#smashes a dude’s skull against a brick wall

[jasontoddenthusiastt]

Family Methods

[ Suicide Squad: Get Joker! #3 ]

As much as I rag on this story for implying Jason’s trauma-induced spidey-senses activate when the joker walks into the room, there was some rare mockery of Bruce’s side of the ever-so-tiresome morality debate.

Like, ah yes,

the pinnacle of morality

[the-irish-mayhem]

This is a series of short, unrelated vignettes/oneshots that was supposed to be posted for Fosterson Week a year or two ago and I finally got around to finishing it. Enjoy!

5 Universes In Which Jane Is Worthy and 1 Where She Isn’t

Read on AO3

1.

On the top ten list of bad ideas she’s ever had, this is so, so, so bad the number one spot doesn’t even seem adequate. The guy who thought he was Thor clearly got caught trying to get her stuff back, and so she is  so  screwed unless she goes in herself. God, why did she go along with this again? He’d claimed he’d fly out once he got what he was looking for (which,  god , again, why had she kind of believed him?)

Her feet crunch quietly against the hard-packed sand leading to the hole in the plastic tarping making up the walls of the facility that Thor had kicked a guy through, and she, without nearly as much hesitation as she should probably feel, hops in.

The place isn’t huge, and it doesn’t take long for Jane to find the main room.

Thor had helpfully drawn nearly everyone in security away from where her equipment is stowed, next to a… hammer in the dirt. Literally, they built this entire site around a hammer? What the  hell , archaeologists never get this much funding and government attention. And what does her equipment have to do with it?

Jane shakes herself. She has a lot more important things to do instead of trying to puzzle out the weird and wild workings of shady government agencies. Things like capitalizing on their inattentiveness and getting her gear back.

She grabs her notebook first, stuffing it into her back pocket, and then trying to figure out how she’s going to cart out at least two hundred or so pounds of equipment.

“Hey!”

Jane nearly leaps out of her skin and turns, seeing a pair of security guards sprinting towards her from one of the halls.

“Shit,” she spits, and frantically looks around at her equipment. Lightest and hardest to replace… Radio spectrometer retrofitted for wormholes. Yep, that one. She scoops it up in her arms and takes off.

Even running as quickly as she can, the guards are still within arm’s length of her before she’s taken five steps.

Oh, they are not taking her work. Absolutely not. Erik isn’t here to hold her back this time.

She reaches an arm out, barely managing to hold onto her spectrometer as she grasps the handle of the hammer. Old or valuable, the thing is still a hammer, she can still swing at them with it.

A crack of thunder. A blinding flash of light. The feeling of grabbing a live-wire running through her body for a handful of terrifying seconds until the euphoria comes.

If she be worthy , she hears.

May she possess the power of Thor.

Oh, Jane thinks.

Oh,  fuck .

 2.

“No, I don’t know what… That’s why I’m coming out here to… Look, all the issues with our readings at the site are originating from this one spot, so yeah, I’m going to go take a look,” Jane says into the phone.

“Who is it?” Darcy whispers. Their truck rumbles along a remote road in Norway leading to the coast, and the interference from their mystery site makes it so they don’t get any radio stations, so Darcy is starved for entertainment.

Jane covers the mouthpiece and whispers back, “Caplan. He’s--” she uncovers the mouthpiece. “No, there’s not any danger. You--no… No… Wait, but that time wasn’t actually my fault, so…”

“Being a dick again?”

Jane’s eyeroll is all the answer required. “Look, we’ll be ba-- in--” Jane makes an almost comical crackling noise in the back of her throat. “Wha-- interference from the-- thr-- breaking up--bye.” She hangs up without any further discussion.

Darcy contains a laugh. “You’re gonna pay for that later, you know.”

Jane rolls her eyes again. “Well, it’s my being at his facility that’s even getting him funding in the first place, so, you know.” She shrugs. “If he wants to fight me, I’m the one with more published papers and theories that changed the laws of physics.”

Darcy pumps a fist. “Fuck yeah.”

She waves a hand. “He’ll be fine. He’s pissed we took the Mule without asking.” Where they plan on going, there’s no vehicle access, so the ATV was their only recourse. “If he thinks I’ll be satisfied with this one spot fucking up my results over and over again, he’s got another thing coming. Speaking of which,” the device that rests in Jane’s lap begins to ping, “pull over here.”

“Woo, off-road time,” Darcy cheers, and follows Jane’s instructions.

Another hour of driving in the Mule later, they reach the geographic nexus that’s been screwing with their readings.

It’s a pretty spot, bright green grass running all the way to the edge of the cliff, where a sheer drop would land them in the ocean. Norway’s fjords are always breathtaking, and Darcy counts herself lucky yet again that she gets to visit places like this and get paid for it. All in all, a pretty rad job.

“Can you set up--”

“Magnetic perimeter and radiation scanners?” Darcy finishes. “Yeah.”

Darcy unloads the equipment from the back of the ATV as Jane approaches the nexus.

It looks like a storm is beginning to swirl overhead, and Darcy eyes it nervously. Without any cover, they are pretty much sitting ducks if any rain starts to fall, god forbid if lightning starts. Where the hell did all these thunderheads come from? This blew in awfully fast.

Jane crouches down and reaches for something on the ground. “Darcy, you should come look at this,” she calls out. 

Quite suddenly, the hair on the back of Darcy’s neck stands straight up. The sensation is so strong and sudden that it literally causes her to gasp in shock.

“Jane--” she starts but she doesn’t get the chance to finish.

Faster than the blink of an eye, a massive bolt of lightning tears from the sky, slicing straight down to where Jane kneels.

Darcy barely has time to scream.

She is thrown backwards by the force of the lightning strike, and she thinks she hears a voice whisper before she hits the ground behind her.

If she be worthy.

When she looks up again, she knows she hears it.

A strange woman stands where Jane once was--massive, tall, blonde, with impressive armor and Mjolnir in her fist.

May she possess the power of Thor.

 3.

Fragile isn’t a word that could ever have been used to describe Jane Foster, but with her cheekbones hollowed out by weight loss, neck and wrists gone skinny and tendons standing out against her skin in sharp relief, fragile almost seems generous. A plastic band wraps around her wrist, stamped with her name, attending physician, allergies, and a barcode encoded with all her patient information.

She is tired, often, but with Darcy’s help still manages to go through her research and rough out an outline for her next paper she plans to publish.

Jane likes to plan, likes to say things like there’s a conference next September that this paper will do really well at, and Jane knows that Darcy is trying to hide her heartbreak at these statements. Darcy used to not hide anything from her, used to barely have the capacity, let alone the desire, but it’s strange the effect dying can have.

Her hospital room is outfitted with several whiteboards scribbled over with notes and formulae, the answers Jane constantly seeks waiting to be pried out of the clutches of the equations she can spend hours puzzling over. It’s a good use of her time, when she’s not--

Elsewhere.

Jane is careful to hide the hammer. It’s her secret legacy, her last hurrah, her hidden responsibility and duty--

Mjolnir is many things to her, but burdensome is certainly not one of them.

She swings her legs over the side of her bed, gripping her IV pole to help her stand. She walks over to the window, where the sunlight of the early afternoon has been shrouded over by storm clouds. She slides open her window, the cool wind of the storm washing over her face.

In the distance, she hears the rumble of thunder.

Jane Foster smiles.

 4.

His axe is buried in Thanos’s chest, and there’s a blinding moment of what feels like sour vengeance--so many have died already, and now the Mad Titan will perish for his crimes.

He presses the blade of Stormbreaker in further, for Loki, for Heimdall, for every one of his slaughtered people.

Then Thanos whispers, “You should’ve gone for the head.”

And he feels his heart drop.

And then, and suddenly as Thor himself had dropped from the sky, another streak of lightning blazes in from the east, and Thor can feel it--  Mjolnir .

But how?

He can’t even tell who is wielding it until the hammer smashes Thanos’s skull in, and the Mad Titan is finally felled. The Infinity Gauntlet drops, the stones unused, the universe saved.

The woman holding Mjolnir is tall, with shining armor that looks well-crafted, including a helmet that hides the upper half of her face. In spite of that, he can see her eyes.

Eyes he would know anywhere in the galaxy.

She looks almost as stunned as he is.

“Jane?”

 5.

The cell phone footage is grainy and difficult to make out. Shot by a civilian in Garching, Germany, the shaky video peeks at the action from behind a brick wall. A voice out of frame whispers,  “Dude, I think it’s Thor!”  and is quickly hushed by the one holding the camera.  So at least two more witnesses to track down,  Natasha thinks tiredly.

The observation, though, is rather striking in its accuracy. The figure has a red cape and flowing blonde hair, and displays a command of lightning that Natasha hasn’t seen since Thor more-or-less retired after their last showdown with Thanos.

The opponents are a small gaggle of aliens, impossible to fully make out but probably more scavengers who’d come to pick the bones of Thanos’s last battlefield. In the two years since the Snap, they’d been getting a steadier stream of extraterrestrial threats looking to take advantage of Earth’s vulnerability.

“How is it that we have holographic video technology widely available, but every civilian who has useful intel has a Nokia from 2004?” Natasha grumbles, squinting and trying again in vain to enhance the footage.

From her place next to her, Okoye chuckles. “I think we’ve demonstrated that we have the worst luck imaginable,” she jokes darkly.

The figure is still hard to make out aside from the gaudy cape and lightning. The electricity in the air made the audio on the video spotty at best, mostly static and a few loud bursts of accurate recordings of a fight, but mostly useless. Then a few video frames give them a clear view of the front of the figure.

“Pause,” Natasha says, sitting forward in her chair. “Go back three frames?” The computer obeys her voice command, ticking back to the moment when they had the best view.

Both Okoye and Natasha freeze as they take in the image.

There’s a shard of disappointment that goes through Natasha when she realizes, once and for all, that it definitely isn’t Thor. That disappointment turns swiftly into suspicion because she does not know this person, and they certainly have powers that would’ve landed them at the top of a SHIELD watchlist back in the day.

It’s a woman. She’s massive, arms and legs thick with muscle, and extensive armor that could be Asgardian make, but with the graininess of the video, it’s hard to tell. Her helmet covers almost her entire face, only exposing her mouth and jaw. Some sort of chainmail on her legs, perhaps, and a sleeve on her left arm. Her right arm is bare, and clutched in that hand--

“Mjolnir,” Natasha breathes.

“I thought it was destroyed,” Okoye says.

Natasha nods. “We all did.”

Despite the video quality, there’s no mistaking that hammer. Especially when Natasha resumes the video and the mysterious woman throws the hammer, and it returns to her hand moments later.

“We haven’t seen any new powered people since the Snap,” Okoye says, breaking the silence. “With our…  situation  being what it is,” she continues, tactfully calling the mess they’d made of the world a  situation , “we should either ascertain if this woman is on our side, get her on our side, or terminate her as soon as possible.”

Natasha nods in quiet contemplation. They cannot afford to have a powered person running around the world unchecked, not with the way things are. They’re barely managing to hold it together as it is, and the Avengers are spread extremely thin. Not to mention their help is often rejected in an official capacity, a lionshare of the blame for what happened falling to the World’s Greatest Heroes who failed to save the world. It’s a PR nightmare, and there are many nights when Natasha wishes that she’d just been dusted along with the half of the world who didn’t make it.

But she didn’t. She’s still here, and someone needs to lead.

“Want me to track down Thor and ask him about her?” Okoye says. “Based on her strength from that video, she’s probably Asgardian.”

Natasha’s kneejerk reaction is to say no, that Thor can’t handle this, that he’s been in an almost constant state of inebriation and/or depression for the last two years and she won’t expose her friend to something that might be painful for him. Then her rational mind kicks in and she nods at Okoye. Thor is their best lead. “I’ll come with you.” (Then her vicious mind raises its hackles and says if she’s got to wade into the shit that is the post-Snap world, then Thor should have to get right into it with her.)

That night, the evening news features a story with the grainy footage Natasha could’ve sworn she’d managed to scrub from everywhere (but alas, she is no Vision.) The ticker at the bottom of the screen reads The New Thor: Who is she, and can we trust her?

***

They find him at a hightop table in a hole-in-the-wall bar in New Asgard, and if Natasha had been serving him, she probably would’ve cut him off at least four drinks ago, but the bartender doesn’t seem concerned with denying their monarch his alcoholic solace.

“Do I need to go get Brunnhilde?” Okoye whispers to Natasha.

Thor sways in his barstool, hands clasped around a large stein of beer, but seems coherent enough to answer their questions.

“Not yet.”

“Wha--?” Thor mumbles, eyes half-lidded. “What’re you saying?” His words are disturbingly slurred. Maybe getting Brunnhilde wouldn’t be a bad idea.

Natasha refocuses. “Have you watched the news recently?”

Thor snorts and takes a drink of beer. And doesn’t stop taking a drink of beer until the stein is half-empty. Natasha’s eyes widen when he lets out a loud belch.

“Apologies,” he says, not sounding apologetic, “but you’ll have to excuse me for not keeping up with current events.”

Okoye cuts in, “How about this current event?

She slides a set of photos out of a manila envelope, laying them down on the bar table. The paper sticks to the surface of the table.

Thor shakes his head once, as if trying to rein in the spinning the room is likely doing around him. He leans down and squints at the photos. “That--” He cocks his head. “That isn’t me.”

“No,” Okoye confirms. “It isn’t.”

“These photos were taken two days ago in Garching, Germany. Know of any Asgardians who settled there?”

Thor swallows, and doesn’t immediately answer. He raises his free hand not on his beer to the photos, and the tip of his middle finger drags over where Mjolnir is inked onto the paper. “I thought it was gone,” he mumbles.

“So did we,” Natasha says, tempted to reach out to him at the abject sadness in his voice.

Okoye slants a glance at Natasha.  Focus , she seems to say with her eyes, before redirecting Thor, “Are there any Asgardians in Germany?”

“A few,” he says. “None that look like this woman.” He looks up at them. “Do you know how she found Mjolnir?”

It’s his most coherent question yet. Natasha shakes her head. “We just found out about her. She looks pretty confident with it, so maybe she’s been training somewhere.”

“I don’t underst--” Thor loses his battle with his balance and gravity and falls off his barstool. Natasha and Okoye both reach out to steady him, but he manages to catch himself before he hits the floor.

Natasha goes to Thor’s side, her heart falling quickly as she puts an arm around him. It’s hard to see Thor like this, especially knowing the kind of man he used to be. (Of all the people she thought would stick with her, after Clint and Steve left, she thought that Thor would be the one to stay. He’d fought through so much heartache, sided with them in New York against his own brother, protected the Earth from the Dark Elves after his mother’s murder, faced down Thanos even after his planet had been destroyed, and yet he’d always been ready to fight. It’s downright unnatural, utterly tragic to see him laid so low.)

Turning to Okoye, Natasha says, “Go get Brunnhilde.” Okoye doesn’t need to be told twice.

“Thor,” Natasha prompts, getting the man to look at her. His eyes look pained. She’s sure hers must reflect his. “You’ve gotta stop this.”

“Stop what?” he mumbles.

“You know what.” She hesitates before offering, “You could come back, you know. Join the Avengers again. I really could use the help, and you’ve got more experience leading than everyone else on the team combined.”

He’s already shaking his head. “No.” Clear, concise, and completely at odds with his drunkenness. “No, I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

His answering smile is sad. “I have nothing left to offer you.”

“Yes, you do,” Natasha answers softly, but based on his tone, this isn’t an argument she’s going to win. Not today, at least.

A beat passes. “You really didn’t know about Mjolnir?” she asks, one more time.

“I’m not worthy anymore,” he whispers. “Why would it call to me?”

Natasha doesn’t answer that. There’s a lot of layers there that she doesn’t think she’ll ever fully understand.

Okoye returns with Brunnhilde at her side. She says to Okoye, “You know, sometime you’re going to have to visit me when it’s not for the purposes of picking his sorry ass up off the floor.”

Okoye chuckles. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Brunnhilde proceeds to pick Thor up in a bridal carry, making Natasha stumble a bit when his weight is no longer against her. “Come on, your majesty,” she says, tone almost bored. “Let’s get you home.”

Natasha bites her tongue against all the questions she wants to ask.

How often do you do this for him?

How is everyone around here blind to what’s happening to him?

Where on earth is he getting enough alcohol to regularly get drunk?

Before she can even think of pursuing another line of questioning, she gets a call from Carol--she is needed urgently back at headquarters.

She sighs. The hunt for the new Thor will have to wait for now.

***

It’s only once Natasha and Okoye are on a quinjet and flying back to their base that Brunnhilde unceremoniously drops Thor on the ground.

He huffs, but quickly stands up and brushes himself off, perfectly sober. “Unnecessary.”

She glares at him. “How long are you going to keep this act up?” she demands. “Those are your  friends .”

“Natasha is a friend,” Thor corrects, “Okoye thinks I’m a worthless drunk.”

Brunnhilde rolls her eyes. “Because she’s never known you as anything else.”

He grits his teeth. “It’s for the best.”

“That’s what you keep telling yourself, but they  know  about her. What’s your act doing to keep her safe now?”

The muscle in Thor’s jaw works furiously, but he calmly answers, “They don’t know her identity. They think she’s a rogue Asgardian.”

Brunnhilde bristles and brusquely pulls a folded manila envelope out of her back pocket. “Okoye gave these to me, said to ask you about them again when you sobered up.” She quickly opens the envelope and tears its contents out and holds them right in his face. The edges of the photo paper crease under the force of her fingers clenching down on them. “You see this? The better she gets, the more this is going to happen. And you know what’s eventually going to happen?” She jerks her head backwards. “Your friends are going to find her. She’s on a crash course, and then she will be a part of this. You can’t stop that. It was a fantasy to think you ever could.”

“I didn’t think I could keep her from it forever,” Thor replies evenly, and he wraps his fingers around Brunnhilde’s wrist and lowers the photos from his face so he can look her in the eye.

“Then  why ?” she asks.

“Because she needs to be better than me,” he says, like a release of steam from a pot. “She needs to be better, and she’s not yet.”

Brunnhilde shakes her head. “I don’t know if you’re going to get a choice for much longer.

   and the one time…

“Jane.”

His shoulder jumps under her head.

“Hm?”

“We’re almost there.”

“Oh,” she says groggily, and pushes herself off Thor’s shoulder. “Oops,” she says when she notices the spot of drool on his shirt. “Sorry.” The weird half-sleep that comes along with car rides is slow to depart, clawing at her eyelids until she reaches to her right, where a bottle of water sits.

After she downs half the bottle and truly wakes up, he gives her a soft smile, one that says he probably wasn’t far behind her in terms of falling asleep. “It’s no matter. I thought you’d want to be awake before we arrived.”

She stretches her hands over her head as much as the towncar’s roof allows, and a series of satisfying pops go down her spine. She grunts in satisfaction before saying, “I need to go over my speech one more time.”

“I’m fairly certain  I  could give it at this point with how many times I’ve heard it.”

“You’re a good person to practice with!”

“I’m only teasing,” he says. “And besides, this is hardly your first time doing this.”

“This still feels bigger, somehow.” 

He makes a soft sound of agreement. Jane offers the water to him, which he accepts and drinks his fill before capping it and setting it aside.

Jane continues, “It’s one thing to get, you know, a big science award. Like, the last time I got the Nobel I felt almost old hat at it, you know?”

Thor gives her a look. “I recall you saying that you felt like you were going to throw up before you went onstage to give your speech.”

Jane flaps her hand at him. “Okay, sure I was nervous, but I was….used to the shape of it? This is a completely different type of thing.”

“Yes, excelling at heroics is something you usually leave to me.”

“Hey, I have plenty of behind the scenes heroics!”

“Of course, dear,” he says with a laugh, “but none of those behind the scenes heroics resulted in a singlehanded defeat of the Infinity Stones, handicapping Thanos’s plan, and saving untold lives.”

Jane tilts her head back onto the headrest, a smile spreading across her face. That day, that last fight that Strange predicted would end in only one way, would be permanently emblazoned in her memory as long as she lived. Thor had asked her to stay away from the battlefield, and initially, she’d agreed. She and Tony had been theorizing about the nature of the stones, and they hadn’t had time to parse out the quantum entanglement theories together before her thinking buddy had to jet off to try and save the universe.

It came to her like a lightning strike only minutes after the team had left for the last battle. She’d built a frequency jammer that would disrupt the quantum entanglement of the stones in thirty minutes flat, and then raced out of the Avengers compound like a bat out of hell. She’d just have to get within range of the stones, and they’d be rendered inert, their effects immediately reversed, and they’d just be ordinary stones, and then they could be destroyed.

And, incredibly, even though the science of it was shaky at best, and she’d had to improvise on the fly when some of the wiring on the jammer had shorted out, it worked.

The army from the past was gone, snapped back to their original chronological configuration; Natasha and Gamora were spat out of whatever pocket universe they’d been trapped in; and Tony hadn’t had to use his gauntlet, hadn’t had to sacrifice himself for the universe as she’d  known  he’d planned on.

(Dr. Strange had sputtered, shocked, saying that of the fourteen million six hundred and five futures he’d seen, he’d only seen one possible outcome where they won, and it wasn’t this.

Jane shrugged, breathless, dirty, bloody, and grinned. “I found number fourteen million six hundred and  six .”)

“And all without a single power to her name aside from her intellect,” he finishes.

“I am pretty cool.”

“Both pretty and cool, much agreed.”

She lets her head fall to the side so she can look at him. His beard is long enough to be braided, and he’d done so this morning, and he’d taken care to braid some of his hair as well before pulling it back with a tie. He looked good. Great. Amazing, even.

She reached out her hand closest to him, trailing a finger along one of the braids in his beard. A streetlight from outside catches on her wedding ring just so.

After the Snap, she and Thor had drifted back together, partially out of shared grief and guilt, but had ultimately rediscovered why they’d worked together for years before the distance had become too much strain. They’d officially tied the knot a few years after Tony and Pepper had. (Steve had been Thor’s best man, and Darcy Jane’s maid of honor. Tony walked Jane down the aisle in Jane’s mother’s absence. Morgan had been their flower girl.) 

She wonders if any of this would’ve happened if they hadn’t found each other again. If they hadn’t rekindled their love for each other in the horrible aftermath of the Snap, would she have been around to help? Would Tony have reached out to her with the time travel issue? Would he have invited her to collaborate on the quantum entanglement of the stones if she hadn’t re-integrated herself into the Avengers circle? She likes to think so--they were friends, at least somewhat, before the Snap (but their closeness now was only formed in those last five years of wounded peace.)

“What are you thinking about?” Thor asks, and mirrors her position so he can look at her.

“Just that I’m really glad I married you.” She nudges forward so she can kiss him. “Really, really glad.”

“I’m glad you married me, too,” he answers. “Not many women would have had the fortitude to put up with me for as long as you have.”

She grabs his hand and pulls it over to her lap. “How many people did Pepper say were going to be here?”

Thor shrugs. “Less than two thousand, but there is the webcast as well.”

“ God .”

He squeezes her hand. “Go through your speech once more. It’ll make you feel better.”

“I’d feel better if we could skip past the ceremony and go right to the drinking and partying portion of the evening.”

Thor laughed. “If only I were planning the evening, Jane Foster. Now start from the top.”

Jane laughs, and closes her eyes. With her husband’s hand in hers, his warmth a steady reassurance at her side, she recalls the words she’s memorized and feels her nervousness retreat as she begins to speak.

[lizord-lord]

Locked Heart Ch.8

(OKAY GUYS IT’S FINALLY HERE-this one was just giving me a lot of trouble so it happened to take a while..and just fyi, @patton-croc-agenda​ (who held a gun to MY head for this one, so the debt is repaid) and I apologize for literally nothing. Except the wait. Now, let’s see what happened to our dear Patton..)

Previous: Chapter 7

Next: Chapter 9

Pairings: Eventual Logicality, Prinxiety

Words: 3,363

Summary: After making the mistake of letting a vampire into his home, Patton wakes up to find himself in a strange room he doesn’t recognize, and no means of escape.

Overall Warnings: This fic will at some point contain: Assault, kidnapping, graphic depictions of death and violence, mentions of/explict sexual content (the more explicit scenes can be skipped), negative/possibly suicidal thoughts and a relationship that can possibly be interpreted as Stockholm Syndrome (though we do try and flesh the relationship out, if the idea of such a thing even slightly triggers you maybe give this one a pass). Warnings will be posted for individual chapters as well.

Chapter Warnings: This is the big one folks..guns, blood, gore, getting shot, biting, murder, kidnapping, arguing, injury.

Logan woke to a quiet house. For a moment he was confused, frowning as he rose from his bed and grabbed his glasses from the nightstand-but then he remembered that it was Wednesday, and Roman and Virgil had an evening class. That would explain the silence. Rubbing his eyes and slipping his glasses onto his nose, he slid out of bed to get dressed, squinting as he entered the hallway-giving his eyes a moment to adjust to the artificial light before continuing down the hall to the guest room. He shouldn’t have been surprised when he found it unlocked and open, as Virgil and Roman often let Patton out before he woke up. That was fine. He trusted Virgil. Roman…..well, werewolves were nothing if not loyal.

However, as he stepped down the hall to get a drink of water, he began to notice.

Something smelt off.

Logan entered the kitchen, and he still hadn’t heard a noise. No creak of footsteps on the old boards. No quiet humming from the library. No shower running, no breathing, no heartbeat-

Halfway across the hall, he froze.

The smell of sugar and sea breeze shampoo-Patton’s scent- had gone stale. It should never be stale.

Stale implies that he-

Logan turned on his heel, eyes boring into the wood of the door-holding breath he didn’t need to take as he clasped the brass doorknob and turned it.

It opened.

He’s gone.

Logan snarled-how could this happen, he’d been so damn careful, and now Patton was out there! Alone, in the dark, two towns away from the apartment Logan had picked him up from. And the only defense he had was the ability to make goddamn glowing cubes, idiot, he clearly should have been even more cautious.

Logan snatched his keys from the hook by the door, slamming the door behind him as he dashed off into the darkening evening.

He reached downtown in about two minutes-curbing his supernatural speed to simply a speedy walk as the buildings came into view and brushing his mussed hair out of his face.

Now, it was just a matter of how far into the city Patton had gotten.

His heart in his mouth, Patton shakily nodded. The gun was not removed from where it was pressed between his eyes, and the safety was clicked off..why, why, why, all he’d wanted was to go home!

“Empty your pockets, the man holding the gun growled, and Patton did so-not that there was anything in them other than a crumpled up piece of paper he’d apparently shoved into his khakis-worthless, by the way the mugger tossed it to the ground.

“All of them,” he repeated, and Patton stiffened.

“That-that was all of them!”

“Please, you expect us to believe you just went on a nighttime stroll without a phone or a couple dollars?” Spoke another of the muggers-a woman this time, her voice full of scorn. Weakly, Patton nodded. He opened his mouth to explain-but no...no, he’d never be able to make them believe the truth, even if he cut out all the supernatural aspects.

“My phone is..is broken, I had to send it out-and I was staying at a friend’s house for the night, promise! I really don’t have any money, I-”

The man grimaced-a glint of white teeth in the faint lamplight still streaming into the alley- and terror clutched at Patton’s heart. Could he use his magic? Make the light again? He tried to think-but any thought of the power he held slipped from his mind before he could grasp it. Too scared to think.

I’m going to die.

“Wait.”

Another voice, different from the first two, coming from the thinnest of the group. “Don’t kill him, Har- dude. So he doesn’t have anything on him right now, we could get him to take us back to his house, can’t we?”

“....I guess…” grumbled the man in front of Patton. After a long moment, the gun’s safety clicked on. Patton felt a wave of relief go through his whole body, visibly slumping back against the bricks.

“Then take us to your house,” said another voice, this one rougher than the others. In response, Patton felt the sudden grip of a hand around his arm and he squeaked-suddenly realizing the situation. He was still lost. He didn’t know where his home was, but that wouldn’t fit with the story he’d given..oh no. Oh no please no.

“I-I can’t-” he stuttered out, scrambling for an excuse, a plea, anything.

“What do you mean you can’t, you goddamn can, and if you don’t then we’ll just shoot you.” growled the man, his grip tightening and sending Patton’s heart pounding so fast he feared it would burst out of his chest.

“I can’t, I-” think think think- “I take the bus!! Yeah, it’s too far to walk, so I take the bus-and I mean the five of you would look kind of suspicious on a bus..”

“He’s useless! See, I told you we should have hit a better part of town-let’s just kill him,” announced the rough voice-and Patton’s hands shot up to attempt to shield his face, even though the action was useless with the gun against his head. God, if there was any time he’d love to understand his weird magic it would be NOW!

“Don’t!” he cried, his voice high and quaking. “I-I could-” what could he do, “Please, I promise I won’t tell anyone about your gang, just don’t-”

The woman scoffed. “Gang? Don’t make me laugh, we aren’t some squad of..Cackling Coyotes or anything. Some people just need to make a damn living, now name one reason why we actually shouldn’t just kill you?”

“Maybe we could get his bank info?” Piped up the thinnest man, but the man with the gun only rolled his eyes.

“That’s like asking a chick at the bar for her number, no way to know if it’s fake until it’s too late. I vote kill.”

“Wait-” the panic rose in Patton’s chest, suffocating and thick, and he almost feared he’d pass out-the choking horror a sickening compliment to the cold ice that was his blood. No, no, this couldn’t be how he died-after everything he’d seen, gone through, he couldn’t die to a squad of muggers!! Please, please..

“I vote kill too,” spoke the man with the gun in a chillingly flat tone-and Patton’s breathing only grew shallower as he saw the silent figure nod.

“Let’s be smart about this,” hissed the thin man-so far, the only thing Patton could call an ally. “What will we do with the body? Hide the evidence?”

“Oh shut up, Di- dickwad, what if he blabs?” snapped the woman. “We kill him. Dump him in the trash and take the gun.”

“Please!!”

“Do it,” spoke the rough man.

“I’m doing it.”

“DON’T KILL ME!” Patton screamed-and suddenly, his icy blood was hot. Light burst forth from his body-

The gun went off, and Patton’s scream turned to one of blazing agony.

Out of the corner of his eye, Logan caught a flash of light-and two sounds in unison. A scream, high-pitched and full of roiling emotion-and a sound that chilled him to the bone.

A gunshot.

A gunshot, and Patton’s scream.

Patton.

Logan raced towards the sound-barely registering the scene before him-five people standing over Patton’s-slumped against the alley wall clutching his side. The scent, thick and sweet and intoxicating, filled his mind and the bloodlust invoked by the mere thought of someone hurting Patton, of Patton being out and in danger-gained a dual meaning.

He collided with the man holding the gun-and he heard shouts, presumably from the people around him, but he neither noticed nor cared. The gun clattered to the pavement as he wrenched it from the mugger’s grasp, a sickening crack echoing through they alleyway, accompanied by a howl of pain-but it wouldn't last, as Logan’s fangs soon tore into his throat, deep into the jugular, spilling blood like a fountain as Logan shoved the body to the ground, disregarding the dull thump.

He felt something smash into his skull-not a fist, some heavier object-he wasn’t sure what, only that it hurt, and a grunt of pain was torn from his throat, only to morph into a snarl. Crimson eyes, glowing in the darkness, turned on the woman that had hit him, and Logan swung his arm out, sending her flying into the wall and splattering blood across the bricks like a gory perversion of a Jackson Pollock painting as her skull smashed open against it.

He heard a scramble behind him-one of the others going for the gun, but Logan was much, much faster-in the blink of an eye, the gun was reduced to scrap metal in his hands, and the one who had dove for it fell right into Logan’s deadly grasp, a screech of pain ripping through the night as fangs ripped his throat open too. Two left. One dashed Logan’s way, and his neck was snapped in Logan’s hands. The last tried to run. Tried.

But there could be no witnesses.

Logan dragged the flailing, screaming man back into the alley, and once more tore open his throat.

Blood spilled from the wound-and as the adrenaline surge waned, the tantalizing smell wafted up to Logan’s nostrils, and his grip grew tighter. His fangs clamped down harder, and he drank, greedily lapping up the blood that flowed from the limp mugger’s throat, more and more until he finally felt full.

It couldn’t hurt.

The corpse fell from Logan’s grasp, the thump of it hitting the bloodstained pavement the only sound in the alley. Well, aside from a sound that he now became acutely aware of. Patton, shivering, his breathing shallow and terrified.

Patton.

In an instant, Logan was crouching in front of the pale-looking human. He reached out his arms to scoop him up- but to his aggravation, Patton tried to tug away, weakly pushing himself back into the wall.

Red eyes narrowed as Logan recalled why this had happened in the first place. That Patton had tried to run. If he’d just listened, but no!

Regardless, Logan tugged Patton to his feet, ignoring the whimper and turning. He felt Patton trying to pull away-heard a weak protest, but it only hardened his resolve. Idiot, how could he just throw himself into danger like that? He’d gotten mugged for goodness’ sake, the second he’d stepped out the door-and Logan had to come save him. What if he hadn’t found him in time? Patton could be dead, did he not see that?

“No..no, lemme go..” echoed the soft whimpers from behind him-but the tugging had stopped. Instead he was dragging Patton behind him-and as Logan turned, his eyes went wide.

With his face still smeared with various people’s blood, the thick, coppery scent right in his nose-fights weren’t neat after all-he hadn’t noticed it. Patton’s left hand clutched at his side-and red dripped from beneath his fingers, staining the fabric of his gray sweater. His face was even paler now as he stumbled along, woozy. That wouldn’t do. Especially now Logan had to get him home faster, before he bled out.

So he yanked Patton in and hefted him into his arms as he had the first night-but very much unlike the first night, even bleeding out and half-delirious, Patton still squirmed, glistening tears dripping down his cheeks as he tried to scramble out of Logan’s grip. Logan sighed.

“Patton, stay still-I need to take you home and get you medical assistance!”

At that, Patton actually started struggling more.

This was ridiculous, if he was going to make sure Patton lived he had to get him home! And yet the human insisted on making things difficult! Logan growled low in his throat, his lips curling up as he gripped the back of Patton’s head and turned it to face him.

He saw the slumping of Patton’s muscles as the red of his crimson stare reflected in Patton’s blue irises, the compulsion turning his limbs to jelly. By all means, an ability designed to incapacitate prey-but in this case, he just needed him to stop fucking squirming.

The tears stopped too, after a moment, as Patton passed out from the pain-and Logan was left in silence to bring them back home.

The door swung open-the faint creak of the old hinges accompanied by Roman and Virgil’s typical loud banter. But both of them stopped dead in the hall-surprise and apprehension flashing across their faces at the sight of Logan standing directly opposite the door, brown eyes narrowed behind his glasses and posture stiff and cold, arms crossed over his chest. Both human and werewolf shrank back just a bit, Virgil recognizing it as the Dad stare and Roman as the ‘boyfriend’s vampire dad who will murder you if you make one wrong move though you’re not so sure anymore’ stare. Equally terrifying interpretations. But neither of them were prepared for the reason Logan was glaring at them so intensely.

“You left the door unlocked.”

“He’s-” Virgil began, worry in his voice (why? He wanted Patton to escape. Just...he’d miss him) but Logan answered before he’d even finished the question.

“He’s here. He ran off and got mugged of all rotten ways luck could go. But he is alive, and well enough considering.”

“MUGGED??” Roman burst out-and Virgil felt his boyfriend’s hand tighten considerably in his own. He looked frantic and angry at the same time, which only worried Virgil because of the high probability he’d do something horribly rash, though the word was ringing in Virgil’s ears too. Mugged? Patton? What could have happened-Logan had said well enough considering, that could mean anything from distraught to terribly wounded!

“Yes, mugged.” Logan clenched his teeth as he spoke the words, “Five of them. I assume he attempted to fend them off with magic, as that is how I found him. One of them had shot him in the side when I arrived, though it did not seem to be a fatal wound except for the copious blood loss.”

“Tell me you ripped them apart.”

The words were growled through Roman’s teeth-and Virgil swore he caught a flash of gold out of his peripheral. There was something else in Logan’s eyes as he shifted to meet Roman’s, something old and something dark.

“I did.”

“Good.”

“Where is he?” Virgil asked-more pressing matters, more important things than revenge..though he’d be lying if he said he didn’t feel a dark rush of satisfaction upon hearing that those goons were gone for good. No one should hurt Patton, not sweet, loving, innocent Patton.

“His room. He’s still unconscious, passed out from blood loss. I bandaged him up best I could and locked the door again..” Logan trailed off, pulling his glasses off his face to wipe the lenses with his tie, looking frustrated. “And so soon after I let him have a bit more space.”

“I’m sorry..” Virgil mumbled. Normally he wouldn’t think this something to apologize for-it was an accident, and Patton shouldn’t have been trapped here in the first place. But he was hurt. And that changed things. Logan seemed to pause before sliding his glasses back onto his face.

“There had better be an explanation for your carelessness,” he said, though unsurprisingly his eyes did not turn to Virgil, but to Roman.

“We were running late for class, and in the rush to get out to not be late, something I’d expect you’d approve of, locking the door was an afterthought.”

“Well that ‘afterthought’ could have gotten Patton killed,” Logan replied lowly. “That isn’t my fault!” Roman protested, but Logan’s only response was a darker glare and crossed arms. “You should have been more responsible! Unfortunately, I can’t babysit you all every hour of the day!” “Ever consider we’re not babies?” Roman shot back. “You can’t control everyone!” “Oh. Oh. We’re going that direction, are we? Sometimes you might as well be children with how ridiculous you act, and if you’re going to be so careless clearly I must!” “And does that include Patton too?” Roman burst out, taking a step towards Logan. “I would have run away if I were him too, it’s not his fault he got into trouble, it’s not ours-hell, I’d even say it’s yours for shutting him up in here in the first place!” “He gets mugged immediately after leaving my care, and you say that my housing him here is the cause of this?? Explain to me exactly how that makes sense!” “Because you can’t just kidnap people and hold them captive, Logan, I happen to think that makes fucking sense!” Logan snarled, sharp fangs glinting in the artificial light. “You tend to seem rather happy to have him here, don’t you?” “So??? He’s a person!”

“Then you say I shouldn’t have brought him back? If that happened he’d be dead, and that is a good solution for no one.” “He shouldn’t-” “Will you two quit it?” The sudden intervention from Virgil froze both werewolf and vampire in place. They were practically at each other’s throats, an unfortunately common sight-though that also left the lone human in the room undeterred. Virgil stepped forward, pushing his way between them as an attempt to cool down the situation. “Look-I think we all know where everyone stands on Patton, and I kinda prefer you two not trying to murder each other, so let’s just...drop it okay?” “Virgil, come on-you know we can’t just-” Roman began, but Virgil spun to face him, cutting him off.

“Ro, can it.” The almost pleading look in his eyes finally did it. Sighing, Virgil turned to Logan, who was still standing with his arms crossed over his chest.

“Dad...I’m glad he’s safe.” He could have said more. But it wouldn’t help, would it? The three of them stood there in silence for a long moment before Virgil finally put his arms down, sighing. You could still cut the tension between his father and his boyfriend with a knife, but at least it wasn’t about to snap. He tucked his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, still looking to Logan.

“Can we see him?” Logan’s brow pinched, as if he wasn’t too happy about the idea-but a moment past, and with a sigh, he nodded, turning and stepping back down the hallway, waving for Virgil and Roman to follow. But Roman didn’t.

He remained in the hallway, glowering at his shoes-and before Virgil could grab his arm and pull him aside, he opened the door and stepped through. “Roman-” Slam.

Virgil groaned loudly, hitting his thigh with a closed fist in-what? Exasperation, frustration, hopelessness? One of the above, at least.

“Just let him go,” came Logan’s voice from down the hall, and as much as it annoyed Virgil to hear the command, Logan was right. Roman threw tantrums, and it was better to have him leave for a while than let another fight break out. So, he did. Virgil walked down the hall and up the stairs, following Logan, until they came to the plain door of the guest room where Patton lay unconscious.

The key in his pocket felt unnaturally cold and heavy as he unlocked the door and stepped inside.

Patton lay unmoving under the cream sheets, only the faintest rise and fall of his chest showing that he was alive. His curls were falling in his face, a plain blue t-shirt covering his chest-but as Virgil stepped closer to the side of the bed and tugged the covers down slightly, he could see the bloodstained bandages underneath. Wincing, he replaced the covers.

The silence filled the room as Virgil stood there, listening to the faint sound of Patton’s breathing and taking his freckled hand from where it lay beside him on the bed. But eventually, he did have to step away.

Virgil headed straight to his room, leaving Logan to shut and lock the door, kicking off his shoes and burying himself under his comforter. It was too cold without Roman.

He slipped into sleep soon after.

It was not a quiet sleep.

Also, we have a new Locked Heart Discord server!! Here’s a link that doesn’t expire, unlike the post I made about it, that was my bad XD

https://discord.gg/Fm6xZJM click to yell at us

Locked Heart Tags: @why-things-go-boom @altruistic-skittles @phantomofthesanderssides @soft-transboy @justanormalfoot @residentanchor @non-binaryemo @phlying-squirrel @shy-writing-life-of-hell @lucifer-in-my-head @forsakethegodsbeforetheydoyou @dragonheart905 @astral-eclipse @thatpinkpony59 @sleepyssnail @unipugsat221b @septic-fallen @cyberpunkjinx @ultimate-queen-of-fandoms2 @kaileah-kat @childhood-wishes-and-dreams @punsterterry @fantazyiskey @spaceviolett @anxiousvirgil0 @radioactivehelena @faithfulcat111 @that-random-fangirl @squidthesyd1174 @the-blue-belle @4amanxiety @rosesisupposes @9-patton-punchlines @ilylogan @nirascharacterdump @i-have-n0-idea-what-im-d0ing @ab-artist @bubblycricket @illogicaldeath @impromptu-sanity @wildhorsewolf @logicalerror @everyday-emo-stuff @belongstotrash @downrightdanny @cookiethedevil @awkwardcat @hatethesinlovethesinner92 @theultimatemomfriend @the-office-cat @ierindoodles @buckydeangirl91

[septic-dr-schneep]

JSE Fanfiction - Second Nature

Summary: With Schneep and Marvin otherwise occupied, Chase gets coerced into pulling out his fatherly tactics and taking care of Jackieboy when he’s come down with the flu.

Jackieboy’s life had been full of close calls. His job was one that constantly put his safety on the line; it was his second nature and his first instinct to dive headlong into the fray of any mildly threatening situation. This, however, was something he always tried to avoid like the plague; it was the plague.

Every single time he got sick, he swore that he would rather face Anti in a sudden death match armed with nothing but his fists rather than lie on the couch being fussed over. With hollow, glazed eyes, a splotchy fever flush painted over his cheeks and a mountain of blankets pulled up to his throat, he knew he made up the most cliché image of a sick person possible. It was miserable, inconvenient, and embarrassing.

That being said, it was an inevitable truth that because he was one of the most powerful members of the household, it had to be an equally powerful virus to take him down. He had exactly no chance of rising from this couch for work today. His shivering only worsened the cloying ache in his joints and with every breath it felt like there was a rusty nail dragging along the back of his throat that no amount of fluids would dislodge. That wasn’t going to stop his caregiver from trying, though.

“Here you go…” Jackieboy flinched slightly as the straw accompanying the voice poked at his lips, asking for entrance. “I got some juice from the fridge instead of coffee so it won’t burn your throat this time, okay? Just a few sips.”

Not bothering to open his eyes, the hero offered a raspy “mm-hmm” before prying his aching jaw open and catching the straw between his teeth. The apple juice was smooth and cool as it slid down his throat, but he couldn’t help but grimace at the off-brand taste. Maybe it was just his clogged sinuses ruining it, but he couldn’t bear too many sips.

“That any better, bro?”

“…Yeah.”

Chase pursed his lips ruefully, seeing through Jackieboy’s weak lie. “Sorry, man, I don’t really know how the doc does it,” he admitted freely as he set the cup on the nearby coffee table. “I’d ask, but his phone just goes straight to voicemail. He’s probably in a surgery.”

“What about Marvin?”

There was a pause as something passed over the younger Ego’s face—puzzlement, maybe, and a small twinge of hurt. Before Jackieboy could fully register it, it disappeared behind a small, polite smile. “He’s in the middle of rehearsals for his next gig,” he answered at last, his tone revealing nothing as he leaned back on his heels.

The functioning part of Jackieboy’s brain reminded him then that this was Chase he was talking to. Any small, unassuming thing might be turned the wrong way in his mind and strike a blow to his self-esteem…He must think Jackieboy would have preferred one of them over him as a caretaker.

“I was just aski—” Stiffening as his chest seized, Jackieboy had only a moment to haul the blankets over his face before the coughing fit smashed into him like a load of bricks. Over his flurry of wracking wheezes, he could hear Chase hissing through his teeth in sympathy. Almost thirty seconds later, he was still hacking and the vlogger finally shook his head and peeled some of the blankets back.

“Alright, alright, c’mon, let’s sit you up here,” he urged, wrapping an arm around Jackie’s back with firm gentleness. His hand didn’t leave once Jackieboy was upright, rubbing slow circles into his sweaty pajama shirt as air returned to his lungs in stops and starts. “That’s it, it’s calming down now…In through your nose, out through your mouth. You’ve got it.”

Jackieboy’s heaving shoulders stilled for only a moment before lurching once, twice more in a distinctively different fashion as his apple juice surged back up to his throat. “Cha—” he gagged, clapping his hands over his mouth and curling in on himself, shaking his head violently as telltale nausea prickled over his body.

“Oh—” Recoiling, Chase lunged to his feet and scrambled to the kitchen, tearing through the cabinets for the nearest bowl. “Hang on, hang on—!”

It was a tribute to the vlogger’s speed and agility, honed with hours and hours of trick shots, that he managed to find the perfect bowl and thrust it under his chin in time for him to retch into it. The force of his heaving nearly knocked his forehead against the bowl’s metal rim until Chase put a hand on his shoulder to steady him.

“It’s okay, you’re okay,” he soothed all the while, shushing Jackieboy’s pained groans and gags. “S’alright, just get it out. I’m sorry, man, I know it hurts…” Pursing his lips, he moved his hand from Jackie’s shoulder to the back of his neck, tsking worriedly. “You’re really warm.”

Sure enough, it took everything in him for Jackie not to lean back into Chase’s blissfully cool touch. Instead, releasing a slow, shaky exhale, Jackieboy weakly shifted the bowl to his left, indicating he was finished, at least for now. Chase hardly batted an eye as he took it back to the kitchen to rinse it out, but when he returned with the bowl in one hand and a damp towel in the other, he noticed how Jackieboy’s flush deepened. It wasn’t from his fever.

“It helps!” he retorted in answer to the other’s unspoken distaste.

“C’mon…” the older Ego croaked, shoulders slumping in mingling embarrassment and despair.

“Hey, don’t knock it till you try it,” Chase advised, easing Jackie’s head back with a hand on his forehead so his face could be at the best angle for the toweling. “Here, I’ll be Marvin if it makes you feel better.” Making his voice a bit gruffer and his accent a bit thicker, he announced, “For my next trick, I will be demonstrating something of wonder, awe, and amazement…The Productive Dab.”

The towel was softer than Jackieboy expected, or perhaps it was the gentleness of Chase’s strokes that fooled him into thinking it was. Despite himself, he couldn’t help but sigh in relief as the cloth was patted along his temples, cheekbones, jawline and the curve of his throat.

“There. Isn’t that better?” Chase questioned rhetorically once he was satisfied, brushing aside stray strands of Jackieboy’s hair so he could drape the folded towel over his forehead.

“S’like magic…” Jackieboy agreed hazily, his eyes drifting over to him. “’m…sorry, Chase. I was just asking about Henrik and Marv cos I…didn’t want you to see me like this.”

It took a moment but to the hero’s faint surprise, Chase barked an incredulous laugh. “What, seriously? Dude, you think I haven’t seen this before? This is nothing! Try taking care of a five-year-old when she’s got the flu. Brianna was the most pathetic little picture you could imagine, all bundled up in bed. Every time I thought she was asleep and I’d get up for food or coffee, she’d wake right back up and start crying, which only made her nose run everywhere.”

“Poor kid,” Jackie murmured.

“Yeah, it wasn’t pretty.” Chase’s expression grew wistful then, his attention wandering. “But when she cried, she wanted me to rock her. Walking around her room and rocking her was the only thing that would help.” Chuckling wryly, he glanced back at Jackieboy and opened his arms invitingly. “Think that would work?”

“Sounds nice, but I don’t think you could lift me.”

“Oh, you think I don’t lift, bro?”

Jackieboy laughed at that, the sound catching in his throat to turn into another dry cough. “Ow, ow—don’t make me laugh, it hurts.” Holding his breath for several seconds to calm down the warning ache in his throat, he settled his head more heavily against the arm of the couch, letting his eyes close. “Sounds like you’re a better caretaker than I figured,” he commented, trying to stay focused on the conversation and not on the headache trying to persist in dragging its fingers along his skull.

“Well, yeah. I don’t usually get to take care of you; you’re always taking care of me,” Chase pointed out. “You’re always taking care of all of us.”

“S’my job. I worry about you.”

“Right back at you,” Chase insisted. “Jackieboy…you know how much you mean to us, right? We wouldn’t get anywhere without you. You know that, right?”

“…Yeah. I think you could do just fine, though. More than fine. You’re…you’re really amazing, Chase. I couldn’t ask for you to be any better. You make all of us proud and I wouldn’t get anywhere without you.” Though his weary tone didn’t change as he said those words, Jackie could feel a slight sting in his chest and behind his eyelids as emotion stirred. He took a lesson from Chase’s daughter, however, and pressed it down deep in his stomach before it could clog his sinuses and make the ache in his throat any worse. “For one thing, I’d have puked all over these blankets.”

Silence reined for a few minutes after that remark, until Jackieboy’s mind was starting to wander into the dim, delirious thoughts that were almost dreams. Eventually Chase muttered something or another that might have been thanks before rising to his feet. “You’ve gotten really sappy; your fever must be gettin’ to you. I should let you rest.”

“Wait, wait—don’t go—” In his bleary haste, Jackie’s plea sounded much more tragic than it was technically meant to, but it did give Chase pause. Deciding to roll with it, the older Ego widened his eyes pitifully. “Henrik and Marvin always stay with me when I’m sick…”

“Would it make them proud?” Chase quipped, earning nothing but another longing blink in return. Jamming his hands into his pockets, he shook his head and relented. “Just let me grab my headphones real quick so I can listen to music in case you start snoring.”

Jackieboy’s next blink was one of confusion. “Wh—I don’t snore!”

“Sure, you do. Marvin always tries to trick me into swapping rooms with him since you two share a wall,” the vlogger announced guiltlessly as he skirted past the coffee table and marched out of the room for his headphones.

Digesting this information with a mild scowl, Jackieboy huffed, coughed a few times and then let his head slide off the armrest onto the couch cushion itself, effectively burying himself under the blankets. He had a nagging feeling that he would overheat sometime while he was napping, but at the moment the warmth the blankets provided was pretty comforting. After he had settled into a breathing pattern that wouldn’t stir a coughing fit, he finally felt free to doze off.

When he was still just semiconscious of his surroundings, he heard Chase return, humming softly to the tune in his headphones as he settled down in the chair nearby. The sound lulled him all the way down into darkness, and his sleep was peaceful. He didn’t make a sound.

[mysunfreckle]

How Knox Harrington met Bertram Tung...

As long as the streetlights kept working it was never truly dark in Santa Monica, but the back alleys were never truly lit either, not even in the middle of the day. Honestly, Knox could hardly tell the difference between day and night here. The backstreets existed in a perpetual middle ground and by now he knew them better than the block he grew up in.

So the punk trying to run away from him didn’t stand a chance. He knew he had him when he turned that corner. This alley was a dead end.

“I don’t wanna shoot you man,” Knox shouted. He was breathing heavy, almost panting, but the gun in his outstretched hand didn’t even tremble. “But I got a job to do and dude, you’re screwing with my shit.”

The figure had stopped running and when he spoke they seemed to have stopped moving altogether, but something wasn’t quite right. Knox knew what a person looked like when they were frozen in their tracks and this wasn’t it. Whoever they were, they weren’t fazed by the fact he had a gun pointed at their back.

“You’re pretty fast, kid,” the figure spoke in a raspy voice. “Figured I’d have lost you by now.”

“No way pal,” Knox said tensely. “I’m on someone’s tail I stay there.”

“Interesting…”

“Look,” Knox said, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck beginning to stand on end. “I don’t want any trouble with you. But you wiped my mark’s computer and that’s just not cool. Either you give me back those disks I know you’ve got on you or tell me where I can find him.”

“Your mark?” the man asked, still not having turned around. He was standing in the shadows, seemingly looking thoughtfully towards the sky.

“I’m a bounty hunter,” Knox said firmly. That fact usually made people nervous enough. “Look if Torres owes you money or something I’m sure you can work something out with my boss, but all I care about is that he jumped his bail and it’s my job to get him back.”

“You work for Kilpatrick,” the man said. It wasn’t a question, but Knox answered it anyway.

“That’s right,” he said. “He told me to find Torres and since you just trashed his hideout you’re my only lead.”

“And that means you’re on my ‘tail’, right?” the other said in a tone of voice that sounded almost amused.

“Damn straight,” Knox said. “So you better-”

The man turned around and stepped forward. Knox raised his head a little to meet his eyes, but as soon as the figure moved out of the shadows Knox’s blood ran cold. The face he looked into was not human. The bulbous growths on the hairless skull and the coarse, discoloured skin might be the result of some horrible disease, but the red eyes surrounded by tarry black and the mess of sharp teeth between those sneeringly smiling lips were monstrous. For a split second Knox froze, then he fired.

The shot rang out like a crack and the man, or thing, or whatever it was, let out a grunt. The bullet had hit him square in the chest, very probably tearing straight through his heart. But the figure didn’t recoil or fall, didn’t even stagger backwards. Instead, he raised his head, staring straight at Knox with another mocking smile and said:

“Now that’s just rude.”

Knox ran. The key to survival was knowing when the fight, flee or freeze instead of doing it by instinct. He had barely reached the corner he had just come round before he felt a claw-like hand grab him by the shoulder and yank him back. His back collided with a brick wall, smashing his head against it and for a moment the world flickered. Another claw gripped his hand, forcing him to let go of his weapon.

“You got a thick skull, kid,” the monster chuckled.

Against his better judgement, Knox opened his eyes and looked up into the disgusting face.

His wince was answered with another chuckle. “I’m not much to look at I know, but you look a little rough yourself…” The monster gave him an appraising look. “What’d you do after you followed me out of the window, you must have scaled a wall or two.”

Knox didn’t reply. He wasn’t sure he was even capable of speech at this moment. The eyes. The red eyes. He had to repress every single one of his natural instincts to keep himself from fighting and trying to flee. But the claw that had gripped his shoulder was now pressing against his chest just below his throat and the rational part of his brain was very sure that if he tried fighting he wouldn’t survive it. He was absolutely certain this thing could have killed him if it wanted to and it was unclear to him why he was still alive.

“What’s your name, kid?”

He swallowed. “Knox… Harrington.”

The monster grinned. “Well Knox, I’m Bertram Tung and this is your lucky night.”

Knox would beg to differ. “How come,” he managed to force past his lips.

The thing called Bertram smiled. “Because you managed to impress me and I’ve been looking for someone with your kind of skill set for a while now…”

The red eyes were still staring at him and Knox was still terrified, but he was alive and whatever this guy was he hadn’t seriously hurt him yet. Instinct and reason knocked heads with each other and…

“Shit man, if you’re offering me a job you are one messed up recruiter.”

Bertram blinked and let out a surprised laugh. “You’re lucky I appreciate a quick tongue as much as I do quick feet,” he grinned. “And I’m not offering you a job, I’m offering you a life.”

There was suddenly a lump in Knox’s throat.

“You clearly know your way around here,” Bertram said. “But let me open your mind a little further…” And with a firm hand on his shoulder once more he led Knox back into the dead-end alley, towards a partially opened manhole cover.

Second part of this one-shot on my AO3

[jasontoddenthusiastt]

BFTC isn’t really a case of terrible characterization for Jason so much as it was a terrible case of victim blaming. Like yeah, some of the things Jason did were a bit extreme compared to his “better” appearances, but that’s nothing new and pretty much true of many stories that aren’t utrh or lost days. The bad parts are are also definitely exaggerated by fans.

The story isn’t centered on Jason. Of course every other character’s description of Jason would be knee-jerk dismissive and misunderstanding, since (again) the intention was to make Jason out to be the cartoony bad guy villain. But if you look past the layers of grime they added, the bare bones of his characterization are not entirely incorrect. It’s a biased story in which their intended criticisms of Jason’s morals often fell short, so to compensate they deliberately cranked up his motivations to be more extreme and unrealistic (but one which, nonetheless got Jason’s overall thoughts and goals relatively consistent with stories that portrayed him accurately).

Yes, him shooting Damian was out of character, but granted we’re all in agreement that it was a true case of “bad writing decision”, I don’t think it’s hard to look past. The only other bit people probably complain about (which felt iffy at worst) was him being “a bit enthusiastic” at times in trying to convince Dick to become another lethal Batman (you can just as easily say Jason wouldn’t have been personally invested enough to have acted in the way he did). I don’t care though because he was probably doing it for shits and giggles, and it was funny watching him push their buttons on his spare time while being excellent at his job. Same old ‘none of them deny that he’s effective, they just can’t get behind the killing’ conflict.

Looking past the fact that Jason still had a valid point, the “he’s the bad guy” plot falls apart for other obvious reasons, which happen in the 3rd issue. It’s kind of hard to focus on how much of a bitch Jason’s being when the other characters are written in an infinitely more problematic way (which ends up happening in most “hate Jason” stories). Not only did they heavily imply Jason is a victim of SA, but the way Dick/the batfamily treats Jason about this is … horrible. Arguing that this was a case of character assassination for Bruce and Dick would be more realistic than using this story to claim Jason is a Bad Person™.

Even though Bruce does have a bad track record with his perspective on victims of SA.

Hey. Maybe listen to the living person begging you to turn it off.

Geez. I wonder why he never felt safe enough to confide in Bruce or any of the rest of them. Implying that enduring what he did made him “broken beyond repair”, that he needs to be “fixed”, and saying verbatim, “you are my greatest failure”, not “I failed you greatly”. Then deciding on behalf of Jason that a bunch of people who weren’t involved in what happened to him should all know about this so they can decide what should be done. And everyone agrees with this garbage. Unbelievable.

Aka, any sort of healing he may have tried to accomplish was ruined by you lot. When exactly am I supposed to see that Jason was evil all along.

The story collapses in on itself in the third issue because where Dick is supposed to be at his prime within the arc, he just sort of rambles about how Jason was a shitty victim and then awkwardly shifts to talking about personal growth and coming to accept his own heroic destiny.

I do resent this, but not because “Jason sucks here”. Jason’s “bad portrayal” pales in comparison to the problematic mindsets given to the other characters (namely Dick) which were framed as good-natured intentions and “tough love”. As for people who describe this as “vilifying Jason to prop up Dick” … I don’t really know what to make of that.