#that’s the second time in a span of a week I’ve had Tim show up in a dream

[northwestofinsanity]

To what do I owe the pleasure for having not one, but *FOUR* different rock stars, from four completely different bands show up in my dreams throughout my sporadic sleep last night? (Not counting that light sleep and waking up every hour was probably what made me so aware of my dreams.)

[my-shields-are-down]

Chenford + Emmett

REMINDER: I asked for one word prompts to trigger a fan fiction one shot. This one technically is not because there is more than a single word in the request, but I am going with it.

I’ve got 6-8 one word prompts in various stages of progress left in my queue. Keep them coming - they are busting through my writer’s block and I am having a lot of fUn writing them.

I will be posting all of these on AO3 as a collection when this batch is done.

=======================

Tim laughs every time one of his basketball buddies calls him “Jimmy.” He knows they are calling him a ringer like Jimmy from the movie “Hoosiers” - the guy who can make a shot from anywhere.

Yes, Tim is an excellent shot, be it for 3-pointers at or behind the tape, or the free throws that everyone else hates. Tim excels at those too.

Looking at Tim, you’d think with his height, wing-span and large hands, that he’d be a natural basketball player.

You’d be wrong. Horribly, horribly wrong.

While Tim is fantastic at the “glamour shots” of the game, he is not so great at running and dribbling, blocking, lay-ups, or defense. His dad had entered him in an Elk’s Club Free throw class, then competition when he was in middle school to keep Tim out of his hair while he drank excessively and fucked his way through the club waitresses out back by the dumpsters. Tim saw one poor girl pressed up against a smelly green bin one afternoon and then promptly signed up for anything and everything so he never would have to see that again. He became the reigning Elks Club “Hoop Shoot Free Throw” Champ for 5 years and “Hoop Shoot Wide Out” Champ for 4 years running. He was a master at making those far away shots, he just never learned to how to play the game to set up those shots.

Fast-forward 35 years and now he gets together with his former sergeants (Webb, Jansen, Hendricks and Gibbs) twice a week to play rec ball in the LA County First Responders League. He does a lot of running up and down the court until someone throws him the ball on the 3-point line and he scores.

————

Tim can feel his retro high-top Air Jordans (white with MJ inspired Carolina blue swooshes) loosening up on his left foot. Sure enough, with 3:36 minutes left in the second half of the game they are currently losing, his shoe lace comes untied. That plus the forward momentum from yet another run up the court shoots his wedding band skittering across the court. He always ties the ring to his left shoelace for safe keeping.

When the “object on the court” time out is called, Tim jogs over to group of guys standing around waiting to play to grab his ring from….Emmett. His wife’s one-time ex-boyfriend. The fire fighter whose “hunkiness” they once debated..

Emmett and Tim lock eyes and smile - they were pretty good friends at one point. Emmett pulls his own gold wedding band out from his Kobe jersey on a utilitarian dog tag chain to show Tim the proper way to store his ring during a game.

Tim smiles and says thank you when Emmett hands him his platinum one and is asked, “Who is the lucky girl? Anyone I know?” To which Tim kisses his ring and looks at Lucy’s heartbeat recorded when thinking about Tim (when she’s experiencing butterflies) engraved inside, before bending down and retying his laces, securing the ring with a double knot this time.

Finally, Tim stands back up and smiles his biggest, “I’m so in love” grin and says to Emmett as the referee calls him back to the court, “I never did thank you for breaking up with her. By text message no less. I’ll tell Lucy you said hi.”

———-end———-

[iphoenixrising]

The Demon You Know

Day 1 Urban Fantasy AU | Magical/Supernatural Creatures | Time Travel

So, something a little off the grid for my first day of DickTim Week 2021. Special thanks to my wonderful babe @vellaphoria for the beta and the incredible peeps on the Capes and Coffee discord (looking at you @themandylion, @strawberryjei and others). Also need to show my undying love for @chippon because babe, we are making it work.

**

When the sun creeps up over the sky in Gotham, then it’s time to GTFO. Capes in the daytime aren’t the usual for the city, and Red Robin has been playing it too late, staying out far past O’s warning to bring it in for the night. So, really, he’s only got himself to blame.

His penthouse perch has seen more use in the last few months since, welp, Gotham and the fact he likes to get away from the team mentality sometimes, like to return to his roots and run the rooftops like when he was still that Robin. His trips to the Manor had become more frequent since B was back in the cowl and things in the family seemed to be returning to some semblance of normal. 

Well, as normal as it could get, really.

But all that goodwill and positivity is literally ghost. Red’s hands are shaky and his inner calm is absolutely blown. He’s ducking into his perch to throw his suit off, grab his duffle bag full of sundries and fake idents, then he’s going to hit the airport as fast as he can get a flight the hell out of town, away from the terrifying sight.

(He should just call Bart or Kon or Cassie, tell them he needs an out faster than he can arrange it himself, he needs to get away from–)

He knows he fucked up when the slight sounds, small and metallic in nature, make it past his pulse thumping in his ears.

Like a horror flick, he slowly turns as the front door gives a groan and is pushed open by a very familiar palm.

Dick’s blue eyes fall on him like a ton of bricks, on Red Robin’s feet frozen to the floor, his suit only half on, and no way he can get far enough to throw himself out a window.

Fuck.

“So,” Dick keeps his voice soft, footsteps easy as he steps inside Tim’s penthouse and closes the door behind him, “you finally found me out.”

Keeping his mouth shut in times like this has really saved his ass before, so Red doesn’t say a word, keeps every muscle in his body ready to spring for the right second –

Watching the would-be robber struggle in Dick’s grip, watching the light show brighten overwhelmingly, seeing what had to be-had to be feeding.

“I figured it would be you if anyone, actually, so I’m not really surprised, just… disappointed.” Dick continues softly, only in jeans and a t-shirt since Nightwing was oddly missing from the patrol roster last night.

And Red is apparently the only one that knows why.

“But that doesn’t mean I can just let you go, Timmy,” Dick isn’t stopping, his whole body lax while Red is wound tight, backing away from the man he thought he knew. “I really wish you hadn’t found out like this. I...I had other plans.” 

Whirlybirds and pellets aren’t going to help him here. Hand-to-hand and martial arts, aerial acrobatics, none of it is going to make a difference. 

His throat goes dry when Dick’s eyes get more and more blue, when his former mentor doesn’t stop advancing, and Red Robin is running out of room to back away.

“I tried to save you, Timmy. I tried so hard to get you away, out of Gotham, even if you went because you thought you had to find Bruce, I’m the one that gave you the compulsion to leave.” The low laugh is edged with something desperate, “why the hell couldn’t you stay away?”

“This is my city, just as much as Batman’s. You taking my fucking cape wasn’t enough,” Red Robin bites out, back thumping against the kitchen counter, realizing Dick had backed him into the corner. “How did you keep it from him? Constantine, Zatanna, all the magic users he has on speed dial and he never figured you out? No one in the JLA or Titans did?”

That makes Dick pause.

“He never had to. He knew what my parents were before they ever died, Timmy. Haley’s Circus came to Gotham regularly. Bruce always knew.”

The information blast hits him painfully, that Bruce didn’t bother to tell him and look at where they are now.

“And he didn’t try to help you?” Red, Tim, gapes at the still silhouette that used to be someone he thought he knew like he knew himself. Someone that’s always had this secret. “He didn’t try to –”

“Cure me?” Dick’s mouth lifts in a semblance of a smile Tim knows. “There is no cure for this, Timmy. It’s what I am. What my parents both were, the curse of the Romain Bababiljos. It’s unfortunate for me both of them were cursed, that just makes the...the hunger two-fold.”

And it’s just a few more steps, a raised hand that makes Tim flinch back, but only a fingertip taps the edge of the domino, makes the whiteouts raise.

Automatically, with everything he’s learned, studied, experienced about supernatural creatures, he ducks his head so he isn’t looking directly into those eyes. That doesn’t stop Dick from bracketing Tim in, both hands on the counter, their bodies a breath apart.

Dick laughs softly, close enough for Tim to feel the breath on his face. “The Titans...I never had to tell them. By then, I could control myself, at least mostly. The JLA? I’m one of the Batman’s proteges. I’ve been fighting crime since I was eight. They believe in me. There was never a reason for any of them to look too deeply past the surface.”

“Wh-what do you mean mostly?” Tim’s heart slams in his chest, “how many people have you killed, Dick?”

“Do you have any idea how awful the hunger is?” And the lower Dick’s voice goes, the harder Tim’s heart starts to pound. “Surviving on hugs and family affection is tantamount to starvation for someone like me. It’s so easy to kill someone during sex because the hunger is so much I can’t control it sometimes. Anyone I’m with is in danger.  That’s why I couldn’t stay with Babs, she’s too human. The one time I came close–” 

Dick breathes again and all Tim looks at is the span of throat, thinking of the soft, vulnerable parts, anything he can use to get the fuck away.

“–but I didn’t. I have...willpower sometimes. I drained her so close, though. She was-was so fragile, Timmy, and I was so hungry. I’d been starving for so damn long. She was hospitalized for longer than she’d been when the Joker shot her, and I said never again. But Wally and Kory were...different. I could go further with him without killing them, I could get more full than I’d been in a long time. It was still dangerous for them, but I was so far gone by the time...”

“They’re both still alive. Babs is still alive. Does she–?”

“Remember? Of course not. None of them do. I made sure of that, Tim, so none of them would be afraid of me.”  And the air changes when Dick gets closer, his eyes get brighter, and Tim almost chokes with the almost touch to his body under his suit. “But, you are going to be different, aren’t you? I’m not going to be able to convince your mind that what you saw was a dream.”

“So what? You’re going to make me “disappear”? You’ll give Bruce some sob story about how I got tired of the vigilante life and left for college or some shit? Going to bury me where no one will ever find me?” He isn’t looking at Dick’s face, can’t see his own end coming, can’t believe he’d put all his faith and belief in this man only to have it all come to this.

Tim laughs wetly, blinking rapidly, and everything suddenly comes together. “He won’t ever come looking for me anyway. You made sure of that when you made Damian your Robin. Nice plan, Dick. No one is going to give a shit if I’m never seen again anyway.”

And it’s stupid not to at least try, not to duck and kick out, trip up whatever Dick really is, to break a window and fucking run, try to get Bruce, Clark, Kon and Bart and Cassie, to get anyone to listen to him about what Dick really is, to try to save himself.

(If you’d never figured out Dick was Robin, if you never put yourself in front of him, you’d be safe now. Miserable but safe.)

Even if it’s his own brain pan spitting this out, he knows it’s bullshit. 

If he’d never approached Dick Grayson with proof Batman was losing his mind, Tim Drake wouldn’t have reached twenty-one. The way his life was going, he would have probably hung himself long before getting to this stage in his life. If he’d never had Bruce or Alfred or Dick or Steph, if he’d never had Robin, never had Young Justice or The Titans, if he’d never had the Clench, never felt the rumble under his feet as Gotham had fallen, if he’d never had the agony of losing everyone in his life, if he’d never had the drive to prove his adopted father was alive…

The civilian Tim Drake wouldn’t have had the strength to make it through life alive.

So if this is the way he goes out, if Dick is the one that ends it for him–

There’re worse ways to go.

He’s not going to be the Joker’s next victim or Ra’s al Ghul’s heir with a mix of Lazarus Pit crazy. The HIVE, the Light, the mass of aliens he’s fought, any number of Rogue Gallery thugs, none of them will be the ones to take him out.

But this?

His career as Robin started out with Dick Grayson, so maybe...maybe it’s fitting this is the way it all ends. 

He sucks in a breath and finally tilts his head up, looks up into those electric blue eyes, and lets his breath out so so slow.

Because Dick is looking at him with watery eyes, with a grimace, with something Tim can actually recognize.

But those eyes light up in his penthouse perch, take on a supernatural glow, Dick snatching his wrists in bigger hands, pulling Tim closer, the heat getting through layers of Kevlar and Nomex. And just like that, he can’t pull away, can’t pull back.

There’s no way to defend himself when Dick pulls him in, when he expects to get his throat ripped out, his neck snapped, something important crushed, for the darkness to take over and his heart to slow down to a sad, weak pitter patter.

He can’t defend himself when Dick kisses him, opens his mouth, and stuns him into going completely slack.

“I told you,” Dick growls softly when he pulls back, bends enough to get Tim laid out over his shoulder, “I had other plans.”

But Tim can’t reply, can’t do anything other than lay across Dick’s back as the Romani love deamon strides down the hallway and kicks open the bedroom door.

**

And if Tim Drake survives until morning, shocking the hell out of the both of them, staring up at Dick’s surprised face and glowing blue eyes, if the soft touch to his jaw contrasts sharply with the bruises and red marks blossoming all over his body from an intense night with his supernatural mentor and best friend, if Dick doesn’t whisper, “finally, finally, my mate,” before kissing him. 

If the power Dick drains from him doesn’t kill him, doesn’t do more than give him the most amazing span of unending multiple orgasms to ever happen, if Dick isn’t fully satisfied for the first time in his life. If Dick doesn’t call them both off patrol for the next three nights, carts Tim back to his apartment, refuses him clothes and computers and tech, tells the Titans they’re taking a break from crime fighting while Tim is tied and gagged in his bed, sated enough to listen hazily with half-mast eyes. 

If Dick doesn’t hand feed him while he’s getting feeling back in his legs (finally) and give him the full run-down about his parents. If the strange mark on his abdomen doesn’t get warm whenever Dick’s hand is on it, fingers tracing the edges, making those blue, blue eyes dilate in possessiveness. If Tim doesn’t eventually escape with his sanity intact and a little terrified how much his body craves only to have Dick chase after him with single-minded purposes to convince him they’re meant to be.

Then only the man with cameras all over Gotham, waiting and watching with bated breath and fear for his Robins, unmitigated relief when his theory proves true, would be able to give all the details.

[classicsingotham]

The Valentine's day gala went well... until Calendar man attacked

Let me explain:

Jason stopped by a few hours beforehand. Brought a beautiful red dress seen below:

We arrived at the Gala, and the first thing we do is be greeted by Bruce Wayne. He seemed defensive when we were first introduced. HE recognized my name since again, my scholarship is through his charities. Then he seemed confused as I am in college and Jason is not really college-age.( Jason explained he’s going to college now, this is how we met. He wanted to get his bachelors as he had that whole time people thought he was dead)

I cleared up the situation, that I, while I am 20 and Jason, is 24, are both responsible adults. We made out own choices, no one else should have their own input into private affairs.

Hope I made a strong impression cuz he said, and I am quoting, “Well, you seem to be a good influence On Jason. I hope to see you around more” Shook my hand and walked away. 

Jason gave me a pat on the back saying it went better than expected. Then he said the horde was coming. He meant his siblings.

I met Dick Grayson, Tim Drake (Again), Damien Wayne, Steph Brown, and Cassie Cain. 

And Bombarded with questions:

“Why History and Classics?”-Dick Grayson

“How are you since the drugged coffee?”-Tim Drake

“What is your favorite Play of Aristophanes? What of Er” -Damian Wayne

‘I’ve heard you got a good bread recipe, can you give me advice?”-Steph Brown

“Where did you get that owl ring?”-Cassandra Cain

This happened all in the span of a few seconds. I answered them all They were incredibly nice, kind, and talkative. Mor human than the Kardashians.

For my first ever date I met almost all of his family, except someone named Alfred.

We danced(ended up stepping on his feet with heels), laughed, shared our favorite poems and books. Bonded over gothic novels, Pride and Prejudice or Jane eyre!!

Guys, this was the perfect date!!!

HE HELD HIS HAND ON MY HCEEK AND SMILED AT ME ON THE BALCONY!!

OF COURSE, A FREAKING ROUGE HAD TO RUIN IT!!

and it wasn't EVEn one of the major ones. IT WAS CALENDAR MAN!!  HE WANTED ALL THE CHOCOLATE AND RUBY JEWELRY!!

Jason ran inside, after locking me out!! (Sure I was safe, but really died, why run in?) Cassandra Cain was hiding out on the balcony, I didn’t see her before. But hey we were trapped together!

Apparently Nightwing, Robin, Redrobin, Red Hood, and spoiler showed up.

I couldn’t find Jason until after Calanderman was arrested and the cops left.

Bruce Wayne showed up during that missing time, he said h was proud Jason found someone either as a friend or as something else. He liked that I was so defensive. 

I found Jason afterward, he gave me a bear hug and mentioned that he was so relieved that I was safe. (I was blushing so much)

I kinda was angry that he ran in, but at least he was safe.

HE dropped me off at my dorm and kissed me on the cheek.

He asked if I wanted to go on another date.

I said sure, and mentioned how I already met his family early on in this.. relationship(we haven’t exactly figured that out yet) he should meet mine, They’ll be in town in about a week.

I’m being Inducted into a classical society because I did so well with 3 semesters of Greek. He’s gonna meet them then. 

We are planning to meet a couple times for coffee to study and to.. discuss our feelings more. 

[fidothefinch]

The Blame Game

Warnings: implied/referenced sexual assault (offscreen), hospitals, non-linear narrative

2 Hours After

Tim hated the hospital.

The vent in the floor was shooting a steady stream of cold, artificial air into his face, but it did nothing to counter the scent of bleach, blood, and the beef broth left untouched on the tray beside the bed.

The children’s wing of the hospital was more colorful than the adult side, at least. Playful gel shapes clung to the windows, making the light passing through dappled like stained glass. The walls were painted a cheery yellow, and the fluorescent light above them had clouds printed on the covers. The beds were a little smaller, too, but Damian still looked incredibly small in his.

Tim couldn’t take his eyes off of him. Not again. Dick was still on his way from Blüdhaven, and Bruce had stepped out of the room to talk to the case workers. He had asked Tim to keep an eye on Damian in case he woke up.

Tim wasn’t going to screw that up, this time.

Read on Ao3

2 Hours Before

“Get off!”

“Give me the remote, Drake. It is my turn to choose a program!”

“Star Trek isn’t over—hey!” Tim shouted when Damian kneeled on the healing bruise on his thigh in his attempt to reach the remote Tim held over his head. “I said get off, demon!”

Damian only reached higher, his fingers brushing the bottom of Tim’s wrists. “Father said I could have my turn after thirty minutes!”

“Go—” with a well-aimed shove, Tim successfully dumped Damian backward onto the floor. “Go watch your stupid show on your tablet.”

“No!” The tips of Damian’s ears were red with the injustice of it all. Tough luck. “It is my turn!”

“Boys,” boomed down the doorway, and they both stiffened. Bruce took one look at their positions and sighed. “Tim. It’s Damian’s turn. He’s been waiting for this virtual gallery tour for weeks.”

Tim scowled. “I was here first. It’s the annual Star Trek marathon and —”

Bruce plucked the remote from Tim’s hand, still held high over his head, and tossed it to Damian. “You can watch on any of the tv’s in the house. Damian asked for this one first.”

Tim grunted in frustration. He was missing the next segment of his episode. “Fine,” he half-muttered.

He tossed the blanket in his lap into Damian’s smug face a little harder than would be friendly on his way out.

1 Hour After

Bruce caught Tim before he could get further than a few steps away from the door to the guest bedroom, effectively blocking his view of the bedroom and the bathroom beyond, where he could hear Alfred and running water. “Good, Tim, you’re here.”

“What’s going on?” Tim asked. There was something else, under the sound of the running water. Sniffling.

“I need you to go to Damian’s room and grab some clothes for him. And a toothbrush.”

“Why?”

“Just—” Bruce grunted. “I’ll fill you in on the way to the hospital.”

When he turned to leave, Tim caught sight of a plastic zipper bag.

The sweatpants Damian had been wearing earlier were inside.

Mechanically, Tim nodded, backing away toward Damian’s room.

1 Hour Before

Tim pulled out an earbud at the knock on his bedroom door. “What?” he called, not bothering to keep his irritation out of his voice. Couldn’t he just watch his show in peace for once?

Bruce leaned inside just enough his shoulders peeked through the doorway. “Tim? I’ve got to run out to pick up something from Lucius. Can you keep an eye on Damian while I’m gone?”

Tim rolled his eyes, still angry that the brat had kicked him out of his marathon spot. “If this is some kind of attempted forced-bonding, you’re getting more obvious.”

Bruce sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I shouldn’t be out long. Just make sure he doesn’t get into trouble. Can you do that much?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Tim said, waving his hand in Bruce’s direction. He was already putting his earbuds back in. “I’ll make sure the brat doesn’t burn the manor down.”

Bruce lingered in the door a few more seconds, looking like he wanted to say something, but Tim wasn’t about to make it easy for him by acknowledging it. He put his earbud back in and turned his attention to his show.

45 Minutes After

Tim woke up with a start. Drool spanned his cheek, dried and crusty with age. He wiped it away with annoyance and pulled his earbuds out before he could get sucked into another episode of his show, still running on his laptop in the background.

Man, he had needed that nap. He felt significantly better already.

Whatever had woken him up repeated, and it took a moment for him to realize it was Bruce and Alfred, speaking in hushed tones in the hallway. They were normally much quieter, if they didn’t want to be heard. This sounded more like the tone they took when they were trying to calm somebody down.

Curious, Tim stretched deeply, satisfied with the cracks his spine gave, before slinking off his bed and venturing out into the hallway again. But his carefree feeling evaporated as he noticed that the voices were coming from the guest bedroom nearest the stairs. The door was open.

Small, bloody fingerprints were smeared across the doorframe.

45 Minutes Before

“Drake.”

“Brat.” Tim turned up his laptop volume, thoroughly enjoying the affronted look on Damian’s face at being ignored.

“I have a request.”

“Mh-hm.”

“Take me to the art museum.”

Tim did look up at that one, somehow both surprised and unsurprised at the same time. “Hm,” he hummed, pretending to think about it. “No.”

Damian scowled, crossing his arms. “I will do your chores for the next week.”

“No.”

“Two weeks.”

“Still a no.” Tim pulled out an earbud and pretended to be sad. “Bruce said we can’t leave the grounds while he’s out.”

“No, he did not.”

“He did.”

Damian pursed his lips, studying Tim for any hint of the truth. Tim kept it all clammed up; there was no way he would sus it out of him. “If you will not take me, I will go by myself.”

“Uh-huh. Good luck with that.” Tim rolled his eyes. “I’m sure Bruce will take you, if you just wait until he gets back.”

“The special exhibit closes at four. I cannot wait,” Damian proclaimed.

“Sure.” The next episode of Tim’s show was starting. It was the season finale; he couldn’t miss anything or he risked missing iconic moments. “Bye, then.”

Damian tutted before stomping away.

30 Minutes After

Tim had bulldozed through another few episodes of Star Trek before anybody interrupted him again. He was drowsy from sitting still so long, halfway to sleep. There was a knock on his door, and Tim was ready to tell Damian off again before it cracked open, revealing Bruce.

“Have you seen Damian?” Bruce asked.

“Nope,” Tim said, popping the ‘p’ at the end. He snuggled deeper into his blanket pile. “But I haven’t smelled smoke, either, so I think we’re fine.”

Bruce’s mouth drew into a flat line. He hummed as he hurriedly left again, pulling Tim’s door shut behind him softly.

30 Minutes Before

Tim pulled an earbud out. He could have sworn he heard the front door shut.

“Damian?” he called.

He got no response, but then, he wasn’t really expecting one. Moody kid.

He didn’t feel like investigating further. He ignored it.

3 Hours After

“You should eat something.”

Tim’s fast-food hamburgers that had long since gone cold, sat untouched in his lap. They weren’t at all appealing. He shook his head, the movement so small that he swore he could hear his spine creak between his ears. “I should have been watching him,” he whispered.

Dick shifted in the uncomfortable hospital chair, made all the worse by his refusal to sit in it like a normal person. He settled, feet propped over one of the arms, and hummed in a way that neither affirmed or refuted his claim.

“If I had been watching him, none of this would have happened.”

“Hey.”

Tim’s head snapped up at the sharp command.

Dick looked at him sternly. “None of this is your fault.”

“But—”

“None of it.”

It wasn’t true. Tim had to make Dick understand why he was to blame. “I knew he had left,” he confessed. The words tasted like soap in his mouth. “I heard the door, and I. . . I didn’t do anything to stop him.”

“Okay.”

“And Bruce asked me to watch him, and I told him that I would. But I didn’t, and now he’s. . . .” Tim couldn’t bring himself to say it. “Now he’s hurt, and I could have prevented it.”

Dick regarded him a moment, arms crossed lightly over his stomach. He tilted his head to the side. “Damian could have prevented it, too.”

Tim scrunched his forehead. “What?”

“If he had followed the rules. If he had done what he was supposed to, he wouldn’t have been hurt.”

Tim’s mind went blank.

“So, really, it’s Damian’s fault.”

“Don’t say that,” Tim hissed.

“Why not?”

“He’s too young.” Tim fumbled over his words, the obvious reasoning. “He didn’t ask for this to happen to him. He isn’t. . . He wasn’t. . . ”

To his surprise, he lost his words to a low sob.

Dick slid from his chair and to Tim’s with the grace of a dancer. He wrapped his arms around Tim, squeezing tightly. Hushing him.

“He was my responsibility,” Tim sobbed into Dick’s shoulder. “I could have stopped it. It’s my fault.”

Dick continued to shush him through the shudders that wracked his body. One hand rubbed his back in calming, grounding circles.

“It’s nobody’s fault but the man who hurt him,” Dick said. “Without him, none of this would have happened. He’s the only one to blame.”

“I’m so sorry,” Tim whispered, squeezing tears out between tightly-clenched eyelids. His hands clenched Dick’s shoulders hard enough it had to hurt. Dick didn’t comment on it.

“It’s not your fault,” he said instead. He squeezed back, a little harder. Something hoarse had made its way into his voice, as well. “It’s not your fault.”

He repeated it until, gradually, Tim thought he might believe it.

[schrijverr]

Clinging to affection

After a comment from Tim, Jonny worries that he’s too clingy. He avoids the rest, but when he has to fix a part of the ship with Brian they get locked in. Brian talks to him and gives him a hug.

On AO3.

Ships: none

Warnings: jonnys low self esteem. Tell me if I missed anything or you want me to tag something!!!

This is for @assyer, Merry Christmas! 

~~~~~~~~~~

Jonny had been feeling kind of bad lately. Nothing special had happened to set it off, he had just woken up a few days ago and life had said ‘no <3’ and it hadn’t gone away.

What he really needed right now was a good and grounding hug. He knew that, but he also knew that he wasn’t going to ask for it. Asking for a hug was scary and he was too tough for that anyway, someone had to offer.

But even if he wasn’t going to ask, he was going to make it obvious. It was a sort of unspoken thing, he would sit in the common room alone and if anyone saw they would most likely give him a hug.

Today he had only sat there for twenty minutes when Ivy happened to walk by. When she saw him, she did a quick double-take and scanned his face, before sitting down and wrapping an arm around his shoulders.

For a moment he tried to keep his pride, but then he sagged into the touch and curled up around her, while she cracked open the book she had been carrying.

Jonny lay there for a long while, the knot of badness in his chest uncoiling as the peace settled over him.

After a while Ashes had walked in and took in the scene. It didn’t happen often, not anymore, but they could still recognize the tense slump of Jonnys shoulders. So, they sat down nearby and when Ivy left, she gently levered Jonny onto them.

While he was practically lying on them, some of the others trickled in. Brian and Marius were discussing if Marius tactics were a horrifying offense to doctors or not and Raphaella had mixed herself into the discussion as well.

Then Tim came in and saw. Tim and Jonny always had a relation that mostly existed out of jabs or trashtalk and he hadn’t been here when these bad moments had been most frequent. This is why the first thing out of his mouth was: “You comfortable there, octokitten?”

Immediately Jonny straightened up and glared at Tim, as he spat: “I’m not an octokitten.”

You wouldn't see it when you looked at him, but the moment the words had left Tims lips, a pit formed in Jonnys stomach. It opened up and seemed to suck all the warmth and relaxation into it and swallow it, leaving Jonny cold and alone.

“Whatever you say suction cup arms.” Tim grinned, not noticing how Jonny had shriveled up on the inside.

Jonny rolled his eyes at him, then stalked off. Throwing a “I hate you” over his shoulder.

He didn’t see how Ashes frowned at his tense back, before they set Tims coat on fire without him noticing, after which they walked after Jonny.

They came to face with a locked door. They knew that they could blow it open if they wanted to, but they doubted that was a good idea. After a knock, there was no reaction and they cursed Tim under their breath, walking back to shoot him.

Meanwhile, Jonny was lying on his bed. He had ignored the knock, he didn’t want to face anyone, it was embarrassing. He was embarrassing.

Tim had instantly seen how fucking clingy he was and Ashes just put up with him because they always had, same went for Ivy. And Brian and Marius and Raphaella had all been there and seen how embarrassingly clingy he was and they would find it weird.

And oh god why had he even allowed that!

It was stupid, so stupid. He didn’t need a hug, he was just being a baby about it.

He made a solution not to allow that anymore, but first the others would have to forget this ever happened. He reasoned with himself that if he just avoided them for long enough, they would have to forget eventually.

With that master plan in mind, he turned around in his bed and pulled the sheets over his head, allowing himself to wallow some more.

He managed to lie there for three whole days, before knocks became too frequent on his door for him to keep it up, but that didn’t mean he wanted to talk to anyone. So, he grabbed food and left, only showing his face for a few seconds, but mostly kept himself busy elsewhere.

This peace, alas, was not meant to last long either. It was not even a full month later that the ship was attacked.

Nothing major, of course, just a crew of other space pirates, who thought the small crew of the Aurora would be an easy target. Lets say it didn’t work out well for them and Jonny got some nice snacks, but they did manage to land a hit on Aurora.

Nastya assured them that she would be able to fix it quite easily, however she did also request that the others helped to get her girlfriend up and running in a short time-span.

Jonny had hoped he would be able to do tasks alone, but Nastya had said that it was better to go in pairs, just in case something went wrong and your body had to be fished out of fire or mysterious liquids to regenerate. So Jonny was assigned to fix one of the wings of the ship with Brian.

The wings were not really wings, but small extrusions on either side where a lot of wiring and computing and other science stuff Jonny didn’t get was stored.

They were accessible through a door and the space to operate in wasn’t that big, meaning Jonny wouldn't be able to hide from Brian, who would almost definitely ask how he was doing and if everything was alright.

With a heavy heart he trudged after Brian and started to work on the wiring with help from the manual Nastya had given him. Beside him Brian was doing the same.

After a while Brian took a deep breath, but before he could say anything, Jonny looked at him and said: “No.”

Brian looked startled for a second, then an understanding look came over his face that made Jonny skin crawl as he replied: “I just wanted to ask if you needed anything.”

Jonny glared at him suspiciously, then turned away without giving Brian an answer.

They returned to working in silence once more, but Jonny knew the time was ticking. If he wanted to get out before Brian would attempt a conversation again, he would have to hurry. His movements sped up and he spend less time inspecting the manual in the hope of getting his task done as soon as possible.

It proved to be to his determent.

He pulled on the wires quickly connecting them to each other or ports as he tried to make sense of whatever this part of the ship was supposed to do, when he accidentally pulled too hard and one of the wires broke.

His head snapped up as he scanned the wing to see what that did and if they were going to die from it. His eyes fell on the door just as it slid close and locked itself with a click. He cursed.

“What’s wrong? What happened?” Brian asked when he heard.

“I accidentally broke the door.” Jonny managed through gritted teeth, “We’re locked in.”

“Oh, that’s unfortunate.” Brian commented.

“Really? Is that all you have to say?” Jonny exclaimed, “We’re locked in a small part of the ship where almost no one ever comes while everyone is busy and your response is ‘that’s unfortunate’?”

Brian looked taken aback by his outburst and a nub of guilt formed in Jonnys chest as Brian replied: “I didn’t want to make a fuss, you already seem so stressed lately and it’s not like it’s your fault.”

Jonny worried his lip between his teeth as a few seconds passed by in silence, then Jonny softly admitted: “I don’t know how to fix it.”

“Would you mind if I took a look at it?” Brian asked.

Jonny shook his head and Brian moved into the spot next to him while he inspected the wiring, after a moment he concluded: “I don’t think it is fixable, we need someone to open it from the outside.”

With a sigh, Jonny dropped to the floor and laid down. Brian looked at him for a second, before shrugging and joining him. Jonny cracked open one eye and asked: “Don’t you have shit to finish? That had been my last wire.”

“Oh, I’ve been done for a few minutes already, but I’d thought I’d keep you company. You’ve been so lonely these past few weeks, I missed you hanging around.” Brian told him.

“That’s a fucking lie.” it was out of Jonnys mouth before he had thought about it.

“I can’t lie right now, first off. And second off, why would you think I’d lie about that, that would be mean and untrue.” Brian said, sounding actually upset at the thought.

The nub of guilt grew as Jonny noticed the switch on MJE on Brians neck. With a slight flush coloring his cheeks he shrugged: “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Well, how did you mean it then?” Brian asked, seeing right through his bullshit.

“Uhh...” Jonny blanked.

“That’s what I thought.” Brian said gently, “I know you hate talking about feelings, but I have eyes, I know there is something wrong and now we have time, so please talking to me. What is going on in that head of yours?”

“Why do you even care?” Jonny tried to avoid answering, moving a bit away as to not seem clingy.

“Because you’re my friend and you’re always there for me and I like hanging around you?” Brian answered so sincerely like it was nothing, turning his head to look Jonny in the eyes.

Without his permission some tears sprung into Jonnys eyes as he quickly swallowed and looked away. It was so relieving to hear and he knew Brian couldn't lie, but still a part of him didn’t really believe him, he was annoying and clingy.

He said that last part: “But I’m clingy.”

The understanding look from earlier returned, but it didn’t make Jonny as uncomfortable, just relieved when Brian pulled him into a hug and said: “You’re not clingy at all, Jonny. If anything, I’d wish you would let people hug you more. What made you think that?”

Jonnys shoulders shook as he cried slightly. He thought it was embarrassing that this was enough to set him off, but the bad feeling that had caused him to go look for a hug in the first place hadn’t left with the comment and all he had wanted was someone to tell him it was alright and give him a bit of affection. So when it finally happened, it was too much in a good way.

Brian didn’t seem to mind, he just held Jonny until he could make noise again: “It’s just- and then- you know? When- and I couldn't- with Tim- and-”

Jonny sniffled unable to explain more than that incoherent blubbering, but Brian made the connection to the comment of Tim a while back. He sighed: “Oh, Jonny, he didn’t mean it like that, no one thinks that you’re clingy.”

“How- how do you know?” Jonny asked, teary eyed and pouty.

“Because Ashes set him on fire over it and Marius scolded him until he sheepishly admitted that had not been his intention at all, only to be shot by Ashes when they got back from following you to make sure you were alright.” Brian told him.

“Wha- what?” Jonny voice was full of disbelief, “Why?”

Brian squeezed him tight and said: “Because everyone here cares for you and they don’t want you to not get affection. It was just light teasing, he didn’t know you would be so hurt by it or he wouldn't have said it.”

“Oh.” was all Jonny could reply to that, heart lighter even if he couldn't fully believe everything Brian told him. He burrowed his face closer to Brians chest and let it rest there.

They laid there for a long while, until Jonny had drifted off.

Then the door beeped and slid open once more as Nastya stuck her head in confused and asked: “What happened here, why aren’t you back yet? Aurora is running again.”

“Jonny accidentally locked the door on us.” Brian explained as he got up, carrying the sleeping First Mate in a bridal-carry.

When Nastya saw the dried tear tracks on Jonnys face she nodded and ask: “Did you have a good talk with him?”

“I think he got something out of it, yes.” Brian confirmed.

“Good.”

They brought him to bed and gently tucked him in. Tomorrow he would wake and come to breakfast and stay. He would joke around and allow Tim to sling an arm around him and whisper a small apology, before Ashes dragged him off to play cards.

But that was tomorrow, for now he could rest and hug the pillow close to his chest.

[domesticblisss]

Nahër

Walter x Female Reader (Nicknamed ‘Hase’) Mob AU! Rating: Mature (Minors DNI) Word Count: 2517 Warnings: Smut. Choking, PiV, fingering, cum play, mild degradation, alcohol mention, drugs mention. A/N: Sooo, this happened. There’ll be a part 2. Might make it a series if I have enough attention span for it (and if you guys like it too!)

Honestly, I don’t know how I got here. Actually, I do. I met Axel a few weeks ago while buying groceries at the supermarket near my new apartment when we ran into each other. He was accompanied by four other men, all dressed similar in dark jeans and polo shirts. A very menacing look on their faces, they looked dangerous too, not the type that would hurt you for no reason, but the type that you respect just for their existence, the type that would give you a warning. Their presence was their warning.

Funny thing is that you don’t expect this whole vibe from good looking men, which, I’m going to be honest with you, is their case. Let me see if I can describe them properly. First is Axel, we met on the first year of high school, he was a tall, lanky, shy kid. Beautiful green eyes, blonde hair, the highest cheekbones I’ve ever seen with a permanent tinge of red in them. He looked like a Cherub. It was so funny but also a pain to watch all the girls throw themselves at him to be met with pure silence. He didn’t have any friends, the only person he would interact was me during all of our last school years. We had some sort of silent agreement: we would eat lunch together, I would get the girls out of his away and he would beat up anyone that annoyed me (even though I never asked him to). 

Back to present day, Axel looks the same, just a bit taller and way, way more muscles on his body. Next to him was a bald guy, the shortest of the group but still tall enough to tower over me, he was also the one that looked much more friendly than the others, with sparkling blue eyes and a distant smile on his lips. Beside him was a tall man with nice chocolate eyes, thick brown hair and beard, muscular, but super lean, a nice tan and a cute ass too, if I must say. Next to him was another blonde guy, his hair lighter than Axel’s, blue eyes that said he was about to reach breaking point, but something in him screamed ‘loyal’. Now, the last guy... where do I begin... He’s tall, the tallest of the group. He’s not muscular as the others, he’s thick, strong. Black hair in a military cut, steel eyes that I’m sure could stare deep into my soul. All the other guys had readable faces, his... his was blank, impassive. There’s something about the way he looked at me, it was chilling, but I liked it.

“Hase! God, we haven’t seen each other for so long.” Axel exclaim as we pass by each on the cereal aisle. “Ugh, I can’t believe you still remember that nickname.” I answered as we hugged each other. “You haven’t changed a bit, huh, the same angel face. Well, you look... buffer now, but the face is the same!” We talked a little bit about life, how we’re now and what we did after we left high school, his answers were a bit vague, but I brushed it off. Wanting to catch up and see me again, he offered “Look, me and my friends here, we own a little nightclub on St Pauli and we are having a special night tomorrow. If you’re still into the same stuff we were in high school, I’m sure you’ll have a blast. C’mon, what do you say? For the old times.” He gave me a look that I knew I couldn’t refuse. “Okay, for the old times.” I could feel those steel eyes staring at me and when I looked at him, he had the faintest smile on his lips. We exchanged contacts, said our goodbyes, and went on our ways.

Something tells me that our little run in wasn’t by chance.

Axel texts me to ask if I’m going and where I am, by that time I’m already in line to get in and he asks me to wait for him. A few minutes passes by and he shows up. “Why are you waiting in line? You know the owner of this place, you have a free pass here, everything you want, you got it.” “Wow, I’m feeling really important right now.” I answer him a in a sarcastic tone he’s used to. “Oh Kleiner Hase, you’re still the same sarcastic little shit, huh?” he laughs as we enter the building. The inside of the club is mesmerising. The decor is very minimalistic but still attention grabbing. We made our through the crowd. Flashing lights, industrial music is playing, sweaty bodies grinding to the beat of the music, couples are making out, friends are drinking and I’m sure I’ve seen an illegal substance here and there. Fuck, I’ve missed being this free so much. Once you start adulting, you don’t have that much free time and you’re constantly tired. It fucking sucks, I know.

It takes us a while to get through everyone, and Axel gushes on about how the club is thriving “Every night is like this, we’re packed and there’re lines of people to get in.” We climb a stair that takes us to a secluded room. Two security guards waits by the door and they let Axel and I in without any trouble. It’s a large room, with the same minimalistic decor from the club, a custom leather couch sits in the middle of the room, accompanied by two matching leather chairs and a slick centre table. On the far back, there are two beverage refrigerators, packed with all sorts of drinks and two doors, one of which I assume it’s the bathroom. The main wall is covered with a one-way mirror, where they can overlook the whole club. When we get inside the room, we’re greeted by his friends. The bald guy is speaking in italian on his phone, the brunette with kind brown eyes reads a book that I can’t figure out what it’s about and the other blonde one and the one I assume it’s their “leader” are quietly talking to each other.

“Herren, look who is here! Hase, this is Fabian. Bookworm over here is Timothy, you can call him Tim. This lovely person is Alex, and finally, but not the least important, this is Walter. He’s the head that hold us together.” Axel introduces us, I quickly shake their hands and Walter stands up to greet me, his imposing figure towering over mine. His handshake is the strongest of all, very powerful, and he holds my hand a bit longer. “It’s very nice to properly meet you, Hase. Junior always told great things about you.” Walter tells me in a quiet but very polite tone. There’s something about him that is making me lose my mind. He has this energy that glues you to him and makes you want more. All he did was shake my hand and call me by my stupid childhood nickname. Pathetic.

The night goes smooth, whatever I wanted to drink, they made sure I got it, Axel, Fabian and I even went downstairs to dance for a while, I haven’t had that much fun in such a long time. 

We kept talking for some time before everyone, one by one, left, leaving me alone with Walter. Fabian had to pick up his parents from a late flight on the airport, Alex went home to his wife and kids, Tim wanted to train, and Marcel had the “hottest chick” waiting for him downstairs. I felt a thick tension in the air, almost making it hard to breath. It was probably all in my head though, as I looked at him by my left side on one of the chairs, going through his phone. He caught me staring at him and apologised for being a horrible host. “I’ve got some last-minute business to attend to but it’s all done. Come over here.” He said standing up, waiting for me. When I got up, he immediately placed his left hand on the small of my back, leading us to the one-way mirror. “Look, it’s beautiful isn’t it?” All I could do is nod back, his hand was rubbing small circles on my back. “Are you nervous, my dear? I know I look a certain way, but I promise I won’t do anything to you, anything you don’t want to.” “I’m sorry. You do have this... imposing aura that, you know...” my words failed me. “I should be the one apologising,” he said as he positioned himself by my right side, facing my profile as I faced the one-way mirror. He gently put a loose hair stand behind my ear, leaned closer to the same ear, as if he was going to tell me a secret and continued “but look at it. All these people dancing, having fun. Friends, one night lovers… isn’t it all beautiful, Hase?” “Yes.” I answered as I turned around to look at his eyes. “Very beautiful.”

We stayed like this and stared at each other for a while, and in a moment of courage, I closed the little space we had between us and kissed him. He wasn’t surprised, responding almost immediately to it. He deepened the kiss, holding me by my hair. The kiss was rough, desperate but his lips were surprisingly soft. He broke the kiss when he felt me moaning, biting my bottom lip and positioning himself behind my back.

He trapped me between his thick body and the mirror, his hard erection poking my back. His left hand held me by my throat, squeezing it softly, while his right one slid up my right thigh, lifting the hem of my black dress on its way up. He kissed his way up my neck, stopping by my ear to whisper, “Tell me to stop.” “Please don’t stop.” I whispered back to him, pressing my ass to his hard length. He lets out a little laugh, bites my shoulder and slides one thick finger between my slick folds. “Little Hase is a little hure, isn’t she?” he says as he rubs lazy circles on my clit. I just nod a let out a small yes. He keeps going like this for a few seconds, later holding my face to the glass one more time, telling me to look at everyone while he starts fingering me. His fingering starts slow, increasing to the beat of Nine Inch Nails’ Closer as it starts to get louder. I come right after the song ends. He keeps his body pressed to mine, knowing that if he let me go, I’d probably buckle down.

I started laughing as I came down from my high, the hand on my throat turning my head up to look at him. “What’s so fun, Hase?” “This is the best orgasm I had in ages... fuck.” “You’re not being properly fucked, are you?” “Nope.” “Come here.” He kisses my lips and lets go of my throat, guiding me to one of the doors I saw when I first got in the room.

Behind that door there is an office. The decor is completely different from the club and the watch room. It’s rustic, a lot of dark wood, one of the walls is completely full of books, there’s an old record player and several vinyls, leather couches and chairs that looks like to be a signature piece for him, the light is dimly lit, with a yellowish tone. There’s a big wooden desk, stacks of money on top of it, one unlit cigar near the lamp, some papers and pens too but it’s tidy. I look around and turn to him, saying “I feel like I’m at the Corleone’s house. This looks like some mob shit.” “Come here.” he says and grabs me by my chin, kissing me roughly “Shut up.” he commands as he takes my dress off. I finish taking my bra and panties off, as he takes care of his own clothes.

He’s on me again, sucking one of my nipples and the plays with the other. Gently, he backs us down to his table and I prop myself up on my elbows. His cock is not that long, but it is thicker than usual, he positions himself between my legs and enters my heat in one swift move.

He lifts my right leg up and positions it on his shoulder, turning his head to kiss and bite my calf. His ministrations are hard and all we can hear is the sound of our skins slapping on one another. He tells me to touch myself and increases his speed making my orgasm hit me before I can even feel it coming. He keeps his thrusts hard even while I’m spasming around him. I can feel him twitch inside me and he pulls out immediately, emptying himself on my stomach.

He stares at me with that same mysterious face from the day we first saw each other on the grocery store. I make sure to put on a show as I collect his cum from my stomach and lick it off my fingers. The faint smile is back on his face.

I put my elbows down for a bit and lay down the table. He grabs a couple of bottles of water for the both of us, and I use mine to cool down my skin for a bit. We stay in silence all the time.

I feel something heavy being thrown on my stomach and when I prop myself up once again to look what it was, it’s one of the stacks of money that were on Walter’s table.

“Are you fucking serious? Do I look like some fucking prostitute to you?” I asked him, incredulous.

“I’m not saying you’re a prostitute. I’m offering you power.”

“You fucked me like you wanted and threw money at me. That doesn’t look like a power offering to me! Again, I’m not a fucking prostitute.”

I keep my position, looking up at him, waiting for an answer. He exhales, looks down at me, at my body and shakes his head. One of his hands are at my waist, the other is at his shaft making himself hard again.

“Are you serious?” I ask him.

“Am I?” and in one sharp move he’s back inside me. He moves slow this time, torturing me. The hand on my waist leaves and grabs another stack of money. And another, another, and another. A total of five. Layered out all over my body.

He grabs my throat again, pulls me up and closer to him, all that money spilling over on the floor. He slaps my face twice, softer than I imagined he would and kisses me. We come together.

He holds me close to him, but still leaving a bit of space between us, enough for his other hand find it’s way to my pussy, inserting two thick fingers to play with his own cum inside of me.

“I’ll ask you again, do you want power, little hure?”

---

Translations Hase: Bunny Kleiner Hase: Little Bunny Herren: Gentlemen Hure: Whore

→

[lovelivingmydreams]

Wrong door

I watched the latest Sanders Sides video and I have feelings that I need to write about. So here a little one shot.

OBVIOUSLY SPOILER WARNING FOR SANDERS SIDES

Summary: When Roman leaves he doesn’t go to his room straight away. Maybe his turbulent mind sought this place out to fit his mood. Maybe deep down he knew that there was only one person who could help him understand what he did wrong.

The conversation leads to discussions and remenicing of their past, why the King ever split, why Virgil left to the ‘dark side’ to begin with and the reason Virgil doesn’t trust Deciet despite living with him and the others for years.

After Roman sunk out he appeared in a much darker environment than he expected. His room was always bright and colorful, packed with Disney memorabilia, red drapes and stage lighting. The gloomy atmosphere he was faced with now made his already fragile self-esteem crumble even more. Was this because deceit... Janice, was right about him? Was he really not the hero? But Paton always said... ‘The brave, handsome, unbeatable Roman,’ But then again... ‘I don’t always know the answer,’ He felt his chest tighten. It was harder to breathe. No. He... He isn’t bad. He only ever wanted to help Thomas. He was trying to do the right thing... But so was Patton. And De... Janice, of all people had been protecting Thomas from him when he lost it... “Ro? What happened?” Roman’s head snapped up. Virgil what... Then he realized where he was. The Tim Burton poster behind him, he cobwebs the dark atmosphere. This was Virgil’s room... He came here instead of his own... Why? “Is Thomas mad at me?” the younger side asked nervously. “I could tell he felt really stressed just now, I tried to leave him be after the whole wedding... I’m sorry, I know I panicked when Mary Lee and Lee came over, but...” Roman raised his hands to calm Virgil down. Today had been terrible for everyone. But their purple patched cautious guardian was probably the only one who would’ve had an equally horrible time no matter what they had done today. The callback would’ve been hell because so much was riding on it. The wedding was horrible because, well… mandatory social interaction, and Virgil had been particularly terrified of saying the wrong thing to their friends. What if they realize we aren’t having a good time? What if they think we look dumb in this suit? What if they realize it’s a rental and think we don’t care? Virgil took a few deep breaths and nodded. “I’m really sorry. I know how important today was to you, and I made us blow it,” he sighed. Roman shook his head. “No one is mad at you Virgil. That’s not what Patton and I were talking about... I wish you’d joined though,” he sighed, raking his hand through his hair. His nervous energy intensifying with every minute. But was that because of the room or because of his own thoughts? Probably both. “...Ro. Maybe we should head to your room instead?” Virgil offered gently. It wasn’t quite like him to sound so sincerely worried. They usually communicated their affection to one another through sarcasm and mild jabs. But ever since Remus made an appearance Virgil hadn’t been his usual self in general. He’d been more withdrawn, more careful with what he said. Not less active in his contributions, but Roman had seen his angsty friend less around the mindscape almost like when he wasn’t part of the group. As their friendship grew, they’d taken to having Disney nights in his room where they’d discuss the movies and Virgil even tolerated Roman singing along to the songs at full volume. But recently... He probably should have popped in here before now instead of ‘giving him space’. Was that even really what he’d been doing? Or was he just too much of a coward to face him and possibly have to own up for his past mistakes? He really was a  terrible friend. So egotistical. Why couldn’t he ever consider other’s feelings? He’d tried today, really had tried not to hurt Patton’s feelings while discussing doing the right thing. Tried not to push. Tried to really listen to what he had to say so he wouldn’t make any more mistakes. He’d been ready to swallow his pride and take a step back when it seemed like Patton was too busy with not hurting his ego to really do his job . And it was still not enough The aching in his chest intensified. Right, not the place for these thoughts. Roman looked at Virgil gratefully and nodded. He could use some time with his newest friend. Virgil was good. Helpful. A team player from the start He’d never pretended to be his friend when he was not. And even when they hated each other -though hate was a strong word for the aversion he used to have for the embodiment of anxiety- Virgil had made performances better, more exciting,  even inspired him to create. How things had changed since the fanders first met him. “Alright, breathe with me, and let’s go,” he instructed. Roman focused on the other side’s breathing and before he knew it they were in his room. With the familiar lavish decor, the countless posters and trinkets... But it all looked a little... off. It was not ready for a guest, and he was always ready for guests. There were decorative couch cushions on the floor, some of the red velvet drapes were askew and the whole room felt just a little wrong to him. Imagine coming home and someone had entered and pushed nearly everything a touch to the left. Nearly imperceptible, but enough for you to know something is wrong. Great even his own room couldn’t give him comfort now. He let out a sigh, not his usual dramatic sigh, just a plain old tired sigh, and sat down on the couch with his head in his hands. “Ro? What happened?” Virgil asked confused. “I know something really got everyone upset. Even pops felt... Unusually distraught. I stayed in my room to not make it worse. But Thomas seems okay now. So why aren’t you... You know? Tatata,” Virgil finished with a week imitation of triumphant trumpets and Roman’s usual introduction pose. It made the embodiment of creativity smirk despite himself and then he sighed again. “Janice happened,” he muttered defeated, feeling completely spent. “Janice... You mean Janus? Deceit? He... He told you?” Virgil muttered confused. “Janus?” Roman mused. “That makes slightly more sense,” he allowed before leaning back and letting his head rest against the wall. Whatever, he still thought it was a weird name. Janus... He’s never going to get used to that. Maybe he should stop reading fan speculations on them though. Perhaps if he hadn’t been thinking of Deceit as Damien this whole time he wouldn’t have had such a strong reaction to Janus. Not that he wouldn’t have teased him. He absolutely would. He’d been upset at the serpentine side as it was. He’d been about ready to snap the whole time and the frog thing happened and D, Janus showed up and he didn’t know how to feel or what to think. So, yes he lashed out. He tried to get a little control over the situation because he couldn’t deal with one more thing tilting his worldview. And then... He felt the couch shift under an added weight. Right, Virgil is here with him. He glanced aside. Virgil was sitting on the armrest, looking at him expectantly. He normally would protest against Virgil putting his shoes on the couch, but right now he couldn’t care less. His friend needed a summary. “He... replaced Logan again and pushed Patton into being a frog monster. Accused Patton of deceiving Thomas, on accident, but still, and then he... Convinced Patton and Thomas to like him.” he summarized. Creating a monster to fight so he could be the hero. How absolutely despicable. “... Wait back up... Logan, is Logan alright?” “Physically or emotionally?” Roman asked dryly. Because apparently Thomas and Patton forgot that Janus hurt others. Hurt Thomas, hurt Patton, Virgil and Logan. And yes, Roman too felt hurt by the snake. Remus might be the only side not hurt by him and that was because Remus lacked the attention span to be upset at anything. He envied that sometimes. The ability to not care at all. Suddenly there was knocking on Roman’s door. “Roman? You in there sport? I brought hot coco?” It was Patton. Roman grabbed one of the fallen cushions, put it between his stomach and his legs, which he pulled towards his chest and curled up in a ball. He didn’t want to talk to him right now. After a moment of silence he heard Virgil get up, walk away and then he heard the door open. “He’s taking a nap. Seems really out for the count. I was going to check up on Logan next, but could you do that? You know how emotional roller coasters like today take it out of me. Besides, I think Lo would much rather hear from you anyway. I’m going to nap in here. My room is a bit too much for me right now you know?” “Oh, of course Kiddo! You take it easy. I’m going to need to talk to you about something though...” “How you’ve left Janus of all people in charge of Thomas’s post learning moment aftercare? Yeah, Roman gave me the headlines. I trust your judgment Patton. But I don’t trust Jan. Not for a second. He’d never hurt Thomas on purpose, i know that, none of us would. Thomas isn’t self-destructive by nature. The problem is, I’m not sure if he’s ready to see that he can hurt him on accident.” It was quiet for a minute. “I think I know what that’s like... I’m really sorry kiddo. I know that I’ve been the cause of a lot of your pain too,” their paternal side offered softly. Silence. Roman imagined that Virgil was speechless by that declaration. That was Janus’s great power. He’d gotten Patton to think that he was the bad guy. Patton! “I remember when Thomas was still young and you just started to really manifest. Before... Before we pushed you away as a bad thing. You’d hang onto me and panic whenever I got nervous about Thomas doing a wrong thing, thinking a bad thought... I did that to you. Because I was too strict and I was teaching you to think in black and white too. And when we pushed you away... Of course you thought you had to be the bad guy to do your job. I taught you that. And I hate it. I wish I could go back. Go back and hug little you and me and say that it’s okay. But I can’t. I just hope that you’ll believe me when I say... I’m really sorry and I’ll try to be better.” A few more moments of silence. “Pops... you aren’t entirely to blame for me believing I was bad. Janus, has just as much to do with that, if not more.” Roman forced himself to stay where he was. He knew it! He knew there was a reason Virgil reacted to the others like that. He should’ve listened to him. Asked about his history before. The whole callback situation wouldn’t have been such a stressful episode if he had just heard Virgil out. “What do you mean kiddo?” “The thing about him is, he deals in extremes. Today you might have seen him in a sincere and nurturing mood, but we have all seen how deceitful and destructive and manipulative he can be,” Virgil explained gently. Mindful of a sleeping friend who wasn’t really asleep.  “You saw what that behavior did to Roman, even if he didn’t mean to hurt him.” Roman felt a jolt of warmth at the protective edge that coated Virgil’s voice at that statement. Oh, how had he been so wrong about him? All this time he could’ve had a valiant knight at his side. “One moment he looks at you and sees a friend a brother... A son.” That nearly made Roman jump up again. Janus had hurt Virgil, that was the only explanation for the way his voice softened at that last title. He’d slay the demon. They’d already established that nothing they did could do physical damage to the others as long as they didn’t let it have power over them. Janus, who’d been wrangling Remus for years, would surely not blink an eye at being run through, or beheaded. So it wouldn’t be that bad if he and Virgil got a few therapeutic stabs in for their benefit... but for now he forced himself to remain silent. He’d talk to Virgil about the best way to avenge him later. After Patton left them alone. “The next, you are a pawn to be manipulated in any way that suits what he thinks to be the greater good in that moment. And when he speaks you never know for certain if it’s a painful truth you need to hear to become better, stronger, or a hurtful lie to make you suit his needs.” ‘I don’t need to flatter you’... ‘Who is the evil twin’ Virgil took in a long breath and let it out with a sigh. “It’s a long story, and you should really go get Logan hot coco just the way he likes it. He deserves some patented Patton love as well.” “Alright kiddo. Thanks for being honest with me. I hope you’ll tell us all the story later so we can understand. But take your time. And thank you for trying to spare my feelings by not telling me that Roman isn’t ready for a talk yet.” Well, there went that illusion. “You two rest up. Take care of him for me, and tell him... Tell him I’m sorry I let him down.” Again Roman nearly went for the door. But he wasn’t ready. With the way he was feeling now, he’d lash out again and he didn’t know for sure who would have to face the brunt of his emotional outbursts. “I’m sure he’d say that you did nothing of the sort. Don’t let Janus get into your head too much. Ugly truths and painful lies Patton. Don’t fall for the latter just because he gave you a little of the former,” Virgil warned. “I’ll keep that in mind. Good night then. Thomas should be taking a day or two to relax and take care of himself so you should get plenty of time to recover,” Patton assured Virgil. “Night, see you in a minute when something goes wrong anyway.” Roman could hear Patton chuckle before the door closed. He expected Virgil to come back to sit where he sat before right away, but he heard him moving around the room and then the kitchen... What was going on? Suddenly he felt a blanket being draped over him, pillows being put all around and Virgil’s warm body joining his under the blanket. “You tell anyone about this, I’ll deny it until the end times. But pillows and blankets help me feel safer sometimes. And you know, Logan told me once that physical contact with a friend can be calming or whatever I didn’t really listen to the whole thing, you know how he kind of goes on. But I wrote down the gist of his tips. And then there is the always reliable, comfort food,” he announced as he gave Roman a fresh cup of hot coco with little marshmallows and rainbow sprinkles and whipped cream. What had Roman nearly tear up was that it was in his mug. One with a little Stitch figure that said “Ohana Means Family”. Not one of Patton’s pet themed mugs. His own. Virgil had made him this from scratch. Exactly the way he’d like it when he’s feeling down. He heard a clank and saw that Virgil had also put down a can of rainbow mini muffins. He kept those around to have as a treat on good and bad days. They had a delicious molten chocolate filling. When had Virgil even see him take one? It didn’t matter. This was everything he needed to get through the story he would have to tell, and the one he had to hear. “So, spill,” Virgil instructed as he laid a hand on his back in support. With a deep breath Roman told him everything as he’d experienced it from the moment he’d gotten home until the moment he’d popped up in Virgil’s room. By the end he was sobbing. The mug of hot coco was halfway, but stood on the coffee table as he was busy ruining Virgil’s hoodie with his tears. Damn all of this. He was too tired to hang on to his pride. Virgil didn’t make fun of him though he let him cry and listened to his exclamations of: “I just don’t understand what I did wrong? Why... Why am I the bad guy in this? Didn’t I do the right thing? Going to the wedding? I just... I just wanted to do the right thing. Thomas counted on me to give him hope. To rise above the challenge and defy that serpent’s scheme despite the odds. But other than a brief feeling of victory... I’ve never felt worse. I mean, Remus got the better of me for the first time in ages. It’s not right! Why do I feel like I’m being punished for doing what we knew was right, while Janus is being celebrated? Janus was wrong... Wasn’t he?” He’s glad Virgil is the only witness to this breakdown. If Patton saw this, he would blame himself. And Logan might try to help but have not much helpful to offer, other than an objective analysis or an experiment that might nudge Roman in the right direction, but he was in no mood to dissect any complicated explanations. Remus would make him feel worse, same goes for Janus, even if he were to try and be helpful it would only confuse Roman even more. And then there was... Well, he never was much help when it comes to solving problems. There was a reason why he hadn’t joined them in the physical world for any of their discussions. And Thomas... God he’d never regain Thomas’s respect if he’d see him like this. “You did good Ro. But we all knew that we felt conflicted about it when we left the door. We’re all on edge and from the sound of it, you weren’t at fault in the escalation of the conflict. Patton is the one who wasn’t honest with himself out of fear to disappoint Thomas. And Janus was the one to push him to the edge. And it was Janus who’d hurt you in the past and didn’t bother to apologize or acknowledge it had even happened. Of course you were on edge around him. But that’s just how he is,” Vigil sighed as he rubbed Roman’s back soothingly. That reminded Roman... He sat up and wiped his eyes. “What happened? You said that Janus was a big part of the reason you thought you were bad or something?” Roman asked picking up his mug to give himself something to focus on other than the soul bearing moment they’d shared. Virgil sighed and looked up to the swirling lines that decorated his ceiling. “Right. Remember the last time I had one of my fits before I started hanging with the others?” Roman nodded. He didn’t like thinking back to that time. He and Remus hadn’t been separated for that long yet and there were times when he still felt wrong without him. And in those moments he blamed Virgil, then still just fear. He remembered little of being ‘The King’, didn’t even really recall their old name, but one of the things he did remember was the split. He was thinking of something he thought was funny, something with a word mom would scold them for, but that made it even funnier. Patton had scolded him and something about the reprimand had triggered Fear. Ironically, seeing Fear in distress like that had triggered a protective instinct in the king and he’d been so eager to comfort the boy. He’d been torn. Part of him wanted to defy Patton and tell Fear that Thomas wouldn’t get in trouble for a small thing like that. The other wanted to promise to never think of anything upsetting ever again so the little timid boy could relax a little and play with them. Next thing he knew one part was promising these things while hugging Virgil and another was giggling and running around shouting all kinds of strange and bad things and letting his train of thought jump from one topic to another as random things kept catching his attention. Virgil had always been the inspiration for the noble prince. For his first act had been to protect the confused boy from the source of his troubles. He’d called for his princely attire to resemble the prince in Cinderella and swung his sword, then still a harmless toy sword, and Remus had actually enjoyed playing a ferocious dragon. And Virgil had laughed at their game and relaxed. Roman and Remus never questioned their existence... But Patton and Logan had been surprised and Patton had soon come to understand that all the things he would scold the king for were stuck in the green twin, while all the nice thoughts were with the red one, who introduced himself as Roman to them. Roman received praise and watched his brother get scolded and eventually ‘the snake man’ had come to pick is brother up from their room. Roman had pleaded not to of course, as any decent brother would. But then the snake man said something that terrified him. Thomas didn’t want his brother’s thoughts in his head. So the snake man took his brother somewhere where Thomas could pretend he didn’t exist. And he’d forced Roman to stand still and let Thomas forget about the other creativity. He couldn’t even mention him again. Not when Thomas might hear at least. That had scared Roman. When he told Patton about where his brother was taken he’d been assured that something like that would never happen to him. Thomas loved being creative. Roman was the hero. He got to be at the wheel almost all the time. He was the Prince after all... It had been comforting and terrifying at the same time. What if he messed up? Would Thomas stop loving him? It was then that the feeling of wrongness started showing up. And that scared him even more. He couldn’t miss being with Remus. Remus was bad, Roman was good. And good people didn’t want to be around bad people. Bad people were put away and forgotten about. It was while he was in one of these moments of self-doubt that Fear panicked at something he considered irrelevant. It had gotten to Roman and he’d blown up at Fear for freaking out over a stupid stain. This had triggered Virgil even more and Thomas had jumped back and knocked over one of the nice glasses from the counter somehow. His mother had been angry, but in that worried way only parents can really pull off. This however had gotten Patton and Logan’s attention. Logan had scolded Fear because his disproportionate reaction to a small problem created a bigger one. Patton had scolded him because Thomas was in trouble now and it was their task to keep him out of trouble. Roman had wanted to tell the others that Fear had reacted to him shouting, not the stain, but the others were already telling Fear that if he didn’t watch out, he would be pushed away and then what would happen to Thomas? This had caused Fear to run away and next time Roman saw him, he was ‘a bad guy’. “I never really said i was sorry. I swear I wanted to explain to the others why you freaked, I did, but next time we saw you...” He didn’t know where to look. He felt so ashamed of his actions. Virgil patted his back. “It’s alright Sir Singalot,” he grinned, using the nickname that Roman had approved off as a sign of peace. “You guys didn’t push me away. That’s just how you see it now through a veil of guilt. I never intended to leave. I needed to get away for a minute,” Virgil explained casually, but then his voice grew tense as his eyes darkened at the memory.

“And he was right there,” he whispered and Roman could imagine the figure swooping in. Offering an insecure and neglected side a comforting embrace. “He was telling me both the things I feared to be true and things I wanted to hear someone say.”

He could imagine that too. The smooth voice spinning truths and lies in a delicate trap to lure young Fear to his side of the consciousness.

“He told me that you guys would never really want me around. But he also said that that was stupid of you because I keep Thomas safe. That you needed me more than you realize. And if you weren’t going to listen to simple reason, then I’d have to be loud so I couldn’t be ignored.” Virgil looked back towards Roman for with a sad, understanding smile.

“He might have believed he was helping me. That he was saving me many more of these arguments. He’ll probably swear up and down that he was looking out for me and Thomas and even all of you.” Roman got the idea that Virgil was trying to say something about Janus’ intentions towards him as well. But he couldn’t find the will to believe that the man hadn’t been malicious towards him or even any of the others when he did the things he did. Good intentions or not –like with the cake the end result was still the same. Virgil seemed to agree, because his face darkened again as he continued his story. 

“But when he found me after you guys accepted me, he started saying those things again and I said he was wrong and that we’d all been going about it the wrong way. I wanted us all to step into the sun...”

“Dear Evan Hansen,”  Roman grinned teasingly to lighten the mood. He got a playful shove and a smirk. He’d take the victory. It kind of made him feel better. To know that he could still be a good friend despite the disaster of today.

“He slipped,” Virgil continued. “Or maybe he thought I’d feel bad for him and stay... I don’t know. He broke my trust and I’ll never be able to be sure if he’s truthful with me... But that day, he said he wouldn’t let you guys take me away from him.” Roman’s eyes widened as the implications of that sunk in. He wasn’t sure if he felt sorry for the man or wanted to punch him even more.

“I realized in that moment that he had manipulated the truth to ensure that I wouldn’t get along with you guys. He was lonely and he didn’t want to share. So he took of the blindfold and broke the piñata open to get the friend he wanted. And for years, that worked. But then, because Thomas accepted that he has anxiety, I got a real seat at the table, even if no one liked me being there. And then we worked together in the open more often and well... You know what happened. He hated that I spent time with you guys. He hated that I had nice things to say about Patton, that I kind of appreciated the debate with Logan... That I admired your... drive.”

“Wait what?” Roman shot up in surprise, nearly losing the cover of the blanket in the process. He hadn’t expected a sincere complement. He’d been ready for a little jab like ‘tolerated your presence’ or something. Not admiration...

“Don’t make me regret this... I always kind of looked up to you. Because you were never afraid to go for what you want. I don’t envy that ability. But I think it’s cool that you can.”

Roman was speechless. It succeeded in making him feel a bit better, but it also left him in awe of his friend. This is why he appreciated Virgil so much. He was sincere. Always. He didn’t sugarcoat anything he said what he thought the way he thought it. He might have learned to voice his concerns more clearly and less like death threats, but he still said what was on his mind. So a complement like this form him? Well, that was the highest praise he could imagine.

“Anyway...” Virgil continued with a blush, avoiding Roman’s gaze. “Feeding your ego aside.” He took a deep breath which brought Roman back to the here and now. Right serious talk time.

“The fight got ugly. I accused him of lying to me all this time for selfish reasons. He denied the reasons I gave, but not the fact that he lied. I got so mad. I told him to stay away from us. That I never wanted to see his face again. And I’ve been pissed ever since. I didn’t want you guys anywhere near him, because I can’t be sure that he won’t hurt you the way he hurt me, whether he wants to or not. And I was right. He hurt you, he hurt Patton and Logan and even Thomas. It all led to a big lesson about self-care and everything. But I agree, we can’t let our guard down around him. Ever.”

Roman hugs Virgil close. “Want me to stab him for you? Because I would totally stab him for you,” he promises.

Virgil allows a small chuckle and returns the hug. “I’ll think about it.”

Just then their surroundings changed and they were sitting on the bed in the bedroom. “Thomas must be getting ready for the night,” Roman observed, some rest would be great. Dreams took care of themselves. He could chose to influence them but tonight he couldn’t be bothered. Remus might give them some weird twists but who cared? At this rate, they’d also let him have a seat at the table one of these days so he might as well start getting used to having him around again. But if Remus was accepted back, would that make them be ‘the king’ again? No. Not thinking about that tonight.

He felt Virgil get up next to him. “I’ll get going then...”

“No,” Roman hurried as he pulled Virgil back into his side. This got him a surprised look, but he didn’t care. “Neither of us should really be alone right now don’t you think? And I don’t think you were exactly lying when you said your room was too intense for you right now,”

Virgil shrugged. “No... But...”

Just then they both manifested their sleepwear. A comfy shirt and sweats in their respective colors.

“Thomas is going to sleep. We should too... And I really don’t want to be alone with my thoughts right now,” he confessed. This seemed to convince Virgil. It wasn’t like it would be the first time. Well it was the first time they’d both sleep in his bed and in their pj’s. But it had happened that one of them dozed off on the other ones shoulder during a movie a few times. No big deal.

So along with Thomas they settled in for the night.

Virgil felt that Roman was still tense and it was affecting Thomas’s ability to fall asleep. At least, Virgil told himself that this was the reason why he turned towards him wrapped his arms around his fellow side and started singing, his voice drifting through the dark room. “There are shouters and murmurers, loan sharks and burglars...” by the end of the song both had relaxed and drifted off to sleep.

There it’s not perfect, i started writing at nine in the evening and it’s now almost two. So my brain is fried. Might write a follow up shorter bit about the inside out perspective on the last scene with Lee and Mary Lee when I’m actually awake. Edit: Fixed the spelling a bit

With love lovelivingmydreams

Next part this is going to be longer than I planned

[ollieofthebeholder]

leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall): a TMA fanfic

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11]

Also on AO3

Chapter 12: Martin Prime

As soon as he heard the bedroom door shut behind Tim, Martin turned towards Jon. He didn’t even get his mouth all the way open to say anything before Jon’s hands were on his face, and then Jon was kissing him.

It was their first kiss in far too long, since Martin had kissed Jon goodbye and promised to see him on the other side, and thank God it still felt the way it had before. A part of Martin had worried that things would be different—now that they were in the past, now that their plan was on its way, now that Martin was blind. This went a long way to reassuring him that they weren’t, though. Nothing had changed between them.

He gripped Jon’s elbows to hold him still. Jon’s hands dropped from Martin’s face and slid around his neck, seeming to try and pull him closer, although honestly if they got any closer Jon would be inside Martin’s rib cage. He also somehow managed to deepen the kiss, which Martin wouldn’t have thought possible a second previously. He closed his eyes and gave himself completely over to the moment.

The need for air was the only reason they separated, even a little bit. Martin rested his forehead against Jon’s and reveled in the simple fact that they were together again. It had probably been a good thing that they’d had these two weeks apart—it had given Martin a chance to prove to himself, and hopefully to Jon, that he could manage on his own—but he wasn’t going to deny that he’d missed him, and that he wanted him there as much as possible.

Something wet hit his chin, and it took Martin a second to realize what it was. Jon was crying.

“Jon?” he asked, unable to hide the worry in his voice. He reached up hesitantly to cup Jon’s cheek and rub his thumb across it, catching the tear tracks coursing down it.

“I was afraid I’d lost you,” Jon whispered. Martin could feel his sweater bunching up into his hands. “I was so damned—sure of myself. I told myself, when I let you follow the Keeper into that door, I told myself it would be okay, that whatever was hiding you from the Eye, from Jonah, I-I was sure it wouldn’t keep you from me, that I’d be able to find you, that I could Know you wherever you were, and then I couldn’t and I—I kept telling myself you were fine, you had to be fine, that I’d see you when I got to the Archives and you’d fuss at me for trying to get in your head and then we’d laugh about it, and then I got to the Institute and I saw all that chaos a-and I couldn’t find you, you weren’t there—”

“Jon. Jon, it’s okay, I’m okay,” Martin soothed. He pulled Jon’s head down to his shoulder, then began rubbing his back in slow, gentle circles with his free hand. “I’m okay. We’re okay.”

“It’s n—” Jon’s voice started rising, but he checked himself and hissed, “It’s not okay. I promised you I wouldn’t let anything happen to you, and then everything almost happened to you. You were in the middle of Jane Prentiss’s attack, again, but this time you were alone and blind and helpless—”

“I’m not helpless,” Martin interrupted. He was rather proud of the fact that he managed not to say that in an angry or petulant tone, but quietly and firmly. All right, yes, he was a little pissed at Jon for thinking of him that way, but he did get where Jon was coming from. Still, he’d done perfectly well for himself on his own. He honestly didn’t know if he would have been able to do as well as he’d done if he hadn’t spent time with Melanie before…everything, but he’d done it. He could still handle himself.

All the tension and fight went out of Jon in one long exhale, and he sagged against Martin. “No,” he agreed quietly. “You’re not.”

They held each other for a long moment of silence. Martin could feel Jon trembling, and he guessed it wasn’t all nerves. “Come on,” he said at last. “Let’s at least lie down. When’s the last time you slept?”

“Ah—yesterday? Day before, technically?” Jon stepped back a little, but didn’t let go of Martin. “The—the bed’s over here.”

Since Martin was completely unfamiliar with Tim’s bedroom—he’d only even been to his house once—he let Jon lead him. Getting ready for bed was easy enough, as was crawling into it, the movements more than half-mechanical. Jon pulled the covers up over both of them and immediately curled into Martin’s chest. They both sighed in near unison.

“I’ve been worried about you,” Martin murmured, running a hand through Jon’s hair. He tried to be gentle about working through the knots he encountered. “How long have you been…here?”

“In the past? About a week. Six days, more like.” Jon sighed and tucked his head into the crook of Martin’s neck. He fit there like he was a part of Martin’s body. “I just got to London earlier this evening, though. How—you said you’d been here two weeks. Where did you…come through?”

“The Archives. I think I was in one of the back corners.” Martin bit his lip. “Wasn’t sure where I was at first, until I heard Tim’s voice. What about you?”

“The safe house. I should have expected that, really, but it still hurt knowing you weren’t there. And…walking out the door was harder than I expected it to be.”

“At least the sky wasn’t blinking at you.”

“It took me a bit to convince myself that it wouldn’t before I could open the door.”

Martin wanted to laugh, but he knew Jon was in earnest. “I’m sorry. I wish I’d been there to help you.”

“And I wish I’d been in the Archives to help you. I—I know you don’t need it. I know you’re…I wouldn’t have been able to do it.”

“Do what? Stop Jane Prentiss?” Martin frowned. “You did the first time—”

“You may recall that I didn’t do all that much, except make statements and slow everybody down,” Jon interrupted. “It was mostly you and Tim. Some Sasha, and…but that’s not really what I meant.” He reached up and brushed a trembling hand over Martin’s eyes. “I wouldn’t have been able to handle being alone and blind. I’d have been completely lost without you.”

“Well…I mean, I was, too. I even told the others that just before you showed up,” Martin admitted. “It’s just…I’m used to being alone, I guess? There was…I never had anyone to take care of me, other than myself, so I learned how from a pretty early age. Worrying about me was something that happened when I didn’t have anyone else’s needs to worry about, and that almost never happened. I’m always lost.”

“You’re not now,” Jon said fiercely. He pulled Martin’s head down for a kiss. “But that’s my point, Martin. If our positions had been switched, I wouldn’t have lasted two weeks on my own. I’d have broken completely. You’re…so much stronger than I am.”

Martin snorted. “I’m stubborn. There’s a difference.”

“You’re both,” Jon said. Martin didn’t need to see him to know he was smiling—it was obvious in the affection in his voice. “Almost everyone we’ve encountered has mentioned that. It doesn’t change the fact that I couldn’t have done half of what you did. Let alone without getting everyone else hurt, if not killed. You did that.”

“Luck.” Martin hesitated. “I…I couldn’t really…Jon, the others, are they really okay?”

“They’re fine,” Jon assured him. “Except for…well, you. I’m sorry. It—it looks like their Martin took the brunt of the worms. But I didn’t even see so much as a hole on anyone else.”

Martin sighed in relief. “I can live with that.”

They fell silent for a while. Martin concentrated on the weight of Jon’s head against his shoulder, the thud of his heartbeat against his side, the warmth and softness of his skin under his hands. For as little time as they’d had together, or at least how little time they’d had before the world had ended and their clinging had been more desperate than loving, this was still so familiar, so comforting. Martin knew exactly where was safe to touch and where wasn’t, where Jon was overly sensitive and where he had no feeling at all. He literally didn’t need to see a thing.

“You know what’s bothering me the most?” he said at last.

“You don’t know what Sasha looks like?” Jon guessed.

“I don’t—are you reading my mind?” Martin felt his lips quirk upwards in a smile. Just a few months ago (or…whatever the actual span of time since the end of the world had been, he was guessing here), the very idea would have made him indignant, but now it was almost delightful.

“Is it wrong to say ‘I wish’?” Jon chuckled slightly, then sighed. “No. I—even right here with you, I can’t…it was the same with Melanie. Your eyes don’t work, so the Eye can’t use them. I just…know you. Lowercase know. And honestly, I wouldn’t have realized that was her if I hadn’t recognized her voice from the old tapes.”

Martin kissed the top of Jon’s head lightly. It was the closest thing to an apology he would be able to give for something Jon would fuss at him if he tried to actually apologize for. “So? What does she look like?”

Jon hummed. “Well, she’s tall. Not quite as tall as Tim, but taller than me, at least, which must have irritated me at some point. Slender, but…curvy, I guess? Not as waifish as the Not-Sasha was. Long dark hair, brown eyes. Glasses, too—the cat’s-eye type, you know what I mean?”

Martin frowned, trying to remember. “Are they…purple?”

“Yes. Wait. How do you know that? Could you see them?”

Jon sounded so hopeful, Martin hated to break his heart, probably as much as Jon had hated to admit he couldn’t actually read Martin’s mind. “I found a pair like that in the Archives once. While you were off on your world tour, I think. Tim made some snide remark about them being possessed or infused with evil energy or something like that, since they pretty obviously weren’t reading glasses.”

“Oh.” Sure enough, Jon deflated against Martin. “I hated that I didn’t recognize her. We were arguably friends for years and I—I didn’t recognize her.”

“That’s…kind of a good thing, though?” Martin didn’t exactly mean to make it a question, but he was uncertain. He hadn’t known Sasha as long as Jon had, even though he’d been with the Institute longer than the entire rest of the Archives staff put together. “I mean, if you did recognize her…it would have meant that she got taken by…”

“The Stranger. I know. I—God, I’m going to have to tell her tomorrow I looked into her head. You know I’m trying not to do that, but—I had to know if she was all right. When I realized the Institute had been attacked…”

“I think she’ll forgive you. I mean, it’s not like you did it for fun.”

“Still.” Jon suddenly tensed. “The table—has it been—?”

“Not yet,” Martin assured him. “Or if it has, someone else signed for the delivery. But I told…my counterpart to let me know if it did happen.” He paused. “Jon, what are we actually going to do with that table?”

“I don’t know. The—the Other was bound by it, not to it, so I’m reluctant to destroy it and risk unleashing it on the Institute. At the same time…”

“Someone’s bound to study it eventually,” Martin completed. “What about sending up a copy of the statement talking about it? I mean, they’ve got the calliope locked up. Maybe if they know how dangerous it is, they’ll let it be.”

“Maybe.” Jon didn’t sound sure. “I—I don’t know enough about the people in Artifact Storage to know how they’d react. We can ask Sasha. She wasn’t there long, but she might know more than, well, the rest of us.” He sighed. “I’m just glad she’s all right. I—I wasn’t sure if we’d even know if she got taken. If we’d get muddled and forget that the voice wasn’t the same.”

Thinking about it gave Martin a headache. “Thankfully, she wasn’t. And your counterpart didn’t get hurt. Or Tim.”

“I worried about that, too. I don’t know how much of…the way he was at the end there was because of the Stranger and how much was because of the worms and how much was just…the general atmosphere of the Institute, and the Archives specifically, but I’m sure him turning into a sieve didn’t help.” Jon pressed a kiss to Martin’s collarbone. “And you didn’t get bitten?”

“Not even once,” Martin assured him.

“Good. That’s good.” Jon paused. “Why did you trust Michael?”

“Honestly? I didn’t feel like I had much of a choice.” Martin thought about how to phrase it. Because Jon was absolutely right—the Distortion was incredibly dangerous and untrustworthy, whether Michael or Helen. “He showed up in the tunnels…I don’t remember him doing that when Jane Prentiss attacked us, but maybe it was just because it was in the middle of the day. Or maybe I just wasn’t worth tormenting. But he did this time, and it was, well, it was me or them. Tim and Sasha needed to make it out of the tunnels because Past Me needed to know they were okay. I didn’t want them lost in those corridors for days or weeks on end. And I guess maybe I was hoping it would be less disorientating because I couldn’t see.”

“Was it?”

“Actually, yeah. Or maybe he just made it more…direct.”

Jon snorted. “I can’t see him being so…helpful. Especially not to someone tied to the Archives.”

“Well, I’m not exactly tied to them anymore,” Martin said slowly. “Especially not now. And like he said, I’ve been marked by the Spiral myself, that time Tim and I wound up in his corridors. Mostly, though, I think he was helpful because I told him I’d come back to help save the world.”

“Michael or Helen, I really don’t think the Distortion would care that the world ended.”

“I…might have left out a few key details,” Martin said. He couldn’t help the smirk that tugged at his lips. “I told him that the Beholding was the one that had eventually succeeded in its ritual, and that he had been completely and utterly destroyed. He didn’t seem too sure until I described exactly what his hallways looked like, and who he used to be. Then I told him that if he wanted to have any chance not to have those things happen, he’d best let me through safely.”

“God, I love you. Have I told you that lately?”

“Not since you walked in the door, no.”

Martin meant it as a joke, but from the way Jon suddenly went stiff, he realized it hadn’t quite landed. “Good Lord. I—I really haven’t, have I?”

“Well, to be fair, neither have I,” Martin pointed out. “We did have other things to worry about. And, I mean, there’s the whole ‘we’re not going to tell our past selves that we’re in a relationship because we don’t want to rush them’ thing we agreed on. Honestly, Jon, you really think you have to say the words for me to know?”

“No. No, o-of course not. Still…” Jon cupped Martin’s jaw with one hand and kissed him—a soft, tender kiss that spoke volumes, even before he said, “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Again they fell into a silence, one less heavy than before but still weighted. Martin was tired—not as tired as the others had to be, but still tired—but he was reluctant to sleep just yet. He was perfectly content to lie there with Jon, enjoying the nearly-forgotten sensation of not being in imminent danger for once. The last time they’d been able to rest like this had been…well, all right, Salesa’s house, which didn’t really count with Annabelle Cane creeping about and Jon growing steadily weaker the longer he was cut off from the Eye. They hadn’t been able to relax this much, really, since before the world ended. And there was no telling how long they’d be able to relax now, so Martin was determined to enjoy it for however long it lasted.

He almost thought Jon had fallen asleep until he spoke again. “How much have you told them?”

It took Martin a second to realize what Jon was asking. “Not a lot. They only got here a few minutes before you did, really, and that was the first time I met Past You when he knew I wasn’t, well, Past Me. All I’ve told him so far, that you weren’t here for anyway, was that I was from the future and that we were here to save the world, and that the statements on the tapes were real. And, well, you heard how much Tim and Sasha knew. I told Past Me a bit more, but not much. Just that the Fears exist and that one of them runs the Institute.” He paused. “Actually, he—put things together pretty quickly, but I didn’t go into details. I suppose he’s figured it out, though.”

“What do you mean?”

“When I told him about the Fears…he asked if one of them had something to do with spiders, and when I said yes, he asked if that was why you hated them so much. I didn’t put it together until I heard your tape about that damned Leitner.”

Jon made a noise that was somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “When did you listen to that tape? I—well, I’m not upset, obviously, and I would have…but I don’t remember actually giving it to you.”

Martin bit his lip. “It was…it was while you were in your coma, actually. I listened to all of them. Every tape I could find. I told myself I was trying to fill in the missing pieces, to find out the things you’d known so I could keep the Archives running for you, because I had to believe you’d be back, but…really I just needed to hear your voice.”

“I know how that goes,” Jon said softly. “Honestly, it’s why I listened to all those tapes you were leaving for me as soon as I did. And the ones you did while I was…gone before.” He paused. “Wait…did you listen to the official tapes or the ones I recorded for myself?”

“Both. I didn’t know they were the same cases at first, but…well, the first time I realized I was listening to something I’d already heard, I went ahead and listened all the way to the end.” Martin tightened his arms around Jon without really thinking about it. “God, I felt awful about them. You were going through so much and I didn’t even notice…”

“Martin, no, it—you did notice. I honestly don’t know that I would have survived those months if you hadn’t been looking out for me. Even when I all but accused you of murder, you still looked out for me.” Jon hugged Martin tighter, too. “No one could have done more for me than you did. What happened wasn’t your fault. It’s never been your fault.”

Martin wasn’t sure how much he believed that, but he also wasn’t going to argue, not right now. They’d have plenty of time to argue later, he supposed. And really, if that was the worst thing they had to fight about, he could live with that. “Still. I wish there’d been something else I could have done.”

“Just as I wish I could have done more for you when you were working with Peter Lukas. We did what we could with what we had.” Jon sighed. “It will have to be enough. We can’t change it now—not for ourselves, anyway. And hopefully we can keep our past selves from ever having to face that.”

Martin hummed in agreement. “Jon…do you think we can? That we can actually keep Past You from being…marked by any more powers before we can take out…you know?” He left out the question that had been haunting him during the nights he lurked in the Archives: Could they even take out Jonah Magnus? He’d thwarted their efforts once before, after all, and even though they were in the past now, it wouldn’t be easy. “I know you can’t Know the future or hypotheticals or anything like that. I’m asking for your opinion. What do you think?”

For a long moment, Jon didn’t answer. Finally, he said quietly, “I don’t think we can keep him completely free of marks. Michael…wants his revenge. Despite your warning, I think he’ll go after Past Me at some point regardless.” He pondered for a moment. “Before the Unknowing. We’ve got to take him out before then.”

Martin didn’t question which him Jon was talking about. “Tim’s not going to be happy about us taking away his shot at revenge.”

“If there was a safe way of disrupting it, I’d be all for it, but I don’t think there is.”

“Jon, the whole point is that the rituals can’t succeed,” Martin pointed out. “It’s going to collapse under its own weight anyway, right? Why does he have to disrupt it right at the height of the ritual? Why not just…plant the stuff and let him press the button from a safe distance?”

Jon paused. “That…God, why didn’t I think of that? Of course, you’re absolutely right. As long as they’re all there, it…it doesn’t matter how far along it is.”

Martin could hear the exhaustion in Jon’s voice. He was about to ask if Jon was sure he’d slept within the last week when it hit him all of a sudden. Quietly, he asked, “When’s the last time you took a statement?”

The split-second pause before Jon answered told Martin everything he needed to know. “I’m fine.”

“Not what I asked.”

Jon sighed heavily. “I’ve done a couple small ones for myself since I came back, and, well, I was in the room when they gave their statements. It…took the edge off, at least.”

“Yeah, but it’s not enough. You’re starving, Jon.”

“What do you want me to do, start…pouncing people on the streets? You stopped me from doing that once before, and you were right, but—”

“I can give you one,” Martin said. He pressed a finger to Jon’s lips, forestalling his immediate refusal. “No, listen to me. You need a statement. And you’ve been without one so long, it’s got to be…fresh. Besides, I know you want to know what my trip back here was like. That’s…definitely a statement.” And it’ll probably keep you going for a while, he didn’t say. What he’d experienced, in a place he hadn’t expected to feel much fear, had nearly undone him, would have undone him if the Keeper hadn’t intervened at probably the last possible moment. But if there was anyone he wanted to have it, it was Jon.

“I don’t want you to keep destroying yourself to help me,” Jon whispered.

“Gotowe zdrowie, kto chorobie powie.” Martin quoted one of the old Polish proverbs his grandfather had taught him when he was little. He didn’t bother translating. One of Jon’s “gifts” from the Beholding was the ability to understand languages spoken at him, at least sometimes. He couldn’t speak them necessarily, but he could understand them, when the Eye felt it was important. He also knew that Jon didn’t always realize he was doing it. “Let me do something for you, Jon. Please.”

There was a long silence before Jon said, “Tomorrow. Not tonight. Just…I didn’t start seeing Melanie again after she—quit, but just in case it—one more night without nightmares.”

“Okay,” Martin agreed. “Tomorrow it is. After we’ve answered some questions, how’s that?”

“That’s…honestly better than I expected. I thought you’d try to make me do it first thing in the morning.” Jon sounded relieved.

“I’m trying to meet you halfway here.” They were both stubborn as hell—Martin probably worse than Jon, if he was being honest—but they were learning to make concessions to one another. As badly as Martin wanted to force Jon to just take the damn statement already, he also knew that the need for statements was the one part of the Archivist package Jon still hated. More so after what Jonah Magnus had done to him, done through him. And Jon was right about there being a chance taking his statement would mean both of them had to experience it in their nightmares. It was a chance they’d have to take, though.

“So am I.” Jon exhaled. “I…I don’t know how I’m going to do this. How to find the balance between keeping them safe and not keeping them in the dark. And how to do it without…manipulating them. Without forgetting that they’re people, not pieces on a game board.”

“That’s what I’m here for. To help you.”

“I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Martin twirled a strand of Jon’s hair around his finger idly. “I don’t want to ever have to find out.”

Jon snuggled against Martin’s chest, and he felt the butterfly kiss of his eyelashes fluttering shut. “Neither do I.”

Translation of the proverb: “Ready the health, who shares the disease.” English equivalent: “A problem shared is a problem halved.”

[violetsmoak]

The Specter at the Feast [1/?]

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24556579/chapters/59300599

Summary: A tragic incident as a child left Tim Drake with the ability to commune with the dead. It’s a skill he’s used to close some of the most confounding cases to come across his desk at Gotham City’s Major Crimes Unit. But when he learns of an apparent murder-suicide that could link to a very personal case he’s been working for ten years, he might need more than a connection to the afterlife to solve it. Especially when Detective Jason Todd, a man in denial about his own psychic abilities, is assigned lead on the same case.

Sparks immediately fly between the two detectives—and not necessarily in a good way—as they are forced to work together to take down a macabre serial killer before it’s too late.

Disclaimer: This story uses characters, situations and premises that are copyright DC Comics, Inc. No infringement pertaining to graphic novels, television series or films is intended by violetsmoak in any way, shape or form. This fan-oriented story is written solely for the author’s own amusement and the entertainment of the readers. It is not for profit. Any resemblance to real organizations, institutions, products or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Author’s Note: Here’s one of the stories I’ve been working on for JayTimWeek. As I mentioned on tumblr, I got hit by a big blast of inspiration for one of my original stories and have kind of been working on that like mad for the past three weeks, so unfortunately I didn’t have time to dedicate to the prompt fills for JTW as I wanted to. As soon as I run out of steam for that, I’ll get back to filling the prompts. So, bad news I probably won’t post anything else during the event, but eventually my prompts will all crop up once I recapture my attention span :P Huge thank you to strawberyjei for taking the time to beta-read this chapter!

_______________________________________________________________

“That stuff will kill you one day.”

Tim Drake frowns and glances to his right, noticing the half-amused and half-exasperated smile playing on his best friend’s face.

“Will not,” he retorts with the instantaneity of an oft-repeated argument and leans more securely against sun-warmed stone. He takes a defiant sip from his jumbo travel mug, enjoying the bitterness of his favorite morning indulgence—slow-brewed light roast with three shots of espresso. “Besides, how else do you expect me to be awake enough to drive out here at this hour?”

He doesn’t have to see Kon to know he’s rolling his eyes.

“You don’t actually have to—you’re the one who keeps showing up; I just wait here.”

There’s something buried in the joking tone, and Tim shifts in discomfort as he detects the unspoken scolding. Choosing to ignore it, he swallows another mouthful of coffee and stares past the well-kept shrubbery, observing the gentle waves on the river.

From a distance, Gotham’s elegance is deceptive. By daylight, the riot of architectural styles jutting into the horizon appear whimsical instead of grotesque, and the layers of filth and decay suggest character as opposed to rampant corruption. Even on a Sunday, it teems with energy.

I guess that’s what still convinces people to move to the crime capital of America.

Tim knows from experience that the city’s grandeur is not as noticeable when combing her streets for the criminal element.

That knowledge doesn’t stop him from digging out his cellphone and snapping a few lazy photos. The quality won’t compare to shots taken with the Nikon he has at home, but it’s rare to perceive the city of his birth as something other than sinister; he won’t squander the opportunity.

“Maybe it’s the other way around,” Tim suggests in a light tone. “I could just be out here, minding my business, taking in the scenery—”

“Hah!”

“—and you’re stalking me.”

“Stalking’s your thing.”

“Is it really stalking if you get paid for it?”

“Whatever you say, detective,” Kon sneers without true malice and crosses his arms across his chest. Despite the chilly early spring air, he’s wearing only a black t-shirt with a red Superman symbol. Tim gave it to him for his birthday a few years ago, but the sight of it these days still elicits a nostalgia-induced lump in his throat. “Either way, you’re the chump who showed up here on his first day off in forever. Sunday, remember? You’re supposed to be spending the day lounging at your fancy estate, getting ready to gorge yourself on Alfred-made dinner, not bumming around with me.”

“That’s not for hours,” Tim dismisses, “and to be honest, I’d rather skip it.”

Kon glances sideways at him. “Haven’t you missed it all month?”

“I was working the entire time. Everyone in the family has to do the occasional weekend rotation, Alfred knows that. Besides, I see them all at some point or another every week.”

“Excuses, excuses,” Kon taunts. “I thought we agreed you needed to stop isolating yourself?”

The furrow in his brow is one that Tim recognizes as a prelude to concern, though, and he suspects he won’t be able to deter his friend.

“I’m not isolating myself.”

“That so? When was your last date?”

And there it is.

“I left myself wide open for that one,” Tim sighs.

“You know I’m right.”

“Here it comes…”

“I’m serious—you can’t still be carrying a torch for your ex—”

“There are no torches.”

“—hoping it’ll work out—”

“I’m not!”

“—because that ship has sailed,” Kon concludes. “She’s dating your sister for God’s sake.”

“I’m aware.”

“And it’s been two years.”

“I’ve been on dates in the last two years,” Tim protests.

“Cassie doesn’t count,” Kon replies. 

That earns a wince. “We agreed never to speak about that.”

“And I told you I was fine with it, man, it’s not like I was there.”

There’s a heavy sensation in Tim’s chest at that reminder, and he scowls at Kon for bringing it up. That usually earns a shrug or palms-up gesture of surrender, but today Kon squares his shoulders and raises an eyebrow in challenge.

“I already told you it meant nothing. We were both hurting and just…needed someone,” Tim insists.

Kon ignores him. “Which I’m okay with—relieved, even. I know you guys wouldn’t have looked at each other if circumstances were different. Which brings me back to Cassie, not counting.”

“She was there for me as much as I was there for her—can we please talk about something else?”

“Depends—do you have a better example than my last girlfriend?”

“Hey, I’ve been with other people! Remember Tam?”

“Yeah, your dad’s former business manager’s daughter,” Kon deadpans, “who you only started dating because everyone thought it was convenient. And she left you because you weren’t interested enough in the relationship.”

“What are you talking about? I was interested!”

“You didn’t even get to second base with her, man.”

“Are you seriously using the baseball metaphor?”

“Then there’s Bernard Whatshisname for the occasional booty call.”

“I regret ever telling you about that.”

“And don’t even get me started on that cop from Hong Kong that you hooked up with last month.”

“Okay, that one was a mistake,” Tim admits.

“But none of those were actual relationships. You haven’t had one of those since Steph.”

“I don’t recall you being this judgy before.”

“You’re one of my only sources of entertainment,” Kon deflects. “It’s like binge-watching Netflix and yelling at the idiot hero to stop screwing up his life. Except in this case, the idiot hero can actually hear me and have to listen.”

“‘Have to’ is debatable…”

Kon pushes off the stone they are both leaning against and turns to face him. It always annoys Tim when he pulls this, given he’s three inches taller and has twice the upper body strength.

“This is what you do, Tim. You keep people at a distance and on the rare occasion where they disappoint you or hurt you, you close yourself off,” Kon sighs. “You need to relax, man.”

Tim’s phone rings, granting him a welcome distraction.

“The last time I relaxed, I got stabbed,” he reminds Kon as he glances at the device. He blinks in surprise when he recognizes his brother’s scowling face and phone number flashing up at him. “Speak of the devil.” He swipes at the screen and answers, making a face at his best friend. “Gremlin.”

“Timothy,” is the terse answer, and Tim can almost hear the scowl in the younger man’s voice.

Huh. First name today. Either something bad happened, or he wants something.

Tim ignores the tiny edge of worry blossoming at the thought; if it were a family emergency, Alfred or Dick would call him, not Damian.

It must be the second thing.

“What do you want?”

“Where are you this morning?” the younger man asks, ignoring the question.

“It’s Sunday, where do you think I am?” he shoots back, deciding two can play ‘answer-with-a-question.’

Except Damian seems to have no intention of following the usual script.

“Of course,” he says instead, sounding distracted. “Then you should be close enough.”

“…For what?”

There’s a beat of hesitation, and then Damian says, “I may have stumbled upon something you’d find…interesting.”

Because that doesn’t sound ominous…

“Define ‘interesting’.”

“I’m at work,” Damian says. “Securing a crime scene.”

That moves Tim along the spectrum from wary to defensive at once. He goes to substantial lengths to avoid working with any of his siblings in a professional capacity. It’s a necessity in a family where law enforcement is all but synonymous with the name Wayne. Even if their older brother Dick hadn’t started the tradition of downplaying that link in the professional sphere, Tim has always been diligent in establishing professional boundaries. So far, his family has respected them. Damian, in particular, has always been gleeful—almost militant—in keeping to that maxim; for him to break it, something must have upset him. 

And for him to reach out to me instead of Dick is…I don’t think it’s ever happened.

“Are you sure you should have called me then?” Tim queries in a careful tone, wanting to make sure he’s not misreading the situation. “Dick might be a better option.”

“Richard wouldn’t understand. He wouldn’t view it the same way.”

“The same way,” Tim repeats, the words sparking something—a flicker of suspicion begins to take shape.

“I shouldn’t even be telling you this,” Damian continues, “so you’d better be appreciative—”

“Spit it out, Damian.” Tim doesn’t have the patience for the adult version of ‘I-know-something-you-don’t-know’.

“Murder-suicide. Apparently. The bodies were posed,” Damian says, voice low as if he doesn’t want someone to overhear him, “And all the victims are holding hands.”

Tim’s mouth goes dry and his entire body tenses. “All?”

“Five,” Damian tells him shortly.

That makes Tim close his eyes in dismay. “Other than the number it’s the same MO as the others?”

“The crime itself, yes. Don’t your files say the last one was five years ago?”

Tim knows it should irritate him that Damian’s been poking around his casefiles—he always considered office protocol as more guidelines than law. But the infraction pales next to the knowledge blossoming into being.

It’s happening again.

“If you want to see for yourself, get here before whoever they assign as the lead detective does,” Damian is saying.

Torn, Tim’s eyes flick to Kon, who clearly knows what is being said and whose expression is all-too knowing for Tim’s liking.

“Where is it?” Tim asks at last.

“Diamond District. Gotham Tower Apartments.”

“That’s unusual,” Tim grunts, trying to ignore the tightness in his chest. Only one of the earlier cases took place in what either of them would consider an upper-class neighborhood. “Also, outside of my jurisdiction.”

“That wouldn’t stop me if I were in your position.”

There’s a click and then a dial tone.

Tim gives a slow exhale, closing his eyes.

He and Damian were never the closest, but once the early friction between them eased, they developed their own dynamic. And one specific shared understanding that they bonded over in secret, away from the prying and often unintentionally judging eyes of family.

“How is he a jerk even when he’s trying to be helpful?” Tim mutters more to himself than Kon. He’s already calculating how long it will take him to get across the bridge from Metropolis.

Half an hour, with no traffic.

It will be cutting it close, assuming Damian holds off giving his own precinct the details until the last second.

He must be serious about this if he’ll risk being called up on discipline for not following protocol.

Tim turns to Kon. “Sorry, but I need to head out.”

“Like I won’t see you again next week,��� Kon dismisses with a grim smile. “After all, you’re always here.”

“You say that like you don’t want me to be,” Tim replies, suspicious.

“Don’t put words in my mouth. You’re my best friend, I obviously want you to visit. But you need more in your life than work, checking in with me and—I dunno—chasing some white whale.”

“Really?” Tim deadpans. “You, of all people? You want me to give up trying to get justice—”

“Not what I’m saying,” Kon interrupts. “I’m just trying to tell you there’s more out there and you deserve to find it.” He pauses. “And   agrees with me.”

Tim cuts off a curse with a hiss. “That is a low blow, you two ganging up on me.”

“What can I say? You’d better listen, or he’ll do something impulsive, if he hasn’t already.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Tim grumbles, keying the coordinates of the crime scene into his phone’s GPS.

“Remember,” Kon calls after him, “ ”

“Always do,” Tim replies. As he heads for the gates of the cemetery, brushing his fingers against the headstone that reads: Connor Kent, Beloved Son, Brother, Friend—Brave Fireman of the Metropolis Fire Department.

⁂

“Six days,” Jason Todd fumes, glaring down at the muddle of papers and file folders in front of him. “I’m gone for six days, and you jerks decide to turn my desk into an episode of Hoarders.”

“Relax, Todd, it’s just paper, not toxic waste,” Detective Adams drawls as she passes by, unapologetically grabbing a few of the offending folders on her way.

“This? This is not just paper, it’s a potential biohazard.”

His desk, usually the immaculate outlier in the chaotic, open concept dumping ground of the 12th Precinct, is now covered in empty coffee cups, old take-out cartons, and other detritus.

“Says the man who filled my desk drawer with a cubic foot of golf balls the last time I was on leave.”

“None of which were covered in saliva—I mean, come on!” He holds up several crumpled napkins. “It’s just common fucking courtesy!”

“Take it up with Rayner.”

“Of course it was him. Guy has it out for me…”

“You did shoot him.”

“One time! And it was a shoulder wound! If I hadn’t, both our covers would have been blown and we’d both be dead.”

“Cry me a river, Todd,” Adams snorts. “I’ve got a lead on the Kirano case and don’t have time to wipe away your tears of manly angst.”

She stalks away, totally missing how he flips her the bird. Not that his heart is in it; he’s actually fond of Onyx and would even work with her if she could stand him. But the one time they were partnered together, it ended with them running away from an exploding truck and a two-inch-thick shard of metal through her shoulder.

Still trying to figure out how I got the blame for that one…

It’s not like he goes into a situation intending to get the people next to him injured. For some reason, he just happens to be better at intuiting incoming threats, whether it be a perp taking a swing with a knife or stopping just short of being shot.

It happens, sometimes, this inexplicable intuition. Roy always called it a sixth sense, but Jason takes issue with any of that hokey paranormal crap. He gets hunches—gut feelings that have served him extremely well in his career and helped him rise quickly through the ranks.

But he doesn’t like to think of himself as psychic.

He likes thinking of the possible reason for his “hunches” even less.

Finally getting the worst of the garbage into the trashcan beneath his desk, Jason starts on the wayward papers, pleased that most of it can be shredded and won’t require a trip to the file room. There’s one folder, however, that doesn’t fit anywhere: some arson report that has nothing to do with any of his ongoing cases.

He skims through the particulars of the folder and notes the name on the CSI report—B. Allen—which suggests it isn’t even recent. He’s been friends with the new ME, Stephanie Brown, for two years now, and never met the guy that was here before her.

Maybe someone’s trying to find a pattern or something.

Jason decides to bring it to the captain; if anyone’s missing a file related to their case, she’ll have a better idea.

He skirts around uniformed officers moving to and fro, some leading handcuffed offenders to the holding cells at the back of the building, others talking over their cases with each other or on the phone. He passes the office corkboard, filled with everything from sketches of perps at large (it seems Dr. Pamela Isley is up to her usual eco-terrorism) to reminders about the Gotham General Blood Drive (anyone who donates in uniform gets the rest of the day off, as well as the next one).

By the time he reaches the captain’s office, he’s sweating. It might be crisp outside, but inside there are so many bodies moving around that it might as well be the hottest day of summer.

Raising his hand to knock, he’s surprised when the door opens inward and the captain steps out.

“Todd,” she says with a blink, then nods to herself. “Right. You’re back today. That works. Get in here—I’ve got a case for you.”

He’s too used to Artemis’ brusque manner to be bemused; instead, he ducks into her office and closes the door behind him.

“It’s not another missing kid, is it?” he asks apprehensively; the last case involved a fourteen-year-old girl. “No promises I won’t break some scumbag’s teeth again if that’s the case.”

“You’d better not break anyone’s teeth,” Artemis chides him, a warning glint in her eyes. “Especially since you just got off suspension.”

And that for using “unnecessary force” in apprehending a drug dealer selling his shit to a bunch of kids.

“But no,” she continues, sitting behind her desk and reaching for a file, “it’s not. The officers on the scene are reporting it as an apparent murder-suicide.”

“And you thought that’s how I wanted to spend my first day back at work? I’m touched. Whatever made you think of me?”

“The fact that you were conveniently in front of me when I opened the door.”

“Aw, here I was expectin’ you to say something like, ‘well, you’re a constant pain in my ass, but you’ve also got the best record for closin’ cases in this department’.”

“You don’t need the ego boost. Now either take it and be grateful, or I’m giving it to Adams as I planned—”

“Gimme,” Jason interrupts, snatching the file folder from her.

“That’s what I thought.”

He settles into one of the chairs in front of the captain’s desk and opens the folder.

“I want this one looked into and closed as soon as possible,” Artemis goes on.

“Why?”

“Because of who the victim is.”

Jason frowns, scans through the preliminary report to see that the victim—victims—have, in fact, been identified. His eyebrows shoot upward.

“J. Devlin Davenport.” He looks up at Artemis, askance. “The investment guy? The one being investigated for embezzlement?”

“Fraud Squad’s been building a case against him for six months now,” Artemis confirms. “The guy set up a fake company and defrauded his investors out of 200 million. They’re still trying to track the stuff he funneled through the Bahamas.” 

“If they find it, send it my way,” Jason says, still skimming through the papers.

“Could you sound any more cliché?”

“If I tried, maybe,” he replies, distracted as he slides the folder he brought to one side of her desk. 

“What’s that?” Artemis asks.

“Dunno. File was on my desk. Arson, I think. Figured someone left it there.”

“We don’t have any arson cases ongoing at the moment, but I’ll ask around. Maybe someone’s doing case research.”

“Uh-huh,” Jason murmurs. He taps the paper in front of him. “Listen, if they’re saying this is a murder-suicide, that’s probably what it is.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Look at the transcript from when it was called in.”

“‘Bodies of the deceased were…arranged around the dinner table’,” Jason reads. “What the… ‘lack of struggle might suggest sedation before they were removed to the dining room and posed’—posed? Like a photographer does?” He makes a face. “Kind of a lot of effort for someone who just committed suicide right after…”

“If I’m not mistaken, that would be the thing that needs investigating.”

Jason ignores the sarcasm, checking to see who called this in.

Al-Ghul. Huh. Well, at least he’ll keep the place from being overrun. Kid’s scary good at keeping the rubberneckers away.

And pissing off the MEs by lurking around while they work.

Jason knows the new officer just wants to learn, but he also tends to be a bit of an entitled know-it-all like most of his generation. It’s a trait he’ll lose the longer he walks a beat and works up through the ranks, but right now it makes most people want to punch him.

Jason might be one of those people if it weren’t for the fact Al-Ghul is meticulous about taking statements, prompt in securing crime scenes, and entirely willing to go the extra mile to help a detective close a case even when he’s off the clock. He recognizes the ambition and the need to prove himself from his own first years as a cop.

If he adjusts that attitude a bit, I might even put in a recommendation to put him on detective track…

Jason closes the folder and grins at Artemis.

“So, who’s the unlucky bastard you’re pairing me with today?”

He doesn’t work well with a partner, given his tendency to ignore rules in favor of his gut instincts. Especially since it’s never steered him wrong. Most other detectives can’t stand that, with the exception of his last partner, Roy Harper, who transferred to Star City six months ago to be closer to his daughter. Then again, Roy always considered rules arbitrary anyhow.

Since then, Jason’s been cycled through almost all the detectives at the 9th Precinct, all without finding a decent fit.

Pretty sure it’s Artemis’ way of torturing me since plenty of other guys work their cases solo.

It’s a blatant implication that he needs a babysitter.

“Rayner wrapped up most of his cases last week,” Artemis replies without even checking the duty roster on her desk.

“Hell no.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, am I giving you the impression you have a choice?”

“Unless you want me back on suspension, you’re not putting me with that asshole.”

“Well, Jason,” she says, finally looking up at him with an expression that suggests she’s fully ready to call his bluff, “you have this tendency to either piss off or sleep with whoever gets assigned to you. At least if you’re working with someone that pisses you off, I’m less likely to need to fill out the paperwork to reassign them afterward.”

“And if they happen to fall into both categories?” he leers at her in an exaggerated manner. She was one of his partners once, both on the job and briefly outside of it. He prods at the plaque on her desk that reads Captain A. Bana-Migdhall. In retaliation, she reaches over and raps him on the knuckles with it. “Ow!”

“You’re not helping your case right now.”

“You know, it’s not my fault Eddie decided he’d rather play Bond Babe for the scary CIA chick with the one eye. And Miguel’s the one who couldn’t keep his hands off me, so…”

“Just…go find Rayner,” Artemis sighs, waving her hand in dismissal. “I need that crime scene checked over and wrapped up quickly. The Mayor’s office wants an answer on this pronto.”

Jason sneers at that. “Of course they do. Because the Waynes and Davenports are old country club buddies, right?”

“Maybe fifty years ago. But Bruce Wayne spent more time as a cop than some rich college co-ed. He got elected based on his tough-on-crime stance, so it’s more likely he just wants to make sure the high-profile target of a class-action suit hasn’t been the victim of foul play.” Artemis pauses. “Especially since, having met the man, I’m pretty sure Wayne would have liked to beat the truth out of Davenport personally.”

“Now there’s a reality show I’d watch.”

“On your own time. Now go do your job.”

“Or Rayner.”

Artemis drops her pen and stares. “What?”

“Well, from what you said before, I figure if I fuck Rayner, it means you won’t ever make me work with him again, so—”

“Get the hell out of my office!” Artemis barks, throwing her tissue box at his head. Jason ducks and slips out of her office with a grin on his face.

There are a few good-natured laughs from his coworkers—“In trouble again, Todd?”—and he heads across the room to Kyle Rayner’s desk.

“What do you want?” the other detective demands, nose wrinkling at Jason like he’s just smelled something rank. It’s his default expression whenever they cross paths.

It’s also the expression that drives Jason to mess with him whenever he can.

Time for a bit of payback for the desk thing.

“Not me,” he says, affecting a nonchalant shrug. “Captain wanted to know if you could head down to the 7th.”

“And why would I do that?”

“Apparently her opposite number there has something she needs to be sent over and doesn’t want to wait on official channels to slow everything down.”

“What do I look like, a courier?” Rayner growls, but Jason can see from the way he smooths a hand through his hair that he’s got him.

It’s not exactly a secret that Jason’s workplace nemesis has a thing for Precinct 7’s Captain Troy, or that he’ll take any excuse to go flirt with her.

It’s unrequited, of course, and Jason’s bound to get an earful from Donna the next time they run into each other, but worth it to get Rayner out of his way.

“Whatever, man, I just work here,” he says, only half-pretending irritation. “You want to tell Captain ‘no’, it’s your balls in a vice, not mine.”

“Yeah, that’d be a switch, wouldn’t it?”

But the other man pushes back his chair and grabs his jacket.

Jason smirks at his retreating back and spins on his heel, returning to his own desk to grab his car keys.

Maybe the day’s looking up a bit.

⁂

There’s a gaggle of reporters already on the scene when Tim arrives, and he wonders not for the first time just how many of them have their own inside sources in the various police precincts of Gotham. There are also two ambulances on the scene, but thankfully someone had the foresight to park them in a way that shields the entrance of the high-rise apartment.

Officer Kelley, Damian’s partner of six months, is walking back and forth along the police tape to ensure none of the intrepid rubberneckers can get through. Head down and dark glasses firmly in place, Tim hurries past the press before they can recognize him (it thankfully doesn’t happen very often, but when it does it’s a pain in the ass) and approaches Kelly. Though they’ve met before, he flashes his badge and identifies himself. 

All of Tim’s official identification name him as Timothy Drake-Wayne and have since he was about seventeen, but he only uses the latter name if he absolutely must. With regards to work, he’s only ever used it during official meetings with the Commissioner or during obligatory police ceremonies.

Or when Bruce makes up some official sounding excuse to check up on me when he feels he hasn’t heard from me in a while.

He's endured at least one of those this past month.

Kelley barely raises an eyebrow, suggesting Damian must have warned her who he was calling and waves him through. It speaks to how much they trust each other as partners that she’s going along with what’s clearly a personal issue. Most other cops would question the need for two law enforcement officers from the same family needing to be at the same crime scene.

There are two elevators in the lobby, one of which is already open with a sign posted to warn residents from using it. Another officer Tim doesn’t recognize is waiting beside it, and Tim once again flashes his badge before heading up.

He’s subjected to a brief interlude of elevator muzak, before the doors open to the foyer outside of what has to be the victims’ apartment. Two ambulance techs are just exiting, carrying with them tools that are clearly useless here. He waits for them to pass and slips inside, taking in the stylish décor of the hall and nearby living room. Inside the latter, there’s a small woman speaking to another EMT, a blanket over her shoulders as she tries to speak through sobs.

Damian is watching the scene from across the room, mouth pulled into his habitual frown; this deepens when he sees Tim. Undeterred, Tim strides over—he was invited, after all.

“So, are you going to tell me why I’m risking Cassie’s wrath this morning?” he asks as he joins the younger man. Tim's friend might not be the type of captain to fire him for the flagrant conduct unbecoming, but she can make his life miserable for the foreseeable future.

“The bodies were found this morning by the cleaning lady,” Damian says, also not bothering with such trite pleasantries as a greeting. “No signs of break-in or struggle.”

“Cleaning lady? This early on a Sunday? They must have been paying her overtime.”

Damian raises an eyebrow. “Pennyworth works Sundays.”

“Only because it would take the same amount of phenobarbital to stun a moose as it would to make Alfred take a day of rest.” They exchange a wry look of agreement, and Tim returns to the subject at hand. “So, she identified the bodies?”

“Yes. Joseph Devlin Davenport, his wife Lina, and the three teenaged offspring—Neil, Irene, and Roderick.”

Tim’s eyes go wide; he’s met every one of them before. “Shit.”

“Indeed.” Damian flips through his notepad, though they both know it’s for show. “All the victims were executed by two gunshots to the head, except Davenport himself; the medical examiner was here, and her preliminary findings suggest the husband shot his wife and children first, then turned the gun on himself. There are no signs of struggle, no bruising, or markings on the bodies…”

“None of that’s particularly extraordinary though.”

“And then there’s their hands.”

They share a look.

“Did you mention that when you called it in to your superiors?”

“No, when I called it in I gave them the basics. Since then I’ve noticed a few things.”

“Such as?”

“Such as the fact a firearm was discharged several times in a residential complex and no one heard anything,” Damian says. “Yet I didn’t find a suppressor anywhere on the scene; just the weapon itself.”

“Is the penthouse soundproofed?” Tim asks.

“No. When I spoke to the downstairs residents, they told me they had even made several noise complaints to the building management in the past. Nothing ever came from it, of course—money talks—but someone should have heard something.”

“Assuming they recognized the sound of gunfire. This isn’t exactly Burnley. Which…could be a good thing. Buildings like this tend to have good security systems.”

“Obviously that was my next thought,” Damian drawls. “While Kelley was calming down the help, I went to speak with the security guards in case the camera system caught sight of anyone suspicious.”

"And did they?"

“No. They apparently had to run a routine update on their software, which knocked out the feed between 2 a.m. and 3 a.m.”

“And you think this is when the shooting took place.”

“I imagine Brown will find the time of death to be around that point,” Damian agrees with a smug upward quirk of his lips. “For Davenport to decide to kill himself at the exact time when the security feeds go offline is rather coincidental.”

Tim shakes his head. “Maybe, maybe not. Anything else?”

“What about the fact Davenport was left-handed but shot himself with his right hand?”

Tim blinks. “And how do you figure he was left-handed?”

“Please,” Damian dismisses with a snort, “I’ve been forced to attend enough fundraisers with Father in the past, and Davenport was often present. Even you would remember that ham-fisted troglodyte trying to sip from a champagne flute had you ever deigned to attend.”

Tim tilts his head in acknowledgment of both the barb and the observation. “Fair. Though so far all of this sounds pretty circumstantial—nothing really screams 'second shooter' here. And other than the hand thing—”  

“Go see for yourself. The bodies are in the dining room. I imagine your specific talents will confirm my suspicions.” Tim starts into the apartment. “By the way, if you’re still here when the lead detective gets here, I’ll deny knowing you.”

Tim snorts. “As expected.”

“And you are not to tell Richard I was involved in this. I’ll never hear the end of it.”

Tim has to hold back a chuckle at that; Damian is even more acquainted with Dick’s mollycoddling than he is.

“Noted. Let Alfred know I might be a bit late for dinner tonight.”

“It’s not Alfred you have to worry about.”

Tim heads down the hall, accepting a pair of plastic gloves from one of the passing investigators. As he pulls them on, he takes note of the doors to the bedrooms that remain open, and the photographs and paintings hanging on the walls. Nothing is disturbed, no signs of a struggle like there would be if the victims had been dragged from their beds, and there’s no sign of blood on the floors leading from the rooms or even the hallway itself.

That means the victims either walked voluntarily—which is unlikely—or sedated and carried.

It’s looking like Damian’s instincts might be on-point here, but it’s not until Tim steps foot in the dining room that he realizes just how much that’s the case.

He freezes in place, hit with a familiar jarring of his senses at something not meant to be perceived.

Davenport was a man in his mid-forties, tall and with the look of a skinny person that’s suddenly gained a whole lot of weight, and not in a healthy manner. Tim remembers meeting him at some dinner with his parents when he was younger, and his mother disparaging the man behind his back as a social-climbing schemer.

And that was before the Ponzi scheme.

The man’s blond hair implants are now plastered with blood and brain matter that oozes down the left side of his head. His eyes roll in wild fear, tears and snot running down his face, which is immobilized in a stiff smile from regular Botox injections. That mouth is now twisted in a grotesque scream that makes Tim wince even in its silence, the unsettling sensation of nails on a chalkboard traveling up through his nervous system.

Tim is careful not to draw the attention to himself, not just because of the crime scene team still milling about the scene, but because the last thing he needs right now is a panicked ghost latching on to him. Davenport’s spirit is still in too much shock for rationality and may fixate on Tim if he discovers he can see him. Which he knows from experience is not fun.

The newly dead are like drowning victims—if they catch hold of you, they’ll drag you under with them. Best case scenario, Tim experiences a few seconds of possession and a week of dissociative identity issues; worst-case scenario, he could die from the same trauma.

Unfortunately, given the lack of control newly dead spirits have, the latter is most likely.

The ghost is luckily far enough from the dining room table that Tim can edge past him without ostensibly acknowledging its presence; instead, he studies the actual bodies and tries not to regret his coffee that morning.

The five victims have not yet been moved, but the placement of tarps over them suggests the crime scene photographers have already been by. Going from one body to the next, Tim lifts the sheets carefully, trying not to disturb anything too much in his investigation. The victims are all dressed in their nightclothes, seated around the table on wooden, cloth-back chairs. 

Damian wasn’t lying; all of them holding hands.

The dining room table is fully laden with dishes and cutlery, glasses filled with orange juice and bowls with the soggy remnants of cereal and milk. Other than the angry red entrance wounds on their foreheads—two shots each—there are no other visible injuries. Only the body of the presumed shooter, based on the position of the gun and his hand, is splayed out unnaturally across the table, ostensibly from the force of the gunshot.

Otherwise, it looks like they were all just sitting down to breakfast at the time of death.

His stomach roils a bit at the notion, not only because of the clearly depraved mind behind arranging the tableau but because the scene is familiar to him in a way he wishes it wasn’t.

Teeth clenched, Tim digs out his phone and starts to take his own pictures, not wanting to have to contact the lead detective and beg for copies. In the periphery, Davenport’s ghost continues to spasm and flail, making it hard for Tim to concentrate.

His eyes rest on the spot where the murder weapon fell and is struck by a sudden idea. Hoping he’s right, he takes a quick tour of the rest of the apartment but makes deliberate stops in the bedroom and the home office.

It’s another fifteen minutes of taking pictures and lightly rummaging through the belongings of the dead before he finds something. Striding out of the office and back toward the scene of the murder, Tim shoots a text message off to his friend Victor at the ATF.

Running gun serial numbers might be a little more complicated than on TV, but the guy owes me a favor. And if I’m right—

His thoughts cut off as he notices movement out of the corner of his eye, a movement that belongs to someone living this time.

There’s a newcomer on the scene, and from the way he flashes the badge, Tim would guess it’s the detective who’s actually supposed to be here. He’s redheaded, wearing a leather jacket and a loose tie that looks like he threw it on in a hurry. Even from this distance, Tim can make out a couple of days’ worth of stubble on his chin and the edge to his mouth that’s inherently challenging. The man’s whole esthetic reads scrapper, but his posture and carriage inarguably declare cop. Tim would know, his family is made up almost entirely of them.

Pretending like he hasn’t noticed the stranger, Tim shifts to face the scene once again, continuing to study him under his lashes as the man exchanges words with Damian.

He blames Kon entirely for the way his attention rests on the man’s muscular thighs, before the man turns toward Tim and starts forward, conversation with Damian clearly over.

Well shit…

⁂

Jason has an uneasy feeling in his stomach even before he even arrives at the Davenports’ penthouse apartment.

It’s not an anticipatory reaction to seeing the aftermath of a murder—he’s worked homicide long enough to have developed a means of distancing himself from the crimes he investigates. The feeling is more like expectation, a nagging sense that something huge is about to happen.

Never a good sign in my experience.

“Detective Todd?”

Jason pauses as he finishes putting on a pair of plastic gloves and glances up at the speaker.

“Officer Al-Ghul,” he replies, more formal than usual as he tries to shove the weird feeling to the back of his mind. “What’ve we got?”

The kid excuses himself from the small, tearful woman he’s speaking to and strides over.

“It seems to be a murder-suicide,” he says and launches into a report that’s almost word-for-word the transcript of what he called into the precinct, with a few extra additions. Jason lets the words wash over him, keeping an ear out for anything that deviates too much from what he already knows while casting his eyes about the apartment.

Geeze, you could fit three Crime Alley families in the living room alone. Who the fuck needs all this space?

His eyes fall upon someone across the room that he doesn’t recognize.

Young—maybe a bit younger than Jason—with an athletic build and good looks that, despite being clean-cut, give no clue as to whether they’re male or female. Whoever it is, they’re not dressed as a CSI or in an officer’s uniform, but they’re studying the crime scene with the eye of someone in the business. When the stranger notices Jason, he or she turns around, apparently fascinated by the photographs on the living room wall.

“Who’s that?” Jason interrupts Al-Ghul. “New CSI?”

Al-Ghul scowls in annoyance, either at the interruption or at the subject of the question, Jason isn’t sure.

“Major Crimes,” he says after a beat. 

That immediately puts Jason’s back up. “What the hell is MCU doing here?”

Al-Ghul shrugs, as if to say, ‘that’s your problem, not mine’, and returns his attention to the woman from before. Deciding this is a welcome distraction from his own unease, Jason stalks toward the stranger, ready to rip them a new one.

“Hey, buddy—wanna tell me what you think you’re doing at my crime scene?”

“Just taking a look around,” the detective replies, not turning around immediately.

Jason’s eyes flick to the photos on the wall, wondering what seems so captivating.

Most of them are glamor shots, professionally done, but some are clearly personal photos. Davenport and his wife on a golf course, the teenagers lounging around against a tropical beach backdrop, and another of Davenport sitting in a bed surrounded by his kids. Though his surroundings seem comfortable, he’s hooked up to some kind of IV stand, and despite the smile on everyone’s faces, there’s a haunted edge to it.

Oh yeah, now I remember.

A while back there was something in the news about him undergoing treatment for some kind of blood cancer. He actually tried to use that to discourage his case from being investigated. Just proves what kind of scumbag Davenport is.

Was.

Which brings him back to the present.

“I’m gonna need a bit more than that unless you want me making a call to the brass up at MCU,” Jason warns.

The detective turns to offer Jason what is clearly intended to be a disarming smile. “No need for that, I’ll be out of your hair in a minute.”

Jason prides himself on not being susceptible to that sort of thing, but—

Holy shit, he’s hot up close.

And yes, that’s definitely a male face studying him with an air of appraisal, in spite of the deceptively delicate features. The guy is mostly clean-shaven and wearing a smart-looking peacoat that offers a compliment to his eyes, which are very blue. It’s the intense color you don’t see very often outside of newborn babies, but with a pronounced gleam of intelligence that feels almost penetrating.

There’s also a confident set to his shoulders and a stubborn bend to his lips that instantly puts Jason’s mind on the defensive (and other parts at attention).

“Detective Drake,” the guy goes on, offering a hand to Jason. His voice is warm and smooth, the kind that’s more suited for phone sex than reciting Miranda rights. “Major Crimes, as you already seem to be aware.”

Jason refrains from taking the hand. “Detective Todd. 12th Precinct. Homicide. There a reason you guys are sticking your noses into a murder-suicide?”

“There’s reason to believe this may actually be the work of a serial murderer,” Drake replies, looking unbothered by the rebuff.

“Really,” Jason says flatly. “And what are you basing that on? Because the report I got is leanin’ pretty hard on this guy killing his wife and kids, then himself. That’s probably how the city’s going to record it. This isn’t a scene that needs in-depth investigating and there’s no need for one lead detective here, let alone two—especially not a guy who’s clearly out of his jurisdiction.”

‘Detective Drake’ doesn’t appear to notice the clear marking of territory.

“Have you been in there yet?” he asks instead.

“No, because I’m wasting my time explainin’ protocol to a smart-ass out of his jurisdiction.”

Drake smirks at that, sharp and unwavering. “Well, when you get around to it, you’ll probably cotton on to the fact the murder weapon was a .32 automatic with the serial filed off.”

“So?”

“So, first of all, the neighbors would have heard the discharge if it was fired without a decent suppressor, but there’s no evidence of one at the scene of the crime.”

Which, Jason can admit, is out of the ordinary. Most people committing suicide don’t care about how loud the shot will be that takes them out, but if they did use one, it would still be attached to the gun.

“Second, Davenport was an ardent supporter of gun rights. I remember seeing a clip of him on the news, going at it with the Mayor over his proposed gun-control laws.”

Jason raises an eyebrow. “Your point being?”

“My point is that generally, gun rights activists own guns. Which Davenport did—you’ll find them in his closet and his study, next to all the relevant paperwork: 9mm Glocks. And they have serial numbers.” Drake levels a challenging stare at Jason. “What’s the point of procuring an unregistered weapon when you have your own within easy reach? And why chisel the number off if you’re just going to commit suicide? It’s not like you need to care about it being traced once you’re dead.”

“The guy was rich—rich people do weird things. Probably some convoluted insurance thing,” he suggests.

“Or it wasn’t his.”

“So maybe he was holdin’ it for a friend. It happens. Still doesn’t change the fact this tool offed his own family.”

“And what about the fact that the same model gun has been found at the scene of at least fourteen other murder-suicides in this city in the past ten years?”

“It’s Gotham. Play the probabilities game long enough, you’ll get a bunch of seemingly random crimes that resemble each other.”

“Maybe. But in the ninety-something years before that—in fact, as long as the city’s kept records on this sort of thing—there have been only two murder-suicides that could fit that pattern, and those had enough additional evidence to solve immediately. But in the past decade, we've got two particular years where a series of murder-suicides were committed using an unregistered .32, where neighbors didn’t hear any of the gunshots and yet there was no sign of a suppressor. Five years ago, and ten years ago,” Drake tells him grimly. “Both those years there were exactly seven incidents, and then they stopped. None of those have been solved.”

“That says more about the investigating cops than the crimes themselves. You don’t solve a murder-suicide—the evidence is right there,” Jason insists, though what Drake has to say is uncomfortably close to what his own gut was telling him when he walked into the apartment.

“And the fact that in each situation, the victims are found holding hands?” Drake challenges, with the air of someone presenting a winning argument.

And, yeah, that’s a bit of a weird coincidence, but still not an argument for a major investigation.

“If that’s an actual detail in all these supposed cases of yours, it would have been noted.”

“Not if no one thought it was worth noting,” Drake retorts. “Not if whoever made those reports just thought it was some kind of death pact or…cult related suicide. They weren’t looking for it.”

“But you are.”

“Clearly.”

Jason peers at him another beat and then shakes his head. “Look, I have about seven other cases of actual homicide that need my attention, so if you could just—"

“Seriously?” Drake demands, losing some of his smooth calm at last. “You don’t find any of that compelling enough to—”

“To what? Start imagining serial killers where there are none? No, I don’t,” Jason snaps. “All I see so far is some rich bastard got caught running a Ponzi scheme, so he decided to take the easy way out and dragged his poor family with him. It’s what rich people do when things get hard; because if they can’t have it, no one can.”

That earns him a cold look. “Out of the other fourteen cases, only one of them involved a couple who could be considered rich.”

“Fourteen other cases where only you seem to notice the pattern. I dunno what you want me to say, buddy. Clearly, you got an ax to grind, so do me a favor and grind it away from my scene.”

Despite his words, it’s not a suggestion, and Drake recognizes it.

Scowling at Jason in something like disgust, he straightens up. “Fine. I’m going. But when another family is slaughtered by this nutjob—and it will happen—you’ll remember this discussion. Hopefully, before you have to answer another six homicide calls.”

Drake spares Jason one final judgmental look and heads for the front door.

Jason watches him, briefly admiring the man’s ass as he walks away, and then puts the encounter out of his mind. He’s got a job to do, and Artemis said she wanted this sorted out today.

Squaring his shoulders and preparing himself for another grim sight—he hates crime scenes that involve kids—he heads out of the living room toward the back of the apartment and the scene of the crime.

Crossing the threshold to the dining room, Jason’s earlier disquiet morphs, evolving from nervous apprehension to a full-blown dip towards dread. He barely catches a glimpse of the tarps draped over the bodies, when his stomach pulls tight, shoulders tensing as if waiting for a blow from the right, but there’s no one there. Something far too close to fear chokes at his throat, forcing him to pause in the doorway and put a steadying hand on the doorframe.

Spots appear across his vision, a chill winding up his spine, and—

—sobbing, hysterical tears, please don’t do this, please just let them go, heart racing, blood thundering, please no, I’ll give you anything, someone help, click, bang, agony, nothing—

Jason shudders as he comes back to himself, reeling back a step.

The sensations ebb a little but don’t completely vanish, and he has to take a few breaths to regain his control. Now that he expects it, it won’t be too hard entering the room, but the fact it hit him like that...

Jason glances back to the entrance of the apartment, mouth setting into a grimace. He’s cleaned up plenty of suicides, and they never hit him with that degree of dread before.

 He has a bad feeling that Detective Drake might have been right—whatever happened in the apartment, it wasn’t as simple as it's meant to look.

________________________________________________________________

I want to know what you think of my story! Leave kudos, a comment or if writing comments isn't something you're comfortable with, as many of these (or other emojis) as you want and let me know how you feel! ❤️️ = I love this story!

😳 = this was hot!

💐 = thank you for sharing this

🍵 = tea spilled

🍬 = so sweet and fluffy!

🚔 = you’re under arrest! the writing’s too good!

😲 = I NEED THE NEXT CHAPTER

😢 = you got me right in the feels

🤯mind blown

🤬god damn cliffhanger

😫 whyyyyyyy?!?!? 

[alanlicht]

Alan Licht’s Minimal Top Ten List #4

A few weeks ago, near the beginning of the COVID-19 pandemic, my friend Mats Gustafsson sent out a mass email encouraging people to send him record lists to post on the “Discaholics” section of his website--top tens, favorite covers, anything. I immediately thought of the first 3 Minimal Top Ten lists I did (now found online here) back in 1995, 1997, and 2007 respectively, for the fanzine Halana (the first two) and Volcanic Tongue’s website (the third), and sent them to him. Those articles have sort of taken on a life of their own, and I still see them referenced as the albums get reissued and so on. Occasionally people ask me if I’d ever do another one, and looking at all three again made me think now is the hour. I started writing this in the midst of the lockdown, and the drastic reductions in people’s way of life—the restriction of any activity outside the home to the bare essentials, the relative stasis of life in quarantine, even the visual stasis of a Zoom meeting—make revisiting Minimal music, with its aesthetic of working within limitations and hallmarks of repetition and drones, somehow timely as well.

The original lists were never meant to represent “the best” Minimal albums: they were ones that were rare and in some cases surpass, in my opinion, more widely available releases by the same artist and/or better known examples of the genre. Some were records that hadn’t been classified as Minimalist but warranted consideration through that lens. Likewise, the lists aren’t meant to be ranked within themselves, or in comparison to each other; the first record on any of the lists isn’t necessarily vastly preferable to the last, and this fourth list is not the bottom of the barrel, by any stretch. In some cases the present list has records I’ve discovered since 2007; others are records I’ve known for quite a while but haven’t included before for one reason or another. I’ve also made an addendum to selected entries on the first three lists, which have become fairly dated in terms of what is currently available by many of the artists, and to account for some of the significant archival releases in the 25 years since I first compiled them.

Unlike the mid-90s, most if not all of these records can be heard and/or purchased online, whether they’re up on YouTube or available for sale on Discogs. So finding them will be easier than before (although I haven’t included links to any of the titles as a small tribute to the legwork involved in tracking records down in olden tymes), but hopefully the spirit of sharing knowledge and passions that drove my previous efforts, forged in the pre-internet fanzine world, hasn’t been rendered totally redundant by the 24/7 onslaught of virtual note-comparing in social media.

1. Simeon ten Holt Canto Ostinato (various recordings): This was the most significant discovery for me in the last decade, a piece with over one hundred modules to be played on any instrument but mostly realized over the years with two to four pianos. I first encountered a YouTube live video of four pianists tackling it over the course of 90 minutes or so, then bought a double CD on Brilliant Classics from 2005, also for four pianos, that runs about 2 and half hours. The original 3LP recording on Donemus, from 1984, lasts close to 3 hours. It’s addictively listenable, very hypnotic in that pulsed, Steve Reich “Piano Phase”/”Six Pianos” kind of way, with lots of recurring themes (which differentiates it from Terry Riley’s “In C,” its most obvious structural antecedent). Composed over the span of the 70s, as with Roberto Cacciapaglia’s Sei Note in Logica, it’s an  example of someone contemporaneously taking the ball from Reich or Riley and running with it. Every recording I’ve heard has been enjoyable, I’ve yet to pick a favorite.

2. David Borden Music for Amplified Keyboard Instruments (Red Music, 1981) 3. Mother Mallard’s Portable Masterpiece Co. Like a Duck to Water (Earthquack, 1976): These were some of my most cherished Minimal recordings when I was a teenager in the mid-80s, and are still not particularly well-known; they’re probably the biggest omission in the previous lists (at least from my perspective). Borden formed Mother Mallard, supposedly the first all-synthesizer ensemble, as a trio in the late 60s, although there’s electric piano on the records too. He went on to do music under his own name that hinged on the multi-keyboard Minimalism-meets-Renaissance classical concept he first explored with Mother Mallard, as exemplified by his 12-part series “The Continuing Story of Counterpoint” (a title inspired by both Philip Glass’ “Music in Twelve Parts” and the Beatles’ “The Continuing Story of Bungalow Bill”). I first heard Parts 6 & 9 of “Continuing Story” (from Music for Amplified Keyboard Instruments) on Tim Page’s 1980s afternoon radio show on WNYC, and bought the Mother Mallard LPs (Like A Duck is the second, the first is self-titled) from New Music Distribution Service soon after. I mail-ordered the Borden album  from Wayside Music, which had cut-out copies, maybe a year later (c. 1986). I wasn’t much of a synth guy, but I loved the propulsive, rapid-fire counterpoint and fast-changing, lyrical melodies found on these records. “C-A-G-E Part 2,” which occupies side 2 of the Mother Mallard album and utilizes only those pitches, has to be a pinnacle of the Minimal genre. Interestingly, Borden claims to not really be able to “hear” harmony and composes each part of these (generally) three-part inventions individually, all the way through. The two-piano “Continuing Story of Counterpoint Part Two” on the 1985 album Anatidae is also beloved by me, and there was an archival Mother Mallard CD called Music by David Borden (Arbiter, 2003) that’s worth hearing.

4. Charles Curtis/Charles Curtis Trio: Ultra White Violet Light/Sleep (Beau Rivage, 1997): Full disclosure: Charles is a long-time friend, but this record seems forgotten and deserves another look, especially in light of the long-overdue 3CD survey of his performances of other composers’ material that Saltern released last year. This was a double album of four side-long tracks, conceived with the intent that two sides could be played simultaneously, in several different configurations; two of them are Charles solo on cello and sine tones, the others are with a trio and have spoken vocals and rock instrumentation, with cello and the sine tones also thrown into the mix. (I’ve never heard any of the sides combined, although now it would probably be easily achieved with digital mixing software.) The instrumental stuff is the closest you can come to hearing Charles’ beautiful arrangement of Terry Jennings’ legendary “Piece for Cello and Saxophone,” at least until his own recording of it sees the light of day; the same deeply felt cello playing against a sine tone drone. And it would be interesting to see what Slint fans thought of the trio material. Originally packaged in a nifty all-white uni-pak sleeve with a photo print pasted into the gatefold, it was reissued with a different cover on the now-defunct Squealer label on LP and CD but has disappeared since then. Stellar.

5. Arthur Russell Instrumentals 1974 Vol. 2 (Another Side/Crepuscule, 1984) 6. Peter Zummo Zummo with an X (Loris, 1985):  Arthur Russell has posthumously developed a somewhat surprising indie rock audience, mostly for his unique songs and singing as well as his outré disco tracks. But he was also a modern classical composer, with serious Minimal cred—he’s on Jon Gibson’s Songs & Melodies 1973-1977 (see addendum), and played with Henry Flynt and Christer Hennix at one point; his indelible album of vocal and cello sparseness, World of Echo, was partially recorded at Phill Niblock’s loft and of course his Tower of Meaning LP was released on Glass’s Chatham Square label. He’s the one guy in the 70s and 80s (or after, for that matter) who connected the dots between Ali Akbar Khan, the Modern Lovers, Minimalism, and disco as different forms of trance music (taken together, both sides of his disco 12” “In the Light of the Miracle,” which total nearly a half-hour, could arguably be considered one of his Minimalist compositions). Recorded in 1977 & 1978, Instrumentals is an important signpost of the incipient Pop Minimalism impulse, and the first track is a pre-punk precursor to Rhys Chatham and Glenn Branca’s appropriations of the rock band format to pursue Minimal pathways (Chatham is one of the performers in that first piece). The rest, culled from a concert at the Kitchen, features long held tones from horns and strings and is quite graceful, if slightly undercut by Arthur’s own slightly jarring, apparently random edits. [Audika’s 2006 reissue, as part of the double CD First Thought Best Thought, includes a 1975 concert that was slated to be Instrumentals Vol. 1, which shows an even more specific pop/rock/Minimal intersection]. Zummo was a long-term collaborator of Russell’s and his album, which Arthur plays on, is a must for Russell aficionados. The first side is made up of short, plain pieces that repeat various simple intervals and are fairly hard-core Minimalism, but “Song IV,” which occupies all of side two, is like an extended, jammy take on Russell’s disco 12” “Treehouse” and has Bill Ruyle on bongos, who also played on Instrumentals as well as with Steve Reich and Jon Gibson. A recently unearthed concert at Roulette from 1985 is a further, and especially intriguing, example of Russell’s blending of Minimalism and song form. (That same year Arthur played on Elodie Lauten’s The Death of Don Juan--another record I first encountered via Tim Page’s radio show--which I included on Top Ten #3; Lauten as well as Zummo played on the Russell Roulette concert, as their website alleges).

7. Horacio Vaggione La Maquina de Cantar (Cramps, 1978): Another one-off from the late 70s, and yet more evidence of how Minimalism had really caught on as a trend among European composers of the time. Vaggione had a previous duo album with Eduardo Polonio under the name It called Viaje that was noisier electronics, and he went on to do computer music that was likewise more traditionally abstract. But on this sole effort for the Italian label Cramps, as part of their legendary Nova Musicha series, he went for full-on tonality. The title track is like the synth part of “Who Are You” extended for more than fifteen minutes and made a bit squishier; but side 2, “Ending”--already mentioned in the entry on David Rosenboom’s Brainwave Music in Top Ten #3--is my favorite. Kind of a bridge between Minimalism and prog, and a little reminiscent of David Borden’s multiple-synth counterpoint pieces, for the first ten minutes he lingers on one vaguely foreboding arpeggiated chord, then introduces a fanfare melody that repeats and builds in harmonies and countermelodies for the remainder of the piece. Great stuff, as Johnny Carson used to say.

8. Costin Miereanu Derives (Poly-Art, 1984): Miereanu is French composer coming out of musique concrete. Unlike some of the albums on these lists, both sides/pieces on Derives are superb, comprised of long drones with flurries of skittering electronic activity popping up here and there. Also notable is the presence of engineers Philip Besomes and Jean-Louis Rizet, responsible for Pôle, the great mid-70s prog double album that formed the basis of Graham Lambkin’s meta-meisterwork Amateur Doubles. I discovered this record via the old Continuo blog; Miereanu has lots of albums out, most of which I haven’t heard, but his 1975 debut Luna Cinese, another Cramps Nova Musicha item, is also estimable, although less Minimal.

9. Mikel Rouse Broken Consort Jade Tiger (Les Disques du Crepuscule, 1984): Rouse was a major New Music name in the 80s, as was Microscopic Septet saxist Philip Johnston, who plays here. Dominated by Reichian repeated fills that accentuate the odd time signatures as opposed to an underlying pulse, this will sound very familiar to anyone acquainted with Nik Bärtsch’s Ronin albums on ECM, which use the same general idea but brand it “zen funk” and cater more to the progressive jazz crowd rather than New Music fans, if we can be that anachronistic in our terminology. Jade Tiger also contrasts nicely with Wim Mertens’ more neo-Romantic contemporaneous excursions on Crepuscule. Rouse later performed the admirable (and daunting) task of cataloging Arthur Russell’s extensive tape archive for the preparation of Another Thought (Point Music, 1994)

10. Michael Nyman Decay Music (Obscure, 1976): Known for his soundtracks to Peter Greenaway films, and his still-peerless 1974 book Experimental Music: Cage and Beyond (where I, Jim O’Rourke, and doubtless many other intrepid teenage library goers learned of the Minimalists, Fluxus, AMM, and lots of other eternal avant heroes), Nyman is sometimes credited with coining the term “Minimal music” as well, in an early 70s article in The Spectator. Decay Music was produced by Brian Eno for his short-lived but wonderful Obscure label. The first side, “1-100,” was also composed for a Greenaway film, and has one hundred chords played one after another on piano, each advancing to the next once the sound has decayed from the previous chord (hence the album title). For all its delicacy and silences, you’re actually hearing three renditions superimposed on one another, which occasionally makes for some charming chordal collisions (reminiscent of the cheerfully clumsy, subversive “variations” of Pachelbel’s “Canon in D major” on Eno’s own Discreet Music, the most celebrated Obscure release). This is process music at its most fragile and incandescent. In hindsight it may have also been an unconscious influence on the structure of my piece “A New York Minute,” which lines up a month’s worth of weather reports from news radio, edited so that one day’s forecast follows its prediction from the previous day. I’ve never found the album’s other piece, “Bell Set No. 1,” to be quite as compelling, and Nyman’s other soundtrack work doesn’t hold much interest for me, but I’ve often returned to this album.

11. J Dilla Donuts (Stones Throw, 2006): One more for the road. Rightfully acclaimed as a masterpiece of instrumental hip hop, I have to confess I only discovered Donuts while reading Questlove’s 2013 book Mo’ Meta Blues, where he compared it to Terry Riley. The brevity of the tracks (31of ‘em in 44 minutes) and the lack of single-mindedness make categorizing Donuts as a Minimal album a bit of a stretch, but Questlove’s namecheck makes a whole lot of sense if you play “Don’t Cry” back to back with Riley’s proto-Plunderphonic “You’re Nogood,” and “Glazed” is the only hip hop track to ever remind me of Philip Glass. Plus the infinite-loop sequencing of the opening “Outro” and concluding “Intro” make this a statement of Eternal Music that outstrips La Monte Young and leaves any locked groove release in the proverbial dust. There isn’t the space here to really explore how extended mixes, all night disco DJ sets, etc. could be encountered in alignment with Minimalism, although I would steer the curious towards Pete Rock’s Petestrumentals (BBE, 2001), Larry Levan’s Live at the Paradise Garage (Strut, 2000), and, at the risk of being immodest, my own “The Old Victrola” from Plays Well (Crank Automotive, 2001). On a (somewhat) related note I’d also point out Rupie Edwards’ Ire Feelings Chapter and Version (Trojan, 1990) which collects 16 of the producer/performer’s 70s dub reggae tracks, all built from the exact same same rhythm track--mesmerizing, even by dub’s trippy standards. 

Addendum:

Tony Conrad: “Maybe someday Tony’s blistering late 80s piece ‘Early Minimalism’ will be released, or his fabulous harmonium soundtrack to Piero Heliczer’s early 60s film The New Jerusalem.” That was the last line of my entry on Tony’s Outside the Dream Syndicate in the first Top Ten list in 1995, and sure enough, Table of the Elements issued “Early Minimalism” as a monumental CD box set in 1997 and released that soundtrack as Joan of Arc in 2006 (it’s the same film; I saw it screened c. 1990 under the name The New Jerusalem but it’s more commonly known as Joan of Arc).  Tony releases proliferated in the last twenty years of his life, which was heartening to see; I’d particularly single out Ten Years Alive on the Infinite Plain (Superior Viaduct, 2017), which rescues a 1972 live recording of what is essentially a prototype for Outside played by Tony, Rhys Chatham, and Laurie Spiegel (Rhys has mentioned his initial disgruntlement upon hearing Outside, as it was the same piece that he had played with Tony, i.e. “Ten Years Alive,” but he found himself and Laurie replaced by Faust!) and an obscure compilation track, “DAGADAG for La Monte” (on Avanto 2006, Avanto, 2006), where he plays the pitches d, a, and g on violin, loops them over and over , and continually re-harmonizes them electronically--really one of his best pieces.

Terry Riley: The archival Riley CDs that Cortical Foundation issued in the 90s and early 00s don’t seem to be in print, but I feel they eclipse Reed Streams (reissued by Cortical as part of that series) and are crucial for fans of his early work, especially the live Poppy Nogood’s Phantom Band All Night Flight Vol. 1, an important variant on the studio take, and You’re Nogood (see Dilla entry above). These days I would also recommend Descending Moonshine Dervishes (Kuckuck, 1982/recorded 1975) over  Persian Surgery Dervishes (Shandar, 1975), which I mentioned in the original entry on Reed Streams in the first Top Ten; a lot of the harmonic material in Descending can also be heard in Terry’s dream-team 1975 meeting with Don Cherry in Köln, which has been bootlegged several times in the last few years. Finally, Steffen Schleiermacher recorded the elusive “Keyboard Study #1” (as well as “#2,” which had already seen release in a version by Germ on the BYG label and as “Untitled Organ” on Reed Streams), albeit on a programmed electronic keyboard, on the CD Keyboard Studies (MDG, 2002). As you might expect it’s a little synthetic-sounding, but it also has a weird kinetic edge (imagine the “Baba O’Riley” intro being played on a Conlon Nancarrow player piano) that’s lacking in later acoustic piano renditions recorded by Gregor Schwellenbach and Fabrizio Ottaviucci. But any of these versions is rewarding for those interested in Riley’s early output.

Henry Flynt, Charlemagne Palestine: A few of the artists on that first Top Ten list went from being sorely under-documented to having a plethora of material on the market, and Henry and Charlemagne are at the top of the heap. I stand by You Are My Everlovin, finally reissued on CD by Recorded in 2001, as Henry’s peak achievement, but I’m also partial to “Glissando,” a tense, feverish raga drone from 1979 that Recorded put out on the Glissando No. 1 CD in 2011. Charlemagne’s Four Manifestations On Six Elements double album still holds up well, as does an album of material initially recorded for it, Arpeggiated Bösendorfer and Falsetto Voice (Algha Marghen, 2017). The Strumming Music LP on Shandar is a definitive performance, and best heard as an unbroken piece on the New Tone CD reissue from 1995. Godbear (CD on Barooni, vinyl on Black Truffle), originally recorded for Glenn Branca’s Neutral label (which had also scheduled a Phill Niblock release before going belly-up), has 1987 takes of “Strumming Music” and two other massive pieces that date from the late 70s, “Timbral Assault” and “The Lower Depths”; Algha Marghen released a vintage full-length concert of the latter as a triple CD.

Steve Reich: Not a particularly rare record, but his “Variations on Winds, Strings and Keyboards,” a 1979 piece for orchestra on a 1984 LP issued by Phillips (paired with an orchestral arrangement of John Adams’ “Shaker Loops”), is often overlooked among the works from his “golden era” and I’d frankly rate it as his best orchestral piece.

Phill Niblock, Eliane Radigue: As with Henry and Charlemagne, after a slow start as “recording artists” loads of CDs by these two have appeared over the last twenty years. Phill and Eliane’s music was never best served by the vinyl format anyway—you won’t find a lackluster release by either composer, go to it.

Jon Gibson: I called “Cycles,” from Gibson’s Two Solo Pieces, “one of the ultimate organ drones on record” in the first Top Ten list, and it remains so, but Phill Niblock’s”Unmounted/Muted Noun” from 2019′s Music for Organ ought to sit right beside it. Meanwhile, Superior Viaduct’s recent Gibson double album Songs & Melodies 1973-1977 collects some great pieces from the same era as Two Solo Pieces, with players including Arthur Russell, Peter Zummo, Barbara Benary, and Julius Eastman. 

John Stevens: In Top Ten #2 I mentioned John Stevens’ presence on the first side of John Lennon & Yoko Ono’s Life With the Lions; the Stevens-led Spontaneous Music Orchestra’s For You To Share (1973) documents his performance pieces “Sustained Piece” and “If You Want to See A Vision,” where musicians and vocalists sustain tones until they run out of breath and then begin again, which result in a highly meditative and organic drone/sound environment. In my early 00′s Digger Choir performances at Issue Project Room  we did “Sustained Piece,” and Stevens’ work was a big influence on conceptualizing those concerts, where the only performers were the audience themselves. The CD reissue on Emanem from 1998 added “Peace Music,” an unreleased studio half-hour studio cut with a similar Gagaku--meets--free/modal jazz vibe. I also mentioned “Sustained Piece” in my liner notes to Natural Information Society’s Mandatory Reality too, if that helps as a point of reference.

Anthony Moore: Back in ’97 I wondered “How and why Polydor was convinced to release these albums [Pieces from the Cloudland Ballroom and Scenes from the Blue Bag] is beyond me (anyone know the story)?” That mystery was ultimately solved by Benjamin Piekut in his fascinating-even-if-you-never-listen-to-these-guys book Henry Cow: The World is A Problem (Duke University Press, 2019)—it turns out it was all Deutsche Gramophone’s idea!

Terry Jennings, Maryanne Amacher, Julius Eastman--“Three Great Minimalists With No Commercially Available Recordings” (sidebar from Minimal Top Ten list #2): Happily this no longer applies to these three, although Terry and Maryanne are still under-represented. One archival recording of Jennings and Charlotte Moorman playing a short version of “Piece for Cello and Saxophone” appeared on Moorman’s 2006 Cello Anthology CD box set on Alga Marghen, and he’s on “Terry’s Cha Cha” on that 2004 John Cale New York in the 60s Table of the Elements box too. John Tilbury recorded five of his piano pieces on Lost Daylight (Another Timbre, 2010) and Charles Curtis’ version of “Song” appears on the aforementioned Performances and Recordings 1998-2018 triple CD.

Whether or not Maryanne should really be considered a Minimalist (or a sound artist, for that matter) is, I guess, debatable, but I primarily see her as the unqualified genius of the generation of composers who emerged in the post-Cage era, and the classifications ultimately don’t matter—remember she was on those Swarm of Drones/ Throne of Drones/ Storm of Drones ambient techno comps in the 90s, and I’d call her music Gothic Industrial if it would get more people to check it out (and that might be fun to try, come to think of it). She made a belated debut with the release of the Sound Characters CD on Tzadik in 1998, an event I found significant enough to warrant pitching an interview with her to the WIRE, who agreed—it was my first piece for them. Her music was/is best experienced live (the Amacher concert I saw at the Performing Garage in 1993 is still, almost three decades later, the greatest concert I’ve ever witnessed) but that Tzadik CD is reasonably representative, and there was a sequel CD on Tzadik in 2008. More recently Blank Forms issued a live recording of her two-piano piece “Petra” (a concert I also attended, realizing when I got there that it was in the same Chelsea church where Connie Burg, Melissa Weaver and I recorded with Keiji Haino for the Gerry Miles with Keiji Haino CD).  While it’s somewhat anomalous in Amacher’s canon, making a piece for acoustic instruments available for home consumption would doubtless have been more palatable to the composer herself, who rightly felt that CDs and LPs didn’t do justice to the extraordinary psychoacoustic phenomena intrinsic to her electronic music. “Petra” is more reminiscent of Morton Feldman than anything else, with a few passages that could be deemed “minimal.” Some joker posted a 26-minute, ancient lo-fi “bootleg” (their term) recording of her “Living Sound, Patent Pending” piece from her Music for Sound-Joined Rooms installation/performance series on SoundCloud, which is a little like looking at a Xerox of a Xerox of a photo of the Taj Mahal; but you can still visit the Taj Mahal more easily than hearing this or any of Maryanne’s work in concert or in situ, so sadly, it’s better than nothing (and longer than the 7 minute edit of the piece on the Ohm: Early Gurus of Electronic Music CD from 2000).

A few years after Top Ten #2 I was on the phone with an acquaintance at New World Records, who told me he was listening to a Julius Eastman tape that they were releasing as part of a 3CD set. Say what?!?!? Unjust Malaise appeared shortly thereafter and was a revelation. Arnold Dreyblatt had sent me a live tape some time before then of an Eastman piece labeled “Gangrila”—that turned out to be “Gay Guerrilla,” and is surely one of my five favorite pieces of music in existence (the tape Arnold sent was from the 1980 Kitchen European tour and I consider it to be a more moving performance than the Chicago concert that appears on the CD, although it’s an inferior recording). The other multiple piano pieces on Unjust Malaise more than lived up to the descriptions of Eastman performances that I’d read. The somewhat berserk piano concert I mentioned in that entry seems similar to another live tape issued as The Zurich Concert (New World, 2017), and “Femenine,” a piece performed by the S.E.M. Ensemble, came out on Frozen Reeds in 2016. Eastman’s rediscovery is among the most vital and gratifying developments of recent music history--kudos must be given to Mary Jane Leach, herself a Minimalist composer, for diligently and doggedly tracking down Eastman’s recordings and archival materials and bringing them to the light of day.

The Lost Jockey—I was unaware of any releases by this group besides their Crepuscule LP until I stumbled onto a self-titled cassette from 1983 on YouTube. Like the album, the highlight is a piece by Orlando Gaugh--an all-time great Philip Glass rip-off, “Buzz Buzz Buzz Went the Honeybee,” which has the amusing added bonus of having the singers intoning the rather bizarre title phrase as opposed to Glassian solfège. Also like the album, he rest of the cassette is so-so Pop Minimalism.

Earth: Dylan Carlson keeps on keepin’ on, and while I can’t say I’ve kept up with him every step of the way, usually when I check in I’m glad I did. However I’d like to take this opportunity to humbly disavow the snarky comments about Sunn 0))) I made in this entry in Top Ten list #3. Those were a reflection of my general aversion to hype, which was surrounding them at the time, and of seeing two shows that in retrospect were unrepresentative (I was thunderstruck by a later show I saw in Mexico City in 2009). Stephen O’Malley has proven to be as genuinely curious, dedicated and passionate about drone and other experimental music as they come, and the reissue of the mind-blowing Sacred Flute Music from New Guinea on his Ideologic Organ label is a good reminder of how rooted Minimalism is in ethnic music, and how almost interchangeable certain examples of both can be. 

And while we’re in revisionist mode, let’s go full circle all the way back to the very first sentence of the introduction to the first Minimal Top Ten: “I know what you’re thinking: ECM Records, New Age, Eno ambients, NPR, Tangerine Dream. Well forget all that shit.” Hey, that stuff’s not so bad! I was probably directing that more at the experimental-phobic indie rock folks I encountered at the time, and expressing a lingering resentment towards the genre-confusion of the 80s (i.e. having dig through a bunch of Kitaro records in the New Age bins in hopes of finding Reich, Riley, or Glass; even Loren Mazzacane got tagged New Age once in a while back then, believe it or not), which probably hindered my own discovery of Minimalism. What can I say, I’m over it!

Copyright © 2020 Alan Licht. All rights reserved. Do not repost without permission.

[michelles-garden-of-evil]

Ian Martin’s Strange Paradise, Part I: The Top 5 Best Things

SPOILERS FOR LATE MALJARDIN AND BOTH DESMOND HALL ARCS

Hello and welcome again to my Garden of Evil, where this week I’m doing something a little different. Episode 44 having marked the departure of co-creator and original headwriter Ian Martin, we have officially reached the end of an era of Strange Paradise history. No longer will discussions and speculation on Martin’s authorial intent be relevant to the happenings on this show (although I will continue to give my thoughts on the Lost Episode summaries), now that Bob Costello is running the show with a different authorial intent.

Ian Martin’s episodes contrast with the second half of Maljardin in many ways. The pace is slower, the structure and characterizations more like those of a standard soap, and the tone at times borders on comedy. He also appears to have put more thought into the characters’ backstories than any of the other writers, much of which he never got the chance to show on screen. Moreover, of all the show’s writers, he seems to have put the most of his own heart and soul into it, if the death of his first wife six years earlier and his reuse of elements from the series in his later works are any indication.

That brings me to my plans for this week in my Garden of Evil. Before moving on to review Episode 45, I will post my final thoughts on his episodes, first listing what I consider the top five best things about his period headwriting the show. Next, I will make another of the top five worst things about the first 8.8 weeks of Maljardin (because no creative work is perfect). So without further ado, here are (in my not-so-humble opinion) the top five best things about Ian Martin’s Strange Paradise:

5. Clever, memorable dialogue and (sometimes) clever wordplay 

I say “sometimes,” because (as we all know) Jacques loves his puns and Devil jokes, which tend to be as cornball as they come. The (intentional) humor in Ian Martin’s dialogue tends to be hit or miss, but when it hits, it hits harder than the chandelier hit the séance table. Even when the jokes miss, it’s clear that he tried hard to make the show both funny and scary, and some of the worse ones still amuse me in a dad-joke sort of way.

Some jokes from SP that I find genuinely funny:

Jacques: “‘Prisoners’ is such a harsh word, Alison. Now, actually, I prefer the [terminology] ‘detained guests.’“ (Episode 14)

Alison: “I find you and everything you’ve done distasteful and revolting." Jacques: "Methinks the lady doth detest too much." (same)

"I wish my mother was on canvas instead of always on my back.” (Holly, Episode 18)

Dan: "Knowing how much you loved Erica, I can appreciate your display of courage." Jacques: "It was either that or letting myself go to the Devil!" (same)

Jacques: “Such a delightful bedside manner. Why not let her operate?” (Episode 21)

Jacques: “If your room is a prison cell and you are a prisoner, well, I invite you to your last hearty meal.” (same)

Holly: "Would you like to see my scars?" Jacques: "Well, lead us not into temptation...now, that isn't from Shakespeare, is it?" (Episode 25)

Elizabeth: “It seems to be your opportunity to entertain, Reverend. May I suggest Song of Solomon?” (Episode 40)

Also, some things that aren’t jokes per se, but still clever wordplay:

Matt’s name, a reference to the Tarot card The Fool, or Le Mat in French.

Jacques: "Well, Dan, are you going to join me in some kippers this morning, or haven't you finished fishing for the day?" Dan: "Just lowering the line, and I'm afraid you're going to get hooked." (Episode 26)

The whole kippers thing from the same episode.

The scene transition lines.

Two things that Curt pointed out to me a while back: the recurring “little bird” motif and the fact that Jacques, who was “shackled to the Temple” for three centuries was also shackled through the temples with the silver pin. (Thanks!)

Of the later writers, Cornelius Crane (who will write the last two weeks of Maljardin and most of Desmond Hall Arc I) will be the only other to consistently use humor in his SP scripts. His will be a different style of humor, lighter on wordplay and heavier on wit, satire, and snark between characters, in many ways reminiscent of my favorite Dark Shadows writer Violet Welles. While the style of humor in Crane’s episodes has generally aged better, I can’t deny the cleverness and charm in the lines quoted above.

4. A more complex story than later arcs

Compared to all other arcs of the show, early Maljardin has, by far, the most subplots. You have (1) the main plot that revolves around Jean Paul’s attempts to preserve and resurrect Erica, which leads to his desperate attempts to protect the cryonics capsule, Jacques’ freedom and repeated possessions, and Raxl and Quito’s search for the conjure doll and silver pin. Directly connected to this are (2) Jacques’ murder of Dr. Menkin, (3) Alison and Dan’s search for the true cause of Erica’s death and for Dr. Menkin’s missing notes, and (4) the love triangle/square between Dan, Alison, and Jean Paul/Jacques. Then you have the four interconnected plots directly involving Holly, including (5) her romantic pursuit by Matt, Tim, Jacques, and Quito; (6) her conflicts with Elizabeth including direct competition over Jean Paul/Jacques; (7) her torment by Erica’s spirit; and (8) Tim’s subplot about the damned Holly portrait. Then there are (9) the saga of the missing cyanide and (10) the guests’ resistance to Jean Paul’s imprisonment of them on the island. In addition to these, we have (11) the history of Jacques, which may have included innumerable subplots of its own had Ian Martin been allowed to explore it thoroughly. We know that Jacques’ pursuit of Alison and Elizabeth would have connected to this, given their previous incarnations as Rahua and Tarasca, and that Martin originally planned for Tarasca to have her own storyline. If we include the aborted arc about Elizabeth’s possession by Tarasca, that would have made a whopping twelve subplots(!), unless I’m forgetting about something.

For comparison, here are the major subplots from Desmond Hall, during the period when Cornelius Crane did most of the writing: (1) Jean Paul’s possession by the Mark of Death; (2) the coven’s schemes to undermine the Desmond family, which led to the disappearance of Philip Desmond; (3) the Evil Serpent plotline; (4) the Hamlet subplot involving Cort’s conflicts with his mother and dear stepfather; (5) the love triangle of Cort, Holly, and Philip’s ghost; (6) the second love triangle of Ada, Laslo, and Irene; (7) all of Jean Paul’s romantic entanglements; and (8) the attempted possession of his fiancée Helena by Erica. That’s still a lot of intersecting plots, but not quite as many as in early Maljardin.

I know I’ve complained in the past about the recap that makes up about half the dialogue in early Maljardin, but the sheer number of plots may have required it to ensure that returning viewers remembered everything and new viewers weren’t completely lost. I don’t have to like the constant recap, but I must admit that it was probably necessary even for the fans who managed to catch every episode during its original run.

3. Stronger characterizations than under the writers of late Maljardin

Like a traditional soap opera, the first half of the Maljardin arc is character-driven. Most important plot points occur on Mondays and Fridays, leaving the mid-week episodes for (mostly) minor plot points, subplots, and character development. We see Alison’s relationship with Jean Paul evolve from friendly in-laws to potential lovers, only for her to tire of his constant mood changes and withdraw from him. We see Reverend Matt Dawson’s crisis of faith, from his stalking Holly out of an allegedly spiritual love to his questioning his disbelief in demons while trapped on Maljardin. We see Dan lose all respect for Jean Paul as he becomes convinced that his employer murdered Erica and Dr. Menkin. We also see Jean Paul grow increasingly volatile even when Jacques isn’t possessing him, making his prisoners try harder to escape and creating a vicious cycle of repression and paranoia on the island.

After Robert Costello becomes producer, the arc shifts to a more plot-driven narrative. In a span of just four weeks, Erica will be resurrected and proceed to murder most of the characters. Character development will lose its importance in late Maljardin, and the characters of Elizabeth and Holly (and later Jean Paul) will become almost unrecognizable. Although Cornelius Crane was a competent writer who gave strong characterizations to the characters he created, he makes it clear that he didn’t care much for Martin’s creations through how quickly he kills off most of them and alters the personalities of two of the ones left.

2. Actual research

This one is most noticeable in two areas: the scientific subjects discussed and the way that Martin uses the Tarot. Before writing for SP, he worked on The Doctors and The Nurses, both early medical dramas with soap opera elements. Little survives from either The Nurses or the 1960s era of The Doctors[1], but one can imagine that he got into the habit of researching medical topics then--perhaps not including subjects as far-out as cryonics, but maybe some of the others discussed on SP like cellular reconstruction, organ transplants, and eclampsia. Here on SP, he’s referenced specific scientific studies, including Miroslava Pavlović’s study of brain transplants in quail embryos, Kenneth B. Wolfe’s “Effects of Hypothermia on Cerebral Damage Resulting from Cardiac Arrest,” and--most fascinating of all--W. Grey Walter’s robotics article “An Imitation of Life,” whose potential significance to Erica’s backstory I discussed in the final part of my Shadow Over Seventh Heaven review series.

His penchant for research becomes even more obvious when we explore his use of the Tarot and compare it to the way the cards were used on the show’s inspiration Dark Shadows. Despite also having done research on various occult matters--the most obscure being the use of I Ching wands for time travel[2]--DS’s writers were notably lazy in their use of Tarot symbolism, sticking mostly to the Major Arcana, often interpreting their names literally, and using the Tower of Destruction so often that one would think that copies of the Tower comprised half the deck. Not so on SP. Although he did have tarot reader Vangie Abbott use Death literally in Episode 7, and he does portray the Nine of Swords as “the card of death” when it typically means nightmares, suffering because of loss, and inner torment, his use of the Tarot typically shows careful research into the meanings of mostly cards from the Minor Arcana (the suits of wands, cups, swords, and pentacles). He uses it both as a means of giving character profiles and for foreshadowing, although the cards often foreshadow planned events that never took place because of script rewrites.

He did, however, take some artistic liberties with other subjects that he must have researched while writing the serial. I mean to write a detailed analysis someday comparing and contrasting the show’s portrayal of vodou with the reality, but I’m not satisfied with the scanty amount of research that I’ve done so far. I have already written about the Great Serpent and how Raxl appears to syncretize the loa Damballah with the Aztec feathered serpent Quetzalcoatl, but there are other related subjects I want to discuss someday in other posts. The short version: the “voodoo” portrayed on the show is a mixture of elements of genuine Afro-Caribbean religions (worship of a Serpent God, belief in zombies, use of drums in rituals, the titles “Conjure Man” and “Conjure Woman”) and traditional Mesoamerican religious practices (Quetzalcoatl, Aztec human sacrifice, Raxl’s mention of curanderos). The evidence suggests that he picked and chose elements from these traditions for Maljardin’s “Conjure Faith” in a way reminiscent of the real-life phenomenon of religious syncretism. While somewhat problematic, the obscurity of some of the things he picked and chose shows that he must have conducted some research even on these subjects.

1. The best Jacques

Jean Paul Desmond may be the protagonist, but, in the first seven weeks of the show, it’s his devilish ancestor Jacques who truly steals the show. From his evil laugh to his snarky commentary on the happenings on Maljardin to the hilarious and adorable expressions he makes as he plays with his detained guests, there’s no denying that Jacques is the star of Martin’s SP. When he’s absent, the whole show suffers from a lack of his mischief, not to mention that smile that stirs up desires in me that can never be righteously fulfilled. If there’s a Devil, I bet he resembles THE DEVIL JACQUES ELOI DES MONDES in looks, voice, and demeanor--the better to seduce you with (and by you, I mean me). Horns and a pointy tail, after all, don’t tempt half as well as a beautiful black cape and Bissits Face™.

The Jacques of late Maljardin will be a far flatter character, more outwardly evil but less charming and consequently less entertaining. In Desmond Hall, his role will be reduced significantly and he will have very little dialogue, mostly just the same clip of his laughter repeated. He will have a few fun scenes in the second Desmond Hall arc, but the post-Martin Jacques is no devil, just an ordinary man with a slightly different personality, led over to the dark side. This is understandable--the thought of the supernatural embodiment of evil remaining imprisoned for three centuries is quite far-fetched, and Desmond Hall Arc II writer Harding Lemay wasn’t fond of all-evil characters[3]--but I still find the original Jacquet the most fun by far.

That concludes this post on my favorite things about Ian Martin’s Strange Paradise. Stay tuned for my list of some things about his writing that needed improvement.

{ Next: The Top 5 Worst Things -> }

Notes

[1] The Thousand Oaks Library in Thousand Oaks, California has ten of Martin’s scripts from The Doctors from shortly after the series switched from its original experimental anthology format to a traditional continuing soap.

[2] The portrayal of the I Ching as a means of time travel on Dark Shadows almost certainly came from William Seabrook’s book Witchcraft: Its Power in the World Today, where he describes the 49th ko hexagram’s use in a form of past-life regression in New York magick circles in the early 20th century. See Seabrook, “Werewolf in Washington Square,” Witchcraft (New York: Ishi Press, 2015), pp. 164-175.

[3] Harding Lemay, Eight Years in Another World, chap. 3, Kindle edition. In this chapter, Lemay discusses his conflicts with Irna Phillips, the creator of Another World, over how to portray soap opera characters. According to him, Phillips believed that characters should be depicted as either “Saints” or “Sinners,” the only permitted nuance being that female Sinners had to love their children if they had any. Lemay disagreed with such black-and-white characterizations, finding them unrealistic, and made the serial’s characters more morally gray.

[vagrantblvrd]

Got any jeremwood ideas rattling around your brain? I've been craving battle buddies (lately, but also always), smooches ideally

You know, friend? I’ve had Battle Buddies in the back of my brain a lot recently and like nothing for them to do? But then in the shower this morning I had an Idea.

These two idiots working for their respective agencies or units and have the Worst Bosses whether through sheer incompetence or design. (Laziness or greed and not their problem if some asshole agents/operatives bit it on their watch. Hell, might be for the best if they do, if the WB is corrupt or working for the Enemy whoever that is.)

Ryan, well he’s in a Bad Place because some missions that Went Wrong and his name’s not worth much in their world anymore, right? Everyone thinks he’s either the worst kind of jinx with how many missions/operations go to shit when he’s around or he’s on the Enemy’s payroll. (Whoever that may be.)

Jeremy?

Young and stupid and got into some shit he shouldn’t have and it was this or jail and for whatever reason this seemed like the better deal. (Tell that to his scars or nightmares or shortened life-span whenever that shitball mission that gets him killed way before his time rolls around, though.)

They’re both stuck where they are and (more or less) resigned to it.

Ryan’s got Plans, though, on how to get out of his situation. Intel and Secrets he’s been gathering for years hoping to expose the people behind whatever gave him a bad reputation. (He spins it like that in his head sometimes, tries to make it about himself and not the others, the good people he’s known, who got killed by these assholes because otherwise he might abandon the long game he’s been playing for years and go in guns blazing. (OR the equivalent.)

Jeremy’s got an idea or two, but they keep reassigning him or the people he trusts to help him and he’s not sure what the safest way to do this is anymore. (Oh, he’s not worried for himself, but Matt and Trevor? Yeah. Big, big worries about those two assholes and how easy it would be for them to have “accidents” if he fucks up, so. Yeah.)

ANYWAY.

Their bosses have been working them hard for a few months (months, years, it all blurs together you know?) and they get some downtime before a Big Mission.

Conveniently (Plot Reasons) they’re in the same city at the time, because of course they are. Last stop coming back from a shitty mission to go to HQ to brief for the next shitty mission and their flight isn’t until the next day or something along those lines. (PLOT REASONS.)

Ryan gets a message telling him to meet a contact who might be able to help him with his own secret mission at a shady club somewhere. Jeremy – fuck.

He just wants a drink, and if he runs into someone to spend the night with that’s a bonus. (All this stress from the last however long and knowing he’s probably going to be dead by the end of the week, and why the fuck not, right?)

SO.

They both end up at the same club (PLOT REASONS) and Ryan’s contact never shows, so he just. Fuck, he’s already there and the diet soda’s flowing and just.

He doesn’t even know, is the thing.

Doesn’t want to go back to the shithole he’s been staying at because it’s bugged to high hell and it’s always entertaining to people watch. (Entertaining and keeps his skills sharp, two birds and all that.)

After a while he notices this one guy, right? Short as hell but there’s just something about him that makes you forget that – might be the fact he’s about to get into a fucking fight with some asshole hassling a couple of women. (Young, college age or thereabouts and looking around for the bouncer who’s been MIA for a while now.)

No one else seems willing to get involved, deescalate things or back the short fucker up, so Ryan tosses back the last of his drink (and fuck, fuck, don’t do that again because oh, God, the carbonation,) and goes over to help.

He doesn’t catch what the drunk asshole says – music’s too loud and there are people all over the fucking place – but he hears the short guy laugh. This bark, really, sounds like he’s heard the best damn joke ever – and hauls back and decks the drunk asshole without dropping that bright, friendly smile of his.

Fucking goes for it, you know? Perfect form and in the back of Ryan’s head he knows it’s weird to be hung up on that, but he’s too busy watching the short bastard turn to handle the drunk asshole’s friend to be bothered by that. (Also, making his way through the crowd to help, all “Pardon me,” and, “Passing through, don’t mind me, ladies,” and so on.

By the time he reaches the short bastard (of course it’s Jeremy) Jeremy’s taken care of two more assholes and all that’s left for Ryan to do is trip the last idiot running into the fight so he falls on his face and just kind of stays there, too drunk to realize what just happened and overall just dumb.

Jeremy’s got all this adrenaline running through him and turns to face Ryan, thinking he’s just another asshole (he’s not wrong on that one, but Ryan’s a different kind of asshole, so…) and Ryan gives him this dumb smile and holds his hands up.

“Whoa, hey,” he says, and he’s laughing a little because Jeremy looks like he’s about to go for his damn throat. ���I was going to lend you a hand with these idiots, but it looks like you have everything under control.”

Jeremy stares at him because what? After a moment what Ryan says actually registers and he looks around at the drunk assholes picking themselves up off the ground (or helping their buddies who Jeremy knocked the fuck out) scurry off with their tails between their legs.

And then it’s mutual staring because Idiots, and the women Jeremy helped clear their throats and thank him before wandering off.

More staring?

Jeremy looking Ryan over like hey, okay, not bad on the eyes, and he doesn’t seem like an asshole? Meanwhile Ryan’s like oh, no because Jeremy’s also not hard on the eyes and it’s been a while for him and how do social interaction with someone who’s not a contact or target or WB?

Thankfully Jeremy is less of a human disaster (not by much, but it’s enough) and they wander off to a quiet table somewhere. Ryan gets another diet soda and Jeremy gets his drink and they chitchat for a while, Jeremy getting a wee bit tipsy and Ryan getting a wee bit more oh, no because Jeremy’s nice and funny and laughs at Ryan’s dumb jokes even though they’re both well aware how terrible they are?

And then!

Just when they’re about to maybe get around to the your place or mine bit of the conversation, they both notice some Shady Dealings going on.

Too well-trained not to notice, and Ryan’s like well, shit and makes up some lame excuse to go check on things, not knowing he beat Jeremy to it by mere seconds.

Ryan goes all Sekrit Agent/operative with the stealthily following/eavesdropping whatever while Jeremy does the same. (Due to Plot Reasons they don’t spot one another right away because Plot Reasons.)

The stalking continues long enough for them to realize some serious shit is going down – maybe ties into their respective missions, maybe not.

Shenanigans in which they lose the guy’s they’re tailing and round a corner to run into one another and don’t recognize one another at first, just think they’re baddies?

Some hand-to-hand Sekrit Agent fighty stuff until Ryan manages to pin Jeremy (height/weight advantage or something, and Jeremy’s still got that alcohol slowing his reflexes and just, yes) and then Ryan’s like - !!! because it’s the guy from the club?

Jeremy totally gave him a fake name – old habits and Ryan still doesn’t believe anyone would be so cruel to name their kid Rimmy Tim, but whatever.

ANYWAY.

Jeremy is likewise !!! because what are the odds, right? (Ryan also gave him a fake name, and no one names their kid Reggie or whatever, but the hell does he know?)

Some Suspicion because what are the odds, indeed. Also, their respective situations and career choice make trust a hard thing to earn and all that, but before they can get too deeply into the do they or don’t they of trusting one another the actual baddies find them.

Thought they were being followed and better check it out, and anyway, there’s the usual shootout/hide behind cover and snark back and forth before one of them gets a flesh wound and they manage to escape.

Go to some cheap motel – God knows wherever they’ve been staying isn’t safe or secure – bugged to hell and who the fuck knows what else – to patch one another up. Offer some truth – sekrit agent/operatives and (technically) on the same side and the baddies are definitely NOT on their side and too much Good Guys NOT to look into things even if they’re on their own?

And wouldn’t you know it, they both know where to get their hands on the weapons gear they’re going to need to deal with things in the city and it’s just.

The two of them working together – and totally flirting because there are no rules tonight, you know? They’re probably (definitely) going to get themselves killed doing this and no WB breathing down their necks and their next mission probably would have killed them anyway.

Super competent sekrit agent/operative stuff with the track jig down the baddies and finding out what they’re doing (weapons trades or national secrets, something blah, blah, blah,) and being all oh no, that’s hot when one of them shows their competence or does some cool sekrit agent/operative thing?

Also bantering and realizing that while this is the worst idea either of them has ever had, it’s also the most fun?

(Which is sad because wow, they’ve wasted a lot of their lives working for assholes, but whatever.)

Before they go in for the climactic fight or whatever, they’re like, fuck it and kiss because might as well at this point, right?

Probably going to die, and if they don’t it’s not going to hurt. (They were thinking about the whole one-night stand thing before the sekrit agent/operative shit happened, so yeah.)

Action scene like whoa in which there is shooting and yelling and (flesh wounds on Ryan and Jeremy’s part because I’m a sucker for those, sorry friend) and one of them being held at gunpoint, because of course they are.

The thing where their eyes meet and the one being held at gunpoint by the Head Baddy (Jeremy, it’s totally Jeremy) is all “Do it,” or “This isn’t your fault,” or something else the Good Guy always says in this situation? And  Ryan starts to lower his gun because he can’t let the HB kill him?

And just when the HB is all gloaty mcgloaterson, Ryan whips out a throwing knife and gets him in the throat, saving Jeremy’s life and making the HB super dead.

The !!! moment of realizing wow, he’s not dead? And Ryan being like wow, it actually worked? Neat! And then the two of them staring at one another like what now?

Which, of course, is when the sekrit agents/operatives who have been watching HB and their cronies this whole time show up.

Geoff and his idiots and just. The fuck did you two do? (~Ruined months of work on Gavin and Michael’s part, since they’ve been working on getting HB and their people with the weapons trade/national secret thing and goddamn, what the fuck you two?)

Ryan and Jeremy being all ??? while Geoff’s people swarm the area and get shunted off to a little gray room somewhere for debriefing/interrogation thinking they’re really fucked this time? Sit there for hours and hours and hours. (Chitchat and banter and try not to think about what’s going to happen to them now.)

But of course not. (Because Plot Reasons.)

Geoff sweeps in with Jack and they have a nice chat about things.

The shit Ryan and Jeremy did with HB and their people, and their respective situations with their agencies/units and what do they say about working for Geoff instead?

“Uh,” and “What?”, and “Are you high?”

Because look.

No way their respective agencies/units are going to let them go knowing what they do, right? Shady as hell and corrupt and they’d rather see Ryan and Jeremy dead than let them tell anyone what’s been going on. (Have been trying for a while, actually, but they’re stubborn bastards.)

Geoff rolling his eyes and asking them if they’d like to work for him if he helped them take care of their respective agencies/units because he’s had his people looking into things since Ryan and Jeremy stumbled into their operation and the things they found, you know?

Still.

Best deal they’ve been offered – and who knows, they might live through it – so they say yes.

Geoff is delighted because he’s been meaning to deal with their agencies/units but hasn’t had the time with other shit going on. But with them on board it’ll go faster, or something?

Whatever.

Jeremy won’t do it unless Geoff gets Matt and Trevor out of his agency/unit – which he does because they’re useful bastards. (Also, like hell would he have left them there once he found out what was going on.)

Ryan’s own people (the ones still alive) were out of the line of fire before now, so he’s good to go.

Geoff (who doesn’t realize what he’s done, but when he does? ALL the regret) introduces them to Gavin and Michael and everyone else and it’s pretty much a disaster in the best way.

They get teamed up because everyone's impressed with what they managed to do and all that. Work together for a few months with the flirting and banter before they finally go on a date-thing?

Like.

Flirting’s easy, comes with the territory, but actual FEELINGs and whatnot are complicated and stupid hard. (...that’s what she said.)

Takes a close call to make them realize they’re wasting time better spent NOT being dumbasses (and maybe one of the others says as much) and then it’s some blurted invitation to coffee or burgers or whatever and this date...thing.

It gets ruined, of course, because enemies from their past pop up and shoot at them and then shenanigans? But they smooch somewhere in there and get other the awkward stage of being them and not knowing how to do FEELINGS and like. Save the day, but also smooch, idk, you know how these things go.

And then everyone makes fun of them for forever for not figuring their shit out before then, and also a lot of death-defying shenanigans and explosions and sekrit agent/operative fun-times???

[annakie]

It took three and a half months, but I’ve finished my Doctor Who Rewatch.

It’s time to talk about seasons 10, 11, overall wrapup thoughts and some best/worst lists.  Very long post below.

I started doing this back at the end of August as more of a joke when I was going back and cleaning the terrible cringe stuff off the first few months of my blog, then ended up taking that project from when I started the blog in May, 2011 until late 2016.  I realized that I had too much going on IRL right now to revisit my life at the end of 2016 when things took a sharp turn the wrong way, so I haven’t picked that back up again.  I still might at some point.

After the start of the nostalgia tour I:

Cried about Doomsday

Still hated the Manhattan episodes but renewed my love for one of my favorite characters of all time.

Reflected about Martha Jones and being an overly-zealous defender of a fictional character

Cried a lot over meeting and losing River Song in the span of an hour and a half.

Made my way through Season 4 and found myself still mostly loving the show.

Finished Season 4 and was starting to tire of Ten but knew I had more content to get through.

Didn’t post again til I was done with Amy and Rory.  Loved Amy, Rory and River even more, especially Rory.

Watched an episode I remembered I didn’t like just because of the guest actors.  Only marginally helped the episode.

Disliked the second half of season 7 even more than I used to.  Felt meh about Clara.

Warmed to Clara more in seasons 8 and 9.  Still, was ready to see her go.  Loved Twelve, though the first half of season 8 continued to be rough.  Adored the Husbands of River Song for the 6th+ time.

 Took a brief moment to love Bill.

Full disclosure on the rewatch: I skipped most of Fear Her except the first and last few minutes, and actually haven’t gotten back to Waters of Mars or the one 11 Christmas Special with the kids who’s father dies.  I may or may not pick those up in the next week or two.

So tonight I finished rewatching all of Thirteen’s episodes and wanted to talk a bit more about Bill, and then a lot about Thirteen, and some general thoughts about the whole rewatch.

Bill Potts is too good for this world.  I remembered loving her during her season but was blown away on the rewatch with how much I loved her, and almost all of her season.  Her energy, her story, her smile, it’s infectious.  It’s infuriating that so many people didn’t watch Bill because wow she deserved a lot more attention that I feel like she got, and also I feel like the show itself turned a real corner that season.  Season 9, yes, definitely better than 8 and 7.5.  But It’s like Moffat or the writers in general kinda grocked into several important things and made the show more progressive and less cringe?  

There wasn’t an episode I thought was bad, even the more filler episodes like the one in space with the air being a commodity was tense and fun.  I’m not sure I’d skip a single episode.

And then Bill, I think, ends up getting an even shittier deal than Martha in her season.  Left alone for ten years in a shithole mopping up floors, only to be turned into a cyberman and get left extremely traumatized, and sacrifice herself.  A very good story.  A very sad and frustrating ending.  Except that she does get to “transform” and travel the universe with Heather.

Maybe she did eventually go back home and finish living her life from not long after she left in the TARDIS the last time -- it’s entirely possible.  The Memory-Bill in Twice Upon a Time (the Twelve & One crossover) remembered traveling with Heather, which means her memory was taken from some point AFTER.  So maybe she got to be an ethereal being for a long time, and then eventually went home to Earth.  Or maybe she’s still out there traveling the stars with Heather.  Either way, she deserves a good life, and a good ending, even if we never know the true ending.

Twelve -- I love him.  Again, he had a really rough start but Capaldi is an amazing actor and he owned the role. I don’t think it’s actually possible to rank my favorite doctors from the new Who era, they’re all different, all great.  And Missy -- such an amazing villain.  Paired with Simms-Master was so, extremely fun, but even on her own, I think she’s now my favorite incarnation of The Master.  (I’ve only seen a few episodes of Old-Who with Delgado, and I really love Delgado’s Master as well.)  

Nardole was also a fun addition to the season.  I know technically he was considered a full companion and enjoyed him when he was there, but tbh, to me it was all about Bill.

But hey, when Twelve left, it was a good time for him to go -- I really think three seasons is the sweet spot for length of a Doctor.  I was so ready for Thirteen and The Fam.

I remembered loving Thirteen when her episodes were airing and, I was right to.  Jodie Whittaker is so good -- I never doubt for a second that she’s The Doctor.  The show one again feels very different with a new doctor / companions / showrunner.  I honestly loved the lack of Doctor-Angst in the season.  Thirteen is so much more brightness and sunshine and I think it was a good way to swing the Doctor after Twelve.  I also liked that there were a few comments about changing genders, a little bit of frustration from noticing how people treated her differently, but it was neither an earthshattering thing that made EVERYTHING DIFFERENT nor was it a non-event.  I really think they handled it well.

I will say that I think some of the critics were right, that the season itself could have used a bit more of an arc.  Not a heavy arc, like seasons five and six had, but a bit more than Tim Shaw showing up in the first and last episodes of the season.  It looks like next season is going to have that.

The arc that was there though really came from Graham and Ryan’s grief about Grace and their relationship growing.  Honestly, I remember when we learned that one of the new companions was going to be a 60-ish year old dude I wasn’t looking forward to that at all, but honestly, I love Graham.  He’s an actual good guy, he loves deeply, he’s allowed to show his emotions, he handles things WELL.  He’s not perfect but also I felt like they wrote his character so well, he wasn’t an arrogant guy expecting everyone to follow his orders, he cares deeply for Ryan and even had some great scenes with Yaz.  

Ryan and Yaz are both also just so fantastic.  I loved getting to spend time with Yaz’s family both current and past.  I actually learned a little history in the episode that took place in Pakistan (and loved having a benevolent alien storyline there, love that episode so much).  I also loved that they allowed Ryan to show grief and sadness, and vulnerability too.  

I was definitely feeling the 13/Yaz vibes on the rewatch, and although I wouldn’t say I’d be upset if they did end up doing a Ryan/Yaz storyline, I also wouldn’t be upset if they didn’t do any romance storylines at all.  I didn’t miss it this season, and 13/Yaz seemed more likely than anything.

I also loved that they took on racism in a couple of big ways this series.  I felt like the only big swing-and-miss episode was Ker-Blam! where they were so close to really hammering down a good message in the episode and then it felt like Jeff Bezos himself came in and rewrote the last 10 minutes.

TBH there were a couple of episodes that I had COMPLETELY forgotten about, especially the one with Chris North and the big spiders.  Like while I was watching it I had a vague memory of seeing it before, but not up until then.  I’d also forgotten about the New Year’s episode last year with Ryan’s dad.  I only remembered to watch it because after the final episode I was like “Wait, wasn’t Ryan’s dad supposed to be in this season?” and so I went to hunt for the episode.

SO... that’s it.  I was actually a little shocked last night when I finished up the New Year’s episode and realized... I was DONE.  I made it back through eleven seasons and... it was worth it.  

Some final thoughts... and I’m just picking a few things out here off the top of my head, I wasn’t keeping a list all the way through so I’m sure I’m going to think of other things after hitting Post, but here we go.

---------

COMPANION RANKINGS: God Tier: Martha Jones

Faves: Bill Potts, Rory Williams, River Song

I love you so much: Donna Noble, Amy Pond, The Fam (All together!), Jack Harkness, Mickey Smith, Wilfred Mott

Very very Good: Rose Tyler, Nardole

I Still Like You: Clara Oswald

---------

FAVE SEASON: I mean, it’s still gonna be Martha’s season with an honorable mention of the second half of 4.

If you take Martha Jones out of the equation, it’d probably be either 6 through 7.0, or Bill’s season.

LEAST FAVORITE:  The second half of 7, for sure, and the first half of 8 is kinda rough.  It’d be easy to say season 1, as well, but I don’t think that’s entirely fair, as I think the age of the show really shows there and there was a lot of getting-on-their feet they had to do.  There’s still a lot of good there, you just have to look for it harder.

---------

Favorite Specials: 

The Husbands of River Song, #1 favorite no question

The Day of the Doctor a close second. 

Honorable mention to the Night of The Doctor for the canonical return of Eight.  Seriously, the first time I saw that it may have been the single most joyous moment of New Who for me.

Least Favorite:

I mean, I haven’t rewatched two of them yet since I remember not liking them.  

Also Voyage of the Damned was just even worse than I remembered it.

I Cried The Hardest:

Amy and Rory’s leaving in The Angels Take Manhattan

River’s death in the Library

The end of Doomsday

Danny’s death

The end of Vincent and the Doctor

Prem’s death in Demons of the Punjab, maybe the only single-episode character death that hit me that hard.

Happiest Tears: 

Martha leaves the Doctor

The group in the TARDIS towing Earth home in Journey’s End

Twelve and River get 24 years together

Ryan calls Graham “Grandad”

Jackie and Alt-Pete meet/”reunite”

Heather shows up and... “saves” Bill, they go off on adventures.

Best Twists: 

John Simms Return at the end of season ten.  

YANA is the Master

Oswin is actually a Dalek

Heaven is run by Missy, and the Cybermen. (Damn I really love twists concerning the Master don’t I?)

Bill discovers she IS a Cyberman

Loudest cheers: 

Mickey showing up in Doomsday

Martha laughs at the Master

Rory’s speech at the beginning of A Good Man Goes to War

The Doctor punches a racist who insulted Bill

Best dramatic moments: 

Jack and the Doctor talk about Rose in Utopia

Twelve takes several billion years to punch through a wall

Just This Once, Everybody Lives!

Turn Left

The Doctor says goodbye Idris in The Doctor’s Wife

Missy and the Master’s mutually assured destruction.

Biggest Laughs for a good reason: 

The entire poison scene in the Unicorn and the Wasp

Basically everything about the Doctor attempting to be normal in The Lodger.

Right, putting Hitler in the Cupboard.

Doctor, when I’m on a date, do not put the Pope in my bedroom.

Biggest Cringe: 

Penis-head half-human Dalek

Concrete blowjobs

Anytime a lady slapped/hit a guy not in self-defense

Old goblin Ten / Jesus Ten in Last of the Time Lords

Most of The End of Time part 1

Eleven forces a kiss on Jenny in The Crimson Horror (THAT deserved the slap.)

There’s a lot of things I could point out in season 1 but I’m grading season 1 on a curve.

Favorite non-companion recurring characters: 

Danny Pink

Brian Williams

Jackie Tyler

Worst Villians: 

“Love And Monsters”

“Fear Her” 

The eye-crud sleep monster with Twelve

I kinda wanna say the Daleks are so overdone it’s hard to get excited about them anymore, though I did kinda like what they did in “Resolution” (13′s New Years episode last year.)

OK I honestly don’t know if I want to put “A sentient universe who is in the form of a large frog and just wants a BFF” in best or worst but I feel it belongs SOMEWHERE.

Best Villians:

Missy

Whatever the fuck that thing is in Midnight

House

Got a Raw Deal award:

Adam (Seriously, he was told nothing and did nothing wrong via what he’d been told?!

Donna

Bill (Seriously, TEN YEARS SCRUBBING FLOORS? only to not be saved by 2 hours and then turned into a cyberman and killed again?)

Most Bothersome Lack of Continuity:

The rules for meeting yourself / interfering in the past.

Uh so who was the Not-Danny astronaut in “Listen” anyway?

Most Improved on a Rewatch:

The Fires of Pompeii because... ten and twelve?  It used to be one of my least favorite eps of season 4.

the Daleks in Manahattan episodes I guess just because I liked them more this time though they’re still not great. 

Seeing all of River’s timeline in such a short period of time

Gotta say I enjoyed Planet of the Dead a normal amount when before I used to really dislike it.

Best Premiere of a Doctor:  The Eleventh Hour Roughest Premiere of a Doctor: Deep Breath, since I’m grading season 1 on a curve. Best Exit of a Doctor: Honestly?  I’m gonna give this one to Nine.  He sacrificed himself to save Rose, and he died too soon.  It seemed a fitting end, if too quick.

Roughest Exit of a Doctor: I’m going to go with Eleven here.  It came at the end of what I felt was the worst period of New Who.  The episode itself was... I kind of felt like it was overwraught and didn’t pack quite the same punch as the other three.  Say what you will about the “I Don’t Wanna Go” line with Ten and Twelve needing to be convinced to regenerate at all.  Matt Smith did the best with what he was given, but he wasn’t given much in the entire last run of his episodes after having some of the BEST episodes the previous two and a half seasons.

Best Premiere of a Major Companion: Honestly?  Still gotta go with The Eleventh Hour, for both Amy and Rory and the great way they were both set up and the mysteries of the season.

Worst Premiere of a Major Companion: If you don’t count Asylum of the Daleks (which I thought was great) as Clara’s premiere, then it was definitely Clara’s “The Bells of Saint John”.  No contest.  I don’t think ANY of the rest of them were done poorly, TBH.  I guess I’d have to go with “Rose”, because the Autons themselves are pretty meh and the plastic wasn’t great.

Best (Main) Exit of a Major Companion: This one is more difficult. Doomsday deserves a nod.  Martha Jones walked the world and ended on her own terms.  Journey’s End saw the end of an entire era of companions we loved.  River showed up and died on the same day, but her final appearance is one of my favorite episodes ever.  The Angles Take Manhattan was SO GOOD.  But The Doctor Falls was exciting and tense and tragic.  Hell, even Clara’s final episodes were great.

Honestly, this shouldn’t even be a question.  I can’t choose.  I can’t think of a single one I didn’t love.

Anyway, thanks for reading this, if you got this far!  Know what?  Doctor Who is still a great show, even if it’s not an obsession anymore.  I can see myself doing this rewatch again in a few years, and I’m super looking forward to the next season starting in a couple of weeks!

[intheyear39]

The Unexpected Visitor (Brian May x Reader)

Genre: General / Fluff

Length: 886 words

Summary: You are sick, so Brian decides to drop by for a visit.

Author’s Note: I originally wrote this for @39-volunteers-to-space, because she was sick (I hope you’re all better!) and needed a good read. I’m now posting it as a Y/N reader type fic. It was supposed to be a drabble but it didn’t work that way, so y'all get a ficlet. :D Any and all comments are welcome!

It’s twelve noon and you haven’t gotten up yet. You haven’t been feeling well—so unwell in fact that you haven’t left the house at all for two days now.

Worse, you got left alone, because it’s already the weekend. Everyone in your household decided to have fun and leave without you, although your mom promised they’d be home before dinner. No matter how much that sucks, however, you know you can’t blame them; it’s not like you scheduled your sickness during the weekend.

You lie there in your bed, musing, and then, a knock. You aren’t expecting any visitors today, and even if you did, they would’ve at least called you.

For the first time in days, you get up and oh, everything hurts, and you walk out of your room towards the front door. A second knock comes, this time a little more insistent.

“Hang on!” your voice cracks. You haven’t talked much in this period either. “Mum’s not home!”

“Err, hello? Is Y/N there?”

You stop shortly before you open the door. You know that voice. That familiar cadence which reminds you of both intelligence and kindness. You’ll recognise that anywhere.

“B-Brian, is that you?”

It’s Brian May, from your university. You met him when you took physics together (and you kept asking him for lessons because science is hard), but since then you’ve become classmates in other courses too. You two got close, undoubtedly, but not enough to have surprise visits like this.

“You’d know if you opened the door,” he says cheekily.

“Right,” you murmur to yourself as you open the door at last.

“Finally,” he says, smiling. He is wearing a dark blue jacket on top of a white shirt, an ensemble he usually doesn’t wear, and has books with him. “How are you doing? I heard that you were sick, and that was why you weren’t in our classes yesterday.”

It suddenly comes to your attention that you don’t look your best—not that it’s your fault—but you’ve always liked Brian and honestly, this is a bit embarrassing, seeing him look at you in your pyjamas with no makeup.

And yet, he is still smiling. Like he is actually glad to see you.

“Erm, yeah, I’ve been sick since Thursday night,” your head bows down. “S-so you’re visiting?”

“Yeah, well erm,” he gestures to his left, “I’ve a band practice later tonight in a local pub, and your house is on the way, so I thought I’d drop by.” He shakes his head, his eyes blinking faster, his little curls bouncing around. You smile automatically at how adorable it all looks.

Oh yeah, he has a band, you suddenly remember. Brian has mentioned it quite a bit, and that he and his dad built the guitar he is using, but he never really tells you anything else, which is a shame because you’d love to see him talk about it, more so actually see him play.

“T-that’s so sweet, thank you.” Then you realise you’re just keeping him waiting outside. “Oh, apologies, please, come on in.”

“Thank you,” he states in the politest way. You just know your mom would love him. (Hang on, you’re thinking that far ahead?) “Oh, and also, I brought you assignments from our classes.”

So that’s what the books are for. “I missed a lot, didn’t I?”

“Not much,” he sets them down your coffee table in the living room. “I just brought extra references in case you need more. I doubt you can go in the library in your condition.”

The funny thing about Brian is, even though he talks a little too factually sometimes, the sincerity still peeks through. You can feel that he cares enough to think about your situation.

“Are you famished?”

You forget that you didn’t necessarily say anything in response to his earlier sweet remark. You shrug, “I haven’t eaten breakfast if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Good,” he walks past you and to your kitchen. He hasn’t been in your house yet but somehow, he knows where it is. “I’ll cook you chicken soup or something.”

He said what?

“You said what?”

“Oh, you don’t have to worry,” he shouts from the kitchen. “My mum taught me how to cook. Just settle down and wait.”

You ran to the kitchen anyway. “Bri, you don’t have to do this.”

He already has the apron on him in that short span of time. “I know I don’t, but I want to.”

You suddenly feel warm for the first time in two days. Brian Harold May can pass up as a cure, you tell yourself. “Thank you, Bri.”

“You’re welcome.” He looks at you and smiles, showing his weirdly cute set of teeth.

For the rest of his time cooking, he chats you up about his band called Smile, and how he and his friend Tim finally found a drummer, a blond-haired boy named Roger. Brian thinks he’s pretty good, considering he had to audition using just congas. You then tell him you want to see his band play some other time.

“Sure,” he answers. “How about we go together next week?”

“Really?”

“You heard me.”

As if you would hesitate. “O-of course, so pray that I’ll get better soon.”

“With this chicken soup, I am absolutely positive you will.”

END.

Taglist: @39-volunteers-to-space @theoddowldoodle @sneakydeakyy @grooveei @moonvinyls @cosmicsskies

[redrobinfection]

Coffee, Coffee Everywhere, Epilogue

<< Part 20

This is the final part to the Coffee, Coffee Everywhere series! Or, at least, this is the last part I will be writing for the main series - I will write brief drabbles in the ‘verse, by request, when requests are open, so if you have any ideas for future parts, hold on to them... I may open ask requests soon ;3. Thank you to user ‘SummoningSecrets’ on Ao3 for leaving the comment that inspired this epilogue, and many, many thanks to everyone who has read, liked, reblogged any part of the series!!!

~*~

"Good Morning, Master Timothy."

Tim turned away from the coffee maker, lowering the mug from his lips, and murmured a quiet good morning to Alfred as he entered the manor's kitchen.

The mug caught his gaze and he paused. The corners of his mouth twitched into what Tim knew to be the Alfred-equivalent of a fond smile. "It's good to see you've moved past your temporary aversion to coffee and have returned to your normal habits," he commented dryly, eyes twinkling.

His tone of chagrined amusement didn't escape Tim, who huffed a quiet laugh. "It's not as bad as you think. This" - he waved the modestly-sized mug - "is my first and last cup this morning, and it's not even full strength."

"Oh?" Alfred raised an inquisitive eyebrow challengingly.

Tim's lips twisted into a uncertain smile. "I'm starting at two cups a day, one decaf and one regular, decaf in the morning and, strange as it is to say it, regular at night, right before patrol." He twisted the mug around in his hands absently, brow furrowing as he searched around for the right way to frame his reasons. "I know how bad that sounds, but that combination has worked out best for my sleep and wake cycle."

Alfred nodded understandingly. "That would make a fair bit of sense considering that six at night probably feels, in all likelihood, more like morning to you than six in the morning does," he commented. Tim blinked as he considered that, then nodded slowly. Put like that, it made a lot of sense why saving most of his caffeine for nights had worked out so well so far.

"Oh, and I also have a cup of green tea at lunch to keep me going until the afternoon nap, and then a bit of chocolate here and there, but that's about it," Tim added, taking a nervous sip of his decaf as he waited for any hint of disapproval, but none came.

Instead Alfred granted Tim one of his rare, overt smiles and nodded in approval. "Very good, Master Tim. It seems you've found a healthy balance for your caffeine intake. Now it will be a matter of maintaining that balance…" he trailed off, giving Tim a mild warning glare.

He laughed. "Yeah, I know. Every now and then the temptation to binge on coffee or chug an energy drink pops up, but to be completely honest, I like how I feel without the excess caffeine in my system that whenever the urges hit, I just laugh at them." He shook his head and smiled down at his coffee. "I've been there, done that and I am done with all of that."

Alfred's quiet smile took on a proud tinge, a look he reserved for occasions such as Jason agreeing to come home for Thanksgiving or Bruce telling one of the Batkids how much he loved them. "I'm glad to hear it, Master Tim. So I suppose that means no more crazy coffee-flavored cooking adventures?"

Tim chuckled and tapped his fingers against the mug nervously. "Well, no new ones at least, and when I make the meringues and coffee pasta now, I use strictly decaf instant coffee," he explained, raising his mug for a sip. Alfred raised an eyebrow skeptically and Tim choked. "R-Real decaf, that is," he clarified quickly, hiding his sheepish grin under the rim of his mug as he took another hasty sip.

Alfred nodded sagely, the amused twinkle in his eye at odds with the firm line of his mouth. "Very good, Master Tim. We'll make a self-responsible young man of you yet." He grinned and Alfred surprised him by ruffling his hair fondly - a very rare gesture of affection from the stately old butler - as he glided past Tim on the way to the refrigerator. He began pulling out materials for breakfast.

"I suppose the only trouble now will be convincing your father and brothers to believe you are capable of such growth," Alfred commented drily as he began cracking eggs into a bowl.

"What?"

"I happened to overhear Masters Jason and Dick discussing with Miss Stephanie the odds of your return to obsession the other night," Alfred explained. He shook his head. "It would seem some of your siblings have taken bets as to when you would decline into a relapse."

"Did they?" Tim asked, forcefully keeping his tone light all the while his expression darkened. Alfred noticed, of course, and nodded in commiseration.

"Indeed. From the little I overheard and from the few things I've noticed here and there, it seems most of the family, including Master Bruce himself, have entered the betting pool. The average duration wagered upon is three weeks from the day you resume consuming caffeinated beverages, and Miss Stephanie seems to think you will last twelve days, two short of Master Jason's guess of a single fortnight," Alfred informed him drily, his exasperation with the lot of them shining through clearly.

Tim felt a flare of annoyance but smiled tightly at the elderly butler. "Thank you for letting me know, Alfred. I'll put this intelligence to good use." The one-time spy uttered a demure "of course" but Tim saw the satisfied cast to his expression. Tim tapped his chin thoughtfully. With Alfred on his side…

"I guess if they're all so sure I'll fall back into bad habits I'll just have to prove them wrong," Tim mused out loud, his eyes taking on a wicked gleam as several ideas occurred to him. "Twelve days, huh…?"

Alfred gave him a piercing look then nodded, a sharp gleam of amusement lighting up his own eyes. "I suppose you will, Master Tim."

---

The next day, four days since he had started drinking coffee again, Tim made a point to drink a second mug of something very dark at breakfast, and if Bruce and Damian thought that it was another mug of coffee, then shame on them for jumping to conclusions.

The day after that he had three mugs of coffee-looking beverages with breakfast, alternating between shooting innocent looks at the family members who were giving him side-eye and sharing conspiratorial grins with Alfred behind their backs.

That night, before patrol, he poured decaf coffee grinds into an empty "Regular" container and intentionally waited until someone came into the kitchen before making his nightly coffee, very deliberately leaving the container out on the counter with the label clearly displayed. He made a full pot, poured the entire thing into the mega mug, and had to stifle a laugh at the wide-eyed look Dick gave him as he walked out. He only drank half and snuck the other half into the back of the fridge for a quick iced-coffee the next morning.

After patrol he made himself another large mug of coffee which he made certain to wave around before heading up to shower. He wished he could have snapped a shot of Bruce and Jason's faces respectively - they were like mirror images of stony shock and disapproval. Like father like son? Jason would love that comparison. Tim didn't drink the ridiculously watered down decaf, but just so he wouldn't waste the water, and in full defiance of that one time Jason told him never to shower in coffee, he used the cooled coffee to rinse the shampoo out of his hair.

As planned, he returned the mug to the kitchen just before Jason was about to head up, letting him know in passing that he hadn't drunk the entire mug, and then asking if his hair smelled like coffee. Tim really wished he'd had his camera then so he could have documented the priceless expressions on Jason's face as he went through the full range of emotions, from laughably relieved to dramatically alarmed to full-force horrified as he surreptitiously leaned in for a sniff.

At lunch the next day, he showed up to his smoothie "date" with Steph already carrying a Venti cup from Starbucks, and he ordered a "Café Loco" with regular coffee without a trace of hesitation. Steph looked as if she'd been force fed a whole lemon. Tim struggled not to laugh throughout the entire lunch as he switched back and forth between the Starbucks and the smoothie and Steph winced every time. Too bad she didn't think to ask what was in that Venti cup - the combination of herbal peppermint tea and the chocolate-coffee smoothie was surprisingly pleasant. She probably would have enjoyed a taste.

By the end of the week Tim was giving off all appearances of having matched his previous consumption of caffeinated beverages - three cups in the morning, four cups of tea at work, four cups before patrol and the mega mug right before bed.

In reality he was still only drinking the equivalent of one cup of decaf in the morning, one cup of green tea in the afternoon and one cup of regular coffee before patrol, employing every trick and fake-out he could think of to convince the family otherwise. That meant a lot of herbal tea, decaf iced tea, and plain water hidden beneath the lids of travel mugs.

Actually, since he'd started drinking all this extra water he'd started performing better on patrol and generally feeling better all around, enough so that he was considering keeping up the extra liquids even after he wrapped up this affair. So, besides getting a kick out of everyone's poorly concealed reactions, this game had already had the added perk of improving his hydration habits. Tim was having a great time, and he was only just getting started.

On Monday he began purposefully eating coffee-flavored foods in front of the family. Six containers of coffee-flavored yogurt over the span of a single day, two with each meal - he probably needed the protein, anyway, and his gut would certainly be happy - espresso cheese over coffee pasta for lunch - decaf pasta, of course - and a mocha chip frozen yogurt bar after patrol. All pretty tame, to be honest, but the family was still aghast and poorly concealing it.

He doubled his efforts the next day, again using every trick up his sleeve to make it seem like he was eating more than he was. He munched on chocolate covered raisins at lunch to fool Steph into thinking he was attempting to eat a half pound of chocolate covered coffee beans in one sitting. He using food coloring to turn his rice brown to the chagrin of Damian and the horror of Bruce at dinner. Eating three mocha chip yogurt bars after patrol while literally hovering behind Dick in the cave just so he could watch Dick struggle with his inbred urge to turn around and shoot concerned looks at Tim over his shoulder.

Actually, Tim was a little surprised no one had said anything to him yet about his changing habits - no expressions of concern or gentle suggestions to take things slowly. He was a little upset about that. Maybe it was because Alfred was present for most of his shenanigans and appeared to approve for lack of any protest, but Tim knew it was probably because they wanted to test him. Part of their silence was for the benefit of the betting pool, but if that were the only motivator, Bruce would have put his foot down days ago. No, they wanted to see how well he could manage on his own without outside interference, to see if he could be trusted on his own.

Part of him could understand why they want to know - so they could know how much energy to invest in keeping an eye on him in the future - and why they worried in the first place - he'd gone pretty far off the deep end before he saw the error of his ways - but the rest of him resented that the family didn't believe he could grow and change and be better than he was before, that they would stoop to treating him like the subject of an experiment and laugh as they made bets on the outcome. To quote a classic, he found their lack of faith "disturbing."

On Wednesday, one day before had Steph predicted he would crack, Tim laid out his coup de grace. The family was planning to meet that night, first for a quick dinner, then briefing down in the cave before joint patrols. Normal Wednesday night stuff.

Tim coordinated with Alfred and lay in wait, so that when the family began filing into the dining room around seven o' clock, there he was, already sitting with his "coffee feast" laid out before him. All in all, he had "coffee" mashed potatoes, "coffee" broccoli, "coffee" carrots, coffee-rubbed steak, a mug of café leche, and the mega mug of "coffee."

"Uh… Tim," Dick began slowly as members of the family formed a loose ring around him, some taking seats around the table, others lounging "casually" against the wall behind him. He has a pretty good idea of what's about to happen next, and it takes everything in his power to keep a straight face.

Dick sat down across from him and continued. "So, we were all talking and, um, we realized that it was about time that we sat down with you and, uh, talked about how you, um, seem like, lately, that you've been maybe a little too, uh, 'enthusiastic' about, well-"

"Coffee. You're drinking too much coffee again, is what Dickie is trying to say," Jason snapped from over Tim's right shoulder. Dick sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, shaking his head. Jason flipped him the bird and Bruce frowned.

"Coffee? Really? I only started drinking it again a few days ago. Have I really been drinking that much?" Tim asked innocently, turning to Jason with a startled expression. Cass stepped up beside Jason and nodded, face twisted in concern and both hands gripping her upper arms in a tense position that screamed worry. He felt the slightest inklings of guilt for worrying sweet Cass, but then he remembered that he had it on good authority that even she had cast a bet into the pool, even if Steph had had to egg her to do it.

"Yeah, Tim, you really have," Steph confirmed grimly from behind him. He twisted around in his seat to look at her and nearly rolled his eyes at the deeply serious expression of disapproval on her face. As if Steph had much room to talk; she was still nearly as bad about coffee as he had been!

"And it's not even just the coffee you're drinking, look at what you're eating!" she exclaimed, pointing to his plate.

"For the love of- are those coffee vegetables, Drake?" Damian asked, looking thoroughly disgusted even as he leaned in ridiculously close to examine the food from Tim's left side. He jumped - for once the little ninja kid had actually managed to sneak up on him - and he dragged his plate away with a scandalized scowl.

"What is it with you and sticking your face into my damned food?!" he demanded.

"Is there coffee in those potatoes?!" Damian shrieked back at him in return.

Bruce cleared his throat from where he sat at the head of the table and silence fell over the group. "This is an intervention," he intoned seriously, the other members of the family nodding along grimly.

Tim was howling with laughter inside, and barely holding onto his composure on the outside. "Intervention? But why?" he asked, letting the pitch of his voice rise high and appalled, and clutching at his chest like some offended Victorian-age maiden. Behind Bruce, Alfred's lips twitched at the corners for his comically over-acted performance.

"Don't play dumb. You know exactly why we're here; why we're doing this. Denying it doesn't make it any less of a problem," Jason scoffed, sounding annoyed. There were several annoyed and impatient expressions around the table, in fact. They were starting to catch on to his act, but clearly not the reasons for it.

Dick nodded, brow pinching as he swept his arms in gesture to Tim's meal. "I mean look at yourself, Tim. Isn't this exactly what you wanted to try to get away from by quitting caffeine and going through weeks of detox?"

"But it's not really that much is it?" Tim asked, pulling out his silliest puppy dog eyes and batting them furiously in one last ditch effort to clue the family in on his joke. Alfred stifled a cough behind his hand that Tim swore was cover for a laugh, but there were still no light bulbs over the heads of the other of the family members.

"'Not that much'? Are you kidding?" Steph exclaimed stepping forward and swiping the fork out of his mashed potatoes. Tim let it happen. "Not that much?! Look at this. Tim, you've put coffee in everything in front of you," she explained, pointing to the fork for emphasis.

"I can't believe Alfred even let you bring this crap to his table. I can't believe you can eat this stuff and not immediately hurl your guts out," Jason added hotly. "I mean, what does all that even taste like?"

"Yeah, that's what I want to know," Steph demanded, stabbing the fork into the potatoes and scooping out a blob. Ignoring mixed sounds of disgust and protest from the others, she made a face and opened her mouth to take a bite. "Probably like burnt tires that have gone through a blen- …"

She cut off abruptly and stared at the fork. Tim allowed himself a tight smile and waited for it. She blinked, then looked down at the plate. "This… doesn't taste like coffee...? It… doesn't taste like anything?"

Damian frowned and swiped a finger through the potatoes and raised it to his mouth. "Huh. It tastes like Pennyworth's mashed potatoes and nothing else," he confirmed, giving Tim a curious look that Tim returned with a "what the hell was that?!" expression, because who just sticks their fingers into someone's food without asking?!?

"What do you mean it doesn't taste like coffee?" Jason asked, leaning forward over Tim's shoulder to get a closer look. "It's brown enough to make me wanna puke, so…"

"It shouldn't," Tim informed them matter-of-factually. "There isn't any coffee in it."

The whole family froze, gears turning as they stared at him, then at his food, and then back to him again.

"Bull," Steph challenged and several others nodded in agreement.

"There's no coffee in any of it except the steak and the café leche, and that is barely half a cup of decaf diluted by a ton of milk," Tim explained patiently.

"But the food-" Bruce began.

"Is colored with food coloring."

Damian cocked his head then swiped a carrot off the plate. Tim sighed.

"Yes, no hint of coffee, simply a carrot," the youngest declared to the room.

Tim pushed the plate toward him. "You going to try a piece of broccoli? Might as well touch all of my food while you're at it."

"-Tt- I believe you, Drake," Damian responded, pushing the plate back. "I knew you wouldn't be so foolish so soon after having vowed never to stoop to such idiotic levels of caffeine consumption ever again."

Tim sighed and shook his head. "Oh. Yes. Of course."

"I'm still not convinced," Jason admitted slowly, rounding the chair so he could look Tim in the eye. "I mean, maybe the food is a fake, but all the coffee you've been drinking lately, decaf or not-"

Tim raised the mega mug and offered it to Jason. The older man took the mug warily and peered suspiciously at the contents.

"That is 90% of all the 'coffee' I've been drinking for the past eleven days," Tim told him.

Jason raised the mug and took a long draw. He froze, then lowered the mug slowly. "That's not coffee."

"Yes."

"That's…mugicha?" Jason asked in a stunned voice. Tim nodded, then grinned as Cass darted forward and slid the mug out of Jason's loose grip and retreated to one side to sip on her newly acquired prize. She shot him a small smile over the rim of the mug and winked.

"What is 'muggy-cha'?" Dick asked with a frown.

"Moo-ghi-chah," Jason sounded out for him slowly. "It's a Japanese tea made from roasted barley. Naturally caffeine free, generally tastes like cereal or unfermented beer, but when roasted well it has hints of coffee or chocolate."

"A tea that tastes like cereal?" Dick asked, eyes widening comically as his eyebrows flew up into his hair.

"Don't tell him that, Jason! Now he's going to steal all of my mugicha!" Tim cried, looking over at the mug in Cass's hands longingly.

"Quit your whining, Timbo, it's not sweet enough for Dickie, in any case." Jason shook his head slowly. "I didn't even think you knew what mugicha was."

"I learned a lot about tea back when I made tea for everyone after patrol that one time, remember?" Tim reminded them. Cass took a sip of the mugicha and nodded approvingly. "It's actually pretty good. The toasty flavor reminds me of a light roast coffee sometimes and chocolate or cereal or beer other times, just like you said."

"Mugicha is actually really good for you. Very hydrating," Jason said slowly, staring Tim down as if waiting for the 'psyche! But actually…'

"Yup. I know," Tim answered simply, waiting for it to finally sink in.

Jason blinked then glanced over Tim's meal. Across the room Bruce let out a long breath and Damian shook his head slowly. Steph stared.

"Wow. You... you weren't kidding, Babybird. You've really been skipping the coffee, just like you said," Jason finally admitted in a awed tone.

"Yep," Tim confirmed. "I haven't had more than the equivalent of two cups of coffee per day since the mac 'n cheese incident," he informed them smugly. "You all lose."

"W-what?" Dick stuttered breathlessly. Around the room several people twitched guiltily. Tim shook his head. So much for inscrutable Bats, huh?

"I know you guys started a betting pool on how long it would take me to crack and fall back into my crazy coffee ways," Tim tells them, pinning each of them with an unrelenting stare one person at a time.

"Tim, we didn't-" Steph begins.

"Alfred told me all about; don't try to deny it," he cut in flatly.

"Alfie! How could you?!" Dick bewailed in an exaggerated tone of betrayal, all the while smiling at the man gratefully and winking.

"I wasn't going to deny it," Steph continues, glaring at Dick. "We totally took bets - don't you even try to tell me you didn't, Dick Grayson because I was there-"

"I was rooting for you, Timmy. I bet it would take you at least six months, if not longer," Dick told him proudly.

"Your faith and confidence in me, is so inspiring," Tim deadpanned drily.

"Stop interrupting me!" Steph snapped, slapping Dick lightly on the arm. She turned to Tim. "Yes, we took bets, but if we're being completely honest with ourselves, we were always hoping we would each lose, that we would be wrong about our fears. This is one of those 'I hate being wrong, but this time I'd hate to be right almost as much' kind of situations'," she explained. Across the room Bruce nodded seriously and Jason shrugged with a chagrined grin. Cass crept up beside him and offered him a new glass of mugicha with an apologetic look - apologetic not just for the mugicha, but for all of it, Tim surmised.

"I still win," Tim repeated, taking a sip of the tea then sweeping a cool glare over all of them. "Because I'm never going back to drinking - or eating - that much coffee ever again."

"Well… good," Steph replied, nodding. "In that case, we're all kind of winners," she concluded, patting him on the back.

"Yes, but I actually won, so does that mean I get the pot?" he asked with a sharp grin.

Bruce cleared his throat and everyone turned to look at him. "Well. Actually, no." Tim frowned. He had been joking but, really, to be fair…

"As you all know, I didn't cast a bet," Bruce began.

Jason rolled his eyes. "Yeah, because you claimed you only wanted to know for 'academic purposes.' Like that's any better," he muttered under his breath. Tim huffed a quiet laugh - he had totally called it - and a muscle jumped in Bruce's jaw, but he otherwise seemed to ignore Jason's interjection.

"But, as an impartial observer, I kept track of the bets-"

Steph snorted. "Yeah, only because Alfred flat out refused."

"And with good reason, Miss Stephanie," Alfred chimed in, sweeping an icy gaze over all of them. "You should all be ashamed of yourselves, testing Master Tim in that way," he informed them bluntly over Bruce's shoulder.

Bruce cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably in his chair, as if he could literally feel the chill of Alfred's disapproving glare on his back. "Yes, well. If 'never' is your final answer, Tim, then you'll have to share the pot with Damian, because he bet his share of Alfred's oatmeal cookies for a year that you would never go back to consuming that much coffee ever again."

They all turned to stare at Damian, who colored but didn't turn away from their stares. Tim blinked in actual shock.

"Wait! You guys were betting in Alfred's cookies? But-"

"Wait, really? I thought you said 'Drake is an overworking fool who will fall back into his stimulant addiction in weeks', or did I hear that wrong?" Jason asked over him.

"-Tt- You heard correctly, if incompletely, Todd. If you had continued listening you would know I said that he would fall back into his stimulant addiction if and only if we stepped back and let him work himself to distraction once more," Damian explained. His cheeks darkened even further, but he finished off his statement by saying,"What I meant was that, should we withdraw our support, surely he would be driven into self-destructive habits once again. And yes, Drake, we dealt in cookie currency."

The kitchen was a mix of reactions, ranging from proud smiles of differing intensities from Dick, Alfred, and Cass, to wonderment from Jason and suspicious skepticism from Steph. Damian's expression darkened under their combined attention and he began closing off and shutting down in the way he always did whenever he inadvertently began to show he was a real boy underneath his sharp-tongued, aloof act.

Tim stared. "Wow. So…" He cleared his throat. Damian curled in on himself defensively and Tim paused to take a slow deliberate breath. "How many cookies do we each get?"

Damian startled slightly then relaxed, huffing a small laugh and grinning sharply. "By my last count, we have at least three months of triple the usual amount of cookies apiece. Better still, Pennyworth has recently added coffee flavor to the recipe, further complimenting the flavors of the walnuts, chocolate and raisins."

Tim's eyes widened and he returned the sharp grin. "Oh? Is that so? Coffee cookies? Three per day. I can live with that."

"Oh, jeez, Tim, noooo…" Dick moaned.

Tim's grin turned wicked. "Tim, yessssss."

"Not another coffee food, we just… you just…"

"Calm yourself, Richard," Damian soothed him, rolling his eyes. "I said coffee-flavored, not caffeinated. There is nothing amiss with enjoying the flavor of coffee."

"Indeed, they are perfectly healthy," Alfred chimed in, his eyes flashing in amusement.

Dick looked around wildly for support, but Jason merely chuckled and Bruce's expression took on a fond cast.

"Yes," Bruce said, "Just this once. Coffee? Yes."

~*~

The End! Thank you for reading, everyone!!