#[ leslie is like almost completely clean ]

[skylarsblue]

Genderbent Slashers Pt.2

(The rest of the close-ups that I couldn't fit in the first one, because there's an image limit.)

✦Link To The First Part✦

✦Bailey Loomis✦ (She/Her)

Ooo, sadistic bitch, let's go. 5'6" and oddly athletic despite the fact she's not really into sports and stuff. Honestly, she's not as strong as she looks, it's mostly genetics in those biceps.

Yes she does have a stick 'n' poke tattoo on her hip. It matches with Su, they were drunk when they did it and it's amazing it's not completely illegible.

✦Suzette "Su" Macher✦ (She/They)

Honestly, she's like long cat. An even 6'0" with awkwardly long limbs. She's got a real quick metabolism so she's super skinny despite eating like a monster. She used to have long hair but it kept getting in the way so she chopped it, it helps considering her and Bailey's recent hobby.

Somehow she's more insane than Stu. Double the energy, which is hard to imagine, honestly. She's all over the damn place. Like a permanent sugar high that has no crash. Also? Super gay.

✦Bonnie "Bo" Sinclair✦ (She/Her)

Smug-ass southern belle. She stands at 5'9.5, and she makes it a point to mention that half-inch. Thanks to heavy lifting and the exercise she does in order to burn off steam, she's got beefy biceps. But, other than that, she's rather soft. Not chubby, but not super slim either. There's some good muscle under that softness though.

Her middle name is Lynn cause she's southern and that's the only fuckin' middle name in the south aside from "Lee". But if you call her Bo-Lynn she's gonna stab you in the neck...well, she would do that anyway, but she'd make it hurt worse.

✦Valentina Sinclair✦ (She/They)

5'9" and a bit slimmer than her twin, but that's because they exercise less. Not to say they're less strong though, she's still got some power in those arms. But her legs are probably more powerful. She dyes her hair darker but the brunette roots don't show much, thankfully.

Shyer than her male counterpart, but she's not a soft uwu baby. Val is still gonna stab ya for her art project. Her face rests in a natural sad, doe-eyed look that somehow expresses even through her mask. But do not be fooled! She's a beast, even outside of murdering people. For example? Avoid even looking at them before they've had their morning coffee.

✦Leslie Sinclair✦ (She/Her)

Definitely stands out compared to her siblings. Leslie's got more of Trudy's hair color than the dark brown from Victor and her eyes are lighter. She stands at an even 5'5", sometimes she thinks she's 5'4" on a bad day. Her hair is a mess but it's oddly soft, despite the fact she only uses basic ass soap. (Also, I love her the most)

A pack rat to be sure. She collects a bunch of stuff. Bones, cicada shells, and jewelry from visitors that her twins don't want. Honestly, she's almost a hoarder, but her home is oddly the most clean. It's healthily cluttered. Hilarious given her messy job that her twins keep a more chaotic house.

✦Billie Lenz✦ (She/It)

Small! Small and tiny so it can easily spider crawl her way into your attic. Hunker in there like a fuckin' raccoon. There's crazy in them eyes, I tell ya. Also, she's intersex. Why? Cause people like that just exist. I don't need a reason. Also, her hair is the worst. It's all over the place and it's tangled with cobwebs, probably has a spider in there honestly.

Her socks were stolen, first off. Second off, she's got a real bad habit of scratching herself when it's feeling panicky. The main places that it attacks are its collarbones, the backs of her hands, and her forearms. She also has a bad habit of biting her lip until it bleeds.

[gamingdotcom]

Trick or treat!

omg hiiiiiii night!!! <3

for you my beloved poundcake recipe (from food columnist Leslie Land-- I tweaked one thing: the alcohol of choice in our family has ALWAYS been cognac. trust me on this.)

1 pound (2 cups) sugar 3-inch piece vanilla bean or 2 teaspoons vanilla extract Butter for pans 4 ½ cups twice-sifted cake flour (a little less than one pound) 10 eggs at room temperature 1 pound of the best butter you can get, at room temperature ½ teaspoon salt (only if butter is unsalted) ¼ teaspoon mace (optional) ¼ cup cognac

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

If you use vanilla beans instead of extract, you’ll need to combine the seeds from the beans and some of the sugar to make vanilla sugar. Here’s how. Place 2 tablespoons of sugar in a small bowl. Split the vanilla bean with a sharp knife and scrape the seeds from the interior into the sugar. They will be a gummy black paste that sticks to everything. Use the sugar to clean everything off and rub it around inside the beans to get as many seeds as possible. Rub the mixture between your fingertips until the vanilla is well distributed. The improvement in the taste is far larger than the hassle involved. Skip this step if you use extract.

Butter a large tube pan or 2 standard loaf pans or 5 mini-loaf pans. Line the pan bottoms with paper. Measure roughly 4 cups of cake flour, sift it twice, then measure 4 ½ cups of the result onto a sheet of paper or into a bowl.

Separate the eggs, putting the whites into a grease-free bowl big enough to allow plenty of room for beating and expansion. Rinse a small bowl with cold water before putting the yolks in it, so they don’t stick. Have on hand a very large bowl, kettle or dishpan for the final folding and preheat the oven to 350 F.

Cream the butter and the sugar until the mixture is very light, white, and fluffy. Add the vanilla sugar (or extract), the mace and salt, if you’re adding salt. Thoroughly beat in the egg yolks, two at a time. 

Beat in the flour, about one cup at a time. Be sure each addition is thoroughly mixed in before adding the next. By the end of the flour, the batter will be very stiff, almost like dough. Slowly add the brandy or rum, beating the dough all the while.

Now, take the phone off the hook. Beat the egg whites until they form stiff but still shiny peaks. Mix about a third of the beaten whites into the batter to lighten it, then turn the whole works into the big bowl for the final mixing.

Gently, rapidly fold the remaining whites into the batter. Turn the batter into the prepared pan(s) and shake them gently from side to side to distribute any large air bubbles. Put the cake(s) into the oven and lower the heat to 325 F. (It’s okay to put the phone back on the hook now).

After about half an hour, turn the cake(s) around and cover the tops with foil if they seem to be browning too fast. The minis take about 50 minutes, loaf cakes take about 1 ¼ hours, and a big tube pan make take 1 ½ hours or more. They’re done when the edges have shrunk from the pan, the tip is very brown, and the cake sounds hollow when tapped. (A toothpick will emerge clean even before these other criteria have been met).

It is better to overbake than underbake, in this case.

Cool the pound cake in the pan(s) for 10 minutes or so, then turn them out onto a rack and finish cooling there completely. Wrap the cooled cake tightly in foil and let it age a day before you cut it. This will set the texture and round the flavor.

This cake has a specific gravity somewhere between lead and uranium. Good though. Serve it cut in very thin slices, two or three to a portion.

[ao3feed-psych]

Parks and Poison

by thephprofessor He was panicking now. “Leslie, this place is gonna be swarming with cops. You know how I am around cops.” “Trust me, you have nothing to worry about,” Shawn reassured. “Lassie’s, like, the least intimidating person I’ve ever met.” - - - Leslie and the gang arrive in Santa Barbara for the annual National Parks Conference, only for disaster to strike almost immediately. Can Shawn, Gus, and the SBPD clean up the mess before the trip is ruined completely? (Loosely) takes place during mid season 6 Parks and late season 5 Psych. Words: 2331, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English Fandoms: Psych (TV 2006), Parks and Recreation (TV) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Categories: Gen Characters: Leslie Knope, Ben Wyatt, Ron Swanson, April Ludgate, Andy Dwyer, Ann Perkins, Shawn Spencer, Burton "Gus" Guster, Carlton Lassiter, Juliet O'Hara Relationships: Burton "Gus" Guster & Shawn Spencer, Leslie Knope & Ann Perkins, Andy Dwyer/April Ludgate, Leslie Knope/Ben Wyatt, Juliet O'Hara/Shawn Spencer Additional Tags: Crossover, Murder Mystery, Poison, just for fun, don't think about the timeline too hard, will update tags as I go via https://ift.tt/At7Ysf9

[mjlovescm]

13- The high of mania

Completed, 30 chapters, “Grey” Fezco O’Neill x black fem reader

You knew since you were both young that Rue was, in Leslie and Robert's words, “different”. Meaning many things, and her spiral into mania and the investigation of the Nate and Jules situation was one of them. By investigation, you didn't mean anything regular or well calm. She wasn't gathering gossip on the latest bit of stupid teenage drama. She was investigating. Waking up at awful hours and going to sleep at worse ones, drinking coffee that was made with old coffee instead of water, and wasting all the ink in the school's printers to print hundreds of photos.

At first, you weren't going to say anything to let Rue play dress up as long as no one was getting hurt. But instead, this time, she pulled you in and gave you a three-minute-long ramble about how something was up with Jules and Nate. And honestly you felt kinda bad about how invested in it, you were after that. On top of that your dislike well now hatred for Nate Jacobs had only intensified.

After Halloween, Jules didn't go to school for a full week. And even though I sent her about 50 text, she didn't respond. I could tell something bad had happened. And that it had something to do with Nate. Tyler Clarkson was booked for assault. But this shit wasn't adding up. And I was putting together the pieces of the puzzle. I wasn't gonna stop until I got the truth.

Rolling your eyes, you scoffed at the annoying announcement that was being made on the P.A system. It was bullshit you knew Nate wasn't innocent, everyone knew. A notification pined your phone, and before you even looked at it, you knew it was Rue.

𝚁𝚞𝚋𝚢 𝙼𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙷𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚂𝚝𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝙽𝚘𝚠 𝙱𝚎𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚝𝚝

Although you were reluctant, you still went to the bathroom. You greeted Lexi and throw Rue’s cigarette away, only for her to pull out another one.

“Unless Jules is in love with Nate.” She says, striking a match and bring it to the loosely held cigarette between her lips.

“Why would Jules be in love with Nate?” Lexi asked.

“You should listen to me.”

“Bennett, the cigarettes are killing me.” Lexi walks away from Rue as she approaches her, and you smile, amused that the smoke was bothering her the same way it bothered you.

“Listen the night of the carnival she said she wanted to meet up with this guy she met online okay? He’s some fuckin’ jock, he’s from a conservative family, and they were talking and texting. They've been texting for weeks. And when I say Texting, I don't just mean regular fuckin’ texting. They were sexting.”

“Like Nudes.” You and Lexi say.

“Yeah. Side note, very nice dick. Very clean room.”

“Oh.”

“EW.” You mumbled.

“She never fucking saw his face.”

“Never?” You said surprised.

“Never.” Rue repeats.

“Yeah, so Jules was catfished.”

That was it, the answer was obvious, but in this state Rue took different routines to figuring this out. Quickly she tells you both, Jules went to meet the guy she was talking to, something happened that made her sleepover in Rues bed and that he didn't look like his pictures. It was literally the definition of catfishing, just with extra steps.

“No, but you know what his nae was?”

“Nate Jacobs.” Lexi Guesses.

“Not Nate Jacobs.” You guess.

“Tyler.”

“Like Tyler Clarkson.”

“The guy who got arrested for Nate and was fucking Maddy in the pool in front of him.” You spoke surprised you were surprised, somehow this was starting to make sense.

“You goddamn right.” Rue looks at the two of with wide eyes, and you could almost feel things kicking up a notch.

The next time the three of you met up was at lunch. Watching Maddie and Nate play all cutesy made you sick, so you focused on the task at hand instead. Which was mostly babysitting Rue. And more than that, listening to the theory she was putting together. The Tyler catfish account was one thing, but statutory being a lighter offense than assault after everyone saw Maddy and Tyler in the pool was another. It was a loose idea, but Nate was capable of evil things, so it made sense. Some sense. Some.

But her dragging Fezco into this made none.

“Yo, you hear this shit.” He calls to you and Ash from his grandma’s room.

“I don't know Fez it kinda makes sense.” You tell him, unaware of what she was asking of him.

“See, she sees the big picture.” Rue says quickly.

“Are you serious ? I'm not pulling a gun on nobody.”

“What!” You jump out of your seat and join the two in the other room. “Who’s talking bout guns?”

“She is.” Fezco nods to Rue. “Dumbest shit she said all fucking day.”

“You don't have to fucking point it at him. You could just-- You could, like--. You could flash it.” She demonstrates this by lifting her shirt slightly.

“You really have lost your fukin’ mind, Rue.”

“Fuck, it's a bad fucking idea, okay? I was just fucking spit balling, here.”

“How you start spit balling and go straight for guns.” You said to yourself.

“Fr.” Fez agrees.

“I mean he fucked with me, he fucked with Jules. And I want fucking revenge. Okay? Sorry.”

You both understood somewhat where she was coming from, but if Nate could get Tyler and Jules to work for him was fucking with him, really the best idea. No probably not. Fezco’s phone dings with a notification.

“Fuck mouse is here.”

A cold shiver of fear ran up your spine.

“The guy with--.” Rue circles her face with her finger, meaning his tattoos.

“All right, so stay in here. Be quiet--”

“Fez I can't say in here. Like I’m not good with awkward silences.” Rue cuts him off.

“Yes the fuck you can. Shh! Be quiet. Listen, I’m really serious right now. You just need to sit your manic ass down, and be quiet for five fucking minutes, Rue. I'm not fucking playin’ with you.” He tells Rue before turning to you. “Watch her and don't come out till me or Ash come back in here.” He turns back to Rue. “Sit down and shut the fuck up.” He says before slamming the door shut.

You left your seat from beside the bookcase and cover Fezco’s grandma’s chest before sitting at on the edge of her bed. Rue took the empty seat and maybe for a second she was fine, but after that she quickly left the room. And in a panic, you followed her. The conversation coming from the living room seemed tense, but right now you were too focused on getting the hell out before you or Rue was seen by Mouse.

The two of you find your way into an alley and Rue stops.

“Rue, I’m tired of shit, okay, let's just go home.”

She stares at the sky but doesn't respond as she can't hear you or maybe doesn't want to. After a moment, her gaze returns to the ground, and she begins to walk with a defeated tone handing over her. It stays that way until you got home, she crawled into her bed and that was the end of it. Well, you thought it was the end of it.

Next chapter ;)

All chapters :)

[ragingbookdragon]

And I Will Still Be Here Stargazing PT. 2

A Batsis x Batfamily Story!

Word Count: 1.4K Warnings: Explicit Language, Mentions of Past Assault

Author's Note: Gotta start it slow and get into it! Hope y'all are enjoying so far! -Thorne

**********************************************************************

You’ve been missing for an entire week.

That entire statement had her ushered into a side room of GCPD while Gordon called her family, and all she could to was let the officers poke and prod at her whilst asking her questions about what happened to her all week. Expect she had no idea how to respond. She hadn’t been missing for a week, at least that’s what she believed.

When the officer checking her out showed her their phone, she was flabbergasted at the fact that sure enough, an entire week had passed between that night and now. She couldn’t wrap her head around it and she could tell some of the officers were getting annoyed with her lack of explanation.

“Probably out getting bent in a high riser all week. We should test her for cocaine and ecstasy.”

Her head shot up and she glowered at the two officers snickering just outside the door. “I wasn’t doing drugs, you assholes.” They stopped laughing and gaped at her, and suddenly she realized that she’d heard their whispering from that far. Her cheeks warmed and she looked back down to avoid their stares.

“Miss (Y/N), we should get you to the hospital to do a rape kit.”

She glanced at the officer beside her. “I wasn’t assaulted, ma’am.”

“You never know,” she explained. “It’s always better to be safe than—”

(Y/N) reached out and put her hand on her arm. “I wasn’t assaulted. I don’t know what—” something flashed across her mind, a memory, or a nightmare rather, the same officer before her, drowsy and helpless, locked in a room with a coworker. She yanked her hand away, understanding why; swallowing thickly, she murmured, “I’m fine. I just need to talk to my family.”

“Are you sure?” the officer asked, concern evident all over her face. “There’s no shame in asking for help.”

“Yeah, I’m fi—”

“(Y/N)!”

She looked up, seeing her family running towards her; (Y/N) was on her feet in seconds, colliding with her dad, arms wrapping around his waist as he placed one on the back of her head, holding her close. Her brothers and sister crowded around her, all holding tight to their missing sister.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he whispered harshly, unshed tears in his voice. “We’ve been so worried about you.”

Tears gathered in her eyes at the fear in his voice and she swallowed thickly. “I don’t know what’s going on, dad. I’ve been missing for a week?”

“You don’t remember?” Dick questioned lowly in her ear so no one could hear, and she shook her head.

“No. All I remember is seeing the comet that night and then…I was waking up the next morning.” She turned her head so she could see her eldest brother’s face. “A week has apparently passed but I don’t know how.”

Bruce hummed, pulling away from her and he took her face in his hands, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “We’ll talk about it at home,” he assured and stood back, glancing at Gordon. “Thank you for finding her, Commissioner.”

Gordon huffed and ran a hand through his hair. “We didn’t. She found us.”

(Y/N) smiled awkwardly. “Am I free to go home, Commissioner Gordon?”

“You were never not allowed, Miss (Y/N).” He stepped close and rested a hand on her shoulder as he murmured, “But I do think you should go to the hospital.”

“But I’m not—”

“We’ll have Doctor Leslie come to the manor for a personal check up.” Bruce interrupted and she internally thanked her father.

“Of course, Mister Wayne.” Gordon said. “Drive safely.”

Bruce rested his hand on her shoulders and ushered her out of the building and into the car.

***

What was she missing? Obviously, the entire week between then and now, but God, what was it? What had happened between then and now? Had she slept through an entire week? It wasn’t possible. Her family would’ve found her and brought her back. So, what really happened to her? Maybe she had been abducted or something? But her dad would’ve known the second something had entered Gotham. He always did. So, what—

“(Y/N).”

The firm call of her name shook her from her thoughts and she jerked up, looking at the rear-view mirror and into her dad’s eyes. “Yes sir?”

“We’re home.”

(Y/N) took a moment to gaze at her surroundings, and sure enough, the car was parked in the garage. It was just her and him, so the others must’ve gone inside. “Oh…I guess we are.”

“Come up here a minute.” He said and she crawled into the front seat, resting back against the cushions, eyes directed to the wall before her. “Are you alright? And I mean really alright?”

She didn’t even know at that point; she was so stunned trying to process everything, and she gestured vaguely. “I don’t know, dad.” (Y/N) glanced at him. “I’m not lying to you when I say that I have no idea what happened.”

“What do you remember?” he asked, eyes narrowed in that way that told her he was calculating every word for every scenario possible; that it wasn’t her dad looking for answers, but Batman instead. When she opened her mouth, nothing came out and he reached over, placing a hand over hers, squeezing tightly. “Close your eyes. Start from the very beginning. From the last thing you remember to now.”

(Y/N) nodded and took a deep breath, shutting her eyes. “I remember Alfred dropping me off in the field around seven. The sun was still out, and I had enough time to set up the telescope on the tripod.”

“Keep going. You’re doing good. What did it smell and sound like around you?”

She made a face. “Like a farm. But fresher air. I could hear the cicadas and crickets around. The occasional tractor equipment.” (Y/N)’s eyes shifted beneath her eyelids. “I got bored waiting, so I got on my phone until the sun went down. When the stars came out, I went between looking at the sky through the scope and out of it.”

“Then I called you. Do you remember that?”

“I do,” she nodded. “I talked to you and then I saw the comet.” That’s when things started to fall apart, and she shook her head. “I remember pulling away from the lens but then…the next thing I remember is coming to in the field.” (Y/N) opened her eyes and gazed at her hands. “I must’ve fallen asleep, but I don’t remember getting into my sleeping bag. And I certainly don’t remember sleeping for a week straight.”

Bruce merely stared at her, sighing, “We’ll give it time. Maybe something will come to you the longer you’re awake.”

She shrugged and reached for the door-handle, but when she grabbed it, it curled under her grip, and she froze.

“What was that?” he questioned, and her eyes went wide as she hurriedly bent the handle back.

“Nothing!” (Y/N) clambered out of the car and didn’t even close the car door behind her, running up the steps and into the kitchen where she was met by her siblings who pulled her into another hug that she was helpless to escape from. And she was fairly sure that Dick was sobbing on her shoulder.

***

Leslie frowned at the young woman across the room, gesturing for Bruce to follow her into the kitchen. “You’re not going to like the news.”

“What happened?”

She shook her head. “Nothing. Blood and urinalysis are both clean. So is the assault kit.” Leslie stared at him. “It’s almost like she really slept for an entire week.”

“It’s not possible,” Bruce argued. “We scoured that field and all of Gotham with help from every superhero alive.” He sighed. “Something happened to her. She dropped completely off the grid and suddenly reappeared back on.”

Leslie shrugged. “I don’t know what to tell you, Bruce. I don’t have an explanation for this. She’s healthy as a horse.” She placed a hand on his arm. “But if anything changes, give me a call and I’ll come back.”

He nodded, seeing her out. “Thank you, Leslie.” Bruce closed the door and wandered back into the living room, and though he felt such an inner turmoil over his daughter, the sight of her asleep and sandwiched between all her siblings, being protected by them, made him smile.

[jshookthighs]

A Change in Plans - Leslie Vernon x GN! Reader

Warnings: angst, blood, violence, mention of death

Word Count: 1067

Summary: You and Leslie were supposed to enjoy a nice relaxing evening to congratulate his newest killings. whelp that’s not what happened 

A/N: Sorry if this one’s not as good, kinda rushed it but had this idea in my head for a bit

This was not how you thought you'd spend the evening. You were expecting to celebrate a successful night with the meal you had spent all day making just for Leslie. But here you were, standing in front of a bloody and bruised man sitting on the toilet top.

"Owwwww!" The whine pulled you from your thoughts. "Sorry, hun, almost done." You reassured as the thread pulled through his skin again, closing the slash on his shoulder. "Kiss it better?" He was giving you that puppy dog look that you couldn't help but laugh at. You leaned down, pressing the softest kiss imaginable just below the gash. Leaning back, you placed one hand over top of your completed work and one against his swollen cheek, being careful not to cause more pain to either spot.

That girl was tough and Leslie had been just a bit too slow when she plunged a broken ax head into him. He said she was an easy final pick. It was supposed to go smoothly tonight. No, definitely not how this night was supposed to go. With a ghost of a smile, you reach both hands to gently cup his bruised cheeks. She got him good. Real good. It scared the shit out of you. 

When he had first stumbled in, you hadn't seen Leslie, just shouted to welcome him home and went to greet him at the door with your famous apple pie. The dessert had crashed to the floor when you were met with a badly battered Les. Blood was all you saw as he grappled onto the wall attempting to not collapse then and there.

"Honey, I'm home!" Of course, Leslie had some smart-ass thing to say. Any other time you would have smacked him in the arm, but you didn't have the heart in this condition. It all blurred after that. The dragging him to the bathroom, the questions of what the hell happened, the flinches from the antiseptic, it all went by in a flash. You focused on fixing him up.

Careful fingers drag over the fresh stitches and you can’t help but sigh at the sight. But, with all the cleaning and initial panic out of the way, the sudden realization hit you like a ton of bricks: you almost lost Leslie. The breath in your lungs feels sucked out and the hands that were still on his cheek and arm now collapse to your side. Tears prick at your eyes as you repeat that horrible reality: You almost lost him. The very idea sends your heart to the floor. You can't stop the flow of tears nor the harsh choked sob that rips itself from your throat. You throw your arms around of neck and just squeeze him close.

Leslie didn't know why you were crying, and he definitely hated the sight. He never wanted you to be sad, never wanted you hurt, never wanted that gorgeous smile to disappear from your face. Words of comfort were in the front of his mind, but the only thing he could get out was a hiss of pain when your elbow hit right into his shoulder.

You don’t hear him, or it's more like you don’t care at this moment. The sound meant he was alive. Your sobs violently wrack your frame, filling up the small bathroom with all the dark thoughts of what you'd do without him. You think of how utterly miserable you’d be. You think of the endless nights and unimaginable pain of living without Leslie. Before the incoming spiral of your nightmares, battered arms weakly reciprocate your harsh embrace, moving up and down your back to quell your shaking body.

"Why ya cryin', sweetheart?" With how softly Les asks you don't know how you don't burst into another round of tears. The question makes you tighten your grip around his neck, pulling him impossibly closer. "Hey, hey I'm alright honey, I'm right here. Still kickin'!" Leslie laughed with a wince, the jostling aggravating his new stitching. He’s trying so hard to make you feel better and your heart can’t help but flutter for a second at that notion. It quickly dies down, remembering the situation. He knows you so well; knows how to make you laugh and smile just the way he loves. Unfortunately for him, you’re not quite in the mood for a chuckle.

"But what if you weren't ok, Les? What if you died out there? What am I gonna do?" It breaks Leslie's heart to hear you like this. He never really thought about that. All he knew was that every day he wanted to come home to you and never even considered that maybe one day he wouldn't. No creature on earth could keep him away from you, especially not some preppy virgin bitch with a decent swing. He knew even then as he bled the whole way home that he’d make it back to your sweet face. He loved you for God’s sake.

"Aww baby, you ain't gotta worry 'bout that. I'll always come back." Leslie pulls back from your arms to wipe about the streak of tears on your puffy cheek. "It'll take a whole hell of a lot more to get rid of me." He can't help but add a quip that, to his delight, elicits a smile out of you. A sad one but one nonetheless.

Your hand raises to clasp tightly onto his wrist. "Promise?" The words are strained and border on a plea.

"Promise." In contrast, Les is firm in what he says. For a moment, you almost believe him.  "Now, I'm starving and I know you worked so hard on dinner. Let's eat ok?" Using your shoulders as leverage he shakily pulls himself up to stand. He softly grips your hand into his and begins to lead you out of the mess that is the bathroom. 

"Okay." You sniffle and help him to the dinner table, knowing the food is most likely cold by now. Not that Les would ever complain.

You knew he couldn't promise the inevitable, couldn't promise to defy death itself, but you didn't care right now. Leslie was here, alive, and mostly in one piece. You'd take what you can get. But as you sat across from him at the table you made a silent vow: you'd help him next year and make sure this never happens again. 

[yelena-bellova]

Winter Song

Plot: Y/n finds that her favorite time of year is much less enjoyable without Steve.

Warnings: Christmas angst, fluff, but mostly angst

Word Count: 2k

A/N: I got this idea a few weeks ago and couldn’t wait to post it. It’s based on Leslie Odom Jr. and Cynthia Erivo’s version of the song, I highly recommend listening to it ❄️ I definitely didn’t proofread this enough and I’m posting it at almost midnight so it’s probably riddled with mistakes 🙈

*Flashbacks are in italics

————

This is my winter song to you

The storm is coming soon

It rolls in from the sea

It was well known among the compound that Christmas was my absolute favorite time of year.

There was no competition in the state of New York, nay, the entirety of the East Coast that rivaled my love of the season. On November 1st I would have the pumpkins and fake cobwebs boxed back up and be stringing lights and hanging wreaths before anyone else in the compound was awake. They’d tease me about it but by the time December actually rolled around, you could hear the toughest of heroes humming ‘Sleigh Ride’ to themselves. Still, no one could measure up to my enthusiasm for Christmas…

Except Steve.

He’d be the one handing me decorations as I stood on a ladder positioning them perfectly. He’d watch every movie and special with me tucked into his side. We’d bake batch after batch of cookies because while they had no problem teasing us, Rhodey and Sam would come through like a tornado and eat all of them. And gift shopping was a day long event that tested the how the super soldier’s strength held up when carrying 10+ bags and boxes.

All of it occurred before the Accords, of course. The storm that rolled in, placed an unmovable divide between Steve and I and left me at the compound and him as far from beside me as could be.

I was halfheartedly stringing lights around the living room, unable to think of anything but Steve. It was snowing heavily outside, the kind of weather that practically demanded all plans to be cancelled for hot chocolate and warm blankets. It was those types of memories that hurt the worst…

————

Is love alive?

Is love alive?

Is love

“It’s a Wonderful Life, hands down the best Christmas movie of all time.”

“But it’s so sad,” I argued, “And the last thing you’re supposed to be during the season is sad.”

Steve looked over at me from his slumped position on the couch of the common room. I’d pulled out my fluffiest flannel blanket and even though the man was his own furnace, he loved me too much to object when I’d laid it over us. I was sitting up gesturing towards the tv as I tried to convince him that whiles his favorite movie was cute, it was too depressing for Christmas.

“Okay, I’ll give you that,” Steve relented a little, “But what about that ending? You can’t argue that it’s not heartwarming.”

I rolled my eyes, “Okay, I’ll give you that one but I don’t like how we get there. I don’t even like thinking about my life without any of you guys in it.”

Steve cleared his throat and I twisted to see his blonde eyebrows raised.

“Especially my number one elf,” I smiled as I sat back against the couch and shifted closer to him, “You’re the only person who doesn’t think I’m insane this time of year.”

“I’d never let you do Christmas by yourself,” he said, reaching under the blanket to take my hand in his.

It was moments like these that I questioned Steve and I. It was just enough of a picture perfect domestic moment that if anyone stumbled upon us, they’d raise eyebrows and ask if they were intruding. With his affectionate gaze focused on me, our shoulders rubbing together and the unexplainable feeling that behind our time spent together there was…something. If I was being completely honest with myself, I wanted there to be something.

Unfortunately, I could summon enough courage to battle aliens and assassins but not to confess my feelings. “Um, what’s next on the list?” I asked, awkwardly fidgeting with my free hand, “I need to finish making my gift list for when we go shopping if you want to help.”

“Yeah, but can we just…”

“Just what?” I asked with a furrowed brow.

Steve scratched the back of his neck before turning back to me, “Can we just sit here for a minute longer? It’s nice.”

My face probably gave away my enthusiasm for the suggestion, but I still tried to conceal it with a close lipped smile. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

Without needing any further agreement, Steve moved an arm around my shoulders and brought me closer to him. While my mind had drawn a blank, my body knew what to do and nestled itself into his side. I laid my head against his chest and wrapped an arm around his torso, giving me the perfect view of the snowstorm outside. Steve rested his chin on the top of my head and continuously ran his hand up and down my back. The moment was perfect and if I’d had the power to stop time, I’d have been happy to stay in Steve’s arms forever.

Yeah, there was definitely something.

————

They say we're buried far

Just like a distant star

I simply cannot hold

I knew it was a huge mistake to enter Steve’s room, but that still didn’t stop me from twisting the doorknob.

It was exactly as he’d left it five months ago when he left for London to attend Peggy’s funeral. All that had been added was a thin layer of dust across every surface. I dragged myself over to his bed and carefully sat down on the edge of it. The part of me that was still in denial about the entire situation didn’t want to mess up the sheets in case he made a sudden return. I reached over to his nightstand and grabbed the picture frame that had sat on it ever since last Christmas. I had jokingly bought Steve and I matching sweaters with hideous festive designs. The entire team howled with laughter as he opened the gift up on Christmas morning. God bless the man and his inability to deny me anything during the holiday season…He’d put it on without so much as an eye roll and Tony had practically tripped over himself trying to get photographic proof of it.

“You are such a simp, Rogers, and I could not be more thankful for it,” Tony grinned, holding up his phone towards us, “Say hello to next year’s Avengers Christmas card.”

Steve locked his arms around my waist and with no warning, lifted me up in the air. I squealed and rushed to hold on to him, the both of us laughing as Tony won his latest way to blackmail us.

The joy that the photo captured seemed like it had occurred years ago. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been that happy or carefree but it had probably involved Steve.

“It’s just not the same without you,” I whispered as I stroked a finger through the dust that covered his face.


This is my winter song

December never felt so wrong

Cause you’re not where you belong

Inside my arms

I wrapped my sweater around my body as I made me way back out to the common room. I didn’t expect to find Tony rifling through one of the many decoration boxes I had set out. While I’d been moping in Steve’s room, he’d taken the initiative in decorating.

“Stark Industries branching out into the holiday business?” I asked with as much of a laugh as I could muster, which wasn’t much.

He was nailing a wreath to the wall when I walked in, “It’s called extreme boredom and this is what it looks like.”

I smiled softly as he turned around to face me, trying to appreciate his efforts. If I was missing Steve, Tony was most certainly missing Pepper. He was trying to keep busy in an effort to not dwell on her obvious absence. “You’re lucky I’m not standing next to you right now.”

“Huh?”

Tony smirked and gestured with his hammer to the space above me. I looked up to see the familiar plastic piece of mistletoe I’d hoped we’d lost dangling on a string. My stomach clenched at the memories the item and the particular archway brought back.

————

“You got that video of Tony tonight right?” Steve asked as he stuffed another wad of wrapping paper into a trash bag,

“Oh yeah,” I laughed, “Drunkenly singing ‘Last Christmas’ to Rhodey wearing a Macy’s box on his head definitely tops our sweaters.”

It was late on Christmas Day, everyone had gone to bed except for Steve and I. We were finishing cleaning and wrapping up leftovers from dinner. It also gave us much needed quiet after such a loud evening.

“I think that’s the last of everything,” I said, admiring the clean kitchen.

“Same here,” he replied as he set the last trash bag off to the side of the room, “You look sad.”

I shrugged and crossed my arms, “I’m always sad when Christmas is over. It makes everyday life seem so mundane.”

“Only you would think that the life of an Avenger is mundane,” Steve chuckled from the archway he was standing under.

“Please, no bows or lights or festiveness of any kind?” I teased as I crossed the room to stand next to him, “Boring.”

We shared a laugh and leaned against our separate walls, savoring the last few moments before the day changed to the 26th.

“Thank you for helping me do all this,” I said, gesturing around us, “I couldn’t have pulled it off without you.”

“Like I said, I’d never let you do Christmas by yourself,” Steve smiled before his eyes drifted up, “Oh…”

I tilted my head to see whatever had caught his eye and caused his cheeks to turn so red. “Oh…”

The mistletoe I’d hung as a joke, hanging above and taunting us. Tony had camped under it several times and refused to budge until Pepper would oblige. Wanda and Vision had found themselves under it and she’d nervously pecked his cheek. It was all in good fun until this moment where I was cursing myself for ever hanging it.

“We don’t…I mean, we didn’t realize that it was…” I verbally stumbled, “It’s not like we knew it was there.”

“Right,” Steve nodded, “We didn’t know. But…isn’t it kind of a rule that we…have to?”

My mouth stupidly opened and closed, “I-I think so. And what kind of people would we be if we broke a Christmas rule?”

“Exactly,” Steve agreed, “So it’s not a big deal.”

“Not at all.”

“Good,” he said quietly before pushing off the wall and taking a step to the middle of the archway. I came to meet him and dropped my arms at their sides, his hands carefully reached for mine till they’d taken hold of them. The awkwardness was quickly melting away and being replaced by an urgency to make the inevitable happen. Steve’s fingers traced over the pulse points of my wrists and his lips curled up as he felt the goosebumps break out across my skin. We both leaned in at the same time, not giving the other a chance to back out because we both knew how badly we wanted to get on with it. Our lips met and all the hesitation and second guessing we’d done in the seconds before vanished. Every time I’d questioned whether or not my feelings were true suddenly turned to a resounding ‘YES’ for an answer. Our mouths moved together as if it was a dance we’d done a thousand times. As much as I wanted to pull him closer, my body was paralyzed by the shock and the only thing I felt able to do was lace my fingers with Steve’s.

It ended all too soon, the both of us pulling away in need of oxygen. Steve pressed his forehead to mine and sighed, he squeezed my hands and brushed his nose against mine.

“Merry Christmas, Steve,” I whispered.

“Merry Christmas, Y/n,” he replied softly.

————

“Take it down,” I strained, trying to keep the sobs from escaping my lips.

“Huh?”

“Take it down, Tony. All of it.”


“Y/n, what are you talking about? You love all this crap,” Tony gestured to the room.

The tears were getting harder to try and hide, so I didn’t bother. “Not anymore. If you want to hire someone to decorate, fine, but I can’t look at any of our stuff,” I snapped before dropping my tone to a whine, “Just take it down.”

I fled before he could ask any more questions that I couldn’t bear to answer. I retreated to my room, quickly locking the door and allowing my cries to be released. I curled into myself with my back against the door and let myself fall apart, knowing that the one person who could piece me back together was unreachable.

————

Is love alive?
Is love alive?
Is love alive?

Despite my ignoring the calendar and anything that had to do with the season, Christmas Day had arrived. Tony had indeed paid a team to decorate the compound, it was too minimalistic for my taste but I was the whole reason for it so I couldn’t complain.

Tony, Rhodey, Vision and I plus Peter and his Aunt May were seated at the dining room table attempting to make cheerful conversation. Peter was telling us about some recent adventure he’d had patrolling his neighborhood. I tried to pay attention but all I really cared about was how quickly I could escape to my room and put an end to the day. At some point in the evening I feigned a headache, halfheartedly wished the group a merry Christmas and trudged down the halls to my safe haven. I was pulling out a set of pajamas to change into when a muffled ringtone emerged from one of my dresser drawers. While I hadn’t heard it play ever, I knew exactly what it belonged to. I flung the drawer open and dug the phone out from under my clothes. However impossible, there was only one person who could be on the other end of the call.

With shaking hands, I flipped the top of the device up and raised it to my ear.

“Hello?”

“Merry Christmas, Y/n.”

My lips quirked upwards in a watery smile as the voice I’d longed to hear for months washed over me. “Merry Christmas, Steve.”

[goldandbluesmiles]

Acquisition

Summary: By Bruce Wayne's calculations, he still had two years to go until he could safely take over the Court of Owls, and an additional two years after that until he could turn them into something that could help Gotham instead of control it. His timeline gets accelerated when he hears about Richard John Grayson, a little boy being trained to become a Talon.

Ao3

Part 1 of Guardian Wolf

xxx

Bruce had never thought of children for himself. It would be easy to say that he never wanted them but the truth was that after losing his parents, he had refused to let himself even consider the idea. How was he supposed to take care of a child when he still felt half-broken and wrong from his parent's death. How could he take care of a child when there was an infinite sadness in him that probably had nothing to do with being an orphan and everything to do with the fact that he was just a mess. How could he subject a child to the dark ache inside of him?

No, he was best left childless even if sometimes his dreams were filled with the vague scents of small faceless pups, a hidden wish that was to never come true.

So Bruce buried his dreams deep and started his training. He travelled the world, visited mountains and desserts, met assassins and healers, and stood in front of crumbling temples and timeless treasures. He visited the league, became Ra's Al-Ghul favourite student and Talia Al-Ghul's favourite lover. Afterwards, he came back to the whispers of the Court of Owls and the hand they had had in his parent's murder. Slowly, he started to infiltrate them, turning members, sowing seeds of distrust and sending away anyone that was too much trouble. None of them exactly had clean records and while it took a lot of digging, there was always something that could be used to take their power away.

For four years, he worked his influence in the Court, gaining allies and putting on a false face. By his calculation, it would take him another two years to gain complete control and then another two turn the Court into something that could actually help Gotham instead of control it. It was a long game but Bruce was a patient man. He could wait.

Until he heard of the little boy. One of the Court's other favourites quietly informed him of a little boy that was being trained to become a talon. They hadn't injected him with too much yet since he still had to grow but they were working him to the bone.

"His name is Richard John Grayson," his informant told him

Grayson. He knew the name. He also knew that most Graysons, like William Cobb, consented to the transformation that made them Talons.

This child definitely hadn't consented.

"Has he been here the whole time?" asked Bruce

"Yes," the other answered.

Bruce cursed himself. He remembered hearing of the fall of the Graysons, remembered not paying it any attention since the talon-aged Graysons were already dead. The boy and the circus had quickly disappeared from the city and Bruce had assumed Richard would be with them.

How stupid of him.

"It's not your fault," murmured the other, quite understanding of his silences, "They kept it under wraps. Even the most loyal members do not know. Only the Grandmaster and his inner four,"

"How did you find out?" asked Bruce

The other grinned, "Everyone has a weakness of the flesh, Brucie. Mr. Crow is no different,"

Bruce raised his eyebrows at them, "I never would have expected you to go that far,"

His companions laughed, "Don't worry, Wayne. I was always going to use the sedative and I could have done it without getting naked but..."

"You actually enjoyed yourself," said Bruce, "Is the man really that good?"

"Well, if you must know..."

"Actually, no. Please leave,"

The other chuckled again, "Alright. I'm going to assume that you're going to accelerate your deadline due to this. Let me know if there's anything I can do,"

"I will," said Bruce, "And one more thing,"

"Yes?"

"Your therapist appointment?"

The other rolled their eyes, "Don't worry, Bruce. I rescheduled it for tomorrow,"

Bruce smiled, "Good. Take care of yourself,"

"You too,"

Once the door was closed again, Bruce went back to looking through the report.

It was time to make a few calls.

xxx

Deathstroke carefully deposited the boy in front of Bruce, his hands gentle despite the pain Bruce knew he was capable of inflicting. The boy seemed to be asleep, sedated most likely.

"How was he?" Bruce asked Slade, "Did he come easily?"

"He seems to be used to taking orders," said Slade, "Though he seemed bit out of it, sort of in a trance,"

Bruce nodded, surveying the little boy on the ground tightly wrapped in a blanket. From stories, he knew that the boy was a Panther shifter. He still smelled like a pup but Bruce could tell he was an Alpha.

Richard would grow up to me something formidable one day. For now, he looked small and broken, making every omega and wolf instinct rise up in Bruce.

However, it wasn't the time or place so Bruce pushed it down and turned to see a lynx and a coyote jump on the roof, only a few paces away from them. A few seconds later, Selina Kyle was fixing her hair while he had an arm full of Talia Al-Ghul.

"I missed you, Beloved," murmured the Alpha

Bruce smiled, and kissed her hair, "I missed you too, Darling,"

Behind them Slade made a disgruntled noise, forcing them to let go of each other.

"So, Lover," Selina, "What happens now? Do I need to take myself out of Gotham for a little bit?"

"You shouldn't have to but better safe than sorry I suppose," said Bruce

"What about the Court?" asked Slade, "It's going to create a power vacuum,"

Bruce smiled, "The Court won't go away. I have enough support to be seen as a hero for saving it from the attack from the 'traitors' and will be appointed the new Grandmaster. The changes I intended for will take some time but this is a start. Most of those that oppose me are currently being labelled to be exiled. Of course, I will kindly 'spare' some of them,"

Slade whistled, "And all this on an accelerated timeline. Remind me never to piss you off, Wayne,"

"Noted,"

"We should be going," said Talia, "We must not be spotted here by any lingering opposition of yours in the Court,"

"Right," said Bruce nodding, "Thank you for coming here,"

"Anything for a paycheque," Slade saluted him before jumping off the roof but not before calling out again, "Take care of the kid, Wayne,"

Bruce shook his head. For all his violence, the man could have soft spot for children.

"It's my city too, Lover," said Selina, "But I need to go look for safe transport out. Good luck,"

As always, Selina left on silent feet

"You should take care of the boy," said Talia. Her gaze almost seemed wistful as she looked at the child. Though maybe that was just his imagination.

"Yes," he murmured, "Will you go back now?"

Talia looks at him with regret in her eyes, "You know I must Beloved,"

Must. There were so many things Bruce would say to that, so many arguments that could be made. But there was a boy lying on the rooftop so he merely nodded. A gentle kiss on the cheek and Talia was gone too.

Bruce bent down and carefully lifted the boy up. He was impossibly light and easily fit in Bruce's arms.

"Alright, Pup," murmured Bruce, "What am I going to do with you?'

xxx

Alfred cornered Bruce as soon as he got inside.

"Master Bruce," said the butler, scandalized, "Please tell me that is not a child,"

"Richard Grayson," Bruce told him, "He was being trained to become a Talon,"

A look of rage passed over Alfred's before his expression settled into its normal blankness.

"I see," said the butler, "I shall ready some soup for when the young man wakes up,"

"Thanks, Alfred,"

Bruce was then left holding the small boy. On instinct, he took him to his room and gently laid him down on the bed. The space was too large for the little pup, making him seem like a deserted island in the middle of a green sea.

What could he do now? Whenever he wanted warmth he would get-

Blankets. Bruce needed blankets. The pup would like blankets. Yes, blankets.

He first raided his closet, there were some things that smelled fresh and some others that smelled like him, things he kept for when he was in heat. They still smelled like him so Bruce carefully laid them out around the little pup, leaving enough room for Bruce to slide in around him. He then took some pillows and cushions. After that, he took out some sweaters and shirts lining them in the small spaces of the structure, effectively filling it with more of his scent and closing any openings.

When he was done, Bruce stepped back and surveyed his work. Little Richard was still under the influence of whatever sedative had been given to him and was snoring softly. The blankets and other things around him would keep him safe and warm, just like Bruce wanted. Still, there seemed to be something missing. Something important. What was it?

Bruce thought back to his own childhood. He had tried to keep some of his parents' scent at first. Once it had become evident that it was just making everything worse, he had replaced them with-

Oh. He knew what he needed.

But he needed to leave the room to get it. Could he leave the pup alone? what is he woke up? What if he got scared?

In the end, the need to complete the structure won out and he ran to where he knew Alfred would be.

"Alfred!" called Bruce as he entered the kitchen, "I need more blankets!"

Alfred looked surprised to see him, putting down the spatula "Master Bruce, What-"

There was no time for questions! The pup was alone and he needed blankets quickly.

"Alfie, I really need blankets right now. Maybe something of yours and Leslie's and Richard is alone right now so I need to quickly find-"

Alfred placed a gentle hand on his arm, forcing him to slow down.

"Master Bruce," said the older Beta, "Why don't you go ahead and go back to Richard? I will find the suitable things for you,"

There was an understanding look on the man's face which was good. If Alfred understood then he would fix it. Still, Bruce hesitated. What if he got it wrong?

As if reading his thoughts, Alfred smiled.

"Master Bruce, need I remind you that I was the one who would help you with your nests as a pup?"

Bruce thought back to his childhood and nodded. Alfred was right, of course. He would find the right things and Bruce could go back to hi- the pup.

"Okay, Alfie," he said.

He quickly kissed Alfred's cheek and practically ran back to his room. To his immense relief, Richard hadn't woken up yet.

Carefully, Bruce made his way to the middle so he was curled around the little boy. Almost in a trance he pulled Richard to his chest and tucked him under his chin.

Bruce didn't know what was happening to him. He'd never acted like this before and yet he couldn't bring himself to leave the boy alone. He was so sure something bad would happen if he stayed away from the little pup too long. And as foreign as the feeling was it also felt right in a way very few feelings did.

In light of that realization, Bruce tucked Richard close and waited for Alfred to come back.

xxx

"Did he seem to be in a trance state or just worked up?" asked Leslie

"Just worked up," said Alfred as they walked to the room, "He seemed to be afraid to leave Richard alone,"

"I see," said Leslie, "Well, I don't think we have anything to worry about. It sounds like he saw a pup that could be in distress and the instinct built until he didn't know how to deal with it. It doesn't happen a lot but is quite common in people like Bruce,"

"People like Bruce?"

"He keeps a dangerously small pack on purpose, avoids pups including his cousins and obviously has some sort of anxiety surrounding the thought of children, all that builds up to feeling overwhelmed at taking care of a small pup," said Leslie, "Most do it on instinct but what do you do the when the instinct is completely foreign,"

"Hmm"

"By the way," continued Leslie "We really need to do something about the way he thinks about children. Even if he never has children of his own, it's not healthy,"

Alfred sighed, "I know. I just always thought it was something he was going through as a teenager, that he would change his mind once he was a little older and had some more time to get over his parents' death. I suppose that is on me for not seeing the signs,"

Leslie gave him a sympathetic look as they reached Bruce's room. Slowly opening the door, they found him sitting in the middle of his nest as he gently rocked the little boy in his arms. Whatever sedative had been given to the boy still seemed to be working.

Their own little boy, not grown, looked at them with wounded eyes. Leslie was reminded of the times years ago when he had looked at them like that, believing that they could fix anything. That belief ad wained over the years and the return of that look made Leslie's heart hurt. They would have to let him down all over again.

"Master Bruce," murmured Alfred, "We brought what you asked for,"

He just kept staring at them for another moment. He then looked at little Richard and then back.

"Leslie, Alfie," he brokenly whispered, "What am I doing? What's happening to me?"

"Oh my dear boy," said Alfred, sitting down just at the edge of the bed, "You're just a little overwhelmed by your instincts and your instincts are telling you that your pup needs a safe nest,"

"But he's not my pup, Alfie," Bruce sounds ready to cry, "It shouldn't feel- it shouldn't-"

"Shouldn't what, Kiddo?" asked Leslie

"It shouldn't feel this right," said Bruce, staring down at Richard's peaceful face, "He's not mine,"

Unfortunately, Richard wasn't but all those years of pushing down his wishes and his instincts meant that Brue had latched on. Leslie hated to think about what would happen once Richard had to part with him.

"Bruce," said Leslie, "For now, he doesn't have anywhere to go and from what I've heard, he's been trained brutally so let's just take care of him for now. Kind of like Lucious took care of you when I or Alfred couldn't. Think of it that way, okay,"

"Like babysitting?"

That wasn't what Leslie had meant but it seemed to be calming Bruce down so she merely nodded.

Bruce took a shuddering breath and carefully put Richard back down onto the sheets.'

"Okay," he said, "Okay, I can do that,"

Leslie shared a relieved look with Alfred. Baby steps. At least Bruce was calmer now. Once the boy woke up, they could check him over and convince Bruce to start the legal process for whatever was best for the little pup. Though, Leslie had a feeling they were going to be having an addition to their small pack.

"This is going to be difficult," said Alfred as they watched Bruce rearrange the nest again

"We'll help him," said Leslie.

He was still their little pup after all.

xxx

The Little Talon was floating on cotton candy. Very strange and nice smelling cotton candy. This was different than the other times. Usually, he woke up on the hard floor or the hard slab.

Why would he be on a cloud? Or maybe it wasn't a cloud?

Little Talon finally opened his eyes and found that he wasn't on a cloud at all. He was on a bed. A very nice bed.

Why was he on a nice bed? The beds Mr. Cobb like to get him to sleep on were always small and hard. He called them cots. They smelled like wood.

Little Talon tried moving his arms around and found that they were trapped in a blanket. He quickly untangled himself and sat up. He looked around and froze.

There was someone else there with him. A big man with dark hair and dark clothes.

This must be his new Master. Which meant that this was a test.

It wasn't like any other test he had been in though. For one, the Master seemed to be asleep.

He would wait.

After about two minutes and a half, the new Master started to move a little. Little Talon kept himself perfectly still.

The new Master opened his eyes and looked straight at him. His eyes were very blue.

"Hello," murmured the Master

Was he supposed to talk back? Taking a chance, he responded.

"Hello,"

Master smiled and Little Talon relaxed. It was a nice smile. This meant Master was happy for now.

"How are you, Richard?"

Richard? His masters didn't call him Richard. They called him Little Talon.

He didn't know how to respond and Master frowned. Oh no. Was he mad now?

"Isn't your name Richard?" Master asked

Richard? That wasn't what they called him. They called him Little Talon but...There had been the before. Before, that was filled with bright colours and happy voices. Cotton Candy and music. What had he been called before?

D-

Di-

"Dick, Master," he murmured

"Dick?" Master questioned

Little Talon nodded.

"Mama and Papa called me, Dick,"

"Do you remember your parents?"

Little Talon frowned, "I-I don't, not really. Fuzzy,"

"Oh," said Master, and then hesitated before speaking again, "Why do you call me Master?"

Little Talon frowned, "It's what you are, Master,"

"I see," said Master, "From now, I want you to call me Bruce,"

"Bruce?" Little Talon tested the word. He liked it, "Bruce,"

Bruce smiled the nice smile again and Little Talon felt happy.

"We're going to talk about some very important things, okay?" said Bruce, "So I'm going to need you to listen very carefully,"

Little Talon nodded. He was a good listener. He could be good.

"You were taken by the Court of Owls and your custody was given to Samantha Vanaver. Do you remember her?"

"Grandmaster," murmured Little Talon

"Yes. The people of the Court weren't very good people so I-"

Bruce hesitated.

"I made sure that the bad ones couldn't hurt anyone anymore," said Bruce, "I had some of my friends help with that. One of them got you out of there. Do you remember?"

Little Talon cast his mind back and a memory came to him. A large man with white hair and an eye-patch?

"Eye-patch man?" he asked

Bruce let out a laugh. Little Talon liked the sound. It was warm.

"Yes," he said, "I'm going to have to tell Slade about that one,"

Slade?

Bruce must have noticed his question because he smiled again.

"He's eye-patch man," Bruce told him

Oh.

"What happens to me now?" he asked, "Am I going to be you Little Talon now? Help you with the Court?"

"Oh, pup." murmured Bruce, "Sweetheart, you don't have to be Little Talon anymore, you can just be Dick,"

"Be Dick?" asked Little Talon. His throat felt funny so it came out all croaky.

Bruce's eyes seemed a little wet as he opened his arms, "Come here sweetheart,"

Little Talon hesitated but the room was starting to fill with a nice and sweet smell and it seemed to be coming from Bruce. He wanted to b closer to it so he complied. Once he was in Bruce's arms, he was glad he had listened. The arms were strong and felt safe. His skin felt tingly and nice everywhere Bruce was touching him so he curled even closer to chase the feeling.

"You're going to stay here now," Bruce whispered, "I'm going to take care of you. No one will hurt you here,"

"No training?" he asked

"No training," Bruce said firmly, "No cage, no cold,"

It sounded like a dream.

"Also," said Bruce, "I would like to call you, Dick. Is that alright?"

Dick. He hadn't been Dick for a while now. He had only been Little Talon but from what little he could remember, Dick had seemed like a happy boy with nice par-

There had been a fall and there had been screaming and blood. Someone had taken him away.

"My Mama and Papa are dead aren't they?" he asked.

He knew he should feel sad but all he felt was empty. Like he was light enough to be floating and the only thing keeping him in place was Bruce with his strong arms.

"Yes," murmured Bruce

"But I can still be Dick," he asked, "Even if I don't remember properly?"

"Yes," said Bruce pressing a kiss to his hair, "You can be Dick,"

"Will I remember later?"

He could feel Brue hesitate.

"You were given some drugs," said Bruce, "There is a chance that you might not remember but most likely, you'll start getting your memories about your life back,"

"I'm gonna be sad, aren't I? Because my parents are dead?"

Bruce's arms tightened.

"Yes," said Bruce, "Most likely,"

He thought about it.

"I still want to be Dick," he said.

"Okay," said Bruce.

Little Talon would become Dick again. And maybe, just maybe, he could be safe, like he was in his dreams sometimes.

Maybe, Dick could be happier and warmer than Little Talon was.

xxx

End Note:

Dick isn't completely lucid until five days later. Bruce takes this time to figure out the legal aspect. It doesn't take much to fake papers saying that he was to take care of Dick if anything ever happened to Vanessa. When Dick wakes up properly, he promptly freaks out but Bruce is able to calm him down. Dick can now properly remember his parents and starts the process of grieving, forcing Bruce to grieve too.

Oh, and they both go to therapy. Because in this universe, we are going to be healthy.

[firstruleofmethclub]

L'alice and I ran through some MET looks. Thoughts after the cut:

Took two runs at Billie Eilish because the first photo I saw was just like, from the waist up and side-on, I think probably to make her tits stand out more, which like... I know it's fashion, but she's also a teenager 😬 At first I thought it was not very on-brand for her but after looking at some more recent stuff of hers it turns out that is actually very on her new brand. Anyway, taking a look at some more angles the dress is actually bigger than it first seemed and that's cool. I still don't love the colour, and, y'know, I'm not like some Billie Eilish stan that's all "She's letting the REAL fans down by changing the way she presents herself" because... I don't care, but I do think there was something to the reserved alternative stuff she wore in the past. But yeah, I do like it more than I did initially.

Kendall Jenner points for diamond shoulder pads but overall boring af.

Kim Kardashian honestly kind of a left-field Vibe. Like it doesn't look very good, but I'm feeling the concept.

Jennifer Lopez looks like she got Sexy Crocidle Dundee from the teen section of a Spirit Halloween.

AOC sneaky bit of fun, taking the opportunity. Lettering is in my FAVOURITE shade of that like satin-y reflective red, but the dress itself pretty meh.

Lil Nas X my favourite so far. This gallery only has him in his final form, but my favourite part of his outfit was actually the reveal of the middle outfit. I might have liked the VMA's one even more though.

Rihanna's is not bad but it's very... I feel like I've seen exactly this at MET before. I do like it but, kind of not catching me.

Timothee Chalamet's I hate and honestly it's not even that it's on him. Like those shoes especially? Babe... Go home. Tell him if he's gonna wear white to the only thing all year that your outfit actually matters in, he can't play in the dust with the other children.

A$AP Rocky looks comfy. Don't like the colours though.

Lewis Hamilton like ALMOST did something. It was so close but just didn't quite push the envelope far enough.

Lupita Nyong’o looks stunning, but I think that's more her than the jress.

Emily Ratajkowski thinks this is her wedding to a man twice her age.

Gigi Hadid I think is my worst so far.

Okay, I JUST SAW Cara Delevingne. Yes. Even after AOC - THIS is the slogan. This is it.

Naomi Osaka’s I like less the more I look at it.

Russell Westbrook is giving us nothing. Everything I hate about men at the MET.

Stephen Curry gave us not much, but it was something at least.

Justin Bieber just said "Hm, what if I took Timothoiusx Chambamlam's wardrobe, somehow made it worse, but then actually kept it clean?" and invited us all to look in on the experiment and decide if it was better, worse, or the same... And it's basically the same, only difference is that Timothoir's pants might stay up.

I kinda wanna check if Sienna Miller's shawl feels nice. It doesn't look like it would but I think it MIGHT.

Emily Blunt I like but don't love. Cute kids' fairy party headpiece.

Frank Ocean laid down in the moss until he came up with the most unsettling accessory possible, and put none of that effort into his actual 'fit.

Serena Williams' over clashes with the under, but I do really enjoy that over.

Gabrielle Union's dress is actually very cool. Very art. Fuck the theme I guess, but yes, very art.

Lorde I guess thinks America is the country from Midsommar?

Addison Rae wasted her opportunity.

Nicki Minaj didn't go 'cause she's anti-vax... Honey... No.

Tracee Ellis Ross I kiiind of like the collar on. But again, I feel like this has been done to death? And it wasn't even good the first time.

Megan Thee Stallion is fine. No real comment. I like the curvature of the hem.

Rose Leslie might appeal if I didn't hate yellow. Also she's somehow paler than Jon Snow's white tux (who is completely wasting my time, btw).

Now Iman is making a fucking statement! I don't know what she's saying, but she's sure as Hell saying it!

Grimes got the memo about America and thought "I need to take a weapon into this public venue", kudos all round.

Oh there's Naomi Osaka again? I guess she had two looks? Anyway, this outfit I like much better but the hair is an interesting choice. Very that-one-doll-from-Rugrats vibes.

Troye Sivan SAID his dress was leather? It doesn't look it though, which is like.. the point of leather is the look, so?... Cute shoes though.

Dan Levy gets my award for most committed to the theme.

James Corden, real-life annoying cunt, somehow manages to achieve only "Boring" on the red carpet? Eugh.

Leon Bridges tried. I don't like it, but at least he tried.

Ilana Glazer I think is doing a riff on camo? If so, very fair, if not, looks dumb.

Keke Palmer cute.

Missed the horse girls on my first pass. Wild. I'm pulling the same face that one of them is in the photo 😲

Where were they hiding Hunter Schafer & Amandla Stenberg? Why do I have to find two of the strongest looks on Tumblr??

Finally massive props to Nia Dennis for all of what she just did!

That's it.

[vikingpoteto]

27, 9, pick any two bats

 To no one’s surprise I pick Jason and Tim + cleaning wounds + “Listen, I know it’s hard, but I’m not going anywhere.”

Red Robin looks around his kitchen and tries to list 5 things he can see. The pictures of his friends held by magnets on the fridge. The pile of dirty mugs in the sink. The unread papers spread on the table. The closed window. The trail of blood leading to the counter where he’s sitting. He makes a mental note to clean that up in the morning. Before that train of thought leads him somewhere else, he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. 4 things he can touch now. The leather of his cowl that he slowly peels away. The cold surface of the counter. The hard wall behind his back. The needle between his fingers. Another deep breath. 3 things he can hear. The clock ticking against the loud silence. Traffic and distant sirens. His mildly ragged breath. He opens his eyes, hoping he doesn’t have any cracked ribs. Another deep breath. He can smell antiseptic and also something coppery. He licks his lips. The one thing he can taste is the bitter pang from the antibiotics he took. 

Tim Drake glares at the needle. This isn’t the first time he had to stitch himself up. This isn’t the first time he had to take care of his own wounds. 

However, this is the first time he’s the one and only responsible for it. 

In another life, he would do a patch job, emergency stuff only, and then get to Alfred as soon as he could for a double check. In a time that felt like a dream now, he would have the latest health tech available and Cissie hovering over his bed while Cassie fussed about how he irresponsibly hurt himself, Bart made a joke out of everything and Conner, of all people, would be the one getting Tim proper care. Less than a month ago, the most deadly organization of the world was making sure Tim was getting the best care available. While his trembling fingers put the thread in the needle, he thinks of the almost healed scar from a damn splenectomy. He doesn’t know what Ra’s people had done to him, but he’s been recovering unnaturally fast, especially considering his immunity. 

Tim bites his tongue and looks down at his battered outfit. He could go to Leslie’s clinic. But it’d be stupid to go all the way there for a couple of bruises and a wound that would probably take less than five stitches. Tim could go to the cave, but… No. He puts the needle down and starts pulling his shirt out. He can’t completely muffle a pained groan and he hates the way it echoes in his empty kitchen. It’s been less than a week since he left Dick, Alfred and Damian. He’s an emancipated adult by all means. Bruce trained him to be independent. He can do this. 

Except… as soon as he reaches for the antiseptic, he hears a noise coming from the living room. Tim freezes. You’ve got to be kidding me. Of all the nights to have a robber breaking into his apartment, tonight? Did it have to be tonight? 

Painstakingly, he jumps to the floor and reaches for his staff. He has half a mind to get his cowl, but he thinks Tim Drake defending himself with what could’ve been a broomstick is easier to explain than Red Robin just hanging out at his place. If he’s lucky - and, after tonight, he feels like the universe owes him - he’ll knock out the robber before they see him. 

The most ridiculous thing about all this is that he feels like crying. He doesn’t know why. He barely remembers the last time he cried. Probably right before he realized Bruce could be alive. As much as he’s in pain now, this is no reason to cry like a baby. Especially not in front of a robber. 

Tim silently hides by the side of the fridge and listens. The person in his living room is good. He can barely hear their steps. He can tell there is only one of them, however, and, judging by the way the sound become louder, they’re coming towards the kitchen. Partly to focus on his hearing, partly to ignore the way his eyes are glazing over, he closes his eyes, listens and waits. He waits. He waits a little more.

Ignoring the way his muscles ache in protest, he swirls around and aims for the gut, hoping to knock the air out of the robber. Gloved hands grab his staff and the invader takes a step back before recovering his balance.

“Woah,” he says in a familiar voice, “easy there.”

Tim raises his gaze to face him. Red Hood lets go of the staff in order to remove the helmet, revealing Jason Todd’s frown. Tim feels his shoulders slumping.

“What the fuck, Jason?” Tim hisses. He feels his voice will break if he tries to speak up. 

“I should be the one asking that.” Jason puts his helmet aside. He takes one second glancing around until he finds Tim’s medical supplies. “Is this sanitary? Shouldn’t you be doing first aid in your high tech basement?”

He should. It would’ve been more practical than getting the whole first aid kit and bringing it up here. However, using his medical bay for the first time… It would make it all too real. Too definitive. Tim can’t tell Jason that.

“Medical bay isn’t finished. Kitchen or bathroom were my best options,” he lies.

“Hm,” Jason says as though he doesn’t believe him.

Tim could lie to Batman if he needed to, but, for some reason, Jason seems to always know the truth.

Without another word, Jason takes off his gloves and leather jacket. He drops them aside and walks to the sink. Tim doesn’t ask Jason how he knows where Tim lives - he won’t insult Jason’s detective abilities like that - but he does frown at the older boy as he strides through Tim’s kitchen like he owns the place. 

In fact, Tim doesn’t want to ask anything. He wants to scream at Jason to go away. He wants to lie down on the cold floor and not move for days. It’s comical in a twisted way that Tim had been just thinking longinly about the time in which he wasn’t alone, and, now that he has company, he wants nothing but to go back in time and hide inside the cupboard until Jason goes away. 

“What are you doing?” Tim croaks. 

“Washing my hands,” Jason says simply. He turns to Tim and waves at him to come closer.

It’s a testament to how miserable Tim feels that he does it without questioning. Jason arches an eyebrow at him and points at the counter where Tim had been sitting not long ago. Tim doesn’t move, even as Jason wipes his hands dry with paper towels and reaches for the hand sanitizer in Tim’s medical kit. 

“Jason,” Tim insists. “What are you doing?”

Jason sighs. “One of my guys told me this new vigilante, this Red Robin guy, took an ugly beating near the harbor while he took down one of Sionis’ turfs.”

“It wasn’t an ugly beating,” Tim mumbles.

“Wasn’t it?” Jason asks, his voice dripping sarcasm. “Was it easy to fight fifteen guys at the same time, Superman? Did it feel wise to bring a freaking staff to a knife fight?”

“I won!” Tim says. 

“Yeah, and which victorious mighty hero is bloody and purple all over?” Jason barks. “Sit your ass down, Replacement!”

Tim flinches and… freaking hell, his eyes are stinging again, which is the most absurd thing ever. 

Jason sighs one more time, but this time he sounds… Well, annoyed isn’t quite the right word. He does sound somewhat irritated, but there is something else in his tone. Discomfort? Embarrassment?

“That’s not… Ugh, I’m sorry, alright?”

Except that’s actually worse. 

Moments ago, Tim wanted nothing but to be seen. It was pathetic. He wasn’t even that hurt and tonight hadn’t been special. It was just the first time he went out for patrol since he moved into his new apartment. He didn’t stop Poison Ivy, didn’t get into a scuffle with Harvey Dent. He just put away a bunch of low level henchmen even if he miscalculated how many of them would be there. Such a small feat, but there was a part of him that wanted someone to acknowledge that. To see all the bruises and bloody scabs, to pat him on the back and tell him he was great for how hard he was working.

How childish. 

Now that there is someone and he seems to be fully aware of Tim’s misery - enough to apologize for speaking a little too loud - Tim only feels small and stupid. He should’ve hidden it better, he shouldn’t be in this sorry state at all. 

The last time he saw Jason, they made amends. Just returned to Gotham after his mishaps with the League of Shadows, Tim found him to let him know he was aware that Red Hood was active again. Jason had said - albeit not in so many words - he lamented trying to kill Tim one year ago. Tim had told him it was water under the bridge by now and they agreed to work around each other, even if Jason still didn’t meet Dick eye to eye after last year. Then Tim had promised himself he would become strong like that. Jason had been through hell and back so many times and he always bounced back on his own. Why couldn’t Tim?

Maybe that’s why it felt like rubbing salt to the injury when Tim glares at Jason, the boy he was supposed to replace, the man whose shoes were too big for Tim to fill, and Tim’s vision is blurry with tears and his voice is overflowing with frustration when he asks yet again:

“What are you doing here?”

Jason meets his gaze. His brown eyes show clear unease, but he doesn’t look away. His brow is furrowed as though this is painful to admit, but he finally says:

“I heard you were probably hurt like that,” Jason gestures at Tim’s bare torso. “I knew you weren’t going to the cave for aid, so I brought the aid to you.”

“How did you know that?”

“Because if it were me, I wouldn’t go there either,” he states simply.

Tim bites his lip. “You dealt with your wounds alone after you came back.”

“Yes,” Jason says. He gestures at the counter again. This time, Tim sits. “I know it sucks. You ever tried stitching your own back? It’s really fucking hard.”

Tim looks down and doesn’t say anything. Jason brings a damp cotton ball to Tim’s wounds and stats methodically cleaning them. Tim doesn’t flinch, even when it really stings. Even when he feels like shame and guilt are all going to drown him.

“How did you do it?” Tim finally asks.

“The back stitches? A mirror and one of those grabby claw things, whatever they’re called…”

Tim glares at him. 

“So serious,” Jason complains. Then, in a calm voice, “I did it the same way you were doing before I got here. If I didn’t I’d die. Guess I wanted to keep living. You’d be impressed with the things people do when they have no other option.”

“You’re incredible,” Tim admits quietly. “I’m not like you. I’m not strong or… I gotta do this alone. I don’t know how.”

He doesn’t know why he’s saying out loud all the things he struggled to keep hidden for so fucking long. Jason doesn’t seem surprised with the confession though. He keeps calmly checking Tim’s injuries. 

“Not strong, huh? Which one of us took fifteen guys in a fight and won?”

“You know what I mean, Jason.”

“Yeah.” Jason grabs the needle Tim picked earlier and checks it before starting to work. “I know. Except you don’t gotta do anything, Timbers. And I don’t mean the vigilante thing. Fuck, I know none of us can quit this fucking life. We’re in too deep. I meant you’re not supposed to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders. That’s what fucked up the old man. That’s how you lose yourself.”

“What’s that?” Tim scoffs. “You sound like a shrink.”

Jason looks up and smirks. “Maybe I have a shrink.”

Tim frowns. “Who?”

“Guess.”

“Jason.”

He chuckles. “Okay, so… I know it seems crazy, but she found me and asked me to join my crew in exchange for taking off this explosive thing that Amanda Waller put in her. And she’s crazy competent, so…”

“No,” Tim interrupts him. “You did not let Harley Quinn join your crew.”

“Actually, Harley Quinn and Poison Ivy,” Jason has a shit eating grin even as he finishes his stitch job. “They’re a package deal. Ivy showed up a couple of days after Harley and I couldn’t get her to leave so…”

“You’re working with Harley Quinn and letting her give you therapy sessions,” Tim says. “Am I on a parallel Earth? Have those guys killed me and I��m hallucinating?”

“A lot changes in a year, Timbers, you’ve been gone for a while,” Jason shrugs. “People change too.”

“Not that much!” Tim protests. 

“Is that so? Then how come you gave me, what now, three, four second chances?” Jason glares at him.

That catches Tim off guard. He takes a moment to realize what he’s talking about. 

“What does that have to do with anything?” Tim asks, genuinely confused.

“I came back, I tried to kill you. You let it go. I get arrested, you help me to break out. I thank you by losing it after seeing B’s clusterfuck of a testament. You come back like it was nothing and tell me you hope to do business in the future. And you think I’m insane for giving shelter to an abused lady?”

“I’m not saying you’re insane for helping her. I’m saying I wouldn’t trust her advice,” Tim corrects. “Besides I know what you’ve been through. I understand, even if the others don’t. You’re still a hero. Why wouldn’t I help you get back in the game?”

“Because I could hurt you again, you moron,” Jason frustratedly points out.

“You could also be helpful. I decided it was worth taking the chance,” Tim states.

“Yeah, you did,” Jason whispers, using the bandaging as an excuse to avoid Tim’s gaze. “You’re the best of us, Tim. I’m not letting you crash like I did so many times.”

Tim just stares, his lips parted in shock. 

That’s when he feels the dam breaking and tears finally start to stream freely down his cheeks. He sniffles and makes that horrible choked up sound of someone vainly trying not to cry. Jason keeps tending to his injuries even as Tim’s body shakes with barely contained sobs and Tim doesn’t know if he’s ignoring the meltdown out of mercy or because he simply doesn’t know how to deal with it. It’s probably both. 

By the time Jason finishes wrapping up Tim’s many scrapes and rubbing medicine on countless bruises, Tim has managed to contain his sobs and is gingerly trying to wipe his face and pretending he doesn’t feel like he almost drowned.

“Listen, I know it’s hard, Baby Bird,” Jason mutters, a tad awkwardly. “But I’m not going anywhere. It’s not just you against the world.”

“Then what, is it the two of us against it?” Tim tries to quip.

“Maybe,” Jason says. “You did a lot for me. It’s about time I start deserving it.”

“I didn’t do it because I wanted you to pay me back.”

“And that’s exactly why I’m here, dumbass,” Jason takes a step back. “I’m done. Go get changed into a pair of sweatpants or something. I’m gonna introduce you to the wonders of 2am cereal.”

Tim lets out a chuckle. “I’ve eaten cereal at 2am before, Jason.”

“Not mine, you haven’t. Chop, chop, kid, we don’t have all night.”

Tim listens to him. 

He should know better, after all he had experienced new beginnings before. All of them inevitably lead to crashing and burning, some rather spectacularly too.

However… There are a few firsts here. This is the first time someone truly understands. This is the first time Tim doesn’t feel like he’s entering a challenge, that he has to earn his place as Robin, as Young Justice’s leader. He feels like his place had been earned, like there’s a small beacon of hope after a long struggle. 

Tim lets himself accept it.

[goldkirk]

Dr. Wayne AU, ch 3: Jason

[ Read on ao3 ] 

They’re in the Thomas Wayne Memorial Clinic after hours, just the two of them, Bruce and Leslie going on their semi-regular clean-out-the-storage-room-holy-god-how-does-it-even-get-like-this-we-JUST-organized-it-last-season-didn’t-we crusade. Singing along to Queen at the top of their lungs, forgetting to stop for a late dinner until Alfred calls to scold them both and remind them he packed quesadillas, getting into the usual casual tongue depressor tag war, and in Leslie’s case, going absolutely buckwild with the label maker. As usual. 

And then Bruce opens the back door to the dumpster, garbage bags swinging from one arm and a pile of broken down cardboard boxes in the other, and nearly trips over a scrawny, sharp-eyed kid. And just like that, Bruce’s life flips inside out and upside down all over again faster than he can blink. 

Not that he realizes it, at the time, but he’s him . It’s just how these things go . Give Bruce a few more years, a few more kids, he’ll start to get a bit more self-aware. But right now, on cracked and crumbling wet asphalt shining in the light from a dirty, yellowed flood light that’s older than God, probably, all Bruce thinks is kid and what? and there’s probably a problem-- and problems are his job, and the kid is still glaring, and Bruce really doesn’t want to step on him, so. 

Bruce catches himself on the tips of his toes, doing the standard oh-shit dance of balance-catching like a drunk ballet dancer. Then drops the garbage bags on the ground and drops the cardboard against the brick wall and drops himself into a squat on his heels a couple inches away from the kid, and simply says, “Hi.” 

The kid stares back for a couple of seconds. 

“Hi,” they say, looking up through ragged too-long bangs, and Bruce automatically notes that their voice sounds hoarse, which is maybe normal for them but maybe Not Good. Especially considering that it’s winter. And this is an alley. At night. On the ground. 

“I’m Bruce,” says Bruce. “Um, are you here for--”

“A car hit me,” the kid says, completely calm, and Bruce just--

Bruce blinks. “A car?”

The kid gives him an unimpressed look. 

“Right,” Bruce says, shaking his head a little. “I heard you. Sorry. A car hit you, when? Tonight?” 

The kid nods. Bruce doesn’t bother to hide the visual scan he’s doing.

“Does anything hurt in particular? What made you come to the clinic?” Then Bruce frowns a little. “Why the back door?”

“My arm,” the kid replies immediately, confirming Bruce’s suspicion that one was being cradled a little too close to the chest. “My arm, because of the car,” the kid says again, still staring at Bruce, deadpan. “And it’s safer back here from the guys who want to grab kids who look like they won’t be able to run fast enough. I ain’t stupid.”

“Of course not,” Bruce tells the kid automatically, sounding half-offended on their behalf. “Listen, I’m guessing you’re here for Leslie. She’s inside. I’m a doctor too, I work at Gotham General, and I’m helping her out tonight. Can I carry you inside?” The odds are fifty-fifty that this kid, clearly used to living on the streets, will either kick Bruce between the legs and try to bolt at the offer alone, or take Bruce up on it even though he’s a strange adult because the kid’s actually feeling worse than they’re letting on.

The kid glances over at the garbage bags. “Don’t you have to finish taking out the trash?”

“That can wait.” You’re hurt. I’m worried. It’s literally garbage. You’re a child who needs to come in and get warm.  

The kid looks him up and down once, jaw tightening a little--Bruce can see the tendons in the kid’s neck, that’s a little concerning, but maybe fine, he’ll just have to see…

“Sure,” the kid says, after a couple seconds, moving to shrug and then aborting the attempt almost instantly with a sharp sucked-in breath. 

“Easy,” Bruce murmurs on instinct. “You’re okay. Just keep that arm held close, and I’m gonna slide arms under your knees and back, okay? Hang on.”

Bruce rolls smoothly up to standing, and his first thought is a surprised, alarmed, this kid is way too thin. They hadn’t looked large , curled up on the ground by the door, but Bruce can feel way more bone than he should be able to, even for a probable street kid. How is this child not hypothermic already? How long have they been going without food? Bruce doesn’t have answers. Just more questions, every second, and that’s not helping anything right now, so he needs to focus .

He dips his whole upper body forward and twists around a little to get the door code punched in with his elbow, because he shouldn’t have had practice doing things like that, but he has, and at least it comes in handy for times like now. The kid actually makes a noise that sounds impressed while Bruce uses his elbow and foot to kick the door open and sweeps them through into the old tile hallway and rush of warm air. 

“Name?” Bruce asks, pleasantly, while he strides down the hall to where he remembers hearing Leslie belting out the chorus of Killer Queen a few minutes ago.  

“Jason,” says the kid. 

“Pronouns?”

The kid’s head snaps up to stare at Bruce hard, and Bruce keeps his face carefully neutral. 

“I always ask,” he says, blandly. “I work with kids every day for a living. I think it’s only polite, to not assume. So, pronouns? Age?”

“I’m a boy,” Jason says, finally. “Twelve.”

Twelve. Definitely too light and too small in general for a healthy twelve. Whatever is going on with this boy, it’s not recent. Or at least, not only recent. Bruce is pretty sure the injured arm would disagree with his previous statement. 

“Where are your parents?” Bruce sticks his head in the storage room and huffs quietly when Leslie is, of course, nowhere in sight. He steps away from the doorjamb and heads further down the hall, towards the main part of the clinic. He needs to get the kid to one of the exam rooms, anyway. 

Jason snorts. “Where do you think?”

Bruce thinks maybe gambling, or maybe high as hell and not home, or maybe not alive at all. Bruce thinks maybe a lot of things.

“I don’t know,” he tells Jason, setting him down as gently as possible on an exam table. “But clearly they aren’t available right now, or you’d have gone to them.” 

Jason reacts like a cat on tin foil when he first crunches the white paper underneath him, and only settles down properly once he’s poked it a couple of times and checked out where it’s coming from.Bruce presses the button on the counter that will send an alert to Leslie’s phone with the room number, and then tugs out a pair of exam gloves from one of the boxes on the wall. He doesn’t miss Jason watching his every move, and Bruce thinks, this kid is a broken-winged hawk . He firmly reminds himself to keep his hands where Jason can see them at all times. 

“You have any number I can call for you?” Bruce asks, casually, tapping the keyboard to wake up the monitor and log in to their chart system. “Parents, guardian, anyone who can authorize care?”

“No,” Jason says, quietly, and Bruce can’t quite tell what the underlying tone is in his voice. 

“Okay,” says Bruce, in the tone that’s almost-a-sigh. “I’m. You understand that we’re mandated reporters,” he starts, awkwardly. 

“No!” Jason nearly snarls. “They said this place won’t rat anyone out. I only came here because you guys are the only ones who wouldn’t need parent signatures or whatever. I’m taking care of myself, I’ve got it handled, I just need help with my arm and then I’ll be gone.”

“Jason,” Bruce says helplessly, hands spread out wide, palms up, “we don’t turn in adults unless they’re an indisputable danger to themselves or others when we treat them, but kiddo, minors are a different case--”

“Fuck you,” Jason snaps, voice up almost half an octave, and shoves off the table with his good arm, landing with a quick crouch and a grimace he can’t manage to hide. He takes a couple of breaths before opening his eyes, and stares directly at Bruce. They’re hard, furious, hinting at coiled danger. “Forget it, I’m out, I’ll take care of it myself.”

His eyes, Bruce notes, are also afraid . 

Bruce takes a deep breath. 

“Take care of what yourself?” comes a sharp, familiar voice, and Bruce almost grins when Jason straightens involuntarily. Leslie tends to have that effect on people. 

She’s stalking into the room and tugging on gloves from the wall holder in half a second, peering over her reading glasses at Jason with absolute laser focus. 

“Um,” Jason says, sounding far more uncertain than Bruce ever has heard him so far. 

“I’m Dr. Thompkins,” Leslie says. “I’m in charge of this clinic, and it looks like you’re my newest patient. Happy to have you. What’s your name?”

“Jason Todd,” spills from the boy’s lips so automatically that even he is caught by surprise. He doesn’t even have time to scowl before Leslie is asking him further questions in her firm, irresistible way that makes grown mobsters falling into line every day, and within seconds Jason is somehow back on the exam table, answering questions with a slightly bewildered look on his face and watching Leslie non-stop as she narrates everything she’s doing with the stethoscope that Bruce swears hasn’t left her neck in the whole twenty-eight years he’s known her on this Earth. 

Bruce logs Jason’s answers into their system as quickly as he can type them, and his brain is a constant litany of too thin, too thin, too thin, because there is hungry and there is dangerously underweight and this boy looks like he’s been starving for weeks . 

“I’m not going to a shelter,” Jason says, anger and real terror tangled up into a thornbush all wound through his voice. “I won’t, I’ll run, I won’t go with social services, everyone knows you go with them and you end up--you end up disappearing, or beat to hell and running away again anyway--this is Gotham.”

And Bruce closes his eyes, taking a moment to feel the pain, because as much as he’s trying, as much as they’re all trying to fix this city from the top down and the bottom up and the inside out and every which way--with money and programs and system-level change--Jason is, to some extent, right. 

Half of the system is a train wreck after years of underfunding and overcrowding, and the other half is a front for human trafficking and drug cartels, mostly within Gotham’s poorest and most vulnerable neighborhoods. Jason’s right . 

Bruce and Leslie know who’s legitimate. They know they do, but Jason has no reason to trust them, and even less to believe them, period. 

But Jason’s also clearly not okay, and they clearly have to do something about that. 

Dammit. This is. Okay. This is fine, Bruce can sort this out. He’s Batman. 

It is nighttime, technically. This is supposed to be his job. 

“Okay,” he says, hands up in a placating gesture at both Jason and Leslie. “Leslie, we need to check him out first, before anything, and we can talk after. And Jason...I promise you, I won’t let anyone bad take you anywhere. I’m a foster parent myself, and I’m on several city boards. I know the system. I won’t let you slip through cracks.”

Jason is hunched against the wall, as far from Leslie’s outstretched hand as he can get, face sunken and nearly gray in the fluorescent lighting that provides no more artificial warmth to help him keep up the facade. He glares at Bruce, looking ready to claw his way out of the room like a cornered dog and simultaneously so tired he could cry. 

Jason needs help . He needs it so badly that every inch of his body is screaming for it right now. Bruce can see him shake from trying to hold himself still and ready to flee. 

“Why should I trust either of you?” Jason demands. He sounds nearly frantic, eyes flickering between both of them now, counting hands that they carefully keep steady and in view. “You’re--you’re gonna call the cops on me, and the social workers, and I’ve done that, and I’m not going back again, I’m better on my own. I won’t.” He has to stop and pant for several seconds, has to catch his breath after just a few sentences, and that’s another drop in Bruce’s rapidly-filling worry bucket. “You--you’re a foster parent, woo hoo, that doesn’t mean anything, you could be just like any other old pervert in this city--”

“I’m not,” Bruce says, calm and steady. “I’m a doctor at the hospital, a pediatric surgeon, and I have a son a few years older than you who I adopted when his parents died. I’ve been a foster parent ever since, and I usually am an emergency placement for kids who have medical needs until a more permanent family can be found for them.” He pulls over the rolling stool with his foot and sits down till he’s below Jason’s eye level, and signals Leslie to step away and sit down in one of the old chairs by the wall. 

“Jason,” Bruce says. He looks the boy over, this shaking, scrawny kid, with limp hair and a dirty beanie and ripped clothes and a look in his eyes that Bruce has seen far, far too many times in both his lines of work. 

“Bruce,” Jason throws back, challenging him, mocking just a little. Bruce doesn’t rise to the bait. 

“Before anything else,” Bruce tells him, careful and steady and very, very honest--he’s projecting it however he can, he’s bleeding honesty from every pore right now--“Dr. Thompkins and I are doctors . We’re here to help you. You’ve been hurt, and our first priority is to check that and fix you up. Then--and I’m going to be very honest with you right now--I think you need to go to the hospital.”

“No,” says Jason . Less angry now. More tired.

“Yes,” says Bruce, firmly. “You’re not healthy right now, Jason, you need help. Surviving doesn’t mean okay . If you're as sick as I’m guessing you are, you’re going to need to go, and it’s not debatable.”

“I don’t have enough money,” Jason says, and his voice cracks on the last word. Something in him must have been wanting to let this out, because all of a sudden he slumps against the wall and table, tension falling out of his posture so suddenly it looks like he’s a puppet with strings cut. Bruce lurches forward a few inches to catch him, until he realizes Jason isn’t actually falling. 

He opens his mouth to tell Jason that he doesn’t need to worry about the money, that he’s a minor. Bruce has even specifically set up funds for this exact kind of situation. But Jason, it seems, is just getting started. 

“I’m not stupid,” he says, voice thickening by the second while they watch his eyes get red around the rims. “I’m not dumb, I know that I shouldn’t be living on the streets like this, I want--I want to go back to school! I liked school, but they threw me in foster care when my mom got sick, and it was—really bad. And then she died and I couldn’t get out, but it wasn’t getting better, and so I left . And it sucks, being on the street, I miss beds and showers and my books and everything, but I can’t go back, and they caught me twice and just put me with even worse people, and the last ones were gonna make me do drug runs and I didn’t want to help sell people drugs, and--and every time I try going somewhere it always makes it worse, so I stopped, except for the food, because--” 

He chokes on a couple of sobs, here, and hardly even notices when Leslie puts a box of Kleenex next to him on the table before backing away quietly. Jason looks exhausted just from this outburst to the point where Bruce is almost wondering if he’ll pass out right here and now. But Jason continues, more quietly, in an even more unsteady voice. 

“I go around to dumpsters by all the restaurants, digging out their leftovers, you know?” he tells them. Bruce nods. He does know, he’s done that, he’s been there. “‘Cause they always have so many. And as long as you don’t get caught, it’s okay. And the shelters and food pantries and libraries, they give out food too, so I just kind of rotate, and buy what I can when I got money from odd jobs or some random person. But ever since mom got sick--she started chemo, and then I had to leave, and then every time I ate, I kind of got sick. But not bad. I thought I was just stressed. And then I didn’t eat much at all, and it was mostly okay, but now it doesn’t matter how much I eat, I—I’m always sick and it always hurts and I know that’s not good but I can’t go to the hospital because we never had money in the first place and--” He gulps, looking between Bruce and Leslie, then closes his eyes. “I’m really tired,” he says, hoarsely. “I don’t have anywhere to go. They said if I ran away again I couldn’t go to a normal foster placement anymore, because I’m a problem kid or whatever, and I get it it—I mean, I am— I swear I keep myself safe. And I get enough food. I can take care of myself, but—it doesn’t work . I don’t know why I keep getting worse. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I just want it to stop.”

Bruce feels like his chest is shattered into a spiderweb, cracked like safety glass, tangled up like the headphones he always regrets tossing into the bottom of his work backpack. 

“Okay,” he says, softly. Jason’s exhausted, puffy eyes flicker back over to him. “Okay,” Bruce repeats. “Jason. I hear you. Are you listening to me?”

Jason nods.

“Dr. Thompkins and I are going to check you out here,” Bruce says, as gently as he can. “We’ll do what we can for your arm, and then I’m going to take you to the hospital right afterwards. I’m going to go with you. I’ll make sure that you get settled in there, and we’re not going to call any police, I promise. We’ll have to bring in a hospital social worker, but I’m used to dealing with the system, and they know me, and we are not going to let anything bad happen to you this time.”

Jason stares at him like he wants so badly to believe him, but can’t quite manage it. 

“Would it help,” Bruce asks, “if I told you that I am personally friends with the Police Comissioner, and that he is currently trying to hunt down every single group in Gotham that deals in human trafficking or exploits children in the foster system? And that I guarantee you he’d want to talk with you as soon as possible to get your help in making that happen, and that he is very, very serious about making sure kids get placed with real, safe foster families?”

“He is?” Jason asks.

“He is.”

“Jason, honey,” Leslie says. “Dr. Wayne here is one of the best, most trustworthy people I know in the whole world. You trust me because you know everything I do at this clinic, right? That I really care about these people and these neighborhoods?”

Jason nods.

“Well,” says Leslie. “You trust me. And I trust him.”

~

Jason finally agrees to go to the hospital. 

He lies down on the exam table slowly and lets them do what they need--the questions, the checks, and Bruce fully admits to the way tangled vines unwound from his lungs when they confirmed that yes, Jason did get hit by a car tonight, but by “hit” Jason meant he got bumped by the corner of a bumper --which he laughed about as he told them, of course, because of “intended uses” and all that. Kids , Bruce swears to god--and had mostly gotten knocked off-balance into some concrete steps in front of the corner tea shop down the street. 

Just someone in an old junker speeding and taking turns too sharp late at night. That was all. Jason isn’t particularly bothered by the turn of events, aside from being mad his arm is out of commission. Probably because he sees worse on the streets often, and likely at his previous homes, too. 

Bruce doesn’t tell him he’s lucky it was his elbow that cracked and not his head. That the car wasn’t going a few miles per hour higher, that Jason wasn’t a couple inches further to the side. That he hadn’t been grabbed on his way to the clinic as an easy target. That it’s the most gossamer line between a simple bump to the head with no consequences and a TBI that changes a life forever, and Jason’s forehead scrape could have been so much worse, and no one would have known for too long. That he’s lucky that he could get himself here, because if it had been worse, who would have been looking for this kid in a city of millions--this kid ghosting from place to place, who would have been searching all night, frantic, trying to find this boy who was on the ground, hurt, needing someone to--

Leslie smacks Bruce’s arm when he gets too distracted, and while she carefully cleans and bandages one of Jason’s scrapes, Bruce tells Jason none of these thoughts. But he runs the kid through neurological checks once, and then again after another few minutes, and Leslie shoots Bruce a look without any real annoyance. Jason doesn’t question anything. Just lets them move him, treat him, do what they needdis. He watches, and he tracks, and he’s brilliantly, beautifully alive to do it. For the first time in too long, Jason lets someone else take the reins for a little while.

Bruce can tell he’s still wary, though, and if Jason isn’t still mostly convinced that this is a mistake, that he’s going to end up burned and running and on his own again, Bruce will eat his stethoscope. Trauma doesn’t go away in one conversation. That feeling of knowing the other shoe will drop, it just will, because it did before--that feeling doesn’t go away after someone promises things will work out. 

It didn’t for Bruce. It didn’t for Dick. 

It takes time, it takes work, it takes event after event proving that things can, in fact, be okay, before a brain will believe it. Bruce isn’t deluding himself into thinking Jason actually believes he’s going to get properly helped.

But the boy is so tired, both physically and mentally, that the first instance of adults sounding like they genuinely want to help in a long, long time seems to have absolutely done him in for the moment. Jason’s barely managing to stay awake while they check his vitals, his definitely-fractured elbow, the scrapes and bruises and old, old scars that make Bruce wish, just a little, that he could throw a punch at certain people without risking the hands he has a responsibility to keep strong and steady for his patients. 

Bruce lets Leslie tackle the arm splinting, and he gets busy calling Alfred, updating him, telling him what to tell Dick, and finishing with a love you, call you soon, I’ll be home when I can. Then he catches sight of Jason, who’s watching Bruce through half-open eyes with an expression that looks half guilty and half longing, not even making any complaints while Leslie carefully manipulates his swollen, bruised arm and steadily murmurs apologies. 

Bruce hits redial and smiles when Alfred picks up before it even gets to the second ring. 

“Hi, Alfie,” he says. “On second thought, could you run a bag over to the front desk for me before you turn in for the night? Some toiletries, one of the spare bears, and however many books you can get to fit. Some classics, a little variety, maybe? Throw in our older set of Percy Jackson books, actually, that’ll be perfect. Thanks.”

After he ends the call, he hits print on all the information they’ve gotten from Jason that the hospital will need, picks up his handwritten sheet of notes and things he thinks they ought to check first, starting with a full blood panel the second he gets Jason through those doors. 

Then he turns to Jason. “I figured you might like something to read while you’re there,” he says, warmly, while Jason stares at him, slumped in a sitting position on the end of the table while Leslie bundles him in at least three fleece blankets and smooths her fingers one last time over the butterfly bandaid on one side of his forehead. 

“Read?” Jason asks, brows pinching together. Not like he’s questioning reading, specifically, more like he’s questioning the whole situation. And Bruce. 

“Yeah,” says Bruce, while he tugs on his down coat that Leslie grabbed from where he’d chucked it in the lobby on his way in earlier. “You said you missed your books. I thought maybe you’d like some that weren’t from the tattered collection at the hospital that about a million elementary schoolers touch every day.” 

Jason blinks at him, looking floored, and then slowly, slowly, a small, real smile creeps its way onto his face for the first time since Bruce nearly tripped right over him in the back alley. 

“Books,” Jason snorts. “Yeah. I’d--I’d like to read some books again. I’ve only got three in my stash right now. They’ve gotten kind of old.”

“Then books you’ll get,” Bruce promises. “As soon as we get you to a room at the hospital.”

~

Two days later, Bruce knocks on the door, waits for Jason’s come in, ‘s not like I can lock it, and then walks over to slump into one of the spots on the couch next to Jason’s bed, thumping his head back against the windowsill while Jason looks him over, top to toe, with a critical eye. 

“What happened to you,” Jason says, finger tucked lightly in the crease between book pages, holding his place while he’s plunked the book down on his covers. 

Bruce grunts, kicking one foot limply at the backpack he dropped halfway on top of one of his clogs. He should move it. It’s uncomfortable. But it’s so much work to sit back up and lean over and like, actually grasp an object and tug .

“Okay,” Jason says, dry and sarcastic and already making Bruce want to crack a grin. “I’ve known you for like, thirty seconds, so sue me for not being fluent in the dictionary of your caveman noises and their intricate linguistic histories. You gotta give me more to work with. What is this, kindergarten? Can you use your big boy words, Dr. Wayne.”  

“Brat,” Bruce says, fondly. He heaved a sigh and hauls himself forward to flip open the backpack and rummage around before pulling out a smaller bag and tossing it up to Jason, who loses his place in the book to try and catch it. “Dick sent over his old DS and some games. Said he thinks you’ll like Kitchen Mom, or something like that? He’ll be by after practice this evening, probably not long after I leave.”

“Cooking Mama?” Jason says, sounding more excited than Bruce has heard him in at least half a day. “He’s lending me his DS? Oh my god, I haven’t gotten to play anything in ages .”

Of course it’s Cooking Mama. Bruce knows what Dick liked playing. Pokemon, Cooking Mama, Sims Pets, he got roped into trying them all himself. He always keeps tabs on what makes Dick happy. But he also has a reputation to maintain, and had been kind of hoping to make Jason squirm with the butchered name. He doesn’t mind, though. Seeing Jason too excited to even care is better. 

Jason has gone quiet, all of a sudden, and Bruce snaps out of his post-shift haze to catch Jason looking at him with an odd expression and the DS case held close.

“Are you sure he doesn’t want these, for now?” Jason asks, glancing at the bag in his hands. “I mean. They’re his games, and you guys don’t need to keep--coming around, or bringing things for me to do, or whatever. I’m fine. I’m okay on my own, you’ve gotta be busy.” He frowns, for a second, and then plasters a grin on his face and gestures at Bruce, flicking his casted, IV-free hand up and down. “I mean. Look at you.”

“Hey,” Bruce rumbles. “Stop moving that arm so much. And I’d like to see you finish out your shift with an eight hour surgery and then look as good as all this.”

Jason snorts. 

“Jason,” Bruce continues, leaning forward, elbows on his knees and eyes locked on Jason’s. “Of course we don’t have to keep coming to see you. But we want to. I like you, and I worry about you, and I want to make sure you’re doing okay. Because I think you’re important. You don’t have to trust me, or believe me, but I’m going to keep coming anyway. You’re not going to fall through the cracks again. I promised.”

“People promise a lot of things,” Jason says, looking over at his IV pump. “They aren’t usually good at following through.”

Bruce hums. “That’s true,” he says. “But some people do, and everyone can get better at it. I can’t speak for anyone else, not even Dick. They’re their own people. But Jason, I promise you--I, personally, take my promises very seriously.”

“Yeah,” says Jason, looking at him appraisingly, maybe almost a little approvingly, as he sets down the DS case and lifts the book again, clumsily starting to flick through pages at a weird angle with his casted arm. “I can tell.”

Bruce thinks that’s all of it, then, once Jason finds the right page and stares hard at the book, eyes flickering over lines of text. Bruce knows a dismissal when he sees one, and also knows how to navigate ever-shifting moods--he works with kids all day, and their stressed-out parents almost more than that. Adults are just better at hiding their mood shifts and keeping things bottled up--till something breaks the bottle, and it all spills out. 

That is all to say, Bruce has carefully taught himself to know when to push and when to just keep quiet, and Jason. 

Jason is a boy who needs a lot of quiet. 

So Bruce hums something quiet, barely audible, some tune from a show Dick’s been watching lately, and kicks off his clogs, flexing his toes up and down and relishing the freedom as he tugs off his compression socks. Then back into his old Birkenstocks his feet go, finally. And he’s a doctor , his brain screams at the horror of exposed toes in a clinical setting, but to hell with that. He’s a visitor, right now, even if he is still in scrub pants to go with his Gotham Knights hoodie. He’ll wear what he wants on this couch. It’s a free country, he’s a free man. 

Bruce tucks his clogs under the couch edge and pulls his bagged meal from the backpack, silently blessing Alfred for always looking out for him so well, and he’s about to take a bite of his first burrito when Jason suddenly speaks up.

“Dr. Kyle came around last night,” he says, quietly. He doesn’t look over at Bruce, eyes still fixed on the book, even though they both know he’s not really reading. “She talked about you a lot. Said you spend way too much time at this place. And that you’re awesome playing with the little kids.”

“Tell that to my back,” Bruce says. “I think it would like a break from the horsey rides.”

Jason’s mouth flicks up into a grin for just a moment before it’s gone again. “That sounds like a you problem,” he tells Bruce. “She said you’re a good guy. We talked for a while. About stuff. Her life. You know.”

Bruce does know. He knows enough. Not all, but enough. 

Little tells, when they hang out outside of work; the way Selina doesn’t hand off certain cases until she’s absolutely sure that the city has sent one of the good social workers to take over, one that Selina trusts. Too-cheerful comments and asides during their work lunches and coffee runs over the years. Things thrown out in the laughing tones, the wasn’t-that-a-funny-story , the if I make light enough of it, it wasn’t actually bad, and no one will be concerned or sad.  

Bruce knows that’s a cue he ought to respect more. But Bruce isn’t the best, with social cues. He knows that. It’s part of why kids are always so much easier for him than the grown-ups are. He’s got all the etiquette of high society, he’s polite, he knows how to navigate a gala or a conference or an interview full of traps and pitfalls and hungry, clever journalists. But he’s unable to hide concern, or stay out of it when he sees someone in pain. He’s been that way since long before he ever had a before and after to divide his life into, an encyclopedic separation of years, of personality, of going from babbling all day to near-mute. 

Selina drops these bread crumbs, when they talk, and she’s half hiding, half testing. And Bruce never leaves them alone. 

She told him once, curled up on a spare gurney in a back hallway, leaned into his side in the middle of the night after they lost a little kid to just--just too many layers, too many months and months of being hurt to have the strength to live through the one last thing, the worst. She told him I hate you when you don’t let me laugh it off, you know. You always--you always take those things and throw them under your spotlight, and you hold on to them until I actually look and see them in the light, for real, and I hate you for that. It hurts. And he told her I know, and I’m sorry, and they sat there a little longer in the half-lit back hall before she said, even more quietly, I hate you then, but I love you, you know. You--most people don’t care enough to be willing to make someone hurt just because it’s what needs to happen. I hate when you do it, but I keep saying things because--it’s the only way I know how to make it real. You’re--you--you make everyone else see clearly the way you see clearly. I’m sorry I use you. But I love you for. You know. Always being that, for everyone who needs it. It must hurt you so much, Bruce. All the time.  

And he’d pressed a kiss to her hair, that particular night, because this isn’t who they are, usually, but sometimes they can let themselves be...whatever they might be able to be, someday, if they’re both healthier, maybe. If they’re less busy, if things go down whatever paths they need to walk--

Bruce pressed a soft, chaste kiss to her frizzy post-surgery hair, and tells her It’s okay, and I just don’t want people to hurt longer if I can stop it, and then they slid off the gurney and went their separate ways, and that was that. Until the next time. 

He looks at Jason, now, this too-small kid hunched over on the bed, with pale skin and sharp joints and an IV and a gauntlet of tests and strangers and wires and a heart monitor, now, because they’re that worried about his level of malnutrition. He looks at Jason, with all his hurt wrapped up in a bundle of sharp jabs and close-held arms and sharp words that try to keep people from getting to close, to avoid any fights at all, head them off at the pass, and all Bruce can see is a neon sign flashing hurt, flashing please help, and thinks of another kid, much healthier, more filled out, but on month four of having no words to share with the world at all, except for some here and there to one single man who never leaves, no matter how hard it gets each day.

He remembers how it felt to have an unshakable rock in Alfred, and how he still couldn’t make words come for anyone else, anywhere else, how he was trapped inside himself with all the pain and fury and confusion and grief that he had words for and didn’t have words for and couldn’t get any out either way. He looks at Jason and thinks what a remarkable, resilient child. 

Dick was resilient too, grieving and bouncing back and grieving and bouncing back, working his way through his own before and after from a foundation of love and a new home that was stable, and growing into someone strong and tempered and beautifully, wonderfully whole. 

Jason hasn’t had any of that, really, aside from a good single mom that they’ve gotten to know through case worker reports and old documents and Jason’s occasional comments of what things they used to do, even without money, even without much to their names. He’s had a hell of a last year and a half, all told. And he’s still sitting here on a bed in sweatpants and a hospital gown, surrounded by adults he doesn’t know and doesn’t trust, who are doing tests and treatments that people hate on a good day, and he’s still able to read and be polite and not lash out all that much even though Bruce knows he’s got to be a boiling ball of screaming on the inside. And Bruce is just. Bruce is so proud, and sad, and hit so hard with a wave of needing to pull this kid in and never let him go that for a moment it feels like he can’t breathe . 

“Did talking with her help?” Bruce finally asks, carefully. 

Jason glances over, then back down. He tugs his IV line around a little, gathering a little more slack from where it’s slipped past the bed rail, down towards the floor. 

“Maybe,” he says. “I guess. She’s pretty cool.”

“She is.”

“She said. She said I could trust you.”

“Did she?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s...that’s very kind of her,” Bruce says, and honestly, coming from Selina. He’s floored. He’s earned it, as much as anyone can earn it. Which is to say, not at all. The fact that she’s been through what she has, and after the things they’ve walked through together, somehow has decided herself that he’s safe to try to trust, and even told that to one of her kids that she’s taken under her wing, here--

Bruce hopes like hell he never does anything to make her regret it. 

“And I think,” Jason adds, slowly, meeting Bruce’s gaze now. “That she’s maybe right.”

“You do,” Bruce says. 

“Not--not like, in a stupid way,” Jason says, quickly. “I’m not a baby. I’m not just gonna--I’m not gonna trust you with everything just like that, that’s stupid, that’s just asking to get stabbed in the back.”

“Of course.” Bruce nods. He’s done that, a couple times, in his life. When he was on his trip around the world, drifting between country and country and maybe wanting to die or maybe wanting to live. He knows what Jason means, and wishes Jason didn’t have to know it. 

“But.” Jason says, and he’s twisting one of the blankets sent along. “You’ve done everything you said you would, so far. And you guys keep coming around, even though I’m just--some random stranger, and you all actually are as nice as you seem. And I guess. That’s pretty cool, you know. To see in real life again. You’re a lot like my mom was, kind of.”

“I’m,” starts Bruce, feeling a hard knot in his throat. “I’m glad that you think that, about us. We think you’re pretty neat too.”

“Yeah, well,” and Jason flushes, just a little, at that. Bruce bets if the kid were healthy and sun-tanned like he ought to be--in the summers, anyway--he wouldn’t have been able to tell at all. 

“If you want to trust me,” Bruce tells him, “I’m absolutely honored, and I promise I’ll do my best to never break that. But I want you to know that you don’t have to, Jason--you don’t ever have to trust me, and that’s okay. You don’t owe me. Or anyone in my family. I still want to get to know you and help you anyway, and it’s okay for you to not trust us until you’re ready, or ever.”

Jason gives him an odd, unfamiliar look, his mouth twisting up on one side into a strange little smile. 

“That’s why,” he says, suddenly sounding louder and much more confident than he had for the past several minutes. “I do trust you. Or I want to, and I’m trying, at least, and. That was it. That’s why.”

Bruce frowns, trying to parse that statement, through his mouthful of cold burrito and old memories pressing in and emotions and the brain fog of too many hours on shift with too few naps in the past several days. “Sorry, kiddo, I don’t--I’m not really sure what you’re talking about.”

Jason smiles for real. “I know. Don’t worry about it. Selina said you’d say that, too. Just take a nap, old man. You need one more than me, right now.”

“Hey,” Bruce grumbles, because the conversation is clearly over, and he knows when it’s time to switch gears, switch modes, bring the mood back to light. “I’m not old. I’m not even thirty-five yet, and that’s not even old.” 

“Whatever,” says Jason. “I’m going to read. Nap or something. Seriously.”

“All right,” Bruce agrees. He kicks off his shoes and settles on the too-small couch, head pillowed on one of Alfred’s spare fleece blankets. “How’re you feeling, though, Jason?” He sees the boy shrug against his mountain of pillows.

“Same,” he says. “I mean, my arm is better. Dr. Zhang said the swelling’s started to go down. But none of the food went any better today. I threw up, like, four times.”

“I’m sorry,” Bruce says, and Jason still, after two days, looks startled at the genuine feeling in Bruce’s tone. 

“It’s fine,” Jason tells him, after a couple of moments. “It’s not like it’s any worse than before you dragged me here. And at least I have stuff to clean up with, now. That’s better.”

“Okay,” Bruce sighs. “That’s. I’m glad. And I’m sorry it’s not better yet, but we’re going to figure this out. I promise.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Jason flaps his casted arm at him, again. “Go to sleep. I’ll throw a book at you if I need something, okay, just take a nap already.”

“So bossy,” Bruce tells him, but Jason’s right. He does need the sleep. 

He’s out within minutes, lulled by the quiet sound of Jason’s blood pressure cuff inflating and the occasional page turning and finally, right as Bruce is fully slipping into sleep, the familiar tune of the DS starting up, and if he was any more awake, Bruce thinks he’d smile. 

~

A couple days later, Jason has more books on his rolling table, an increasing number of signatures on his cast, his second iron infusion going in, which he is complaining incessantly about, and finally, finally an answer. 

“Celiac disease,” Bruce says, triumphantly, storming into Jason’s room and dropping several pamphlets onto his lap. “Congratulations, Jason. We can fix this.”

“What?” Jason blinks at him.

“We got the results back from your biopsy,” Bruce tells him, with a smile. “It explains your sickness, your vitamin deficiencies, why you aren’t growing or keeping weight on even though you’ve been so determined to get yourself enough food, and even when we put you on a high calorie diet here. You have an autoimmune disease, Jason. Do you know what that means?”

“It’s when your body like, fights itself, right?” 

Bruce hums. “More or less. There are a lot of different kinds, but ultimately they all involve your body attacking its own cells somewhere. And in your case, every time you eat something with gluten in it, your body has been hitting a panic alarm and trying to fight that, and in the process that constantly damages your small intestine. And that means that you haven’t been able to absorb the nutrients you need from your food.”

Jason frowns. “So...gluten, like. Wheat? Like those kids who were allergic to wheat at school?”

“Yes,” says Bruce. “But not just wheat, gluten is a group of proteins. They’re in a few other things, too, like barley. Anything with gluten, your body is going to attack itself.”

“Well that’s stupid.”

Bruce laughs. “It is. I’m sorry, it’s hard to not be able to eat gluten, but it is possible, and you’re going to have to do it. The good thing is, we know how to treat you now, and you’re going to start feeling better.”

“Are you sure,” Jason asks. “Like. This is actually going to work?”

“I’m sure,” Bruce says, and he leans down a little, making sure Jason sees how serious he is. “It’s going to take time for your small intestine to heal, because there’s been a lot of damage for a long time. But as soon as your body stops attacking itself over gluten, that’ll start to heal, and your body will be able to start absorbing more of the food you can eat. It’s going to be okay.”

“Does this mean no more pizza?” Jason asks, glum. “Because I really like the pizza here. I mean, when I’m not throwing it up. It’s good.”

“You’ll have to get gluten-free crust,” Bruce tells him. “But you can still have pizza. I promise. We’re going to teach you, okay? You’ll learn how to eat and pick foods with a dietician, and you don’t have to do this on your own. We’re going to help you.”

“Okay,” says Jason, and he tips his head back against the pillows. “Honestly, I’m ready to try anything if it’s really gonna work. I’m so tired of this.”

And Bruce definitely hears the way his voice cracks, sees how Jason winces when his joints move, catches the way he’s tired to the bone right now even though he’s napped most of the times Bruce has popped in to check on him today. 

“I know,” Bruce murmurs, reaching out to run his hand through Jason’s hair a few times. He counts it as a win when Jason only stiffens once, and doesn’t even bother opening his eyes this time. “I know you are. I’m so sorry you’ve dealt with this all alone for so long. Someone should have taken you seriously.”

“You did,” Jason says. “Right off the bat.”

“Someone before me,” Bruce corrects himself. “I’m sorry. I’m just glad we get to help now.”

“You always want to help everyone,” Jason mumbles. His head is tipped ever so slightly into Bruce’s palm, now, which they both carefully ignore. “Dr. Wayne. Has anyone ever told you you’ve got a problem.”

“All the time,” Bruce laughs. “But I don’t think that’s changing anytime soon. Get some more rest, kiddo,” he says, unthinkingly pressing a kiss to Jason’s forehead before pushing himself up to standing. “One of the nutritionists is coming by later to get you started. And Alfred is bringing the next Miss Marple DVD for you two to watch together while I’m working. You’ll want to be awake for that.”

And Jason, miracle of miracles, doesn’t even react. Just smiles when Bruce pecks him absentmindedly, and then rolls onto his good side and shuffles down further into his blanket pile. “Thanks, Dr. Wayne,” he calls after him, one eye cracking open to watch Bruce slip out the door. “I’ll see you later? After your shift?”

Bruce catches himself in the doorway, one hand on the frame, and smiles at Jason. “Absolutely, kiddo. I’ll be here.” And then he’s out the door, off down the hallway to help whatever next kid he comes across and falls in love with in two seconds flat, and Jason closes his eyes, settles in. 

~

It’s been a weird week. It’s been a bad one, some of the time. But Dr. Wayne keeps--keeps staying around, and it’s weird, and it’s nice, and his kid Dick is older but treats Jason like he’s actually someone cool, instead of just a middle schooler not worthy of his time, and their Alfred is just--the best, the actual best. And they’ve been the best part of Jason’s week, every time they’ve been around. 

He’s never had this before. He’s not sure how to--what to--

Jason isn’t really sure what’s going to happen, after this, or how he’ll go back to some random group home or whatever, but for now he’s just going to--to like it while he has it. The books, and the blankets, and the weird, weird family that seem straight out of a book themselves half the time, and just...store it all up, in his head, for when things change again. For when he needs something good. 

It’ll be okay. This is his rest. He’ll enjoy it while he can, and then get on with things again. It’ll be okay. 

And it is . 

Just not in the way Jason expects. At all. Because a little over a week later, they discharge him from the hospital to the Waynes. Not a group home, or juvie, or some new foster family he doesn’t know, but to Dr. Wayne, and boy was that a surprise when Bruce and the case worker had come to him and asked--asked--

Well. Of course Jason fucking said yes. What else was he supposed to do, make a run for the window and try to go back to his old place on the roof of Marcon’s Deli? 

Of course Jason said yes. He’s glad he did. It’s a lot harder, eating this way, than it was when he could just eat whatever he found. He’s still tired, and too short and skinny, and has to take a lot of vitamins all the time, which is a pain. Alfred cooks special for him, and they’re all careful about cross-contamination and stuff, but Jason is better, he feels stronger and he can eat food for real now and that’s just. A whole new level of awesome, after the last several months he had. He’s not as cold. 

He laughs more.

Living with the Waynes--it’s not like it’s perfect. He yells. Bruce is stupid sometimes. Dick and Bruce argue like relatives on a sitcom, sometimes, except without the laugh track and with more Jason avoiding the room like the plague. But it’s safe, like, really safe. And they all care a lot. And he cares about them right back, despite himself. Bruce tells him he’s welcome to stay. As long as he wants.

Jason isn’t ready to be honest with himself, not yet. But he thinks, there’s a part of him, deep, that kind of wants that answer to be forever. That he never wants to leave. He doesn’t think that’s really possible, because something’s definitely going to happen, he doesn’t just--Jason doesn’t just get good things, he doesn’t get to keep them for long. It’s just life.

But he’s with the Waynes, now. And he’s getting better. He’s going to get to go back to school. How unbelievable is that? Oh fraptious day, callooh, callay, and all that shit, a thousand British exclamations of delight, huzzah. Jason’s going to get to have English class again. He’s never taking book reports for granted for as long as he lives. 

All in all? Jason’s happy to just...have this home. For as long as it lasts.

~

Bruce knows they’re not perfect. He’s only had one kid, and that kid was Dick, coming from loving parents and a solid foundation. Bruce just has what he’s learned from Alfred and his job and about five hundred parenting books and classes that he’s put himself through for the past few years while fostering and adopting Dick in a long string of nights spent anxiously staring at dark ceilings, confessing his terror to Alfred, and worrying that he isn’t enough. That he’s--that his heart’s in the right place, but that he won’t be enough for Dick, won’t be able to find words that Dick needs to hear, or the time he wants, or--

But it doesn’t matter. Bruce doesn’t have to be perfect, according to Alfred and Leslie and the parenting experts and his on-again, off-again therapist downtown. He doesn’t have to always know what to do, or do it right, he just has to respect his kids, and take care of himself, and be there for them for what they need with patience and calm. He just needs to do the best he can, and properly apologize and change when he does mess up. 

And he’s got two of them now, two very, very different boys to raise. Both brilliant and emotional and full of buried trap-doors of hurt that come out unexpectedly, at themselves, at each other, at Bruce, at the world. Bruce has those too. Sometimes their trap doors activate each others’. But they’re all going to keep being there for each other, reaching out hands and words as best they can, and tag-teaming it through life. Bruce doesn’t have to be perfect. No one’s perfect. 

He just has to be there. For Dick. For Jason. Who Bruce knows likes it here, but still doesn’t think it will really last. They’re working on it. They’re trying to slowly pile up more good experiences, more stability, on the kid than he has bad ones, trying to slowly condition him back to a world where people can be trusted, stability can exist, good things can stay, and bad things don’t have to make everything fall apart, make you lose whatever you built. They’re trying to get Jason to a point where he believes they’re going to stay, and that he’s really, truly, able to stay, too. Here, safe, with good things, with a family that’s chosen.

And if Bruce has his way, Jason’s will get to be with them for a long, long time.

[wildroseofarran]

Into the Umbra || Pete, MJ, Guildias, Abel, & Rosmond || March, 2020

MJ/Guildias: Midas would be good from this night forth, with designated things to knock down to make his point. Abel in his rat terrier form, sitting menacingly on MJ's shoulder while they conversed, paying no mind to him whatsoever, like a looming promise, seemed to do the trick. Staying the night at Peter's felt surreal, and in a sense, wrong. Their relationship wasn't as clean of a slate as he would have liked, but he couldn't deny himself a glance through rose-tinted lenses at what had been.

He would have insisted on a room of his own with Abel, distancing himself enough not to feel completely guilty come the next night, when Guildias knocked on Peter's door. Together, they excused themselves for a quick trip to Gertrude Draegan, establishing his presence and, against Peter's judgement, explained his intended rescue operation. The two returned an hour later, pulling up in front of Peter's house in a black Lincoln Navigator. James Rosmond, dressed in a black felt jacket, remained behind the wheel.

Pete: Even had MJ not insisted, Pete still would've set him up in the guest room. They were starting fresh and that meant a romantic relationship between the two of them didn't currently exist. As such, the guest room was the only option.

He'd looked on in amusement as MJ gave Midas a talking to with Abel's silent but very present assistance, pleased that it seemed to have worked.

The next day when Midas wanted attention, he only knocked over what he was allowed to and was rewarded handsomely with treats and affection.

Pete was in the middle of doling out said affection when the SUV pulled up.

"Looks like a goddamn mafia lieutenant," he muttered to himself, turning away from the window so his glare wouldn't be seen.

MJ/Guildias/Rosmond: MJ and Guildias came to the door as one. No Callum in sight. The SUV remained warm and rumbling. Rosmond's first field operation since the Embrace. Waylon Dahlberg and Leslie Issott a few taps on his antiquated cellphone, should the expertise of a witch be required.

There he would wait, as Peter and the familiar named Abel were gathered for their expedition.

"Gertrude insisted," MJ explained. "Said it would be good for him. Probably t'keep an eye on us."

Guildias leaned against the doorway. "We represent Edenton, whether we like it or lump it. If something catastrophic were to happen, Raleigh mustn't be privy to the embarrassment."

Pete/Abel: Pete opened the door with a frown that was matched by Abel's as he appeared behind him.

"Dude, come on," said Abel, his tone heartily disapproving. "I thought we agreed you were gonna go in, observe the niceties, and get out. Why'd you go and tell her? She's not the boss of the Umbra!"

A sentiment Pete echoed. "The only catastrophe will be if we fail to get that kid, I couldn't care less about Gertrude's potential embarrassment. Like Raleigh gives one single shit about a human child, they probably didn't even notice."

MJ: "Since when did the two of ya start parroting each other? This be a sewin' circle while we were out?"

Abel: "He fed me chicken and rice casserole," said Abel. "We bonded. But still! Now some goon is gonna watch us the whole time and learn shit about us. It's like taking a cop on a heist."

Guildias: "More akin to taking a bodyguard and former assassin," said Guildias. "Trust me, Mr. Harrington, the man has no personality to speak of."

Abel: Abel peeked around Guildias at the SUV and turned to Pete. “You’re right, it does look like a mafia lieutenant car.” The windows were so dark he couldn’t even see the goon.

“All right, so. Is Mr. No Personality coming in or what?”

MJ/Guildias: MJ just snickered. "If it weren't for ya breakin' physics we'd have a Scooby-doo van. Ya know, for work."

"We have hours of drive ahead of us and little night. Rosmond encourages you to bring water," Guildias smirked at Peter.

Pete/Abel: “If we did have a Scooby-doo van, it would have to break physics, too, so we wouldn't have to drive around for hours. Does the mafia lieutenant really want to drive?”

Pete just sighed and went to the kitchen to fill up a water bottle.

MJ/Guildias: "Expect the unexpected." And a lack of trust for a familiar's magic from both Setite and Giovanni. Being backed by a Ravnos did little for confidence; less post-merge.

"Stopped by the RV for some shit. Should have everything," said MJ. "Let's go, Abe. Come meet the mafia."

Abel: "You said yourself we only have a little bit of night to do this and he wants to spend a chunk of it driving." Abel shook his head and grabbed his jacket. "This is why you don't bring a cop." He heaved a great sigh. "All right, let's go meet the mafia."

MJ/Guildias: "We got gear. Got shit if the kid needs moved. Can't just show up at a place ya ain't even seen. Can ya even move five people n'gear t'some place ya ain't even been, dude?" Asked while tugging him by the shirt. No standing and talking. Movement.

Guildias waited quietly for Peter.

Pete/Abel: "I can move four people and gear thanks to the booster spell and talismans I got from X and Ramsay. You know, like we planned. The news reported on it, pictures of the house and the kid are everywhere and the address wasn't hard to find. How do you think I grabbed your ass from that scary place with the giant glass tank? Magic, my guy."

Pete returned a few moments later wearing a jacket and carrying a small pack. "What are my chances of not having to ride with the prince's goon and just following behind in my own car?"

MJ/Guildias: "Magic - ya read my mind! Kinda different from pictures on a screen." Or in Rosmond's case, a printed map to a craftsman foursquare a few miles outside of Raleigh. The route was simple enough and already memorized.

MJ pulled from his inner jacket pocket a long enticing stick of LaffyTaffy. A peace offering handed over without word.

"Let's not over-complicate matters," said Guildias. "Has he outwardly wronged you?"

Pete/Abel: Abel opened his mouth, fully prepared to say more, but the appearance of the candy had it closing again. He accepted it with a smile. "Okay, I love you again. Let's meet Mr. Wet Blanket. Does he actually have no personality or was Guildias exaggerating?"

"Matters are already complicated," said Pete. "We're dipping into the Veil. I'd just rather not have Gertrude's ears and eyes adding to the tension. But I guess it doesn't matter anymore. What's done is done and we have shit to do."

MJ/Guildias: "Ya tell me," MJ smirked, opening one of the doors for Abel. Black interior and spacious, which was the point. Easy to label safety measures as cliche, but there they were.

"That still doesn't answer my question. Seems to be the one area you and Callum disagree."

Pete/Abel: Abel poked his head into the car and looked around. 'Woowwwww,' he thought to MJ. 'It's very la cosa nostra in here.' Out loud, he greeted the driver. "Hey, man."

"You of all people should know why I don't think fondly of the prince. Isn't that reason enough to not want him to be part of this?" He was almost certain telling Gertrude had been Guildias' idea, or maybe even his doing. "Let's just go."

Pete locked the door behind him and walked to the car, hearing his mentor's voice in his head telling him to take things in stride.

MJ/Guildias/Rosmond: Abel was gently shoved forward. He wasn't going to bother reminding him to mind his manners.

A youngish-looking man, blond, eyes like dying grass, observed from the rear-view mirror. Chiseled from some other era. Stoic as a garden statue.

"Mr. Harrington," he greeted. Something in those two words was not quite North Carolina. Something more melodic and silky than one might expect from that face.

"For the man he once was," said Guildias, waiting to fall into step with the Fera. The door was opened for Peter, and it was Guildias climbing into the backseat. A choice made so MJ didn't have to. Rosmond watched expectedly as MJ took his place in the front passenger seat.

"I'll be y'all's DJ for the next hour(sss). We start our adventure with some Reba."

Pete/Abel: Having spent so long in the company of an alias-loving demon, it was more than a little unsettling to be called by his actual name, especially by someone that looked so...stony. Abel wasn't entirely sure he liked it. "Yep, that's me. You don't have to call me mister. And your name...?"

"Rosmond," said Pete, settling in between Abel and Guildias. "His name is Rosmond."

MJ/Guildias: The drive would have been quiet if not for MJ's music. Their driver offered nothing by means of conversation. Neither did Guildias, content with tilting back in his seat and adjusting large gold and brown hexagonal Ray-Bans.

MJ took initiative to sing. Juggling lemons which disappeared randomly, forced back with a bit of concentration. Minutes before arrival, Abel was finally given attention by the Setite.

"Is he always like this?"

Pete/Abel: While Pete didn't normally go for country, MJ's singing provided both distraction and entertainment. The ride was giving him way too much time to think.

Abel shook his head. "Nope. Sometimes he juggles oranges."

MJ/Guildias: "An improvement, then. It's time you upgrade to grapefruit."

"Ha. Easy." But what materialized in his hands looked too yellow. One looked more like Jupiter with various rings of decay. Not quite. He stared for some time, trying to find the appropriate color of a citrus he'd forgotten.

Abel: Abel leaned forward in his seat for a better view.

"Too yellow. Go for a slightly bigger orange that's a yellowy orange color."

MJ/Rosmond: Bigger than this? Roughly the size of both fists, then, and now a rotten lemon in shade.

"Too brown," said Rosmond.

Abel: "Slightly smaller. Think softball or....yeah no, just think softball."

MJ/Guildias: Guildias pulled his phone from pocket. Many years out of date. Complete with keyboard. He leaned forward and presented a stock photo.

"Huh," MJ sighed, trying one more time with Abel's advice and Guildias' image.

The texture wasn't quite there, but an improvement.

Abel: "Ah, you got it! Well done, well done. We're gonna have you juggling citrus of all persuasions before you know it."

To Guildias he said, "I thought your people hated tech?"

Guildias: "We're not part of the ivory tower; but it comes with its own set of rules."

Abel: The hell was the ivory tower? Something to ask MJ later on.

"Gotta live the burner phone life, man."

Guildias/Rosmond: "What makes you think I'm not?"

Rosmond had nothing to add. With the same silence, he drove the SUV quietly onto a dirt road and into a snug patch of forest. The engine was killed, keys stuffed in his pocket.

"Mr. Harrington, I would appreciate your assistance." A brief look back to Guildias. Both men climbed out of the vehicle.

Abel: "That phone you have has internet access. I'm talking the circa-2004-Nokia-phone-that-only-has-Snake-on-it burner phone life."

He peered out the windows at their destination, metaphorical antenna up for anything out of the ordinary.

"I'm all ears, but really, please call me Abel."

MJ/Guildias/Rosmond: The driver's side door was shutting. Guildias gestured for Abel to follow him. Meanwhile, MJ climbed into the back with Peter.

"Stake out shit," he sighed. Normally his forte in the duo, and normally Xavier's forte in the trio. For now, grapefruit had been replaced by pink and blue golf balls, rolled in a single hand.

"You won't be getting a first name from our acquaintance, my friend," Guildias whispered. "That is not a hill to die on."

"Cameras and other security systems need to first be addressed. By any means." Rosmond looked expectedly to the snake, already stepping deeper into the woods where Rosmond pointed. To the house hidden behind a near quarter mile of bracken and sagging branches.

Pete/Abel: Pete nodded, peering out the window as Abel had. "Kinda wanna roll the window down and see if I can smell anything else that might be out there. It occurred to me about fifty miles ago that we might not be the only ones with an interest in this."

Abel looked from Guildias to the man called Rosmond. Did the guy ever crack a smile? Or a joke? Or blink? "I'm annoyingly persistent," he whispered back. "But I'll take your word for it."

He was itching to turn into his animal form but that wasn't wise for two reasons: one, he felt uncomfortable doing so without MJ around. Two, he wouldn't be able to communicate with them.

"There's a few spells for that. Glamours that could hide us while we do what we need to do without being seen."

MJ/Guildias/Rosmond: "What, like fae? Ain't that their thing, stealin' children n'shit?" MJ reached over Peter's lap for the door, opening it a crack. He wanted to take his rebirth behind the masquerade seriously.

Rosmond followed behind by a few feet. "Observation," he reminded. "Mr. Calloway and Graham will utilize your information."

"Still the bodyguard?" Guildias looked over his shoulder, smirk in his eyes.

"Supervision." With Gertrude's insistence. Field work with new capacity. A test of responsibility he would not take lightly.

The same craftsman foursquare from the printed page. New paint job. Manicured lawn. A plastic colorful play set in the backyard. A silver truck and red sedan in the front yard. Porch light on. Lights off save for the second floor in two rooms.

Pete/Abel: "Some of them, yeah. Could be anyone though, including some weirdo human." It was never a good idea to underestimate the weirdos.

Pete scooted close enough to the door to where he could stick his nose out and scented the air.

Well, Abel thought, these two seemed fairly uninterested in magic. Which begged the question of why Rosmond had asked for his assistance.

He looked at the house with a frown. It looked so normal. Nothing about it gave away what had happened inside.

"Poor souls," he sighed to himself.

MJ/Guildias: "You were called 'pup' last night. We'll need that right now, if you're willing to oblige," said Guildias, softly for the semblance of privacy.

Meanwhile, MJ watched Peter with fascination. "What can ya smell?"

Pete/Abel: Abel turned to Guildias, ignoring the knot in his gut. Although whether it was more to do with the impending journey into the Umbra or the thought of transforming without MJ, he couldn't say for sure. "I am--" sort of, "--but I won't be able to communicate with you. Unless you practice telepathy?"

Pete inhaled deeply. "You. Soil. Some sort of body of water nearby. Vampire."

MJ/Guildias: "We'll be right here. You see what you see and come back to us. Door cams, police surveillance. Do not put yourself in unnecessary danger. I'll be right behind you."

MJ smiled privately. "That all? Lions, tigers, bears, oh my?"

Pete/Abel: "I'm not putting myself in any danger at all," Abel said with a grin, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a little silver pendant. It was small, about the size of a nickel, and inscribed with what appeared to be several runic symbols.

Abel clipped it on the necklace he was already wearing so it rested beside his 'A' pendant.

"Okay, so this is gonna hide me from view and muffle any sounds I make, but you should still be able to hear my footsteps if you listen close."

Pete chuckled. "None of them around, only us. Good sign I guess."

MJ/Guildias/Rosmond: "A little more elaborate than a stray dog wandering about," said Guildias. "If the task is completed, then by all means."

Rosmond remained nearby a tree, hands to his sides, observing like the statue Abel imagined him as.

Guildias took a step forward, disappearing behind a tree and then altogether.

"The more borin' the better," MJ nodded. "Ain't supposed t'be a heist."

Pete/Abel: "People tend to approach small dogs, to either pet them or to try and help them. Sometimes I'll get a treat out of the deal but we've gotta be stealthier today." Abel took one more second to make sure the necklace was secure before chanting a small incantation.

He hadn't quite finished when he slowly started to fade from view, his voice growing fainter and fainter as if he were moving far away. A moment later he was gone completely, and only once he was hidden did he feel safe enough to transform.

'I'm in dog form,' he thought to MJ, chain and pendants jingling as he shook himself off. 'Also invisible. Just wanted to give you the head's up.'

Pete nodded as well. "Yeah. Sure feels like one though. Still can't quite believe we're gonna do what we're about to do. It's like my brain can't process it."

MJ/Guildias: Guildias remained on the outskirts, watchful of sinking grass under invisible feet that would be Abel. Watchful for a police car, something. After a bout of silence, he pulled from his coat various colored loupes, bringing each to his eye as he searched for an outward sign of entry. Some indication of where to begin.

MJ sat up straight, looking off to nowhere as though suddenly lost in thought. And then like that, it was over.

"This is sorta been my thing for a while now. Not rescuin' kids, but I mean, the weird shit it comes with."

Pete/Abel: The movement in the sinking grass would indicate a methodical survey around the house. Abel slowly circled it, alternating between sniffing around and watching and listening for any movement or sign that something was amiss. Aside from the obvious, of course.

Since he couldn't speak to Guildias, he thought his observations at MJ. 'Everything's pretty quiet. I smell new paint but I can still smell two kids. One scent is stronger than the other. There's another scent too, can't identify it just yet.' A few beats of silence. 'It's so frustratingly normal.'

"You're sounding more like Robin Hood by the second. Does your demon friend help too?" Pete looked over at MJ. "You okay?"

MJ/Guildias: Every image given to MJ was filed away. This would be vital later. One thing to look out for. That new trend.

'Check the door for one of them cams. I don't think they'll have anything else.'

After a wide circle of the entire property, Guildias returned to Rosmond's side. Reappeared as easily as a blink, and waited for the familiar.

"Yeah," MJ smiled. "N'yeah, m'good. We can start headin' over."

Pete/Abel: 'Copy that.'

Abel looped around again to check out the back door. That's where people tended to have cameras and other security measures, since it couldn't be seen from the street. Of course, humans didn't realize the real threats didn't need cover to attack.

'I see it. Small camera pointed at the back door. Simple, the kind an alarm company would offer to their customers. Fixed position, probably connects to their Wi-Fi network.'

Pete took a deep breath. "All right, let's do this, Robin Hood."

MJ: 'To zap the power lines or do my cloak shit.' To fuck the power lines would bring someone out and shorten their window further. 'Keep sendin' me a view. Check the front door, too. We're headin' that way.'

MJ looked back for Peter, a look on his face as though surprised to see him. Telepathy was disorienting.

"What's your plan?"

Pete/Abel: 'Cutting power attracts attention and utility people. I think cloaking is the way to go.'

Back again to the front of the house. A few of the windows had stickers with a company logo on them; probably the same company that had supplied the camera.

Moving as silently as he could, Abel climbed the front steps and inspected the porch. 'They have a doorbell camera too. Movement usually triggers the censor on those.'

Pete sighed as he zipped up his jacket and adjusted his bag on his shoulder. "Honestly? I don't fuckin' know, man. Abel's got this spell to turn me into a beacon or a lighthouse so this kid can find me but what if it doesn't work?"

MJ: "He's got a what now?" MJ laughed. "I'll bet ya real money that light freaks out the snake."

Which reminded him, speaking with Abel, to find a path with the least amount of trees.

'We'll focus on the backyard. I need the cam's perspective real quick and I got it.'

Pete/Abel: "I only understood about half his explanation but basically it's going to make it easier for us to find the kid in the Umbra so we're not there longer than we absolutely have to be. Time's already fucky over there."

'Good call. Tread lightly,' Abel added before rejoining the two vampires. A quick incantation to reverse the spell and he slowly blinked back into existence, once again in human form.

MJ/Guildias/Rosmond: "I wouldn't know." They came upon two figures. Guildias handing over the various colored loupes to Rosmond. Green glass was brought to his eye.

"Ya get the cam's perspective?" whispered to Abel, not the least bit surprised by his sudden appearance.

Rosmond looked back for Peter. He offered the glass by its brass handle. Pointed towards the furthest wall of the back of the house. A small opening like smears on the glass broken by some nonexistent void light. The glass of course was spotless.

"That is where you will breach."

Pete/Abel: ‘It’s pointed at the back door,’ Abel thought to him. ‘At most it’s getting a tiny bit of the backyard and the back porch. It’s not super sophisticated.’

Pete accepted the glass and held it to his eye.

So that was what a portal into the Veil looked like. It was nothing like he would’ve expected. Didn’t even look sinister.

MJ/Guildias/Rosmond: The telepathy put another smile on his face. "Ros ain't so fast t'kill us all." Two different expressions turned their attention upon the pair. One of bored neutrality, the other a smirk.

"Which of you can lure the occupants inoffensively?" asked Rosmond.

"I got that," said MJ. "Goin' in." Rosmond waited several steps before following behind. Watched as the trickster honed in on the small white device near the ceiling of the small back porch. His hands came together. Middle fingers wrapped over index fingers and touched. A halved orb, no bigger than a snow globe, attached itself to the camera.

'Actually, I ain't got that. Busy here. Can ya bark?'

Pete/Abel: "Hey!" Abel gave MJ a smack on the arm. "Be an agent of chaos after we finish our mission," he whisper yelled, though there was amusement in his eyes.

Pete studied the portal a moment longer and handed the glass back. He felt like starting at it too long would make him lose his nerve or fry his brain or something. Everything about this felt completely out of his depth.

Abel, who had made his way over to stand by Pete, suddenly seemed to lose himself in thought.

'Do you just want me to bark or should I make myself known and distract them?'

MJ: 'Nothin' human. We need sweet lost animal.'

Abel: 'Invisible innocent barking, gotcha.'

"Be back in a sec," Abel announced out loud before activating his spell again and transforming back into a dog.

He wanted to stay close enough to the house to be heard while also not drawing attention toward any of them, so he moved a few feet away in the opposite direction of everything before letting out the most pitiful little bark anyone ever did hear.

MJ/Rosmond: A sound which worked almost instantly to stir the house. Another bark and the porch light switched on. MJ knelt in place, focused on the camera as Rosmond waited around the corner. A woman with deep warm skin and tired eyes first looked out the window before opening the back door. She clicked her tongue.

Abel: Gotcha, Abel thought to himself.

He changed locations to give the illusion that he was wandering around lost and barked again, even adding a whine for good measure and shaking himself so his pendants would jingle.

He sort of felt like the pied piper but not sinister.

MJ/Rosmond: It was enough for her to descend the steps. She turned her head this way and that in search of what sounded like a little dog, to be greeted instead by a blond figure twice her size, hand clasped firmly over her mouth.

"You didn't see my face. You're exhausted. You deserve to sleep. Dream of your son."

Her expression softened, and Rosmond removed his hand. Her arms fell to her sides, and she turned, walking slowly back inside with the vampire at her heels.

MJ, caught up in what he'd just witnessed, damn near dropped his glamour.

Abel: It caught Abel by surprise as well. He very nearly barked for real and ran toward the woman and whatever the hell Rosmond was doing to her until she calmly walked back inside.

'What the fuck was that!?' he thought to MJ. 'Did you know he was going to do that?'

MJ/Guildias: 'Knew he was gonna do somethin'. Didn't know it was fuckin' that.' How the fuck did he do that? It felt familiar. Something he knew, or seen, or experienced. Something he couldn't quite put his finger on.

One by one, the upstairs bedrooms darkened.

Guildias took to the porch, patting MJ's shoulder along the way.

"It's your time to shine, Peter."

Pete/Abel: 'Well shit, that's an important detail to keep to himself. Is he always this bad at communicating?' Abel returned to where Pete was, making himself human and visible again.

"Oh no it's not," he said, reaching back into his pockets and pulling out even more pendants. Some were round, some polygonal, but all were made of perfectly clear crystal. The ones that were on short strings were placed on Pete's wrist and the one on the longer string was put around his neck. "Can't go walking in there without activating you first."

MJ/Guildias: 'He's the boss right now. Ain't gotta tell us shit.' It was still jarring, watching a mere ghoul rank before his very eyes. Someone he'd been forced to steal from Guildias' basement years ago under Victoria Harrak's orders, now working in tandem. Felt less real than what they were about to do.

"Activating him?" asked Guildias.

Pete/Abel: 'Says who? We're all bringing something to the table. He's being withholding, plain and simple.' It was just the sort of behavior he expected from someone with the demeanor of a statue.

Abel focused back on the task at hand, nodding at Guildias' question. "Yep. Sending him into the Umbra blind is a suicide mission, so I found something to help." The origin of which he would keep to himself. Wouldn't do to go revealing privileged information willy-nilly.

"These crystals are gonna turn our Petey boy into a lighthouse so he can find the little boy, or so the little boy can find him. Petey, did you bring your flashlight like I told you?"

Pete nodded.

"And a weapon?"

"I have a pocketknife?"

"That'll do. Extra sweater?"

Another nod.

"Snack?"

Yet another nod.

"Good man."

Guildias: Guildias took Peter's wrist in three fingers, gently, to examine the crystals. Sunglasses resting on his head, hair now in a bun.

"If the Umbra will have me, I intend to go with him," he said. "Whatever you face will not be alone."

Pete: The crystals, though beautiful, looked completely innocuous. Indeed, it was hard to tell how something so unremarkable could serve as anything but an adornment.

But then that was the beauty of magic.

That caught Pete by surprise. "You want to come with me?"

Guildias: "Did you think you were walking into the unknown alone? That I or anyone here would allow that?"

Pete/Abel: Rosmond would certainly allow it, Pete thought.

"I mean, I assumed Abel might join me."

"Which I will," said Abel.

Guildias: "That will leave what remains to guard in our absence. Shall we?" Guildias opened his hand towards the still open door.

Abel: "Not so fast there. If the Umbra does let you in, you'll need this."

Abel reached into another pocket for yet another pendant, or rather three. These were again shaped like coins and each was on a silver chain. He put one on and offered the other two to Pete and Guildias respectively.

"From what I understand, it's very easy to get lost in there. These will help us find each other if we get separated. They feel warm when we're together and colder the farther away we get from each other. Magical buddy system."

MJ/Guildias/Rosmond: "And you just happened to have three." Guildias smiled.

Rosmond filled the doorway, looked between the three and their shared necklaces. That answered his intended question.

"This way." To the laundry room just behind the kitchen.

"Don't y'all come back armless n'shit," called MJ in whisper, watching Peter for as long as he was able.

The small room was unassuming, plain white, and saturated in the scent of fabric softener. Two cat dishes sat atop of the dryer, already opened by Rosmond.

"It's the wall itself," he explained. "Spills outside." The green loupe was offered to Peter. "Keep it with you to find your way back."

Pete/Abel: "I have five actually!" Abel produced another two from his pocket. "One for MJ if he wanted to come and one for the kid so we don't lose him once we manage to get him."

Pete made to follow Rosmond, but not before shooting MJ a smile. "I'll do my best," he whispered back, finally following Rosmond to the laundry room.

God, it looked so normal. Unsettlingly so. Why of all places had a portal opened here?

He accepted the glass. "Thanks. Guess there's nothing left but to do it."

Guildias/Rosmond: "Manage your breathing. Keep calm. Do not separate." Words of advice Gertrude had given to pass along, and while sound, still seemed hollow coming from inexperienced lips. This would not always be the case, but Rosmond's experience would not begin tonight.

There was no sense in asking which would be the first to enter. The choice was only one to Guildias' knowledge. Quietly, he took a knee near the wall, looking up expectantly to Peter.

Pete/Abel: "Just focus on the necklace, Petey," said Abel. "Warm is good, warm is safe."

Pete nodded and tucked the buddy system pendant into his shirt. "Warm is safe. Okay."

Manage his breathing and stay calm. Pretty much what his mentor had told him over and over when he was struggling. He tried to hear Gaetan's voice now, tried to feel as centered as he had in Gaetan's presence.

Like stepping into the river, he told himself, taking a few deep breaths. This was just stepping into cool rushing water.

He entered the portal.

Guildias: A stench like primordial soup thick enough to taste. A heavy, cold, gel-like substance clung to Peter's entire being. Underneath his clothes and against his scalp. In his teeth, wet on his tongue, and seeped between fingers, toes, and thighs. The sensation threatened his nostrils and stung at his eyes.

Behind, someone grabbed his foot. Their only line into the Penumbra. That place where walking serpents were not welcome, and those covered in the dust of demonic ash were shunned.

Guildias held useless breath. Pupils slit in the limited light, finding their scenery drastically changed. They were outside. Outside somewhere else, but not. The same number of trees. The same three trees in a near perfect triangle. These trees were larger, older. Almost touched. The plastic playground, once colorful and clean, now covered in moss and mounds of dirt. Aged many years. Half swallowed by the earth.

Guildias got to his feet, reached for Peter and felt for Abel.

The ground was soft. Grass rich and healthy. The world saturated in color, though still blanketed in the same darkness of night.

"Come here," Guildias whispered to Peter, removing his scarf from around his neck.

Pete/Abel: What had he been expecting the Veil to be? Pete couldn't even begin to imagine.

But he did know that whatever slimy reek was covering him head to toe was most certainly not water and boy, did he want to fucking panic.

Would panicking help? No. Did it ever? No. So what was he to do?

Suck it up and pretend it was water. This first and hopefully only foray into the in-between was not about comfort.

Abel felt similarly. This place stunk like nothing had ever stunk before and every single cell that made up his being was absolutely screaming with protest at being here. God, he really hoped the Umbra didn't bounce them out. Could it even do that? Probably.

It was certainly unsettling being here, with everything looking the same but not. Felt like an episode of the Twilight Zone.

"Buddy system," he said, whispering as well. He grasped Guildias' searching hand and reached out for Pete's.

Meanwhile, Pete was moving closer to Guildias.

Guildias: Abel's hand was stuffed in the vampire's jacket. He then proceeded to wrap his black scarf around Peter's neck, careful around his mouth and nose to aid his breathing. Not a concern of his, and Peter was better use to them conscious.

Pete/Abel: Pete gave Guildias a grateful nod and focused on his breathing. He didn't want to speak just yet and tempt fate on the panic attack front, so he just tried to get his bearings and re-center himself.

Abel wasn't faring too much better, but he had the advantage of more magical experience.

"Wonder if I can make a barrier around us," he wondered aloud. "X does it all the time for privacy. Maybe it can work for Umbra lube."

Guildias: "I think the word we're looking for is Gauntlet." That uncomfortable veil which deterred most, but Peter was stronger than that. At least, so far.

"Slowly," he whispered. "Slow and shallow." A thick brown curl was pushed from between his eyes. "When you're ready, you lead."

Pete/Abel: "Gauntlet? Nah. That may be the technical term but this shit has the consistency of lube with none of the fun implications. So, Umbra lube. How we doing over there, Petey?"

Pete gestured with his hand to indicate 'so-so'. The scarf was helping the breathing situation, though. He was massively uncomfortable but no longer in danger of passing out from lack of oxygen.

"Hang in there, champ," said Abel. "We need to wipe his face so he can see."

Guildias: "Keep your eyes closed." The end of the scarf, the side which had been hidden during transition, was used to wipe at his eyelids and around his sockets. The substance was thin, and wiped away relatively easy.

"I assume for your kind this becomes easier."

Finally, Guildias looked back. "How are your eyes?" he asked Abel.

Pete/Abel: Pete didn't have to be told twice; he could barely open his eyes as it was.

"Thank you," he managed, sounding slightly breathless, like he was recovering from a workout.

Abel took a second to assess. "They're good, not great. Tried to duck my head as much as possible when we passed through, so only a little lube got in them."

Pete snorted. "Lube?"

"What else would you call this?"

Guildias: "Indulge the pup. Now, let's assume the child underwent the same treatment. Frightened, cold, in a broken mirror image of a familiar world. Where do you assume a child would go? I have but one theory."

Pete/Abel: Pete slowly blinked while he let his eyes adjust. They didn't sting or anything, but they very badly wanted to water.

"Uh...well. If I was a kid and I was lost, I'd try to find my house. Or at least something that looked familiar and safe."

Guildias: Guildias turned from whence they came. To a house without paint. Sagging with the weight of a tree growing on its roof. Its roots pierced through the ceiling and out through various windows. Spilled out from all sides of the roof and into the ground below. Only one window had stood the test of weight. Opened just wide enough for a little body to wriggle through.

"My assumption went through there."

Pete/Abel: Abel looked uneasily upon the tree. "There's no telling what the inside of that place looks like if this is what the outside looks like. Got your beacons out, Pete?"

Pete looked down at the crystals around his neck. Despite being covered in the same substance as the rest of him, he could swear they were glowing. "Apparently."

"Okay. Time to squeeze through the window. Hold on tight to Gil. I'll hold on tight to him too. Absolutely do not let go of each other."

Guildias: "Do you intend to each claim a foot as some golden prize?" His smile was brief but genuine. The window - kitchen window, from the looks of things - was pushed up until resistant. A tight squeeze, but manageable. They would only need to do this once. Assuming their way home was also in the sham of a laundry room here.

The vampire turned himself into a sitting position halfway through, body shifting in a manner almost unnaturally smooth. The house was blanketed in a dust thick enough to scrape away. Floating in the air in a kind of stasis. The handprint of a child on the fractured marble counter-top. Not a footprint in sight.

Pete/Abel: "In this world it might as well be," said Abel. Contact was the absolute name of the game right now; if they had that, they had a maybe decent chance of getting out of this okay.

Pete grunted as he squeezed through the window, the complete opposite of Guildias' inhuman grace. How'd he get here? How was squeezing through a window in the Veil something he was actually doing?

"Already sick of this place," he muttered in a whisper as he looked around. The handprint was a good indication that they were on the right track; the lack of footprint was not. "What, did this kid fly through here? Does anything look remotely disturbed to either of ya'll?"

Guildias: Guildias took a false breath. The air was stale, and thick with musk. The scent of rust and toiled earth blended almost seamlessly. His olfactory wasn't nearly as keen as he knew the Ravnos' to be. Might have come in handy, but he was otherwise occupied.

"That," he said. His tone suddenly quiet, as the only disturbance was that of roots. Roots which seemed to be breathing.

Pete/Abel: Abel looked uneasily to the tree. Other than the handprint and the open window, there were zero signs of life in here. Except, of course, for the tree. "Normally I'd say no way, buuuuut...."

Pete turned the tree as well. "What, you think the tree grabbed him? Wouldn't there be signs of that?"

"Not necessarily," said Abel. "Should we start hacking away at it? That seems like a bad move. It might attack us."

Guildias: "I think the best course of action would be to explore it. From bottom to top. We know he came in here, so I doubt he'd be on the roof. We can make that our last stop if we haven't found him."

Pete/Abel: Abel nodded. It seemed like a solid enough plan even though they weren't exactly spoiled for choice on how to proceed.

"Okay. So. Who's gonna be the first to touch the tree?"

"I'll do it," said Pete. "Any advice?"

"Uh...don't hurt it. Maybe--would it be weird to ask it for permission? I feel like it can definitely hear us."

Guildias: "No option is off the table. We'll see how it reacts to your nearness."

Guildias considered a moment before stepping down from his counter perch.

"I'll stand behind you. Follow Abel's idea. Hover your hand and ask."

Pete: Pete nodded and took a deep breath. "All right, here goes nothing."

He stepped closer to the tree, moving as cautiously and non-threateningly as he possibly could. If Abel was right and the tree was...sentient? somehow, then it couldn't hurt to be careful and respectful.

"Hello," he said softly, stopping just a couple steps away from the roots. "I'm looking for someone. Could you help me?"

Guildias: Guildias remained just behind, hand hovering over Peter's shoulder the same as Peter to the root. Ready to snatch at the first violent response.

The breathing root recessed from his presence. The tip of the root coiling defensively. A sound like a long hot exhale from within. A sickly-sweet stench blended with the scent of toiled earth.

Pete: So the tree was sentient. Good to have confirmation of that; gave him some idea of how to proceed.

"We're not here to hurt you," he said gently. "We won't hurt you. We just want to take this child home. He doesn't belong in this world. He belongs in our world."

Guildias: Guildias wanted to look back to Abel, but refused to remove his gaze. He would much rather have been wrong. Defense meant the capability of offense. Having any sense of emotion included anger and fear and worse.

A smaller root, hanging uselessly from the middle of the dining room ceiling began to lengthen, coiling away and tightening.

"Get away from it."

Pete/Abel: Pete didn't have to be told twice.

He took a few giant steps back from the tree, instinctively reaching for Abel and Guildias' hands.

Abel, meanwhile, had all his senses on high alert, trying to detect any hint of the little boy beneath the scent of dirt and decay.

Maybe the tree just smelled like that, or maybe they were already too late.

"Is he alive?" he asked the tree.

Guildias: Peter's elbow was gripped firmly, pushed just behind Guildias' arm. The tree his only attention.

The roots breathed again. As the one defensive coil relaxed by an inch, more roots curled. The thickest, larger than their combined mass, seemed to suck in a giant reluctant breath. Its exhale exuded more rotted stench. A low octave sound with humming vibrato. Words, but unintelligible.

Pete/Abel: A few beats of silence followed the...response? After which Pete said, "Either of you happen to speak tree?"

Abel shook his head. His face was set in serious lines, a rare display. "No. But that smell? It's either the tree itself or decomp," he said softly. It didn't necessarily mean it was the kid, but it was definitely something. That smell was unmistakable.

"Gil, any ideas on communication with sentient trees?"

Guildias: Guildias watched the root expand with every alien syllable, becoming impossibly large, beyond any tree of their world to his knowledge. It appeared wet. He suspected its surface sticky. The stench had remained consistent, but there was no conspicuous sign of a struggle, torn clothes, nor smears blood.

"Another time. Up the stairs."

Pete/Abel: Abel nodded. "All right. Come on, Petey, you heard the man."

He grabbed onto each of them and started backing out of the room, not taking his eyes off the tree until they were well clear of it. That wasn't to say one of those freakish roots couldn't stretch out and grab them but Abel felt better being away from it and the smell of death.

"Should we look in the kid's room?" Pete asked, compelled to whisper. "Might be worth a shot. There's no footprints leading this way but maybe...?"

Guildias: "Exactly why we're going upstairs." Through the kitchen, to the stairs separating the living room and kitchen. Stairs partially destroyed by roots and patched by the same. Caked dust on each step but that between the roots. Without disturbance to any of the floor, no area of the house could be overruled.

"Do you wish to sweep what remains of the first floor?" he asked Abel. "I'm more concerned with Peter's respiratory."

Pete/Abel: "Sweeping this much dust is gonna kick it up," said Abel. "I'd need to vacuum and I doubt the Umbra has power, but I'll have a looksee."

Pete shook his head. "I'm fine. Dust is the least of my worries right now. Let's just go to the kid's room. Together." This place was giving him the creeps. He spent a lot of time in the woods, surrounded by trees, but seeing all the branches holding everything together was just...unsettling.

Guildias: "Sweep - surveillance, searching, pup." He supposed his military background had caught the familiar, or this was just a familiar being idiosyncratic as usual. His tone remained patient just the same.

Pete/Abel: "Oh! You soldier types and your jargon." He gave a light smack to Guildias' arm. "In my defense, you mentioned breath--never mind. I'll give the place a once over."

"Abel, maybe you shouldn't--"

"Relax, buddy." Abel smiled. "Ain't going anywhere." He had magic; he didn't need to walk around to sweep the first floor.

He just had to listen, scent the air, put his feelers out for auras and energy signatures and other minds besides theirs. He wasn't looking to go poking around inside anyone's thoughts, he just wanted to get a feel.

For other people and for magic, and hopefully, for the little boy.

Guildias: What he sought would not be found on the first floor, but there was something. A sensation like static from the tree, damp with sentience, and if Abel were to consider above his head, where the static worsened...

Abel: Abel's brow furrowed. He turned his head to the left, waited. To the right, waited again. It wasn't coming from either direction. Then he looked up.

"We're not alone," he whispered after a moment. "I can feel something else here with us besides the tree. Up there somewhere." He pointed up the stairs. "We need to get into that room, it might be the kid. I can't quite make it out."

But first he needed to put out one more feeler so they wouldn't get a nasty surprise.

'Is anybody up there?' he thought in the direction of the second floor.

Guildias: A sleeping mind. That of a dream state. Alive, buzzing as youth often did. Peter's hand was directed to Guildias' jacket, heading up the stairs slowly, lingering on each step for a beat before attempting the next, pausing at the smallest groan of wood. The roots were no hurdle, only a humped bridge of breathing bark.

Abel: There was no response but that could be for any number of reasons. "I'm trying to talk to whoever it is," he told his companions, grabbing Pete's other hand. "They aren't saying anything back. I'll keep trying."

'We're coming up the stairs. It's okay, we aren't here to cause any harm. You're safe.' He reached out with his mind, letting the person or being's energy guide him to where they needed to go.

"This way."

Guildias: "I doubt they'd find much comfort in an invasive thought," Guildias muttered, looking back to inspect Peter's aversion of the root.

Pete/Abel: "Not barging in, Gil. Just ringing the doorbell."

Pete was trying very hard not to step on any bit that looked like it was made of tree root and being only partially successful. For all he knew the tree could feel all of them stepping on it and was waiting for the right time to strike. Maybe it was making Abel believe there was something upstairs when it was really just a trap designed to keep them all here, or worse, devour them whole.

"Are you ringing the doorbell on a person or another tree thing?"

"Jury's still out."

Guildias: "I think hearing a voice not your own in your mind is quite more than a doorbell." Had been his opinion since his most important murder.

The bedroom to the right, above the living room and kitchen, had long ago caved under the immense pressure. The bathroom visible by just a few feet. Its tile shattered and resigned from the walls. To the left, a small bedroom. The blue paint of the door crackled and chipped away. The breathing of the mother root, its stench, louder and more prominent.

Pete/Abel: "Not directly in it, just gently brushing against it. A whisper, like hearing something from far away."

Guildias probably didn't need a thorough explanation but Abel's babbling was more for his benefit than anyone else's. Anything to distract from the ruined house and smell of rotting flesh and the possibility that they were about to come upon a small little decomposing body.

"Guessing that's the one?" Pete asked, making an effort to breathe through his mouth. "Should we knock or just walk in?"

Guildias: "I'll go." Of those present, to his knowledge and current experience, Peter was most welcome in this umbral reality, but he'd risked enough.

His steps remained careful and deliberate, checking noisy floorboards as though hunting, mindful that the wrong step would dissolve their efforts.

The child's bedroom was as dust laden as the rest of the house. The roof collapsed by an enormous mother root.

Guildias reached behind for Peter. If ever there was a moment in which to keep a close grasp on the man, it was in seeing a boy, barely out of his toddling years, curled against the breathing black root, cradled between giant arm-like appendages. Eyes closed, breathing, suckling on a smaller thumb-like finger from one of the wrapped arms. This was not an appropriate moment for reflex action; perhaps his grasp of Peter was for himself.

Pete/Abel: Pete nodded. "Carefully, okay?" With the floors and everything else in the state they were in, he didn't like their odds of coming out of another altercation with those branches unscathed. Hell, he didn't like their odds of successfully walking across this floor without falling through.

He could see sky through the ceiling of the little boy's room. It had the same stench, the same lack of any sort of life apart from those damn--

"Oh..." he said softly. There he was. The little boy. Seemingly unharmed and sleeping peacefully as anything among the sentient roots.

Pete squeezed Guildias' hand just as Abel squeezed his. Much as he'd hoped this is what they would find, it was still a shock to see the kid safe. And alive.

He took a deep breath. "Thank God. We should..."

Abel nodded. "It should be you that goes and gets him."

Guildias: Abel was right, of course. Peter was the key to this going smoothly, whether he realized his capability or not. He would keep his mouth shut, being so near the entity. He hadn't realized how deep into the room he had stepped until needing Peter to take front and center.

Pete: "Guildias?" Pete barely whispered, squeezing the vampire's hand again. "How are we gonna do this?" Because he seriously doubted the tree was just going to let them take the little boy. For all that it was creepy and sentient and smelled like a rotting corpse, it seemed to be protecting him.

Guildias: "As you would... relieve an exhausted mother." The hold of the child was not hostile. There was no way to determine what was being fed to the boy, if anything. Something had rendered the child unconscious, evident by the gentle rise and fall of his stomach.

Pete: "I usually relieve an exhausted mother by taking her kids and watching them for a few hours so she can shower and sleep. But she doesn't have roots that'll kill us all for attempting to take him."

Guildias: "She's fallen asleep with her baby in her arms. I'm right behind you."

Pete/Abel: Pete took a deep breath. "Abel, any ideas?"

"Approach as non-threateningly as you can," Abel whispered. "Gil's right, the tree is protecting him. Look. It's cradling him, like a parent does. I don't think we're the only beings down here who care about that kid. Maybe that's why the tree tried to attack us downstairs. Here, let me--"

Abel took off his jacket and gave it to Pete to hold so he could take off his shirt. It was cleaner than the jacket and it would do to keep the little boy warm until they could get out of here.

Guildias: Guildias remained between them, kept his eyes on the root, studied its breathing, location of every hung and piled root, its grip on the child. He considered every possible angle, every reaction. They were in the heart of this house. Magic was unpredictable here. All of this on the suggestion of a Ravnos. He almost wanted to laugh at the absurdity.

Pete/Abel: Abel handed his shirt to Pete and put his jacket back on. "Remember, Petey, non-threatening. Come from a gentle, caring place, not a 'rescuing a tiny prince from a dragon' kind of place. The tree's kept that little kid safe down here and for that, I think it deserves our respect."

Pete nodded. Abel was right; whatever the circumstances, the tree was caring for that child. He turned to Guildias. "You have any advice?"

Guildias: Guildias forced half of his attention back to the pair, gestured with his free hand to keep their voices low. One of the reasons he was of few words.

"No. Fall back if something happens."

Pete: Another nod. "Okay," he whispered, taking a silent deep breath. Despite his apprehension, it didn't take much effort to approach the tree from a caring, gentle place. All he could see when he looked at that little boy was Graham. He couldn't begin to imagine how he'd feel if it were his nephew down here, lost and scared and away from everyone who loved him.

He had to bring this kid back to his parents.

Pete approached as slowly as he could, intending to crouch down when he was close enough and bundle up the kid.

Guildias: Still and silent he watched, ready to snatch for whatever bit of clothing he could fist. The surface objective was this child, but for the sake of others it was the well-being of the man in front of him. A promise not only to Callum, but the avoidance of Ravnos ire.

The tree exhaled a familiar musky odor. Contempt in its shiver for Peter's nearness. The child was lifted to a standing height, roughly shy of Peter's shoulders, and bundled with thin wispy black roots. The frequency of its rattling hiss turned Guildias' head in mild discomfort. Reminded him of a rattle snake. It was almost language, but the intent was clear.

Pete: Pete didn't let himself get agitated or make any sudden movements; he imagined he was in the serenity garden in the woods and forced himself to stay calm.

"I know you care about him," he said softly. "I know you've kept him safe and warm while he's been down here with you. If his mother knew that, she'd be grateful for it. She'd be grateful you kept her baby safe. She and his father miss him, they love him. He belongs up there with them, on the other side. I'm not here to hurt you, or him. I just want to take him back to his family."

Guildias: Peter's phrasing left him wondering. Was this, in fact, down or parallel to their reality? The association of down with Hell gave him pause. This was extrinsic, but nothing he could associate with the nightmares of Hell itself. Those of this reality must find their own as alien.

The sentient tree exhaled vibrations akin to words. Watching thin dark roots slowly covering the child's face and neck, a curious realization began to dawn on him.

Peter was slowly released; Abel pulled to replace him. He began to circle the enormous girth.

Pete/Abel: Both Pete and Abel looked to Guildias with identical looks of confusion.

"Gil, what are you doing?" Abel whispered, trying to move his lips as little as possible. It didn't seem like a good idea to draw attention to themselves when Pete was trying to reason with the tree. "We're at a delicate point in the process."

Guildias: "Hush." He placed his hand on the wall as a guide. The air between them thick enough to lose sight of all but their outline. He looked behind the tree, then turned towards the door, intent on inspecting the next set of sagging sleeping roots.

Pete: All right, okay, Guildias was doing this. Whatever the hell this was. Abel very much wanted to ask him what he was doing again but decided against it. He could always think it at him, but they probably wouldn’t be well received.

He’d just go with what was happening and keep one eye on Pete and the other on Guildias and keep his supernatural senses on the tree and the kid.

Guildias: There was a connection between what was happening to the child and the unpleasant lingering odor. He would not yet voice suspicions without evidence. He'd keep his hand to the wall, ribbed along a curtain of inky roots shivering from his dead touch. They recoiled, dissatisfied with what little they could learn from him. He watched, touched again, and then breathed life into his body. The shivers and low frequency hisses calmed with his growing warmth.

Guildias continued down the hallway, brushed his fingers along where a window should be, long since broken, dust covered, mostly replaced by the same living root.

The bathroom near the stairs. The same stench. He peered inside and waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, irises becoming pale.

He almost missed it. A thin gray hoof peeking from a massive swallowing root. All that remained of an ungulate mammal.

Keeping his movements calm, Guildias turned, replaced his right hand to the wall and began the short journey back.

Pete/Abel: While Guildias did his thing, Pete debated his own next move. He'd said his piece to the tree and the tree hadn't seemed particularly receptive. It didn't seem particularly receptive to Guildias either, so saying more would only risk pissing it off and making it attack one of them or worse, hurt that little boy.

So...all he could do was wait.

He was doing a much better job of that than Abel, who was starting to feel antsy. Should he mentally ask Guildias what was happening? Probably not. He hadn't seemed thrilled with the idea of mental communication earlier.

Guildias: For a moment, Guildias wondered if the rooms had changed. The hallway felt longer than his initial roam. By at least twenty feet. The floor was layered by a thick blanket of roots. They breathed, reaching like long skeletal fingers for his boots, gripping with anemic strength to his clothes.

He reached down to brush away a particularly curious root. A gambler's knife, wrapped tightly in black tape, was pulled from his boot.

"Get away from it," he called, keeping his voice above a whisper.

Abel: Abel didn't need telling twice. He barely needed telling once, already on edge and itching to do something when he heard Guildias' voice. A voice that was absolutely not whispering like it had been before which meant something bad had happened.

He grabbed Pete's arm and yanked him a few giant steps back. "What?! What is it!?"

Guildias: "Follow my voice." He reached out into the mist, his knife-hand to the wall to continue guiding him back to the little bedroom.

Pete/Abel: "Follow--okay." Abel wouldn't question or hesitate, he just grabbed Pete's arm and held it tight. "Okay, okay. Come on, Petey."

Any hesitation was on Pete's part. It didn't feel right leaving the little boy behind, even if it was only for a short while. At least he hoped so. He also hoped to God that Guildias had an actual plan because what they had tried thus far just wasn't going to cut it. The Umbra might have accepted them, the tree might be standing down, but no way in hell was it going to let them leave with the kid just like that. They weren't that lucky.

Still, he'd do as he was asked; holding onto Abel with one hand and reaching out for Guildias with the other. "Keep talking so we can find you."

Guildias: What he grabbed was warmer than root, and fleshy. He assumed Abel for no reason. He pulled. Keeping close to the wall, he pulled his foot, breaking several clingy bits of brittle bark.

"Have you two remained in each other's sights?"

Pete/Abel: It was Pete’s hand, and it squeezed Guildias’ and held tight.

“Yes,” said Pete.

Abel nodded whether Guildias could see him for not. “The whole time, scout’s honor. What have you been doing? Are you okay?”

“What was that noise?” Pete looked around at the walls, the ceiling, the floor.

Guildias: He would answer all questions with a single-minded explanation. "I've regarded it as Mother of this house. If so, it's the kind of mother that eats her children. Loves them to death. What was it doing to the child last you saw?"

Pete/Abel: “Fucking fantastic,” Abel muttered under his breath.

Pete felt his heart leap into his throat. “It was covering him in more roots. Little ones, like it was trying to hide him. I thought it was trying t—we have to go back in there. We have to go, right now!”

Guildias: "I'm thinking we will be its next children if we don't act soon."

Pete: “Great, what do we do? Got a hatchet so we can cut the kid free?”

Guildias: "Can you conjure a hatchet?" Another root was pulled from his shoe. He lowered to give similar treatment to the pair.

Pete/Abel: “Magic works differently here but I can try,” said Abel. “Pete, you got anything hatchet-like?”

“I’ve got a pocketknife.”

Abel turned to Guildias. “Do you need the hatchet for the roots or for something else?” He needed to know how strong the blade needed to be. Altering was easier than conjuring; there was a slightly better chance of being able to magically alter Pete’s knife than conjuring up something else entirely.

Guildias: "It's for you... and what you're going to do to me." Guildias sat up again. "Don't remain stagnant." He began to remove his jacket, handed to Peter to wear or hold.

"If you're going to make attempt, do so now."

Pete/Abel: “Don’t remain—?” Right, the creepy fucking roots trying to mother them to death. Couldn’t stay still and let them.

“What exactly are we going to do?” Pete asked, accepting the jacket while Abel rooted around in his bag for the knife.

Guildias: "You're going to be quick taking the child. It should be occupied by mine and Abel's efforts. When he takes the child, Abel," he paused to make sure he was heard, "you need to be the leader back to the exit. Understood?"

Abel: Abel gave Guildias his full attention right up until he nodded that he understood. He didn't know what the vampire planned to do but he had to trust him; there was no room for hesitation or uncertainty on this side of the Veil.

"Pete, give me your wrist. I put three beacon crystals on you, there are three of us, and I'm not leaving anything to chance." He took the crystal from one of Pete's wrist and put it on Guildias'. The crystal on the chain was taken for himself. "Remember we have our other pendants that are warm when we're together. Tuck those into your shirts so you can feel them." He held up the knife. "Gil, I need you to tell me exactly what this is going to cut so I can make it strong enough."

Guildias: Guildias felt for Abel's gifts and nodded. He told himself this was an irrational leap, but the alternative was failure and it would haunt Peter for too long. If they tried to snatch the child, it could be as mothered as the unfortunate in the bathroom. Their efforts already brought the child closer to his death.

This was arduous no matter the plan. Efficiency was key.

Guildias began rolling the sleeve of his left arm. Two thin scars peeked from his shoulder.

"You're going to remove all of this. It'll be easier as you go along."

Pete/Abel: Pete's eyes widened. "Your arm? You want Abel to cut off your whole arm?!"

Abel blew out a long breath and tried to concentrate on the magic and not on the fact that he was pretty sure Pete was right and Guildias meant for him to lop off his arm. What he planned to do with the arm, Abel had no earthly or godly idea but dammit, this knife was going to do the job. No hesitation, no uncertainty.

He'd just hurl later.

Guildias: "Compose yourself. It'll grow back. We don't have time to be repulsed."

Pete: There was so much wrong with that statement Pete didn't know where to even begin. But Guildias was right, they were up against the clock at the moment.

"Fine, fine. What exactly are we going to do with you down an arm?"

Guildias: "You won't do anything. Your focus is the child, and ignoring everything else. Look away if you need to."

Pete: "Dude, we've gotta stop doing things that scar me for life when we hang out."

Guildias: "I'll always disturb you. We're on opposite sides of the page."

His gaze returned to Abel. "Are you ready?"

Pete/Abel: "You're a lot less disturbing when you've got all your parts attached."

Abel was deep in concentration and thus didn't answer. A hatchet sure as hell would've made the task easier and if he wanted to avoid carving that arm off like a butcher with a turkey, he knew he had to do his best to get this knife as close to one as possible.

He closed his eyes and held the blade in both hands, silently moving his lips as he recited a spell. The blade would lengthen, grow stronger, and fall heavier. Not a hatchet, but as close as he trusted himself to get. He was just grateful it seemed to work in this unpredictable environment.

"At the shoulder or the elbow?" he asked at long last.

Guildias: Guildias had intended shoulder, but he looked one last time to reconsider.

"Shoulder," he affirmed. He needed something he knew would be a worthy distraction. A little smaller than the child, but formidable.

"Ignore what I do next." He had to concentrate on his own spell. One he had to pull from memories from another body. A spell deliverable in every language, more potent in its original form, but tonight, spoken in the tongue of a former devoted student.

He reached for Peter, ignored his hand and squeezed his jacket. When the edge of the blade dug into dead flesh, he began to whisper in hissed, stuttered Hindi.

Pete/Abel: "Copy that," Abel sighed, steeling his nerve. He had to put some distance between himself and what he was about to do or he'd never be able to do it. "Petey, close your eyes and cover your ears, okay?"

This was venison. He was carving into venison, not the flesh of a friend. He'd done it a hundred times with his grandma and with his old mistress. He was just preparing dinner and definitely not separating this man's arm from his body with a magically enhanced blade.

Thankfully, the lack of blood helped that particular delusion.

Pete was way ahead of him. He was being flooded by deja vu, thinking back to the Draegan house and the last time he'd had to shield himself against something awful. The last time Guildias had tried to shield him from something awful.

Guildias: The Setite refused to scream. Forced his prayer to continue, stumbling from Hindi to Coptic and back with a slam of his fist to the living wall. The roots shivered and lashed defensively, retreated by an inch to avoid another bashing.

The drooped frozen fingers began to move, twisting backward and forward in sharp unnatural convulses.

"raakshason kee maata. raakshason kee maata."

His head bowed, loose strands hiding his face as he dry-heaved. Words hissed and spat as dead flesh mangled itself and reshaped, thickening as it gurgled like a monstrous coo of a child.

"Get the child." Blindly, he offered his knife to Peter. "Move."

Pete/Abel: "You're okay, Gil. You're okay, promise."

God, the noises. It was like when he'd gone hunting with Callum's family only a million times worse knowing it was Callum's husband and not an animal.

Pete only dared open his eyes when he was certain the cutting noises had stopped but he still didn't look. There were other noises happening and he really didn't want to know what was making them. He just kept his head turned and his feet moving and told himself there was nothing out of the ordinary.

He was off like a shot when Guildias gave him the word, just barely managing to take the knife from him in his haste to get back into the room and back to the kid. Pete had no fucking idea what was happening but what he did know was that he was going to cut that child free of those creepy fucking branches and take him back to family come hell or high water.

You can't have him. I won't let you. I'm taking him back.

Guildias: Peter was not alone. Guildias stumbled behind, keeping Abel within sight, but it was not the vampire trailing at the Gurahl's heels. The screech of what followed rang through the desolate house and down the Setite's throat. His intent woven into its resolute action. A hideous taupe creature a quarter Peter's height slithered on its thick lepidote tail and two bony hand-like appendages. Fangs curved and so large it could not close its mouth. Its tiny claws dug and splintered the hardwood floor to propel itself. Torso violently undulating with every snatch of the floor. Its breathing came rapid, chittering with sanguineous excitement.

It waited impatiently for Peter to attempt for the child before throwing itself upon the sagging mother root with a scream so shrill Guildias would swear hurt his eyes. It tore at the smaller surrounding roots. Sunk its fangs into fleshy bark and clawed like a rabid animal. The tree reacted quickly. Exhaling a stench so foul the air became thick and acrid. Desperate roots from above and below whipped at the creature, tried to grab its unruly tail. Its new insolent child was enough to occupy its conscious.

Pete/Abel: Ungodly. That was the only way Pete could describe the noises and the screeching and the sensations creeping over his skin as surely as if whatever was behind him were crawling all over him. It didn't matter what horrible magic Guildias had done to help him and he sure as hell wasn't about to look and find out.

Not when it gave that blood-curdling shriek that threatened to scramble his brain or tore at the roots and made the tree release a stench that could be nothing but the smell of rotting, burning Hell itself. Pete just kept his eyes on that little boy, wrapping him in Abel's shirt and tucking him close to protect him from the stench and the screaming and the few remaining roots that clung desperately to any part of him that they could before Abel stepped in to slice them away.

"We're going now! NOW!"

Guildias: Guildias swallowed down the false effort of breathing. He wanted no part of that stench. The guardianship of his monster was relinquished to the tree. Whatever it intended to do was or no consequence, so long as they reached the way out.

Don't stop. Not for the clingy roots or the noises upstairs. Keep moving.

Abel: That's exactly what Abel planned to do. He wanted out of this upside down, creepy ass Alice in Wonderland nightmarish hellscape and the smell of decomposing flesh and god only knew what else.

"GIL, HOLD ON TO PETE WITH YOUR ONLY HAND, PETE HOLD ON TO ME WITH YOUR FREE ONE LET'S GO!"

Down the crumbly stairs and over all the holes and rotting wood and dust to the gate. If a tiny part of him wondered if that fucking tree had the power to close the entrance it was quickly and viciously tramped down. He had even less time to dwell on that than he'd had to dwell on Guildias' missing arm.

Guildias: When this was finished, Guildias intended to have a laugh at Abel's choice of words. Seemed quite appropriate for a familiar. Just a little too obnoxious.

He held to the back of Peter's clothing, glanced back to observe the shriveling roots, reflecting the upstairs turmoil.

Abel: This couldn't be over soon enough. It almost seemed like the house had grown somehow while they'd been upstairs, no doubt having intended to trap them all here until it could absorb them into its maw. Made perfect sense now why this place smelled like decomp.

It wasn't like decomp, it was decomp, from what were probably untold masses of beings from their realm and countless others who'd had the misfortune of getting trapped here with that tree since time immemorial.

But not them.

They had arrived at the exit. Abel climbed through as quickly as he could, shouting for whoever was near to help him pull out Pete and Guildias and the little boy.

MJ/Rosmond: MJ looked back towards the sound, hesitant to move due to the camera. Rosmond was Abel's first responder, grabbing hold of what he could see and pulling with calculated strength. Now was not the time to begin questioning the strange sticky substance covering their bodies from head-to-toe.

Pete/Abel: Having known what to expect the second time around, Pete did his best to shield his face and the kid’s from the Umbra lube, as Abel had proclaimed it. If he couldn’t shield himself completely, then at least he could for the kid, who was safely bundled in Abel’s shirt and half tucked into Pete’s jacket.

The first thing Pete did as soon as they were free—after wiping his face as best he could—was check to make sure the kid was breathing and okay.

Guildias/Rosmond: Guildias' eyes remained closed as he emerged. His missing limb went unnoticed as Rosmond inspected the child, only taking pause when he caught the Setite holding an empty space at his shoulder.

He would ask later.

"We were not here. Leave the child in the grass. Don't touch anything on the way out."

Pete: Pete was only half paying attention to Rosmond.

He needed to see that tiny little chest moving up and down with each breath, needed to feel the reassuring thump of a pulse in that tiny little wrist.

“You’re okay, buddy,” he whispered, using the shirt to clean off any goop that had managed to cover the boy. He wasn’t sure if this was why Abel had asked him to bring an extra sweater, but this was as good a reason as any to finally take it out of his bag.

Spring was right around the corner but it was still chilly at night and in the mornings. Too chilly for a little boy to just be out here in his pajamas. He’d survived the Umbra and a sentient tree; Pete wasn’t about to let the elements get him.

Guildias/Rosmond: Guildias turned to check the wall for residue. Rosmond was right of course; there could be no suspicion. They'd covered most of their tracks; the last mile was the most arduous.

Rosmond studied the child and Peter's worried brow, assessed their quiet acquaintance and turned back.

"A message to Charon and an anonymous phone call will be made. None of us are doctors. You must trust the plan."

A gentler, less chilly approach was required. This much Guildias understood, placing his hand on Peter's shoulder.

"Calloway or I can stay and watch from the woods, but the child is not under Rosmond's influence."

Pete: “I’m not leaving him,” Pete said softly, bundling the little boy into the sweater as gently as if he were a newborn. “I’m not going anywhere until this child is back in his mother’s arms. I’ll watch from the woods.”

Guildias: "They will search these woods. I'm at no strength to conceal you."

Abel: "I am," Abel finally piped up. "I can hide us with magic, we don't even have to rely on the cover of the trees."

MJ/Rosmond: "That FBI SUV's gotta go," said MJ.

"I can trust you to keep them safe, Mr. Harrington?" Rosmond stared forwardly.

Abel: "You can bet your life on it, Rosmond. I have all kinds of tricks up my sleeve." And demonic backup just a thought away as well as in his pockets.

MJ/Guildias/Rosmond: Rosmond studied those eyes, finding nothing of fault, he nodded. Turned his expression on Guildias.

"You're coming with me. Mr. Calloway-"

"I got em. I'll text ya."

Another nod. The two began to retrace their steps back to the SUV. Only a glance back from the Setite.

Abel: Abel gave Guildias a smile and a wave. “See you soon, Gil. Sorry about the whole...” He gestured at where the vampire’s arm was supposed to be. “I’ll make it up to you after I get very drunk and repress that memory.”

MJ: "Told y'all not t'come back armless. What the fuck happ - after. After. We gotta put him down somewhere noticeable."

Pete/Abel: "You had to go and put it out there," Abel muttered, digging in his pockets. After would have to wait for both the boy to be found, Abel to get drunk, and several days to pass. He needed time to process what the hell kind of night he was having.

Pete was already carrying the little boy to the front porch. He couldn't bring himself to leave him on the lawn; made more sense that he'd fall asleep on the porch after wandering out of the woods. That's the story he assumed Rosmond and Prince were going to go with, and as far as mysteries went, it was the simplest.

MJ/Rosmond: The point, Rosmond believed, was not to implement the family and have the child taken away on suspicions. Whatever the intention, in truth he did not care. The call would be made by Charon saying a child had been spotted. From there it was out of their hands. This mission had been about the people within, not the child in Peter's arms. His assessment found him impressed with Guildias' willingness of both life and limb. Everyone in some capacity played their role well.

MJ gently tugged on Peter's sleeve, encouraging him from the slumbering little boy. The sweater had to go. Fuck if he could tell if any hair had transferred from Peter. A last minute thought.

"You're probably leavin' trace." He looked to Abel. "Is there anything ya can do?"

Pete/Abel: Pete didn't move. He couldn't. He was frozen to the spot, imagining all the ways this could've gone so much worse than it did, seemingly unable to keep from picturing Mary and Graham in the clutches of that tree.

Abel nodded at MJ. "I'll cut the labels from the sweater so it can't be ID'ed. Feel like slipping in and seeing if they have tape or a lint roller? I'll keep Petey company."

MJ: "Easier t'just take the damn thing. I dunno how long them people are gonna stay asleep."

Abel: Abel subtly nodded toward Pete and gave MJ a look that said that wasn’t going to happen.

“Be fast. Most people keep lint rollers in the laundry room.”

MJ: "I can't magic away a hair of yours in his own. They'll comb it, Peter. Don't hover over him."

Abel: “Wait, I can—ugh, this night.” For a moment he’d forgotten he could teleport. “I’ll go, you stay.”

And he was gone.

MJ: "Well no shit!" The fuck happened, he thought. All three of them with flies and haze in their head. Faraway looks in their eyes. Lack of critical thinking.

"Y'all were only in there five minutes. What was it?"

Pete: Pete finally looked up, brow furrowed slightly, as though deep in thought.

“It was five minutes for you?”

MJ: "Yeah... So how long was it?"

Pete: “I don’t know. Longer.”

MJ: "Kay. Where was it?"

Pete: “Here, but different. Wrong.”

MJ: "God y'all are rubbin' off on me. Where was he?"

Pete/Abel: “In his room with the tree.”

Abel reappeared in almost the exact same spot he’d disappeared from with lint roller in hand.

“Back! Okay okay okay.” He began gently—and quickly—going over the sweater, paying close attention to the areas most likely to have any stray Pete hairs. Chances were that any hairs would come up very bear-like when examined but even so, it paid to be on the safe side.

MJ: "In a room with the tree. Okay. We gotta move him to the front of the house. I'll finish with the cam here. Wait for me 'round the corner. Don't go t'the front yet."

Abel: Abel nodded. “Yeah, yeah, okay. Just let me...” He carefully cut the label off the neck of the sweater. “Okay, done. Come on, Petey, let’s go wait for MJ.”

MJ: The backyard was untouched. No one had been there. The final bit of illusion belonged to the front yard, moving carefully to the next camera for the same treatment. The child was given a once over. Something of his likeness needed to walk from the eastern woods to the porch and lay in the most natural position Peter could place him. Had to be natural, he reminded. Not swaddled.

Pete/Abel: Pulling the sweater over the little boy's head--after Abel had smeared some dirt on it to make it seem like it had been found in the woods--was as natural as Pete could make it. On his side, with the too-long sleeves providing some cushion for his head.

"How's that?"

MJ: It would have to do. "Kay. Let's go." With little consideration, he took hold of Peter's hand and tugged. Free hand still directed towards the last camera, praying to no one that he'd maintained concentration enough.

Pete/Abel: Pete was still reluctant to go but he knew it would do no good to linger. What that kid needed more than anything else in the world was to be back with his family and if all went well, he would be before long.

"Come on, Petey," said Abel. "He'll be okay. Let's head for those bushes there so I can hide us until he's found."

MJ: MJ was last to follow, walking backwards carefully until reaching the woods. Certain that Abel could shield him when the moment was right. Finally dropping his hand, he took an unneeded breath and made the text to Rosmond.

Abel: Of course Abel could shield them; he was Xavier Atlas' familiar. Half his time was spent breaking into some house or private collection or another with his master. Pulling one over on human cops? Just another day.

When they were all settled, he took a talisman from his pocket and began murmuring a chant. He'd done it without the talisman before but it was a good safety net just in case. If anyone were to look in their direction once he was finished, all they would see would be shadows.

"And now we wait."

MJ: Not his first time observing Abel's magic. He made it look so effortless. So real. Far better than his version of concealment, having to memorize surroundings in order to mimic. Superior magic. For now.

Still waiting. And would wait for some time. After Rosmond had made certain to place distance between his vehicle and the house.

"Ya good, Peter?"

Pete: Pete shrugged, only half paying attention to what Abel was doing or how much time had passed. His eyes and his brain were glued to the porch.

“Been worse.”

MJ: "The call's been made. Just a little longer."

Abel: Abel wrapped an arm around Pete’s shoulder and squeezed. “Hear that? Won’t be long now. Then we can get a huge bottle of tequila and process our PTSD.”

MJ: "Y'all make it sound like y'all came outta Hell."

Abel: “We didn’t not not go to Hell, at least that’s what it felt like. I cut off a man’s arm. It’s been a stressful night.”

MJ: "You cut Guildias up?"

Abel: Abel gave a single nod. "He asked me to."

MJ: "Fuckin' why?"

Abel: "To save the kid from a horrifying sentient tree."

MJ: "Just threw his fuckin' arm at it?"

Abel: He shook his head. “Not exactly. It—he did...something and his arm wasn’t...an arm anymore. It was something else and that—something distracted the tree so we could grab the kid and get the hell out of that creepy Alice in Wonderland hellscape.”

MJ: "Huh." Maybe that was why Rosmond spoke the way he did, and why he'd been suggested for the mission. Another reason, he thought.

Abel: “Then there was the Umbra lube and the dust that didn’t behave like dust should behave and the smell of the decomposing flesh of the other unfortunate beings who’d found themselves in the clutches of the tree and been mothered to death by it.”

MJ: "Sounds like a Tool video." He tried to laugh. Came more as a cough.

Abel: “God I wish. That would’ve been easier to deal with. And less scarring.”

MJ: "Since when'd ya ever watch -" Hands clasped down on Peter and Abel's shoulders. Tires. Old, terrible oil. Had to be the oldest damn squad car he'd ever seen. He braced himself between the two men, half-standing and ready to react.

Abel: "In that dive bar in Colorado with that dude with the skunk stripes in his hair."

Abel turned toward the sound of the car and sighed. Finally. "Don't worry, they won't be able to hear us. We'll sound like wind to them."

MJ: "Baby boy's been found. So we should..." MJ considered a moment, dropped his hand from Peter's shoulder. "Mafia gave ya lookin' glass. The loupe. Check it."

Pete/Abel: Pete seemed to stir from a trance that broke the moment MJ moved his hand. His attention was still focused on the boy and the house, and he wasn't ready to move until he saw the parents come out and hug their child.

"Looking glass? Oh, right." He reached into his pocket and pulled out the loupe.

"Want to check the portal?" Abel asked.

MJ: "Yeah. Or this'll just start again."

Pete: Pete held up the loupe and turned in the direction from which they'd come, holding there for a moment before scanning the rest of the house.

"I don't see anything. Does that mean it closed?"

MJ: "Guess so. Rosmond would know more. S'why I went t'them. We make our money differently."

Pete: Some of the tension drained from Pete's shoulders. He still wasn't thrilled about how much information the prince had, but knowing that damn portal had closed made him feel a lot better about this whole situation.

"You made the right call. On Rosmond and on going in to save the kid. Thank you."

MJ: "Ya hate him, right? Rosmond. Gertrude. Ya hate em on my behalf or some shit." He watched the cop as he continued to bang on the front door. Lights upstairs switching on. Sirens in the distance.

Pete: Pete shook his head. “I don’t hate them. I dislike what they represent and I resent it, but I don’t hate them. Hating takes energy I’d rather spend on something else.”

Some more tension eased as the house started waking up. Soon, very soon.

MJ: "I know a little thing 'bout artful wordin'." His eyes fell to the bracken. "Part of the job. I don't hate any of em, either."

Abel was given a pat. "Let's start backin' out."

Pete/Abel: “I know it sounds like bull,” Pete sighed. “But it’s the truth. I have no beef with the mafia lieutenant or with the don.”

Abel shook his head. “Not yet. We haven’t gotten our emotional resolution yet.”

MJ: "Then read a book! Probably gonna put em on an ambulance, first."

Abel: "They better," said Abel. "No telling what he went through before we got there." He caught MJ's eye and gave him a look. 'Petey needs this,' he thought to him. 'All this struck close to home.'

MJ: 'Why though?' He didn't mean to seem callous, but their priorities were going in separate directions. His job had been the outside of the house, their mission finished in five minutes from his perspective. His urgency was in leaving, and the safety of the crouching men.

Abel: 'He's got a nephew and a little baby niece. Their photos are all over his house, they've got their own room for when they stay over. I saw his face in there. He was looking at the little boy but he was seeing his family.'

MJ: 'Too long.' A thought for himself, projected accidentally. Peter's reaction solidified his reason for being so adamant about renewing their relationship. A few years and circumstances had changed them into different men. The fumbling angry boys at a carnival were ghosts.

MJ took a step back, slowly retreating in their initial direction.

Abel: 'What's too long? Hey, don't move! This spell's got a range and it's not that big!'

MJ: MJ took to crouching a ways away, where Abel began his mental shout. Still watchful, ready to protect, but from here he felt more perceptive.

Pete: Pete was completely unaware of the silent conversation happening around him. He was too busy watching the house and the lights from the police cars, listening for the approach of an ambulance.

Despite the presence of help, he still didn't feel completely at ease. That wouldn't happen until that little boy's mother finally came out of the house. Pete watched the confusion and delight and relief play over her face as she was briefed by the officers and finally, finally got to hold her baby again. He heard her grateful prayers and thanks through her sobs and finally breathed a sigh of relief.

"We can go now," he said.

MJ: Peter was ready, at last. His willingness to engage loosened a knot in MJ's shoulder. He wanted to reach for him again. Take his hand and pull him under his arm and back them way they came. They would do all of that, but not hand-in-hand. He wanted to, but the gesture in the moment felt empty.

"Come on, then."

Abel: "And that has made this all worth it," Abel said cheerfully, getting to his feet and helping Pete do the same. "Okay, everyone grab a hand. We going back to Pete's?"

MJ: "Sure." What he really wanted was a large rock in the middle of a lake to lay on. Smoke a cigarette and listen to stories of the world he'd been denied. He wanted to watch Guildias grow his arm back. Listen to Peter's voice and fall asleep with Abel's head in his lap.

Pete/Abel: “Actually...” Pete looked between them. “Can we go to the river? I want a swim.”

Abel nodded. “Sure. You and MJ can swim and I’ll get us some supplies and we can get really drunk.”

MJ: "Y'all get really drunk." He shouldn't have been surprised by Peter's request, but its lost familiarity took him from his guard. "Let's do it. Behind Callum's place is safe."

Abel: “We’ll get drunk for us and for Gil and for you.” Abel took their hands and gave them each a squeeze.

“Brace yourselves.”

He gave them a moment and in an instant, the burgeoning crime scene was replaced by Callum’s dock and the tranquility of the river.

MJ: Not a moment after his feet landed upon soft grass did he begin to strip of his heavy jacket and boots. Hopping on one foot to remove socks and waddle towards the dock while arguing with his old belt. A trail of evidence left behind without once looking back towards the house.

Pete/Abel: Pete followed soon after, but not without taking a moment for the world (and his stomach) to settle. Impossible to get used to that feeling.

“You okay, Petey?”

Pete nodded. “Yep, I’m good. I’m gonna...” He gestured toward the river.

“Yes, swim. I’ll be back.”

And Abel disappeared again.

MJ: MJ remained crouched at the very edge of the dock. Arms against his knees as he watched the water. Waited for Peter to join him, looking over his shoulder to smile.

Pete: Finally being able to take off clothes covered in Umbra slime was the best Pete had felt all night. There was no way in hell a wash was going to save these. They needed burning.

He sighed in relief as he went to join MJ. “What?” he chuckled.

MJ: "Ya ever seen that film, uh, Poltergeist?"

Pete: “Yep, and I’ve hated clowns ever since.”

MJ: "That's you right now, with the shit all over ya."

Pete: “Goddamn Umbra lube. Felt like I was being waterboarded when we first went in. Ready to get it off.”

Without ceremony, he leapt into the water.

MJ: MJ watched a moment, as though waiting for something to happen. Some unforeseen reaction. Only when Peter emerged did he drop with dead weight into the water.

Pete: Pete’s entire body seemed to sigh in relief. The river felt just as good as any shower, maybe even better. Cold be damned.

“Fucking—it’s in my chest hair!”

MJ: "It sure is." He reached for his chest and flinched back - tried to play his retreat back by combing his own hair.

Pete: “Ugh...” He scrubbed at his skin, trying to get it off and trying not to notice that MJ had wanted to touch him.

“My skin and the water around me aren’t reacting, right?”

MJ: "Can't tell, honestly. Ain't got that sweet ass night vision like ya."

Pete: He scrubbed some more. “Well, no itching, burning, or glowing so far. I’ll take that as a good sign.”

MJ: "Guildias'll probably keep some, or Rosmond'll make him keep some. For science n'shit."

Pete: Pete squeezed some slime out of his facial hair and examined it closely. "I wonder what actual science would come up with if this stuff was tested. I'm guessing the kind of science they would do is actually magic."

MJ: "The kinda shit Giovanni do is like Frankenstein's madhouse. Science n'magic sorta become the same shit."

Pete: "I've been to Frankenstein's madhouse, it sucks."

MJ: "Talkin' 'bout Umbra?"

Pete: He nodded. "Yeah. Worse place I've ever been and I was in a microscopic part of it."

MJ: "I can't say from experience it's better or worse. It reflects. That's all I got."

Pete: "Sure does, like a funhouse mirror from hell." Some more scrubbing at his skin and hair and back below the surface he went.

MJ: "Ya know-" He'd wait for his return. "If ya feel that gross just go take a shower. His place is right there."

Pete: Pete shook the water from his head. “I’ll get around to it. I wanted a swim first. You know my thing with the river, always helps clear my head.”

MJ: "Yeah. Got a love-hate relationship with em."

Pete: “You currently on the love side or the hate side?”

MJ: "Got love for it right now."

Pete: “Glad to hear it.” Pete shifted to float on his back and heaved a long, content sigh.

“....So this whole time Guildias has been able grow limbs back like a lizard?”

MJ: Peter was watched for a moment before joining, staring at the sky. "We call can."

Pete: “Wait, seriously?! Is it magic or?”

MJ: "I mean, it's the blood. Takes a bunch, but he'll be his old cobra-self in no time."

Pete: “It’s crazy isn’t it? All blood does for the living is get oxygen everywhere so tissue and organs stay alive. Give some to a vampire and limbs grow back.”

MJ: "The moon's a rock in outer space n'ya become a fuckin' bear."

Pete/Abel: He snorted. "Touche. Never thought life would be so goddamn weird."

The rustle of plastic bags and clinking of bottles signaled Abel's return. "I'm back! I've got tequila and snacks and a snack for MJ!"

MJ: MJ looked towards the sound and smiled again.

"Your wrist? Fuckin' delicious."

Abel: "Nope, not mine, although good to know I have the appeal to you that a cheeseburger does to me. How would you feel about a taste of our own lovely Isabel, who was all moony-eyed over you going into the netherworld on a rescue mission? Don't worry, I didn't tell her you didn't actually go in."

MJ: "Mm, moon-y blood. Probably tastes better. I mean way better. It's Isabel."

A wink to Peter. Harmless teasing, he swears.

"Hey, I kept y'all from gettin' caught. The mafia and I are essential workers!"

Pete/Abel: Pete gave a good-natured chuckle. “I’m gonna go ahead and guess that Isabel is cute?”

Abel nodded. “Oh yeah, super cute with an adorable accent. She’s from Mexico.” He grinned over at MJ as he started unpacking the bags. “Damn right, Aquaman. You earned this moony blood and Petey earned his tequila. Come and get it.”

MJ: MJ climbed back onto the docks, allowing his feet to dangle.

"Ya know the whole 'if ya don't use it ya lose it'? She keeps me honest with my Spanish." He didn't have his mother and sister to speak to anymore. Not like that. The quick texts he could manage in good conscience with Kenna were in English. No phone call in years now.

"So what ya do with all the uh... goo?" he pointed over Abel's body.

Pete/Abel: After allowing himself one more dunk, Pete followed suit. It wasn't a shower and it was cold as fuck but the water felt great.

"We all need someone like that," he said as he hoisted himself up. "My mentor and his family still help me with my French." He accepted the bottle of tequila from Abel with a grateful nod.

Abel looked down at his chest. Most of the slime was gone but some still remained. "Isabel sprayed me off with the hose in the garden after Xavier took a sample."

MJ: "Of course he did." MJ smiled privately to Peter. "Sprayed ya down with a fuckin' hose. I love our life."

MJ glanced back to the house one last time, expecting a light; expecting to see Rosmond's SUV round the corner. Too soon. Abel had taken advantage of fewer numbers and now they'd have some explaining to do to Callum should he spot them first.

He kept those thoughts to himself and enjoyed a bit of Isabel.

Pete/Abel: Pete chuckled to himself. 'Took a sample' sounded like Rosmond and Gertrude weren't going to be the only ones doing some magic-science.

"Hey, it did the job. Petey, I got us some goldfish and hot fries and nachos. And stuff to turn the tequila into margaritas!"

A laugh this time. "You brought margarita supplies?"

"Hells yeah! Want one?"

"Hit me."

MJ: "Fuck, how much did ya fuckin' buy?" It all smelled... interesting. Food but not food. Familiar but unwholesome. A scent of memories and nothing more.

Abel: "A good bit. We've earned it." The only thing he hadn't bought was ice but that was no problem for someone with magic; as long as he had the essentials, they were golden. "Some lime juice, some salt, some tequila, and a dash of magic combined in the finest cocktail shaker the liquor store could offer. We shake it up." He shook it. "And we've got some much-earned catharsis. Hand me a solo cup."

MJ: MJ handed the cup over, watching the river as he supped. He could smell everything described and then some. Still smell the moisture of Umbra over Abel's skin and hair; could smell Xavier's cologne. Something about it was peaceful.

"Xavier ask 101 questions?"

Abel: Abel poured Pete’s margarita and handed it over. “Only a few,” he said, pouring his own. “Told him we would answer the rest tomorrow after I got really drunk. He’s probably coming up with more now that he has the lube.”

MJ: "We didn't not tell him what we were doin'," he felt the need to remind.

Abel: “We gave him a general idea. He’s a detail kinda guy, an exhaustive detail kinda guy. We basically went to Disneyland and didn’t take him, he’s curious.”

MJ: "Wonder where the fuck that comes from." A quick look back to his clothes before remembering he was fresh out of cigarettes. He missed pot. Alcohol was also acceptable, but he had no intention to bite either of them if offered. Teasing was one thing.

"He'd probably want a piece of your hair, too."

Pete/Abel: “This is the same man who breaks into places for fun. He likes to get into locked places and learn their secrets.”

Pete downed half his margarita and hummed thoughtfully. “So he’s a cat.”

MJ: "Ya know, if he were any animal... I imagine, like... a German shepherd, or Doberman. Somethin' overly groomed n'got that stance at dog shows."

Pete/Abel: “A show dog with the curiosity of a cat.”

“I’d say Doberman for sure,” Abel said, nodding sagely. “They always look intimidating.”

MJ: "He doesn't scare me." Maybe he should have. The night of merge, it was not MJ's body curled in a corner, shivering and mumbling, awaiting for capture. It was a handful of salt and a determination to flee no matter the cost. A chapter in his life more surreal than memory could recount.

Abel: “Well of course he doesn’t. He loves you. Scary people don’t look scary to their families and friends.”

MJ: "Isn't that what God's supposed t'be?"

Abel: “Which one?” Abel asked around a handful of goldfish.

MJ: "Respect is fear or some shit."

Pete: Pete shook his head. “They’re not. Fearing someone and respecting them are two different things but there are always people who think they’re one and the same.”

MJ: "Depends on the person. Not the one lookin', but the one they're lookin' at." He thoughtfully stared at the half-empty blood bag.

Abel: Abel shook his head. “This is too deep a conversation after the night we’ve had. We need more booze.”

MJ: "Right. So how 'bout them Knicks?"

Pete/Abel: “Which sport do they play?”

Pete chuckled. “Basketball.”

“Ah, the tall sport!”

MJ: "Yeah. The that," he laughed.

Pete/Abel: “Either of you ever play?”

“Nope.” Pete shook his head. “I play soccer.”

MJ: "Baseball."

Abel: “Look at you two, so athletic.” Abel mixed another round of margaritas, refilled their cups. “That must be why Xavier gets you that primo Olympian blood.”

MJ: "Never gonna be an athlete." It was a nice gesture, though. "Just get t'keep the body of it."

Abel: “And you don’t have to be sweaty and sore! That’s gotta be a nice bonus. Speaking of, are you still hungry? I’ve got more Isabel.”

MJ: "She a fuckin' mummy now? How much did ya take?"

Abel: “Nah, she’s fine. Did you see that the bag is smaller than normal? She gave a couple small ones, not two normal size ones.”

MJ: "All this for the kid?"

Abel: “All the nice girls like an Indiana Jones type.”

MJ: "Just wait 'til she hears 'bout Peter."

Pete/Abel: “I’m an Indiana Jones type now?”

Abel clapped him on the back. “Of course you are! Sure you can’t ever tell anyone and have them buy you drinks because of it but it still counts.”

MJ: "I'll buy ya a drink," he grinned.

Pete: Pete grinned right back. “Imma hold you to that. Getting covered in Umbra slime’s gotta be worth something.”

MJ: "Your real prize is a job well done," he laughed.

Pete/Abel: "You're absolutely right. Slime's a small price to pay for getting that kid back safely. With any luck he's not horribly scarred for life."

Abel shook his head. "Don't worry, Petey. Chances are if he does remember and does tell someone, they won't believe him. They'll chalk it up to a nightmare or to trauma, like humans always do, and if he hears it enough he'll start to believe it."

MJ: "That's how it goes," sighed MJ. "For their own good." For the most part, he believed that. More than he had initially. He didn't care to dwell on the why.

Pete: "In this case, I'd say that's the best case scenario," Pete sighed. "What we managed to see was horrible. Imagine what he saw before we got there."

MJ: "Well I can't. Y'all won't tell me."

Pete: "Did you miss the part where Abel told you about the sentient tree and having to cut off Guildias' arm?"

MJ: "I want the juicy details, goddammit."

Abel: "They're such gross details," said Abel, making a face. "I used to hunt with my dad, I can prep an elk or a bird but a person? That was fucked up."

MJ: "It's Guildias though. Bet he didn't even whimper."

Abel: "I don't fucking know how he managed to stay quiet. I know he wanted to scream. Man's got an iron will."

MJ: "Could the tree, ya know, hear y'all?"

Pete: Pete nodded. "Yeah. It could talk too, in some weird tree language that barely sounded like a language."

MJ: "Did y'all fight a fuckin' Ent?"

Abel: Abel shook his head. “It didn’t move around or have a face. It was rooted to one spot like a normal tree and the creepy roots extended everywhere.”

MJ: "Mmkay. Scratch one off of Ent." Another sip of sweet-metallic vitae, staring out across the river.

"I think we've earned a four-day weekend."

Pete/Abel: Pete polished off his second margarita. “I also wouldn’t call it much of a fight. Guildias distracted it and I just moved fast.”

“We have,” said Abel. “We’re starting on it right now.”

MJ: "Could it have gone without Guildias loppin' an arm off?"

Pete: They both shook their heads but it was Pete who said, “I don’t see how. We didn’t have any bargaining chips.”

MJ: "That bad, huh? Shit..."

Abel: Abel shrugged. “Maybe we would’ve had a chance under different circumstances but the tree was getting ready to kill the kid. We didn’t have time to think up an alternative, and we weren’t armed for a sentient tree.”

MJ: "I'll keep that in mind for the next Umbral mission." He watched the two of them a moment, suddenly taken by gratitude to find them in one piece.

Abel: "I am not getting covered in lube again unless it's for a damn good reason," said Abel, mixing yet another round of margaritas. "We need to find a rescue mission in like...Hawaii."

MJ: "I ain't ever been," MJ said. "Ain't crossed my mind."

Abel: "We should go! Petey and I will drink rum out a coconut and you can drink blood out of a coconut and we'll all sit on the beach for days on end doing nothing."

MJ: "Y'all do days, I'll do nights. But coconuts yes. N'Peter can get lost in the mountains on the full moon."

Pete: Pete snorted. "Or we could go when it's not a full moon. All that fur in that heat? I'd spend the full moon hiding in the ocean."

MJ: MJ looked to Abel. "Know any were-peeps Peter can hang out with on the full moon?"

Abel: "In Hawaii? No. But I can hang out with Pete on the full moon."

MJ: "You're hardly a were-anything."

Abel: “Neither is Callum and he hangs out with Pete on the full moon. It’s about companionship.”

MJ: "How d'ya know so much?"

Pete: “I told him,” Pete chimed in, devouring a handful of Goldfish. “We had time to talk before ya’ll came to pick us up.”

MJ: "A shit ton." Apparently.

Abel: “We talk fast,” Abel said cheerfully. “We needed to bond. Plus ya’ll took forever.”

MJ: "I like that." He wasn't surprised; this was Abel, after all. The man befriended a snake just because he could.

"I don't think I've ever heard ya talk fast," he smiled at Peter.

Pete/Abel: Pete chuckled. “I usually don’t. Didn’t think I could. I blame Abel, I was just trying to keep up.”

“Very few can.” Abel poured them another round and toasted Pete with his. “Here’s to you, Petey. L’chaim.”

MJ: "Ya've joined the club. Welcome. We don't have tee shirts or hats; we got loyalty and free arguments."

Pete/Abel: “I’ll take both.” He clicked solo cups with Abel and downed the contents. The world was beginning to take on a very pleasant haze. His head had started to feel lighter, more floaty. The perfect place to be after the night they’d had.

“What if we got T-shirts? Everyone lives a T-shirt.”

Abel nodded. “They do.”

MJ: "Shirts just for us, or the whole crew?" He couldn't imagine Rosmond wearing one, nor Guildias for that matter.

Pete: “For everyone!” Pete said cheerfully. “I’d pay good money to see Guildias in a T-shirt.”

MJ: "Ya'd know more than me at this point. I ain't seen it."

Pete: “I bet Cal’s seen him in a T-shirt since they’re married.”

MJ: "I don't think 'bout that shit." Not for some years now. Didn't seem fair to even consider.

Pete/Abel: Pete giggled to himself imagining Guildias in something as casual as a T-shirt. It seemed way too normal a thing for Mr. GQ.

“Oooh! I know what we should put on the shirts!” Abel announced. “How about, ‘I went to the Umbra and all I got was lube and this lousy T-shirt’?”

MJ: "Ha. Hell yeah. Xavier'll have t'wait for the next mission, then. He ain't gettin' shit this time."

Abel: Abel snorted. “There’s a man who would never wear a T-shirt. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him in any shirt without buttons and a collar.”

MJ: "I think s'time we steal his clothes."

Pete/Abel: He gave a dramatic gasp. “That’s so sneaky! He’d be so pissed,” Abel laughed. “We should steal everything and only leave him the T-shirt, some jeans, and tennis shoes so he has no choice but to wear it.”

Pete snorted. “Or he’ll just be naked until ya’ll give them back.”

MJ: "Wouldn't put it past him t'just walk 'round naked. He'd make some artistic excuse for it. Pretend the clothes aren't missin'."

Abel: “Or, or!” Abel laughed again. “He’d make us go suit shopping with him as punishment and stick you in another tie.”

MJ: "He'd still have t'walk 'round in a tee shirt. Worth the punishment."

Pete/Abel: “Say the word and we’ll raid his closet.”

Pete turned his attention toward the hot fries. “What if ya’ll just ask him to wear it? Pretty please with extra sugar on top?”

Abel waved the notion away. “That’s not nearly as chaotic and potentially hilarious.”

MJ: "Nah. Fuck that," MJ laughed, overlapping Abel's retort. "Gotta make your own fun, man!"

Abel: “Exactly! And trust me, this is going to be a lot of fun. Oh, we can’t forget his robes,” Abel added to MJ. “He’s got a bunch and if he doesn’t have his clothes he’ll try to just wear those. Should we also steal his underwear and make him wear American flag boxers?”

MJ: "Oh fuck, you're right. I'll get the boxers. Walmart's on the city limits."

Peter was given a grin. "Want a way-too expensive robe?"

Pete/Abel: Pete snorted and just decided to roll with it. He'd blame the tequila, which he was just drinking in shots now. "Why the hell not. Take his socks, too. Walmart's got novelty socks."

Abel's face lit up. "Yes!"

MJ: "Ain't there a shop here that got em? Ones that say, 'fuck this shit'?"

Pete: Pete nodded. “Yep, that gift shop on the way out of town.”

MJ: "Let's go tomorrow. Oh! Ya know, Guildias'll be next."

Pete: “You’re gonna steal poor armless Guildias’ clothes?” Pete chuckled.

MJ: "Maybe talk Callum into it - when he's, ya know, whole."

Pete: “We might be able to get him to get Guildias to wear a T-shirt. Stealing his clothes not so much.”

MJ: "Maybe m'just in a stealin' mood."

Abel: Abel shoved a handful of chips in his mouth. “You can help Devlin steal cookies from the kitchen when Christine isn’t looking. Or break into a fancy museum with Xavier.”

MJ: "Both. I'll do both. Maybe the underwear at Walmart, too."

Pete: Pete squinted. "I feel like I should be discouraging this, but Walmart's a giant corporation, so..." He shrugged and downed more tequila.

MJ: "Now you're gettin' it," MJ chuckled into his bag of blood.

Pete: "I'll scold you tomorrow if I remember. Gotta keep up them good and righteous publican appearances."

MJ: "Good n'righteous I guess is your MO now. Maybe it always was, but ya ain't punchin' people anymore."

Pete: "Got lectured by the law. Then the law's boss. I still punch people though. Aren't enough lectures in all the world to keep assholes from being assholes."

MJ: "Was wonderin' when ya were gonna get canned."

Pete: “Last time I got close was when I got the lecture. Around here it’s considered a miracle that I don’t have a lengthy rap sheet and a couple lawsuits under my belt.”

MJ: "S'part of your charm! I fell for it," he winked.

Pete: Pete laughed. "Next time there's an asshole in the pub, I'll call you before I punch their lights out."

MJ: "Hell yeah. So sexy." A glance was given to Abel, his smile fading a bit at the link between Abel and a certain witch in California. His mind wasn't made up one way or another, but little reminders tickled an annoying sense of guilt behind his neck.

"Y'all ready t'go home?"

Pete/Abel: Abel was just gonna keep eating his chips and let them flirt. Any opinions he had in any particular direction about any particular situation would be kept to himself.

Pete nodded after taking another drink. "Yeah, we probably should. Still gotta shower, and work tomorrow. Or...later today. Is it today?"

Abel nodded. "Yep, it's today."

MJ: "Let's get ya home, then. Ya damn near drank a whole bottle. I mean ya earned it, but s'way past your bedtime, old man."

Pete: Pete’s dramatically offended gasp lost some of its effectiveness when he just barely avoided falling into the river as he staggered to his feet.

“I am a great and mighty bear! Bedtimes are the stuff of mere mortals!”

MJ: "Mighty bear gonna go down river if he keeps stumblin'." MJ got to his feet and began gathering Peter's things. Offered his hand to keep the bear upright.

Pete/Abel: Pete laughed again, taking MJ’s hand. “Thanks very much. Been a loooong time since I had that much tequila. Come on, Abel!”

“Yep, I’m here, I’m up.” He took the hand that Pete offered and smiled at all of them. “Look at us, a drunken daisy chain and a sober vampire. Onward to Petey’s! Petey, be a champ and try not to hurl, okay?”

“Copy that.”

MJ: MJ watched. Didn't think to look back if they'd gathered every bit of trash. Callum could yell at them later. Probably would, given Guildias' condition. Right now, Peter was the only priority.

"Want us t'stay?"

Pete/Abel: “Yeah, stay! I have blackout shades and stuff to make French toast for breakfast.”

“Sold!” Abel said cheerfully. “Okay, everyone gird your loins.”

He did some girding of his own, making sure he was steady before transporting them to Pete’s.

[weirdagnes]

💄RUDOLF’S DRAG RACE AU 🏁

ALRIGHT SO this AU originally started in our Yeah We Outlasting discord server, artists started drawing the characters in drag and I WOKE HMSHD real shit man. So I'm making a masterpost for drag au on behalf of the server✊✊

Outlast 1 = Season 1

Outlast 2 = Season 2

Whistleblower DLC = All Stars

All of the characters and ideas for the characters were written in collab with @gothivican, @panopt1c0n, @grahaam and the rest of the lads in the server, y’all have such beautiful brains. So anyways.

Here are the judges:

Rudolf Wernicke. Lowkey bias, literally goes to the backstage and tells Miles to beat Billy Hope in a lipsync because Billy can't continue on the show for some reason. Has favoritism towards Blaire, but was forced to sashay him away by the other two judges. Also this bitch is dying, literally has a breathing tank support behind his chair.

Pauline Glick. A very sharp critic. Wore the same shoes? Call out. Oh that's your signature makeup? UGLY tone it down. Sorry, the colors don't match, you'll be in the bottom two for that.

Paul Marion. The kindest judge. He will give constructive criticism in the nicest non-offensive way possible and compliment them after (because he would feel guilty about it).

Alice as guest star. Supportive as f u c k, huge fan, she cries when meeting the queens in Untucked. She can't help complimenting the queens every 10 seconds, she gives off the Leslie Jones’ enthusiasm.

Lisa Park as guest star. Like Alice, very supportive. She’s an artist, and will break down all the reasons why they are so good from an artist’s perspective. Crushes HARD on Wyssle Blower, she might’ve given her number after the show.

Lynn Langermann as guest star. She’s a judge, and she will judge. Gives out well constructed criticisms to all queens fair and square until she saw Angel Fromm (Blake) and just says “Wow what’s there to criticize?” Sallyzekiel hates her, Valentina and Angel on the other hand loves her very much.

 Here are the queens:

Miles Upshur as Kill-O-Meter. Primarily an insult comedy and rocker queen, and specializes in dancing. She tends to be criticized for a lack of glamour on some of her main stage looks, and is one of the most dramatic, sarcastic and shady queens of the bunch. Can and will stomp on you in latex boots for money. Besties with Wyssle and Chrisel, gets into a little heated talks with (occasionally) Peacock, (frequently) Ricky and Remy. She adores Cheets’ (Pyro) makeup skills. Winner of season 1 babey!!

Chris Walker as Piggy Chrisel. A punk/grunge queen who seems to specialize moreso in dancing and lip syncing. She's a shy, gentle giant, has a little trouble speaking coherently and it affects her in the acting/impromptu comedy challenges. She will call out whores though, she will kick ass when the situation calls for it. Really good at makeup, makeup girl-friends with Cheeto and besties with Kill O Meter (Latrila vibes). Also a perfectionist and hates mess on her work table.

Rick Trager as Ricky Trix. Whore, that's all. This bitch OBNOXIOUS and shady but she's both a glamour AND comedy queen, the other queens are watching out for her since day one. Horror and '80s inspired queen, extremely good at comedy and acting and will literally stomp the competition with nearly perfect impressions and extremely expressive acting. The downfall for her seems to be glam on the occasion and singing. Rivals with Kill O Meter and Miss Tini, kikis with Remy (they throw shade to other queens the moment they get em)

Father Martin as Miss Tini. The oldest queen but she can still serve the cakes. Generally a kind person, coming from a religious background. She’s takes the drag culture religiously. She gets along with The Twinks.

The Twins as The Twinks. Was recruited as two totally separate queens, but both quit on the first episode when one of the twins were to be eliminated. The queens tell the Twinks apart by who’s bald and who’s not. They don’t vibe with other queens except Miss Tini.

Pyromaniac as Cheeto de LaFlammeo. Queen of Makeup, she has some serious skill range on it. Good in the acting department, always plays as the tragic character. Was rivals with Kill-O Meter before, but one time when she had a breakdown, Kill-O Meter was by her side when no one was. After that, they respected each other.

Billy Hope as Billy Willy. CLOWN QUEEN, huge Crystal Methyd vibes. She’s the youngest queen, very energetic, a ball of SUNSHINE but Wernicke was a bias bitch and sent her home immediately the moment she was in the bottom. She was basically Kill-O Meter and Wyssle Blower's drag child. Hailed as Miss Congeniality, is voted by majority to return for a season 2 for going home a little too early than people feel was deserved. Best at makeup and outfits, her mom Tiffany taught her to sew and make dresses out of rags and other unconventional materials and the skill proved to be helpful. Also she likes puns and everyone likes playing with her name like: Silly Billy Willy, Witty Billy Willy, etc.

....

Waylon Park as Wyssle Blower. The Mom of the queens, the most well rounded queen, and the most 'fishy' one. Probably the smartest and most humble one out of everyone, she can read through people’s bullshit well. Genuinely looks like a girl in full drag, but always does her best on acting. She's serving you a cute, nerdy and quirky style, but can serve horror when need be. Always wins the mini challenges, she's not as loud as the other girls but she does beat Blaire in a lip sync (lowkey badass lipsyncer). Winner of All Stars babey

Jeremy Blaire as Remy Coco Ainée. Pretentious fake ass queen, even her drag name is just Cocaine in fake French. A pure fashion glamour queen, she serves it at almost all the fashion challenges but there's no more personality out of her other than that and her shady attitude (she will not hold back on the shade). Is extremely horrible at singing (her voice cracks) and acting, goes home against a lip sync with Wyssle. This bitch will FLEX her wins. Kikis with Ricky, mainly rivals with Kill O Meter, Wyssle and Peacock but she made everyone her rivals bc of her bitchass attitude.

Eddie Gluskin as Edna Taylor. Fashion queen, specializes in sewing, acting and singing, but is extremely lacking in the dancing department. Has a one-sided endearment for Waylon, and consistently tries to have her attention. Is extremely manipulative too, trying to consistently trip the other queens up. Also everybody hates her mohawk signature wig but nobody says anything about it because they don’t want to be victim to Edna’s mind games.

Frank Manera as Hanni Canni Bahl. Horror queen, best at comedy and dancing. Though it is prohibited, she’s able to sneak in weed, coke (for Ricky) and snacks in the werk room. Very messy when working, her discarded fabrics are EVERYWHERE and Chrisel is fighting the urge to clean it up. She eats while working when the camera’s off, and it stains the dress she’s working on (Pauline notices it).

Dennis as Denise. Mocked as “Edna’s little helper” as she always helps with her dresses. She’s trying too hard to impress Edna, and helps her get Wyssle’s attention. Very talented in acting and sewing, but bland in fashion, lacking in concept. Her inner conflict is what got her eliminated.

Simon Peacock as Julie Peacock. Rebellious, mischievous, and an ex-glam queen gone horror and campy instead. After being insulted much by glam queens (ahemRemyahem), she just embraced it and became a horror queen, serving the judges her horror aesthetic. Best at comedy, lacks extremely on acting and dancing though. No one is safe from her constructive criticism, and she will never stop ranting to Kill O Meter and Wyssle about Remy and Ricky being bad bitches and favored by Wernicke, she thinks it's unfair.

....

Blake Langermann as Angel Fromm. Singing queen!! Good at singing, but otherwise is moreso well-rounded, she might've been eliminated earlier, hadn't it been for her also low-key successful and iconic lip syncs. But the lucky winning streak didn't last forever, she goes home later in the season because she's slowly falling behind the other queens and can't keep up anymore. Has Rococo aesthetic, unfortunately the outfits can't make up for the lack of character as a queen. Though she needs a lot of improvement, the guest star Lynn adores her very much.

Val as Valentina. Queen of SEX or moreso impersonations and comedy. She’s a terrible tailor, but likes unconventional and simple fashion designs. She’s trans and lowkey Pauline has a crush on her the moment she walked on that stage. Pure rivals with Sallyzekiel, you know that iconic Aja vs. Valentina in Untucked? They had that moment. Probably goes home earlier, not entirely prepared, but still was a season icon. Definitely dropped it low about 10 times on her lip sync.

Marta as ImMartal. GOTH QUEEN, survived about early mid season. Best at her makeup and looks, glam queen, but the judges criticize her for wearing the same wigs/having the same hairstyle for almost every looks.

Nick Tremblay as Nicky Lanterns. Another gentle giant. Very introverted, she has a difficult time socializing with other girls because she’s generally not a very loud person. Really bad at makeup, her fashion sense is somewhat okay but it’s always on the ‘safe’ level. Pretty good at slapstick comedy, writing and concepts tho. It’s a wonder how Nicky and Lard Imp became “friends,” they’re complete opposites.

Laird Byron as Lard Imp. Whore, Exhibit B. Extremely rude, louder than Remy and Ricky themselves, and has a weird love/hate obsession with Angel for some reason. Everyone hates her, even Rudolf himself, and Lard Imp isn’t her original drag name but ultimately they came to a point where they just called her Lard Imp. Constantly denies the judges’ and the queens’ critiques, very delusional about winning the season and that’s why she’s the first one eliminated.

Sullivan Knoth as Sallyzekiel. The Big Bad Bitch of the season. Ultimate rivals with Valentina, constantly bullies Angel. Marta used to be friends with her, but after talking shit on Valentina, she says fuck you and defended Val. Glam queen, has an affinity for shoes but damn girl terrible makeup and padding. Really good with speech, acting and impromptu.

So far, here are the character designs we have made!

(1) Blake and Trager by @/pan0pt1con

(1, 2, 3, 4, 5) Waylon, Chris, Simon, Eddie, Miles and Jeremy by @/gothivican

(1) Billy, Miles, Chris, Wernicke, Pauline, Paul and Alice by @/weirdagnes

[sueboohscorner]

#SupermanandLois Season 1 Episode 12 "Through the Valley of Death" Recap and Review

The episode starts with John Henry Irons at the Metropolis Institute of Technology. He’s looking for someone. A younger sister? Before we get any detail, he gets the call from Lois.

              Clark is suffering. I’ve been wondering about the red beam of light. It’s obviously being used in conjunction with the Eradicator, but it’s something else too, since Zeta-Rho used it on Edge when he was a child and Edge still appears to be himself. Red Kryptonite maybe? While thinking about this, I almost didn’t catch the important part of Edge’s monologue. They’re replacing Clark with General Zod, who in this time timeline died with Krypton and is not stuck in the Phantom Zone somewhere. Two things come to mind. One is that this plan always seemed very Zod-like, and two is that I’ve never seen Zod as a lackey to anyone before.

              Lois tries to comfort Jordan and Jonathan. She eventually gets them to go at least try to rest and then General Lane shows up. She tells him about Edge’s Fortress in the desert and then she finally cries into his shoulder.

              Kyle has to go to a special D.O.D debrief and therapy session, and then he’s going to try and go to work. Sarah thinks he should rest, but he tells her that it’ll be good to get into a routing. One of the firefighters shows up at his house to advise him to stay home, as he’s persona non grata at the moment. People need time to calm down.

              Jonathan finds Jordan brooding. Jonathan has decided that they aren’t going to sit around and do nothing. They’re going to find Clark.

              John Henry Irons shows up to talk to Lois and General Lane. She wants to organize a rescue mission. Irons just wants Superman dead. Lois storms off and General Lane assures Irons that he’s taking all necessary precautions. He just hasn’t told Lois that yet.

              Jordan hasn’t found Clark yet. He doesn’t think he can. He tried to be strong when Edge came, and it didn’t do him any good. Jonathan doesn’t allow him to wallow. They just have to keep trying.

              Irons made a rocket propelled projectile for Lex Luthor on his Earth. It drains a Kryptonian of their powers long enough for them to be killed. He is not; however, completely certain that it works. The last time he used it, he was transported to this Earth before he found out if it worked.

              Kyle, Lana, and Sarah get harassed on the way to the D.O.D. debrief. Lois is on their side, even if no one else is.

              She then talks to Lana and Kyle privately about what it felt like to be someone else. Lana doesn’t remember anything at all, but Kyle remembers bits and pieces. He couldn’t picture his family, and when he tried to fight back, he could feel this darkness pressing down on him. It hurt immensely to fight back, and he got this sense that his family would be better off if he let go.

              Clark is still fighting. At one point, he flies out of Edge’s fortress and screams for Jordan. Jordan hears him, but Edge cuts in quickly. He tells Jordan that he won’t find his father when he comes looking.

              Diggle is here!!!!! General Lane asked A.R.G.U.S. asked to deliver some tech but did not say that he was going to use it to make Irons’ Superman killing weapon. Needless to say, he’s a little ticked. Jonathan and Jordan interrupt the pow wow to talk to Lois.

              The Cushing house has been vandalized. Lana manages to talk Kyle down from doing anything more rash than cleaning up the living room.

              Jonathan and Jordan tell Lois and General Lane where Clark is and then they leave. General Lane is going to send Irons in. He doesn’t think he has any other choice.

              Lois finds Irons first and does the big no-no. She tells him everything. She needs hope and he will not give it to her.

              Meanwhile Diggle is trying to convince General Lane that killing Superman is a terrible idea.

              Lana and Sarah are trying to clean the paint off. It doesn’t budge until Kyle uses some paint thinner and “American muscle.” This causes a good old fashioned water fight, which is cute.

              Jonathan and Jordan find Lois in the newspaper office. She doesn’t know if it’s too late or not.

              Clark is getting tired and Zod comes through.

              Jonathan confronts Irons. He tells him what he saw in the videos in his van. He knows what happened on his Earth and he begs Irons not to kill his dad. There’s always another way.

              When Irons gets to the Badlands, he’s immediately confronted by Zod. They fight until Clark is knocked upside the head enough to be himself for a moment. He tells Irons to kill him, which manages to convince Irons to talk to him instead. Clark then fights so hard that he passes out. When he wakes up, he’s ok. Now they’re going after Edge with the missile they still have left.

              Zeta Rho gaslights and guilt trips Edge into doing something. He flies up into space, and possibly uses the Eradicator on himself before the missile brings him back to Earth? Clark then knocks him out because he won’t shut up.

              He comes back to the farm, kisses Lois, and hugs the boys. Irons is with him. Jonathan apologizes for hitting him with a truck. Lois invites him for dinner, but he still has business with General Lane. After all, family time is sacred.

              The Cushings have dinner all together and it’s adorable.

              Leslie Larr is still in the wind, but General Lane is confident that she’ll be captured soon. When that happens, the D.O.D. will leave

              Edge is in a Kryptonite box in a secret government facility, but he’s smirking. The big question remains. Is he still himself? If not, then who would be a bigger deal than Zod?

I’m glad they didn’t do the whole Evil Superman thing for very long, but I’m fascinated by what the contingency plan is. This isn’t over yet. 8/10.

[jinmukangwrites]

Whumptober Day 29

Reluctant Bedrest

Ao3

Summary: After a run in with a psychic alien, Dick notices that Bruce is acting strangely. He's protective... perhaps too protective.

Note: Dick is Robin, about 16 years old in this fic.

Please be aware of warnings in tags.

-o-o-o-o-

The reason Bruce doesn't like meta heroes in Gotham isn't because he's afraid of what they can inspire. Gotham already has its thing, and Joker seeing some kid fly through the air or some man run super fast isn't going to change his shtick. 

Bruce doesn't like meta heroes in Gotham because he's weary of what they can bring. 

And they can bring trouble. Magic trouble. Magic trouble that stems from a single Green Lantern appearance in Gotham just so Hal can return a pen he borrowed from Bruce and forgot to return at the end of their last League meeting. 

In Dick's defense, it's a nice pen. He gave it to Bruce himself. So really, it's not Hal's fault some alien magician from space decided to come down to earth and stir trouble, it's Bruce's because he, for some reason, thought it would be a good idea to let Hal borrow the nice pen Dick might have accidentally stolen from Bullock.

Long story short, there's a space lady currently floating in the middle of some warehouse, using her neat magic powers to not only telepathically lift up the crates around her, but also manipulate them open and aim the illegal weapons from inside. 

It's Gotham, so of course the random warehouse they've found themselves in has illegal weapons. 

And the thing is? Bruce and Dick are completely alone in this even though Hal was the one who attracted her here. He left the city before she arrived. He's probably halfway across the solar system by now on the way to his next super cool Lantern Corps mission. 

But this is fine. There's nothing Gotham can't handle, even if it's powerful guns controlled by space magic. 

"Robin!" Bruce shouts, "down!"

And Dick goes up, flipping over the stream of poorly aimed bullets and laughing until he lands on one of the warehouses support beams. He watches Batman charge forward, launching himself into the alien lady and stabbing a powerful taser into her thigh. The screech she makes is inhuman, and Dick grins, jumping from the beam and hitting her across the face with his heel. 

She goes flying to the ground, collapsing in a crumpled heap as Dick rolls to his feet on the ground, careful of the pressure on his ankles. The moment Bruce takes one confident step towards here, his hand hovering where the enhanced cuffs are, he knows they've won. Guns are clattering to the ground, the magazines popping out from the force and the synthetic black stocks cracking. Thankfully, no bullets launch themselves. 

"Can I come with you to drop her off?" Dick asks, bouncing on his heels and approaching as Bruce does so. The alien groans and curls her clawed hands, but remains relatively marionette-like on the ground. 

"No," Bruce grunts because he's boring like that. So Dick wants to go to the Watchtower in space. What's bad about that?

Dick opens his mouth to argue, but his voice catches in his throat as the alien's spine tightens like a panther the second Bruce is within range. "B! Watch out!"

Dick runs forward, but it's already too late. The alien contorts her body in a way a human would never be able to do and wraps her long fingers around Bruce's skull, her eyes flashing a sickening teal. Bruce goes dangerously still for the entire time it takes Dick to run up there and knee her in the gut. She makes a weird gurgling noise then stumbles back, throwing out her arms frantically. Dick hisses as one of her claws tear through the skin above his left eye, but he ignores it in favor of grabbing his own pair of cuffs and tackling her, forcing her strange, almost double jointed limbs behind her back and snapping them together. The cuffs hum, and she goes boneless.

Dick steps back, panting, then spins on his heel to find Bruce still... just standing there. Blankly. Like he’s trying to reconnect his eyes to his brain and his brain to the rest of his body. Unease pools in his gut, allowing a stone of worry to sink to the bottom. He swallows and steps forward. “B...?”

Bruce blinks under his cowl, then slowly his head turns towards Dick at a creaking pace. 

“You...” Bruce begins... his voice is scratchy like he’s been screaming for hours. “You’re hurt.”

A spike of confusion settles near Dick’s skull. Dick brings his fingers to his forehead and realizes that no, it’s not a physical spike of confusion, but a stinging cut that leaves drops of red glistening on his green gloves. It’s not that bad though. Probably doesn’t even need stitches. Dick wipes the blood off on his red tunic and shakes his head. 

“I’m fine.” 

Bruce doesn’t seem to believe it. Or at least let the issue go. He stares at Dick in a way that’s so unlike himself and Dick swallows nervously, then turns towards the crumpled alien lady to both gather his thoughts and hide the unease that must be showing on his face.

However, he doesn’t have long before Bruce walks up besides him and wraps a hand around Dick’s arm, firm but gentle. The shock of physical contact alone has Dick gasping and almost bonelessly allowing Bruce to manhandle Dick into facing him. Bruce’s free hand touches the sliver of broken skin above Dick’s eyebrow and frowns. 

“We need to get this looked at.”

Dick swallows. “Really, B, I’m fine. We should figure out what to do about-“

“The police are fully capable to take it from here.” Bruce’s hand tightens on Dick’s arm, not bruising but enough to get a message across that he’s not going to let go willingly. “Let’s go. You’re hurt.”

“I’m not ten anymore,” Dick mumbles, but walks along anyway as Bruce begins to drag him out of the warehouse and towards the Batmobile. Bruce opens the passenger seat and coaxes Dick inside the car. Apprehension settles in Dick’s throat as the door closes, and as Bruce walks around the front of the car Dick quickly tries the door handle. 

It moves, but it doesn’t open. Bruce has locked Dick inside.

Immediately, Dick knows that not only is something off with Bruce, but something is wrong. However, he doesn’t get a chance to think much more about it before Bruce is settling into the driver's seat.

“Bruce...?” Dick asks.

Bruce doesn’t answer, just holds out a rag towards Dick and mumbles. “Buckle your belt.” 

Dick does so, then reluctantly grabs the rag to hold it against the cut on his forehead. It’ll probably be scabbing by the time they get back to the cave. Maybe Bruce is just worried about infection? He got cut by the fingernail of an alien, after all.

Yeah. That’s it.

And then his thoughts go crashing down when Bruce frowns and reaches across the dashboard to hook his finger under the straps over Dick’s chest. Dick squawks and attempts to bat his hand away. But Bruce is persistent and tugs on the strap, frowning at the amount of space he creates between Dick’s chest and the strap.

It’s barely half an inch, but Bruce still ignores Dick’s complaints and tugs the buckle of the belt to make it tighter, practically tying Dick to the seat of the car.

Once Bruce is done and turns on the car, Dick sits there in stunned and embarrassed silence. He’s sixteen. He doesn’t need Bruce to check every cut and his seatbelt buckles. 

Bruce begins his drive towards the cave in grim silence, his mouth slowly becoming deeper and deeper into a stiff frown that Dick’s now too afraid to ask about.

Something is wrong with Bruce, and Dick has no idea what. The alien lady must have done something to him, and Dick’s going to find out.

For now though, he forces himself to relax against the chair and keep the rag on his head, and stays there silently until they arrive in the cave. 

By now, however, every single one of Dick’s nerves feel shot. He reaches to the door handle to pry it open, and then remembers that Bruce had turned on some sort of child lock that Dick didn’t even know existed until now. Once Bruce finally leaves Dick alone, Dick’s definitely going to sneak to the car and pry around the mobile for other childish restrictions Bruce still has installed to embarrass Dick. For now though, he curls his fingers into the rag and waits in tense silence as Bruce walks around the car once again to open Dick’s door. 

Dick tries to duck under his arms to escape towards the changing area, but Bruce catches his arm. Not for the first time does Dick loath his short stature and his persistently thin body type. Bruce practically has his entire upper arm trapped entirely in his large hand, and it makes it difficult to get free. Dick unwillingly stumbles along as Bruce begins to drag him towards the med bay. 

Dick looks desperately to the bat-computer just to be reminded harshly that Alfred isn’t even in Gotham at the moment. He’s on paid vacation for the next two weeks. 

Dicks alone. 

Alone and being dragged to the med bay by an iron grip. “Bruce,” he gasps, “really, I’m fine-“

Dick’s tugged to the cot and given a stern look. Bruce hasn’t taken his cowl off yet. He normally always takes his cowl off in the cave. 

Dick hates how badly he wants to do as he’s told. He’s never had that big of a rebellious phase, at least not as big as any of his friends. Dick doesn’t know why, but no matter what Bruce does to piss Dick off, Dick still feels obligated to do as he’s told. Doing his own thing in battle is one thing, but disobeying a direct order like the look Bruce is giving him right now sends shivers of discomfort through his entire being. 

Dick swallows and hops slowly onto the edge of the medical cot, grabbing the fabric of his tunic with his free hand as his other presses the useless rag against his forehead. 

Bruce nods, then turns to go through various tools that Dick doesn’t really know the names or uses of. There’s never really been a point to memorize medical terms before, not when either Alfred or Leslie are normally easily able to get a hold of. 

Now though, as Bruce pulls out an empty syringe and a clean needle, then pulls out a small brown bottle to dip the syringe in, he really wishes he'd at least asked more questions whenever someone took care of him in this room. 

“Bruce...”

Bruce grunts then lifts the syringe, flicking the base to get rid of the bubbles in the clear liquid. 

“Bruce, what is that?”

Dick really tries to not sound too scared or worried, but it’s hard to keep the shiver out of his voice when Bruce turns towards him with his cowl still up, his frown sill present, the needle still held ready in his hands.

Batman has scared Dick before. Many times. Sometimes, Batman loses himself in anger and Dick has to step back and breathe. 

But Bruce has never scared him. Not like this.

And somewhere at the back of his mind, he screams at himself that he shouldn’t be scared. He’s a teenager now. Teenagers like him don’t get scared.

But then Bruce takes a step forward and every cell in Dick’s body erupts into red.

Something is wrong. Something is very wrong. And Dick’s terrified to figure out what.

So, instead of sitting there and letting it happen, Dick throws the red dotted rag at Bruce's face and then ducks under his grabbing arms. Dick’s heart pounds in his throat as his cape is briefly tugged, but Dick thankfully manages to slip away and make a mad dash towards the manor.

“Robin!” Bruce—Batman?—shouts. But Dick doesn’t listen to the angry tone or the beginnings of heavy boots chasing him up the stairs. He keeps running until he’s through the grandfather clock and sprinting towards- towards where?

He doesn’t know where he should go.

Bruce’s feet pound on the metal stairs, and Dick decides to just run and think about specifics later. 

Eventually, Dick ends up running into his room and slamming the door closed behind him with his chest heaving for air. He’s just about to lock the door closed and hide in the small entrance to the ceiling in his closet, but then the handle of his door turns itself with a shocking force and then slams open. The wood of the door slams into Dick’s skull, not only reopening the just barely clotting cut, but making a dent of its own. Dick’s head spins as he goes down, red obscuring the vision of one of his eyes. He vaguely hears a sharp gasp, but he’s too focused on the black shadow descending upon him, too fixated on trying to scramble out from the metal fingers once again closing over his arms.

“-m sorry...” Bruce is saying. Apologizing. “I’m trying to help. Trying to keep you safe. This is why you have to do as I say...”

There’s the flash of a needle right in front of his blurry eyes, and Dick doubles his struggling, his heart practically hitting the backs of his teeth. However, it’s all useless when the needle breaks the skin of Dick’s neck and the cold, tingling liquid enters his system. Immediately, Dick feels twenty times more nauseous than when he was hit in the face with his bedroom door.

His struggles grow weaker against his will, and soon he’s being lifted so he’s cradled in Bruce’s arms; his nose pressed into the crook of his neck. Dick can smell Gotham on him. 

For a terrible second, he thinks Bruce will carry him through the rest of the house and back to the med bay, but then the world spins as he’s maneuvered into one arm, and then lowered onto his own bed. Bruce carefully pulls up Dick’s rumpled navy blue comforter and puts it over Dick’s body up to his chest. Dick’s still just aware enough to try and fight him, try and shove his too gentle hands away with whatever strength he has left after that mystery dosage of drugs. 

But then Dick’s wrists are grabbed, then lifted, then cuffed through the bars of his headboard. 

Dick’s so stunned that he hardly processes that Bruce is tucking him in until Bruce is leaning over him and pressing the comforter under Dick’s back.

Dick wants to kick him, yell at him, but he can hardly keep his eyes that focused anymore. Before he knows it, the blurry face of Bruce leans forward and runs his Kevlar clad hand through Dick’s hair, lifts his bangs, then presses a kiss just to the side of the double whammy of head wounds.

“You’ll be safe here,” Bruce says, running his thumb gently over the smarting cut, “I’ll be back, and I’ll make you feel better, okay?”

Dick’s stomach twists at those words and the plethora of meanings it could have. But his eyes are closing against his will and his toes are tingling. There’s the taste of iron on his tongue.

Before he knows it, he falls unconscious while Bruce turns and walks out of his bedroom.

-o-o-o-o-

When Dick wakes up, he... doesn’t hurt. He feels really good, actually. Considering. He blinks blurriness from his eyes and tests out the level of control he has over his body, and it’s surprisingly a lot more than what he expected. Whatever Bruce gave him, it must not have been too strong.

He bends his knees and wiggles his toes, then curls his numb fists besides his hips to feel the handcuffs have been replaced with soft, padded straps. Familiar straps. Looped over his wrists and ankles... another around his chest. Bruce must have taken off the restraints from the medical cot in the basement and brought them up here.

Which doesn’t surprise him as much as it probably should. In fact, what really catches his attention is that he’s no longer in his Robin uniform, but in his softest pair of pajamas. 

The observation sends shivers down his spine. It’s not like Bruce hasn’t assisted Dick in changing before... in their line of night-work, you sometimes get hit bad enough to not be able to move much, and it’s not a good idea to treat wounds or sleep in an outfit that’s been through the worst Gotham has to offer. But this? This feels awful. Vile... almost. His underwear has been changed, he can feel the hems around his thighs.

“Robin?” 

Dick tenses and turns his head. The motion causes his brain to spike with pain near his eye sockets, but it doesn’t hurt nearly as bad as it could. Besides him, Bruce sits, still in full Batman regalia with his cowl stubbornly over his head. Dick can see red markings near the bridge of his nose, proof that the cowl has been on longer than what it’s intended for.

Has Bruce been here the entire time? Just watching him?

“B‘rs..” Dick mumbles, then tugs on the straps on his wrists hidden beneath the comforter. “L’me go...”

Bruce frowns. “You’re still hurt... you’ll hurt yourself.”

Dick groans in frustration. His fingers don’t have that much control as he would like, but just from a little tugging Dick knows he’s not getting out of these unless someone lets him out. They’re bat-grade.

“But...” Dick tries, forcing his puffy feeling tongue to cooperate. “I have school...”

“I called you out...” Bruce replies. “Until you’re no longer hurt... until the city is safe...”

“It’s j’sta scratch, B. It’s-“

“You’re not leaving until you’re healed.”

Dick snaps his jaw shut with the biting tone of Bruce’s voice and stares at him with wide eyes. Bruce must notice his shock because his shoulders loosen and his lips twitch into... an apologetic smile.

“I’m not angry,” Bruce says, “I just want to protect you. Keep you safe. Do you understand?”

Dick has the feeling that he’s not leaving the bed whether he says he understands or not. So, instead, he just glares.

It doesn’t seem to phase Bruce too much. In fact, it does nothing to stop Bruce from bringing his hands up to Dick’s head and checking on the bandages there that Dick hadn’t even really processed until now. Dick tries to turn his neck away, but Bruce’s free hand latches onto his chin. Once Bruce makes a satisfied noise, he leans back and then grabs a bowl of something that was sitting unnoticed until now on Dick’s bedside table.

“I’m glad I predicted the time you would awake accurately,” Bruce says, stirring a metal spoon in the bowl. “It’s still hot.”

He takes the spoon out and sure enough there's a... spoonful of oatmeal. Dick can smell cinnamon. And it smells... good. Shockingly good. Dick the alien lady gives Bruce cooking skills?

Bruce brings the spoon closer to Dick’s mouth and immediately Dick turns his head. 

“Robin...” Bruce chides, and Dick curls his fists tighter. So tight he can feel his nails making crescent marks in his palms. He makes sure he doesn’t pierce skin though... because if Bruce is already being overwhelmingly concerned with his health because of a scratch...

Dick bites his lip. “I can feed myself.”

“It’s hot. You might burn yourself.”

“I can feed mys- mph-!”

Suddenly, there’s a spoon in his mouth, resting on top of his bottom teeth as the oatmeal just barely touches the roof of his mouth. He can feel the steam... but it’s not even that hot.

“Eat, Robin,” Bruce says.

Robin. That’s all Bruce has called him since this all began. He hasn’t gotten dressed out of his suit. He doesn’t look like he’s slept. It’s like he has a single purpose, and that’s to keep... Robin safe. 

Overwhelmingly safe.

This isn’t Bruce. This... this is brainwashing or possession or- or... but this isn’t Bruce. 

Dick slowly closes his mouth, heat and oats spreading across his taste buds as Bruce slides the spoon out of his mouth slowly to not drop any food or drool onto Dick’s chin. 

It tastes good. That doesn’t stop the blush of embarrassment that paints his cheeks and ears.

“Was it okay?” Bruce asks, and Dick swallows, then glares.

“Can we just get this over with?”

Bruce, once again, doesn’t seem offended by Dick’s snapping. He just smiles, grabs another spoonful, and blows on top of it. Dick feels like he’s going to be sick.

Instead, he opens his mouth again and allows this fake—definitely fake?—version of Bruce to spoon feed him until the bowl has been scrapped clean. 

Bruce sets the empty bowl down then smiles at Dick. Smiles. Dick firmly keeps his mouth shut. 

“I’m going to put the bowl away and make some lunch. After that, we can watch a movie?” Bruce stands up. Smiles wider. “How about that?”

Dick tugs on the straps around his wrists ever so slightly, frustration building up in his gut. He takes a deep breath. He needs to find a way out of this. He... can't let this continue. 

“Actually... I need to use the restroom.”

Bruce’s smile softens into sympathy. “Will you fight me? I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“Will you hurt me?” Dick snaps back without really meaning to. Fortunately, it seems to be the right thing to say because a strong emotion passes over Bruce’s face. 

“No,” Bruce says, “never. I’ll never hurt you. But... Robin... you have to promise to not... disobey and get yourself hurt. Otherwise, I’ll be forced to get the catheter.”

Dick’s gut twists violently at that. 

Catheter. They have one of those?!

But he can’t just lay here and wait for this suffocatingly protective version of Bruce do this to him for much longer. He’s itching to move. Not just because this whole situation has his nerves fried to high heavens, but also because he’s been strapped down and rendered immobile even though he, by all means, is completely able to move.

Being forced to be still has always been something that gets him quickly uncomfortable. Even if it’s just very reluctant bedrest.

Dick resists a gulp. He’ll have to risk it. 

“I won’t disobey or hurt myself,” Dick promises.

Bruce regards him for a second, and after a moment it seems he finds whatever he was looking for and leans forward to grab on to the hem of his comforter. Bruce carefully pushes the comforter down to reveal the straps tightly wrapping around his body. Dick remains still as one by one the straps are loosened. 

Dick forces himself to not attempt to escape right then and there. Instead, he allows Bruce to take his hand and carefully help sit him up, his gloved thumbs rubbing gentle circles over his sore wrists.

Bruce talks him through standing up again, guiding him on how slow to go to not cause the blood to rush from his head and make himself dizzy. Once he’s standing, Bruce’s grips on the small of his back and on his elbow, his head pounds for just a second. Probably from being hit in the head with a door... he probably just has a small goose bump. Bruce would never panic about something like that.

Bruce begins to walk him across the room, mumbling comforts and encouragements that aren’t needed during the walk into Dick’s bathroom. For a horrifying second, Dick thinks Bruce is going to attempt to help him, but with a barely contained relieved sigh Bruce simply sits him down on the toilet and explains that he’ll be waiting outside the door, and to call when Dick’s done.

The second the door clicks shut, Dick scrambles to his feet, careful of how his knees and fingers still feel slightly lethargic thanks to the drugs. But it’s nothing, Dick’s felt worse and has done a lot cooler flips and tricks with harsher head injuries. Way cooler tricks than climbing over the toilet to open the small, foggy glass window.

He opens the window and pokes his head outside, frowning at the height between himself and the ground. It’s a long drop. He’ll have to carefully scale the brick walls and window sills to make it down. He looks over towards where his bedroom windows are and then settles his gaze on the tree placed right next to his bedroom. He used to use that tree all the time to sneak out. If he’s slow and cautious, he should be able to just scale the wall to his bedroom, avoiding the windows Bruce can see out of, and then safely make his way down the branches of the tree.

With his mind made up, Dick stretches his fingers then steps onto the toilet tank to heft his upper body out the window. It’s a tight squeeze, but manageable if he turns to just the right angle-

“Robin!”

Shit.

Dick does his best to scramble out of the window as quickly as he can, but a heavy hand wraps around his ankle just as he’s about to fully exit. Before Dick knows it, he’s being dragged back inside, his struggling and kicking going ignored. 

Dick doesn’t allow himself to give up there, the second he’s back inside the bathroom, he throws the hardest punch he can against Bruce’s jaw. His bare knuckles hurt almost immediately, but he ignores it in favor of squirming out of Bruce’s shocked grasp and bolting out the bathroom door.

He doesn’t make it far before two arms wrap around his middle and he’s dragged down to the floor from the weight slamming into his back. Dick’s chin slams against the floor and he bites the corner of his tongue with a help. Bruce is over 250 pounds at least with the Batman armor, and all of it is laying on top of him. Practically suffocating him.

He wheezes and claws at the carpet below his body. “Buh- Bruce- You’re hurting me!”

He can feel Bruce tense above him at those words, and for a hopeful second Dick thinks he’s gotten through to him...

But then Bruce tightens his grip, forcing Dick up and against his chest. “It’s for your own good,” Bruce says, and it sounds like he’s trying to convince himself as well as Dick.

Soon, Dick’s lifted in Bruce’s hold, his feet swinging on the ground thanks to his cursed shortness when Bruce stands fully up. Bruce turns towards the damn bed and Dick snaps. He kicks and struggles and punches, but Bruce seems to not be affected, or maybe he just doesn’t care. Before Dick knows it, he’s thrown onto the bed and Dick’s heart jumps to his throat.

He tries to roll off, but his wrist is grabbed and he’s forced to his back. With expert movements, the first cuff is back on, and Dick screams in frustration.

He uses his free hand to grab at Bruce's face, then uses his legs to kick and knee Bruce’s body as hard as he can, but it’s all useless. Soon enough, Dick’s pinned back to the mattress of his bed, each strap exactly back to where they were before. Dick takes a deep breath and glares at Bruce. 

“Let me go.”

Bruce shakes his head and double checks the restraints. “I told you to follow instructions, Robin, I told you what would happen if you didn’t listen.”

And not for the first time, real fear curdles in his stomach. Only, this time it’s so much worse. “Bruce, no-“

Bruce has the audacity to give him a sympathetic look. “Stay here, I’ll be back with the catheter.”

Bruce stands up and pulls the bedsheet over Dick’s body. Dick tugs on his restraints desperately as Bruce begins to walk away. “Bruce! Batman! Stop! I-I’m sorry I-“

The door closes and Dick groans, tugging harder against the straps. He isn’t going anywhere. He’s completely powerless. 

He’s so frustrated that tears begin to swell in his eyes. He strains against the straps just to bring his shoulder up to his cheek and attempts to wipe away the moisture before any tears can fall, but even that is difficult to do. 

He wants this to stop. He wants Bruce back. The normal Bruce. And isn’t that pathetic? He’s a teenager. Sixteen years old and crying because his dad- his guardian isn’t acting right. It has to have been something the alien lady did, Bruce wouldn’t act like this normally. He wouldn’t strap Dick down just because of a cut, he wouldn’t escort him to the bathroom, he wouldn’t grab a fucking catheter just because Dick was misbehaving. 

He wouldn’t care this much about Dick’s safety.

He forces himself to relax and to quit struggling in the padded straps. All he’s doing is irritating his wrists and ankles. There’s nothing he can do. Bruce will come back and- and Dick will just have to wait this out until someone notices something is wrong. Until Alfred comes home... 

Will Dick really be stuck like this for a week? How long does it take for minor cuts to heal? Is Bruce going to make Dick wait until his skin is smooth and there’s no scabbing? No trace of it left?

He doesn’t want to wait that long. 

He really doesn’t want to.

All too soon, the door opens back up and Bruce is holding a bag full of equipment. Urinary Catheters aren’t ever bulky and are normally able to be hidden in someone’s clothes, so maybe Bruce has brought even more equipment just in case Dick misbehaves in other ways. 

“I’m going to sedate you,” Bruce explains, opening the bag to reveal exactly what Dick expected. Tubes. Dick’s gut twists. “So you won’t be uncomfortable during the procedure.”

“Don’t do it. Please.”

Bruce doesn’t answer, just digs out the supplies he needs. Once the tubing and bags are laid out, Bruce grabs a needle and that same brown bottle as before.

Dick clenches his teeth and glares at the ceiling. Man up, Grayson. It’s just a catheter. People get them all the time. From the looks of it, it’s not even one that will go through the skin of his stomach. It’s just going to be inserted through his...

Man up, Grayson.

It’ll be fine.

Bruce approaches and rubs a cool cloth at the base of Dick’s neck. Dick brings his hands into fists and closes his eyes. 

Right as the point of a needle touches the base of his neck, something shocking happens.

His bedroom door bursts open, and there stands none other than Hal Jordan in full Green Lantern regalia, eyes wild behind his mask and his ring practically flaming on his finger. Before Bruce can even do anything, a bright bolt of green launches across the room and hits Bruce straight on, sending the man flying.

“Bruce!” Dick shouts as he crumples to the floor. Somewhere at the back of his brain, he knows that Bruce isn’t hurt, not with the visibly lowered power of the blast combined with Batman’s armor, and he also knows that Hal is here to help, but he can’t help but worry as Bruce groans on the floor, steam rising from his suit. Hal doesn’t give Bruce a chance to recover, he creates a small bubble around Bruce and traps him there, and then rushes over to Dick to undo the straps.

“I’m sorry,” Hal practically blubbers, hands shaking over the straps to unlock them. Dick shakes his head and sits up the moment he’s free enough to do so.

He looks at Bruce on the floor and clutches his stomach. “What’s wrong with him?”

“He was... persuaded to hyper-fixate on something he cares about,” Hal explains, not really looking like he understood it fully himself. “The Tralleine thought it was amusing... I’m sorry it took so long for me to get back, she wouldn’t talk until I was there.”

So the alien lady did cause this. Tralleine. Dick’s never heard of that species before. Not for the first time, Dick thinks about how cool of a job Hal has that allows him to fly through space and meet so many aliens all the time. 

“Can we fix him?” Dick asks.

Hal smiles. “Yeah, kiddo, yeah we can fix him. You want to come to the Watchtower with us?”

Dick nods, then allows Hal to take his hand. Before Dick knows it, he’s sitting at the Watchtower, eating some pie Clark brought over, and waiting for someone to come get him and tell him Bruce is Bruce again.

It takes hours, but soon enough, Dick’s bursting into the medical ward of the space station and immediately locking his gaze on Bruce. Bruce finally has his cowl pulled down, and his bare chest is wrapped thanks to the bruising and burns he has because of Hal’s energy blast.

But he’s there. He’s there and looking at Dick with such guilt and relief, that Dick doesn’t think. He just runs forward and wraps his arms around Bruce’s neck and squeezes. 

“I’m sorry, chum,” Bruce whispers. Strong arms curl around his back.

“It’s okay,” Dick replies into the corner of his neck.

“He needs plenty of rest,” another voice chimes in, and Dick turns to find Clark walking into the room with Hal standing behind. “Don’t over do it, Bruce.”

“I won't,” Bruce replies, still holding Dick as tightly as he dares. 

“We’d prefer it if you stayed in bed until the bruising fades, but I understand-“

Bruce cuts Clark off with a shake of his head. “It’s okay. I can stay in bed for a while.”

Clark smiles in understanding, and Hal shifts nervously behind him.

“Sorry,” Hal bursts, “I didn’t mean for this to happen, and I should have known something like this could happen and-“ 

And Dick laughs and Bruce chuckles. “Just don’t come to Gotham uninvited again, Jordan,” Bruce replies.

“Yeah, nothing bad happened,” Dick adds, “don’t sweat it. You’ll just have to make it up to me.”

Bruce goes silent like he thinks something bad happened and Dick makes a mental note to convince him that he’s seriously fine. Instead, he begins to list the things Hal can do to make it up to Dick and Bruce, like a space trip or a cool rock from a cool planet or maybe even an alien pet, and he can feel the tension in the room beginning to fall.

Today was scary, that’s for sure, but Dick bounces back easily. He’ll just have to make sure Bruce bounces back with him.

[kandoesfanfics-writes]

A Century of Friendship

Hi guys! Sorry for not updating in a while, but I got really sick. I’m still sick, but I found it in me to finish this piece that’s been sitting unfinished since about November! Updates for Head Omega, The Bat and The Peahen will be coming soon!

This is a Jasonette prompt based off this post. This was my first crack at writing Jasonette, so I hope you all enjoy!

---------------------------------------------------------------------- 

His stomach clenched in the most unpleasant manner.

Today was the day.

He had to tell her.

He’d been putting it off for almost a century now, and his family had told him it was now or never. None of them really remembered how long humans lived, but they knew it wasn’t even a blink in the lifespan of a demon. He needed to come clean with her before she died. He needed her to know what he truly was...and just how special she was to him.

Befriending her had been an accident. He had been wandering around the city, looking for some sinners to terrorize when he came across this small scrap of a human woman. She had been assisting the homeless by passing out clean blankets and giving them directions to a shelter. She had even gathered a bunch of local homeless children and was reassuring them that she could lead them to a safe place.

Before his...change...he too had been a child of the streets. He knew that people lied. He knew what life on the streets was like. He knew it was oh so easy to fool a child. He knew what people on the streets could trick a child into, so he had followed her as she led the children away. He’d been shocked to see that the woman had been telling the children the truth.

The woman had led the children to the Leslie Thompkins’ Children’s House. The children had immediately taken inside, fed, and bathed. The volunteer at the house seemed to know the pretty woman. She had spoken to the strange woman, calling her Marinette. Marinette had made small talk with the other woman, and they had spoken of what was going to happen to the children she’d brought.

He didn’t entirely understand why he’d stayed so long, even now, but he had watched her until she returned to her apartment. He had repeated this routine for days, wanting to know more about the young woman who was rescuing people around this city. He hadn’t been able to recall such a being existing when he’d been brutally murdered. He had been fascinated with her, and he had been simply content watching her until someone had gotten it into his head that he was going to try and rob the little lady.

He had decided at that point to take on a human form in order to help her. He had barged into her apartment, only to find the would-be robber crying on the floor. The would-be robber had been a teenage boy who told Marinette that he needed money for food for his family because his mother had lost her job. Marinette had then given him some money and suggested places for him to apply for work.

Marinette had thanked him for coming to aid her, but told him she had things under control. She had then asked what his name was. He had panicked for a moment, struggling to think of a name when a voice in the back of his head whispered, “Jason Todd.” He had introduced himself under that name.

Their friendship had blossomed from there.

Jason began spending most of his time outside of work with Marinette. They went to bookstores— somehow she always knew where to find the old classics— and talked about literature. Once Marinette had expressed her love of fashion, Jason had immediately inundated her home with books on fashion through the ages. Marinette was delighted, and Jason enjoyed watching her create ‘modern takes’ on historical clothing. He’d even modeled for her several times, enjoying the one-on-one time with her.

Marinette always seemed to be making something. Whether it was food, new clothing, or some kind of art piece, the small woman seemed to thrive off creation. She always looked the happiest when she was creating something. Her hands were never still. She was never content with just completing one thing and then stopping. Marinette seemed to be an endless wellspring of creation.

Jason didn’t quite understand it, but chalked it up to a human’s need to feel like their time on Earth meant something by leaving behind their creations. Luckily, Marinette never took it hard when he admitted that he didn’t quite understand her passion. She had told him that creation wasn’t for everyone, and she understood why he didn’t seem as excited about her projects as she was. Not to say Jason didn’t love helping her! He just wasn’t as enthused about making something that would be destroyed eventually...which made Jason think about his relationship with Marinette.

He was immortal now, thanks to Bruce. She wasn’t. Jason would have to watch Marinette grow old and grey. Eventually, he’d watch her pass on...and given the type of person she was, Jason highly doubted he’d ever see her again after that. She’d become an angel, live in heaven, and forget all about Jason Todd. She’d definitely forget once the angels told her what he was…

A demon.

Jason felt bile rise up in his throat as he knocked on her door. It was now or never. She would probably start growing old soon, and Jason wanted to tell her the truth before the angels did. He knew Marinette valued honesty, so perhaps if he told her now she’d forgive him for hiding it. His green eyes bored holes into the chestnut door as he waited for it to open, trying desperately to steel his resolve.

The door swung open to reveal his best friend, and Jason remembered once again why he’d put off telling her the truth.

“Jason! It’s so nice to see you again. Are you sure you’re okay with helping me take the delivery down to the gala? I know those kind of events aren’t really your thing,” the tiny woman said with a smile brighter than the sun.

Marinette was all dressed for tonight’s event. Her silky looking hair was pulled into a low bun that rested against the nape of her neck. Her brilliant grey eyes were highlighted by peach and bronze eyeshadow and pitch black eyeliner. She was wearing a darker nude lipstick that made Jason want to lean over and kiss her to see if her lips were as soft as they looked. It didn’t help that her lips were pulled into the most adorable smile Jason had ever been graced with even before death. What also didn’t help was the fact Marinette was wearing the pearl earrings Jason had gotten her, and that made him feel even more fuzzy inside.

She was wearing a baby pink cheongsam that fell a little past her mid-thigh. It was hand embroidered with plum blossoms all around it. To complete the look, Marinette was also wearing pale pink heels that brought her to about Jason’s upper chest. She looked gorgeous, amazing, and...well... Jason had to fight to keep his more inappropriate thoughts to himself. 

“Yeah, yeah, Cakepop! Show me where the goods are so we can get this show on the road!”

More like show me where the deserts are before I decide to have you as my desert, Jason thought to himself.

The sensible part of Jason growled back that he wasn’t sure if Marinette even liked him that way! And even if she did, Marinette was mortal, and Jason was not. Even if she loved him, they could never be together. His sensible part argued and argued until it was all he could think of as he walked into her apartment. He followed her into the kitchen where he knew the boxes of baked goods would be.

As Jason went to pick up a few boxes, he caught Marinette’s eyes roaming over him. The hopeful part of Jason preened, shooting back at the sensible side that Marinette was interested in him! After all, he’d gone through a lot to make his human form look good! He’d borrowed a tux for the occasion— thankfully Alfred ensured that it was a proper fight and highlighted his good points— and had made an attempt to tame his hair. He wanted to tease her, but once Marinette caught him watching, the dark haired girl had scooped up several boxes of her own.

“Onwards, my good man!” she said. “The gala awaits their deserts!”

He laughed at her over dramatic acting, and almost blurted out another terrible truth he was keeping from her.

The truth was that the infamous demon known as the Red Hood had gone soft for a mortal woman. The infamous Red Hood— adopted son of the fiercest bat-demon, Batman— had fallen in love with Ms. Marinette. He did not desire her just for her body...which some demons couldn’t understand. Jason had fallen in love with Marinette’s good heart. Jason had fallen in love with whispered secrets and shared grins. Jason had fallen in love with a woman who in another life would have been his salvation. Jason had fallen in love with someone doomed to die.

And Jason would sooner cut his head off than admit to that.

He followed Marinette to her car and assisted in loading all the sweets into the vehicle. Marinette was singing another random tune, one she’d come up with herself, and Jason couldn’t help but smile broadly at her. She was such a sweet human. Jason was going to miss her terribly, but he had forced himself to face the fact he was destined to lose her. He just didn’t know if he’d lose her from death or because of the fact he was a demon.

“Jase? Jase, are you okay? You’re spacing out on me.”

Marinette was shaking his shoulder, one hand on the wheel with her eyes forward. Her face was scrunched in concern even if she never took her eyes off the road. Jason quickly responded, wanting to wipe the frown off her pretty face.

“Yeah, I’m good. Just lost in thought, Cakepop. How long do we have to stay at this shindig?” he responded.

“We were invited to attend, but we can leave right away if you want. You’re doing me a huge favor already, so I won’t ask you to stay at the party,” Marinette chirped. 

“Do you want to stay for a little, Cakepop?” Jason asked. “Forget about me for a moment. Do you want to attend this party?”

The look on her face told Jason everything, and he sighed deeply. The things he did for love...well, the party wouldn’t be as bad with her by his side. He’d stay glued to Marinette, ignore the sinners, and enjoy himself. The only bad thing was that the odds would be high that they would run into Dick.

Jason loved his brother dearly, but Dick was...well he could be a lot. His older brother loved the party scene, and that’s where he hunted his victims. Dick could charm the pants off of anyone. He was also a hell of a dancer, and Jason was slightly worried he’d try to flirt with Marinette if he spotted her. Dick wasn’t stupid. He knew what he found attractive, and since Jason was rather inclined to agree with him, he would most certainly find Marinette attractive.

He told Marinette that they could hang around for an hour or two, but then he wanted to go home. The smile she gave him nearly caused his heart to stop and restart. She was so happy that Jason was willing to spend time with her, doing something she liked. She began to chat about everything she wanted to do and who she wanted to speak to. Apparently Marinette had grand plans in the works and was really hoping she’d be able to speak to them tonight.

Jason listened to her chatter, smiling, relaxed against the passenger’s seat. He could listen to her talk for days. Her voice was sweet and soothing. It made Jason melt every time he heard it. He’d been brought back from the edge several times by Marinette’s voice and a small hand on his forearm. He wanted to hold her hand so bad, but he figured he’d get to do that once they’d delivered the goods.

As they pulled up to the kitchen entrance, Jason smoothed his tux once again and inhaled deeply.

He could do this.

Especially if it was for Marinette.

—————— 

Marinette would like to make it clear, first and foremost, that she was not stupid by any means.

She knew Jason Todd wasn’t what he said he was.

She was definitely certain that he wasn’t human either.

It had been almost a century since the pair had met, yet Jason didn’t seem to realize that Marinette’s lack of aging wasn’t normal for a human. She’d had to erase a few memories already of her existence, replacing the last century’s Marinette with a new one. She had also noticed that Jason hadn’t aged either. He still looked the same as the day he burst into her apartment. 

Jason was over six feet tall, something that infuriated her to no end, with pitch black hair. He had a strong jaw and the most enchanting pair of green eyes she’d ever seen. He was muscular and knew how to fight. He had scars splashed across his body, but Marinette never asked about them. His soul though...his soul was what drew Marinette to him. 

She could almost hear Plagg’s laughter…

Despite the intimidating appearance, Jason had the potential to be an unbelievably kind person. He’d assisted Marinette with more projects than she could count. When she helped the homeless, Jason was gentle with the children and mothers while fiercely reminding the drug peddlers what would happen if he found them selling to the kids. When she helped at the local orphanages, Jason would read and play with the children. When she went around to the hospitals, Jason had an empathetic ear and a sympathetic shoulder for those grieving...especially if drugs were involved.

Marinette found herself developing an intense fondness for him early on in their friendship that eventually grew to love. If she were being honest with herself, she’d admit that she’d been in love with Jason for at least twenty years. She never told him because she was waiting for him to come clean with her about what he was. Marinette wanted their relationship to be built on honesty, and she couldn’t think of anything more difficult to admit than the fact one was a demon. Once Jason had admitted it to her, then Marinette would allow herself to begin to entertain the thoughts of a relationship with him.

Her mother, Tikki, had approved of her plan.

Plagg— her mother’s lover/friend/husband(?)— had told Marinette not to wait too long. He explained that his creatures were not the most patient bunch, and while they would never force a relationship, they would give up on a love interest if it appeared the affection was not returned. He was happy that Marinette had found her match in one of his children. He told her that Jason was a good one, and Marinette readily agreed.

Plagg had created the demons as a balance to Tikki’s creations. They were not necessarily bad, like a lot of humans thought, but they were agents of chaos and destruction. Sinners, as the humans had deemed those who attracted the demons, were simply just humans who caused/welcomed chaos and destruction in their lives or in others’. Some demons punished them, and some demons joined them...but put too much chaos in anyone’s life, and it will become a punishment. Jason was a special case, given life by Plagg after one of his demon’s requested it.

Plagg had allowed Jason to become a demon because he pitied the dying human child. The God of Destruction and Chaos had refused to tell her anything else about Jason, insisting she’d need to learn it for herself. Marinette didn't have many qualms with that. She already had several theories, and none were pleasant.

Marinette, on the other hand, was a muse and daughter of the Goddess of Creation, Tikki. Tikki had created Marinette and other muses to inspire and promote creation in the human world. Tikki admitted that perhaps she’d put too much of herself in Marinette, making her more like a daughter than a mere muse. Marinette could create wonderful things, and Tikki had encouraged it. Eventually, Tikki had declared the muse her child and heir should Tikki somehow be unable to fulfill her duties.

She had begun to lose hope until she saw the palpable anxiety on Jason’s face. 

Today would be the day...hopefully...that Jason told her the truth. 

————

Jason couldn’t bring himself to come clean until Dick almost caught them.

He’d pulled Marinette out onto a balcony and hid off to the side, ignoring his brother’s shouts. He was holding her close, pressed firmly against his body. She was looking up at him with her damnable grey eyes, face flushed, mouth gaping slightly. She was so close to him. If he just leaned down a little more, he could capture those lips in a kiss like he’d been dying to do.

But there was one thing he needed to do first.

“Marinette, I’m a demon.”

She blinked in confusion before tilting her head slightly. Jason took a deep breath before pulling away from her. He rested both hands on her shoulders before looking her squarely in the eye.

“Marinette, did you hear me? Because this is really important. I used to be Jason Todd...but that was a very long time ago. I’m actually an immortal demon known as the Red Hood. I’m sorry I didn’t come clean sooner, but I was afraid. I was afraid that I’d lose the companionship of one of the most spectacular women I’ve ever had the privilege of knowing. But I knew I’d have to come clean with you before...well before you got old—” 

Jason’s sentence trailed off as he stared at the woman before him. 

She was laughing.

Marinette was almost hunched over, trying to contain her laughter. Her eyes were shut tightly, tears almost leaking out from the corners of her eyes. Jason felt a spike of anger at this. Didn’t she know this conversation was important! Did she not believe him! Did she think he was lying to her! 

Before he could open his mouth, Marinette straightened up and asked, “Jase, how long do you think a human lives?”

“...I dunno the exact numbers, but like a century or two?”

“Oh, hun, they might reach a century if they’re lucky. Most humans only live to be in their 80s in most industrial countries. Other humans don’t even make it that far. Now tell me, how could we have known each other for almost ninety-two years, and neither of us have aged?” Marinette said sweetly.

Her smile showed teeth.

Jason was taken aback a moment. Did humans really live such short lives? It had been so long since he was human, and if so, why hadn’t Marinette aged? Why wasn’t she dead? Unless— but she didn’t feel like any demon he’d ever encountered before! If she wasn’t a demon or other creature of darkness, than what was Marinette?

“I’m a muse,” she replied.

Jason jumped a little, not realizing he’d asked the last question aloud.

“Just a muse? Don’t muses normally specialize in one area or something?”

“That’s right, a muse, and the average ones do. I’m the daughter of Tikki, so my powers are not as...limited.”

“Tikki as in the Goddess of Creation, Tikki?”

“The very same.”

Jason was stunned. Of course he knew of the great goddess as his boss, Plagg, never shut up about her. Tikki was the opposite of Plagg. Tikki was his other half. Tikki was creation and order while Plagg was destruction and chaos. Tikki could make anything, and rumor had it, she’d created a muse who’d ended up becoming her favorite. She called this favorite her Ladybug, and this muse was not limited like the others.

He just never thought he’d actually get to meet the legendary lady herself...let alone fall madly in love with her! But if she was Tikki’s daughter...then that meant she could sense energy just like he could...maybe even better than him. Did she know? Did she know this whole time and still befriend him?

“Did—”

“Yes, I knew. I’m glad you told me yourself though,” Marinette said softly. “I’m glad you trusted me enough to tell me the truth, even though it could have hurt you had I been human.”

Somehow...Jason wasn’t angry.

Irritated? Oh most definitely. She’d watched him sweat about telling her several times and never came clean that she already knew! If they’d had this talk earlier, Jason probably wouldn’t have been so stressed out! They could have done more together! He wouldn’t have been so worried about how much time they had to spend before she was gone for good!

At the same time, Jason understood why she didn’t tell him. 

Just as people were not fond of demons, not all demons were fond of the muses and vice versa. Had Jason known she was a muse, had Jason been able to recognize her energy for what it was, he probably wouldn't have stuck around. Batman had warned him time and time again about the muses, and how certain ones played with demons for the thrill of it and left when they got bored or scared. After watching one break Tim’s heart, Jason would admit that he wasn’t fond of them at all. He’d avoided them completely, despite never actually meeting Tim’s ex in person.

Besides, muses normally didn’t go into the void as deep as Jason liked to venture, so his contact with them had been extremely limited. He would have stormed off, thinking that this was a trap for him.

“Soooo…” Jason said, anxiously rubbing his palms on his pant legs.

“Sooo?” Marinette echoed, grey eyes still fixed on him.

“...where does this leave us, Cakepop?”

“...I was hoping this leaves us together.”

“Like...together as we were? As friends? Or…”

“Or.”

“Or?”

Marinette smiled mischievously before grabbing the black tie Jason was wearing. She tugged hard, forcing him to bend down. As he did, he felt a very soft pair of lips collide with his. The smell of flowers invaded his senses as she snaked the hand not holding his tie around his neck. She tilted her head and allowed the kiss to deepen. She was determined to pour as much love as she could into that one kiss. 

Jason’s hands had flown to her hips. The silk of her cheongsam was soft against his skin and warm from her body heat. He pulled her close once again, savoring the feeling of having her close. He also couldn’t help but realize how tiny his muse was when she was pressed against him.

The second she deepened the kiss, Jason let out a muffled moan. She tasted like the confections she baked, sugary with a hint of spice. He ran his hands up and down her sides, noting which places made her shiver into the kiss. He would have consumed her then and there, but fate had other plans.

“There you are Jas— SO THAT’S WHY YOU WERE RUNNING AWAY FROM ME! I’m offended, Jason! Didn’t you want to introduce your big brother to your cute little girlfriend!”

The pair broke apart at mach speed, embarrassed and surprised. Jason glared at his older brother and snarled, fangs showing.

“Now, now, Little Wing! I’m not here to steal possibly the only woman, human or otherwise, who could put up with your dumbass. I’m just trying to be friendly!” the slightly shorter man said.

Marinette noted that he had black hair like Jason, but his eyes were a crystalline blue, too clear and too bright to be human. This man also wasn’t as muscular as Jason, but it was still clear he worked out and was strong. He had an easy going smile, even if those eyes read mischief, and he was carrying a glass of champagne.

He walked over to Marinette before grinning, exposing his fangs. He held out his hand and said, “Good evening, miss! My name is Richard Grayson, but my friends call me Dick—”

“Clearly because you are one.”

Both Dick and Jason froze as those words tumbled out of Marinette’s mouth. Both demons finally took a good look at the little muse and felt a mix of fear and attraction run through them.

The little muse did not look happy with Dick, not at all. Her eyebrows were furrowed as her grey irises disappeared into her sclera, giving her narrowed eyes an all white appearance. A frown was cemented on her face...but it wasn’t so much a frown as it reminded both demons of a snarl. Perhaps muses couldn’t snarl the same way demons could, so she was making up her closest interpretation?

Her fists were clenched, and her body was tense, as if she were trying to hold herself back.

“I’ve waited at least twenty years for that kiss, and you interrupted it!” Marinette hissed. “Quit being a dickhead to your brother and leave!”

Dick’s smile brightened before he laughed, “Aw, she’s going to fit right in! You’ll have to bring her around sometime, Little Wing. Alfred’s going to love her and so will—”

Dick never got to finish his sentence as a swarm of bees came barreling towards him, completely ignoring Marinette and Jason. Jason watched in silent awe as his brother tried to defend himself, but it didn’t seem to matter how many bees he killed. There were always more bees to take the place of the others.

He ended up running away from them, and it wasn’t until he was all the way down the hall that the bees ceased their swarming.

Jason turned back to Marinette, whose eyes were just returning to normal. He gave her a grin before wrapping her up in a hug. He felt her slump against him a bit, tired after using some of her power to create enough bees to make Dick leave them alone. He rubbed her back for a few moments before asking her if she’d like to return to her apartment now.

“I have a few terms,” Marinette said, turning her head so her voice wasn’t muffled against his chest.

“Oh?”

“One, we strip down into our underwear and kiss and cuddle. Two, we watch old movies and make popcorn. Three, we’re boyfriend and girlfriend!”

Jason barked out a laugh before scooping Marinette into his arms.

“Sounds like agreeable terms, Cakepop,” he said, holding her bridal style. “Let’s go home.”

Marinette wrapped her arms around his neck and pecked him on the cheek. Jason carried her all the way to where her car was parked, feeling joy coursing through his veins. She wasn’t going to die. She was immortal like he was. They had a chance. They could make this work. If Jason did his best, he’d never have to say goodbye to Marinette.

Jason set Marinette down again once they’d reached the car. He gently took her head between his hands and kissed her softly. This kiss was not as heated as the first, but simple, sweet, and brief. He kissed her nose and eyelids next before hugging her tightly. He promised her more kisses later, and opened the door so Marinette could get in the passenger’s seat.

Later on the couch, snuggled up under Marinette’s favorite blanket, Jason would hold Marinette close to his chest. She’d be nodding off, feeling safe and content in his arms. Just before she would drift off to sleep, Marinette would sleepily murmur something Jason had been waiting for years to hear.

“I love you, Jason.”

And he would reply.

“I love you too, Marinette.”