaded onto the gurney, already prepped for the ambulance ride, and the Mad Hatter’s ice pack finally melted, so he’s really feeling the need to be in a hospital with plenty of nice narcotics.

“We are out of time,” Fugate flips his watch closed, facing the rest of the escaping Rogue Gallery, “we leave now or risk getting caught.”

“Well, when you put it that way–” and the Joker turns on him, reaches out to wrap bony fingers around Tim’s wrist, clenching down tight. “I suppose you’re out of time too, right Doc?”

Two-Face has no problem getting close enough that Tim can see the residual scarring, can trace the deep grooves, wonder if a second try at plastic surgery would be helpful or destructive at this juncture in the supervillain’s life. “You don’t make trouble, you’ll see tomorrow. We have an understanding here?”

“Yes,” he replies breathlessly in the face of two utterly terrifying murderers. “I’m going to do what you say.”

“Stay smart and I’m not gonna have to flip for you again.”

And as Tim manages to snatch his doctor’s bag while he’s pulled behind members of the Rogue Gallery, he closes his eyes and takes a shaky breath, hopes Dick and Jay can follow wherever in the hell the villains are taking him.

Which is to the ambulance bay where two rigs and a car with Arkham Asylum on it are housed. He almost facepalms when the keys are hanging up on a wall hook.

Temple Fugate is already dressed in EMT clothing while Crane takes off his mask to put on another set as Jervis Tetch and Jim Newman are loaded in the back.

Shuna Belzer hops in the driver’s seat of the other ambulance while Tim is shoved up into the rear by Joker and Two-Face. Dr. Isley and Dr. Fries join him, sitting on the opposite bench with the empty gurney between them.

“Now, now, good Doctor,” the Joker’s manic grin is even creepier in the lighting, the madman holding the doors almost closed. “If you try to misbehave, our Plant Queen and Freezy Pop are going to have to spank you for being naughty. And trust me, kid. You don’t want that kind of spanking.”

Tim’s eyes are wide as the doors close, his chest getting tight when the Joker locks him in, and for the first time since this whole mess started, his eyes feel heavy and hot without an emergency to focus on (but he still has a plan). All he can do is blink rapidly, try to stop it before it starts, before he gets a little hysterical about everything.

(What if they just leave you here?)

At this juncture, he has no idea what their plans are for him, if he’s riding along just to get shot in the head and left in a ditch somewhere outside Gotham City limits, or if the nice psychopaths really might let him go.

With all of them, it’s a 50/50 really.

(A toss of Two-Face’s coin...)

So he doesn’t feel bad leaning over, bracing his forearms on his knees, one hand over his eyes to keep Dr. Fries and Dr. Isley from seeing it while the ambulance roars to life and jerks forward.

“You did well back there,” Poison Ivy’s voice floats over his head, makes him look up with his nose still pink and eyes still watery. “Most doctors are intimidated around criminals like us. You are...a refreshing change.”

“Everyone is a person when they’re sick or injured,” he replies lightly, scrubbing at his face.

He doesn’t see her mouth curl up in a smile. “Criminal or not doesn’t matter in my line of work.”

“He is quite accomplished,” Fries isn’t looking at either of them, idly staring out the windows in the ambulance doors. “Anyone taking on genetics would have to be.”

“Hm,” Dr. Isley hums, “a simple medical doctor also taking on genetics–”

“Botany isn’t that much different,” he defends lightly, eyes narrowed.

It’s telling when the terrifying criminal leans forward, one fist braced on her knee, and draws him in with the history of Physiology and the mind-blowing chlorokinesis.

She pauses when he calls her Dr. Isley respectfully when he disagrees, and eventually even Dr. Fries joins them on the discussion when they move to microbiology.

It’s close enough to talking with colleagues that he almost forgets about the whole hostage thing for a few minutes while the ambulance rolls down from the mountains and splits ways with the other rig going toward Gotham General while their rig is heading toward Midtown, probably to pick up that puppet the Ventriloquist was yelling about.

He’s in the middle of arguing mitosis with Dr. Fries when the obvious sirens cut through the air. The ambulance jerks forward, accelerating.

Tim doesn’t hit the floor, but only just.

Dr. Fries opens the small window to the front, “what is going on?”

“We’ve been made, Tasty Freeze,” the Joker snarls with the EMT cap pulled over his forehead. “Someone ratted us out!”

“Step on it, Bells. Get us gone,” Tim hears Two-Face saying.

The sock puppet on her hand turns to look back at Fries. “Might wanna buckle up, kids! It’s going to be a bumpy ride.”

In a creepy movement, Fries and Isley turn to him.

“Sit down down and hold on,” Isley tells him, wiggling her fingers. Something up her sleeve moves, worms down her hand and fingers while Tim watches with clinical curiosity.

Tim gasps, watching the small plant growing under her mental coaxing, the long stem dividing, wrapping around the bolted legs of the bench he’s sitting on and form a makeshift harness around his shoulders and chest.

When he expects the vines to be thorny and coarse, terrifyingly restrictive, it’s actually kind of okay. The plant is warm and alive almost a heartbeat against his chest and arms, securing him to the bench.

The sirens on their ambulance start to wail and the Ventriloquist shoves her foot on the gas to make the rig lurch and speed faster, dodging around traffic.

“Where are you going?!” He can hear the Joker shriek, “the docks are that way!”

“I told you,” is the nasally voice of the sock puppet. “We’re going to get Ferdie first!”

“Oh no,” Dr. Isley mutters a second too late.

Because the Joker reaches over and jerks the wheel out of the Ventriloquists hands, yelling “getting away from the cops first, idiot!” and the ambulance careens sideways, skittering across the busy highway and smashing into a sedan minding its own business, and a tire on the rig blows while the villains in the front are fighting over control.

So Tim expects the rig to to smash into something, maybe even flip over and skitter across the pavement while the plants keep him from being thrown all over the back. He doesn’t expect Poison Ivy to lunge across the empty gurney just before the ambulance is airborne, throwing her arms around him, and shoving his face in her shoulder to protect him from the next few minutes of grinding metal and breaking glass.

The side of the ambulance splits on impact, twisting metal cuts through the vines holding him, severing the makeshift harness, and not even the remaining tendril could keep him and Dr. Isley from being thrown out of the rig onto the hot Gotham street.

The jolt of the landing drives the breath out of him, is when he slams his head hard enough that moving immediately is a real bad idea. The road rash is going to be shitty, but the blood in his eyes and woozy quality to life once he can raise his head probably means he’s just hit concussion city.

“D-Dr. Isley? Dr. Fries?” Sounds rough from his throat, sounds choked.

He’s dizzy when he pushes himself up, trying to keep from vomiting at the abrupt turn his stomach takes when he sits up, blinks at the the too-bright street lights.

Dr. Isley is laying a few feet from him on her side, breathing but not moving.

“No! No, no, no,” but his limbs feel heavy and sluggish when he tries to stand up and fails. He settles on hands and knees because at least he’s not going to throw up now, so he’s already winning for the night.

“Dr. Isley!” But he’s already assessing before he even touched her shoulder to roll her over, shaky hands assessing her neck, cracking open her eye lids, and by some miracle, he’d been wearing his Arkham-Only medical bag when they were thrown from the ambulance in the first place.

It proves to be moot when Pamela’s eyes flutter over while he’s taking her pulse and blinking rapidly to keep his vision clear, trying to be gentle but firm when he presses on her belly, and looks over every inch of her jumpsuit to make sure he hasn’t missed any indications of injuries.

“Oh thank God,” he whispers when her eyes dart up to him, and Tim leans back just a little to swipe his forearm over his eyes to make sure he doesn’t, you know, cry all over a patient.

“Dr. Isley, are you able to sit up? Do you feel dizzy? Nauseous?” He doesn’t realize he’s gone from taking her pulse to holding her hand.

“No,” she replies faintly, pushing herself up, “I believe I’m all right.”

“Okay...okay, that’s good. That’s so good, but I’ve got to check on Dr. Fries and the others. Just-just call for me if you start to feel worse, or sleepy or anything! I’ll be right back.”

Standing the second time is really a win when adrenaline hits him somewhere in the spine, and that small secret smile of hers convinces him she doesn’t have any serious injuries. But the vines flattened and slightly writhing under her makes him hope they cushioned her fall.

He uses all the strength in his weak arms to pull at the ambulance doors until they damn things open, and he can see Dr. Fries laying in a sprawl of metal suit and limbs, weakly gasping since the glass dome of his helmet has been broken.

“Dr. Fries!”

And the concussion has to take a back seat for the moment because time really isn’t on their side.

His brain starts working while he makes his way back into the ambulance, stumbling before righting himself, and gripping the villain under both arms, straining to drag him out of the ambulance and lay on the Gotham street.

The dome has a broken piece with frigid air escaping, and with the goggles askew, he can see the pupils are almost blown.

“Hold on, hold on,” he’s chanting and pulling everything out of his bag, searching for–

Duct tape and a Bolin Chest Seal.

Without any idea if the seal can stand-up to the frigid temperature of Dr. Fries’ suit, Tim makes his hand stop shaking to peel the backing off and apply it around the broken area, ripping the duct tape with his teeth to help reinforce the cracks.

Dr. Isley falls to her knees beside him abruptly, watching him apply a final strip. Together, they hold their breath while his breathing evens out and the visible eye flutters.

Luckily for them, police cars and a legit ambulance are quickly closing in on the carnage, so he can finally, finally, rest.

–or would have, but Two-Face kicks the door to the front of the wrecked rig open and stands out with the gun still in hand.

“It was you,” the gangster is dragging one foot, snarling wildly, “you got us caught. I shoulda gutted ya back at the nut house while I had a chance!”

The Joker woozily climbs out after him and just face plants into the street, something slurry like “anyone get the number of that bus?” while Shauna Belzer is already running away from the scene with the sock puppet leading her way.

“Harvey,” is a warning in Dr. Isley’s tone.

“Shut up, Pam. You know it was him!” The gun is wavery, but Tim is still one hundred percent sure the shot is going to be accurate enough to be bad news for him. “There ain’t no other way!”

“I was in the back the whole time,” he tries, subtly sliding an arm up in front of Dr. Isley, and the other over Dr. Fries. “There’s no way I could have alerted anyone about anything.”

“I ain’t taking anymore chances on you, no more flips, no more hiding, just curtains,” and the hammer goes back–

The next second, a blast of light takes over the sight of the gun barrel pointed at his chest, and the gangster’s hand and weapon are instantly encased in a block of ice.

“What the hell!?”

Dr. Fries pushes himself up, his freeze gun in hand, the seal around his domed helmet still working to keep him breathing. “It would be in poor taste to allow you to kill the young man that saved my life, Dent.”

Wearily, Dr. Fries drops the freeze gun while Two-Face falls to his knees with the heavy block encasing his fist and the gun.

Tim automatically winds his arm around the shoulders of Dr. Fries’ suit, helping the villain stay upright while the slamming of brakes and opening of doors signal the GCPD to the rescue.

Commissioner Gordon himself questions the young doctor, eyeing him critically when he insists Dr. Fries and Dr. Isley weren’t really trying to escape, but went along with the Joker’s plan to make sure he, the civilian, didn’t wind up dead.

“I’ve worked with Dr. Fries before,” and even though he told the young uniform no about the blanket and ride to Gotham General, he’s regretting it now because he’s starting to get cold his head is aching, “I published a paper about McGregor’s syndrome a few months ago. Early stage treatment. He helped me with the background, so yeah, he didn’t want me to get hurt. And Dr. Isley protected me when the ambulance flipped over. If there were trying to escape, they wouldn’t have saved me, or stopped Two-Face from killing me.”

“All right then, Doctor,” Gordon eyes him while he closes his little notebook, “I’ll have a word with the judge and the Warden. He’s fine by the way, and asked me to thank-you. He’s in Gotham General, about to go into surgery.”

“What about Jim Newman?” He asks quickly, rubbing his arms when a light dusting of rain makes him even colder.

“They were still working on him last time I checked, but everything looks good from what they said.”

And since the Commissioner is taller than him by at least a few inches, he can look over Tim’s head to signal another officer to their little pow-wow on the back of the intact ambulance.

Tim had immediately waved the gaping EMTs off to pick up Two-Face and Joker, had slapped a bandage on his own head and did a quick saline wash of his road rash.

He’d personally helped Dr. Fries and Dr. Isley into another ambulance, his expression troubled when the double-doors closed on them, and the rig took off through Gotham. It had been enough for him to seek out the Commissioner and tell him exactly what had gone down tonight so Poison Ivy and Dr. Freeze wouldn’t face further jail time.

(The flutter in the night, gold and black of Robin’s cape, or well, maybe he’d just imagined it. He’s got a pretty rocking concussion after all.)

Detective Renee Montoya is someone he’d worked with on more than one occasion. When she whistles low at the obvious damage, he knows the bruises are probably going to be beautiful tomorrow.

“Montoya, Dr. Drake doesn’t want to go to the hospital. Can you give him a lift when you head back to the station?”

“Absolutely, Sir–”

“To Arkham,” he interrupts blearily, “my car is still there. I need to pick it up.”

Both cops arch a brow at him, but Tim just stares back without further comment.

“All right. To Arkham it is.” Montoya grins at him and crooks a finger, leads him to her car sitting on the outskirts of the accident.

And really, Detective Montoya is a kind soul, stops long enough to get awful drive-thru coffee for him to sip on while they drive back to the Asylum, and she listens intently as he tells the story with a little more depth the second time.

“I’m glad you aren’t badly hurt, but you still should consider going to the hospital, Tim–”

“That’s not necessary, Detective.” Concussions not withstanding, he thinks as he sips his coffee. “I would probably go to work instead of rest anyway, so moot point even I went to Gotham General instead. But, I mean, how did the GCPD get control of Arkham and come after us so fast? I didn’t expect anyone to come after us.”

Except certain masked vigilantes, but, you know, prison breaks are really time consuming.

Montoya side-eyes him again. In her career, she’d brought more than one perp into Mercy Hospital’s ER, guarding handcuffed suspects, usually sporting a variety of injuries tangling with the Bats of Gotham. More than once, it was her or Bullock or another cop on one of Dr. Drake’s gurneys bleeding out, and the guy was absolutely unshakeable, pulling miracles out of his ass.

So yeah, she knows the Doc and his odd tendencies to get tangled up in too many...situations. Many of which lead right back to the city’s resident vigilantes.

(As a detective, she put together at least seven incidents in the last 24 months connecting their good doctor with the Bats. Crane taking over the hospital, kidnapped by the Joker, the bridge. Reported sightings of JLA members in Gotham hovering over Mercy General, and she would bet her badge it was the superheroes bringing their Batman to see Drake. Then the question as to why else would the Batman come out during the day and save what appeared to be one person? Unless that person was his personal physician. Not to mention that time someone got a few pieces of security footage with a Robin that was...taller, not as smooth jumping from rooftops. Oddly enough, some unknown masked crusader running with the Red Hood chasing this, what, fourth kid wearing the tunic? Given the evidence, Renee has theories.)

She might smirk a little at his very obvious deflection, but it also triggers every instinct she’s cultivated as a cop in Gotham City.

“Well, I’ll be honest with you, Doc, but it looks like the night crew had a hand in settling down things at the Asylum. Not to mention we got a call from the Head Nurse of the ER at Gotham General about a note you apparently left. That was probably after an anonymous tip to the station made us aware the Clock King, Mad Hatter, and Scarecrow were on their way to the hospital in disguise.”

He smiles into his coffee and appreciates the blasting heat all the way back up to the madhouse on the hill. She notices he doesn’t ask who the night crew is, and just adds it to the list of evidence.

It nice when Montoya walks him back inside, apparently not trusting him to get through to the infirmary at the back of the Asylum and get the keys to his car without another incident.

(She probably has a good reason.)

He makes an effort to keep it together in front of the detective when they make their way through the throng of police officers, extra guards, and personnel filling the hallways. The itch on the back of his neck could be the events of the night catching up to him, the anxiety on the edges of his consciousness that looks a lot like smeared cream corn and stab wounds, aching palms and exhaustion in every bone of his body.

It could also be how closely Montoya is watching him while they walk further into the compound.

His keys are on the same hook by the keycard access door, and it’s finally a spark of luck when a uniform on the premises catches her on their way in, pulls her aside to talk about something. (“They were here from what the inmates say,” the uniforms tells her low, “Red Hood and Nightwing were pretty brutal this time. The Bat had a hard time wrangling them in.”)

He gives a small wave with keys in hand to let her know he’s on the way out.

She puts a hand on the uniform’s shoulder to pause their conversation and give him another long look. “You should get some sleep, Doc. Take a few days off. I’ll bet you’ve got some… people looking out for you that will agree with me.”

For absolutely no reason, his face starts to get warm. “Thanks again for the ride, Detective.”

With her card in his pocket (not that he doesn’t have a collection of them from GCPD back on his desk at Mercy), he calmly adjusts his bag over the blood stains on the side of his scrubs and makes sure his badge is visible.

He keeps it the fuck together when he walks out of Arkham through the thinning throng like nothing is out of place, like he hasn’t just gone through half of the Rogue Gallery and lived to tell about it.

He absolutely doesn’t notice the vigilantes going through a particular vent as he starts down the maze of hallways to get the fuck out.

His battered Civic (because the nice car is only for special occasions, why chance getting it blown up?) looks more like safety than he’s ever associated with it before. Maybe that’s why his knees abruptly go out on him when he’s at the driver’s door, but it’s fine, fine to just take some time to sit, get his lungs full of air for the first time since this shit-show started.

(They had to take care of things like good saviors of the city and he survived, he’s good. He’s good. He’s good. He’s going to go home, make coffee, get a shower, and wait up for them to ask how the night went on their end. Just as soon as his knees get strength again–)

The crunch of gravel somewhere behind the car is what shakes him up from the blank time since he sat (fell) down to now. Before he can be up and moving, it’s Jason, his boyfriend, kneeling there beside him instead of the dangerous vigilante, the Red Hood.

He barely registers when Jay reaches for him, wraps him up in a tight embrace, talks gently against his hair

(“S’all right, Baby. Gotcha all caught up now, don’t I? Time ta go home, yeah?”

“J-Jay, what-what are you...?”

“Sorry, Timmy. They already gotcha out by the time we got here, n’ by the time we got those fuckers back in their cells, we gotch word there was an accident and GCPD was on the scene! Dick lost his fucking mind when we heard it over the radio.”

“O-Oh. It’s...it’s okay. I’m okay. I-I’m okay.”

“Mmhm. We’ll be the judge a’ that, won’t we, Baby?”)

It’s so easy to slot himself against the front of Jay’s body, the leather against his cheek is cool and worn and the smell of brimstone, gives him a reason for another deep breath.

It’s so easy for Jay to slide the driver’s seat back to make room for longer legs, to maneuver Tim in the passenger seat and buckle him in without complaints, stupidly lifting him instead of helping him stand.

E - we’ll go with Edmund, he thinks lazily when exhaustion sets in and the movement of the car keeps him aware enough to know Edmund isn’t going to be the worst concussions he’s ever had, so the night ends on a high note after all.

It’s better because Jay drives with one hand while the other has a grip on his wrist that is just this side of a little too tight, just what he needs to be able to drift because that hold is safe. At some point he’s burrowed down in the Red Hood’s famous leather jacket with the belt over his chest, and it smells like Gotham and brimstone enough to keep him grounded, so all he has to do is stare at the comm in Jay’s ear and drift.

“I got ‘em, Dick. He’s movin’ but he needs one hell of an aftercare hour if ya know what I mean.” Pause.

“Get the fuck off this wave, Demon. Ain’t nobody asked yer ass nothing anyhow.”

Another pause and a side-eye.

“There’s blood on ‘im, Alf, don’t look life-threatening, bruises n’ scrapes more n’ likely. Prob’ly a concussion ‘cause he ain’t trackin’ well, are ya Baby?”

He’s down in a soft, sleepy place, doesn’t feel like he really has to answer if it brings him closer to the surface. He manages to wiggle his fingers up to rub at Jay’s wrist, checks in as well as can really be expected.

Seriously, it’s been a rough fucking night.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. S’okay, baby, ya done good t’night, yeah? Me n’ all the Bats are proud as fuck, you feel me? Some a’ the worst of the worst n’ ya kept the body count low. Whazat? Naw, Dickie, we’re almost there. Gonna be waitin’ on us? Not you, Rob, got school inna morning, ain’t cha? Time fer little birdies ta go back ta the nest.”

Tim cracks his eyes open when the soothing roll of movement finally stops, but Dick is already there opening his door, barefoot with sweats and a hastily thrown-on t-shirt, bodily lifting him even though he’s all kinds of awake now.

“Oh my God,” and those arms get so, so tight.

(It feels so nice.)

“C’mon, put me down,” is huffed more by habit than conviction because really, he’s good with the damsel in distress act this time.

“You’re taking years off my life, Tim, and I’m a seasoned vigilante,” is about as deadpan as mother-hen Dick Grayson can get.

“If I ain’t a’ died already, ya’d be getting me close t’ it,” a soft kiss to his forehead, “no more gettin’ caught up with murderin’ psychos.”

“I think we’ve already had this conversation.”

“Apparently, it ain’t been stickin’.”

He hums a little and lets his eyes flutter closed again, lets them talk over his head while they take the fire escape up just to slide in his window.

He rouses enough to get a shower, tries pushing them bodily out the door to stop hovering, but it’s not like that’s going to happen.

It’s still feels really nice when they’re absolutely gentle with him, sliding his clothes off, touching the bruises and road rash with soft, hurt noises. It gets worse because he takes the time to really wash in case there’s residual debris, finally gets pulled under the hot water with a wall of muscle and security bracketing him in.

Jay washes his hair while Dick holds him by the hips, the two of them talking gently about what happened after they left the Cave and headed to the Asylum for pound the baddies into pudding time.

They had just worked their way to the cafeteria when they get word some of the Rogues escaped in ambulances, alerting the GCPD while they wrangled inmates back to their cells and took care of the captive staff.

B himself took the Warden to Gotham General once they had things well in hand, and the bats monitored the police radio when mentions of the accident heading toward Dixon with Gordon on scene. Rob jumped outta the big car fast enough to intercept GCPD to see Tim moving. It’s more hilarious than it should have been when Jay clucks his tongue and tells him to stop making friends with bad guys.

“I ain’t saying Pam n’ Vic are bad ta have on yer side,” a wet kiss to the top of his head, “but why don’t cha stick wid’ Ives and leave ‘em ta us?”

Dick is kneeling down gently washing his battered knees, “not to mention the conversation we’ll be having tomorrow about why we didn’t know you were moonlighting at Arkham and working with Victor Fries.” The warning in his tone makes Tim just sighs and lean back against Jay’s chest to let the two of them hold him up.

“Demon brat’s got something ta say ‘bout it, too,” said in his ear, “little asshole was worried as fuck. Don’t let ‘im tell ya any different.”

“I’ll call him tomorrow, let him know I’m okay,” and he absolutely will, if anything, to avoid Robin showing up at Mercy with another sandwich and soup to shove at him.

“Good idea, Baby. He was fighting like hell until we found out you weren’t even there.”

He doesn’t laugh at the insinuation, but he might just snicker a little.

He manages to step out on him own, but Jay takes the towel from his hands to get his back and Dick lifts him by the hips to set him on the sink so they can put salve and gauze on his injuries themselves.

They keep him distracted through the process with easy kisses and updates on Jim Newman, Hatter’s face, and Fugate’s excuses of coercion because, “I’m clinically insane. Of course I went along for the ride.”

They tell him they’re sending Pam a nice fern and Victor some data sets from B’s own trials with McGregor’s since it’s just good manners to thank supervillains for saving innocent civilians. He mumbles back about pasta salad and guns in his face. How playing Uno with some of the inmates has somehow made him cool enough not to die during a breakout, which they should take as a win considering the circumstances.

He must look about as bad as he feels because they get more gentle when he finally gives them what they desperately want, details about what went down. It’s woozy ramblings more than his usual high-level short and sweet because Shauna Bellzer is probably still out there looking for Ferdie, because the Joker apparently remembers him and is actively checking out shit like YouTube, and because now Two-Face is probably going to want him dead since that whole bridge fiasco is a point of contention.

He might wobble enough or sound shitty enough for Jay to take it as a reason to steer him toward the couch and cuddle the hell out of him, do that thing where he kisses the back of Tim’s neck in the right spots to make him shiver.

Dick runs a hand through his hair while he answers B’s wave with the last tag-up of the night, listens to the Dark Knight ranting about the clean-up at Arkham and going over the damn place yet again to check how the crazies keep escaping. But whatever Dick says in reply is lost on him when the world around him gets fuzzy at the edges again. He doesn’t realize how tight his hands are fisted in Jay’s shirt until fingers are trying to massage them open.

He might mumble something payment in kind because really? He did the job for them this time. One less shit show for them to fight (you’re welcome), so he really does deserve cuddles and warm showers dammit.

He totally earned it this time.

Dick eventually hangs up and unapologetically smushes him further down against Jay and coos softly, so he might have said it out loud, but can’t be bothered to care when he finally sinks down, comfortable and safe with that he’s just suddenly–

–out.

When he blinks again, arms over his hip and warm bodies bracket him in. It’s still early enough for him to sigh and sink back down for a few more hours, the ache in his bruised muscles secondary when his bed is full. It’s enough for him to sleep without nightmares of guns in his face and echoing laughter.

And if they wake him up with kisses to his stomach and chest, with bare hands sliding under his pajamas, with oh so gentle lovemaking, with talking against his throat and hip about how relieved they are, how brave he is, how strong he is, how he really oughtta have a Kevlar suit all his own and a domino on his face just on principle.

If they coddle and cuddle him, demand he tell them everything again from the beginning, take him back to the bedroom when his chest stutters at the most frightening parts, if they make him stay close until nightfall when they have to move into the shadows and be the protectors Gotham City needed. If they argue with him about resting instead of leaving to run the Gauntlet at Mercy with Steph and his team. If they check in on him half-way through the night and maybe just kidnap him for an hour to check his knees and the road rash. If they make him take two aspirin and drink a bottle of water, claim mid-patrol sandwiches for the win.

If they tell him they love him before they go back to it and leave him on the roof of the hospital with a fully belly and stars in his eyes, mouth still swollen from their kisses–

–then he’s going to to back to work with a stupid smile on his face and fight harder to save lives, to beat back the darkness of Gotham in his own way. He’s going to run until his lungs are on fire and his legs are wobbly. He’s going to answer calls from fucking space, and race the clock when the heroes of their world are facing mortality and need a doctor with hobbies. He’s going to keep track of the ninjas spying on them and be a safe place when the night life is killing his most important people. He’s going to do everything he can to keep moving. He’s going to fucking fight the good fight and it’s going to be by his choice every time.

Because this?

This is his life.

#winter writes #900 Followers #dr!tim #tim drake #jason todd #dick grayson #Rogue Gallery #dc comics #dickjaytim #I'm so proud of this fic #I can't even tell you #bad ass civilian tim #my fic #my writing #long post

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aleteia-ff · 5 years

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A Decade To Find You - 3

Also Read On: AO3 | FF.net

Thank you everyone for the support! Unfortunately, school started again, so this update came in a bit later, but I'm definitely finishing this story! My current expectation is that it will end at 5 chapters, perhaps 4. This one turned out a lot longer than I'd anticipated, hence me coming back from my earlier estimate of 3 chapters!

I hope you enjoy!

Summary: Astrid didn't think much of the guy she bumped into just after midnight on January 1, 2010. It was just a hasty apology, a quip and a lop-sided grin from his side. It wasn't supposed to be special.Hiccup felt the same way. That was, until he locked eyes with her again one year later. And the year after that. And the next.But somehow, their destinies only seemed to intertwine that one night a year... On New Year's Eve.

Hiccstrid, New Year’s Eve Fic. Spanning the entire past decade.

Chapter 3: New Year’s Eve 2016

December 31st, 2016

Life came with a lot of difficult choices. Hiccup knew that all too well. Batman, Superman, or simply admitting that the DCEU, especially after Suicide Squad, didn't quite hold a candle to the MCU? It was a shame, really. He'd always loved Batman, had reread many of his old comics since 2014, even saw the humour in George Clooney's Batnipples. But perhaps Justice League would prove everyone wrong in 2017. Hopefully.

At least it hadn't been difficult to choose between Team Cap and Team Iron Man. As much as he adored Spider-Man, his father's opinion was simply more important. And Steve Rogers was their guy.

He felt silly to be spending energy on those dilemmas, but after all the shit he'd been through, it was a breath of fresh air to be worried about stuff that was simple. To have his life on the rails, to no longer be forced to sort through his father's will and figure out how to handle all the insurance and ownership documents. He'd even felt comfortable enough to go and study abroad, having spent the best part of the last half year in Melbourne while Gobber, Snotlout and Uncle Spite took care of what was now his house.

Uncle Spite had told him that it was fine if Hiccup wanted to sell it, that he would find a trustworthy real estate agent who got him his money's worth. It would allow Hiccup to buy an apartment in Hopeless, closer to university, and leave Berk and all the painful memories there behind.

He'd seriously considered the change of scenery, because of course it was difficult to forget what had happened when so many people around him knew. Not just the small family that remained. But also Mrs. Ack from down the street, who kept bringing him leftovers, because his thin frame had led her to assume he wasn't feeding himself properly. The Bog family, who lived a few houses away and whose eldest daughter, Camicazi, frequently stole his garbage bags long and put them at the side of the street for the truck to pick up. Everyone knew what had happened to him, and wanted to do their utmost best to support him. He didn't need it, and had told them to stop several times, painfully elated and awkward, rubbing the back of his head so hard he was surprised he hadn't gone bald yet. But Berkians were stubborn, and persisted nevertheless.

And the more time he'd spent in Australia, the more he'd started to miss Berk. He didn't know what it was about the town that had been his family's home for seven generations. But the moment he'd set foot in it again after returning from the other side of the world, it had simply felt like home. And for now, he had no intention to leave.

He didn't know what it was, exactly. Tuffnut and Ruffnut weren't around much, their band now touring the country and only returning as a service to Gruffnut, who had given them the necessary spotlight by booking them last New Year's Eve - although the way the twins told the story, it was Gruffnut who owed them, not the other way around. Fishlegs was studying at the Hopeless Institute of Technology - the name of which was a HIT with students in exam weeks - like him, so Berk wasn't where they saw each other most. Hiccup had grown closer to Snotlout however, some of his cousin's obnoxiousness having faded after his father passed away. Or it was simply being channelled into the roles he played with Berk's local musical theatre company.

Still, Hiccup felt something was keeping him in Berk. He didn't mind it, not in the slightest, it felt good, like he'd finally found a fragment of inner peace. But he didn't know what it was exactly.

And he didn't have time to think about it, since a voice snapped him out of his tragically derailed train of thought.

"What's on the menu?"

He had only heard it one time before, seven years ago. Yet he recognised it immediately.

He turned his head, looking right into the beautiful blue eyes of the woman next to him. He had to look down at her now, unlike on the first day of 2010, but felt incredibly tiny nevertheless. He'd thought he'd blown it when she'd fled from him last year, having rejected her himself the year before that one. But here she was, smiling at him with a teasing smirk on her face and making the ground underneath his feet disappear, sending him into a free fall.

"Hey - uh - hey -" He laughed sheepishly when he finally remembered how to form words, rubbing the back of his head, and her grin only widened. "Hi," he concluded more sternly, as if it would miraculously make up for his earlier stammering.

She bit her lower lip, laughing still and making his insides contract because he'd thought she couldn't look cuter, a dark blue beanie pulled over her ears, but of course she kept surprising him. "Hey."

For all the times he'd imagined spending time with her, he now realised he'd put embarrassingly little effort into what exactly he would say to her when the stars finally aligned.

There were a million thing he could say, but now that he had the chance, he couldn't come up with anything. His eyes flicked back to the wooden stall in front of him, to the choice he'd been trying to make, and he finally realised that she had already asked him a question he still had to answer.

"All of this is on the menu," he told her, widely gesturing at the space in front of him, a holiday market stall selling all kinds of New Year's treats and drinks from around the world. "I don't even know half of it, but I figured I should try something."

"How about you let me pick?" she proposed. "And I'll pay for it too, in case it's horrible."

"Only if you have it with me," he smiled, her smirk contagious. "And let me buy you a drink in return."

"Deal," she nodded, instantly stepping forward to examine the shop's showcase, her brows furrowing as she focused. Occasionally, she made an adorable sound when she not-so-silently judged the different kinds of food, and Hiccup found himself staring at her, cherishing the moment.

Because she hadn't disappeared yet.

He quickly pretended to be studying the sign that listed the available drinks when she glanced over her shoulder, shooting him another smile.

"Glühwein?" he asked, his voice shooting up as if he'd gone straight back to puberty.

"Nah." She shook her head, looking away from a moment. "I don't drink." She paused before adding: "Not anymore."

"I can respect that," he nodded, thinking back to the times he'd seen her considerably less sober. Despite only catching a glimpse of her, he was sure just last year had been one of those. And he couldn't deny that while he respected anyone enough to let them make their own decisions, she hadn't looked as well as she'd done the years before. As if there had been a little less light in her otherwise bright eyes.

She pulled up an eyebrow. "Really?"

"Yeah," he shrugged, gesturing at his head. "Hangovers suck. Kills your brain too. And booze doesn't even always taste as good as people pretend it does."

"I'm glad you agree," she hummed.

"You make it sound like I'm special."

She took him in for a moment, as if she was seizing him up. "I guess you are. Most of my friends at university disagreed."

"Seems like you need better friends."

"Which is why I'm here." Her lips settled back into a smile. "And I think you still owe me a mug of hot chocolate."

He couldn't help but grin. "Sounds like a plan."

He ordered two mugs of hot chocolate with whipped cream on top while Hot Chocolate Girl - her name, he had to ask for her name - picked out a snack she liked. They walked away from the stall with what she laughingly informed him were called 'Dutch doughnuts' - huge balls of deep fried dough with raisins in them, covered in about a pound of powdered sugar.

He asked her if she wanted to sit down.

"Of course," was her simple answer.

They zigzagged through the crowd, her leading so he wouldn't lose sight of her - not again - until they reached one of the market's squares. He thanked the Gods Luktuk had gotten spiteful and had organised its own winter market this year. Meaning it was a lot less busy and that there were actually some free spots. He had already started to dread the prospect of having to go and sit back with Snotlout. Not that Snot wasn't good company, but from the corner of his eye he could easily see his cousin, already sufficiently drunk, draw Barney Stinson's hot-crazy scale in the air, challenging Fishlegs and the twins to determine where Hot Chocolate Girl would land.

So much for Snotlout losing some of his obnoxiousness.

They sat down across from each other at one of the wooden picnic tables, and for a moment, Hiccup felt himself caught in how unreal the situation felt. He had thought of this girl for years, imagined what she might be like, chased by the notion that seeing her every year on one specific day couldn't be a coincidence. And now he had the chance to confirm that suspicion.

He laughed at himself for his superstition. He had no idea if she even had the same ideas about him. But she chuckled, too, and their eyes met again.

"What's your name?" he asked, curling his fingers around his mug.

"Astrid. Astrid Hofferson." She - Astrid - slowly moved her spoon, mixing the cream into the hot chocolate. "You?"

He blinked, somewhere surprised that she didn't know it already. That he had forgotten that she knew as little about him as he did about her. "I'm -"

He was going to offer her the formal introduction he gave any stranger. But that didn't feel right.

"People call me Hiccup."

Astrid - such a pretty name - pulled up her eyebrow. "Hiccup?"

"It's a nickname," he shrugged. "People close to me have been calling me that for as long as I've known. I was quite small as a kid." He held out his hand next to the table, at the same height his hip would now be. "Dad called me a little Hiccup, and it stuck. First with my cousin, who was in the same class as me in elementary school… And you know how kids are."

"Assholes," she noted.

"Definitely."

She reached for her pocket, whisking out her phone. She bit her lower lip as she started to type. "Are you Hiccup on Facebook too?"

He gave her a sheepish grin. "No, I actually don't have Facebook. Nor Instagram. Or Snapchat."

"Whoa. What century did you come from?"

"I'm not much of a social media guy," he tried to explain. "Not a fan of Mark Zuckerberg getting his hands on all my data."

"Yeah, he is a bit of a creep," Astrid nodded. "Shame I can't go without Messenger."

"Call me old-fashioned, but I can give you my number instead," he proposed. "I do have WhatsApp."

She frowned. "Didn't Facebook buy WhatsApp like two years ago?"

"Just an introduction to how consistent my principles are," he quipped.

"At least you have some. I'm just a regular sell-out." She swiped around on her phone for a moment, before handing it to him. She had opened a new contact, the name already filled out.

"Fake Foot Guy?" he laughed.

"It's not much worse of a nickname than 'Hiccup'," she shot back.

She'd had a nickname for him too. "Can't argue with that."

He typed his number into her phone and handed it back to her, feeling awfully giddy at how easy it was to talk to her. Astrid tucked it back into her jeans, and pointed at the curious snack in front of her. "After you."

"Whoa, Astrid," he objected, putting his hands up in the air. "You picked it out."

"Fine, I'll be the brave one," she joked, and lifted the doughnut, making a toast with it. "Bon appetit."

She took a bite, looking pensive as she chewed calmly before finally publishing her verdict. "It's not too bad, actually."

Encouraged, he began to eat as well, taking a big bite to show he wasn't a coward.

"You're right, not as bad as it looks."

"You doubted me?"

"Not even for a second."

She shook her head at him, working the rest of the doughnut down with impressive speed. She propped her head up on her hand as she waited for him to finish, playfully cocking her head and tapping her fingers on the table while grinning to herself.

"Hey, at least I'm taking the time to enjoy my food," he defended himself.

"Oh, that's now why I'm laughing," Astrid grinned. "You just have some sugar on your face."

"Where?"

Astrid gestured to her own face, drawing a circle in the air. "Everywhere."

Way to make an impression, Haddock. He hastily grabbed his napkin, but when he looked back up he found Astrid leaning over the table, tentatively reaching out to him with hers.

He sat there, frozen when she carefully wiped the tip of his nose as if it was the most obvious, the most natural thing to do. With her so close, he could count the few freckles on her cheeks, her entire presence kissed by the sun in a way people in Berk so rarely were. His eyes fell to her soft, pink lips, slightly chapped by the cold, and he considered hooking his finger underneath her chin and finding out if she still tasted like sugar too. But he figured she always did.

It felt like it was supposed to. It felt right. As if he'd never done otherwise. As if he was lucky enough to get to gaze into her beautiful blue eyes every single day.

While the truth was that he hardly even knew her.

"What do you do?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

"Huh?" Astrid blinked, then looked at her hand, her eyebrows shooting up as if she hadn't realised it belonged to her. "I'm sorry -"

"No, don't be," he told her as she backed away, already missing the closeness and sheepishly cleaning the remaining sugar off his face to occupy himself. "I just meant, what do you do on, you know, other days than New Year's Eve?"

"Oh." She sat down, wiped off her hands and tucked some of her hair back behind her ear. "Mostly volunteer work, these days. Trying to help people where I can."

"That's great!"

"Yeah, it's very satisfying." Her voice trailed off, making him raise an eyebrow.

"Sounds like there's a 'but'."

She smiled slightly. "It's not exactly long-term. I need to find an actual job eventually so I can move out and become an actual adult."

"Any ideas on that yet?"

She shook her head. "That's the issue. I went to uni to become a doctor so I could help people, but it wasn't for me. So this past year, I've been trying to figure out what I want to do instead."

"I don't see how that's an issue."

"Because it's not the way it's supposed to go!" Astrid exclaimed. "I always thought gap years were a waste of time, and now here I am, doing exactly what I vouched I never would."

"Life hardly ever goes how it's supposed to," he shrugged, taking a sip. "And it doesn't seem to me like you're not doing anything."

She cocked her head at him. "What makes you so sure?"

Because I feel like I've known you all my life. "You don't seem like the kind of person to lie in bed watching Netflix all week."

"Of course not," she snorted.

"And you probably volunteer like ten, twenty hours a week…" he murmured, trying not to grin.

"Thirty. At least," she corrected him. "Fifty maybe, if there's a kickboxing tourney in town."

"Okay, public service announcement, don't pick a fight with Astrid," he quipped, painting the words in the air. "Although it's unlikely kicking your ass fits her schedule, because she works so godsdamned hard."

Astrid gave him a determined look. "I can always take time out of my day for special cases."

"Lucky me, people have been telling me I'm very special all my life," he mock-gaped. "What are the odds!"

"About the same as those of living in a town with one hundred thousand people, but nevertheless seeing the same person eight New Year's Eves in a row?"

He froze and looked at her, the way his blue eyes peered into his, searching for something. "You realised it too," he gaped, his voice suddenly a lot softer.

"Of course I did," she scoffed, rolling her eyes. "I may be a drop-out, but I'm not stupid."

"Didn't meant to imply you were, just…" he laughed at himself. "I thought I was the weird one."

"I don't think you're weird," Astrid reassured him. "Just a dork."

"Do you…" he started, his throat suddenly dry. "Do you think it's a coincidence?"

"That's what I'm trying to figure out."

He was staring at her again, wondering if leaning across the table and kissing her would be an acceptable way of 'figuring it out'. If she would find it inappropriate, or if she would wrap her arms around his neck and kiss him back until their position inevitably became uncomfortable.

He could get up and walk to the other side of the table, sit down on the bench next to her and pull her into his lap, curl his arms around her and hold her until the clock hit midnight. So she wouldn't vanish, not this year. Ask her to come home with him, or meet him again tomorrow, because they had only barely talked and he already couldn't imagine never hearing her voice again. Because it had been enough to catch a hint of how she was brave, passionate, selfless, and smart. And he wanted to know everything else there was to learn about her.

He was snapped out of it by Astrid clearing her throat. "So what about you?"

He blinked profusely and sat back, not even realising he'd been leaning forward. "Huh?"

"What do you do?"

"Oh, I -" He took a deep breath, trying to push away the heat in his cheeks through sheer force of will. "I'm still studying. Trying to become an engineer."

"What kind?"

"For a long time, I wanted to do something with aviation," he elaborated, studying her face for a trace of boredom but finding her eyes opening up instead. "Like, my room is full of sketches of rockets, air planes, flight suits."

"Flight suits?"

"Yeah, you know, so people can fly themselves." He moved his arms, demonstrating the idea until she laughed and made him realise how stupid he made himself look. "It'd probably be a regulatory nightmare though, given that airports already aren't happy with people flying drones." He grinned. "So naturally, I got myself one for Christmas."

Astrid leaned forward, giving him a knowing look. "Does it fly yet?"

"No, but -" He continued, despite Astrid's chuckles. "That's only because I'm making some modifications."

"Sure," Astrid teased.

"It's true! Sticking to the basics takes all the fun out of it."

"Basic planes do sound a lot safer to me, you know," Astrid countered.

"Well, you're in luck, because that's what I was getting to," he explained. "I've loved planes all my life but recently, I've been giving a lot of thought to this thing. You know, what gave me my superhero name." He grinned, vaguely gesturing to his left foot. "The longer I live with it, the more ideas I get to improve it. So maybe I should do that instead." He shrugged. "Help people like me."

Astrid smiled softly. "I think that's a wonderful idea."

"Me too."

He could only smile back as a silence settled between them. It wasn't uncomfortable - on the contrary, he felt he could do this all day, simply look at her, the sounds of the busy market around them seemingly non-existent. Suppress the urge to reach out towards her, unwrap her delicate fingers from around her mug just so he could study them.

He felt like Tarzan - minus the dreadlocks, broad chest and any other kind of muscle definition - wanting to pull off just one of the gloves of his Jane. Not that she was his, of course, he barely knew her name, for years he had known nothing more than that her smile warmed his heart and that every moment they shared seemed to last forever. Besides, he was a 21st century man who didn't believe women to be his property in any way. In fact, he didn't mind a woman who looked like she could kick his ass instead.

But he cherished the thought of carefully taking her fingers in his, treat them delicately despite her obvious strength, and press their palms flat against each other. To get a sense of just how real she was, her warm skin against his, treat her as if she was the first woman he'd ever laid eyes on. Because in a weird way, it felt like it. Then again, everything about this was weird, but in a way that made his heart beat faster.

He could do it. Take her hand, wrap his fingers around it and simply hold them. He would settle for that, and not let her go for the rest of the night. Not even when the fireworks started. He wasn't concerned with those. He was just wondering if they would also go off in his head the moment he kissed her.

Or he could finally realise he was staring at her like a fool, way longer than any sane person would. He blinked profusely, and she cocked her head at him, clearly amused as she took another sip.

He cleared his throat, trying to come up with something smooth, or another topic, but he found himself speechless. "There's so much I want to ask you," he laughed, embarrassingly awkward. "But I can't think of anything."

"Really?" Astrid teased. "Nothing?"

How old are you? Do you prefer dogs or cats? Sushi: overpriced raw fish or actually quite okay? How do you feel about Brangelina getting divorced? Who is your favourite character in Friends? Will you think less of me if I admit I exercised almost every day last Summer, but that ninety-nine percent of that was walking around town catching Pok émon? What even is Brexit?

Do you feel like there 's something here too? Do you like me, even a little bit?

"I just don't know where to start," he shrugged.

"Perhaps you could Google it," she grinned, seemingly content with letting him drown.

"You know, there are actually lists for that," he pointed out, pulling another useless fact out of his repertoire. "Questions to ask on dates."

"Oh?"

He treasured the fact that she didn't ask whether this was a date. So he leapt again. "Yeah. Like a list of 36 questions that 'guarantee' two people will fall in love with each other."

She snorted. "Now that sounds like yak dung." He opened his mouth to agree, but she added: "So go ahead."

He opened and closed his mouth a few times, like a confused goldfish, not having expected to get this far. "I don't know them by heart…"

"You don't do this often?"

He liked the twinkle in her eyes, the way she consistently teased and challenged him. No, he loved that.

"But there was this one question that stuck with me, regardless," he continued. "If you were able to live to the age of ninety, and retain either the mind or the body of a thirty year-old for the last sixty years of your life…. Which one would you want?"

Astrid answered nearly instantly. "Body."

Well, if I had yours, that's what I'd pick too.

"And that's not to sound vain," she elaborated before he could comment. "It's not about that at all, but the thought of becoming so old that I can no longer move around on my own, that I'd need help to get everywhere, or that I simply don't have the energy to do the things I love anymore… I'd hate that. I would lose my independence, my freedom. I don't know what it's like to be thirty yet, of course, but if I got to live the next sixty years feeling like I do right now, but with more and more experience as time goes by, I'd sign up for that." She grinned. "And of course, not getting any wrinkles, or menopause, is an upside too."

"Not sounding vain, right?" he quipped, earning him a punch in his shoulder.

"I gave you a serious answer!"

"I know, I know!" He put his hands up in the air. "But hey, don't blame yourself for being gorgeous."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Hiccup…"

He liked the way she said his name. He hoped she would do it again. "Look, if you can't take a compliment, that's not my fault."

"Fine." She rolled her eyes. "You're not bad yourself either."

He tried not to bask in that comment, in the knowledge that she might like him, even a little bit. He did his best to wipe his grin off his face and continue where they left off. "But I get what you mean, I suppose. People say that you need three things to live a happy life." He counted on his fingers. "Time, energy, and money. If you're young, you have time and energy, but no money. When you're a proper working adult, you have energy and money, but no time. And once you've retired, you've finally got time and money, but no energy. So I don't think your choice is that strange at all. Let alone vain."

"Well, that's one way to get depressed," Astrid huffed.

He gave her a wry smile. "Leave it up to me to brighten the mood, I guess."

"No worries, it won't keep me up at night," Astrid shrugged. "So what about you? What would you pick? If you remembered the question, you probably thought about what you'd answer too."

"I did," he admitted, rubbing the back of his head. "It's… interesting, but I always thought the answer was obvious. Then you made some really good points, and -"

"And I'm interested in yourreasoning, not your backpedalling."

"Okay…" He shifted, pushing his bangs back. "I'd choose mind. I'd never thought about those things you mentioned, about the whole 'walking around with a walking frame' part of getting old. Especially with my leg and all." He vaguely gestured beneath the table. "Whenever I think about reaching those ages, my mind always goes to the documentaries, the news reports about people with dementia. Because I just find them so incredibly… scary."

Astrid nodded at him and he briefly chewed on his lower lip before he continued. "The thought of getting Alzheimer's, of digressing until you forget yourself and the people around you… I don't think it runs in my family, at least not the early version of it, as far as I know, but I know that doesn't make me immune and it's just -" He sighed. "I know we all die eventually, that's inevitable. But I wouldn't want to go like that."

"Me neither," Astrid softly said, glancing at her hands. "Can I still change my pick? No use in feeling fit if you don't remember what to do with it."

"Or we could team up," he joked, wanting her to smile again. "One preserved body, one preserved mind."

"Sounds like a plan," Astrid laughed. "When I'm old and senile, you just tell me what to do and I will carry you around when you can no longer walk yourself."

"Perfect!" he agreed, grinning. "Match made in heaven."

Astrid cocked her head, observing him as her lips settled back into a slight smile. "It'd seem that way."

Had they both just implied they'd still be in each other's life years from now? Was he reading too much into that? Into the way Astrid's eyes seemed to soften the longer she looked at him, in how he was struggling to remember the last time he'd felt both this excited and this at ease?

He should just ask her. Show that he wasn't afraid to step up and declare he liked her more than he should like anyone he'd talked to this shortly.

"Do you -"

He was interrupted by a loud crash, a shout coming from the other side of the square, the world suddenly larger than just the two of them. He twisted his head to see a guy with fiery red hair stumble backwards, reaching for his eye.

"Dagur!" Astrid jumped up, sprinting in the direction of the sound as the man - Dagur? - balled his fist.

And punched the guy Hiccup only now recognised as Snotlout right in his nose.

"Fuck," Hiccup muttered, rushing after Astrid.

Snotlout recoiled, grasping his nose, blood seeping out from between his fingers as he ran into Dagur shoulder first. Ruffnut and Tuffnut cheered as the two fell over, crashing into the bench Fishlegs had been sitting on until a second ago. What the Hel had they gotten themselves into?

Astrid reached them before Hiccup did, shouting in exasperation at the men rolling around on the ground. "What the fuck are you doing!?"

No one gave her nor the small crowd that had gathered the answer they were looking for. Astrid rolled her eyes, digging her nails into Dagur's leather jacket and pulling him off Snotlout with a show of strength that seemed to surprise Dagur too and left Snotlout on the ground, wide-eyed.

Dagur tried to rush back in, but Astrid yanked him back. "Nope, you're not ruining my night, not this year." She twisted his arm behind his back when he moved again, making him yelp. "You can go berserk in your own time!"

"It wasn't my fault!" Dagur sputtered, his left eye blue with something Hiccup didn't know was a bruise or a tattoo. "He hit me first!"

"You were asking for it!" Snotlout yelled, coughing as blood streamed into his mouth from his obviously broken nose.

"Nah." "Not really." The twins countered instantly, crossing their arms.

Hiccup rushed over to Snotlout as he got back up, and put his hands on his shoulders. "Whoah, Snot, calm down."

"Move over," Snotlout insisted. "Let me at him!"

"Dude, your nose's broken," he argued as calmly as he could, trying to use his height advantage to prevent Snot from moving.

"You know him?"

He looked back over his shoulder at a sceptical Astrid, her eyebrow pulled up, Dagur's efforts to squirm out of her hold futile. He didn't know whether to yell at Snotlout or simply stand there and be impressed with how well she handled guys two times her size. Make a bad and inappropriate joke about her handling him, sometime…

"My cousin," he shrugged, trying to make clear that he also didn't ask for this. Out of all the nights Snotlout had to be, well, Snotlout…

"Nice family you got there," Astrid snorted.

"Right back at you."

"Nope." Astrid shook her head. "Best friend's brother."

"Oh my Thor… You broke my nose!" Snotlout suddenly yelped, as if he'd only just realised it.

"Heh. You kind of sound like Hiccup, talking through your nose and all," Tuffnut commented.

"You gave me a black eye!" Dagur yelled.

"I'm gonna sue you!"

"Playing the lead role in a local production of Grease doesn't make you an American, Snot," Hiccup bit, trying to glance over Dagur's shoulder, where Astrid was trying to hold her grip. "Astrid -"

"Is there are doctor around!?" Snotlout whined.

"I hope so, cause you need one, to fix your head!" Dagur bellowed.

"Guys, fighting doesn't solve anything, please stop…" Fishlegs tried weakly.

Dagur surged forward with such force that the last thing Hiccup saw was Astrid tumbling backwards on the ground, right before Dagur collided with him and Snotlout. They landed in a pile of limbs, both real and fake, Hiccup's elbow landing right in Snotlout's stomach and Dagur's knee digging into his thigh. He cried out in pain, trying to push Dagur off him but ending up as the heavily abused third wheel, caught in the crossfire while neither Snotlout nor his assailant paid any actual attention to him.

"Alright, fine, then we'll try it this way."

His misery was interrupted by a few flashes of blond, followed by pained yelps from Dagur. Finally free, he sputtered and rolled off of Snotlout. He pushed himself up, glancing around to thank his saviour and finding Astrid next to him, perched up on Dagur, holding his arms behind his back as he was lying face down on the floor. Looking uncannily comfortable, as if she was doing this every day.

"We should probably get out of here before the cops get here," she casually remarked.

"If I didn't know better I'd think you were currently undercover," he grinned, distractingly offering Snotlout a not-so-helping hand while keeping his eyes on the most badass woman in the world. He was happy she wasn't with the police though. He didn't need the idea that she could end up like his father.

"You caught me," she laughed. "I'm trying to get a breakthrough in the curious case of cute guys who only appear on New Year's Eve."

He could feel his face change colour. Along with his hand when Snotlout gripped it, leaving it sticky with blood as his cousin hauled himself up.

"Geez, can no one hand him a tissue?" he asked, agitated. Ruffnut shrugged as if there was no other sensible option, zipped open her coat and tore off part of her shirt, handing it to Snotlout, who promptly pressed it to his nose.

"Astrid -"

"Oh Gods," Snotlout gasped, glancing at the piece of fabric and seeing how red it had gotten in mere seconds. "That's a lot of blood."

"- this is not how -"

"Am I dying?"

"- I thought this would go -"

"I'm definitely dying."

"- but thank you, and -"

"But I'm too young and handsome to die!"

"And I think you should get your charming cousin to the ER," Astrid smiled, softly patting Dagur's head when he struggled again.

"I'm sorry," Hiccup tried. So this was how it ended. His first true chance in seven years.

"I'll call you tomorrow," Astrid reassured him with yet another smile.

That phrase stayed with him as he told her goodbye, dragging Snotlout away from the crowd, the others following in his wake. It was echoing through his head when the clock hit midnight in the waiting room of the hospital and Snotlout lamented this being the worst New Year's ever, his complaints unheard because Hiccup himself simply disagreed. He was on cloud nine despite the hospital smell, despite having to explain to the twins that bringing booze into the ER to 'have a bit of a party after all' wasn't socially acceptable behaviour, despite being semi-traumatised by Fishlegs Googling every single medical condition a nosebleed could be a symptom of. No matter how often Hiccup pointed out that there was a direct correlation between the position of Snot's nose, the unstoppable force that had met it and the voluminous amount of blood.

Astrid's words were still with him when he woke up the following morning, feeling like he had a hangover despite not having drunk any alcohol. But in a good way. The best way. The kind that made him giddy and excited, anxiously glancing at his phone while he tried to go about his day.

And they didn't leave him until by the end of January, Astrid still hadn't called.

#a decade to find you #modern au #hiccstrid #hiccup #astrid #httyd #httyd fanficion #aleteia-writes #i love musical theatre snotlout #i love using all the references #it was a good refresher of 2016 to write this chapter #hiccup is such a drama queen #httyd fanfiction #fanfiction #nye #new year's eve

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garbagewhump · 5 years

Text

Live Feed - Starvation

TW: Food mention, lots of food. Starvation. Mention of alcohol but very brief.

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When too long had passed without their captors returning, when the doctor in the pink lab coat had come by four times to check on how Thom was healing and to give them each water, Dale knew what was happening.

The realization cramped and ached in his stomach, no less painful for the increasing familiarity of hunger.

Time keeping was difficult at best, pain and his stomach’s protests making sleep fitful and the hours long, but he guessed it’d been at least four days since either Jaden or the blonde woman had bothered to show their faces.

As dizziness crept upon him like a stalking predator, he tried to keep up a semi-regular conversation with Thom.

His early estimates of early twenties had been correct. Recent college graduate, newly single, and very tired and too eager to take on the guilt of others’ crimes.

Dale was getting real sick and tired of having to tell the kid that he had nothing to apologize for and that he didn’t owe him a thing after the whole waterboarding incident. And yet, Thom still didn’t seem to get it. Frankly, it was downright depressing.

“D’you think they left us to rot?” Thom asked.

Out of habit, Dale shook his head, then stilled when that set off a fresh wave of lightheadedness. “Doubtful,” he said instead. “You said this was a residential area?”

“Not far off route 57,” he agreed. “Gated community, toward the back but still within that whole... you know. Vibe.”

So he wasn’t the only one having a hard time focusing. Good, bad or indifferent, his hunger had gone from a ravenous beast to a weak kitten pawing fruitlessly at his insides. Likewise his concentration had gone right out the window, a soft layer of fog brushing against his every thought.

“Tell me about your wife,” Thom demanded, not unkindly.

Dale pursed his lips. Not for lack of words, but because where did he even begin? “She’s amazing. Beautiful, strong, determined. She makes no apologies for taking what’s owed to her and a little bit more that that to stow away for a rainy day.”

He glanced over and saw Thom staring at him with something like amazement in his features, pride maybe or maybe just enraptured by the description of the love of his life.

“She’s a little childish,” he admitted, because he wasn’t blind to her faults. “And a bit of a control freak. And sometimes getting her to listen to your point of view is like nailing jello to a tree, because if you don’t have an ironclad argument she can pry it apart for the most asinine reasons.”

She never would have gotten grabbed like this. Maddie never would have been caught and dragged and beat and outright tortured. She’d have already figured out a way to escape and told him all about this punk kid who thought he was grown and powerful as she whipped up dinner.

Dale screwed his eyes shut and let out a hissing breath.

Stop it.

“I’m sorry,” Thom whispered.

Dale ignored him. Kid just felt guilty over something outside of his control, yet again.

After almost saying something and then shutting himself up about five times, the younger man finally said, “I’d kill for some hash browns.”

He wanted to laugh, he really did. It just felt like far too much effort.

“What’re you going to do the minute we escape?”

Probably brain the two sadists who kept them captive. But he kept his silence for a little longer, because he didn’t think the kid was the sort to appreciate violence even when deserved.

“Me?” Thom was rather good at pretending Dale was an active part of the conversation, he had to give him that. “There’s this mom and pop diner at the end of my street and they do this obscenely large breakfast challenge. Four pancakes, four slices of French toast, six eggs, six slices of bacon, six pieces of turkey sausage, and twenty ounces of coffee, and if you can finish it off, it’s on the house.”

Dale cracked one eye to gauge whether Thom was serious. Deadly serious. Slowly, he asked, “Do they pay for your triple bypass after?”

The noise the kid made was strangled and oddly stilted, like he wasn’t used to allowing himself to laugh, but he grinned without a care to (or perhaps not remembering) the new gaps and chips in his smile. “Nah,” he said, “but right now I feel like it’d be worth it. I’m not even usually a meat guy but what I wouldn’t give for some ribs.”

God did he know the feeling. His jaw ached just with the desire to tear into a piece of meat. Any piece. He licked his lips. “My dad made steak tips with a whiskey marinade. There was enough booze in them that the whole house smelled like rye for days.”

“Could you get tipsy off the tips?”

“Given enough of ‘em, I’m sure. And soup. Baked potato soup with sour cream and bacon garnish.”

“Fried mushroom ravioli in béchamel sauce.”

“Buttered noodles.”

“Jalapeño poppers. There’s this take away joint that dices up the peppers so it’s more like a spicy, cheesy tater tot.”

Desire hit him like a hammer, drawing a desperate whine from his lips. “Oh, God, tater tots.”

“Tater tots. With sriracha mayo and curly fries.”

“And a strawberry milkshake.”

“Shamrock shake.”

“Both.”

The burst of energy that carried their conversation dropped dead like a 70 year old stroke victim. Pain sharp and unyielding in his gut, Dale folded over and squeezed his middle, like he could crush his hunger out of him. Groaning, he ignored the burning, the hollowness, the fact he vibrated with the need to put something inside his mouth, something to chew and swallow and taste.

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re fine, kiddo,” Dale assured him. “You gotta be feeling it too.”

His response came too quick, unhindered by the truth. “I’m fine.”

“Sure you are.” God he was so hungry.

#tw starvation #tw hunger #guilt complex #lf dale gibson #lf thomas grisham #lets play who can guess where i'm going with this #live feed series #29 days of whump #tw alcohol mention

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justanotherdeadgirlwalking · 5 years

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That is Just the Saddest F**king Thing I Have Ever Heard.

TW obviously DEH is about a kid’s suicide, so it has those themes

other parts :)

Part Three.

I’ve been alone in the room for what feels like hours now. Doctors and nurses keep coming and going, pricking me with needles and giving me medicine to take, taking my vitals, and asking me how I feel. Rate my mental state on a scale of 1 to 10. I feel fine, I just want to get the fuck out of here. They could’ve at least put me in a room with a TV or given me a magazine or a book or something, literally anything. I’m so bored. If I didn’t lose my mind already, I definitely will if I have to spend another minute in this room. The only thing keeping me company is the beeping of the heart monitor, and the hissing of the air unit. I’ve counted all the cracks in the ceiling, and I’ve recited every song I know. I started playing a game where I see how high I can count before another person walks into the room. I got up to 6000. We need to pick up the pace here. I get they’re worried that there could still be something wrong with me, but if I was asleep for the unspecified amount of time everyone keeps referring to as a “long time,” I think if something was going to happen, it would have. I just took a really long nap, its fine, let me go home.

Everyone that walks in keeps saying that they’re happy to see me awake, that I was so missed. “Don’t worry everything is going to be so much better” Some tech told me. Sure, it is; everything sucked before, and there’s no reason that it would stop sucking. Hey, at least now I have a fake friend and a sister that refuses to see me. I can’t forget that I have an apple orchard? Someone really needs to tell me what’s going on.

On top of that, everyone keeps telling me that it’s a miracle I’m not brain dead. Obviously, the higher powers that be think there is still some entertainment value left in me. Maybe this will be the single event that puts me on the path to becoming the person that ends world hunger. More likely, I’m going to just spend the rest of my life drawing pictures that no one appreciates, struggling to make ends meet. Oh, what a life to live; and it’s going to be mine, unless I get into a BFA program with connections to Disney or something, then it might actually be a life worth living.

Look at me: I can walk, I can talk, and I still remember everything that happened leading up to going to the park. It’s a miracle I remember what a fuck-up I am.

There’s a knock on the door, I look up expecting another person wanting to draw my blood, but it’s just Cynthia. She holds up a fast food bag, “I bet you’re hungry.” She unpacks the bag on the tray table, burgers and fries. We never get to eat crap like this. I think since the time I was 5 years old she was always doing some weird gluten free, keto diet. I must have really scared her to get a treat like this. I wasn’t hungry, but I didn’t want to hurt Mom’s feelings, nor did I want to pass up on this rare opportunity to eat junk food, so I picked at it.

She watches me eat, “I really love you Connor, you’re my baby boy.” She’s crying again. I’ve never seen her so upset before. My whole life, she was always nagging me about something: smoking weed, growing out my hair, missing school. In fact, the last time I was in the hospital, for hurting myself, she told me that she was disappointed in me. “I expect better from you Connor,” she had said. That really stung. I was hurting, I still am hurting, and even my own mom wasn’t there to support me. What’s different about this time? I got too close to actually dying? Did they finally realized that I wasn’t faking my struggles, and now they feel guilty for not helping me?

My whole life they have pushed me too be something that I’m not, which actually caused them to push me away. They keep pushing me and pushing me, but still expect me to be able to stand. They load they weight of their expectations and disappointments on me, but I can only hold so much weight on my shoulders before it starts to crush me. I’m trying the best I can here, but I’m buried under the rubble that is the mess that I am. I tried so hard, I tried faking it so everyone could accept me, but its so exhausting. I just want people to love me for who I am, the mess and all, and not want to change me. I’m sending out a S.O.S. and its too bright outside to see my flare.

“Mom,” I say, “how long was I in a coma?”

“A long-time” she says.

“Can you please catch me up? I jus-” Mom waves her arm signaling me to stop. I really want to know what happened while I was asleep. No one seems to want to talk about it. I’m left to wonder what happened to the world while I was in this bed. Oh, I hope aliens invaded.

Mom sighs like she’s tired of being here, “The doctors said to wait to reintroduce media to you, but you must be so bored, so I brought you this.” She reaches into her pocket and pulls out my phone. Oh, thank God. I basically rip it out of her hands and push the home button. The screen lights up to reveal hundreds of notifications. What the hell, I don’t have friends, literally. I don’t have a single person in my life I could even call a friend. People must really pity me. You disappear from the world, and suddenly everyone realizes how special you are. Everyone wants to be friends with the kid that almost died, their conscience won’t let them sleep at night otherwise.

I look at the date, October 15th. You mean to tell me I’ve been asleep for almost two months? It’s been two months since the first day of school. I missed two months of my life? Two months of school. Two months of gossip. Two months in this hospital bed. No wonders why everyone is freaked out, someone in a coma for that long, there has to be something wrong with them. “I’ve got to get going,” Mom says standing up. She kisses my forehead before she leaves.

I scroll through the notifications, they’re all texts from unknown numbers saying shit like “We miss you Connor, get well soon” Okay, talk about some bullshit. No one cared about me before, so why do I have to almost die for people to notice me. I mean no one deserves to be forgotten, or to disappear, but it would’ve been nice if they all noticed me before. I log on to Facebook. I hate that website, but I have a feeling it would be the most reliable place to find out what happened. Surly, Cynthia posted some Please keep my family in your prayers, our son is a freak bullshit. Sure enough, my feed is filled with pictures of me, people sharing stories about me, Connor was my best friend in the fourth grade, and he used to ride my bus. Everyone talking about how they know me, how much I mean to them. Its funny how death can bring out the shallowness in everyone. Also, why is everyone making my almost death so personal? My life had no bearing on yours before, and it doesn’t now. You don’t care about me. If I really meant anything to you, I would’ve known, I would’ve been an actual part of your life.

I click on my profile, and I’m tagged in something called The Connor Project. I click it, a video of Evan Hansen and Alana Beck plays, “The Connor Project is student group dedicated to keeping Connor’s memory alive, to show that everyone matters, everyone is important.” Okay, but, I don’t know why I need a whole group to keep my memory alive, I’m still alive. The site is filled with videos of Evan talking about how important I am to him. There’s a video of him telling the story about how he broke his arm , but it’s completely false. Maybe he fell out of a tree, but I wasn’t there. We never went to a yellow field or climbed any tall trees. I definitely didn’t drive him to the hospital either.

There’s old pictures of me everywhere on the page. You can tell they’re old because my hair is so short in them, my ears sticking out. I wonder where they got them from. I’ve never been a big poster, I think there’s maybe two posts on my Instagram. Maybe Zoe or Mom gave them the pictures. I’m not mad, they’re all really good pictures of me. I look happy in most of them, like genuinely happy.

I don’t even remember ever being that happy.

There’s so many copies of emails me and Evan sent each other. Oh, that’s funny, because I’ve literally never talked to this kid, let alone sent him an email. And people are eating it up, thank you for sharing such an intimate conversation. Hey, I hate to break it to you: this isn’t real. This doesn’t sound like the Connor I knew. Guess what! The emails don’t sound like me because I didn’t write them. None of these emails I supposedly sent could vaguely belong to me. It’s like writing an essay about a book you never read. Also, who even emails anymore? Did we hit a time warp back to the 1990’s? It’s like I was asleep for so long that time actually started moving backwards. Why are they all about trees? You can tell by how pale I am that I don’t go outside. I keep scrolling. It’s just endless content of bullshit. Evan did say he wrote fake emails, and Jared was in on it, but how many other people were in on it? This is really elaborate. The page has 16,239 followers. Evan Hansen is being crowned as an amazing kid who shared a great tribute for his best friend.

This is a really cruel. It has to be an elaborate joke, right? But, what did I ever do to Evan that he would do something like this? First he writes a creepy letter about my sister, and now he’s infiltrated himself into my life as my best friend, as my hero. What is his obsession with me?

I’ve always been a loser just waiting to be seen, and finally everyone sees me. But they don’t see me.

They see the me Evan created.

#DEH #dear evan hansen #dear connor murphy #connor murphy #mike faist #DEH fanfic #deh fandom #Dear evan hansen fanfic #evan hansen #ben platt #zoe murphy #musicals #fanfiction #writing #jared klienman

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pythagoreanwhump · 5 years

Note

Ooh you got a BTHB card! Can I request 'tortured for information' with whomever you want to write about? It's one of my fave tropes and your writing is great :) -S

Of course! It’s my favorite trope as well! So sorry that it took so long for me to get to it

CW: Drowning, electricity, contemplation/attempt of suicide (not related to mental health)

“The list, where is it?” The interrogator has his fingers tangled in David’s hair, holding his face mere millimeters above the water.

“Wh-” David coughed, “What list?”

The interrogator dipped his head suddenly, not enough to push his face under, but David still let out a panicked gasp. “Oh please,” the interrogator said, “You know exactly what I’m talking about. The NOC list.”

“No idea what you’re talking about,” David closed his eyes and tried to push back against the hand in his hair.

“Fine,” The interrogator pushed his face back under.

David drew in a quick breath before the cold water hit his face. He started struggling immediately even though he still had enough air for another minute at least. He counted in his head. One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three… He relaxed after he got to twenty, using all of his willpower to breathe out. His ears pounded and the sound of the bubbles breaking surface seemed to reverberate through his skull. For a second, he thought the interrogator saw through his ruse and would keep him under for longer.

“That wasn’t very long, maybe we could try for more next time.” The interrogator started pushing him under again, stopping with the tip of his nose touching the water. “Unless you have something to say?”

“Nope, still no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Let’s try for a minute now,” The interrogator said, “not very long, really, but it’ll get worse if you don’t talk.”

David was pushed into the water again. This time, he wasn’t ready for it. The water flowed up into his nose and burned all the way down to his lungs. He struggled in earnest, hands pulling against the zip-ties, close to drawing blood, and legs kicking frantically, trying to get a footing on anything to push himself up. The more he struggled, the more air escaped his lungs.

The interrogator was true to his word, counting exactly 60 seconds before he pulled David up. “Is it worth it?” He asked as he dumped the limp figure onto the ground.

David’s body was racked with deep coughs, the water coming out of his mouth seemed more than could humanly fit into his lungs. Of course it is. If he gives up that list, that’s 63 other people tortured and killed. 63 families destroyed without any explanation. “I don’t know of any lists,” He squeezed out. He did. He had it memorized in his head. 63 names, aliases, and safehouses. 63 of his brothers-in-arms that he had to keep safe.

He forced himself to exhale the next time he was pushed under. The air bubbles bobbed up to the surface and the water rushed into the vacuum of his lungs, the pressure pushing any remaining air floating up to his lips. Somehow, his chest was freezing from the cold water and burning at the same time. When the darkness crawled into the edges of his consciousness, he let it take him.

“Dammit,” The interrogator pulled David out of the water and slammed him to the ground. He didn’t even bother to do proper resuscitation, just slammed a boot into David’s chest and waited for him to cough the water up himself.

“Even-” David’s words kept getting interrupted by coughs, “Even if I did know what list you want, I’d have forgotten by now. Did you know that drowning can mess up your brain? Maybe you wanna try talking to me nicely.” He tried for a weak smile.

“Well, I see you’re talking. Let’s try something else. Something that wouldn’t give you the chance to kill yourself.” The interrogator dragged David up by the back of his shirt and dumped him on an inclined board.

The blood rushed to his head as his hands and feet were bound tightly at his sides. “You gonna let me take a nap now? Mind bringing me a blanket? Kinda cold from getting soaked when you tried to drown me.”

The rag that was supposed to cover his face was shoved into his mouth instead. He retched. It tasted of blood and sweat, the bit of moisture on it dripping down his throat. Before he could spit it out, another rag covered his eyes. Even without seeing, he heard the sound of pouring water come closer.

The water filled his nose, not flowing down to his lungs like before, but completely sealing his airway nonetheless. There wasn’t much of it, and he instinctively coughed, almost thinking that it would be enough to expel the water. It didn’t, the air bubbled out from his chest, making the cloth on his face shifted a little before the pressured spray of the hose pushed it back down, sealing firmly over his face again. He strained against the leather straps holding him down, trying to pull some air into his lungs, but only water came rushing in and pouring back out. He heard his own heart pounding, threatening to shatter his eardrums.

“Ready to talk yet?” The interrogator moved the hose off his face but didn’t turn the water off. Some of it still landed on his face, making him flinch, thinking it’s starting again.

David shook off the soaked rag sticking to his face and spit out the one in his mouth. “You’d make a very bad memory therapist,” he tested the bonds again. “Still not remembering ever hearing of any list.”

A punch landed on his nose. He blinked away the water clinging to his eyelashes just in time to see the next strike coming, again coming straight for his nose. He knew it’s about to get significantly worse, being drowned with a broken nose was something he’d only experienced once before, and he had no intentions of ever going through that again. Seems like he will have to today, though.

Or not. David craned his neck to see what the interrogator stepped away to grab. He heard the crackle of electricity and expected to see a cattle prod, but apparently the Soviets considered it beneath them to use such crude tools. No, they had a sophisticated device with a mess of different colored wires and knobs of various sizes. When the electrodes were attached to his body, he tried his best to not think about the pain. He stared at the controls on the box, trying to decipher the Russian words written in a tiny script.

It didn’t quite work. His interrogator tapes electrodes onto his temples, the thin metal plate fitting perfectly onto the smooth skin. He flinched when the interrogator grabbed his hand and spread his fingers. He hissed in pain when an alligator clip was snapped on the sensitive flesh between his pointer and middle finger. He was still wet from waterboarding, and he knew that the thin film of moisture coating him will make the pain cling to his skin. He shuddered.

“You look like you know what’s coming, so I won’t explain,” the interrogator adjusted the controls and put his fingers on the main knob. “Last chance before I turn it up. The list.”

David couldn’t tear his eyes away from the switch. “Ah, now you’re getting the memory therapy thing right. Electroconvulsive therapy is pretty high tech, but I’m not sure you’re trained to use it. Better not fry my brain and make me forget even more.”

The interrogator slowly turns the knob, steadily increasing the voltage. The tingle turns into a burn, and then becomes unbearable. The wooden bench creaks from the leather straps being strained against.

When it ends, David’s eyes barely flutter open, gaze empty. For a moment, the interrogator feared that his brain was actually fried, until his pale lips parted and he spoke. “You are a really bad memory therapist. I’d ask for my money back, but I never paid.”

#BTHB #bad things happen bingo #tortured for information #espionage whump #electricity #waterboarding

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goddamnitconnor-a · 6 years

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I’d mentioned something about this a little bit ago, but there’s been something on my mind for a while, now, and I want to finally write something down. This is mostly because I was asked on the sidelines if I could make a post like this-- so here goes.

I’ll put most of this under a cut so anyone not interested can just scroll by without too much fuss, but first I’d like to say what this is all about.

Anxiety. Or, rather, how to not let it consume your life. Because we all experience it, most of us on a daily basis, but I’ve seen so few people actually do the right things to stop it from escalating to a critical point or try to do anything to manage it when they’re not in a critical mode. So, the rest of this will be cut for sake of length, but please:

If you have struggles with anxiety and recognize that it’s holding you back from enjoying any part of your life to the fullest extent, give the rest of this post a look over. These are honest, tried and true methods of reducing the impact of anxiety, both the obvious and less obvious, and I promise I wouldn’t offer them as suggestions unless I knew they’d have a beneficial impact on your overall health.

I’ll say this one last thing: if you’re thinking anything along the lines of ‘none of this will work for me’ or ‘my anxiety is too bad to do anything about without medication’ or ‘I’ve tried everything before and nothing really works so why bother’, then I’m speaking directly to you: please read the rest of this post. I don’t say it often, but you are so wrong.

Firstly, before I begin spewing out suggestions, everything I talk about here I have seen take a positive effect on both myself (dealing with bipolar depression and I’m sure other shit by this point) and people with severe intellectual disabilities (autism being the primary diagnosis), whom I support and work very closely with. I’ve also taken two college courses focused entirely on managing anxiety through very different strategies (mental vs physical activities) and a handful of others on building mindfulness, confidence, and self-image. Honestly, though, I’m drawing mostly from the former experiences because there’s nothing like seeing the words in action.

These techniques will be listed here only briefly because talking about each of them at length would make this an entire book. I might go into more detail in additional posts, if enough people would like me to or I’m feeling especially talkative another day. They are listed roughly in the order of most effective or most necessary, but honestly they all work in tandem with each other, so saying one is better than the other is a little misleading.

Attitude: We’ve all got it. Some are better than others, and some are just downright-- wait. Not that kind of attitude. I’m talking about our attitude towards our own mental health. I’m sure a lot of people believe they’re just supposed to suffer as much as they do or that it’s not really so bad and changing is too much effort. Essentially, the message is saying ‘I don’t care enough about myself to make the effort for my mental health’ no matter how you say it. Point blank, that’s a pretty shitty attitude to have, and no one wants to have a shitty attitude. No one likes feeling like shit, we just kind of get used to it and grow numb to it out of self defense against our own brains. Not the best habit to pick up. But one thing is certain: if you don’t believe you can help yourself and if you don’t believe you’re worth the effort, then nothing else is going to leave much of a mark. It all starts here, friends, and it’s usually the hardest step to take.

Deep breathing: Has to be next, doesn’t it? And it’s a very easy next step after that last one. The rules are very simple: block yourself off from outside stimuli (whether this means closing your eyes or fixating on a fixed spot in the distance to focus your attention or doing whatever you need to in order to take a minute to yourself); take a deep breath in through your nose for at least five but ideally seven seconds (breathe in so your stomach expands and not just your chest-- your shoulders shouldn’t rise more than they do when you’re yawning or sighing); hold the breath for up to three seconds; release your breath through your mouth slowly (take at least three but ideally five seconds) and make sure to fully push all of the air from your lungs. Repeat at least three times and up to ten times, depending on how high your stress and anxiety are at the time. The idea of the numbers is equal parts providing a structure so that the breath is under your control and providing a distraction from any other thoughts that might intrude. If you’re focusing entirely on counting the seconds of your breath or focusing on how the breath feels going in and out of your lungs, then you’re much less likely to worry about anything else. So don’t get too hung up on the specific numbers; understand their purpose and adjust them as you need to in order to fit your current situation. Do this before you go into a full-blown panic attack. It’s much more difficult to focus on deep breathing when you’re in panic mode, but taking a few deep breaths when you feel the first signs of something coming on could lessen or negate the physical and mental strain. Remember: It takes less than three minutes, even if you do all ten breaths, and there’s no equipment or special requirements. That makes this by far the easiest thing on this list to do, and the effects it can have are fucking mind-blowing.

Diet: Okay, maybe this will be the hardest step. But it doesn’t have to be! Diet changes can be huge, cold-turkey everything bad or small, subtle changes that ease you into a better lifestyle over the course of a few months or even a year. Both are totally cool! In fact, I’ve done both. There is so much I have to say about dieting, but I’ll list out the major points. Stop counting. I don’t care what it is, just stop counting it. Right now. Because guess what: you’re not counting the right things. Things you should be looking at? Sugar content. How processed the food is. Artificial flavoring and high fructose corn syrup. Things that really aren’t that important if you’re organizing your diet to be balanced and actually healthy? Fat content. Calories. What a coincidence. Also, eat breakfast. I know it means getting out of bed a little earlier, but for all that is good in this world, eat breakfast. Snack more often (not on potato chips; try some fruit), especially in the morning when your body is trying to balance out everything from the previous night (or, you know, whenever you sleep). Fruit, vegetables, nuts, protein bars (check that sugar content!), hard-boiled eggs, cottage cheese, and yogurt are all super easy and cheap snacks to grab and most of them are portable if you’re out and about often. Lunch doesn’t need to be big, but it needs to exist on some level. Heavy lunches will weigh you down and make you tired much earlier than you would be otherwise but no lunch will sap your energy and also leave you feeling drained earlier in the day. Dinner should be focused on protein and this is usually where people actually eat their vegetables, so keep that up! If you’re going to have a lot of empty carbs (like fries, mashed potatoes, rice, etc.), you better plan on having a post-dinner workout because guess where that belly fat is coming from. If you have anything to eat before bed, make sure it’s at least an hour before and it should have as little sugar and calorie content as possible. Protein is ideal for this time of the day!

Exercise: Oh boy. All of these steps are sounding pretty hard, aren’t they? Good news! You don’t have to go to the gym. You don’t even have to go outside. And I’m not about to preach youtube workout videos and giant squishy balls to roll around on. I am about to preach yoga. I know we only ever see super attractive and skinny women perching themselves in ridiculous poses on a fucking mountaintop at sunrise with some inspirational quote plastered everywhere and that’s what we think when we hear yoga, but you know what? I’ve taken yoga courses, and the only one even half-capable of flipping herself upside down on her head was our instructor-- because she’s been doing it forever. Most people had to use blocks and bands to assist them with most of the poses. Yoga is not for the fit and bendy only; in fact, the less fit and bendy you are, the more you’ll probably benefit from the practice. A few simple stretches in the morning isn’t going to change your life, but it’s a start. There are plenty of free videos and apps around to help you get started with easy things that will make the rest of your day a little easier, and I guarantee you’ll start feeling so much better that you’ll get addicted to it. If you happen to already be a reasonably active person, then just make sure you’re getting at least 30 minutes of at least moderate activity in order to get the most benefit out of your workout. The most beneficial time to do any exercise is first thing in the morning after you wake up, but right before meals or mid-day when you might be feeling a bit of a drag are also ideal times. Anything above low-intensity exercise before you go to bed will definitely hurt your sleep cycle, but there are some yoga poses and other kinds of exercise that are actually very beneficial to relaxing and getting a better night’s sleep.

Meditation: This should be higher on the list, but again the list really isn’t a ranked thing. I’m only putting it this far down because I believe that meditation doesn’t always stick out to people as something especially helpful. That’s because meditation doesn’t show instant results and a lot of people do it very wrong, so they don’t get any results at all. Because of this, I think if the above techniques are implemented then meditation will become more attractive because some control and balance in your life will have already been established with the other things. I would recommend starting with guided meditation no matter what, if you’ve never done it before or even if you think you’ve been doing it ineffectively. Meditation is very flexible, which is one of the things I love most about it. Once you understand the real purpose of meditating and how to handle any potential distractions while you’re meditating, you can do it almost anywhere and at any time-- and you can spend five minutes with yourself or two hours. Any amount of quiet and calm for your mind will help it immensely! Also, if you’re feeling drained and are unable to do any stretches or exercises to wake yourself up, meditation can actually make you more alert and refreshed. This is especially helpful for people trying to focus on a task that needs to be accomplished but that attention span just isn’t cutting it. Meditation should center you, calm your mind, boost your focus, and clear your head of distracting thoughts and worries unrelated to the task at hand. Stress and anxiety should reduce and if you go into a deep enough trance, a sense of euphoria (similar to that infamous ‘runner’s high’) will accompany you for a while afterwards. If it’s not doing that for you, then you should probably seek out some sort of guide to help you meditate more effectively.

Water: Just drink it. I won’t say that you can’t drink too much, because of course you can, but chances are high you aren’t drinking as much as you should be. It depends a lot on your activity levels, what you’re eating throughout the day, and your exposure to the sun or other high heat elements, but a few signs that you’re not drinking enough water are: if you get frequent headaches, especially near the top/crown of your head; if you get muscle cramps-- they can be anywhere, but leg cramps are very common and I experience stomach cramps easily when I’m dehydrated; if you’re thirsty (simple as that); if you find yourself yawning/breathing deeply excessively. Drinking water first thing in the morning will help you wake up and cold water before meals will reduce your appetite so you don’t overeat.

There is so much more I could say about anxiety and so many other, little things that can be done to make things easier on yourself, but these are the really big ones. The ones that I guarantee, if practiced together even on a minimal level, will improve your health both physically and mentally to the extent that you’ll never believe you lived so miserably for so long without doing these simple things. Because here’s the hard news: We weren’t meant to sit in a dark room in front of a computer screen all day. We weren’t meant to play video games for 12 hours a day. We weren’t built to digest the obnoxious amount of empty carbs and overload of sugar that is basically forced in our face every time we turn around. Our bodies are meant to work and they’re meant to be maintained-- and if you feel like that statement doesn’t apply to you, you probably don’t understand your body as well as you think you do. I’m not saying I know anyone’s specific situation and of course there are always outrageous exceptions to even the most reliable of rules, but for the majority of people reading this, the only real block against you and a healthier you is just plainly you. That’s not an easy thing to accept or make peace with, but the sooner we realize that we most often are the only ones holding ourselves back, the easier it will be for us to help ourselves get better. These are just steps and suggestions. Just words on a screen. Any time they’re put into practice and any time they give anyone any sort of benefit, that victory is not mine. Don’t give me the credit. Because you’re doing all of it. And you’ve been able to all along, so I’m glad you’re finally waking up and realizing it.

#i could never pull the trigger // ooc #this got long anyway #and trust me #i could have said so much more #share this around if you think it'll help someone #reblog it or whatever #or just share the information yourself #just get some helpful info out in the world #the more you know

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