#‘sorry i was in prison but dw i broke out!’ | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mighty-ant · 3 years ago

Text

First Rule of Fight Club

The first and last time Fenton broke a rib, it was in the process of an emergency eject from the Gizmosuit as it careened over Duckburg Bay, seconds before it was consumed in the conflagration of a reactor core overload.

This time, several well placed and devastatingly painful blows by Steelbeak, F.O.W.L’s heavyweight, did the trick, not to mention being bodily thrown into the surprisingly solid form of one terror that flaps in the night.

With the protection his suit typically affords him, Fenton had hoped that when it came to broken ribs (out of all 206 bones to break) his case would be of the one and done variety. But when his and Darkwing’s cell opens, any wishful thinking on his part is thrown out the window before spontaneously combusting. As smiles and relief rush to fill the void left by the dread of watching Launchpad being pummeled in a grossly outnumbered fight, the adrenaline that had kept Fenton standing and numb to all his aches and pains chooses that instant to abandon him.

Launchpad is still in the Gizmosuit (and not looking too shabby) destroying the locks on the other nearby cells. Manny is helping him in the endeavor, looking a fair bit different than the last time Fenton saw him: flaming eyes, wings, an actual head! If Gyro ever thinks of trying to fire the guy, Fenton wishes his former-boss luck. But the kids are celebrating, the latest danger in a never ending line has been dealt with and Fenton’s glad of it, truly.

But now the right side of his ribs are pulsing with an acute kind of pain every time he breathes. Whereas Darkwing strides out of their prison cell no worse for wear, Fenton grimaces as he clutches at his side to avoid any unnecessary movement jostling his injuries.

If Mamá finds out, she’ll never let him hear the end of it. Forget any lofty aspirations of moving out, she’ll chain him to his bed and cue up the last ten years of Patos de Pasión to keep him occupied.

Launchpad (Gizmopad? Maybe they’ll stick with Gizmoduck for branding purposes if LP ever has reason to be in the suit again) pauses his crusade to blow open as many F.O.W.L’s prison cells as he can long enough to sweep Darkwing into a hug, the larger-than-life duck letting out a yelp as he dangles several feet off the floor.

“Great job, Launchpad,” Fenton manages, smiling genuinely despite the pain in his ribs. “Handles like a dream, doesn’t it?” Truly, Launchpad was a sight to behold in his suit, accomplishing what not even Fenton and Darkwing’s combined might could. He can’t help but notice that thus far, Launchpad hasn’t crashed once.

With the visor tilted up, Launchpad’s face is bright despite the darkening bruises on his cheekbone and eye, courtesy of Steelbeak’s fists. “Actually, she pulls a little to the left, Fentonino,” he laughs, hardly recognizable as the beaten, despondent man who minutes ago was unable to muster the strength to stand.

“You were incredible, LP,” Darkwing squeaks from where he’s still locked in Launchpad’s embrace, made that much more unbreakable by the nigh indestructible armor. He pats the outside of Launchpad’s arm. “But uh, maybe save the hugs for later?”

Launchpad drops him at once and Darkwing sways unsteadily but keeps his feet. “Oh, sorry about that, DW! Guess I don’t know my own strength.” He looks over at Fenton again and Fenton recognizes the dual promise and unintentional threat of a Launchpad-issue bearhug in his eyes.

Panicked, and certain that if his ribs aren’t already broken they definitely will be if put under pressure of one of Launchpad’s hugs, crushing in their force sans any sort of augmenting armor, Fenton fishes for the first excuse he can think of.

“Hey, Launchpad, buddy, with you already in the suit, would you mind flying up and freeing the people on the upper levels?” He straightens as he speaks, hiding any evidence of hurt as best as he’s able. No need to worry Launchpad or hurt his feelings. When his ribs aren’t pulsing in tune with his heartbeat, Launchpad’s hugs rank only behind his Mamá’s in terms of comfort level.

“Oh, that’s a good idea!” Launchpad deploys the rockets on both pauldrons with startling speed and the visor comes down over his eyes, making his grin seem that much bigger. “I’ll be right back. Don’t worry, Fenton, I’ll be out of the suit in two shakes.” He blasts off, quickly scaling F.O.W.L’s endless prison, and again Fenton wonders at Launchpad’s ease in expertly maneuvering another feat of engineering he could never hope to understand the workings of.

“No rush,” Fenton murmurs, dropping from his painful, forced stillness as he wraps an arm back around his ribs.

Beside him, Darkwing tugs nonexistent wrinkles out his suit with an endearingly brusque laugh. “Yeah, good luck getting that suit back. LP’s a natural in that thing.”

Fenton would laugh if he wasn’t afraid of jostling his torso. “I don’t mind, really. Besides, I’m probably grounded for the foreseeable future.” Bruised ribs if he’s lucky, broken if he’s being realistic. Either way, he’s on bedrest for the foreseeable future.

Darkwing starts to turn to him, his brow knitting beneath the mask and beak downturned in confusion before a red blur rockets into him.

“Drake!”

Fenton startles at the cry of the civilian name, so incongruous with the stark cells towering above and the ancient stonework beneath them. Gosalyn collides against Darkwing’s side with enough force to propel him back a step. He laughs, full throated and bright, and the sound of it brings a smile to Fenton’s face unbidden, briefly trumping the ache thrumming through his body.

“Hey, slugger!” Darkwing says, equally exuberant, clutching Gosalyn tight against his side. He pushes her back the next moment, kneeling to see her fully. “Are you alright? No broken bones, no internal bleeding? How many fingers am I holding up?”

Fenton can already see the beginning of swelling around Gosalyn’s cheek, perhaps from some mind-controlled Beagle Boy’s glancing blow, and it certainly doesn’t skip Darkwing’s notice. But it’s without inordinate worry that he prods at the bone with the careful hand of experience and clearly finds nothing troubling beneath her feathers.

Gosalyn pushes his face away playfully, grinning as she feints a series of blows at his armored midsection. “I’m doing better than you are, old man,” she grins unrepentantly.

Darkwing gasps, utterly aghast. “Old man?” he repeats in betrayal. “I’ll show you old—I’ll have you know I moisturize!”

Gosalyn ducks out from under his arm, avoiding his attempts to entrap her. “Oh, believe me I know,” she mock shudders, dashing behind Fenton to use him as a living shield. “I’ve seen you walking around the apartment with all that goop on your face.”

“Goop!”

“Hey, Fenton,” Gosalyn says, forcing him to crane his head back to meet her smiling eyes. “What did you think of my new trick arrows?” Her grin takes a hit, faltering in the wake of it. “Were you able to see them from inside the cell?”

“Yes, yes of course!” he rushes to say, turning around to address Gosalyn properly and relieve the stress on his ribs. “The miniaturized beehive, right? What an incredible idea, Gosalyn! And not to mention effective. How did you manage to contain the bees for a timed release?”

Gosalyn’s smile returns to its hundred-watt capacity. “I used a bee smoker to get them in and keep them calm until they were ejected from the hive. I actually got the idea from all the wild gizmos in your suit.”

“Really?” Startled delight flares through Fenton, as humbling as the time Donald showed him that picture of Huey in his homemade Gizmoduck Halloween costume. “Well I-I’m touched, Gosalyn. It’s impressive work, no doubt about it! It’s something I can even see incorporated into the suit, with your permission of course.”

“Once I’ve sorted out the patent,” Gosalyn replies smartly.

“Wait a second,” Darkwing sputters behind her. “What suit are you—Gosalyn, you knew Fenton was Gizmoduck?”

“Who doesn’t?” She and Fenton respond in unison, amused and deadpan respectively.

“Well,” Darkwing sniffs, a blush darkening the rosy hue of his feathers that Fenton’s always thought rather becoming. “No one knows my secret identity.”

“You mean nobody cares enough to know,” Gosalyn retorts sweetly.

Fenton fails to muffle his snort of laughter in time for all that it’s drowned out by Darkwing’s affronted gasp. But like most thirteen-year-olds, Gosalyn’s attention is swiftly diverted before Darkwing can come up with a response. “Oh, hey, there’s Boyd! Gotta run, I still feel bad for not finding his body. Seeya out there, Giz,” She punches Fenton in the arm, not particularly hard (he’s seen her make Darkwing wince before) but it’s the arm he’s clutching as subtly as he can over his ribs so he flinches instinctively.

Thankfully, Gosalyn is in too much of a rush to notice, already calling out to Boyd before she’s even moved two feet away. But Darkwing is still here, standing far too still, and Fenton reluctantly looks back up at his erstwhile (one-sided) rival.

Darkwing is eyeing his middle with an unfairly amused expression, hovering somewhere between commiseration and mockery.

“What?” Fenton grimaces, despite knowing the jig is up. Darkwing missed the fact that he was Gizmoduck for six months so maybe his injury will fly over Darkwing’s head too.

Obviously, Fenton isn’t that lucky.

Darkwing smirks like the often infuriating son of a ganglion he is. “Never been in a real fight before, have you?”

Fenton could tell him about the time he broke his thumb trying to punch the senior boy who threw his lunch in the trash every morning because Fenton was weaker, because he spoke too fast, and skipped grades like his bullies skipped classes. Or Mamá teaching him how to form a proper fist once the cast was off and knowing it would do no good because he belonged under a mountain of textbooks and college applications, not a schoolyard brawl. Or even when he stared down Mega-Beaks’ hulking brutality in his father’s old suit and launched a projectile of Fentonium down his throat.

But this isn’t the place for such stories. They wouldn’t hold much shock value either, not for Darkwing, whom Fenton has been a consummate companion on the nights when the lair is too quiet, the darkness gaping, and Darkwing’s vision swims with old fears and memories that better fit the realm of nightmares.

Darkwing is throwing down a gauntlet, for once in jest, even if Fenton is loath to pick it up.

“I usually have an indestructible, super-powered exoskeleton to help me in that department,” Fenton replies, maybe a little bit snippily. He can blame it on the broken ribs.

Darkwing laughs the laugh that Fenton is becoming unfortunately fond of, so theatrical he has to wonder if Darkwing practices it in the mirror, ever the consummate actor. “Usually,” Darkwing repeats pointedly. “Not all the time. And if what I saw earlier was any indication, you could use a bit of refresher as to how us mere mortals handle ourselves in a fight.”

Fenton chuckles, wincing at the twinge that follows the involuntary movement. “What, are you offering, Wingy?”

Darkwing grins. “To teach Gizmoduck how to throw a punch? You bet.”

“I’m never going to hear the end of this,” Fenton sighs, glancing skyward. Still, Darkwing’s teasing coaxes a smile out of him.

“I’ll never let you forget it,” Darkwing agrees.

“When do you propose we begin lessons? In case you forgot, I’m not exactly fighting fit,” Fenton gestures at his right side, embarrassment flaring hotly up the back of his neck as he does so.

He’s video-chatted with Darkwing while the man set his own broken and dislocated fingers with little more than pithy curses and an ice pack; he knows of Darkwing’s absurdly high tolerance for pain, has heard from Launchpad and Gosalyn alike how he fights until he’s bloody, until he can barely stand straight, how he gets back up no matter what. A broken rib or two hindering Fenton so completely seems trivial by comparison, laughable compared to the pain Darkwing puts himself through on a regular basis, purposefully or not.

Darkwing scrutinizes his middle with a thoughtful pout for half a second before reaching forward. He nudges Fenton’s insufficiently supportive left hand away and prods gently at his ribs. Darkwing’s hands are warm through his shirt and heat races up Fenton’s neck for an entirely different reason. Darkwing’s thumb lands on a place that makes Fenton inhale sharply in surprise more than pain, but Darkwing pulls his hands away.

“I’d give you about five weeks, give or take,” he says thoughtfully.

It takes Fenton a mortifying number of seconds for the words to compute. “O-oh, you think so, Dr. Duck?”

Darkwing laughs, self-deprecating and accepting of it. “I have some experience in this department.”

It’s an unfortunate truth, but Fenton still grimaces at the reminder. “So classes start in five weeks?”

“Try not to get in any more fights until then. Y’know, real ones.”

“Oh, so that’s how it’s going to be?” Fenton retorts, relishing Darkwing’s familiar teasing now that it’s free of the sour tinge of showboating.

He pats Fenton on the left shoulder, lighter than he usually would. “Better get used to it, hero.”

Self-doubt twinges in his gut like a bruise, like a knife being thrust in and twisted. Fenton pushes the feeling to the back of his mind and hopes his voice doesn’t waver too much. “So I’m a hero now, huh? Even though I haven’t saved reality?”

Darkwing rolls his eyes, exactly the same way Fenton’s seen his ward do. “C’mon, let’s see if we can’t get LP to give you back your ‘super-powered exoskeleton’. I have a feeling this adventure isn’t over yet.”

“What’s wrong?” Mamá asks.

Considering she can’t even see him, her head bowed as he touches up her roots, Fenton feels safe in laughing. “What? Nothing’s wrong.”

Mamá clicks her tongue, dissatisfied.

Like usual, they’ve brought a kitchen chair into her bathroom for her to sit in while Fenton sections her hair and applies chestnut dye to where her gray roots have begun to show. It's been their routine every two months since he was a high school sophomore and Mamá first trusted him anywhere near her hair with his manos mocosos. Her words, not his. He can confidently say that his hands haven’t touched anyone’s mocos, including his own, since he was three years old. But he digresses.

There’s a comfort to the routine, even now. The world and its problems takes a backseat as Fenton snaps on gloves, nitrile ones from his own supply since the ones that come with the box of dye were created for the likes of Storkules rather than any regular-sized being. He drapes a towel over Mamá’s shoulders and she’ll play bachata on her phone, songs that she and Dad used to dance to. When Fenton first started dyeing her roots, the music was on a disc she’d play on their old CD player that would constantly break and Fenton would constantly have to fix.

Now that years-old familiarity is but a single fixed point amid a whirlwind of change, as his boxes begin piling in the hall and his bedroom of twenty-eight years steadily empties. High school textbooks and sweaters he outgrew a decade ago go into bags marked for donation, Mamá coos over his ‘Class of 2000’ robotics camp shirt, and excavating the underside of his bed unearths the entire comic run of Danger Mouse and a Gimozduck helmet he lost last year. His molecular models are packed alongside Galaxy Wars collectibles and spare toolkits, each box containing another piece of his life labeled and sealed away.

“You spoke to the electrical company?” Mamá asks suddenly. “You’ll have power when you move in, pollito?”

“I can take care of it myself, Mamá, I know my way around a circuit breaker after all,” Fenton replies with put-upon innocence as he searches Mamá’s third section of hair for any hint of gray he might’ve missed.

She reaches back to swat at him and he doesn’t move fast enough to avoid her. It’s heartening when his healed ribs don’t even twinge. “Qué tontería,” she mutters, ignoring his laughter. “I’d arrest you myself if you didn’t find some way to cause a citywide blackout first.”

“Well, hey, that was just one time.”

His new apartment is by no means a palace (he’s positive he saw alternaria mold growing behind the showerhead), but being near Hookbill Harbor means it’s affordable and closer to the Money Bin than Mamá’s house is. Besides, with Gyro splitting his time between Mr. McDuck’s labs and SHUSH’s, Fenton had been hired on full time, an achievement of his that Mamá can finally brag to her coworkers about. Not that it stops Gyro from continuing to call him Doctor-Intern, though Fenton’s sure he doesn’t mean anything bad by it. Probably.

“It’ll take some getting used to, not having you underfoot all the time,” Mamá says fondly. “No more pies on my ceiling or experiments blowing up in the kitchen.”

Fenton grins as he starts on the final section of Mamá’s hair. “I’ll stop hearing about the time I accidentally incinerated Mrs. Ave Nueva’s avocado tree.”

Mamá sniffs. “‘Accidentally,’ he says.”

“I was ten!”

“That’s hardly a convincing alibi.”

Fenton shakes his head with a laugh, resigned to the knowledge that this is one of my arguments he won’t win. “Tilt your head forward,” he asks, dipping his brush into the plastic bowl of prepared hair dye. It’s easy to lose himself in the repetition of his task, and the scrape of the güira and strumming guitar from Mamá’s playlist blurs together in a comforting haze, only broken up occasionally by a whiff of ammonia from the dye. Mamá hasn’t said if she wants to keep their standing appointment, but Fenton can only assume that’s the case considering how often she’s called salons scam artists over how much they charge for dye jobs.

He’s almost done when she speaks again, concern gentling her voice.

“Estarás bien, todo solito?”

Fenton huffs, amused if unsurprised by the question. It’s the third time she’s asked in as many days, twice more than last week, her uneasiness increasing in frequency the closer they get to his move-in day. While he can admit to a certain melancholy in leaving the only home he’s ever known, there’s an undeniable excitement to the freedom he’s looking forward to experiencing. No one will be complaining about him pulling all-nighters and cluttering his desk with crumpled cans of Red Steer anymore, that’s for sure.

“Claro que sí, Mamá. I’m not completely helpless on my own,” he tries to joke.

“I know, cariño,” she says, more seriously than he anticipated. Mamá looks up, meeting his gaze in the bathroom mirror. “You haven’t been helpless since you were six and built that ridiculous potato cannon to protect me from bad guys.” Fenton still remembers that; the barrel was crooked, and all he ended up accomplishing was breaking Abuela’s favorite vase. “But you put yourself in so much danger as Gizmoduck, flying alone all over the city like you do, and I can’t be there to help if you get hurt.”

Fenton is a nervous talker, a tic he hasn’t been able to shake since high school, but now he finds himself grasping for words that vanish before fully forming, slipping through his fingers like smoke. Mamá doesn’t lie, she doesn’t sugarcoat, but she has never spoken so bluntly on how she feels about Gizmoduck. About him being Gizmoduck.

He often thinks back to waking up in the hospital two years ago, groggy from the morphine, his broken body heavy and aching. Mamá had pulled him, soaking and burnt, off the dock and from his hospital bed pressed a featherlight kiss to his temple, just beneath the bandages, all the while fully aware of what had reduced him to that state. She’d known it was him in the suit, soaring over the bay in a blur that ended with a calamitous explosion, but she hadn’t said anything. Once Fenton learned the truth, he assumed she simply understood that he was doing what needed to be done.

Now, he wonders if fear kept her silent on the matter.

“I didn’t know you were so worried,” he says lamely.

Mamá reaches for the shower cap on the counter, pulling her hair, thick with dye, up and out of her face with practiced movements. Fenton supposes she should look silly with a polka dot shower cap on her head, but even with hair curlers and under-eye patches Mamá has never been anything short of impeccably put together.

“I’m your mother, I’m always going to worry.” She turns in her chair to face him, squeezing his wrist above the gloves he’s still wearing. Her smile is warm but worn at the edges by lines of stress and age that Fenton wonders if he’s responsible for. How many gray hairs he just helped hide are there because of him?

“I never said anything because I knew how important being Gizmoduck was to you,” Mamá says, tugging on his wrist to help her stand. He hears her knees crack. “My job isn’t the safest either, but I turned down a promotion because I didn’t want to be stuck in an office doing paperwork until retirement. I may not be getting thrown through any buildings or fighting plant monsters, but I understand why you’re sticking to it, pollito.”

It’s been five weeks since Fenton last donned the suit and he’s felt no desire to change that, nevermind that yesterday’s check-up proved Darkwing right. One broken rib and a mess of bruising are fully healed, with barely so much as the occasional twinge proving he was ever hurt in the first place. Not that he’s done more than glance at the cleverly disguised briefcase half hidden behind his wastepaper basket, ignored and left to gather dust as the packing process kicked into high gear. He doesn’t think Mamá has realized what it is. He’s been too anxious to tell her.

The only place the suit features is in his nightmares, where it falls off of him in pieces like jagged shards of ice, impossible to put back together. He lands frail and exposed at Beaks’ feet, at Gandra’s, at Steelbeak’s, over and over again and it’s terrible because it’s true, because it’s happened, because he’s been beaten so many times and he’s tired of being afraid. He’s tired of being tired.

Three years of broken bones, sleepless nights, and electrical burns are finally catching up to him and he feels like a slapdash and hastily put together invention from his childhood, broken pieces rattling around in his depths, impossible to find much less repair.

Gizmoduck is a leaden weight hanging around his neck and he’s never known what to do but let it drag him down.

“Well, you’ll be happy to hear I'm not completely alone,” he says, wishing dully that it were true. Fenton smiles for Mamá’s benefit. “Darkwing has offered to teach me some hand-to-hand combat.”

Mamá rolls her eyes, bustling out of the bathroom. “Ese loco morado?”

He scrabbles after her, a genuine laugh surprising him when it bubbles up his throat. “He's not...that crazy.”

She hums noncommittally, and Fenton follows her into the kitchen where she throws open the fridge. “No one sane runs around in tights and a cape,” Mamá says, shuffling through Quackerware containers of that week’s leftovers. “He looks like he belongs in the circus, Fenton.”

He doesn’t anticipate the blazing streak of protectiveness that lances hot up his spine when he thinks of Drake’s—Darkwing’s smiles when he gushes about Gosalyn’s smarts, her spirit. Darkwing slumping over the keyboard mid-conversation after powering through three straight nights of patrol on nothing but his blistering determination and four pots of coffee, St. Canard’s own Atlas, nursing a busted beak and a black eye and still laughing at Fenton’s dumb electron jokes.

Luckily, instead of all that, he blurts, “He made his suit himself, Mamá. I gave him the materials, a-a Kevlar polymer that was his idea, it’s virtually indestructible and allows for full flexibility and range of motion.”

“Calma, calma,” Mamá says, pinning him with a wry look that he immediately recognizes, as well as the sense of foreboding it sends crashing over him. “You like his circus act, don’t you?”

Fenton huffs, his face feeling hot as he crosses his arms over his chest. “Of course I like him, Mamá. He can be...difficult sometimes but I really believe he’ll be a great hero.”

“I’m sure his muscles had nothing to do with it,” Mamá mutters into the two day old container of pasta she turns to examine.

His sense of foreboding trips and tumbles down the stairs, hitting every mortifying step on the way down, and scattering his thoughts all over the kitchen floor like one of his flimsy molecular models. Fenton’s face feels like the surface of the sun as he changes the subject without subtly.

“Hey! How about you let me worry about dinner? And you can set up for our Patos marathon before you have to wash the dye out.”

Mamá looks amused as she allows herself to be guided into the living room. “Okay, pollito,” she says, humoring him and making no attempt to hide it. “Should I expect tall, dark, and loco to come to dinner sometime soon?”

Fenton garbles something unintelligible and flees back into the kitchen, pursued by Mamá’s laughter. He sticks his head in the fridge to avoid answering and his dread cools the blush in his cheeks more than the blast of refrigerated air ever could. It settles on his chest like a block of ice, slowly melting and spreading through his veins until it suffuses his entire body.

He’s not like Darkwing, too stubborn, too passionate for his own good. Fenton has been cracking under the pressure long before his ribs gave way, and once he gives up Gizmoduck, he knows a true superhero like Darkwing won’t want anything to do with him. Not as a friend or...anything more.

Darkwing punches him in the face for the second time.

Fenton swears when he hits the mat, landing hard on his tail feathers. Darkwing laughs, not even out of breath, the jerk. “Hey, language! One of your young, impressionable fans could be lurking around.”

“Is that jealousy I hear?” Fenton winces, rubbing his cheek. He knows it’ll bruise, and Darkwing didn’t even put his full strength behind it. He’d be unconscious if that were the case.

Darkwing huffs, and his expression is somewhat chagrined when he offers Fenton a hand up. “You were supposed to dodge that.”

“I tried.”

The sun is setting over St. Canard and through the tall windows of Darkwing Tower it paints the training area in brilliant shades of gold. Half of Darkwing’s face is dripping in it while the other is already engulfed in indigo shadows, a nearly perfect split that Fenton has a hard time tearing his eyes away from. Darkwing’s forgone his uniform today, just wearing a pink shirt that’s tight around his biceps. By contrast, Fenton feels like he’s sweated half his bodily fluids into the neckline and underarms of his shirt.

“Well then, let’s try again,” Darkwing says, with a smile that isn’t even forced like Fenton half-feared. Without the mask, his expression is delightfully open, hiding none of his easy confidence. He raises his hands in front of him, palms out and fingers slightly curled. “Start from the beginning; show me your punch.”

Fenton blows the sweaty fringe out of his eyes with a hard breath. He curls his right hand into a tight fist and punches solidly into Darkwing’s palm with a satisfying smack.

“Not bad,” Darkwing says, and Fenton’s traitorous heart skips at the approving rise in his voice. “Now let’s try the left. You want equal strength, or as close as you can get to it, with both arms in case one is out of commission.”

“How would that happen?” Fenton grunts as he dutifully begins punching with his left.

“Oh you know,” Darkwing says airily, “breaking your arm when you fall into the bay and having to swim to shore. Being handcuffed to a Crowmanian gangster. Slipping in the shower and spraining your wrist.”

Fenton gapes, faltering before he can throw another punch. “There’s no way all of that really happened to you.”

Darkwing winks, sending Fenton’s stomach into a fit of somersaults. “Daring duck of mystery, remember?”

He moves away to pick up the strike pads he has stacked against the wall with all of his other training equipment. Darkwing slips them on, tightening the Velcro straps, and smacks them together. “Okay, now for real, Fentonino. Gimme all you’ve got, and we’ll see where we go from there. Can’t have Gizmoduck running around not knowing how to throw a real punch.”

Fenton flushes up to his eyebrows, not that it’s noticeable with the sheen of sweat he’s already worked up. “The suit calibrates my punches for me, calculating the force and the trajectory. That way I don’t knock someone’s head off by accident.”

Darkwing grimaces theatrically. “Thanks for the mental image. Now quit stalling! You’re not in the suit right now.”

No, he’s not, and Fenton feels that difference keenly with every tumble he takes to the mat and every bruise along the line of knuckles. It’s liberating in a way; Fenton has never been the athletic type, always preferring hunching over a video game controller than tumbling after a soccer ball with the kids on his street.

Working the suit is taxing and rewarding in equal measure but he doesn’t come out of fights feeling proud very often. When the fighting gets bad, he’s clawing to succeed against forces stronger than his own, to protect the people counting on him. Being punted through skyscrapers by 2-BO and halfway getting his head crushed didn't end in his victory. That he walked away from that fight at all was the real win.

The greatest consequence he can face here is a couple more bruises for Mamá to cluck over and a healthy dose of embarrassment. The latter, of course, is already taken care of.

Fenton starts punching. Right. Left. Right. Left. Left again. Right. He focuses on keeping his shoulders loose and fist steady as Darkwing had taught him, on each punch landing solidly against the strike pads. He hears Darkwing’s grin in his voice.

“Good, Fenton! Now remember your footwork—stay out of my range unless you wanna taste the floor again.”

Darkwing moves forward and Fenton moves a step back, keeping his blows as constant as he’s able as Darkwing raises and lowers and pulls the strike pads out of his range. It’s a bit like a dance, but one reliant on angles and violence and balance rather than following a beat. Fenton has two left feet anyway; he bets Darkwing’s an excellent dancer when he’s not getting caught up in his head and tripping on air.

He risks a glance at Darkwing’s face and is promptly floored by the expression of narrow determination on his face, certainly mimicking Fenton’s own up until that moment. All at once, the confusion of the last five weeks hits him all at once, with all the force of a runaway train.

It was sparked by Darkwing’s initial invitation in the dust and dark of the Library of Alexandria and exacerbated by Darkwing’s frequent texts, not on superhero business, but just to check on Fenton, how he was healing, how the packing process was coming along. It’s not unlike their interactions when Fenton was still keeping half his life a secret from Darkwing and letting him come to his own erroneous conclusions instead; like they’re still friends, like nothing’s changed. And it’s nice all of it, it’s great in fact, but no less bewildering considering he’d thought Darkwing would cut ties with him after learning the truth, not try to create more.

And because Fenton can never stop his mouth from blurting every idea that pops into his head, no matter how traitorous, he’s midpunch when says, “I thought you hated Gizmoduck?”

Darkwing freezes, and Fenton’s treated to his utterly gobsmacked expression in the seconds before Fenton’s punch connects. But not with the strike pad. In his shock, Darkwing lowers his arms just enough for Fenton’s fist to blow right past them and straight into his face.

Fenton’s punch makes him stumble back a step, which under different circumstances might’ve been a point of pride, unmooring the hero who doesn’t bend or break. But it’s impossible to know how much was on account of his punch or simply catching Darkwing off guard.

Darkwing blinks wide, startled eyes at him, one hand reaching up to rub his cheek before he pauses, as if remembering the strike pads still wrapped around them. “What?” He says, more quietly than Fenton’s ever heard him. Darkwing looks confused and Fenton doesn’t blame him; his mind is churning so fast it might as well be in another galaxy.

“Why are you helping me?” He demands, and Mamá might have told never to look a gift horse in the mouth but Fenton’s been playing catch up since Scrooge McDuck sauntered into his hospital room and handed him the chance to be a hero. “You’ve barely made fun of me, the great and powerful Gizmoduck who can’t even throw a proper punch. I would’ve thought you’d have a field day.”

Darkwing’s eyes drop to the floor before flashing back up to Fenton’s face. The guilt that he finds there is nearly scorching in its intensity.

“I….maybe,” Darkwing admits haltingly. With clumsy movements, he unstraps the strike pads from around his hands, avoiding Fenton’s gaze again. “Before, I might’ve.”

“Before?” Fenton repeats, not letting up. He’s rarely so confrontational out of the suit but Darkwing’s always been good at pressing his buttons, intentionally or otherwise. “Before what?”

Darkwing isn’t looking at him again as he sweeps a hand through his hair and down the back of his neck, putting it into more disarray than their sparring had caused. The smile he musters is more of a grimace. “Before I knew you were Gizmoduck.”

Fenton blinks. His hands, wrapped by Darkwing in boxing tape at the start of the evening, tremble as he closes them into fists at his side. “I don’t understand.”

Darkwing rolls his eyes, so endearing in its familiarity that Fenton feels it like a blow to the chest. “You’re right, I hated Gizmoduck. Or, I hated the idea of him, I guess. All I ever wanted to do, all I ever wanted to be, was a hero, and here was this nobody in a kickass suit showing up out of nowhere and getting everything I’d ever wanted: fame, respect, merchandising tie-ins. Here I was trying to make my mark when Gizmoduck had already broken the mold.”

“You were jealous?” Fenton hedges, like it doesn’t make all the sense in the world considering the interactions between himself and the terror that flaps in the night when the truth was still an insurmountable gulf between them. But in his defense, there is very little in his life that Fenton deems worth anyone’s jealousy: a Mt. Neverrest’s worth of student debt, the three hours of sleep he’s lucky to get every night, kissing his Mamá goodbye and knowing that this might be the day that fate decides to take her away from him, or vice versa?

Darkwing huffs, melodramatic to a fault, and plants his hands on his narrow waist. “And here I thought you were some kind of genius?”

Fenton goes to pinch the space between his eyes, not in the mood for Darkwing to give him the runaround. “Darkwing—”

“It was the way you talked about him,” Darkwing says, like Fenton hadn’t spoken. He’s staring hard at the mat, brow furrowed beneath some troubling weight. “Whenever Gizmoduck was brought up and you, I don’t know, tried hiding him from me I guess, you talked about him like he was some kind of taskmaster, hounding you at all hours, never letting you take a break.”

“It’s not too far off the mark,” Fenton mutters, unsure if Darkwing can even hear him. Unsure if he wants him to.

Darkwing shakes his head. “It made me hate him, pal. Like, as a person. That’s why I fought with him...you, all those times.”

Unspent agitation flutters through Fenton’s stomach, up into his healed rib cage, through his veins like the wingbeat of a thousand butterflies. He’s never been the sort to start a fight before but Darkwing is watching him with eyes wide and wary, the sunlight fading from his feathers, and maybe Fenton wants to be the impulsive one for once.

“So what, all this was just a long-drawn-out way to take out your frustration on Gizmoduck?”

Darkwing sputters. “You punched me!”

“Well I’m sorry!” Fenton yells right back.

Silence plunges between them with an almost palpable crack in the air. Fenton’s chest heaves for breath and Darkwing stares back at him, his face softened by frustration and worry. The sun is setting, long tendrils of gold clinging to the Lair and Darkwing’s eyes as the cool shades of evening roll in to fill the empty spaces.

“I don’t hate you, Fenton,” Darkwing says in that soft tone of utter sincerity that he’s used with Gosalyn and Launchpad but never him.

Fenton isn’t sure he’s breathing; the tips of his fingers are beginning to feel a little numb and he feels as though he’s swallowed an electrical current. “What changed?

Darkwing laughs, a thin, strained sound. He gestures sharply at Fenton with an open palm. “You! Fenton, I learned it was you. How could I hate Gizmoduck then?”

It’s too close to the fantasies that Fenton’s guarded close for months, buried so deep he almost forgets about them most days. Fantasies where Darkwing learns the truth behind the Gizmoduck helmet and is elated, where he takes Fenton’s hands in his own and asks to be partners, to help Fenton shoulder the load, where he draws Fenton impossibly close with a hand on the small of his back—

“I almost wouldn’t blame you,” Fenton blurts, despite the voice in the back of his head (sounding suspiciously like Gyro) spitting, Abort! Abort, you idiot! “I’m not Gizmoduck’s biggest fan myself.”

“What?” Darkwing’s brow crumbles like a bad car accident.

Fenton could make a joke. He could change the subject. He could do anything but spill his guts and admit the horrible corrosive fear that has eroded him from the inside out for the last year: that Fenton is nothing without Gizmoduck and Gizmoduck is everything without him.

“I’ve been thinking of retiring as Gizmoduck,” he admits with the delicacy of a reactor core overload.

Darkwing couldn’t look more horrified if Fenton had slapped him straight across the face. “Because of me?”

Laughter trips off Fenton’s beak, verging on hysterical until he reigns himself in. “No, Darkwing, not because of you. It’s….something I’ve been considering for a while. I know I’ve helped a lot of people as Gizmoduck, and I don’t regret it, but it feels like I should be doing...more.”

“More?” Darkwing repeats incredulously. “Fenton, you said it yourself, you’ve saved Duckburg dozens of times, you’re world-famous—”

“Which anyone could do with the suit!” Fenton interrupts insistently as he steps closer. “The suit does all the work, Darkwing! I was a scientist before I put it on and I’m still a scientist now, and I can-I can do more than get punched through buildings and blown up over and over again.”

“Okay,” Darkwing says gently, palms raised in conciliation. “Okay. Maybe you’re right, Fen. You’re the smartest guy I know, and if you put your mind to it there probably isn’t anything you couldn’t do. But you’re not replaceable either. Sure maybe some other schmuck can fly the suit around and rescue cats from trees, but you’ll always be Duckburg’s first superhero. That means something.”

Fenton lets out a breath he feels he’s been holding for the last five weeks. Darkwing may be a good actor, but the utter sincerity in his face could not be rehearsed. “You really mean that.”

Darkwing cracks the first smile in what feels like hours. It lights up his face even though the gloom of twilight has settled over the Tower. “Course I mean it.” He reaches out to Fenton with uncharacteristic caution, and Fenton looks down in confusion as Darkwing gently takes his hand in his own.

“The superhero scene is changing,” Darkwing says as he begins the methodical process of unwrapping the boxing tape from around Fenton’s hands. Fenton’s gaze zips up to Darkwing’s face, calm in its concentration, down to his hand, and back up again, with no clue where to focus. He’s not sure if he’s breathing. “It’s not just you and me anymore; there’s the kid with blue hair who can do magic, that terrifying Moonlander, Boyd. All the superheroing doesn’t have to be on you.”

Fenton makes a sound he thinks could pass for a laugh. “How is it that Boyd’s name is the only one you know?”

Darkwing shrugs, unrepentant. “He and Gos hit it off after the whole thing at the Library of Alexandria. They’ve had a couple sleepovers at the apartment. Gearloose is even thinking about letting him start going to the same school as her. Let him socialize with normal kids, y’know? Not just a lightbulb and a demon.”

“Don’t let Gyro hear you call Lil Bulb that,” Fenton says breathlessly, overwhelmed by this new facet of Darkwing the father. “Or Lil Bulb for that matter.”

The last of the boxing tape is unwound from Fenton’s hand, but Darkwing doesn’t move away. He doesn't let go of Fenton’s hand either. If anything, his grip tightens. When Darkwing runs a thumb over his aching knuckles, Fenton thinks he might break his ribs all over again from how tightly he’s holding his breath.

“I get it,” Darkwing says, and it takes Fenton several hard blinks for his mind to circle back down from where it’s gotten lost in orbit, “You need a break. I don’t blame you. Heck, before I had Gos and LP making sure I slept, I could relate.” His thumb is still sweeping back and forth over Fenton’s knuckles, calloused and warm, more reliable than a metronome. Fenton doesn’t dare look up now, afraid of what he’ll find on Darkwing’s expressive face. His voice has gotten low and intimate in the space between them.

“So lock yourself in your lab for a little while,” he goes on. “Focus on solving world hunger or creating a hoverboard or whatever you science types do. Keep the suit in storage or sublease it for a bit. I can think of one pilot who’s eager to get behind the wheel.”

Fenton stutters through a laugh, curling his fingers hesitantly around Darkwing’s. “You’re being strangely reasonable.”

Darkwing huffs, exaggerated insult personified. “I resent the implication.”

Fenton looks up, and it’s the best and worst decision he could’ve made. Darkwing’s eyes rove over his face like they’re cataloguing every detail, from the gauntness of his cheeks due to lack of sleep to the scars beneath his right eye from when Megabeak shattered his visor, while still searching desperately for more. Fenton’s never been the focus of anyone’s undivided attention in a way that didn’t end poorly for him: see Beaks, Beaks, and oh, Mark freaking Beaks.

Darkwing looks at him like he’s trying to drink his fill and knows he never will.

Fenton wonders if Darkwing sees the same expression reflected back at him.

“You know,” Darkwing says softly, too quietly to break the spell that’s fallen over them. “If you don’t want to get back in the suite again, ever, that’s okay too. I’m not saying...I’m not telling you what to do. But whatever you choose I’ll...I’ll be here. If you want me to be, I mean.” He squeezes Fenton’s fingers and that feeling travels straight to his heart, where Darkwing’s grip tightens equally. “You’re already strong, whether or not you can throw a punch.”

“Managed to land one on you, didn’t I?” Fenton grins crookedly, hoping to distract from the way his eyes have, mortifyingly, begun to burn. He thought Darkwing would be the last person who would understand, and he’s never been so grateful to be proven wrong.

“You caught me by surprise,” Darkwing stresses. “Underhanded tactics don’t count.” He lifts his other hand and Fenton doesn’t move, doesn’t dare breathe, as it follows a steady path upward to hover over his cheek. He watches Darkwing’s throat bob as he swallows with the same attention to detail he would devote to a delicate experiment. “Though, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry for punching you in the face. Twice.” Darkwing winces, genuine yet silly, and Fenton thinks he might be smitten.

“Then I’m sorry for punching you in the face, too,” he says with not even a fraction as much sincerity.

Darkwing breathes a laugh through his nose and his thumb alights on Fenton’s cheek with the slightest caress. “No you’re not.”

Fenton hopes his face isn’t as red as it feels, but he’s too overwhelmed by Darkwing's nearness to care overly much. “No, I'm not.”

He feels Darkwing’s hand tremble against his cheek. Fenton’s eyes flit from Darkwing’s face to his mouth, and his stomach tightens when realizes Darkwing is doing the same to him. He sways into Fenton’s space, yet lingering impossibly far away.

“I..um…” Darkwing rasps, “I promise I didn’t ask you here just to kiss you.”

He looks uncertain in a way that eases Fenton’s own fears and instead bolsters his courage enough to take that final leap forward.

“I know.”

Fenton sees Darkwing’s—Drake’s—eyes widen as he leans in, before his eyes close and they’re kissing, tentative and trying, chaste even. It’s little more than a press of lips and Fenton hardly has any experience in this department but when he tilts his head just so, Drake makes this punched out sound that zings up Fenton’s spine, and their kiss begins in earnest.

Drake loosens the hand gripping Fenton’s and instead splays it around the right side of his newly healed rib cage, Drake’s wide palm so warm it practically sears through the thin material of Fenton’s shirt. His stomach swoops as if from a great height, like the rare times he takes the suit out flying when there’s no fight to be had, just the crystalline joy of freefall knowing something is there to catch him.

Fenton grabs Drake’s elbow to center himself as his mind spins away from him, fully absorbed in the moment while at the same time feeling as though he’s been sent hurtling through the stratosphere.

Their kiss turns languid and toe-curlingly slow before Drake abruptly pulls away, his breath hot against Fenton’s cheek.

“It’s a school night,” he pants, apropos of nothing.

Fenton blinks dazedly. “Huh?”

Drake chuckles breathlessly, and this close Fenton can see the small nicks and scars on his beak and face, reminders of three decades worth of fights, both won and lost. The hand on Fenton’s cheek has since moved to cradle his jaw and Drake’s thumb strokes just beneath his eye in a caress that has Fenton leaning into his palm.

“Gosalyn has school tomorrow,” he explains sheepishly. “LP’s watching her at my apartment but he’s not that great at enforcing bedtimes.”

“So you have to get back,” Fenton guesses with a small smile tugging at his beak.

Drake winces, squinting one eye shut. “So I have to get back. Not that-I’m not kicking you out or anything, you can come with if you want, if you don’t mind some yelling about curfew and how I’m a despicable despot for making her go to bed before eleven.”

Laughter weaves its way between them, familiar and warm. Drake hasn’t moved away and neither has Fenton, their bodies still incredibly near, their hands still on each other, though the fervent need to touch and be touched has reduced to a simmer. Instead their closeness is reassuring, a reminder that the last five minutes were real.

“Well, if you’re sure, then I’d like to come along,” Fenton manages, clinging tightly to the courage that propels him into the path of bullets and lasers and bombs, which suddenly seems so easy when compared to the everyday terror of emotional vulnerability. “We should...talk some more.”

Drake squeezes Fenton’s waist once, ducking his head mischievously. “I like talking,” he says.

Fenton makes a show of rolling his eyes. “Believe me, I noticed.”

“Wha—hey!” Drake laughs through an impossible smile. “I thought this meant you weren’t allowed to make fun of me anymore.”

“Hm, pretty sure it’s the opposite.”

“Out-snarked by Duckburg’s golden boy. I’m losing my touch.” Drake shakes his head in disappointment before reluctantly pulling away from Fenton. “We can head over now if you’re ready. You’ve never been on my bike before, have you?”

Fenton pretends to think hard on it, fighting off a smile that threatens to break his facade. He feels almost giddy, as if the weight of his dread and guilt these last weeks and months has sloughed off him and finally allowed him to breathe freely. The future may be uncertain, but that isn’t necessarily a bad thing.

“We could always use my way,” Fenton offers innocently.

Drake turns, his smile quirked in amusement. “Your way?” he says. It takes a second before panic strikes down any other expression. “No. No. Fenton, don’t you dare!”

Fenton grins, and without a shred of remorse calls out, “Blathering blatherskite!”

The innocuous white briefcase he’d left by the entrance activates with a hum at the utterance and the Gizmosuit propels itself through the air toward its current master.

#ant writes #long fic #gizmowing #DW asks Fenton on a date and he spends the next 5 weeks having a crisis #fenton crackshell cabrera #darkwing duck #darkwing dad #drake mallard #M'ma is the real MVP #gosalyn mallard #launchpad mcquack

115 notes · View notes

deathordemise · 4 years ago

Text

kachow hello everyone here’s a writing piece i’ve been working on since god knows when. i started it when tommy was still in exile, so the recent events kinda threw it into the non-cannon compliant, lol. anyway , this entire thing is based off the concept of dream wanting a ‘family’. dw, turned on auto cap to write it lmao. send asks regarding this if you wanna :)

here’s the one person who wanted to be tagged : @head-fullof-clouds

trigger warnings: looking down on someone based of age, imprisonment, gas lighting, one sided family dynamics (?), forced found family (??)

mainly tubbo and dream centric, but mentions of others. there’s more under the cut!!

Dream stands with his hands on his hips, surveying his past hours of work.

“Would you like Ranboo to room with you guys as well? You and him get along very well, and it’s nice to see you hang out with kids your age other than Tommy.”

Tubbo shakes his head, sitting on the edge of his bed. The adult sighs and shrugs.

“Okay, if you’re so sure.” He turns back to the other barrels full of things . Tubbo finally speaks up when he begins to assemble another bookcase.

“ I don’t want Tommy in here either.”

Dream straightens immediately, looking genuinely confused.

“But you guys are best friends! I would have loved sharing a room with my best friends when I was younger. I know you boys had that little fight during his exile, but surely you’ll get over it? I mean, I did spend all this time decorating his side of the bedroom.”

“This isn’t a bedroom,” Tubbo stands up and lunges at the bars. He grips it in an attempt to shake them, but the metal poles remain sturdy. “Dream, this is a prison cell!”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” He scoffs. Tubbo remains glaring and hostile.

“You know I’m right. You know you’re making us all prisoners. It doesn’t matter how nice you make the cells, how good you make the meals, how lovingly you hand stitched these blankets. You’re holding us here against our will, with no escape. You’re nothing but a jail guard.” His tirade is cut off when Dream slams his fist into the crafting table.

“Stop!” Dream pauses to collect himself. He shudders, voice cracking is desperation.

“Stop it. You’re twisting my words. You’re making it wrong. You’re making it ugly.”

Dream finally takes a seat, pulling off his mask in the process. He sits with his back against the wall, facing Tubbo again. His head tilts back and he presses the palms of his hands against his eyes, then smooths his hair back.

“Why do you guys always have to make it all ugly? This is my land, you know? I can deal with you guys terraforming, I expected it. I can deal with you guys building whatever the fuck you wanted with my permission. I could have even let the whole drug thing slide! But then there was the thing with the discs.”

“Tommy’s discs.” Tubbo corrects,but he doesn’t acknowledge the teen’s input.

“It was such a simple thing to do. Hand me the discs. Maybe I would have given them back eventually. But you had to fight back. You had to separate yourselves, and start a war. You made it all ugly, and by making me the bad guy, you made me ugly too. I don’t understand. I just wanted you guys to listen to me.”

“You wanted to control us” Tubbo protested, “Like puppets on a string. You wanted us to bend at your will. We’re our own damn people, Dream. We’re not dolls for you to play ‘house’ with.”

“I know you’re too young to understand.” Dream sighs, giving him a small smile.

“It's okay . I forgive you. I forgive each and everyone of you.”

“What about George and Sapnap? Do you think this is what they want?” Tubbo switches tactics, desperate to make the man see reason. Tired of gripping the metal, he too sits on the cold netherite floor.

“George and Sapnap don’t know what they want.” Dream snaps irritatedly. Seemingly hitting the nail on its head, Tubbo plows on.

“Oh,really? Do you think Bad would let you do this? You think he’ll come in here willingly?”

“He goes wherever Skeppy goes.” He waves dismissively.

“Ah,yes, because Bad is so down with Skeppy being tossed into jail.”

“I’m not tossing Skeppy into the jail! Tub- Tubbo, you know this isn’t a jail, right?”

“Then what is it, Dream? What is this, with the iron bars and doors and obsidian? Sam himself built it, and he says it’s a prison. What is it?”

He doesn’t reply at first, fiddling with the cracked and damaged mask in his hands.

“I’m pretty fond of the moniker Pandora’s Vault.” He smiles softly at Tubbo, sending a chill up his spine.

“Vault?”

“Yeah. A vault is where people store valuables.”

“I- I do know what a vault is! That’s not my… did you just completely miss the part where I said we’re people? We’re not like those shiny things that you’d stuff into an enderchest.” He sputtered indignantly, at an almost loss for words. Dream wheezes and hauls himself up, dusting off his pants.

“Enderchest is actually kind of a cool name for it. I might just consider rebranding! I like to call it a vault, Tubbo, because a vault is where you store precious things. And to me, there’s nothing more precious than family.”

He walks back over to the crafting table, unaware of the other slowly losing his composure.

“You’re not my family.” He whispers.

Dream picks up on the dread and terror in Tubbos voice. He sets the planks back down gently.

“Remember when we were in the same team competing in MCC?” and how can Tubbo forget that? Standing side by side with your sworn enemy, wearing the same colours with undeniable pride.

“Remember how I helped you train? How we trained together, and I gave you advice and support? Didn’t you like that ? I was like a mentor to you, like an older brother! Don’t you want an older brother? You won’t have to be alone anymore.”

“I’m not alone! I have an actual family, Dream. I don’t need you. I’ve got my whole cabinet. Do I need to remind you that I’m the bloody president, not some weak baby you need to soothe? I’ve got Phil, and Wil-Ghostbur, and I’ve got Tech… I’ve got Ranboo and Niki, and Tommy. No, not…I don’t…” he protests.

“Tommy? Wilbur? Technoblade? You think Technoblade is better than me ? The people who destroyed your country ? Some fucking family you got there. You know what? Fine. Fine! They’re going to be in here with you anyway. I don’t fucking care. We’re going to be one big happy family whether you like it or not.”

“You’re not my fucking family!” Tubbo screams.

“And you are a child!” Dream roars.

“You’re a little boy playing dress up! Do you think you can fill Wilbur’s shoes? You can barely even measure up to Schlatt! At least Schlatt did something. What have you done with your presidency, Tubbo? What have you done ?”

Tubbo finds himself cowering on the floor as Dream's figure looms above him, face pressed against the bars, jeering.

“Answer me, Tubbo. What have you done ? What have you fucking done?!”

Tubbo sobs.

“I’ll tell you what you’ve done,” he continues.

“You’ve exiled your best friend. You’ve surrounded yourself with a so-called cabinet full of people more kniving and ambitious than you. They think you’re an idiot, no, they know you’re an idiot. You weren’t the first choice, you weren’t even the second.”

Silence reigns once again as Dream walks back to the crafting bench. Tubbo manages to haul himself into the bed, trembling the whole time. He only looks up when the iron door swings open and a shadow is cast over him.

“Hey.”

He’s calm again. He’s kind and gentle and nice again as he holds out a wooden box like it’s a peace offering.

It’s a bee hive.

“I know I broke your first one and killed all your bees but I really didn’t mean to.” he sounds apologetic, as close to a ‘sorry’ as Dream can get. When Tubbo doesn’t take the box, he sets it down on the beds edge and then clambers on as well, sitting next to him.

“I didn’t mean to raise my voice either. I was just,” he gestures vaguely “,frustrated.”

He smiles when Tubbo picks up the bee hive and fidgets with it, looking everywhere except for Dream's face.

“There we go! I hope you like it. I’ll pick up some bee’s for you later today or tomorrow, yeah ?”

“Yeah.”

Dream laughs, pulling the teen into a quick side hug.

“It’s gonna be okay.” He reassures.

“Everything’s gonna be okay.”

#mcyt #dreamsmp #dreamwastaken #tubbo #seth don’t look #wilbursoot #tommyinnit #georgenotfound #badboyhalo #jschaltt #technoblade

41 notes · View notes

someonefantastic · 4 years ago

Text

I Did Not See That Coming

Truth be told, I never though I would actually do something with this concept. Originally when I got the idea, it was just an angsty au that I told to the psych discord and had no plans of actually writing. But this prompt/subprompts fit so well that I couldn't resist. Summary: Juliet is on her way to save Shawn from Carp... and himself. But when she arrives on the scene, what she finds is much worse than anything she imagined. Warnings: death (none of the main cast dw), blood, gunshot wound also on ao3 ___ She rounded the corner, gun held steady, eyes darting around the room. Her hands trembled and she took a deep breath, trying to calm them. Backup was right behind her, she wasn’t going in completely alone.

Shawn would be okay.

She mentally cursed her boyfriend. She knew how angry he was about his dad being shot and how badly he wanted to take down Carp but going after him alone was a bad idea. Carp was an arms dealer with lots of bodyguards and Shawn, even though he had rather impressive psychic abilities, was still just a man. She just hopped his abilities would be enough until they got there.

She motioned to the officers behind her, a silent bid for them to follow her into the next room. Shawn had to be around somewhere. Not only had she seen him looking up the house’s location on her computer, but there had also been reports of an explosion and a man in black sneaking onto the property. The whole thing screamed “Shawn Spencer.”

“Clear.” One of the officers to her right called and she nodded, beckoning them forward still.

There was some shuffling and a few indistinguishable words from the next room. Gun cocked, she rushed towards the sound, eyes sharp. With a deep breath, she turned the corner, almost dropping her gun as she did.

Dead bodies were strewn about. Carp, Drake, and the FBI agent, blood dripping from misshapen holes in their chests. Standing in the middle of them was Shawn, holding a bloody gun, crimson staining his pants and hands.

She could feel the air slip out of her lungs, her voice coming out barely above a whisper, “Shawn.”

His eyes were wide, “Jules, I swear this isn’t what this looks like. They were dead when I got here.”

Swallowing roughly, her eyes darted from the bodies to his face. She wanted to believe him, wanted him to just explain all of this away but... he was standing in the middle of three dead people, blood on his hands and a weapon on him.

She shook her head, wishing the violent churning in her stomach would go away. “I’m sorry Shawn.” She hated how weak her voice sounded, “I need to take you down to the station.”

“Okay, yeah. I understand. That’s fine, we’ll get this all cleared up.” She moved behind him and he jerked his head around, “Uh, Jules, what are you doing?”

The lump in her throat refused to go away.

“Shawn Spencer. You are under arrest for the murder of Jerry Carp, Julian Drake, and a Federal Agent.” She pulled his arms behind him, snapping cuffs around his wrists. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law…”

As she spoke he protested, moving against her. “Jules, sweetheart, please. I didn’t do it! Please, you have to believe me!”

She stopped and stared into his eyes, tears swimming in her own. She hoped with her look that she could convey everything; that she did believe him, but she had to do her job, that she was sorry, and most importantly… that she loved him. ___

She stood behind the one-way glass, watching Shawn in the interrogation room. He sat, head in his hands as the Chief questioned him from her place across the table.

“Mr Spencer, you have to admit that the evidence here isn’t stacking in your favor. You were found with the victim's blood on you and a murder weapon in your hand, not to mention you have a personal vendetta with the victim.” She folded her hands before her. “Now we’re running tests on the weapon but if we get a match, I’m afraid it doesn’t look good for you.” Leaning forward, her eyes narrowed. “So, do you want to tell us what the hell happened?”

Shawn frowned, eyes distraught, the look almost unnatural for his usually cheery expression. “I promise I didn’t kill him. I only went to see Carp, to take him in, but when I got there, they were all already dead.” He then gestured to his pants which were marked with crimson, “I got their blood on me because I was checking their pulse and seeing if I could revive them. I found the gun outside and picked it up for extra protection just in case.”

“And how did you find Carp’s location? That was top-secret government information.”

He shrugged, “I had a vision.”

Juliet didn’t hear anything else after that. Her mind raced, trying to comprehend what had happened. She felt like she’d been shot in the chest. Numbness spread throughout her body as she stared at her boyfriend. She couldn’t even understand what was currently going on. All she could see was his face, his face so earnest and innocent.

Stomach twisting, she fought back bile. She had been worried about him. Worried for his safety, for their future. But the worry had long faded and now she only felt anger and betrayal..

The rational side of her brain kicked in and she knew she needed to talk to him. Jumping to conclusions and not communicating was often the end of all good relationships. She was better than that. She didn’t want what they had to end, they had worked so hard and taken so long to get where they were. After everything they had been through there was no way he had lied for their entire relationship. All she needed was a minute alone with him and he would clear everything up… she trusted that he would.

But the fear and doubt and anger remained present all throughout the interrogation. She stood quietly off to the side as ballistics came back with the report that the bullets did indeed match Shawn’s gun and that only his fingerprints were on the weapon. When they pulled footage off the security tapes it was revealed that Shawn had been the only one around at the estimated time of death.

She didn’t say anything when Carlton was placed on temporary suspension so they could investigate his involvement with Shawn- after all, he did supply him with the weapons and transportation. She couldn’t even bring herself to comfort Gus as he watched his best friend be hauled off to the holding cells to await transfer to a prison.

The world didn’t feel real. It was as if someone had thrown her into a whole new dimension and she was living a life that wasn’t supposed to be hers. She just wanted to go home and cuddle up with Shawn but he was behind bars and she needed answers.

She waited until it was just the two of them, not wanting to display her personal life to anyone else. In a perfect world, they would have this conversation somewhere less public- actually they wouldn’t be having this conversation at all. But it wasn’t a perfect world, far from it, and her anger drove her to not wait any longer.

Shawn was slouching against the bars as she walked up, the metal pressing into his forehead. When he saw her, his head jerked up, eyes hopeful and bright. “Jules! Oh, honey, I’m so glad you're here! This is not exactly how I saw this night going,” He laughed, the sound flat. “I was picturing more Carp getting arrested and we celebrate over dinner.” After glancing around his cell, he looked back at her, “I guess we could still have dinner but it's kind of an awkward space and there’s not much to celebrate-”

She held up a hand, silencing him. “Shawn, I need to ask you something.” He nodded mutely and she shifted her feet. “This could just be me… overthinking things, but... you wouldn’t lie to me, right?”

His eyebrows furrowed, “Sweetheart, what are you talking about? Of course, I wouldn’t lie, especially about this. I swear I didn’t murder anyone.”

Her heart beat furiously as she nodded. “I know, I know and I wouldn’t usually have doubts like this but,” She swallowed heavily, “the FBI, they had all of their papers all over Vick’s desk. Couldn’t you have seen the file on Carp and figured out where he lived?”

“Uh, yeah… I-I guess.” His eyes darted across her face, searching for something that she didn’t know she could provide.

“I’m sure there’s an explanation for this and I don’t mean to stir up trouble but, I know I won’t be able to stop thinking about this until I know-” She took a deep breath, trying to calm the flurry of words that were spewing from her mouth, “You told Vick that you had a vision of where Carp lived, but I saw you looking up his address on my computer so you knew he lived there. You already had his address from the FBI… didn’t you?”

He turned his head, staring out the open door to the holding cells, a faraway look in his eyes. Her hands were shaking and she folded her arms to try and calm them. Every second he didn’t answer her, her heartbeat grew louder and louder in her ears, anger stirring in her chest- its fire threatened to consume her.

“Shawn, are you listening to me?” She practically yelled, her voice cracking with emotion.

He whipped his head back towards her, face determined. “Falling in love with you was never part of the plan, okay? This all started because I had no other choice, a sort of self-preservation.” A small smile pulled at his lips, “And it was amazing. I finally found something I’m good at- This is how I do good and I’m good at what I do.” His smile broke into a grin and he motioned around them, “Look at this, look at everything that’s happened. Hundreds of bad guys have been put in jail, most of them murderers, because of this. Isn’t that a good thing?”

She took a small step back, stomach churning. Eyes wide, she bit her lip, her hands falling to her sides grasping for something, anything to keep her from falling over. Her whole world was crashing down around her. Everything she knew about the man she loved had been a lie and he dared to call it a good thing? She couldn’t breathe, it felt like someone had ripped the air out of her lungs, taking her heart along with it- and in a way, he did.

“What are you talking about?” She spat out, eyes brimming with tears. His face fell, eyes going wide and mouth hanging open, but he gave no response. “Are you telling me this is all a lie?” Her chest burned while the rest of her body went numb. She couldn’t believe this. They had known each other for almost seven years, dated for one and a half, and never once had he told her the truth.

“Please…” His voice was barely above a whisper, “Please don’t make me answer that.”

“Oh my god.” Seven years. She should have known, should have figured it out sooner. But she had allowed herself to be swept up by his charm and his humor, his good looks and his caring heart. The way he hid what she thought was his true self behind a playful facade... she should have known that every facade has layers. “Oh my god, I feel so stupid.”

“No, sweetheart,” She cringed at the pet name and his shoulders dropped, staring hopelessly at her, “no, this is all me.”

A tear rolled down her cheek and she hastily wiped it away. He didn’t deserve to see her cry, to know just how badly he hurt her. “You’re right, Shawn,” She hated how her voice shook as she spoke, “This is all me. You’re on your own.”

The pain in her chest doubled as she turned on her heel, fleeing from the room. It hurt so badly, the pain so unbearable that she couldn’t even cry until hours later. She simply went home and stared at the wall for what seemed like ages.

No tears.

No words.

No anger.

She just felt numb.

#whumptober2020 #no. 17 #i did not see that coming #dirty secret #wrongfully accused #psych #shawn spencer #juliet o'hara #shules #fanfic #blood tw #minor #character death tw #gun tw #gunshot wound tw #angst #psych fanfic #skipps writes

4 notes · View notes

fangirlinglikeabus · 5 years ago

Text

RIGHT the other dw book i read was festival of death (4 + romana ii)

"Obviously that wasn't completely perfect," said the Doctor, wafting his floppy brown hat over the smoking console.

yeah that's just life buddy

"Normally, when I arrive somewhere, people point guns at me and throw me in prison. Within about twenty-four and a half minutes of arriving, usually."

dr who experiences cliffhangers in real time: confirmed

Romana pulled herself upright. Her arms and legs were bruised but, with the Doctor's driving, she'd got used to that.

always here for dragging the doctor

The Doctor grinned. "I promise I shall resist the temptation of conversing with the greatest intellect on the G-Lock." "You already are," smirked Romana.

despite what either of them may claim, here you'll find we have two idiots

ERIC broke down into electronic hysterics.

aw buddy :( i genuinely feel sorry for this computer system like he was just trying His Best and the original captain of the ship blamed him for an entire disaster which resulted in hundreds of people dying even tho it wasn't eric's fault in the first place and actually he was trying to warn everyone...

"I'm looking for a friend of mine, Romana...about so high, charming girl, has a habit of running into dreadful trouble and then sorting it out."

the dr filling out a 'requirements' list when looking for a new companion:

She smiled, and flicked away an idle hair. "Do you have a problem with your throat, or are you just pleased to see me?" "I am so terribly pleased to see you."

this is really cute, actually...love that good good ‘doctor expressing genuine affection for their companions’ content

"Romana," shouted the Doctor. "Now comes the difficult bit." “The. Difficult. Bit?" "ERIC, reverse gravity 180 degrees!" "What?" screamed Romana. "No -!"

i find this entire exchange UNREASONABLY funny

Just as Romana was about to press the switch, the Doctor reached out a trembling hand. "Kismet, Romana." "What?" said Romana incredulously. "You want me to kiss you?" That was it. That was the final straw. She flicked the switch. The Doctor's chest fell, and he wheezed out his final breath.

i remember seeing this quote years ago on tumblr when i was first getting into old who and tbh...still a classic

The Doctor trudged through the grey quarry. The incessant rain spattered into deep puddles. "You know, for a pocket dimension, this isn't very impressive," said the Doctor. "Are you doing it on the cheap?"

with every joke the dweu makes about dr who budgets i grow stronger

also i didn't have any quotes that mentioned this but there's a side character called hoopy and he's like. a surfer dude lizard alien and therefore also the best character.

#laura reads dw books #really liked this one! it's got a Good Team and all the nonsense time travel stuff actually works out at the end!#hooray for that

1 note · View note

stories-you-wont-hear · 6 years ago

Text

– due process. pt 11

hallelujah! i sat myself down and made myself finish this part bc i could not seem to do it! honestly, that stems from me not wanting to write the ending i ORIGINALLY wanted. if y’all wanna know what i originally had planned, feel free to ask but also know that i’m a wimp that gets attached to my characters and can’t fathom anything bad happened to them (dw no one was gonna die!) hopefully this isn’t too confusing?? the next part will be the last! xoxo mira

“For the last time,” Natalie began again, her shoulders hunched over as she stared down Ben across the metal table, “This is the best deal you’re going to get.” Ben said nothing at first, only looked over to you before looking back at the prosecutor, “I don’t want it. I didn’t kill her.” “I’m not going to make him take a deal in the interest of bumping your closing rate,” you added, mirroring the prosecutor’s aggressive stance. “And why haven’t you arrested Andrew Bennett? He literally admitted to raping Amanda Taylor, he probably killed her, too!” you said, your brow knitted together in frustration. “You know it’s not that easy,” Natalie replied, sitting back against her chair. “You mean because his dad’s got money, don’t you, Ms. Ross?” Ben said suddenly, surprising you with his tone. Ordinarily, even under the stress of the trial, Ben never rose his voice, not like this. “It’s complicated,” Natalie said evenly, but she didn’t meet Ben’s intense gaze, and instead began to address you, “Y/N, I’m trying to help Benjamin. Help me help him.” You slowly shook your head, Ben’s words and the overall unfairness of the situation having worn you down.

You had expected Andrew to be arrested right there and then after his spontaneous admission in court, but that day was a mess. The galley had burst into a commotion, the Bennett family lawyer, your old boss, having jumped to Andrew’s defense, while the judged demanded for the room to settle down. You could barely keep your focus on one thing as the judge dismissed the court for the day, Andrew’s explosive testimony having disrupted the flow of the case. They took Ben back and you found your way towards Matt as you headed out of the courtroom, Natalie having been caught in a heated discussion with Richard Wesley. “What do I do, Matt?” you said, turning to him once the two of you found a quiet corner of the courthouse. He sighed, leaning his back against the wall as he stood next to you, “You keep fighting.” You shook your head, tears brimming your eyes as you leaned your head against his shoulder, “I’m tired. I’m so tired.” “I know, I know,” he murmured into your hair, pulling his arm over your shoulder to comfort you. The two of you stood there for a while, for a minute or maybe five, until you heard someone coming down the hall, prompting you to pull away. You pressed at your cheeks, pushing the wet remnants of tears away from your face before looking back up a Matt, willing yourself not to cry.

“How could I have defended someone like that? I knew he did it, he never said he did, but I knew it, in my heart, I knew he had done it, and Matty, I did nothing!” you started babbling, forgetting where you were until Matt shushed you. “Y/N,” he said in a low voice, his hands reaching towards your shoulders to steady you, “You are not a bad person. He is.” You nodded, trying to hold the thought in your head long enough that you even believed it for a second. “You fix this by helping Ben, he’s a good kid, and you are going to save him.” You nodded, finding these words more comforting than what Matt has said before about you being a good person. “I am going to save him,” you murmured, and Matt nodded, his hands squeezing your arms in reassurance.

You reeled yourself back in from that afternoon, focusing instead on the cold metal table you were resting your hands on, Ben beside you and prosecutor Natalie Ross in front of you, not Matthew Murdock. “I am helping him,” you replied, “It’s my job, not yours. Don’t worry, Ben.” Ben nodded from beside you, his shoulders relaxing. Each day he was held in prison seemed to age him, and there was nothing fair about another young black boy in prison, and this time you felt adrenaline when you made the promise to Ben, you were certain you were going to save him. “Thank you, Ms. Y/L/N.” You nodded, and even though his eyes were ringed with dark circles and his cheeks had lost volume, you could see he still had hope. And so did you.

When you arrived back at your building after having the meeting with the prosecutor and Ben, you were surprised to find who was waiting for you on the steps. “Malcolm!” you exclaimed, slowly walking towards your old boss. He seemed different, or perhaps it was the fact that it had been months since you had last seen him, since he had shown up at your building after you had quit the firm. “Y/N,” he replied in acknowledgment, standing up. “What’s going on?” you asked after the two of you stood there in silence. “Ah, well…” he said slowly, looking confused as if he hadn’t expected to find you here, even though it was your building. “I’m sorry, Y/N,” he said suddenly, drawing you from your thoughts, “I’m sorry that you had to spend years of your career doing this kind of work.” You cleared your throat, unsure of how to feel of the man before you, someone you weren’t particularly close with, whose professional relationship you had ended in the midst of your own personal moral predicament. “I knew what I was doing,” you replied, and although it hurt you to concede to your own willingness in it, the fact was that you hadn’t cared at the time, but you had grown since then. “I know,” Malcolm said, “And so did I, but we still did it.” “We did,” you agreed, your shoulders dropping as if a weight had been lifted. “I knew he was guilty,” you said, “and so did you.” Malcolm didn’t say anything, you knew he was bound in the same way you were, but he did nod. “We have done bad things, we have defended bad people, Malcolm,” you said, reaching your arm up to rest on his just for a second, “But we are not bad people.” This time you believed it. Malcolm didn’t reply, but he didn’t push your hand away or disagree either, instead he looked past you, prompting you to turn your head.

There was Matt, walking up the sidewalk towards your building, and you turned your head back to Malcolm, who was already stepping back onto the sidewalk. He gave you a little wave and a simple, “Goodbye.” And then he was off. “Y/N?” Matt’s voice called, and although you had seen him coming, you were startled, having been caught in the confusion of Malcolm Randall having shown up at your stoop and suddenly leaving. “I think I’m dreaming, Matt,” you said, still stealing glances back in the direction Malcolm had headed off to. “Do most of your dreams start off with with saying your name?” Matt laughed. You gave him a mock bout of laughter before gently pushing at his arm, “How cheeky, Matthew.” “What can I say? The ladies love it,” Matt affirmed, pulling you in by the waist towards him. It was 5:26PM and the sun was setting in Manhattan when Matt Murdock kissed you in front of your building three months and six days after he had kissed you for the first time in almost the same spot. This time when you pulled away from each other, Matt’s fingers tangled in your hair, your forehead resting against his, the words simply slipped from your mouth, “I love you.” His face broke into a smile, and you felt your heart swell, and in that moment, you felt so full, so complete. “I love you, too,” he replied back softly before pulling you back into him.

You and Matt spent the next couple of hours tangled up in each other, and the high from spending the night together carried over into the next morning even upon finding yourself alone in your bed in the morning. You felt confident, standing before the judge with Ben next to you at the table. As proceedings began for the day, the judge cleared his throat before beginning, “In light of Andrew Bennett’s testimony, I would like to remind the jury that Benjamin Harris here is on trial for murder. While Mr. Bennett’s outburst was certainly outrageous and confusing, it is the job of the police to investigate what he said, and it is your job to determine guilt in the case of Mr. Harris here. Is that understood?” The jury nodded solemnly, and part of you wondered why the prosecutor hadn’t argued for a mistrial or even to strike his testimony from the record. And then you realized that she wanted it on record. She wanted Andrew Bennett on record saying he raped Amanda Taylor, even if it hurt her case against Ben. That’s why she was gunning so hard for Ben to make a deal! You started to stand up, willing to take your chances on asking for the judge to dismiss now that you knew the prosecutor’s intentions. Natalie Ross was a great prosecutor but her vice was that she was greedy, she wanted to nail both Andrew and Ben.

Before you could say anything, Natalie was already up at the table next to you, calling to the judge, “You Honor?” “Yes, Ms. Ross?” the judge replied, eyeing the prosecutor. “The People would like to dismiss the case against Benjamin Harris,” she said, uncharacteristically quietly. “What?” you cried, your hand immediately going to Ben’s shoulder. “On what grounds, Ms. Ross?” the judge asked, his gaze traveling from the prosecutor to you. “The police have found the actual killer. He made a full confession early this morning,” she said, moving towards where the judge was seated, placing a file in front of him. Just less than a day ago, Natalie Ross had wanted Ben to go away for the same murder some had just confessed to? “I see,” the judge said, once again looking over the courtroom, in which the tension was so high you bet that half of the people in it were holding their breath. “This court dismisses the sole charge of murder in the first degree against Benjamin Harris. On behalf of this court, you have my apologies,” and with the bang of his gavel, it was over.

“That’s it?” Ben asked, looking up at you with a look of disbelief. “That’s it,” you said, as the commotion around you rose. These last few days in court had been eventful, and as much as you loved helping Ben, you weren’t sure if your heart was made for this kind of stress. Ben’s mom moved to hug her little boy, pulling you in as well while profusely thanking you. You gladly reciprocated the hug for a minute before pulling away to find Natalie making her way out of the courtroom. “Natalie!” you called, catching her just out the door. She stopped, and the expression on her face was almost apologetic, “I was just doing my job.” You took in a deep breath, trying to see it from her perspective, “I know, but you almost just put an innocent boy in prison. His life will never be the same.” She nodded, “It won’t be. But my job is to fight for the victim. Amanda Taylor is dead and it is my job to find her justice.” She was right. It had been your job to defend Ben, just as it had been to defend Andrew Bennett before, and Natalie had just been doing her job. “I-” you started, before being cut off by someone calling for the prosecutor. You looked past her shoulder, the familiar face catching your attention. “I have to go,” Natalie said, and you nodded as you watched her walk off with Malcom Randall.

“Y/N,” Matt’s voice called, and you waved at him before catching yourself and reminding yourself that the act was meaningless to him. “Why weren’t you here today, Matt?” you said, just now noticing that Matt hadn’t come to court. In fact, he hadn’t even been there in the morning. You knew what he did at night, but it still didn’t diminish the disappointment of not having him there to support you in court or in your arms in the morning. “I was-” he started before you cut him off, “Matty, they dismissed the charges against Ben. He’s free to go, they found who really killed her.” He smiled, and you noticed the cut on his lip and that led your eyes to the small bruise forming on his cheek, your hands immediately moving to his face to examine the injury. “I know,” Matt said, but you were too distracted with his injuries to remember what you had been saying, “Y/N, I-” It was an odd sort of day because you were getting all your conversations cut off before you could say anything of value, and this time it was Ben’s mom calling for you. “Matt,” you said, your attention caught between Ben’s mom and Matt standing before you. “I’ll talk to you soon,” you said, turning to talk with Ben’s mom, explaining to her the steps you’d take now, assuring her that she could take her boy home soon.

The walk out the courthouse steps was a good one this time, Ben’s mom holding her head high next to you on one side, and Matt right behind you as reporters rushed to you. “Ms. Y/N, what is next for your client now that the charges have been dismissed against him?” one reporter said. “A return to normalcy,” you said, “All he wants is for life to go back to normal, but after this, I’m not sure if he can.” You spoke the truth, your worry for Ben was a concern, but you hoped that with your assistance, and Matt’s presence in his life, he might be able to return to something close to normal. You were geared up for more questions, but the attention of the crowd quickly turned to the prosecutor who was just leaving the courthouse. “Ms. Ross,” one reporter called out, “What can you tell us about Amanda Taylor’s killer?” “He’s a member of a gang, and the murder weapon was found with his fingerprints on it, so we have no doubt about his guilt,” she said, her gaze meeting yours. “God bless her soul,” Ben’s mom said from beside you. “Amanda?” you asked softly, walking down the steps, your hand in Matt’s to guide him. “I know my boy didn’t hurt her, but that doesn’t mean what happened to that poor girl is right. Bless her family and may they find peace,” she replied, casting a solemn look over you and Matt. You nodded in agreement and Matt patted her shoulder, “Don’t worry. The piece of garbage that did that to her is going away for a long time.” “Thank you both,” she said, blinking back tears, “For everything you have done for my boy.” You couldn’t help but reach forward to hug the woman, and she reciprocated, patting your back gently before pulling back, “Take care now.”

Once Ben’s mom had walked off, you turned to Matt, assessing the bruise blooming across his cheek before asking him, “It was you, wasn’t it?” “What?” he asked, feigning ignorance. “The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen,” you said quietly, still holding onto Matt’s hand, “You found him, didn’t you?” Matt pursed his lips, but he couldn’t hide the truth from you. “I wanted to kill him, Y/N,” he said, the words slipping from his mouth like a confession at church. “But you didn’t,” you said, running your thumb over his to try and soothe him. While you couldn’t feel things the same way Matt could, you knew him. He carried guilt in his heart the way any good Catholic did. “I didn’t,” he repeated softly, squeezing your hand.

“Hey, you dropped this,” you heard from behind you. Turning to face the owner of the voice, your heart nearly stopped beating. Billy Russo stood before you, his hand holding a piece of paper. Without thinking, you took it for him and just as suddenly as he had appeared, he was gone, having disappeared in the crowd of people walking up and down the street. “Who was that?” Matt asked as you unfolded the piece of paper Billy had handed you. “Matt,” you asked, your eyes scanning the small slip over once and then another time, “How did you find the guy?” Matt shook his head, caught off guard as you had countered his question with another question, “Foggy found a file with his information in it with our stuff on the Amanda Taylor case, he’s a member of the Dogs of Hell, and I guess they hadn’t sent a copy in Braille of it because I hadn’t read that one and wait, Y/N, your heart is going crazy, are you okay? Who was that?” You shook your head, processing the information Matt had given you. “I’m fine, Matt,” you replied, “I just… I thought I knew him, but, never mind, I’m fine.” “You don’t seem fine,” he replied, but you were distracted by the note still in your hands, reading the words over and over.

Told you I had your back. All my love, B.

woo billy russo making a comeback! please leave your love and feedback and pls pls pls comment, i live for those! thanks for reading!

#stories-you-wont-hear #stories you wont hear #Matt Murdock #matt murdock fic #matt murdock imagine #billy russo x reader #reader x matt murdock #marvel daredevil fic #marvel daredevil #marvel punisher

19 notes · View notes