#sorry this response was so unnecessarily long but i hope that was a decent enough explanation

[iyuro]

langstymclangstface replied to your photoset “you’re still so quick to cry, huh”

I would like context and then permission to make a fic!

while i don’t follow this run much at all myself, the vague context is jon turning up as a 16yo in the latest superman issue (if you don’t mind spoilers, here’s a pic of him here). from what i know, apparently lois and clark think it’s okay to send jon to space to be with his super questionable grandpa (like. what lol.) and he ends up being aged up about 6 years due to space shenanigans i guess, and apparently the influence from his sketchy grandpa also ends up eventually causing him to be evil. i’m actually not 100% sure on the evil part but based off the cover of issue #8 (here) that seems to be the case.

as for how that context is related to my art: although i doubt they’ll show damian meeting this older jon any time soon, if at all, i think it’d be a really intense moment for both of them. damian’s always been jon’s only superhero friend his age, who ironically is also his tie to feeling like a “normal kid,” and seeing damian would be a shattering reminder of what he’s lost (his years as a child, his naivety, ties to the earth, etc). damian can relate in a sense, because he’s lost a lot of his formative years/childhood too (although in a different sense), and i think he’s also sad/shaken up because the idea of jon being violent or evil goes against jon’s representation as a goodness and optimism he himself never had or will have. he knows he can’t undo what’s happened to jon, but he accepts him no matter what and still believes he’s a genuinely good person. 

anyways tl;dr PLEASE FEEL FREE TO DO A FIC I’M SURE IT’D BE AMAZING!!

[thelazyhermits]

Hospital Visit

After seeing the beautiful art @quirkquess drew for my birthday, which you can find here, I felt compelled to write a little drabble inspired by it. I hope y’all enjoy it! XD

After getting an unexpected call from Tsukauchi, you later find yourself at a hospital in Osaka. Normally, when you’re in a hospital, it’s because you’re a patient, but thankfully, that’s not the case today. 

Unfortunately, that means someone you know and care about is a patient instead.

According to the police detective, Fatgum had a rough encounter with some villains yesterday. While he came out the victor, the BMI hero was regrettably not unscathed.

In addition to losing all his fat, Fatgum ended up with several bone fractures and a concussion. Fortunately, none of his injuries are serious, so he won’t be out of commission for a long period of time. He’ll be back to normal in no time as long as he makes sure to get enough rest.

While that sounds simple enough, it unfortunately isn’t since Fatgum hasn’t exactly been a model patient since arriving at the hospital. Tsukauchi was told by the staff that Fatgum keeps trying to escape to find food since he’s not a fan of the hospital’s food. 

That’s why the police detective decided to request your services. He had to come to the hospital anyway to question one of the villains that’s currently a patient there, so he thought it’d be a good idea to bring you along to help with Fatgum while he visited the villain. 

So, after he drops you off outside the door to the BMI hero’s room, Tsukauchi parts ways with you, telling you that he’ll provide an escort back to UA whenever you’re ready to leave. After thanking him, you move to open the door.

When you do, you see the room’s sole occupant, lying in bed wearing a disgruntled expression. You feel a sharp pang in your chest when you take in the sight of all his bandages and see his right arm in a sling.

As soon as his eyes fall on you, they grow large. “Y/N?! What are ya doin’ here?”

Your eyes narrow as you put your hands on your hips. “I think a better question would be: Why did I hear about you being in the hospital from Detective Tsukauchi instead of you?”

His expression turns sheepish. “Uhhhh. I was gonna do it later today?”

Yeah, right. No doubt Taishiro was planning on not telling you in order to avoid worrying you. That knucklehead.

With a huff, you cross your arms. “I guess I’ll have to keep that in mind the next time I end up injured, huh?”

Panicked, Taishiro quickly sits up and immediately winces when the sudden movement jostles his injuries. Worried, you hurry over to his bedside and lay a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Are you okay, Taishiro-san?”

He nods before giving you a little grin. “Yeah, I’m okay. Just sat up too fast. Sorry for worryin’ ya.”

The corners of your lips tug downwards. “I’m sorry. It’s because of what I said. Even though I didn’t mean it, I shouldn’t have said it.”

Taishiro uses his free hand to ruffle your hair as his expression softens. “Ya don’t need to apologize. Ya made a good point. It’s not fair of me to expect ya to tell me every time ya get injured but not do the same for ya when it happens to me.”

After saying that, his arm moves to wrap around you so he can pull you toward him. As you gently embrace the older man, he buries his face in your hair. “I’m sorry for not tellin’ ya, Y/N. I promise I won’t let it happen again. I won’t try to keep ya in the dark anymore.”

You nuzzle his chest. “Thank you.”

A few minutes later, you finally pull away from the blond and give him a once over, using one of your hands to gently hold his face so you can better examine it. “Are you in a lot of pain? Do you need anything?”

With a soft grin, Taishiro rests his free hand over yours and gives it a squeeze. “I’m fine, really. I’ll be fully recovered in no time, I promise.”

Raising an eyebrow, you reply, “I wonder about that. Recovery requires rest, and considering what the hospital staff has said about you, it doesn’t sound like you’ve been doing a lot of that since becoming a patient.”

He immediately averts his gaze as he releases his hold on your hand. “O-Oh, really? They said that?”

An amused huff passes your lips  “Uh huh. According to them, you haven’t exactly been a model patient.”

Pouting, Taishiro grumbles, “I just wanted some decent food. They act like I’m gonna leave the hospital and never come back.”

Giggling, you move to press a soft kiss on his bandaged cheek, making him blush. “I know. That’s why I brought along something special so you wouldn’t try to make anymore escape attempts today.”

While you move to pull off your backpack, the blond covers his flustered face with his free hand and peeks at you through the opening between his fingers. “Somethin’ special?”

You grin as you pull out some tupperware and take off the lid, revealing the takoyaki you made. “Yep. I made your favorite. They’re still hot since I made them at your apartment before coming here while Detective Tsukauchi visited the local police station.”

His eyes light up as his mouth begins to water. “They look delicious!”

Your grin grows as you hold out a takoyaki and bring it close to his lips. “Say ‘Ahhhh’, Taishiro-san.”

The flustered expression he was wearing earlier returns with a vengeance. “W-Wait! Ya don’t have to feed me! I can still use my left arm!”

Shaking your head, you move the takoyaki closer to him when he tries to pull away. “That doesn’t change the fact that it’s still injured. You shouldn’t push yourself unnecessarily, Taishiro-san. Just let me take care of you today, okay?”

Realizing you won’t be taking no for an answer, the embarrassed hero reluctantly eats the offered takoyaki. After he does, his expression brightens. “They really are delicious! That’s one of the best takoyaki I’ve ever had!”

Pride bubbles in your chest as you offer him another one, moving to take a seat on the edge of his bed so you can have easier access to the older man. “I should hope so. After all, unlike those other takoyaki, mine have all my love for you in them. There’s no way I’d allow them to lose to any possible rivals.”

Even though you made sure to say that after he finished swallowing the second takoyaki, Taishiro still makes a choked sound after hearing your response. He futilely attempts to hide his now scarlet cheeks behind his hand. “There ya go again. This must be your payback for me not tellin’ ya that I was here.”

Your eyes sparkle with obvious mischief as you offer him another takoyaki. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Taishiro-san. I’m just letting you know how much I love you, just as I always do. Nothing unusual about that.”

Taishiro pouts before accepting the offered food. After swallowing, he asks, “You’re not gonna cut down on the flusterin’ at all today, are ya?”

The corners of your lips lift higher as you move to kiss his forehead. “Nope~ I’m gonna dote on you as much as possible today. Aren’t you lucky?”

He catches you by surprise when he abruptly pulls you toward him until you’re sitting on the bed beside him. When you look up at him with wide eyes, Taishiro wraps his arm around your shoulders and pulls you further against him, grinning all the while. “I’m definitely the luckiest guy on the planet, gettin’ to have ya all to myself today. Thank ya for comin’, Y/N.”

Warmth envelopes your chest as you snuggle closer to the blond. “Anything for you, Taishiro-san.”

After all, your favorite hero deserves only the best.

[blueboxesandtrafficcones]

With This Ring...

So, this is day 7 of Ficmas for @doctorroseprompts.  This was actually partially inspired by @starry-nightflyer.  In September, I wrote little inbox ficlets for @dwinboxbuddies, three of which centered around a ring for Rose.  Her responses suggested she wanted to see him give her the ring - this is that occasion.

Clean.

2017, Day 7

Tagging @timepetalsprompts for our favorite Tenth Doctor ticks - tugging his ear, touching his neck, mussing the hair (all in one sentence!)

Ficmas Masterlist Original inbox ficlets here

AO3

He didn’t know why he was waiting.

Whenever Jackie asked (which was often – at least once a day), he babbled some vague excuse.

He was waiting for the right time.  He had a plan.  He was working on it.

All of which was just that – excuses.

He wanted it to be perfect, what Rose deserved – going so far as to do research with his limited resources, including sitting through Rose’s awful romantic comedy movies looking for ideas.

He had nothing.

But above all, he definitely had not planned on her family being present, never mind involved.

Which is why it was as much a surprise to him as it was to Rose when it finally did happen.

-

“Doctor?”  Tony’s beseeching eyes stared up at him as the little boy swayed next to his chair.

“Go ahead,” he confirmed, lips twitching in amusement as the child gave a happy shout, pulling the Doctor’s suit jacket from the back of the chair and diving into the pockets with glee.

Almost from the beginning, Rose’s brother had been fascinated by the bigger-on-the-inside pockets to the point where he’d tried several times to climb inside, barely being rescued by the Doctor.

By now, it was standard practice that as soon as he was done eating dinner he’d start digging through those pockets in search of anything interesting, usually bored with the adult conversation around him.

“-so there we are, people dropping like flies, Agatha’s having trouble grasping the alien wasp concept, when-”

“Can I have this?”  Heedless of his rudeness Tony asked his question, holding the item in hand.

“Sure,” the Doctor barely glanced at it, trying to remember where he was in the story, when the glimpse of the treasure processed.

“No!”  He cried in a panic, all but lunging for the little boy and carefully wrestling it out of his hands.  “No, Tony, I’m sorry, but you can’t have that,” he said firmly, grasping it close.  “You’re welcome to pick out something – anything – else, but not this.”

Tony pouted, but went back to digging as the Doctor picked up his story.

“So just as-”

“What was that about?” Like mother, like son, Jackie didn’t hesitate to interrupt him.

“What?”

“What did Tony have that was so important?”  She wanted to know, trying to crane her neck to see her son.  “Is he all right?”

“Wha- course he’s fine. Doesn’t matter what he had,” the Doctor said brusquely, fist tightening around it.  “As I was saying-”

“That was quite an overreaction for nothing,” Pete said curiously, keen eyes watching the alien who appeared to be sweating bullets.

“It’s just – it’s precious is all, and it’s mine and no one else’s,” he babbled, clearly nervous.

“What is it, a ring?” Rose asked, amused at how closely he resembled Gollum at the moment.

It had only been a joke, but the way the blood drained from his face as his eyes widened in full blown panic made her sit up straight.

“No, course not,” he said weakly, entirely unconvincing as he tried to sit on his hands.

“Doctor?”

He simply stared at her, and Rose wasn’t entirely sure he was breathing; now her curiosity was hitting critical levels.

“Doctor?”  She repeated, reaching out to place a gentle hand on his arm.

Rather than say anything he slowly brought his fist up, fingers unclenching one by one until his hand was flat.

Sitting in the middle of his palm was the most gorgeous ring she’d ever seen.  With a silver band, a decent but not obscene sapphire sat nestled between two small diamonds.

Rose brought one hand to her mouth, looking between him and the ring.  “What?”  She whispered, surprised at the tears pricking her eyes.

“It’s a ring,” he explained unnecessarily, staring down at the piece of jewelry.  He took several deep breaths before admitting in a rush, “I bought it for you.”

“When?”  Is all she can think to ask, but she’s not in any way prepared for the answer.

“Years ago.”

“Years?”

“On Tholla Seven.”

It took her a moment to place the name, brow furrowing.  “Hang on, wasn’t that where I got Mum’s bazoolium?”

He nodded slowly, gaze finally rising to meet hers.

“You bought me a ring?” The idea completely blows her mind. “You bought me a ring.”

“Yeah,” he muttered, hand spasming as if he wanted to hide it away.

“Doctor,” Rose stared at him wide eyed, “you bought me a ring.  Why?”

His other hand came up to ruffle his hair before tugging on his earlobe on its way to rub at the back of his neck.

“Because it’s pretty?” The Doctor suggested weakly.  Her expression did not change.  “Because I lo- because I saw it and I knew you should have it?”

Finally turning in her seat to face him fully, she waited the alien out.

Always uncomfortable with silence, he began to babble as she’d hoped.

“We were there, and you were off, and all I was looking for was a chain for your key – you wanted a new one, remember?  And I saw it, and it just – it called to me.  So I bought it.”

Looking down at the ring, he played with it gently, wondering if he was brave enough to take the leap.  It’d been several months now, and Rose was showing no indication of trying to find her way back again.  They didn’t talk about it, but their relationship was clear, wasn’t it?  How he felt?

“I love you,” he blurted, suddenly remembering he hadn’t told her yet that day, needing her to know.

“I love you too,” Rose said softly, reaching out to take his hand.  “And I want you – that’s all.  As long as we’re together, properly, like we’ve been?  That’s all I need.  Anything else is just – extra.  A bonus.”

Looking up into her eyes, even the Doctor could see the love and sincerity shining there.

“Like marriage?”  He hadn’t meant to say it, but it came out anyway.

“Like marriage,” she agreed, lips twitching.  “By my ways or yours, by the way.   I assume your people had some sort of tradition?”

The Doctor’s heart pounded in his chest at the opening.  He’d long since wanted to bond with her, join their minds together and show her everything; it was one of his biggest regrets that they’d never taken that step before- well, before.

“We did,” he acknowledged, “but that’s a discussion for another time.  I suppose for now, there’s a question I’m supposed to ask?”

“If you want,” Rose breathed, hands shaking slightly.  “But only if you want.  Bonus, remember?”

“Right.”  Mouth dry, the Doctor took a big gulp from his water glass before rising from the chair to kneel in front of Rose.  “So, I don’t actually know how this is done, so tell me if I’m getting it wrong, yeah?”

She nodded, biting her lip.

“Rose, I- hang on, before I start, am I making a fool of myself?”  He asked anxiously, peering up at her.

She giggled nervously. “Honestly, I hope Mum’s actually recording this like she’s trying to, cause right now I’m just tryin’ to pick our wedding cake.”

“Right,” he repeated, exhaling a nervous breath.  “Here goes. Love, from the moment- can I just make you cocoa instead?”

“What?”

“In Aztec culture, making someone hot chocolate is the equivalent of a proposal.  Er, so I’ve heard.  Anyway-”

“Doctor, did you once get engaged to an Aztec?”  Rose asked, smiling wryly at him.

He grimaced.  “Yeah.  It’s a long story.  My friend Barbara-” he cut himself off with a cough.  “It’s a long story, I’ll tell you later.  If you want.  Can I just-”

“Please.”

“Okay.”  He cleared his throat again.  “Rose.”  He didn’t say anything for several long seconds, only speaking at a prompt from a raised eyebrow.

“Okay, so, here goes. Rose, will you marry me?”

“Yes!”  She squealed, throwing her arms around his neck as she snogged him thoroughly.

They ignored Tony’s disgust next to them, too happy to care.

Finally breaking apart, the Doctor slid the ring onto Rose’s finger; as expected, it was a perfect fit.

“I love it,” she gushed, holding out one hand to admire it.

“I love you,” he told her, hugging her close.

“Oi!”  Jackie shouted, causing the couple to break apart.

“What?”  The Doctor asked, one arm still around Rose’s waist. “She’s an adult, Jackie, she certainly doesn’t need your permission.”

“Well, it wouldn’t hurt to ask, though I’m not wasting my breath on that.  But she does need a proper proposal!”  His now mother-in-law-to-be exclaimed, hands waving in the air.

He blinked at her, before frowning down at Rose.  “I got on one knee, I had a ring, I asked the question – what did I miss?”

“The speech!”  Jackie cried in exasperation.  “Before you actually ask, you give her a big romantic speech about what she means to you, and how much you love her, and all that. I got one from Pete – both times! She deserves that as well.”

The Doctor glanced between Rose’s parents.  “Can’t I get her name right in the vows and call it even?”  Rose’s elbow dug sharply into his side.

“I don’t need a speech,” she reassured him.

“Good,” he scowled.  “The very fact that I’m here, living in this house with Jackie, having conversations about paint colors and milk and all sorts of domestics without regurgitating my last meal should say more than enough.”

“It does,” Rose rolled her eyes at the less than flowery language.  “And, I know.”

“Really, how could you not?”

“Right?”

“So, we’ll marry then?” The Doctor double checked.

“Yes.  By Earth customs, but perhaps by Time Lord customs as well?  What are they?”

He stared down at her, wondering if she’d truly be interested in that kind of permanent closeness. “I’ll tell you later.”

“You better,” Rose ordered, as they finally returned to their seats.  “Now – you were saying Agatha couldn’t cope with aliens?”

[machihunnicutt]

Fic-vember Day 1

Hi y’all. I’m challenging myself to post fic every day this month and here is day 1. Look out for chapter 2 tomorrow if you’re interested. Also! The first person to send me a pairing and/or prompt will get it in a one shot on day 3. (So do that if you’re so inclined.)

Bubble Tea and Feelings (vld klance fic)

(or read on ao3.)

Chapter 1: Bubble Tea

"I thought you didn't like boys?" Lance asked, opening the cash register and counting the stack of ones. "Isn't the point of that game to date boys?"

Pidge glared at him from across the room. They were balancing on a stool with their bare knees tucked to their chest, phone in one hand (plugged in and tethering them to the wall), and plastic cup of plain boba in the other. They were eating them with a spoon, an odd practice Lance could never wrap his head around. "First of all, there's a girl you can romance. Second of all I don't like anyone. And third, Mystic Messenger is a game of mystery, intrigue, and dueling hackers so shut your mouth," they shot back at him, eating another spoonful of boba and swiping their hair out of their eyes. It was starting to get long in the front.

"You lost me at intrigue," Lance checked his watch. They had 15 minutes until opening. "Can you check on the cup situation?" He asked.

Pidge climbed off the stool, standing to their full but meager height and setting aside their phone. A week before school ended they'd chopped their hair off at their chin. Instead of gentle waves it spiked out away from their neck and in summer was perpetually mussed and lightened by the sunshine. Today Pidge was wearing their wrinkled Holt Teahouse shirt (two sizes too big with the sleeves rolled up, probably one of their brother's) tucked into high waisted jean shorts they'd doodled on with sharpie. Their legs were bruised and bandaid covered, and they'd stopped shaving in December (to which their nasty middle school classmates had turned their noses up at and Pidge had commented "disposable razors are a tool of the patriarchy. We should really be worrying about the aliens the government is hiding from us.") Their face was sunburnt, eyebrows unruly, and their glasses had fake lenses (for the aesthetic). This was a classic Pidge look. Lance couldn't help but smile at them as they surveyed their cup inventory and then turned to Lance's phone to make a Spotify selection.

"You should download it Lance. Dating fake boys is better than dating no boys."

"You're so funny."

"Thank you."

He'd worked at the Holt Teahouse for the past two summers. The bubble tea craze hadn't subsided. They were a hit: like an ice cream shop but for pre and post teens who wanted cute Instagram photos. He'd gotten the job through Matt, but seemed to spend the majority of his shifts with his sibling, especially this summer since he was on a European backpacking trip with his boyfriend. He didn't mind though. Pidge Holt was his best friend.

"Do you think he's going to come back today?" They asked, wiping down the counter with a cloth. The comment nearly made him lose count of the quarters.

"What do I care, mullet guy can do as he pleases," he said defensively, not bothering to look up at them.

"That was an unnecessarily emotional reaction. Is this because he didn't get that you were flirting with him? Because I think that's more about him than it is about you."

Lance whipped his head around to look at them. "So I wasn't off my game. I felt off my game. It was clear to you that I was flirting with him? I didn't look more awkward than usual or anything?"

Pidge grinned. "Oh, I see, you like him."

"What? No!" Mullet guy had been coming to the teahouse everyday at 4 sharp for the last week and a half. The first time Lance had turned on his trademark charm and the poor guy had turned bright red and stuttered out his order. Only the blushing and stuttering was so cute Lance lost his own composure and ran into Pidge when they slipped past him with a not yet sealed cup of milk tea that ended up all over the both of them.

It wasn't his fault. Mullet guy was almost aggravatingly cute (apart from the mullet.) He'd smiled, half embarrassed, half amused when the collision happened and his smile was prettier than his face. He always wore red: the first time it was a red tank top and redder face. Later there were band t-shirts, and running shorts and converse in the shade. Every time he'd order something different and exchange a few words with Pidge or Lance. He always seemed vaguely embarrassed, flushed, and awkward to the point where Lance thought this was the only social interaction he got on a day to day basis. Today though, when he ordered he seemed distracted, blatantly ignoring Lance's attempted banter. He looked tired too: hair tied up in a little bun at the top of his head, and greasy like he'd forgotten to wash it.

"I'm just worried, he didn't look so good."

"Well there's clearly something wrong with him if he wants to drink this crap everyday." Pidge only liked the boba, ironically they weren't a tea person.

Lance hoped mullet guy was okay. He looked about his age. Maybe a student? He usually had a backpack so Lance figured he was taking summer classes. He never really pried in their brief conversations. He just told bad jokes to make him smile. Heck, he didn't even know the guy's name.

"Are you done over there? It's nearly time to open."

"Shit I lost count, give me a minute."

Pidge laughed their happy, rolling laugh and Lance flushed. "I don't like mullet guy."

"Whatever you say Lance."

***

Keith didn't realize he'd forgotten his umbrella until he was outside in the rain. Warm drops hit his nose and rolled down to chin. It was the kind of rain that came in a wave of relief. The humidity of the air let up for a moment, the liquid coming down splatters instead of lingering in the air.

He sucked in a breath. He could skip today. That was always an option, not an option he ever took but it was an option. He was tired. So tired and done with his ridiculous schedule: classes from 7 to 3:30, homework, some semblance of food, and then work at the library from 5 to 10. It had been like this every week. And would be until the end of the summer. Such was the life of a scholarship student. This would all be worth it if he could graduate sooner. The sooner he had a job and a decent place to live and something more than soggy backpack straps to cling to the better. It will be worth it, he repeated to himself. His red converse squidged onward, white laces turning to murky brown.

So Keith was kind of an idiot. Struggling college students shouldn't be buying $3 bubble tea everyday. Furthermore they shouldn't be wasting precious time and physical energy walking two miles in the rain to get to a stupid teahouse. In fact Keith had passed at least two places where a similar beverage could be purchased. But it wasn't about the tea. It wasn't about the tea because Keith Kogane was almost certainly an idiot.

He'd been steered to the teahouse in the first place because of Shiro. His boyfriend's family evidently owned the place, although Matt had been on vacation the whole time Keith had been coming there.

"Hi, I'm Lance how can I help you?" The first time Lance's smile was so wide and inviting that Keith's internal monologue shifted from It will be worth it to I am so gay.

"I, um..." The other man had leaned forward out of the ordering window and winked at him. Keith stupidly read the first item off the menu, very conscious of how red his face was getting.

"Um, sure thing," Lance replied, looking kind of embarrassed himself. What did he have to be embarrassed about?

Keith had laughed hysterically when Lance ran into his co-worker and spilled tea everywhere. He felt bad afterward but it was too funny how his eyes went all wide and how he nervously scrambled for the roll of paper towels.

And it had been a rough day. Most days this summer had been rough and it felt good to laugh.

And so he was here in the rain, umbrellaless, with eye bags that had eye bags, walking to the Holt Teahouse on a Wednesday afternoon.

The little stand (a renovated ATM strategically located alongside a bus stop) was always steeped in sunshine. Keith knew the menu backwards and forwards now so he barely looked up as he ordered a passion fruit milk tea.  

"Are you alright?" Now he looked up, and Lance looked concerned, very concerned. Keith probably looked as bad as he felt, but he didn't realize he looked bad enough to garner a verbal response.

"I um..." Lance was leaning in again but in a worried way and not a flirty one. "forgot my umbrella."

"Do you want to take mine?" He asked without skipping a beat. Keith looked around as if there were anyone else he could be talking to. No one else was in line.

"No, it's okay I uh..."

"Are you sure because you don't look so good and I don't want you to get sick or anything because your probably a student or something and you can't afford to miss class and I know I don't really know you or anything but..."

"Lance!" Lance whipped around to look at his co-worker who already had his tea made and was holding it and the umbrella out angrily. "Stop babbling and go out there."

Keith grinned. He couldn't help it. He couldn't feel like shit when this boy was tripping all over himself because of him. Keith was never the one people got embarrassed over. He was the one who got embarrassed.

"I don't want to just take your umbrella."

"Then he'll walk you home," Lance's companion cut in. "His shift's nearly over anyway."

"Pidge!" Lance looked over at them, horrified.

"Okay," Keith mumbled.

"Okay?" Lance gaped at him.

"See Lance, he wants you to walk him. Get out of here."

"I'm Keith," Keith said, once the umbrella was over the both of them. "I don't think I ever told you my name."

"Keith," Lance repeated dumbly, head tilting to one side. "It's uh, nice to meet you."

"My place isn't far. I'm sorry to be of such trouble though."

"It's not trouble." It may have been wishful thinking but Keith could swear Lance leaned in toward him a little bit. They bumped shoulders. "I insisted you take the umbrella and Pidge insisted I take you."

"Pidge seems very persuasive."

"They can be scary when they want to be."

"Do you go to the university?" He asked. Keith's hair was dripping around his face and he reached up a gloved hand to push his bangs out of his eyes.

"Yeah, I'm taking summer classes," he didn't say more. It was better not to admit that he was broke and friendless. "Do you?" Keith had never seen him on campus but it was a big school.

"Oh, no I'm just here for the summer. I'm saving up for classes at my school in the fall. It's about an hour from here. I stay with the Holt family every summer."

"Oh so you know Matt?"

Lance stopped in his tracks. "You know Pidge's brother?"

"Matt is Pidge's brother?" Keith had never actually met Matt. Shiro had promised he'd introduce him sometime but their schedules never seemed to mesh. "I don't know him really I know his boyfriend Shiro. Actually Shiro's like my brother."

"I'm losing my mind right now," Lance said, laughing. "You're Shiro's Keith? You're the gay hermit conspiracy theorist with the knife collection? You seemed so normal I didn't put it together."

Keith flushed red. "Shiro exaggerates."

"That's too bad. Shiro's Keith sounded pretty cool."

"Shiro's not taking summer classes is he?" Lance asked. There was another question in it but Lance was too polite to ask outright.

"No, he isn't. I um...I'm only here because I'm a scholarship student. The quicker I get out of college the better."

Lance frowned. "That's an unconventional attitude."

Keith felt his face going red. He didn't like talking about where he came from. No family, no friends, no future wasn't the most convincing tagline albeit an accurate one.

"But I get it," Lance said quickly, evidently noticing his discomfort. "It's a lot of pressure. What are you studying?"

"I'm pre-med," he replied. He didn't add that he wasn't sure he'd be a halfway decent doctor. His professors always said he was too reckless and impulsive.

"Wow, you must be really smart then," Lance said, eyes lighting up.

"What do you study?"

"Art," he grinned. "Is that a deal breaker?"

"Of course not," he replied, wondering in a flustered fashion what he'd meant by deal breaker. It was raining harder now and Lance pressed closer to him to shield himself from the downpour. He directed him which way to turn when they got close. "What kind of art do you make?"

"I draw," he grinned. "And I paint and I make movies that nobody watches. I like school. I'm scared to even leave."

Keith nodded absently. "I think I get that too."

"Is this your place?" They'd come to a stop in front of Keith's dingy apartment building. He looked down at his soaked shoes and nodded.

"It's not much."

"Dude I don't give a shit if you're a scholarship student and live in a crappy apartment. I'm here working my ass off to afford next semester while my friends are off on vacation. I get it. It sucks. You seem like a nice guy. You seem like a nice guy who works himself to death but a nice guy nevertheless. Don't be ashamed of the hard work it took to get where you are okay?"

"Okay," Keith said, because he was too surprised to say anything else.

Lance nodded and gave him a slight smile. "Sorry, I didn't mean to go off I just...look I've been there too and I think it's better to own it than apologize for it."

Keith's heart was going a mile a minute. He felt, for a second, like he might cry. "Okay," he repeated. They were in front of his door so he said so.

"Well, good luck. I'll see you tomorrow probably," Lance smiled at him and turned, umbrella bobbing as he walked.

***

"I'm SUCH a dumbass," Lance groaned, jabbing his straw in his mouth and accidentally sticking himself in the roof of his mouth.

"I knew that one already," Pidge said. They were outside wiping down the windows of the teahouse with Windex while Lance moped. "What exactly are you referring to?"

"Keith," Lance muttered. "When I walked him home yesterday I kind of lectured him."

"Lectured him? About what?" Pidge put down their bottle of Windex.

Lance flushed. "He was doing that thing I always used to do. He's a scholarship student and he got all embarrassed about his shitty apartment and the fact that he has to take summer classes to save money."

"So you're telling me that the first time you actually talk to the guy you like you tell him off for internalized classism?"

Lance groaned. "Why am I so stupid? He'll probably never come back now. Did I tell you that he's Shiro's Keith? I made a huge fool of myself in front of Shiro's Keith."

Pidge burst out laughing. "He's my nerd brother's boyfriend's nerd friend? Holy shit Lance you know how to pick them."

"He hates me."

"I think you're jumping to conclusions."

Lance shook his head. "I can't talk about this anymore. How is your class schedule coming?"

Pidge had been accepted into the Garrison, an advanced science and technology high school both Matt and Shiro had attended. They'd been sent the course catalogue a week ago.

"The freshman requirements are pretty straight forward. I'm taking geometry and biology and the advanced computer science I tested into," They avoided eye contact.

"Are you okay?" Lance asked.

"I'm fine," they shot back too quickly. Pidge hadn't talked much about high school since they got in. Their family, of course, was ridiculously proud.

Pidge finished up the windows and came back in the kiosk. "Hey Lance, can I have a hug?" Pidge looked up at him, a little lost.

"Always, bud," he replied, opening his arms for them.

"You're a good friend Lance."

"Thanks nerd."

"Hey, um are you guys open?"

Lance looked to the source of the voice. Today Keith had a red choker and, if Lance wasn't mistaken, eyeliner.

"You came back!"

Keith looked confused. "Why wouldn't I come back?"

"Because I told you off for internalized classism," he said, borrowing a phrase from Pidge.

Pidge laughed ridiculously and then had to go in the bathroom because they couldn't stop.

Keith was bright red. "Well you were right. And I uh...I'm spending a ton of money on tea I don't need because I don't have the guts to ask you out."

"You," Lance gaped at him. "Want to go out with me?"

"I mean if you don't want to obviously we don't have to. It's not a big deal if we just forget about..."

"Keith stop talking," Lance cut him off. "Are you free this weekend?"

Keith let out a breath and relaxed a fraction. "Yes, yes I am."

"How about Saturday night? I can pick you up at 6?"

"Sounds good."

"So do you want any tea or..."

"I uh...I'm good."

[the-easy-lay]

untitled coffeeshop au

1.

5 PM and people came rushing in as usual. To be fair, people came rushing in all the time, and every shift was a very busy shift at Stone Cold Coffee, the tiny coffee shop in a corner of Shepherd’s Bush, London. They had very good coffee, very nice seats and interior (though always densely packed with customers), and very good-looking employees. If only they treated such good-looking employees with more kindness, Roger Taylor thought woefully, as he rushed to the counter to prepare three more espressos. He had been constantly on his feet since six that morning, running back and forth between the cashier, the coffee machines and the kitchen, with only a thirty-minute break to have lunch, go to the toilet and catch his breath. They were understaffed so a barista like him couldn’t get away with the extra work, but to be honest, he would have taken all that work anyway, he badly needed the money. He handed the customers their drinks, then headed back to the cashier.

“Welcome to Stone Cold Coffee, may I have your order?”

The customer hesitated a bit. “Um, I’ll have a regular latte, please.” He had very long, dark curly hair that would normally look very funny and odd on other people, but it suited him well, Roger noticed.

“Right, and your name is…”

“Brian.”

Roger grabbed a regular-sized cup and scribbled ‘Brian’ and ‘latte’ on it, before accepting the money and giving back the change. After taking two more orders, he ran to the grinder, poured in a carefully measured amount of coffee beans and finished the drinks in under five minutes. He called Brian and the others to the counter, then hurried off to serve the next wave of customers. His hands were sore and one of the blisters had popped because of the heat from the coffee cups. He wiped his bleeding hands and mopped his sweaty forehead with a tablecloth; his shift would end in less than an hour.

The hours were long, and the management was unnecessarily harsh, but at least the pay was decent enough for him to support himself and send some to his mum every month. One of the reasons they kept him, he had been informed, was because of his appearance – fluffy short blond hair, big blue eyes, and defined muscles in his arms. Not that he ever cared about how he looked, but many times he had found that being so handsome was definitely to his advantage. It was also an inconvenience: female customers often slipped him their numbers written on the receipts and he received flirts and (often rude) comments along with drink orders every day. Roger had long learned how to politely decline, telling them that he wasn’t interested, that he didn’t have the time.

“Dominique, I’m out!” He called to his colleague at exactly 6 PM, untied his apron and went out from behind the counter. He couldn’t feel his feet anymore, he had gotten used to moving on numb feet but that didn’t mean it was a pleasant sensation. Good thing he didn’t have work at the coffee shop the following day, only an eight-hour shift at the university lab. At any rate, cleaning up microscope lens and preparing tissue samples was much less physically demanding than running wild to fill the endless orders.

“Excuse me.” 

Roger stopped in his tracks and turned around, his coat only half-buttoned. It was Brian, the curly-haired customer from earlier, with the coffee cup in his hand. 

“Yes, was there something you needed?” He shifted his feet uncomfortably, itching to come back to his flat and sleep the exhaustion away. He prayed this wasn’t another one of those whiny, demanding customers who wanted a refund because they had ‘ordered the wrong drink’ and now they ‘didn’t like it at all’, and the coffee shop was ‘responsible’ for that.

“Well, you should take a look at this,” Brian handed him the now empty paper cup. He examined it and to his horror, found a faint blood stain on the side. The blood must have come from the blister on his thumb. This could very well earn him a report to the manager - bloody coffee cups were not aesthetically pleasing in the slightest, not to mention hygienic concerns.

Roger tried to keep a straight face. “I am terribly, terribly sorry about this. I should have checked all the cups beforehand. I hope this hasn’t affected the quality of the drink? How did you enjoy your…” He squinted at his own messy handwriting. “…latte?”

“It was very good latte, thank you.” Brian’s expression was unreadable, Roger couldn’t tell exactly how displeased he was. “May I ask where the blood came from?” 

Nosy bastard, digging up details for his complaint. “I, uh, it was an accident. It was from my hands, I’ll make sure to wear gloves next time. I’m very sorry about this, I will get you another latte right away.” Roger wondered if that was enough for the customer to keep his mouth shut. It was definitely worth staying behind for an extra ten minutes if it meant he could keep his job.

“That won’t be necessary, it’s alright,” Brian said, and then all of a sudden took Roger’s hands in his. Roger held his breath as the stranger studied the raw skin and swollen fingertips. He had been practicing for hours last night on the kit, and as a result his hands greatly suffered. ““Are you okay?” Brian finally let go of his hands and asked, his voice oddly gentle. 

“I’m really sorry. It won’t happen again,” he mumbled awkwardly. “I have to go, my shift is over. Please ask the remaining staff for assistance.” He quickly walked away, out of the crickety door with the ringing bell of Stone Cold Coffee, to the bus stop where he would catch a ride home.

Roger wouldn’t see Brian again for another week, but he spotted Brian’s distinct curls the moment the man entered the café. He was pouring cream onto a cappuccino as Dominique took the orders. “One latte and two black iced,” she shouted to him.

 “Got it.” Roger began to make the drinks, taking extra care with Brian’s latte. He even poured more coffee than usual into the paper cup, filling it to the brim. When he handed out the cups, Brian was busy reading a book, too absorbed in it to notice him.

“Thank you very much,” the bloke said anyway, nice as he was.

Roger had wanted to be recognized for what he was good at, but there were many other things he was good at and certainly much more passionate about than handling espresso machines. Now here he was, mixing drinks five days a week. On Saturday, he worked as a lab assistant in the biology lab of the East London Polytechnic. The truth was that he was earning more as a barista than most of his friends as researchers, and besides, he was never too keen on biology, it just happened to be one of the subjects he had been good at. A college degree in biology in hand, working all week with two jobs, and yet he was still after something else. The very thing that had motivated him to leave Cornwall for the great city of London, the prospects of a career in music.

On their third encounter, Brian seemed to recognize him, because he walked straight up to the counter where Roger was brewing coffee. “Hello. I’d like to have a regular latte, please,” he said with a smile.

Roger damn near dropped the spoon. He tilted his head, “Sorry, this is not where you order. The cashier’s that way.” He gestured towards Dominique.

“Oh right. I’m sorry.” Brian hurried to join the queue. He looked exactly the same as the first time they met. Unruly, very curly curls on his head and dressed modestly in a white shirt and slim dark trousers. A short while later, Brian came to the counter for his latte. He took the cup and slipped into Roger’s hands a rolled-up bill. Roger didn’t have enough time to thank him; he had already left for his table. It was a fiver, which was worth more than the latte itself, along with a small piece of paper that said, “Meet me at the end of your shift?”

At 6 sharp, Roger wiped the counter one more time with a wet cloth and washed his hands. Brian was still sitting at a table in the corner, poring over an absurdly thick book.

“So. You wanted to see me.” Roger untied his apron and draped it on the back of the wooden chair. He had never sat in this chair before, not as a customer. He looked out the window, the street was full of busy people walking home to their families after a long day at work. It was a nice view, he could see the opposite shops and houses and lampposts and phone booths, a slice of London, basically. 

Brian set down his book. “Yes, I hope you don’t have any business to attend to right now?”

“No, I don’t. I’m done for the day.”

“You must be really tired. The cafe is so busy.” 

“Indeed.” Roger nodded distractedly. He had no idea why Brian wanted to talk to him. He was wary, this could be about that bloody coffee cup, which was such a pity, because Brian had seemed really nice. Dominique waved at him from behind the counter, motioning for him to move out, they were going to clean up the place and close for the day. “Um, we could talk outside? It’s about closing time here.”

Brian got his coat and scarf and they headed outside. It was so cold Roger could feel his nose going numb immediately. The sky was getting dark, the brick buildings cast shadows upon them, and the flow of people on the street thinned.

“What’s your name? I never knew, and you already know mine, don’t you?” Brian was a head taller than him. He suddenly felt so small.

“Yeah, I’m Roger Taylor. And you’re Brian, you always drink latte.”

Brian laughed. “So you do remember me. You guys have excellent latte.” 

Roger laughed too and he wasn’t sure why. He saw Dominique leave, headed for her tiny house to her three children, and then the store manager, who locked the front door and nodded at him before turning the corner. “I thought you were not happy with my service. On that day, you know, when there was blood on your cup.”

“Well, I wiped it off, so no harm done. I had no problem with that, actually. I’ve never met a drummer who works as a barista.” Brian looked at him meaningfully.

“You know?” Roger was surprised. “How could you tell?”

“I saw your hands.” Once again, Brian took Roger’s hands, peeled off the gloves to reveal the pinkish new skin. Roger could feel the roughness of Brian’s fingers as they brush across his.

“And you play the guitar.” He was sure of it: the calluses on the fingertips and the trimmed nails on his left hand for fretting, the long sharp nails on his right hand for fingerpicking, the long, double-jointed fingers. “Are you in a band, like, full-time?”

“Yeah. Musicians are easy to recognize, you see. Just take a look at their hands.” Brian put the gloves back on for him. “No, I teach maths and physics at a nearby grammar school, and music is more like a dream. A passion. I am in an amateur blues band, though. Would you like to see me play sometime?”

“Sure. That sounds great.”

“When are you free? Friday, Saturday or Sunday?”

“Friday, then.” He didn’t have to think about it, every day was the same.

“I’ll drop by before six to pick you up. Is that okay?”

“Yeah. It’s late, I should get going or I’ll miss the night bus.” A random melody played in his head. He couldn’t make sense of this encounter, but it felt right. They were both musicians, although not professionally, it was one thing that they were both pursuing. He wasn’t alone. 

“See you next week, Roger.” Brian said and turned to walk the other way.

[camsthisky]

Judge and Juror

ao3 | ff.net

Anonymous asked: Hey, so you're prompts are currently open and I was just wondering if you would like to write a story set during bvs and how Nightwing could be involved there? Thanks xx

I didn't think that this would get this long, but it just happened. It’s almost 7k. Very special thanks to @jerseydevious for the wonderful rabbit stream of BvS as well as providing facts and info about the movie since I'd only seen it once. She was happy to answer my bazillion questions, and if you ever want to scream at her about this movie, I'm sure she probably wouldn't mind.

Dick’s dozing on the couch when his phone rings, and he can’t be bothered to look at the caller ID before he answers with a tired, “‘lo?”

The voice on the other line sounds faintly amused. “A bad time to call, Master Richard?”

“Alfred!” Dick exclaims, suddenly a lot more awake (and panicked) than he had been a few seconds ago. He looks around at the state of his apartment and barely refrains from cursing. Alfred is supposed to bring a few meals over tonight, and Dick had completely forgotten. He’s up in record time, shoving dirty dishes into the sink. “Are you on your way already?”

“I’m afraid not,” Alfred says, and Dick lets the last dishes sink into the soapy water, blinking in surprise at the regret in the old man’s voice. “Something has come up and it is up to me, unfortunately, to attend to it for Master Wayne.”

Dick winces. “Ouch. It’s Wayne now, is it? What did he do?”

“Oh, you know how he is,” Alfred sighs.

“Unfortunately,” Dick mutters lowly, cradling his phone between his shoulder and his cheek as he starts on the dishes. With his luck, Alfred will probably find a way to be here in the morning despite his obligations, and Dick doesn’t want the butler walking in on anything less than an Alfred-approved apartment.

Alfred doesn’t say anything for a long moment, but when he does, he sounds tired. Old. “I wish you two would find a way to get over this bump in the road.”

“Try Mount Everest,” Dick says, his voice cold. He scrubs the next plate unnecessarily hard, and he’s glad in this moment that Alfred had the forethought to gift him plates not easily broken, like the china in the Manor. He sets the plate in the other basin to soak. “Besides, I already tried to get over it, and we both know how well that turned out.”

“Master Richard,” Alfred says, and Dick wants to roll his eyes at the listen here voice. He won’t, since Alfred seems to have this uncanny ability to sense when Dick’s not taking him seriously. “It is true that he is stubborn, but he is not the only one to blame in this, and I think you know that.”

Dick sets down the pan he’s scrubbing on the counter and grips the phone tight in his hand. “I tried,” Dick snaps. “I listened to what he had to say, and then when I tried to explain why I wanted this, he shut me down.”

And hell. Dick can’t even say his name. Can’t even think it without feeling the anger pool into his stomach. Alfred seems to understand this, because he backs off after a moment.

“I understand,” Alfred says. “It is not easy for him to let people in, but you’re right in that he had no excuse not to listen to your reasons. I did not mean to start an argument, Master Richard.”

Dick deflates, hanging his head and running a hand over his face. He wishes he could just wipe away the exhaustion from his face, sometimes. He wishes he could finally—after god knows how long—be free of this whole thing. But he’ll never be free of it. He’ll never be free of him.

“No, no,” Dicks says as the anger drains from him. “It’s fine. Sorry for getting upset. I’m not mad at you, Alfie.”

“I had hoped not, seeing as I will still be delivering that roast for you tomorrow morning before your shift. It’d be terribly awkward to hand you food while angry.”

Dick cracks a smile. Jackpot. “I’ll always accept free food from you.”

“Very good, sir,” Alfred says, and there’s something like amusement in his voice, too. “As for my call, it was only to inform you of the schedule change, but I enjoyed speaking with you, Master Richard.”

“Yeah, you too, Alf,” Dick says.

They exchange a few more pleasantries, Dick goes for a pun, just to hear Alfred chuckle slightly, and then they hang up. It’s just Dick alone in his apartment, drying dishes at seven in the evening, still feeling pretty worn out from both the day and the force of his emotions he’d been accidentally forced to feel.

Maybe he can fit in a nap between whatever dinner will be and patrol.

The doorbell rings. Dick finishes drying the last plate, and makes his way over to the front of his apartment, peeking out the peephole, because he definitely didn’t remember inviting anyone over. Although, he could definitely go for a pizza since Alfred won’t be coming around tonight.

It’s a guy, and Dick frowns. Glasses, dark hair, plaid shirt. He doesn’t look like he should be anywhere near this part of town, or even in this city. Not wary enough, just standing outside the door like he wouldn’t be robbed at any second. Definitely not from Blüdhaven.

He looks nice, though, and Dick thinks of himself as a somewhat decent person, so he opens the door. Not by much, though, because he’s pretty sure his bedroom door is open a little behind him, and he left the Nightwing suit puddled on the floor next to his bed where he had shed it early this morning.

“Hi,” Dick says, a pleasant grin on his face. “Can I help you?”

The man blinks. “Are you Richard Grayson? Or—Richard Wayne?”

Dick’s grin falls from his face, and his heart speeds up. Automatically his eyes search the hallway of the apartment complex to make sure there are no prying eyes. Doesn’t mean that there isn’t anybody else listening in, too, so Dick just looks the man over again.

“Who are you?” Dick asks. “And what do you want with me?”

“Oh!” The man fumbles with something in his pocket before he brings out an ID badge. He shows it to Dick. “I’m Clark Kent, a reporter for the Daily Planet, and I just wanted to ask you a few questions.”

Dick frowns at the badge, still a little uneasy. He thinks maybe it’s the paranoia instilled in him from nine years old, and Dick feels enough indignation to open the door wider. “You should come in before you get robbed for everything you’re carrying.”

Kent blinks, and man, this guy is kind of clueless, isn’t he? Nevertheless, he still steps inside and allows Dick to close the door behind him.

“You’re welcome to sit down,” Dick says, gesturing to the couch as he passes his bedroom door and pulls it shut. Then he makes his way to the kitchen, and calls over his shoulder, “Can I get you anything to drink?”

“Just…water is fine,” Kent says, fidgeting a little on Dick’s couch. “Thanks.”

Dick sets a glass of water down on the coffee table in front of the reporter and plops down on the armchair closest to Kent. He’s still a little wary, but Dick’s a born performer. And it’s an interview. He’s been doing these for the past fifteen years of his life. Just has to be careful of what he says, and he’ll be golden.

“What can I do for you Mr. Kent?” Dick asks amicably, a charming smile plastered on his face.

“Call me Clark,” Kent—Clark—says, and he takes a sip of his water. “Mr. Wayne—”

“Dick,” because he’s always hated formalities, and he can’t think of that name without wanting to punch the bastard it belongs to in his stupid face. “Dick Grayson. I was never adopted, so I kept my last name.”

There’s something in Clark’s eyes, but he doesn’t comment. Dick smiles again, the charm just a little less gracious than before, and he keeps up the act. Just an interview.

“Dick,” Clark says carefully. “You used to live in Gotham, correct?”

The tension is returning to Dick’s shoulders, and he doesn’t like where any of this is going. But still, Dick stays where he is. The smile’s fallen for good now, and Dick doesn’t have the energy to keep trying to keep it on his face. “Yes. Why?”

“I was wondering what you could tell me about the Gotham Bat?”

Dick can’t believe his ears. He knows that he should probably close his mouth, but he seriously can’t believe this guy tracked down Dick Grayson, found out where he lived, all to ask him about Batman when there are plenty of other to people to ask less than hours’ drive in Gotham.

“Why are you asking me?” Dick can’t help but wonder. “I don’t know if you know, but I haven’t stepped foot in Gotham for almost two years, and I haven’t lived there in almost five.”

Clark looks grim. “I’m sorry,” he says, and then he pulls out an old newspaper form his bag and hands it over to Dick, who takes it without a word. “It’s just, I found these while I was researching the Bat. That’s you, isn’t it?”

It’s an article from thirteen years ago, and “The Bat Saves Wayne Heir,” is written in bold black letters across the top of the page. The main picture is of an eleven-year-old boy hugging Gotham’s richest man after a kidnapping by one of Gotham’s Rogues. Dick can’t even remember who it was that had been responsible, and he doesn’t read it to find out. It was just one incident of many.

“Yes, that’s me,” Dick confirms with a tight voice as he hands it back to Clark. “But that was almost fifteen years ago. I barely remember it.”

Dick’s not lying. He’s stopped trying to remember each one of his kidnappings after Two-Face had almost beat him to death when he was twelve. He does remember what the kidnappers had liked to call him—mostly as Robin. Boy Hostage, they’d mock him as he was strung up by his hands to await the Batman.

“But what about the Bat?” Clark stresses, leaning forward a bit. There’s something grave about his expression, and it makes Dick kind of want to run away from the conversation. He doesn’t want to talk about Batman. Anything else, he’d be fine. Anything else. But Clark is persistent. “Was he violent?”

“To me?” Dick asks, eyebrows furrowed. His mind is racing, trying to figure out where this is leading, and he’s coming up blank.

“To the kidnapper,” Clark clarifies.

Dick shrugs. “I…guess? I mean, I think that was the time they’d locked me in a cooler and threatened to throw me in the harbor. But Batman’s always been—harsh, I guess. Gotham’s not exactly a nice place.”

“I’ve talked to a few people in Gotham, and some seem to think that Batman is the city’s protector,” Clark tells him. “But there are others that think he’s evil, and that he needs to be stopped. They’re starting to fear for their lives.”

Dick runs a hand throw his hair, and shoots Clark a questioning look. “…Evil? That’s—that’s a new one.”

He remembers a lot of their early arguments that had ended up with Dick calling him out with childish insults like “meanie-head” and “backstabbing butt face” and Dick’s favorite, “you’re the reason cereal goes soggy.” They’d argued a lot, but never, not even now, has Dick thought of him as evil.

Clark jumps on that, though. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” Dick hesitates, cringing slightly, “I mean. He has a no kill rule, right? Everyone knows Batman doesn’t kill. They get hospitalized, sure, and sometimes it might go a little too far, but Batman doesn’t kill. It’s like, a fundamental truth of living in Gotham.”

“I think,” Clark says slowly, pulling out another newspaper, this one much newer looking, out of his bag and handing it over, “that you’ve been away from Gotham a little too long.”

Dick swallows and tries not to show how bad he’s really panicking inside. This—This can’t be right. It can’t be. He would never—or maybe he would. Dick doesn’t know. They haven’t talked since right after Jason was—

This is insane. Dick looks up sharply at Clark and tries to ignore the fact that the paper is trembling slightly in his hands. “Is this true?”

“Yes,” Clark says solemnly. “Every word.”

Dick licks his lip and he can’t hand the paper back fast enough. “I think that this interview is over. I have an early shift at the station tomorrow, and I still haven’t eaten,” Dick says, getting to his feet.

Clark follows reluctantly, but he seems to understand that Dick isn’t going to say anything more. Dick walks him to the door, and Clark smiles at him sadly. “Look,” he says right before he’s about to walk out of the apartment. “I know that the Bat helped you in the past, but to me it seems like he’s gone down a dark path. He needs to be stopped.”

Dick swallows the lump in his throat, and he meets Clark’s eyes when he says, “Yes. He does.”

And then Clark’s gone, and Dick flying through his bedroom door, pulling on the Nightwing suit, and climbing out the window onto the fire escape.

Batman needs to be stopped. And it’s Nightwing who is going to stop him.

Dick shows up in Gotham that night, but to his utter frustration, he can’t find Batman. He doesn’t have a comm. unit anymore—he’d crushed his after the last fight—so he can’t just announce himself to Batman. He stops a few crimes here and there, and there are a few criminals who look relieved to see Nightwing, and it’s just a reminder of how bad the situation is right now.

He doesn’t dare go to the manor, though, and he won’t go to the Cave unless someone has a life-threatening injury, so his only option is to keep patrolling Gotham until Batman figures out he wants to chat and comes to kick him out.

Maybe then Dick can knock some sense into that thick skull of his.

Batman doesn’t show up, and the Batsignal is dark the rest of the night, so around 4 am, Dick finally cuts his losses and makes his way to Blüdhaven to wait for Alfred to bring over the food he had promised before his eight am shift.

It’s a minor setback, but Dick isn’t going to give up.

“He’s branding them,” Dick says again, palms flat on the table as he leans forward, because Alfred doesn’t seem to be listening. “He’s giving these people a death sentence! He can’t think that this is okay!”

Alfred sends him a sharp look over the kitchen table. “I am well aware of what Master Wayne is doing, and I believe he is, too. He’s determined to find something, and he’s doing what he believes is necessary to get it done.”

Dick wants to scream. He doesn’t.

“It’s always about the stupid mission with him,” Dick hisses, smacking his palm against the table a few times, until it starts to sting. “Next you’ll be telling me he’s using guns.”

There’s an oppressive silence in the air as an answer and Dick has to sit down. This can’t—what?! No. No. That isn’t even possible. Except, Alfred’s face has fallen, and he looks like he’s aged ten years in the fifteen minutes he’s been in Dick’s apartment.

“You’re kidding,” Dick says faintly, all the anger fading out of him to make room for the disbelief. He’s pale, he knows. He’s pale and shaky and dizzy, and Dick wonders if this is what it feels like to have the literal life drained out of you. Alfred still doesn’t say anything, and his quiet is all Dick needs to confirm that this is the reality he’s living in. “After everything he’s said to me?”

“He believes it is necessary,” Alfred repeats, distaste twisting his lips.

“He thinks everything he does is necessary,” Dick snaps, the anger back in full force, and he stands up again. He still feels like he’s going to fall over, but he paces anyways. He’s too agitated to stand still. “And if what you think doesn’t line up with what he thinks, then you can pack your bags, because he won’t tolerate it for even a second.”

“Master Richard,” Alfred chides quietly. “That is enough.”

Dick stops pacing, and he winces. “Sorry, Alfie.”

Alfred sighs, stands up, and settles a hand on Dick’s shoulder, squeezing lightly. “I will do my best to reason with him, but in the past, it has only been you that has snapped him out of his obsessions.”

Dick doesn’t think that’s even a little bit true. At the most, Dick has curbed them for a short time, making him smile and laugh, but Dick has never been good at doing anything other than arguing with him and then walking out the door, and Alfred knows that as much as Dick.

Still, Dick appreciates the faith Alfred has in him.

But Dick remembers being up the entire night last night, chasing after Batman’s shadows and he remembers the bitter taste in his mouth at the prospect of talking to him again after so long, and all of that resolve has gone from a thousand percent to somewhere hovering near negative ten. Dick won’t get listened to. He’s never listened to, and why would it start now.

Alfred draws himself up to full height, and carefully rearranges his expression to something a lot blanker. More distant. Crap.

“Master Richard,” Alfred says, and Dick’s just glad Alfred hasn’t stooped to calling him Master Grayson. “I will attempt to stop him from acting out too cruelly as Batman, but I cannot guarantee my own success.”

Dick hears the hidden message. “Right,” he says, shoulders slumping. “Call me, then, if things get out of hand. And then I’ll—I’ll come to the manor.”

It’s months before Dick hears from Alfred again, which isn’t typical really, but Dick’s too focused on the hell Blüdhaven’s suddenly become to pay much attention to that.

He spends his day as Officer Grayson, working with the department to find out the new gang’s plan and get a handle on what they’re planning. And then he spends his nights as Nightwing, trying to wrestle with the rest of the criminals, and crime is spiraling out of control with the police department’s sights set on the new gang that’s settled in Blüdhaven.

It’s exhausting work, and Dick barely finds time to eat, let alone sleep. He’s pulling double shifts as both Nightwing and Officer Grayson—which really means he’s pulling like quadruple shifts—and Dick is understandably worn out by the time Alfred contacts him.

“Now’s not the best time,” he murmurs into the comm. unit when it beeps at him. He stalks across the warehouse and peeks through the skylight. And yep. There are his targets. Some of the new members of the Torrio Gang. They won’t be here in the morning when the police are planning their raid, he knows. Which means he needs to get them now. “Can it wait like fifteen minutes?”

Dick doesn’t know who he’s talking to, but he hopes it’s who he thinks it is. He saved an argument when Alfred says, “Certainly, sir. I will leave the line open, though, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure,” Dick says.

He slips through the unlocked skylight and drops down unseen behind the newbie gang members. They’re arguing, he realizes, and he can’t help but grin at their stupidity. He’s tired from overworking himself, so he figures what the hell. Maybe he can have some fun with these suckers.

“Just pack it up already,” Mr. Tall Dark Glasses says, and seriously? Sunglasses at night in a dimly lit warehouse while packing up precious jewelry? Not the best tactic if he’s planning on fighting, but Dick can appreciate the coolness, at least. He looks angry, though, which kind of unbalances the whole look. “The boss says the van’ll be here any second. We don’t got time to waste.”

“Don’t you see, though?” Mr. Shorter Than Dick’s Shoulders is quivering excitedly, holding up some kind of green jewel with an ominous looking glow. Looking at it makes Dick uneasy, but he pushes the feeling aside and keeps the grin on his face. “All of this is worth a fortune, and we’re going to give it up to the boss just like that?”

“If you don’t want to get a bullet through the head, ya do as the boss tells ya,” Mr. Tall Dark Glasses says, and Dick can appreciate his self-preservation.

Mr. Shorter Than Dick’s Shoulders doesn’t seem as smart, though. “We’re the ones who stole all of this stuff, though. Why should the boss get two million dollars worth of stuff when we don’t even get a cent?!”

“It’s 1.8 million, actually,” Dick chimes in cheerfully, and both goons whip around to face him, the shorter one slipping the green jewel in his pocket. Dick waggles his fingers at them. “And thanks for confessing. That makes my job a lot easier.”

“You ain’t got nothin’ on us,” Mr. Tall Dark Glasses spits, hand going for his gun.

Dick rolls his eyes. “Nothing except your finger prints at the crime scene, your finger prints on the stolen jewels, and the fact that I’ve been recording since I slipped in here a few minutes ago.” Giving them a vicious smirk, he adds, “I’ll make sure to visit you two in jail.”

The resulting fight is nothing he hasn’t dealt with before. With fifteen years of vigilantism under his belt, Dick has the goons tied up within a minute, snagging the green jewel from the shorter gang member’s pocket. He holds it up in front of the two beaten up and bound men. He doesn’t have much time until he has to go for the van the goons had coming to pick them up, but he at least wants to get this out of the way. It’s bothering him.

“This wasn’t part of the set from the museum,” Dick says, frowning as he crouches in front of them. “Where did you get this?”

The shorter groans painfully. “Nicked it off one of the higher ups when they weren’t looking. I don’t know what it is, I swear. I’ve heard some guy’s looking for glowing green rocks in Metropolis, so I thought I’d be able to cash out and get out of this hell we call a city once and for all.”

“So you don’t know what it is?” Dick asks. He looks to Mr. Tall Dark Glasses. “How about you? Know anything about this?”

“I don’t know nothin’,” the guy says as he shakes his head, and Dick has a feeling that they’re both eager enough to avoid another beating that they don’t care about ratting anybody out anymore. Works for Dick. He can use that. Plus, Dick’s pretty good at reading people, and they both seem too stupid to be tricking him.

“Okay,” Dick says. “So, how about we talk about the guy who wants glowing green rocks like this. He have a name? A purpose? Know anything at all about him?”

Mr. Shorter Than Dick’s Shoulder shakes his head. “He goes by an alias: Mr. Viridi Petram. He always seems to know more about the rock, and from what I’ve heard from the higher ups, he calls you.”

Dick closes his eyes in exasperation behind his mask and tries not to sigh. The guy’s name is Mr. Green Rock. Perfect. That’s probably going to get him absolutely nowhere. And he doesn’t really have time to worry about this guy, either, with everything going on.

“Okay, what about your boss?” Dick switches tactics. “Know anything about him?”

Mr. Tall Dark Glasses shuts his mouth and turns away, but Mr. Shorter Than Dick’s Shoulders just shrugs noncommittally. Right. If Dick remembers correctly—he does—then the guy isn’t very loyal to his own gang. He doesn’t seem as afraid of being killed by his own members for betrayal as his partner, so the shorter one is probably Dick’s best bet.

“Well?” Dick prompts. “I could hit you again, if you’d prefer it.”

“No,” Mr. Shorter Than Dick’s Shoulders says. “No, I’ll talk.”

“Benny,” Mr. Tall Dark Glasses hisses, but he doesn’t look surprised. Only angry.

Mr. Shorter Than Dick’s Shoulders—Benny—doesn’t spare Mr. Tall Dark Glasses another look. “Torrio’s a slippery bastard,” Benny tells him. And then he spills everything, and for the first time in what has to be weeks, Dick doesn’t feel so tired.

“Thank you very much,” Dick says, grinning as he steps back. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have some police officers on their way to arrest you.” He looks at Benny and makes a decision. “Ask for a plea bargain for squealing. They might be able to hook you up with witness protection or something.”

Benny nods and then Dick’s out of there, just as the tires of several police cruisers screech to a halt in front of the warehouse. There’s a van on the other side of the street that Dick had already instinctually placed a tracker on before entering the warehouse, so he just takes the rooftops and sprints away, back towards his apartment.

It’s only two in the morning, but Dick’s beat. Getting all of this information of the Torrio gang will free him up some, though, and it’s with that cheery thought that Dick speaks into the comm. unit, “Hey, Agent A. You still there?”

“Yes sir,” Alfred answers dutifully. “I must say, that was wonderfully handled.”

Dick swallows down the automatic Yeah, well I don’t need to brand someone to make them talk, and just ends up saying, “Thanks, A. I’ve picked up a few tips and tricks here and there. Is there something you needed?”

“I’m afraid so,” Alfred says, and there’s a hardness to his voice that makes Dick think that this isn’t a social call. “I’m terribly sorry to ask this of you with your relationship the way it is, and with how tired you are working around the clock, but I was hoping you’d be able to drop by tonight.”

Dick stops in his tracks, standing just a few inches from the edge of the rooftop. Just like that his cheerful mood is gone, replaced with that bitter taste in his mouth that he hates so much.

“Tonight?” he repeats.

“Tonight,” Alfred confirms. “I would not ask if I thought I could handle this alone, but I fear that I will not be able to at this rate.”

Dick. Going back to the manor. Tonight. Maybe if it were just the Cave to pick up some evidence, he would be able to handle it, but it’s not. This is so obviously an Alfred needs help handling issues that aren’t Batman. He needs help handling—handling Bruce.

“Fine,” Dick says, barely able to hear himself over the roaring in his ears. “I’ll be there in a little over an hour.”

Dick doesn’t know why Alfred had thought this would work. Even as he descends the stairs into the Cave, Dick can think of a thousand and one ways why this is going to flop horribly and end with a fight bigger than the one from two years ago. Dick doesn’t know if he can handle going through that again. Losing Jason had already hurt enough, but the argument had been the icing on the cake.

No one had been upstairs when Dick had let himself in, so he made his way to the Cave. The place he had been told he’d never wanted to be seen again. Dick hunches in on himself, his hands bunched into his hoodie, like it will protect him from what he knows is coming.

“Alfred?” Dick calls out, and he gets no answer. Biting his lip, Dick trails through the Cave—which it really isn’t. It’s more like a basement with a lot really upgraded technology and weapons. Finally, he reaches the training room and peeks in, freezing at what he sees.

It’s him. And he’s—he’s killing himself. Well, okay, so no. He’s not actually killing himself, but he might as well be with the amount of weight he has on those chains as he’s doing chin ups. Something in the back of Dick’s mind tells him that he shouldn’t care, but Dick can’t stop himself from slipping into the room and waiting for the other to stop.

He doesn’t. He never does. He’s probably been aware of Dick’s presence from the moment Dick stepped foot on his property, but it’s like Dick doesn’t even exist. Still, Dick stands there and he waits.

The thing is, Dick’s been standing in front of an audience since he was a toddler, performing gravity defying stunts and waving to the crowds as he lands and finishes he routine. He doesn’t get nervous anymore. Even after his life in the circus ended, he’d just ended up performing for a different kind of audience. The paparazzi, the judgmental socialites, the teachers and students at school, the citizens he’d saved as Robin, and then later as Nightwing. Performing is in Dick’s blood.

So, Dick doesn’t understand why his stomach flips just at the sight of the man in front of him. He doesn’t get why this it’s so hard to even speak.

Maybe it’s because deep down, Dick knows that it isn’t an act anymore. Not around him. Not around Bruce. There’s no stage when it comes to Bruce, only judgement.

Finally, Bruce drops down from the bar and starts to untie the chains that are tied around his body. Dick waits it out, and then Bruce is turning to grab a bottle of water, still not looking at him, and Dick can’t take the oppressive silence anymore.

“What are you doing?” Dick asks.

“I told you not to come back here,” is all Bruce has to offer as he slides past Dick into the main chamber.

“Answering the question will make me leave faster,” Dick offers.

Bruce is quiet a moment before he grunts out, “Training.”

“To what? Lift a tank?” Dick snorts. “There was enough weight on those chains to kill a normal person.”

“Close,” Bruce tells him, collapsing in a chair. But he doesn’t offer any more information, and Dick doesn’t know whether he was referring to the tank or the weight. So he drops the subject.

“Do you know where Alfred is?” Dick asks.

“No,” Bruce tells him, and then he sends a glare Dick’s way. Ha. Nice try. Those had stopped working when Dick was twelve. “And you won’t be looking for him.”

The anger is threatening to boil up in his veins again, and Dick tries his hardest not to let it out. “And what’s that supposed to mean? I can’t see Alfred anymore?”

“He’s my butler.”

“You’re such an ass.”

“Get. Out.”

“Fine.” Dick spins on his heel and makes for the stairs leading up into the manor but he stops dead as something catches his eye. Dick’s breath hitches, and he stares at what’s hanging on the wall in plain sight. The thing that Bruce hates the most. It’s all Dick can do to breathe out, “Is that a gun?”

Bruce doesn’t answer.

Dick had forgotten about that conversation Alfred all those months ago. About branding and guns and Bruce doing what he thinks is necessary to finish the mission, and Dick realizes that until now, until he’s seen it with his own eyes, he hadn’t actually believed that Bruce would willingly use a gun.

“Are you shitting me?!” Dick yells, eyes ablaze with a fire that won’t be quenched. He doesn’t care about starting an argument anymore. He doesn’t care, and he meets Bruce’s eyes with deadly intensity. “After all of those lectures. After everything you said, I can’t believe you would be such a complete hypocrite!”

Bruce stands up, his own rage hidden underneath his calm. But Bruce is simmering. Being accused of something that is true but he won’t admit is what he hates most, what stirs him up, and God. This is torturous. Dick just wants to leave. But he doesn’t, because the branding comes back to Dick’s mind, and he can’t believe that Bruce has fallen so far to become what he hates most.

“Get out, Dick.”

“Oh, look,” Dick says with false cheer. “You said my name. That’ll magically make me leave.”

Bruce glowers at him. “Using a gun is a means to an end. Once I’m finished, I’ll get rid of them. Happy?”

“Hardly!” Dick’s so frustrated that he could hit something. “You don’t get it, do you? You have no idea why I’m even mad!”

“Then tell me,” Bruce says, standing up from the chair. “You keep going around in circles, never getting to the point.”

“Me? I keep going around in circles?” Dick scoffs. “Who the hell do you think I learned it from?!”

“The point,” Bruce growls. “You use a gun, so why should it make a difference to you whether I do or not.”

“That,” and Dick is so close to his breaking point right now, “That right there is the point. Five years ago, I told you I wanted to be a cop. Do you know what you told me?” Dick doesn’t give Bruce a chance to answer before he’s plowing on. “You said that if I carry around a gun and a badge, then I’m no son of yours.”

Bruce doesn’t say anything. He never does.

Dick clenches his fists. “So I became a cop. A damn good one, too, and you didn’t give a shit about me anymore. Fine. Whatever. But then you go and arm yourself with guns, start branding people with death sentences?! What the hell even gives you the right?!”

“Get. Out.” Bruce’s voice is dangerously low, and Dick knows that no matter how much he yells and screams and punches, Bruce won’t hear a single word that comes out of Dick’s mouth. There will be nothing Dick can do or say, because this is Batman he’s dealing with. The Judge, the Juror, and now, apparently, the Executor. “Now.”

“Fine,” Dick chokes past the lump in his throat. His eyes are burning with tears, but he thinks that they’re more from anger than anything. And it’s as his running up the stairs that he shouts behind him, “Maybe I’ll go get myself shot. See how you feel about them, then.”

And he doesn’t regret it. He doesn’t.

He does regret it. Immensely. Bruce’s parents were shot, and Jason was just killed recently, too. Even if Bruce doesn’t care about him anymore, if Dick had gotten himself shot like he’d said, if he’d died, then that would have weighed on Bruce’s conscious, too. Just like everything in his life does.

So it’s this regret more than anything that has Dick driving to Gotham after a few days of wallowing in self-hatred and investigating Mr. Viridi Petram—who Dick finds out is Lex Luthor. The glowing green rock is some kind of weapon against Kryptonians, he finds out, and that’s when he’s hopping into his bike and making his way out of the city.

The Batsignal’s alight, he sees, but Gotham has this sort of hush over it, like it’s holding its breath, and Dick doesn’t like it one bit. That usually only happens when everyone’s waiting for the next villain attack from the latest psychopath escapee of Arkham.

And that’s when he discovers the wreckage. It’s everywhere. Entire buildings are broken. It looks like someone just went to war, and Dick thanks his lucky stars that the damage only seems to affect the abandoned parts of Gotham—the parts people had given up on, because sometimes there really isn’t hope. There’s more places like that in Blüdhaven, though.

Something inhuman roars, and Dick’s driving towards the sound as fast as he can, his heart in his throat. He gets there—too late. He’s too late. He doesn’t understand what’s happening, but there’s Bruce, and a woman with a sword, and they’re standing over the body of something inhuman and—Superman. That’s Superman.

Dick dives off his bike the moment he’s close enough and sprints toward where Bruce—Batman is. Batman barely stops Dick from barreling into him, gripping his shoulders just a little too tight.

“He’s dead,” Dick whispers with wide eyes.

“Nightwing,” Batman calls, and there’s grief in his voice. He’s grieving. For Superman. Who’d been about to kill (Yes, Dick had hacked into the Cave’s files, and yes Alfred had filled him in on the rest). And Dick doesn’t understand what’s going on. “Look at me.”

Dick doesn’t look at him. Instead, he leans into Bruce’s bulk, suddenly light-headed. He doesn’t know why, though. He shouldn’t—he doesn’t know Superman. He shouldn’t be feeling like something had just been ripped from him again.

“Dick,” Bruce says, his voice a touch gentler. “You shouldn’t be here.”

But Dick does know Bruce, and when Dick finally looks up at him, there’s something like an apology in his eyes and in what Dick can see of his face beneath the cowl, and Dick can’t help but blurt out, “I’m sorry, Bruce. I didn’t—I didn’t mean it. You know I didn’t mean it.”

“I know,” Bruce says. And again, Dick wonders what changed for him. What had Dick missed these past few years. What’s made Bruce so different? Bruce pulls him in, tucks Dick’s head underneath his chin just like when Dick was a kid. There’s still something unresolved between them, but Dick thinks that maybe this time Bruce might actually be willing to listen to him.

Dick pulls away from Bruce, digs through one of his hidden pouches and pulls out a small box, barely bigger than his big toe, and hands it to Bruce. “Here.”

“The shard you find in Blüdhaven,” Bruce acknowledges. At Dick’s questioning look, Bruce admits, “Alfred told me about the case you were working that night.”

“Oh,” Dick says, wondering why that surprises him. He swallows that down, and continues, “I think we should talk. About—you know, whether I’m allowed back home?”

Bruce grimaces, and glances at the woman with the sword. “How long do we have?” he asks her.

She shakes her head, looking between the two curiously. “I do not know, but considering they used the bomb, they must have eyes on us. They’ll know where we are.”

“So not long,” Bruce concludes, and the woman nods. Bruce turns back to look at Dick. “At the Cave. Later. I promise.”

“And you’ll listen to me this time?” Dick wants to make sure that he’s not going to get his hopes up again, just for this to fail miserably.

Bruce nods. “I’ll listen. Now go.”

Dick leaves, and lets Bruce handle the tragedy that’s befallen the world.

Dick and Bruce talk, eventually, and it isn’t perfect. There’s a giant rift to mend, one that’s only been widened by Jason’s death, so it takes a few days—almost a week—actually, for Dick and Bruce to even start coming to terms with each other.

But by then, Dick can think and say Bruce’s name without his chest hurting and he can enter Gotham without that bitter taste in his mouth, and that’s so much better than how it’s been for the past five years—the past two especially. He thinks that maybe things will eventually be okay between them, enough that Dick can come home for Sunday dinner, joke around with Bruce, be around Alfred as much as he wants, and work with his partner.

And hey, who knew, but Batman’s managed to make some friends along the way, too.

[kristie-rp]

[2016] A Series of Coincidences is Called, “The Universe is Having You On”

Prompt: Found their phone number in a library book au

1.

“Todays’ the day,” Xavier declares to his breakfast – scrambled eggs and toast, because his dad takes being a chef very seriously don’t laugh, Xav – and then gives a determined nod. “I can absolutely do this.”

And maybe he could, but when he gets to school and hangs out all day, even having the stupid note – something he did purely because he overheard her complain that she’s sick of being the messenger for her more popular twins notes, I want some for me, damn it – all prepared and written out ahead of time, ready to slip into her locker or, if he’s feeling particularly brave, into her notebook. The one with the little sketches all over it.

It’s not until after school, when he’s waiting for Isaac’s chauffeur to give them a lift to karate, that he finds out what happened. “Didja hear?” Isaac asks, more attractive with his actually decent looking facial hair (especially for a 14 year old, which, what) and his flawless olive skin and expertly quaffed hair, as he flops down on the stairs where Xavier has sprawled out, face-down on the concrete. “The hot twins got expelled. You know – the one that thinks she’s a dude and the one you have a boner for.”

Xavier does know. He sits up just to tear the little note to shreds. So much for that, he thinks, and in a dramatic teenaged fit later that night, he gives up on the idea of Pandora Rodriquez, gorgeous artist extraordinaire, and then on romance altogether.

2.

It’s ridiculous but Isaac dares him to do it and the new guy encourages the whole thing, so Xavier writes his mobile number on a post it and sticks it in the book he was hoping had information for the stupid class project that he doesn’t want to do. This is what he gets for hoping art history is actually interesting, and as he packs up to leave he swears the terrifying librarian with her magenta hair and dark skin knows exactly what he just did (judging by the snickering from the shelves, the womans boyfriend definitely knows), because she just keeps staring at him. He smiles uneasily and gets the hell out of there, forgetting about it once Vincent and Isaac finish teasing his damn unfortunate self (“You actually did it? Dude, you could’ve just pretended.” “Shut up and do something about your gigantic bisexual boner for the new guy,” Xavier snaps and hits Isaac with a pillow, because he’s still paranoid the librarian will show up and scold him for abusing books despite the fact that he lives on the opposite side of town to the library).

It’s a week later when he gets a text from a number he doesn’t recognise.

(3:43PM) so does this thing help at all with th project on “obscure fuckin artists” or

(3:44 PM) ? what are you talking about

(3:44 PM) who is this by the way

(3:50 PM) hellloooo? 

(4:22 PM) soz not soz. ur number’s in this book. at the library. that was u, rght? 

(4:24 PM) oh. yeah. 

(4:27 PM) but that book was rubbish. i ended up just googling

(4:27 PM) asdhfkldsahfkdlfkjsa 

(4:28 PM) u srs? 

(4:32 PM) IM AT THS HOLE FOR NO REASON FML 

(4:34 PM) breathe, random angry text person

He doesn’t get another text back that day, but he and the unknown number are in contact for a long time yet.

3.

College is fantastic. And by that of course Xavier means he hates it. He tells his cereal as much one morning, never mind that he isn’t even a college student, waiting for Isaac to quit hogging the fucking breakfast. “I hate college.” Just for good measure, he texts the random angry text person (now called ‘poxy paint’ because why not) from sophomore year the same thing.

(7:43 AM) u wke me up for ths shit 

(7:45 AM) you want problems? my roommate sings in the shower

 He snorts, because he can hear Isaac singing fucking Keep Moving On in the next room, and it’s mornings like this that he regrets renting an open plan living space. There’s a bathroom and one closed off room, which sucks because Isaac, as the one who actually has the sex life, is the one who gets dibs. Xavier’s still pining after a crush he had in middle and high school (he regrets nothing, damn it, except for a stupid ripped up note that melted in the rain six years ago).

(7:50 AM) coffeeeeeee

(7:52 AM) nyway. u still wanna meet me? coz im free today

 (7:53 AM) i can come to that shop thing if u want? sis nd her friends want to do smth “cultural” or w/e

 He stares at his phone for a full two minutes before grinning at his cereal, dropping the spoon. “I could actually meet them? Do I want to? Will I ruin everything?

“Quit talking to your fucking food!” Isaac calls. Xavier calls back that he should fuck himself while he’s in there, then texts back.

(7:56 AM) sorry that took so long 

(7:57 AM) the show starts at 10 if your serious. convention center and all 

(8:03 AM) ill b th chick wiv the twin, a lost boi and a crown 

(8:05 AM) i’ll be waiting for you your highness

4.

Vince helps out with the stall, because Isaac has advanced quantum physics or whatever the fuck he’s studying now. Xavier doesn’t care enough to know for sure, and wouldn’t even have an idea it was physics if he hadn’t tripped over a book that morning (“Why is a physics textbook next to the shower?” “I need that for class!” “Noooo? And here I thought you had it for light reading.” “Alright, no need to be sarcastic.”), but it means that he and Vince are manning the stall. Well, Vince is manning the stall. Xavier is mostly just being anxious and doodling little animals running around in circles. When the guy his roommate still has a bisexual boner for (even after they actually did something about it that one Thanksgiving break) became the most responsible person in his life, he doesn’t know, but it’s nice listening to someone other than him argue that his art is worth the price he affixes with little removable tags.

“Vince?” a confused voice chimes. Xavier rolls his eyes – it isn’t the first time someone has recognised the guy who will always be “the new guy” in his social circle – and looks up to scan the room for the crown, the twin and the ‘lost boy’ once again. Seeing nothing, he sighs and looks back at his doodles. “You’re the awkward artist dude?”

Vince looks positively delighted, Xavier discovers when his hand cramps and he looks up yet again as he shakes it out. “Oh my god, you’re the mysterious textee? Seriously?” Maybe he wasn’t there for the event itself, but he knows the story about Xavier’s gigantic crush, courtesy of Isaac himself. He turns to Xavier, says unnecessarily loudly, “Hey Xavier, I didn’t realise it was my Pandora.”

The look Xavier shoots him could wither a sunflower, but Vince just jumps to his feet, gesturing for Pan to come around. “You know what, you two should absolutely take care of things here, I want a break anyway.” He grabs the other guy – who’s mostly just standing there looking bewildered – by the hand and drags him away, borderline skipping. The other girl raises an eyebrow at the one with the – with the crown?

“Is this the guy,” she asks, except it doesn’t quite sound like a question.

“Uh,” the girl says, eloquently, then turns to him. “Phone.”

Xavier points at the counter, baffled, and lets her go through the thing, unlocked to play music as he works. After a moment she emits a triumphant little noise and nods at the other girl – who shakes her head and leaves – and drops the phone on his page. “Hey, so, this is a little bit weird, but – I think I’m the person you’ve been texting for, like, six years or something.” She taps her head; a glance has Xavier realising he didn’t look close enough to spot the fucking crown. It’s paper and bright pink, covered in so much glitter and beads that he’s not sure it’s not just stuck to her hair with glue.

And, worse, he knows her. “Holy shit.” Because maybe Vince thinks this is his Pandora, but before she was his she was his, Xavier’s, in his dreams at least. “This is going to sound absolutely insane, but – you went to Saint Jude’s and got expelled, didn’t you? You’re, uh, you supposedly set something on fire?”

“It was for art,” she retorts, indignant, “why?”

“Because I was, uh,” and he mumbles the last part as quickly as he can, wanting it over with as his cheek turn bright fucking red, “planning on asking you out literally the day you got expelled.”

She starts laughing a minute later, and then, out of sheer desperation, so does he. At this points it’s that or cry.

[ablastulasrecipe-blog]

Nanowrimo, Day 2

About 2 or so hours later Sherlock sits in whatever object he can find that resembles a bench. In this case, the bench was the remains of a 925-year old Red Cedar, the most prized log of the most prized lumberjack in town, cut down in a late autumn night, as the mildest rain started to fall that season. Most of its trunk was used to burn the fires of a fireplace that warmed the body of little Sally, as she faced the most dangerous cold a 2-year old can face. She survived and got better the day after, and the remains of the trunk was cut up and used to cover the hole in her bedroom, the one responsible for letting rain hit her and making her sick in the first place. A tiny log still remains of that tree, and it won two yearly log contests in a row, getting banned from a third entry because they realized how unfair it would be to the competition. Having no further use for it, the lumberjack now leaves it in the front of his house to show people he still has the best wood in town.

-          Watson. Are you there? – Sherlock opens his laptop in hopes that his friend answers.

-          Wow, I thought you were dead! Took you long enough, why didn’t you contact me sooner? Did you get Moriarty?

-          He escaped, or rather, he’s hiding in this town. Sorry for the worry, I’m fine. I’ve been trying to look around for him, but to no avail.

-          Huh.

-          And no one in town helps! It’s like everyone thinks I’m a plague. And others are just going around shouting something about mirages.

-          Weird, small countryside towns tend to be very hospitable.

-          Right? Only one person so far has talked to me, but I didn’t learn much.

-          That seems rough. What are your findings so far?

-          Well, if no one’s hospitable to outsiders, that means Moriarty is either having the same issues as me or he knows someone from here.

-          I can try and search for a list of criminals, see if anyone’s from around there.

-          I love when I don’t have to tell you what to do. Thanks Watson!

-          You got it. See ya!

Watson’s next step was as clear as that afternoon sky, or that boiling heat. Sherlock’s however, was not as obvious. He tried to talk to multiple townspeople, failing spectacularly in all attempts of human interaction. And the sheriff seemed to be nowhere in sight, as Sherlock couldn’t even get an answer as to whether or not he exists. Trying to search for the mayor led to nothing, as he was being persecuted for believing in mirages. Only two certainties were had: Sherlock didn’t want to stay there for long, as eating nearly-rotted food and having to deal with boiling heat under those clothes were the most inconvenient bothers he could ask for; And the other thing was, dealing with Moriarty meant spending a long time looking at footprints and hair strands.

-          You know, the rest of my snot-eating family would never forgive a peasant like you for the disgrace you’re bringing to this poor lumberjack’s house. – said a tiny Lyra, coming from out of the corner.

-          The kid from before. Were you following me? – asks the detective, getting up.

-          Escaping my dad is hard enough, so following a man that had no idea were he was going was a decent move to end up in an unpredictable place.

-          Escaping your dad? Are you even at the age to run away from home?

-          Duh, I’m not running, I just wanted to be alone for a moment.

-          Then I suppose this is my cue to leave.

Walking away, he hears something knocking on the log, and Lyra’s voice:

-          Wait, are you a swordsman? – Lyra climbed onto the prized wood before stopping Sherlock.

“A swordsman? I suppose that’s how one can look at me, but I don’t think I’ve ever been very proficient at the job, it’s mostly just Isabela helping me out. Or should I shut down any hopes of entertaining this girl? I mean, I’m a detective first and foremost, but I happen to swing a sword around sometimes, does that mean I’m a swordsman as well? Is a swordsman an occupation or a set of abilities? But then again, I work alone as a detective, so is that an occupation? Maybe they’re both sets of abilities, and I’m actually an unemployed person who happens to make a living out of selling said skills. But isn’t that what ‘working’ is in the first place?”

Some would say Sherlock’s inner debates are the reason he can’t make a lot of contact with people in general. But either way, that lasted a few seconds before he turned around.

-          Why you ask?

-          Look here ponpon, you answer me, and then I’ll think about continuing the conversation, okay? – Lyra had a little teddy bear called Ponpon, but she made his stuffing pop from his head, forming something resembling a hair bun. Sherlock’s hair reminded her of that.

-          Yeah, I suppose I can be a swordsman, sometimes. – Sherlock’s inner monologue is so unnecessarily convoluted right now he can’t even bother with Lyra’s attitude, or nickname.

-          That’s good enough. I’m hiring you as my teacher.

Hoping to settle the argument around his profession, and using the excuse of learning more about the town through that little girl, Sherlock accepts the request and follows the girl to her house.

-          Okay, stay here. I’ll call dad and tell him you’re willing to teach and be responsible for my abilities with a sword.

He regretted his decision fairly quickly, but still, he didn’t have a clear course of action to take if he left, so waiting around didn’t seem like the worst thing he could do. Some muffled discussion and arguments were had, until Lyra’s screams were very clearly heard by the neighboring houses. Not a lot of useful information to be had in that argument, though Sherlock was now aware of Lyra’s rebellious nature against not only her father, but her entire family as well. It made him wonder why he was never that rebellious at her age…

The door started to open, and a happy Lyra exploded out of the house.

-          This is the one dad! He’ll be my teacher, he begged me for the position, so I decided to give him a chance.

From out of the room, came the man Sherlock recognized from earlier that day. His hair was better kept than any other resident in town, and his clothes were probably more expensive than everything in Sherlock’s apartment combined.

-          I’m happy you accepted her pleas, stranger. By the tired look and unwashed clothes, I’ll guess you don’t have a place to stay.

-          You’re right, but mostly I’m here to get information as well.

-          I see. Then you’re welcome to live here for as long as Lyra’s teaching takes. What’s your name?

-          Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes.

-          Nice to meet you mister Holmes, I’m Cliff Desmond. Lyra, take mister Holmes to his room.

As the man goes back inside, Lyra picks his arm.

-          I’ll guide you there.

-          How did you get your father to accept a stranger like me to not only teach you, but to live in your house? – Thinking back on Lyra’s screams from before, he realized he had spaced out halfway through the discussion and didn’t understand a thing of what was going on.

-          Dad tends to do what I ask if I scream loud enough. He has sensitive ears. This way.

…

His room was a lot bigger than he expected. And the shower helped a lot to alleviate the horrible heat from outside. Still, he made no progress in finding Moriarty that day. But maybe Watson did.

-          Did you find something?

-          I found out that this town has no sheriff whatsoever. Since the townspeople all knew each other, crime was rare, and eventually, nonexistent.

-          So, how come there’s a series of robberies happening? Is the world just going crazy?

-          I can’t answer the second question, but for the first… I think it has to do with why the town is so isolated in the first place.

-          What do you mean?

-          Apparently, until three years ago, there used to be a forest no so far from there, and the river was much bigger. But apparently that’s no longer the case. Everything outside of the river’s remains is a desert around you.

-          And now resources are getting scarce, so people are starting to get things another way.

-          That’s my theory as well.

Beneath his feet, Sherlock could hear a thumping sound. He was on the second floor, so that was clearly someone below. He ignored at first, but it kept going.

-          What about the mirages? Do you think that’s just because people are not used to deserts, so anytime something like that happens they blow it out of proportion?

-          Could be, but still, I can’t find a single thing about that. No one has reported on that. Probably because it hasn’t hit the news yet, I mean, there probably isn’t any journalists in there.

The noise continued. It got louder, but Sherlock kept ignoring it.

-          Okay, I was able to find a house to stay. So at least I’ll have a place to rest now. I’ll keep updating you, and you do the same.

-          You got it, I’ll search something about these mirages.

-          Thanks.

Watson said something before tuning off, but Sherlock didn’t hear his voice over the bangs happening beneath his feet. “Is this going to happen every day? What even is that? Do I have permission to walk around the house and check? Maybe it would be best to just accept, I already had a place to stay, I can deal with something like that.”

“Or maybe that noise is because someone needs help? Maybe the house’s getting invaded and there’s no one to protect it. If Lyra hears It she might even try to stop the robber herself, giving her attitude.”

Creating doubt in his mind made Sherlock walk downstairs, to find a messy and very angry girl with a wooden stick banging on the ceiling.

-          Wow! You have the most heavy sleep I have ever seen! Or maybe you just hate me and wanted to see if I could get angry. Well, I am!

-          If you wanted to talk to me, why didn’t you just call me?

-          If you want to live in this house, why don’t you treat me with more respect?

“Can she talk like a normal human being for once?” Sherlock realized what kind of person he was dealing with.

-          Come on, we’re starting my training!

-          Now?

-          Now!

He accepted the job, but truth was, he had no clue how to start teaching someone about fighting with a sword, let alone a small girl in her early teens.

The backyard was big, as expected, but it also had a bunch of destroyed vases, unkept grass, and wooden poles stuck in the ground. All probably victims of Lyra. “Maybe that’s a good first lesson” though Sherlock.

-          Okay, let’s spar! – Lyra ran with her wooden stick in hand and turned to face Sherlock

-          Spar? It’s far too early for you to think about that.

-          What?

-          If you want to fight with a sword, first you must learn how to behave like a swordswoman.

-          No way! I demand a sparring session! Now! Defend yourself.

Lyra came running, guard down, arms up, towards Sherlock, who decided to use the tip of the sheathed Isabela do knock her down in a single move.

-          Ugh.

-          Are you happy? Now, let’s learn something useful.

-          No way, I can still keep going.

-          I’m here to teach you how to be a proper swordswoman, not how to attack every piece of wood that crosses your path. If you want to behave like the spoiled brat you are, be my guest, but we’ll be doing things my way because if all you wanted was to try and hit someone you hardly needed to call a teacher like myself. Now, sit down!

He felt good about that, there was enough confidence in his words that it inspired him to try and teach her something. Her reaction was looking down before obeying. Sherlock realized that while he was teaching her, he could get through her impulsiveness.

-          So, the first lesson I want to teach you is the most important one of them all. – He starts to talk as he walks in front of her.

-          I really don’t need the same kind of fluffy talk about being an honest person that my other teachers tried to teach me, okay?

There wasn’t much more Sherlock said besides picking up her stick from the ground and advancing at her with extreme agility, hitting her in the shoulder and knocking her over.

-          Ouch! How dare you! You told me to sit!

-          The first lesson is to always expect the last thing your opponent could possibly do. – Sherlock stands near Lyra and hands her stick. – Now get up!

Lyra smiles as she obeys. Her teacher was much more than she was hoping for.

…

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I’m happier with today’s content, at least the first half. This is actually a lot more than I was expecting  to write, and yet, I feel like I should have done more. Word count at 3170.