#((glance at medical system i hate the medical system here its so bad might as well have lit money on fire by this point😭))

[thedrotter]

a once in a lifetime miracle: oc art!! this is Shiva.

doodles from a month or so, but i cant really draw properly right now. but i wanted to do something meanwhile so i colored these :33

[whump-a-la-mode]

Villainsicle | Part 13

I know it’s been a while, and if I’m being completely honest, I really ran out of steam on this story for a while. But, we’re back! If you’re new to my blog and are interested in this story, all of the parts up to this one can be found linked in my pinned info post.

Thank you guys so much for all your support of this series so far! I hope you enjoy this part, too!

Taglist:

@whatwhumpcomments

@sola-whumping

@professional-idiocy

@trappedgoose-in-a-writblr-room

@literally-just-kirby​

@the-polari-person

@teachunks

@daydreamed-snippets-2nd-blog

@sunflower1000

@lightdrinker-blog

@regalwritten

CW//Mentions of bathing, restraints, drugs, dehumanization, conspiracies, collars, talk of diseases, talk of falling, Stockholm syndrome, affectionate caretaker, conditioned whumpee

After their bath, Villain rested.

It wasn’t exactly how Counselor had imagined the whole affair going. Villain had already spent so many days resting, laid up in that same bed, but once they were clean and settled into fresh clothes, they had requested nothing except to be able to return to sleep.

They supposed it wasn’t entirely unexpected. While the bath hadn’t exactly been physically exerting, there had been several instances during it that Villain had nearly burst out in tears. Whatever was going through their mind, it was undeniably intense-- and that wasn’t even mentioning the heavy dose of sedatives coursing through their system.

And, thus, Villain slept. They were unconscious almost immediately upon hitting the mattress.

This time, however, there was no nervous twitching to accompany their unconsciousness. Instead, for the first time, their face showed a perfectly placid expression.

Taking care not to wake the sleeping patient, Counselor draped a fleece blanket overtop of them, tucking its edges in around their shoulders. They twitched, but did not awake. A moment later, they buried their face in the fabric.

Counselor had never before imagined that Villain was even capable of existing in such a calm state. Yet, here they were, looking for all the world as though not even an earthquake could wake them up.

Their gaze flicked to the bedrails. Upon returning to their bed, Villain had not so much as seemed to note the leather-and-foam restraints hanging there.

Yet, Counselor could not draw their gaze away from them.

Villain had been staying in the base for weeks, phasing through various states of aggression and fear and sickness and, on rare occasions, hesitant happiness. But, even after all that time, no one truly knew anything about them.

At least, Counselor knew nothing about them. Based on the way Leader and Medic’s expressions twisted when the prisoner was mentioned, it was clear that the both of them knew more than they were letting on-- but neither was keen to admit as to such.

Maybe Hero had had more luck on this information gathering mission.

But how much information was there really to gather? Officially, Villain had simply appeared on stage a few months ago, alongside two unknowns. More or less, they had acted just as any other villain did.

The other villains, however, had motives. Backstories. They were following orders.

Villain... If anyone on the outside cared about them, they had yet to risk any sort of jailbreak.

There was more to this than the official story, Counselor knew that full well. How much more... as to that, they had no idea.

But they had no need to rely on second hand accounts and official reports to know what Villain was. That much was obvious. They were a villain. Whatever their backstory, whatever their past, they were dangerous.

Right?

Counselor’s gaze drifted back to those restraints. Those simple straps, dangling from a metal bedframe.

At some point, Villain may have been dangerous. But not right now. Right now, they needed help, and that was exactly what Counselor was going to give them.

And, if they wanted that plan to go anywhere, they would have to start with the doctor who harmed their own patient.

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This time, when Medic answered the knocking on their door, their glasses were on the right way around. They blinked a few times, rubbing their eyes, hardly noting as the piping hot cup of coffee was pushed into their hands.

The doctor glanced down at the beverage before looking back up to meet their visitor’s gaze.

“I thought you wanted me to sleep.”

“Well, that was before. For now, we need to talk.”

“If this is decaf again, I swear I’m going to strangle you.”

“It’s not. Though the same threat applies to you if you try to go back to the med bay.”

“I’m a doctor. In fact, I’m our only doctor.”

“I’m a doctor, too.”

“Psychology doesn’t count.”

“Fair enough.”

“If we’re done threatening each other, then, would you care to, I don’t know, tell me why you’re bothering me?”

“As I said, we need to talk.”

“Do I even need to ask what about?”

“I think you already know that. Come on. You have your coffee, so there’s no excuses.”

“You really think I’m going to be that penitent about this?”

“Maybe.”

Medic rolled their eyes, but did not protest any further as Counselor turned and walked off. The two moved to a rather isolated table, tucked away in the corner of a hallway. The cafeteria was far too crowded at the moment to host such a discussion.

On opposite sides of the table, the opposites sat. Two cups of coffee clinked down on the wooden surface.

Counselor took a sip of their drink, placing the cup back down and raising their gaze. Medic frowned, lips turning downwards even further than usual.

“What, are we planning on talking through telepathy or- Come on, Counselor, stop looking at me like that. I hate that.”

“Then are you going to say anything?”

“I can’t read your mind.”

“You said you knew what this was about.”

“Maybe.” Medic shrugged dismissively. The doctor had been horribly standoffish, ever since Villain had been captured. “Doesn’t mean I’m going to start trying to guess your thoughts.”

Counselor took another sip.

“Fine, then. I can start.” Sip. Clink. “Villain told me something very interesting, earlier.”

“You really believe them?”

“I haven’t even said it yet.”

“Then stop wasting time, maybe.”

“Villain says that you’re making them sick.”

Medic’s brows furrowed.

“That’s what they said?”

“Pretty much verbatim, yes.”

“Well.” Medic took a hesitant drink of their coffee. “I don’t know why you’re even wasting your time on a notion like that. What they are is paranoid. I don’t doubt that they think I’m making them sick. Doesn’t mean it’s true.”

“You’re saying that your patient is lying.”

“Maybe not lying. That would imply that they know what they’re saying is not true. They are sick, I will not deny that. And they are not responding to treatment. I can’t say that anything I’ve tried so far has made it any better, but it certainly hasn’t made it worse.”

“Why would they believe such a thing without reason?”

Medic exhaled.

“Because, in Villain’s mind, they do have reason. They have a child’s understanding of medicine. They are sick, and they are under my care and taking my medicines, and thus, in their mind, one of these things has caused the other.”

Counselor cast their gaze downwards, focusing on the way their milk danced its way through the black beverage before them. It was a reasonable explanation. Maybe. They may not have trusted Medic, but they trusted Medic’s abilities as a doctor.

Could Villain really be wrong?

“If they’re wrong...” Counselor began again. “Then what is making them sick? Their incident with hypothermia was weeks ago, now. It can’t still be that?”

“I doubt the two are connected. If this was all a matter of post-hypothermic reactions, then we wouldn’t be seeing these kinds of symptoms.”

“What is it, then?”

Medic bit their bottom lip.

“That’s the problem. I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? They’ve been in your care for... well over a week, now.”

“You think I don’t know that? If you haven’t noticed, I’m the world’s leading expert on Enhanced biology. Not to mention, y’know, an experienced doctor for normal humans. Whatever this is, it’s not a normal sickness. I’ve done every test I can think of.”

“And... it’s getting worse, isn’t it?”

“Not as badly as you might be fearing. Their weakness is worsening, yes, as is their general mental state. But their vitals are fine. They’re not in serious danger of anything, so long as they don’t hurt themself.”

“You think they’d do that?”

“Given just how bad their confusion has been getting? I’m already putting preventative measures in place.”

“Oh.”

Medic raised a brow.

“You thought I restrained them for no reason? I’m not Leader. There are medical regulations about this sort of thing.”

“They’ve been hurting themself?”

“Not what you may be thinking of. But with how bad their weakness has grown, they can’t exactly stand up without aid, at the current moment. Forget walking. Unfortunately, they don’t seem to have realized this.”

“They’ve fallen?”

“A few times, yes. If that is all, I was really just starting to enjoy my day off, so-”

“Wait.” Counselor shook their head. “People don’t get sick for no reason.”

“Congrats, you know a basic medical fact.”

“You know what I mean. You’re the smartest person I know. You must have, I don’t know, a theory? A hypothesis? Anything?”

Medic blinked, placing down their cup.

“I do. Though right now, I have no way of proving it.”

“What is it?”

“Villain has what we call... psionic powers. Powers that affect only a person’s brain, but not their physical body. It’s the rarest type of power, oftentimes because something you can’t see is often something you can’t detect. Thus, this group of powers is poorly understood, to say the least. But I’m sure you know what power fatigue looks like for other Enhanced.”

“Like when Hero broke their leg?” Counselor guessed.

“Yes. The simple act of overexerting ones powers, even without outside injury, can cause physical injuries like that to develop.”

“You think Villain’s having power fatigue?”

“It’s my best guess. It would check all the boxes. An undetectable illness affecting the brain, but nothing else. A never before seen condition.”

“But... is it something you can cure?”

“I can’t cure tiredness.” Medic shook their head. “That’s really not how it works. I can do my best to counteract the symptoms, but so long as the source is still there, I’d be fighting uphill.”

“Then what can you do?”

“I can remove the source.” The tiniest smirk crept onto the doctor’s countenance. “Power fatigue is caused not by using ones powers, but using them in a way that the body cannot handle. At least, as far as we can tell. If Villain can control their powers enough, their symptoms should go away.”

“You really think so?”

“I hesitate to guarantee anything. Not with how poorly understood the condition is.” That smirk fell, replaced by Medic’s resting expression of annoyance. “But training them to use their powers properly is the only way I can see them getting any better.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure. I’m also sure that I would really like to go back to my quarters. If you’re done bothering me?”

Counselor bit their tongue.

“Fine.”

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Counselor had momentarily considered returning to their own quarters, but had quickly decided against it, instead turning to the kitchen. They had yet to eat that morning, as had Villain. They figured that a warm meal might help them shake off the sedatives.

And, maybe, some food would make Counselor’s own stomach stop twisting.

They only made it halfway to the kitchen, however, when in the hallway, they nearly slammed into Hero. The two both yelped, and a slosh of Counselor’s coffee slopped to the floor.

“Shit, sorry, are you okay?” Hero asked. There was considerable nerve in their voice.

Counselor nodded. “You just started me, ‘s all.” They glanced down at the spilling coffee now sitting on the tile floor. “I’ll, uh, get that later. I was just heading to the kitchen.”

“Oh. Um, could it wait?”

“I need to bring Villain something to eat.”

“Can it wait?”

“What-”

Counselor’s gaze drifted to Hero’s twitching hand.

“You have something?”

“Mhm. I don’t think it’s going to take very long.”

“Can I see?”

“Not here. Not with everyone else around.”

Counselor raised their brows quizzically, but nodded.

“To your quarters, then?”

“I guess that’s as good of a place as any.”

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As soon as Counselor was out of sight, Medic changed their trajectory.

The musty air that filled their lab acted on them like a drug, sending a calm shiver down their spine. If they had the day off (or if they were being forced to take it off), there was no way they were going to spend that precious little free time moping in their quarters. Not when they could be here.

They sat, the memory foam of their desk chair still molded to their form. The laptop before them booted up with a familiar chirp and bright pink screensaver, written upon in white text:

“Property of Organization. Unauthorized Use Is Unlawful.” 

The grainy selection of videos blinked before them, and they selected the next one in the series. Even if they didn’t have access to their Asset at the current moment, they could at the very least work ahead.

The screen fizzled to life in all its low-definition glory, displaying a familiar room, its walls plastered with protective black rubber, and its tile floor made of the same material.

The presenter wore a bandage on their face, covering the side of their jaw. The gauze warped as they smiled, but they seemed to make no note of it.

Beside them, the presenter’s own Asset stood. The muzzle around their face had been modified, its metal warped as to compress its wearer’s jaw, to the point that even breathing was an impossibility.

Extreme, perhaps, but based on the Asset’s behavior, it was warranted.

Though their movements were weak and unbalanced, they were persistent, not ceasing yanking against their leash for the slightest moment. This time, unlike before, the presenter seemed to be paying attention to them, though they did not seem worried.

“It has been some time since we last spoke.” They began. “I apologize for the delay, but, hopefully, it will not happen again. After all, training our Assets is a full time job.”

A smile. Cheerful, stretching their cheeks.

“Unfortunately, I must report that the recent delay we experienced was as a result of my own Asset lashing out. This was unfortunate, but it made me realize that there is a flaw in my training methods. A flaw I seek to instruct you, today, on how to remedy.

One advantage we trainers have is that we have 24/7 access to our Assets. As we take care of them, we can choose to meet their needs in whatever way we see fit.

Deprivation has always been a part of Asset training, since we pioneered our methods. But it was something I, unfortunately and unwisely, neglected. And I have done you all a disservice by not mentioning it to you.

In order for training to truly take effect, there must be room in an Asset’s mind for it to fit. A reason for them to follow. Fear, certainly, is this reason, but there are other aspects to control.

Following my Asset’s incident, we have been working using these methods of deprivation. Depriving your Asset of things such as nutrients, water, and sleep can significantly speed up and solidify your training. In this lesson, we will go over this, and how it can help you improve your training methods.”

The presenter’s smile was matched by their Asset’s wicked snarl. From the corners of their mouth, licks of flame emerged, just for the slightest moment.

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Hero handled the flash drive as though it were a bomb.

Perhaps it was, if the writing on the device was at all to be believed. Scrawled on in sharpie, a hastily written yet well received warning.

“Property of Organization. Unauthorized Use Is Unlawful.” 

As if Organization cared about the law.

Hero seated themself in their office chair, leaving Counselor to sit a few feet back, on their bed. They almost flinched, plugging the flashdrive into their laptop.

For a moment, the computer hummed, before it reported chipperly that new files had been added.

“Uh, Hero?”

“Yeah?”

“Where did you get this thing?”

“Leader gave it to me.”

“Did they say what it was.”

Hero shook their head. “That’s what we’re about to find out.”

Still moving terribly nervously, Hero opened the folder that the computer had created for these ‘new files.’

“It’s... videos.”

“Videos?”

“A couple of them, yeah.”

“Should we... play them?”

“I don’t- I don’t know. I mean, if Organization is involved, I’m not sure I want to know what’s on them.”

“It could help Villain.”

Hero sighed, dipping their head.

“I hate when you’re right.”

With deft fingers, they selected the first video.

It had been so long, since any of them had seen Traitor. More than that, it had been so long since any of them had seen Traitor smile.

And yet, that was what they were doing. Grinning, ear to ear, eyes locked upon the camera.

“Hello, everyone, and welcome to the second edition of the Asset Training Video Course. If you are confused, the first edition of this series was, unfortunately, cut short due to... an incident. We will all miss our last presenter, but that does not mean that our duties can be shirked.”

Traitor turned, looking offscreen, calling:

“Veni huc.”

The language the words were in was clearly not English, but the person who moved on-screen did not seem concerned by that fact.

Villain smiled as well, though their warm gaze had an inquisitive quality to it as they regarded the camera. A chain-link collar was arranged about their neck, but it was attached to nothing, and seemed to more or less hang limply.

“For this series, I will be demonstrating all you need to know about Asset training. This, here, is my own Asset, Cadet. As you can tell, they are very well trained, if I do say so myself. They will be helping me show you how to train your own assigned Asset.”

Traitor’s hand reached for Villain, who did not flinch a moment. Their hand ruffled Villain’s hair affectionately.

Villain smiled, and leaned into the touch.

[danny-chase]

Delirium - read on AO3

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Batman (Comics), Titans (Comics), Batman and Robin (Comics) Rating: Not Rated Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Tim Drake & Damian Wayne & Dick Grayson, Roy Harper & Lian Harper, Lian Harper & Dick Grayson, Lian Harper & Damian Wayne, Dick Grayson & Roy Harper, Tim Drake & Roy Harper Characters: Tim Drake, Damian Wayne, Dick Grayson, Roy Harper, Lian Harper Additional Tags: Hopsitals, delirious, Anxiety, Panic, POV Tim Drake, Canon Divergence, Good Sibling Tim Drake, Damian Wayne is Bad at Feelings, Tim Drake is Bad at Feelings, Hurt Dick Grayson, Dick Grayson is Batman, Tim Drake is Red Robin, Damian Wayne is Robin, Lian never died, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Dick Grayson gets a forehead kiss, Batfamily (DCU) Feels, Batfamily Dynamics (DCU), Caring Batfamily (DCU), fluff at the end, Teen Titans as Family, Tim Drake emotional whump, Damian Wayne emotional whump, Lian Harper is a ray of stubborn sunshine on a cloudy day, gunshot wound, Head Wound, Coloring Books Series: Part 4 of Bad Things Happen Bingo Summary:

The one where Tim has to be the oldest for like five minutes and decides he doesn't like it (but does a good job anyways).

Full story under cut

“Alvin? Alvin… Draper?” A nurse called from across the room. Tim pulled his head out of his hands, careful not to jostle his fake moustache. “This way please.” She intoned, waving a hand towards a bustling hallway.

Damian nearly leapt out of the stiff plastic chair, and he slowly followed suit, trying to act causal. He doubted he was fooling anyone; his legs shook as he walked forward, and he was pretty sure he left a ring of butt sweat on his seat. Taking deep breaths to calm his fraying nerves, he concentrated on taking steady steps forward – he didn’t care much for Damian, but there was no way he’d let a child go through this sort of thing alone. Especially one who probably had never visited someone in the hospital (let alone been in one) before.

 He’d gotten a panicked call from Barbara a few days ago. Gotham in ruins, streets in chaos… the usual. Bruce was gone. He couldn’t miraculously pull them out of these things anymore. The first Batman was dead, and this time… they could lose the second.

 “Report.” Damian demanded, his harsh tone penetrating Tim’s thoughts. He was suddenly aware of the chaos of the hallway, of people jostling them as they rushed by, a cacophony of machines squealing and loud voices, and bright lights illuminating tacky flooring. He’d fallen a pace behind and quickened his step to stand firmly next to his… little brother.

 As much he’d tried to deny it, at the end of the day, that’s what bound them. Fealty to a dead man, he’d once hoped they could be something more – but this family was ripping apart at the seams and Tim had to wonder what even kept them all here anymore.

 Though – that wasn’t hard to figure out.

 Dick was in trouble, and he came running. He’d been in trouble and Dick had come running. They were brothers in every sense of the word, without Bruce tying them together. His stomach clenched at the thought that it might all be lost to him forever, and he swallowed the bile burning at the top of his throat.

 Dick had this way of making you feel like you were the only person in the world – when you talked to him, he listened, gave advice, and would drop anything to help. He quickly crawled his way into your life, cementing you as family. Things were never perfect, and they’d had their fights, but Dick always bent first, forgiveness freely given rather than earned. Tim had needed that. And from what little time they’d spent together, he knew Damian did too.

 Panic. That was the only way to describe how he felt. He couldn’t be that for Damian – he couldn’t be Dick. He let out a shaky breath – Dick had to be fine – he couldn’t – not after Bruce – he couldn’t do this again – he was on the verge of shattering after finally picking up all the broken pieces of himself and –

 “I said, report.” Damian squeaked. He jolted back into reality, steading his breath, and replaying the last few minutes, his mind trying to catch up.

 The nurse seemed unamused, her nostrils flaring and brow tight as she glanced back. “Sorry, my brother’s a little uhh… stressed…?” He stammered, not wanting to offend Damian – or worse, start an argument in a crowded hallway. But he didn’t flinch at the comment, a testament to the seriousness of the situation they found themselves in.

 Dick was shot in the back of the head, and Tim honestly had no idea if they’d gotten him medical attention in time. He could be comatose for the rest of his life, would never breathe on his own, never talk to them again, never walk, never think, never… god… he’d never talk to Dick again, and it was all his fault for being too late, too unprepared, too much of a failure to-

 “The operation went well, we need to keep him for observation, but we’re hopeful he’ll make a full recovery in a month or two.” Tim blinked back tears as a weight lift off his shoulders, bringing a hand up, covering his eyes for just a second. He looked up to find Damian frozen; too stunned to move. He gently placed an arm around his shoulders, tugging him along so he wouldn’t be swept up in the tide. Surprisingly, that much was allowed today, the child’s thoughts were elsewhere, so Tim focused his thoughts on him.

 Damian was only ten. And he’d almost lost Dick to a fate worse than death, after seeing him shot before his eyes, helpless to stop it. They didn’t have hospitals in the League, it was kill or be killed, and then there were the pits. Had he ever watched someone recover naturally?

 “He’ll be okay.” Tim hissed, in a tone that only Damian could hear. Damian startled back into the present, glaring at him briefly, shaking off Tim’s hand, and storming after the nurse. He kept his expression carefully out of view.

 They turned into a private hospital room, pulling the door shut behind her, and winked. “Timothy Drake-Wayne and Damian Wayne, I presume.”

 He could feel the kid freeze beside him, his own heart threatening to escape his throat.

 “Oh, sorry - don’t panic, I’m with STAR Labs, we’ve worked with Richard and his team for years.” Damian huffed in annoyance. “Your identities aren’t compromised; Oracle made the arrangements for our team to take over when he arrived.” She passed her clipboard to Tim. “The walls are soundproof, you can stay as long as you want, I trust you can get out on your own, and it’s not like I’m going to stop you if you decide to stay longer than I recommend.” She sighed. “Just, don’t distress the patient, he’ll be confused when he wakes up, it’s normal. Call if you need, our monitoring systems are top notch, we’ll be watching – but not listening of course.”

 And with that, the nurse turned on her heel, exiting as fast as she’d arrived, leaving Tim opened mouthed next to a wide-eyed Damian.

 He watched as the door slowly turned on its hinges, picking up speed until it slammed shut. Almost immediately it popped back open. “If he tries to get up, don’t let him escape.” She rolled her eyes. “You human patients are always the worst.” And with that, she was gone. A few awkward, silent moments passed.

 “Are you coming, Drake?” Damian’s voice had lost its normal edge, as he determinedly stared at the windows. He couldn’t see Dick from where they stood, but he could make out the edge of the bed, a pure white sheet neatly tucked under the edge.

 He shifted, hesitantly - he always hated this part. But regardless, he took the lead, striding forward, and allowing Damian the comfort of walking in someone’s shadow. Because even if he wouldn’t say it, there was no way the kid wanted to do this alone. He couldn’t replace Dick – was thankful he didn’t have to, but this – this was the least he could do.

 Hospital beds have this way of making the people inside them seem smaller. Tim braced himself as he stepped into view, and well, it could be worse. Dick was out cold, drooling on his pillow still hooked up to a few monitors, which steadily droned and beeped in the background. A lump of gauze and bandages swathed the base of his skull.

 Damian flitted past his side to sit in the chair next to the bed, and Tim sprang into action, taking the chair next to the window. He flipped through the charts without really reading anything, and the two sat in stony silence. Pulling out his phone, he scrolled through dozens of missed calls and unanswered texts before shoving it back in his pocket.

 He spared a glance at Damian - he was curled up in the chair, grimacing and staring at the wall. He didn’t dare try saying anything more, lest they start fighting in Dick’s hospital room. He contented himself with staring out the window, watching the dawn break, violets and purples dancing across the sky. The sun rose with pinks and oranges blossoming soon after.

 Things would be okay. They had to be okay. He slowed his breathing, focusing on the sky rather than the scent of disinfectant. The steady beep of machines slowly fading into the distance. Closing his eyes, he could pretend for a moment, that this was normal. He was in a hotel, maybe on a vacation, in some city that wasn’t destroyed every few months. There had to be a place like that still out there.

 A little chickadee hopped around on the windowsill, fluttering back and forth, before flying off again. “Bye.” Tim snapped to attention, whirling around to find Dick squinting out the window. Damian sprung out of his chair. “Bruce?” He asked confusedly, frowning at Damian.

 Panic flickered across the kid’s face, and he recoiled, stepping back. “No. I’m Damian, don’t be foolish.” His voice wobbled at the end, and Tim’s heart throbbed painfully at the way Damian stiffened, meticulously shutting off any signs of vulnerability.

 “Remember what the nurse said, he’s going to be confused for a bit.” Tim reminded, striding over to sit at the edge of the bed. Dick went back to looking at the now closed window. “Dick, you with us?” He leaned into Dick’s line of sight, trying for a smile, and waited for a minute before leaning back. “I’m going to take that as a no.”

 “-tt-” Damian stepped forwards again. “Don’t bother him, Drake.” He spat.

 Tim didn’t really know what to say, so he didn’t say anything at all. Damian climbed back into his chair, tucking his legs up to sit crisscrossed, his back stiff and upright. Tim grabbed his chair, pulling it closer to the edge of the bed. He placed a hand over Dick’s, rubbing a finger over his knuckles, taking comfort in the fingers twitching slightly under his own.

 Dick was alive. He would live. Would recover. He hadn’t lost his older brother.

 “His name’s Tim.” Dick mumbled after a few minutes. Damian rolled his eyes. “Tim.” Dick repeated, his eyes glassy as they gazed through Damian’s forehead.

 “Yeah?” Tim lightly tapped Dick’s hand. He didn’t move from his focus.

 “Tim. Tim. Tim. Tim.” He continued repeating Tim’s name, staring up at the ceiling.

 “Why is he doing that?” Damian demanded, jumping out of his chair. Dick obliviously repeated the word, seemingly unaffected. “Drake, she said the operation went <em>well</em>.”

 “I dunno.” He sighed, Dick probably had no idea what was going on, nor would he remember this. “Look, he’s delirious, he’s going to be messed up for a bit. He got shot in the head.”

 “I know that. I was there. But if the operation was successful, then why-”

 The door opened, and they fell silent, footsteps approaching. Roy Harper poked around the corner; a phone pressed to his ear. “Okay, he doesn’t look too bad, all things considered. Hey, you, kid, you should actually answer your fu-fudging phone.”

 “That’s a dollar for the swear jar.” A little girl, Lian, he presumed, materialized at his side. She carried a bag with her and zoomed over to Damian. “Daddy says you like to color, so I brought crayons.” She grabbed a pack from her bag and shoved them at him. Damian looked mildly disgusted but took them anyway. “Say thank you.” Lian demanded.  

 Damian opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Tim glanced at Roy, he winked, doing his best not to laugh as he finished talking with whoever was on the phone.

 “Thank you.” Dick replied, patting Lian’s head. His eyes seemed to find hers before darting away to stare at the ceiling.

 “Not you.” She groaned. “Him.” She pointed at Damian.

 “Thank you.” He repeated. Lian cracked a smile, giggling.

 “Don’t laugh, it isn’t funny – he’s delirious.” Damian replied harshly, eyes narrowing. Lian shrugged, turning, almost sizing him up. She was only maybe an inch shorter than him, if he had to venture a guess.

 “Uncle Dick is always happier when you laugh.” She pointed out. “It’s contagious.” Sure enough, a wide looping grin had materialized on Dick’s face.

 “But we’re in a hospital.” Damian looked outraged; his hands balled in little fists.

 “Daddy says laughter is the best medicine.” She retorted, crossing her arms. Roy tossed his phone (it landed perfectly in the center of the little dresser next to the bed), and scooped up his daughter in a big hug, sweeping her off the ground.

 “Look, kid.” He looked down at Damian. “I know this is scary and it sucks, but my kid’s got a point.” He kissed the top of her head, prompting more giggles. “She’s a smart cookie, and this isn’t exactly her first rodeo.” Damian’s ears flushed, his face unchanged, but his ears beet red.

 “This is not my first rodeo, and if you were more competent, than-”

 “If Dick was a dumb-, I mean, if he was more competent, we wouldn’t be here.” Roy pointed out, speaking over Damian. Lian smacked his face lightly.

 “Daddy, that’s rude.” Roy rolled his eyes. Dick started speaking in a language Tim vaguely recognized, looking displeased at the argument.

 “Sweetie, I’m trying to make a point.” He set her down, ruffling her hair. “Why don’t you get out the coloring book and let Damian pick out a page.” Damian opened his mouth to comment, but Roy cut him off. “Look, you should see how happy Dick is when Lian gives him coloring pages. I think he’s earned one from you.” Damian closed his mouth. His brain seemingly compiling the information. “What she said isn’t wrong, he’ll recover faster if he’s happier, Timbo, you’re a bat-nerd, back me up here.”

 “Well according to a study done in-” Roy held up a hand.

 “Point made, don’t put me to sleep.” Tim rolled his eyes, remembering why he used to avoid hanging out with (some of) Dick’s friends. For now, he joined Roy in staring down Damian, Lian gazing at him too, an unlikely team up in a battle of wills.

 “Only if Drake makes one too.” Damian miraculously relented after a few minutes. Tim nodded, peace from Damian was worth doing some coloring. Dick would be incredibly happy – these pages would likely be framed; it would be worth it to see the smile on his face. It was worth it now to see Lian’s face light up, as she rushed to unpack her things.

 “Oh, and I brought Uncle Dick a stuffy.” She pulled out a stuffed elephant and placed it in the crook of his elbow. “Say thank you.” Dick replied – still not speaking anything he could place, and Lian smiled, Dick smiled back.

 “What’s he been saying?” Tim asked, looking to Roy, as Damian slid to the floor, selecting coloring pages with Lian. Roy sat on the side of the bed, carefully leaning Dick forward, to get a better look at the back of his head. He whistled, ignoring Tim for a moment.

 “You really did it to yourself this time, jeez Dickie.” He muttered to himself before turning back. “He’s speaking Navajo, he was counting to ten earlier, and he told Lian thanks.” Roy rolled his eyes. “Would you believe his pronunciation is always better when he’s like this?”

 “No, that seems on brand.” Tim mused. “Apparently my French gets exponentially better the less I’ve slept.” Roy shrugged, and turned back on Dick.

 “Quit rubbing off on the kids, you don’t want them to turn into you, yah? Bunch a’ weirdo bat-nerds.” Dick was apparently, not listening, and was more into petting the plushy.

 “Zitka.” He replied, showing it to Roy. Roy patted his shoulder.

 “Yeah buddy, I know. Isn’t she cute?” He leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to Dick’s forehead. Something seemed to click in Tim’s brain, as Dick garbled on, fascinated by the toy.

 “How many times have you done this?” He asked, watching as Roy leaned back, taking the seat next to the bed. He shrugged.

 “I stopped counting after Blood fried his brains, back when he ran around in a V-neck.” Tim cringed, that was before he even became Robin. “Don’t look like that, he didn’t die.” Not that time, or this time – but things had been too close for comfort more times than Tim wanted to think about. Roy’s fingers drummed against the armrest. “I don’t know, Garth tried out the elephant thing a while back. It keeps him happy.” He pulled a book out of Lian’s bag, starting to flip through the pages. “Take nap kid – you look deader than him. Lian and I got this covered.”

 Tim leaned back in his chair, tucking his legs up with him. He watched as Dick happily turned the toy over and over in his hands, blearily blinking at the world. Damian was quiet where he sat on the floor, inspecting each of the colors. By the time he put his first stroke to paper, Tim was already fast asleep.

[valdomarx]

Inseparably Entwined

Stargate Atlantis, McKay/Sheppard, bound together, 2k, rated M

-

Elizabeth pinches the bridge of her nose. "What did you two do now?"

"We. Uhh. We found another Ancient device."

"And, instead of cataloguing it for a hazmat team to investigate, as per protocol, you decided to play with it?"

“To investigate it,” Rodney corrects. “Like the competent professionals we are.” John punches him in the arm.

Elizabeth's lips purse into a thin line. "And then you accidentally activated it?"

John winces. "And then we accidentally activated it."

"Of course you did. And its effects are…?"

"Non lethal," Rodney says, a bit too quickly. 

Elizabeth mumbles something that might be don't bet on it under her breath. "Non lethal, but…?"

John shifts his weight and stares at a point behind her head. "McKay and I have to stay within ten feet of each other at all times or we both pass out."

For a moment there is stunned silence. Then the sound of Elizabeth's bark of laughter fills the office and spills out into the gate room.

-

Carson waves a hand. “You’re both going to be fine. It looks like the bond is only temporary.”

Rodney fidgets. “How temporary?”

“I couldn’t say. A few days, maybe a few weeks?”

“Weeks?” John chokes out. “Listen, doc, we need you to fix this -”

Carson cuts him off. “I’m sorry, son, but I’ve got more important things on my plate right now.” He looks pointedly around the infirmary which is admittedly full of marines being treated for combat injuries, Athosians coming in for checkups, and troops of medical staff organizing vaccinations for off-world groups.

John deflates. “So we’re stuck with each other?”

Carson pats him on the shoulder. “Good luck.”

Rodney looks up at that. “Hey!”

-

“Absolutely not.” John recoils in horror. “We are not sleeping in your room.”

“But all my stuff is in there.”

“Your room is disgusting. If you think I’m sleeping on the floor among half-finished bags of cheetos and bits of drones, you are sorely mistaken. It’s a wonder you haven’t attracted the Lantean equivalent of rats.”

“I’ll have you know the bags of cheetos are almost entirely finished.”

“Rodney -”

“Alright! We’ll sleep in your oh-so-tidy quarters. Military spick and span, no snacks or useful bits of machinery in sight.” Rodney rounds on him, waving a finger in his face. “But if I get an inspired idea in the middle of the night and can’t find a circuit board to test it on, know that it’s your stubbornness that is robbing humanity of another of my great concepts.”

John hides a smile. “I’ll have to find a way to live with myself.”

-

When the doors to John’s quarters slide open, Rodney’s jaw drops.

“Hey! How come you have a bigger bed than me?”

John shoots him a smug look. “I upgraded after the last attack. Benefits of command.” It was one of the very few benefits of command he was willing to take advantage of.

“Oh, that’s how it is, hmm? We’re living in a military dictatorship here, with all the best perks and boons given to the highest ranking officers? Never mind that it’s the scientists who do all the actual work, who discover new technology and solve the problems, oh no, let’s give out the biggest and comfiest beds to the military guys, as if that’s fair -”

“McKay!” he interrupts. Rodney looks like he’s having fun, gearing up for a good rant, but John honestly can’t take it right now. “Go to sleep, I’m begging you.”

Rodney huffs, clearly saving that rant away for another time. “Fine.”

-

John is woken up for the third time that night by Rodney fidgeting on the floor and sighing dramatically. 

“What is it, McKay?” His voice is testy. He doesn’t love having his sleep interrupted.

“I can’t get comfortable. A sleeping bag on the floor is bad for my back.”

John stares at the ceiling and counts to ten. He looks at the ample space next to him and calculates his best odds of getting some sleep tonight. “Come here and share the bed with me then.”

Rodney eyes his mattress dubiously. “I’ll have you know I require a very firm mattress, for spinal support, not that I’d expect you to understand -”

“For god’s sake, get in the bed. It has to be better than the floor.”

A moment’s pause. “Yeah, alright.”

It’s been a long time since John slept next to someone. His rare hookups have mostly involved sneaking out in the middle of the night, and even when he was married they slept in separate beds most of the time. 

Sleeping next to Rodney is, surprisingly, not awful though. Sure, he steals all the covers and moves around all the time and, of course, he snores, but John finds that he strangely doesn’t mind. 

-

John has seen Rodney under fire, seen him at his best, seen him happy and sad and angry and bored. But he’s never seen him first thing in the morning before.

“Whazzat?” Rodney’s eyes barely open. His expression is one of overriding confusion. “Whzz going on?”

John stifles a smile at his resident genius. He’s been up for an hour already, showered, done his laundry, and cleaned his space. He’s also decided to play nice and share his secret.

“Here,” he says, and hands a mug of freshly brewed coffee to Rodney. “Just don’t tell anyone I snuck coffee and a kettle into my personal effects, or the scientists will raid us in the middle of the night.”

“Coffee!” Rodney is still radiating confusion, but he hones in on the cup of coffee like a laser. A blissful smile passes over his face. “You brought me coffee.”

“I did.”

“You’re wonderful.” Rodney takes the coffee and cradles it like something precious and rare.

-

After a day and a half doing paperwork in the lab because they can't go off-world, John has reached the end of his rope. 

"I'm going to the gym," he snaps. "You can either come with me or we'll both end up in the infirmary when I try to go there alone."

Rodney glares and is clearly about to start arguing when Zelenka elbows him. He sighs dramatically but agrees that they can take an hour away. 

While they're both in the gym and John needs a sparring partner, he figures he might as well teach Rodney some self defense. The idea of Rodney needing to defend himself makes something unpleasant twist in his gut, but he pushes that away and argues they should make the most of this time and do something productive. To his surprise, Rodney agrees, and they run through some basic drills and defensive maneuvers. 

Rodney is bad at this, frankly. He's all elbows and poor coordination, but he's trying. 

John is feeling magnanimous, and he knows the value of a bit of positive reinforcement. So when Rodney steps forward and attempts a clumsy hip throw, he leans in and lets himself be thrown. 

Rodney looks astonished that actually worked, before delightedly pouncing on John and pinning him to the floor.

"Got you," he says, face pink and grinning wickedly. 

John's heart picks up, somehow distracted by Rodney's heavy weight on him and the sharp brightness of his smile. He swallows thickly. 

"I guess you do."

-

“Geez, Sheppard, how long does it take to have a shower?” Rodney’s voice carries through the bathroom door. “I want to run some simulations on the city’s power systems with Zelenka.”

John’s cheeks flush and he tries to tune Rodney out. “Just give me a minute, will you?”

“What are you doing in there anyway, jerking off?”

John goes very, very still.

“Oh my god, you are!”

“Shut up, McKay.”

“No, no, don’t let me stop you. You go ahead and enjoy yourself.”

“I hate you.”

“I’m not judging. It’s perfectly natural. And hey, maybe it’ll help you chill the fuck out for once.”

John scowls, gives up, and shoves his dick back in his pants. “I will kill you in your sleep.”

-

John is used to having to drag McKay around after him on missions, so in some ways their new situation isn’t entirely unfamiliar. 

Tac vests are useful for that; full of hand holds he can grab when he needs McKay to get down under cover or to stop him from wandering off to look at some shiny piece of technology. When Rodney is in uniform, he can grab the collar of his shirt, though Rodney complains that it creases the fabric horribly.

So John finds a compromise. When he has stuff to do and Rodney is dawdling, he grabs his hand and steers him in the right direction. After a while it becomes second nature - whenever there’s danger or something important is happening, he takes Rodney’s hand and they set off to deal with it together.

If any of the marines find it funny to see their commander holding hands with the head of science during a crisis, none of them dares to mention it.

-

John is carefully, carefully tending to his hair. Just the right amount of product, to spike it just the right amount to look effortless. He tweaks and ruffles, tugs and shapes. This is an art form which requires judicious maintenance. 

“Oh, for the love of -” Rodney grabs the tub of hair wax out of his hands. “We’ll be here all day. Let me.”

He steps forward and slides his hands into John’s hair, ruffling it vigorously. His fingers are firm on John’s scalp and he tugs just on the right side of too hard.

Rodney steps back and surveys his work. “That’ll do.”

John glances in the mirror and sees a chaotic, wild mess. He looks like he’s run a marathon, with his pink cheeks and mussed hair, or like he’s rolled out of bed after a night of passion.

“Rodney! I can’t go out like this.”

“Oh, shut up. You look smoking hot, like you always do.”

That’s… What? What does that mean? Why the hell would Rodney say that?

“Come on,” Rodney is saying, already on his way out the door. John has to run after him, cheeks still flushed.

-

They find a rhythm.

John gets up first and puts the coffee on while he showers. He’s given up on trying to tidy Rodney’s side of the room, so he lets the piles of circuit boards and screwdrivers sprout up where they will. Once Rodney is up they get breakfast at the mess, then he spends the morning doing paperwork and writing reports in the science lab while Rodney works. They meet Teyla and Ronon for lunch, then he spends the afternoon drilling the marines while Rodney taps away at a laptop. Evenings, they bicker over which movies to watch in their quarters and throw popcorn at each other.

Elizabeth even agrees to let them travel to the mainland, and then to go on low-stakes reconnaissance missions. 

It’s… comfortable, he realizes. It works.

That thought makes something twist in his chest, and he doesn’t know why.

-

“Morning, sunshine.” John pours Rodney a cup of coffee.

“Mmm.” Rodney is still sleep-rumpled, but he struggles upright and smiles softly. “Morning.”

As he hands over the coffee, Rodney catches his wrist and holds him there. He looks down at the mug, then back up at John. John notices in an abstract way that his eyes are very, very blue.

“Thanks,” Rodney says, and pecks him on the lips.

Right. Okay. That’s a thing. That’s a thing they’re doing now.

John is still processing as Rodney gets up and heads for the shower. “I’ve got a meeting with Miko this morning,” he says over his shoulder, normal as ever, “so we might have to push our gym session back by half an hour -”

He keeps chattering away while John sits on the bed and has a minor crisis. Did they… do they… but that would mean…

By the time Rodney is out of the shower, John has made a decision. 

He doesn’t allow himself to overthink it, he just takes Rodney’s face in his hands and kisses him deeply. Rodney’s arms tighten around his waist and his tongue slips into his mouth and oh. Oh yes. That’s good.

John’s a little breathless, a little dizzy. “Are we really doing this?” he asks.

Rodney’s face scrunches up in amusement. “I think we’ve been doing this for weeks.”

Yeah. Okay. That’s a fair point.

The tense feeling that’s been winding around his chest uncoils, and in its place is nothing but blooming warmth.

“I guess we have.”

-

EPILOGUE

“Carson.” Elizabeth looks up from where she’s frowning at a tablet and gives him a polite nod. “Thanks for stopping by.”

“Any time,” Carson says, and means it. “What can I do for you?”

“I was hoping to get an update on the situation with John and Rodney. We really do need them to get back on full duty soon.”

“Ahh.” He’s been carefully avoiding that topic. He takes a breath. “To be honest with you, the bond between them wore off days ago. They could go their separate ways now and be none the worse for it.”

Elizabeth’s eyebrows fly upward toward her hairline. “And you haven’t told them yet?”

“See, at first they were in the infirmary every day asking for an update. But they haven’t been in for over a week and -”

“And?”

“They seem…” he pauses, contemplating his choice of words, “... happy.”

Elizabeth’s mouth twitches into a quickly suppressed smile. “That may be, but you have a professional responsibility.”

“Aye, you’re right. I’ll go and tell them the effects of the device have run their course.”

“Well…” Elizabeth looks thoughtful. “You have a professional responsibility to give them accurate medical information when they ask for it.”

Carson sees where she’s going with this. “And until then?”

Elizabeth shrugs and gives him a sly look. “They do seem happy.”

[hauntedfalcon]

living in midnight

for day four of Nile Freeman Week: "Nile & Struggle" plus a fantasy AU in which superheroes exist, Nile isn't one of them, and she doesn't let that stop her. 1700 words, rated M for swearing. content warning for wounds and needles because it's Nile's turn for sapphic patching up, as a treat

the title is from Lianne La Havas’s “Midnight”. many thanks to @flightsofwonder for beta reading <3

read on AO3 or below

Nile opens her eyes to see an unfamiliar ceiling. There is an unfamiliar pillow under her head, and she is recumbent on an unfamiliar sofa. Above it is a window, where streetlights reflect in the sinuous trails of raindrops.

Rain. Knives. Three attackers. She fought like hell, might have broken someone’s arm, but they landed one good hit. They left her for dead in an alley. She watched her own blood run into a puddle.

She bolts upright--and hisses when a wave of agony breaks over her, starting in her abdomen and shooting everywhere.

“Please don’t move,” says a softly accented voice. “You’re safe here. I haven’t seen your face.”

Nile collapses back down to the pillow and touches her face, just to be sure. Her mask is still in place. She drops her hand and forces one eye open, blurry with pained tears, to get a look at whoever dragged her in from the alley.

A white woman. Dark shoulder-length hair. Youngish, maybe Nile’s age. Dressed all in black, much like her--not for stealth but for soft goth vibes. Cute, if she’s honest, but this isn’t the fucking singles bar, get it together Freeman.

“I staunched the bleeding,” her rescuer says, “but I was waiting until you were conscious to do the stitches.”

“Do we have to?” Nile groans before she can stop herself.

A blink-and-you’ll-miss-it smile. “I’m afraid so. Would you like some fortitude?” The amateur surgeon holds out a bottle of Everclear.

Ugh. Nile takes the cap off and drinks deep, leaving enough in the bottle to sterilize whatever needs to be sterilized. It tastes like ass and lingers at the back of her throat.

Before the alcohol can set in and obliterate her senses, she says, “Can I borrow your phone?”

The woman hesitates. Very wise of her.

“Listen,” Nile says. “We had two leads come in at the same time. Al-Tayyib took one and I took the other, and mine was a decoy, which means...” She can’t, won’t, say it aloud. She hates how feeble she sounds. “I just have to check in with him. Please.”

The woman hands her a smartphone, unlocked. Nile hits the keycode to make the call anonymous, then dials Joe’s shitty flip phone from memory. He keeps it on silent when he’s on the rounds, and he’ll only answer if he’s safe.

Pick up, she wills him, because if she has to hear his stupid cheerful voicemail greeting now of all times, she’s going to scream right in front of this poor woman who didn’t ask for any of this drama in her life. Pick up, pick up, pick--

“Pronto.”

Nile’s gut tightens (painfully, but that’s not what matters right now) at the sound of another unfamiliar voice. The assassin. Joe walked into a trap.

“Where is he?” she demands, trying to sound hard and not like she’s lying on a stranger’s couch with an open wound.

A gust in the speaker. Is he laughing at her? She strains to hear anything that would give away their location: traffic, a clock tower, machinery, anything. There’s nothing else. No hint of Joe yelling in the background, either.

“I will return him to you presently,” says the asshole. Very formal.

“What, after you shank him like your goons did to me?”

“They were instructed not to kill you,” he says in a voice that wouldn’t fog a window in January. “Did you die?”

White-hot rage flares out of her with no place to go. “Where is he, you son of a--” But he has already hung up on her.

Nile resists the urge to growl. If this was her phone she would throw it against the wall. Instead she quickly deletes the record of the outgoing call, and hands the phone back to the woman, who pockets it. “Thank you,” she says tightly.

“I’m sorry to say so,” says the woman as she holds the tip of a curved needle in a candle flame, “but you are in no condition to save anyone right now.”

She blows out a sigh in answer. When she pulls the hem of her shirt up and peels away the medical tape and bandage pad, she discovers that the woman is absolutely right. This isn’t the worst Nile has been hurt and still fought, but it is pretty bad.

And it’s one thing to trash a gang of traffickers while she’s actively bleeding. It’s something totally different to track down a guy who has been three steps ahead of them this whole time, and seems to have removed his sense of morals with an ice cream scoop.

There’s only one thing left to do: say a silent prayer. The way she learned to pray feels insufficiently casual for the circumstances; she wishes she knew more about the format of the rakat. All she remembers is, “God hears the one who praises him,” so she starts on the Lord’s Prayer because praise comes before petition.

In place of, “Give us this day our daily bread,” she substitutes, “Get Joe out of this with his head,” and then she has to hold back a giggle at the rhyme. She must have lost a lot of blood.

The woman wipes the needle down with Everclear. “You know, I met the old Guardian too.”

Nile eyes her carefully. She won’t say Andy’s name in this woman’s presence. She won’t say Joe’s name either, much less her own. She won’t slip no matter how much blood she’s lost or how strong the alcohol is or how fundamentally good and trustworthy this woman seems or how much this is going to hurt. “Not under the same conditions,” she presumes.

“Very similar,” the woman says with another fleeting smile. “I hope she’s well?”

“She’s good,” Nile hastens to reassure her. “She retired.” And she left Nile her nom de guerre and all the weight that went with it.

“I’m glad she made it that long.”

“Probably thanks to you,” Nile says, and she gets a longer smile for it.

Then the needle bites into her skin and Nile whimpers softly and throws an arm over her eyes. She’s hard. She’s tough. This is what she does.

The woman’s gloved hand pinches the wound closed as she stitches. She works quickly, professionally. “I’m really glad you found me,” Nile manages. “I can’t exactly go to a hospital.”

“I think you would be surprised,” the woman says. “You are well loved in this city. People would protect your identity.”

That’s not it. Nile can’t go to hospital because there’s a chance her mom would be on shift, and the only thing worse than keeping her alter ego secret from her mom is the idea that she would find out because Nile came in on a gurney. She can’t do that to her.

A tug, as she ties the thread off, and then a snip of the shears. Nile lifts her head and looks down at a slightly puckered, neatly stitched, no longer bleeding knife wound.

Her laugh sounds brittle, just this side of hysterical. The woman glances at her. “I have work tomorrow,” Nile says weakly.

The woman tapes a fresh bandage over the wound. “Me too.”

No rest for the righteous. “The struggle is real, huh? Sorry for keeping you up late.”

“I will call in if you do,” the woman offers.

But going into the office in the morning might be the soonest opportunity to make sure Joe is okay. Nile pulls her shirt down and zips her bomber jacket over it. “I should go.”

The woman sets one hand on Nile’s arm. “Please stay. You shouldn’t be out alone tonight.”

“They might have been watching when you brought me inside,” Nile warns.

“Then I will need your protection, won’t I?” the woman says without blinking, as if she’s not the one that just saved Nile’s whole life.

Nile cracks an incredulous smile but the woman just gazes at her solemnly.

“Okay,” she says at last. “Okay, I’ll stay. Thank you. And I’m sorry for bleeding on your couch.”

It’s not enough, but the woman just sets about cleaning up her supplies. Nile settles back against the pillow and wills her muscles to unclench.

“May I ask,” the woman asks as she washes her hands, “why you do this? You don’t have superpowers.”

No, and none of the people who do have taken this city under their protection. Flippant, lazy answers parade through Nile’s mind, because she’s not in a charitable mood. Anger issues. No one else is gonna do it. I’m a giant masochist, actually.

But when she opens her mouth, the first thing that comes out is Andy’s answer, from when Nile asked her years ago. “Because there are people worth fighting for.”

Then Joe’s answer: “People who won’t get justice any other way.”

And, finally, one that’s all hers. “I have a responsibility. This is my city”

She’s going to pass out any minute, but beneath her fatigue there’s still a live coal of the feelings that made her put this mask on in the first place. This is her damn city. She spends so much time in the guts of its shitty justice system, and the rest of the time punching assholes, that she sometimes forgets her city is full of ordinary, decent people. Good people. People who will bring someone in from the rain. People like…

“What’s your name?” Nile asks, and then catches herself. “I can’t--give you mine. Sorry. It might be safer if I don’t know yours.”

“Celeste,” says the woman.

Good people like Celeste. How comforting that is.

Her pain is down to an ache instead of a burn, and her eyes drift closed. In the morning, she’ll be out of Celeste’s hair. She’ll shower at her apartment, carefully, and she’ll go into Legal Aid, and Joe will be there, a little banged up but alive. He’ll hug her, quick and tight, and they’ll loiter by the coffee maker and speak in low voices and sort out their next play. And when the work day is over, they’ll go with Andy and Quỳnh down to Booker’s for drinks and darts, and Nile will order a bouquet of flowers sent to Celeste’s apartment in thanks. Everything, for given quantities of everything, will be fine.

Confident in her safety, secure in her purpose, Nile rests.

[prurientpuddlejumper]

Hopelessness of Wanting [Part 2]

<- Part 1 | Part 3 ->

Frederick Chilton x Reader

Continuation of an angsty dark fic request. 

Warnings: suicidal thoughts/attempt (I made myself real sad with this one so be warned if you’re vulnerable to negative thinking), NSFW, smut (gender-neutral), unhealthy relationship, depression, neurodivergent reader. Melancholy rambling. 

3,200 words

“Don’t worry about what Dr. Chilton thinks,” Nurse Clerval advised as soon as he was out of earshot. “He’s an asshole.”

“Yeah, but”—you tugged the hem of your scrubs—“He’s right. I keep messing up. I think he hates me.” You stopped there, too ashamed to admit you were the biggest fuck-up on the entire staff, new or not, or that you could tell Dr. Chilton regretted his decision to hire you.

“And the rest of us hate him. Just keep doing your job, learn the ropes—he’ll back off.”

You nodded silently and continued your rounds, delivering meds and checking in on patients. Amy had to be restrained again when she wouldn’t stop biting. Julianne seemed more confused lately, though you hadn’t known any of them long enough to tell what was normal.

Clerval’s words hung over you. It didn’t seem right that everyone hated Dr. Chilton. He was a little brusque, yes, but intelligent. Wickedly sarcastic. Posturing and puffing himself up whenever people he admired came to visit the hospital, and he wanted badly to impress them. Lonely.

Your cheeks heated at the thought of those intense bursts of green under his brow—the first thing you noticed when he conducted your interview. His eyes almost matched the light green scrubs you wore at the hospital you trained in, though the uniform here was white (as if leaning into the One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest vibe.)

But what drew you in wasn’t that his eyes were beautiful—though they were—it was the way they made contact with yours. Staring you down with fake confidence, as if he were forcing it. That stare must have been off-putting to most people, but it made your spirit leap with that particular spark of connection one only feels when finding a kindred spirit.

“Hey! Still sulking? Hurry it up,” Clerval called, jolting you to attention. You trotted after.

It was nice having a mentor on the staff, but at the same time, it just felt like having another person to eventually disappoint.

“Here! What’s next?” you beamed.

***

Dr. Chilton didn’t back off over the next few weeks as Nurse Clerval suggested. The more you thought you were getting the hang of routines at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, the more mistakes you seemed to make, and the harder its administrator came down on you. And the more the handsome, scarred Dr. Chilton hated you, the more nervous mistakes you made.

In nursing school, you aced everything technical. Every written test. Every memorized statistic, sterilization procedure, medication instruction, and anatomy diagram. But when it came to interacting with patients and families—being compassionate yet professional—nothing came naturally. As a child, you learned how to fake eye contact by staring at the bridge of someone’s nose. How to smile bright and encourage others so they don’t reject you. So they don’t see you as cold or weird. But sometimes, you felt like an alien just parroting human behavior.

The guy you had been dating when you started working at the BSHCI said something similar to you when he broke it off. That you were “unavailable” and never understood what he needed.

There was a reason your first choice job was at a hospital where the only patients were mentally ill murderers.

Dr. Frederick Chilton was the same way. Just better at hiding it, or braver about not caring when his mannerisms rubbed people the wrong way. He didn’t fall apart like you did. He was… incredible. As soon as you met him, you knew you wanted the job. His smile was forced but friendly that first day, and you went home dreaming about getting to know him better.

But as soon as you were hired, the friendliness went out of his eyes. On your very first day, you passed him in the hall and smiled. He frowned and informed you that you were five minutes late clocking in. Everything—every forgotten ID card and typo on a patient file—was proof to Dr. Chilton that you were incompetent.

Worthless.

He even pointed it out when you couldn’t stand up for yourself and let Nurse Clerval defend you.

Pathetic.

Why did you ever think someone like him might like you?

He wasn’t an asshole. The constant reprimanding and disciplinary write-ups were no more than you deserved. It just hurt coming from someone you admired and wished things could be different with.

God, you wished just once he would smile at you again. Tell you that you did a good job.

Your fist hovered over the dark mahogany of the carved doors to Dr. Chilton’s office, poised to knock. To tender your resignation. You hadn’t seen the extravagant interior of his office since your interview, but you could imagine him in there: laying back on the leather couch sipping a Scotch, surrounded by tall shelves of medical books and sculpted wall molding. The air filled with the library smell of old paper.

In your imagination, his cold green eyes would soften, and he would ask why you were leaving. Apologize for being so hard on you. The Chilton in your mind clasped your hand, and you both blushed, wondering if the gesture was merely a show of professional support, or if it held a deeper meaning. He clasped tighter instead of dropping your hand, knowing— understanding—the heat behind your gaze.

A dull thud came from inside the office, followed by footsteps and a muttering voice, muffled through the door. The footsteps started heading your way, and you walked briskly down the hall toward the exit, not looking back when a moment later, the mahogany doors creaked open.

Coward.

There was no point quitting, anyway. You would never find another hospital job as slow-paced, where you rarely had to speak with outsiders—only the regular long-term patient-inmates, and a small staff of orderlies, guards, nurses, and psychiatrists.

Sometimes you thought you should quit nursing altogether, but then what would you do? Flip burgers? You’d be bad at that, too. There was nothing you wouldn’t be a failure at.

A fog hovered over you, creeping its tendrils into every thought, turning every tiny setback into the end of the world, and making every success unimportant. Leaving BSHCI wouldn’t make it better. Nothing would make it better. You were the fuck-up. Anywhere you went, the problem would always be you.

Every smile you gave was forced, but you kept smiling as if everything was normal. So long as nobody could see you drowning, it wasn’t real. There was still hope that you could get your shit together, and no one would be the wiser that you were actually a disgusting piece of human trash. So long as you could smile like you were fine, you weren’t a complete failure.

But the more you pretended to be upbeat—pretended to be someone likable—the more you were certain your coworkers didn’t like you. They must have been sick of covering for you by now.

A week later, the nurse you were replacing grunted, “Finally,” as you sprinted through the door three minutes after your shift started. That one unremarkable interaction was the final proof of a theory you had been nursing for a long time:

Everyone’s lives would be easier without you.

That was the final conclusion, the final, creeping thought the suffocating fog wormed into your head. The crescendo of a distorted symphony that had been subtly building to this from the beginning.

You couldn’t force yourself to smile anymore.

***

You didn’t have authorized access to the medication supply room, but you swiped a key from Dr. Tenley’s office. For a secure facility, the doctors of the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane were lax about locking their own offices. She would notice it was missing by Monday morning, and there would be serious repercussions for stealing it, but you weren’t concerned. You wouldn’t be around to face them.

With the high-potency drugs available in a hospital and a working knowledge of pharmacology, ending a life could be quick and relatively painless.

The key clicked in the door. You glanced up and down the hallway to make sure no one was coming. But the coast was clear.

A halfhearted breath puffed from your nose. Part of you wanted to find it funny how easy this was, but you just couldn’t bring yourself to laugh.

You stealthily opened the windowless metal door, stepped inside, and shut and locked it behind you without making a sound. Once inside the small room, you let out a silent sigh of relief (or despair). Only a handful of people had a key, so you were unlikely to be interrupted, especially at night with only a skeleton staff on duty.

There were three rows of tall storage shelves crammed into the walk-in closet with clean tile in the few places wall was exposed. The whir of a climate-control system drowned out the pulse in your ears as you scanned for the drugs you were looking for.

You found them faster than expected. They could have at least been hidden. The universe could have put a few more obstacles in your path, but instead, the universe was giving you a big fat sign it wanted you dead.

You picked up the packaging. Turned it over in your hand.

Just a handful of these, and all the problems you cause would be over. No more reprimands. No more disappointing everyone you meet. No more wrenching in your gut every time Dr. Chilton looks at you with contempt when you long to see a smile. No more trying so hard every minute of every day.

It wasn’t like too many people would be sad you were gone anyway. Most of them will be relieved.

Your eyes stung.

Wasn’t someone going to walk in and stop you?

Your lip trembled. Why would anyone want to stop you?

Tears rolled down your face as the reality of your plan set in. Survival instinct kicked and clawed at the cloying fog of twisted logic that promised you would be helping everyone if you stopped existing, but it was losing the battle.

And then you heard someone call your name.

You sniffed and looked up. No… not someone calling your name. Moaning it. You crept to the last row of shelves at the back and gasped—Dr. Chilton had his laptop tucked onto a shelf and was watching a clip of security feed on loop. His red, glistening erection thick in his hand as he masturbated, whimpering your name over and over.

You watched silently—he was so engrossed he didn’t notice your shadow falling over the aisle. It was only when the package of drugs slipped from your hand and clattered on the floor that he jumped with a shriek, covering himself, though his massive erection was still conspicuous in his pants. His eyes bugged out at you, face red with embarrassment—but then they quickly narrowed to anger.

“What are you doing in here? You are not authorized to be in this room,” he barked.

All you could think about was what you heard—the name gasping from his lips. It overpowered every other thought. “Were you… imagining me?”

His nostrils flared. He hastily shut the laptop which was looping security footage of you outside his office door.

Then he laughed—forced and cruel. “What I imagine is not your concern. Do not read into it. I have never shown you special treatment, have I? Do you think that I could have feelings for an incompetent nurse?”

“I know that!” Your lip trembled again now that the briefest spark of hope you had was shattered. Of course he didn’t like you. He was just a pervert who jacked off to all the nurses. “Don’t you think I know that I’m worthless? You’ve made it abundantly clear.”

Fresh tears rolled down your cheeks, and Chilton’s eyes softened, as if for the first time realizing that all his attempts to hurt you had succeeded. You were hurt. And he did not enjoy it as much as he thought.

“You are not worthless,” he said quietly. Then his eyes flicked down to the floor, at the medication you dropped. He picked it up, read what it was. His expression fell. “What were you doing in here, nurse?” he swallowed.

“Nothing. I just… needed something for a patient.”

“Lie,” he said.

You looked away. Everything was numb. It barely even occurred to you that someone stopped you after all. A handsome, awkward, cruel doctor you admired was in the same room with you and had said his first kind words since the day you met.

He took a slow step toward you. Then another. His hand—slender and surprisingly large—pressed your arm in an attempt at a comforting gesture. An alien parroting human behavior.

“You are not worthless. I assure you, none of your mistakes have been grievous. You are certainly not the least competent of my staff. Far from it. So don’t…” He swallowed. “…Do not do anything rash.”

“Sure,” you scoffed. “Then why am I the one you’re always reprimanding? The one always being called to your office?” You knew what he thought of you; he was just trying to talk you down.

“That…” he began in a broken voice, “That must be painfully obvious now.”

Your eyes peeled away from the floor and found his face, and the storm of emotions flashing over it. Shame. Trepidation. A faint light of hope.

“You like me?” Your voice sounded far away. The analytical part of your brain was whirring away above the swamp of depression bogging you down with lies that nobody could like you. But it made sense. As the words spilled from your mouth, it was like a veil lifted.

Pulling pigtails. He was pulling your pigtails because he liked you. A middle-aged psychiatrist ought to have more emotional maturity handling a crush than a third-grader, but there was a reason he worked at a hospital where the only patients were mentally ill murderers. There was a reason his staff hated him. Why he was lonely, and why you desperately wanted to be the one to fill the empty space by his side.

Frederick Chilton was a lot like you.

You could understand each other and be less alone in this world, together.

***

His eyes were closed and he was muttering something self-flagellating and vaguely apologetic when the kinetic sense of you moving closer caused Frederick Chilton to look up.

No longer out at arm’s distance, you were within each other’s breathing space. And now, he was genuinely terrified—terrified you were going to return his feelings. Of the joy it might bring crashing down on him like an airplane. He read something he never expected to see in your body language, and it shook him deeper than being walked in on with his cock in his hands.

You should have reported him for ethics violations.

If you made the case to the hospital board that he created a hostile work environment because he wanted you sexually, he would lose his job and do everybody a favor.

But this—the intention in your body—this was the farthest thing from what he deserved. You confirmed his fear when your soft, perfect lips melded against his. Yet, as always when he knew a thing was wrong, he did not push you away. Did nothing to stop you. He let you deepen the kiss slowly, and you were warm, the taste of you sweeter than he imagined in all his lonely nights of fantasizing.

His cock twitched, your closeness awakening his urges again. He moaned as your lips parted, his lips parting with them, and your tongue gently probed inside. You were tentative at first, investigating only the nearest reaches of his inner lips, and then his hand spasmed on your arm, and with a low growl, he pulled your closer—then you became ravenous. All the turbulent emotions churning within you broke free in that kiss. You sobbed into his mouth, your tongue, hot and fervent, explored and assaulted the depths of him, your hands weaving into the hair behind his neck, and he could taste your salt. It was all his tongue could do to keep up—to let himself be consumed.

Dear god, if only that passion would have ended him then and there. The moment your lips met his in an unexpected act of reciprocation was the fulfillment of every want, every tattered and twisted hope—the highest delight a man such as him could achieve. And he knew—rightly so—that all that could follow was suffering of his own design.

Dear god, let me die before I see this in ruins. Let me die with my happiness.

***

The sex wasn’t all that good. But then again, you had gone into that supply closet intending to never come out, so overall, being fucked by the man you had been pining for was a positive turn of events.

It wasn’t how you’d imagined your first time with Dr. Chilton, pressed against a cold tile wall. A hungry kiss led to his clothed erection pushing against your thigh, led to you unbuckling his belt.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” he whispered hoarsely, nervous eyes darkened with lust—and you nodded, sliding down your scrub pants, which stuck on your sneakers, hobbling your ankles. He was in too much of a rush to let you take them off—he only opened up his slacks and pulled his cock out of the fly of his briefs. And then he was thrusting into you from behind—frantic, desperate. Your ankles being bound only added to the thrill of him being in control. Dr. Chilton wanted you after all—fantasized about you—and now he was taking you, and all you had to do was surrender to his desire.

His breathy moans rose with each snap of his hips, his hands traveling up your chest under your shirt, fingers curling around your neck, possessing you. Touching every inch of skin he could get his hands on. And that noise that saved your life, your name on his lips, he chanted in your ear.

He was fast—hips racing as if this were his only chance, and if he waited, you would disappear—and he finished fast. You didn’t spend long with your face pressed to the cold tile when his moans broke into a shattered scream, and his head slumped, sweaty, against your back.

Then he turned you around to face him and got on his knees. Heedless of his own mess that he’d left sticky and bitter inside you, he pumped his fingers into you and sucked like he was fulfilling a duty. Clinical about the task, and efficient. It didn’t take him long to bring your arousal to a climax in his mouth.

After, he was quiet. When you had cleaned up, he looked at you like you were a mistake… only you weren’t certain what kind of mistake. If you reached out to reassure him, would he jerk away and tell you to never speak of this again?

“Was it… all you expected?” you asked robotically. Your arm crossed your body, hugging yourself.

And then he kissed you again, softly. He ran his fingers over your hair and pulled back just far enough to study your face. His eyes were wet, clouded with a million thoughts and regrets you would only learn about later.

“You are perfect,” he whispered.

• ● • ━━━━━─ ••●•• ─━━━━━ • ● •

Since I went some places this chapter... Please don’t bottle up your feelings if they’re telling you horrible things about yourself. They aren’t true, I promise. You matter. ❤️

Call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 1-800-273-8255

Online chat: https://suicidepreventionlifeline.org/chat/

Help via Text: https://www.crisistextline.org/ (Text HOME to 741741)

List of additional resources: https://www.healthline.com/health/mental-health/suicide-resource-guide 

Tags:

@beccabarba​ / @itsjustmyfantasyroom / @thatesqcrush / @dianilaws / @permanentlydizzy / @mrsrafaelbarba / @madamsnape921 / @astrangegirlsmind / @neely1177 / @onerestein / @dreamlover31 / @stormtrooperofficerbrowneyes / @barbasimp / @storiesofsvu / @welcometothemxdhouse / @feedthemadness-sweetie / @law-nerd105 / @amelia-song-pond / @michael-rooker / @xecq 

[ieattaperecorders]

Something's Different About You Lately - Chapter 14: After the Fire

Jon has some visitors.

Note: This chapter contains a few small instances of well-meaning people touching a blind person without warning in a way that startles them.

Read on Ao3

---

He knew that he was in a hospital before he was fully awake. The texture of the stiff sheets and gown, the antiseptic smell, some indistinctly medical quality to the air filled him with the memory of wandering through distant dreams, of emerging into a cold and brightly-lit room. He came to himself gradually, slowly growing aware of an uncomfortable heaviness, of something wrapped around his face and something else restricting movement on his right side. He shifted experimentally and felt a twinge. Quietly, he groaned.

"Hey," came a voice from nearby. "You actually awake, boss? Or is this another false alarm?"

I'm not your boss anymore, Tim, he thought. Then he thought, wait a minute.

"Tim . . . ?" his voice came out hoarse and thick with grogginess. "Where – augh . . . ."

Pain shot through Jon's body as he tried to lift himself into a sitting position. He heard Tim get up and felt a careful hand on his left shoulder, guiding him back down.

"Oooh, don't do that. They've got you on the good stuff, but you're still a mess on that side. Don't be such an impatient patient."

"Where's Martin? Is he –"

"Relax, Martin's fine. Well, not fine, he's been shot, but he's doing a lot better than you. Bullet glanced off your shoulder before hitting him, tore up some muscle and fat but didn't get anything vital. He was awake before you were even out of surgery."

The hand stayed on Jon until it was clear he was going to remain still, then came away. There was an audible scrape as a chair was pulled closer, and Tim sat down again.

"We're all fine too, by the way," he added, as if offended he hadn't asked. "Just so you know."

"And . . . Jonah?"

Tim was quiet for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was subdued.

"Didn't check if he was breathing when we left him, but he wasn't getting up," he said. "And I can't see anything coming out of that fire."

Jon lay still and tried to process it all. He wasn't sure what he should feel. What he did feel was a distant sort of unsteadiness, whether it was shock or whatever painkillers were coursing through his system, he didn't know.

"Have you been sitting up with me?" he asked.

"Don't get too big a head about it," Tim smirked. "I've only been here a bit. Sasha's come by to peek in as well, and we've visited Martin too. I was just lucky enough to be the one to see your grumpy little face when you woke up."

"Huh." Surprise and a strange melancholy rose in Jon at the thought. He smiled wryly, "and for my part, the first thing I hear on regaining consciousness is Tim Stoker's terrible puns."

"Excuse you, I am a delight to be around and my puns are charming."

Jon laughed softly, lapsing back into silence. The quiet stretched on for a while, solemnity beginning to creep in at the edges again. Then Tim spoke.

". . . You think he's actually dead?"

"Jonah? I think so. Avatars can be hard to kill, but he was very afraid of death." Jon tapped his less encumbered hand against the mattress, considering. "I think . . . if he had reached to the Eye in his last moments, it would have simply watched as his life faded away, doing what it does. Drinking in his fear."

"Couldn't have happened to a nicer guy," Tim muttered, something unsettled in his tone. "What about the circus?"

". . . Depends what you mean, I suppose." Jon tried to choose his words carefully. "I'm not the Archivist anymore, so I don't think they'd have any interest in me now. We're not protected from them, but I don't think they'd have reason to come after any of us. Unless, of course," he added pointedly. "Someone draws their interest by going after them."

"Even if we get away, they're still out there," Tim pushed, something limping in his voice, "Doing what they do to people. Am I supposed to just be okay with that?"

Jon was quiet for a while.

"If you could destroy the circus," he said softly, "which is a big ‘if', but if you could, the Stranger would continue manifesting in other forms. Possibly even as a circus again. You can't keep fear from the world, you'd only be changing details. In the end I don't know if it would save anyone."

"It would hurt those things, though. Wouldn't it?"

"Maybe," Jon said. "Maybe not. Certainly not as much as it would hurt anyone who cared about you."

It was Tim's turn to be quiet. He let out a long, frustrated sigh. "Not sure I like this new, future-memories version of you Jon," he said. "He's kind of a know-it-all."

"You should have seen me when I was literally all-knowing."

"Nightmare. Don't know how Martin put up with you."

"Neither do I." Jon smiled, warmth running through him at the thought. He took a long, slow breath. ". . . You died hating me, you know. In that other life."

"Yeah?" Tim didn't sound very surprised. "What'd you do?"

"Plenty," Jon laughed mirthlessly. "Though by the end I'm not even sure how much it had to do with me. We were lost, hurt, broken people, lashing out in fear and pain."

"Yeah. Starting to think that the Magnus Institute didn't exactly facilitate a healthy work environment."

"No . . . ."

He heard a soft, electronic tapping in the pause that followed. Maybe Tim was texting the others, letting them know Jon was awake? He couldn't tell. A gentle shove hit his uninjured shoulder, making him flinch.

"Well. Let's try not to fuck it up this time around, huh?" Tim said. "I'm gonna go get a nurse and tell them you're up, they'll probably want to check your vitals or rotate your tires or something."

"Right. Uh, right . . ." Jon stammered, "thank you."

The footsteps faded, and Jon let his head sink back onto the pillow. He felt . . . adrift. More so than he had in a while.

He'd been confused and frightened through all of this, half the time he hadn't even known what he was looking for, but at least he'd known he was looking. Even in the long, terrible walk across the nightmare domains, the constant pull of their destination had given him purpose. He'd known what he was hoping for.

And there had been Martin there. Of course.

For better or worse now, Jonah was dead and he was alive. He was severed from the Eye, the others were freed, and dark and terrible powers still lurked beyond the edge of human perception, waiting to Become.

Jon wasn't sure what he was hoping for now. He lay back and waited for the nurse to arrive.

* * *

Time passed in a haze. He had little sense of how much he slept, and the divide between sleep and waking blurred together.

Sometimes he had visitors. Georgie came in not long after Tim, having gotten a very incomplete version of events through Melanie. He hadn't exactly intended to tell her anything when she sat down, but somehow after a few confused inquiries, and a gentle "try me" or two, he found himself spilling everything. It was far more disjointed and emotional than his recounting in the tunnels, but the bulk of it seemed to get across.

When it was over, she just said, "sounds like you've had a hell of a time."

It was the calmness as much as the sympathy that affected Jon. As if he'd just told her about a bad relationship he'd gotten out of, rather than his place in the universe's nightmare cosmology and the end of the world.

He didn't know what to say to it, really, and frankly saying anything at all risked letting the tightness inside his chest come spilling out - the pressure bandage would hide any tears, but Georgie would be able to tell. She saved him by breaking the silence, asking if he had any stock tips or winning lottery numbers from the future to share.

Melanie's visits were less steadying, twice devolving into arguments. It seemed to be a constant between them, that no matter what happened or what forces were acting on either of them, their ability to rile each other was inevitable. She was also insistent that he explain every detail he remembered about what she'd begun calling the "dark timeline." When he complained that framing it as an alternate timeline was likely inaccurate and, frankly, horrifying in its implications, she threw a pen at him.

Still, she came back again afterwards. And still, he was glad that she did.

Sasha reported that her hand was healing, though when pressed admitted he'd been right about her range of motion not returning. She also helped him set the voice assistant up on his phone, which was a great relief. Though it was a bit embarrassing to reveal how little he knew about his own device's functions.

"Honestly Jon, you're only thirty-one," she said, going through some final setup that he'd already forgotten her explanation of. "You've got no excuse at all to be so tech-illiterate."

"Yes, yes. I've had other priorities lately."

"I don't mind you asking for help, understand. But what are you going to do if I get eaten by another evil table someday?"

He felt a stab of shock at the blazingly conversational reference to it. Something must have shown on his face because he heard her pause..

"Sorry. Too soon?"

"Ah. . . depends on your perspective of time, I suppose," Jon said, trying and failing to make it sound like a joke.

"Right. You know, it's all a little distant for me. Unsettling, sure, but on my end it's really just a story. . . ." she trailed off. "Hey, what were you doing in Hainault?"

"Gertrude's storage locker was there -- are you going through my location history?"

"Just the more recent stuff," she made it sound as if he was the strange one for asking, and he grunted with annoyed resignation.

"You should be careful about that."

"About what?"

"Prying into other people. Invading their privacy," he lay his head back against the pillow. "Don't forget that you were part of a temple to the Eye until very recently. You're free of the Institute now, but the power behind it might not be through with you."

She was quiet for a while. Whether it meant she was contemplating what he said or ignoring him so that she could continue digging through his phone, he couldn't say.

"All I'm saying is that it can be addicting," he continued. "That urge to push past the boundaries that people raise against you. Trust me when I say that I know."

"I'd imagine you would." She paused. ". . . What was it like?"

"What was what like?"

"Being all knowing?"

". . . Hard to describe."

There was a pause, and when it became clear he wasn't going to continue, Sasha pushed out an annoyed breath and said "well you could give it more of a shot than that."

"I don't know. Overwhelming," Jon said. "In the most complete sense of the word. Sometimes I had answers, but so few of them were helpful in the end. And the things I saw, the nightmares, the pain of everyone trapped in them. Having to watch that sort of thing, all the time . . . either it destroys you, or you learn to distance yourself. At least a little. If only to keep from breaking down. Neither is very good, but one lets you survive."

Sasha made a thoughtful humming noise.

"It isn't anything you want. Believe me," he said softly. "Even if the world hadn't ended, if I'd just been another avatar . . . any rewards aren't worth the price that others have to pay."

"Yeah," she sighed heavily. "Sounds about right."

Jon relaxed, some tension he'd been carrying in him slowly unlocking. Sasha continued.

"Well. Talking about privacy, while I'm here let me at least show you how to stop broadcasting your location to anyone and everyone," she tsked and scooted her chair closer. "Honestly. No wonder you got kidnapped all the time."

"I don't really think supernatural manifestations of fears needed GPS to find me."

"Couldn't have helped though, could it?"

"Probably not," Jon smiled sadly. "Should've had you around."

"Yeah. Can't imagine how any of you managed."

* * *

Even with his visitors, there were long stretches of time Jon spent entirely alone. Laying in the dark and the quiet, his thoughts shifting like a tide. Sometimes he'd drift back to those first years at the Institute, or the time-beyond-time after the change. Other days he'd lay contemplating the past few months, all the things that he'd re-written and the worries he still had.

Mostly he thought of very little, the twin sophorics of boredom and pain medication fogging his mind into an uncomfortable stasis.

When the knock came, he'd been listening to the soft, white noise of the air conditioning and thinking of how much it resembled distant waves, putting him in mind of a cold and empty shore. Then he heard two soft taps against the door, along with a familiar voice.

"Knock, knock," Martin said.

It was the first time he'd heard his voice since the fire, since the two of them were falling to the ground together. Without really thinking he asked, "who's there?"

"Oh! Right –" he sounded embarrassed. "Sorry, it's Martin."

"Yes, I -- ah, yes." Jon sounded pitifully eager, he knew, but he couldn't bring himself to care. "C-come in. Please."

* * *

If Jon was asleep, Martin decided, then he'd come back later. He probably needed the rest -- had needed it a good long while before they'd both been shot. Really, Martin ought to be at home resting as well. But when he knocked softly on the half open door, Jon turned in his direction, wide awake.

"Who's there?" he asked.

"Oh! Right –" stupid, he can't see you. Going to have to remember that. "Sorry, it's Martin."

Jon nodded, inviting him in and slowly shifting into a seated position as Martin pulled a chair up to his bedside.

He could see the edge of a dressing covering the bullet's exit wound, just peeking up from under Jon's collar. The bandages had been removed from his eyes, and the area around them was still a little bruised and swollen. He looked wrung out, small and tired. But then, Martin supposed, everyone looks small and tired in a hospital bed.

"How are you doing?" Jon asked, "they told me you've been recovering as well . . . ."

"Yeah, just got released this morning." He stretched, rubbing over the bandage that was hidden below his shirt and jacket. "Went home, had a shower, then came right back to the hospital."

"Sounds like an exciting day."

"What about you?"

"Mmm, still looking forward to a few days here, at least. They don't think I'll be needing more surgery, fortunately, and they're weaning me onto less intense painkillers. It's a little exhausting, but apparently I'm recovering well."

"Considering you took a bullet for me," Martin muttered.

A startled-sounding laugh came from Jon. "I'm not really sure that's what happened. More like we both got shot at the same time?"

"Suppose so," Martin said. Didn't quite feel that way, though. "Honestly, I don't even know if he was trying to shoot us at the end, or if the gun just went off when they tackled him."

"Neither would surprise me."

"But then I didn't even think he had a gun, let alone murdered people with it."

"I suspect he was desperate. He probably only resorts -- resorted to things like that when some disaster crept up on him. Like us, or like Gertrude. He wasn't the hands-on type. Which came back to bite him with the ritual. In a way it's the reason I'm here -- or, the memories are, I suppose."

"Right . . . ."

Martin had plenty of time to think about it all, laid up in his own bed on another floor of the same building. About all that happened, about the things Jon told them in the tunnels. More than anything else, it just made him feel foolish. Like he'd been left out of a conversation that had been going on behind his back, and now everyone was looking at him and expecting him to catch up.

Which was pretty foolish itself, of course. Jon hadn't told anyone the whole story -- there'd been no conversation, no loop he was kept out of. It wasn't as if ‘post apocalyptic time-traveling memories' was a conclusion he could have somehow come to if he'd just paid closer attention. It was a ridiculous way to feel.

Sasha had told him, between games of dominoes, that she was glad he'd been there that night because she didn't think anyone else could have talked Jon out of his plan. Which was a lot to unpack, but didn't help with the sense of being out of the loop. Not if it was that obvious. Of course, she might have just been trying to make him feel useful. The way he saw it, he hadn't done much that evening except quietly panic, shout a bit and get held at gunpoint. And get shot. And get Jon shot with him, because he'd stood in front of him.

"I'm sorry . . . ." Martin said, softly.

". . . For what?"

"I saw what was happening, just before the gun went off. I could have pulled you away if I was faster, or thrown us to the ground, or done something. Instead I just froze."

"Martin . . ." Jon tilted his head in his direction. "Even assuming you could have been fast enough, most people freeze up when a gun is pointed at them. I did the same the first few times."

". . . First few times." Martin repeated flatly. "Jesus, Jon."

"I know. It's been a difficult few years."

"I didn't even know . . . ."

"I didn't want you to know," Jon said. "I couldn't tell any of you, Martin, not until everything was ready. You saw how close things came as it was, if he'd gotten wind of things sooner . . . ."

"Right . . . of course."

The two of them fell into an uncertain silence. Jon's hand worried at a thread on the edge of the bedsheet, twisting and twirling it between his fingers. Martin thought about that hand moving slowly and smoothly over his own, about the sorrow on Jon's face when he'd pulled away. Doubt anyone else could've talked him out of it, Sasha's voice repeated in his mind.

"About what you said. In the tunnels . . . ."

Jon visibly tensed, the edge of the sheet twisting in his fingers. "Er . . . which part?"

"The part about me," Martin said, praying that would be enough, that Jon wasn't going to make him actually repeat the words. "About us?"

"Ah. Right," he smiled weakly. "Funny how much easier it is to say these things when you think you're not going to be alive much longer."

"You were really going to tell me that and then go off to die a minute later, weren't you?" There was something quiet in Martin's voice as he spoke. Calm. Like the eye of a hurricane.

"I . . ." Jon hesitated, then nodded. "Yes."

"Bit rude."

". . . Suppose it was."

Martin went quiet. What could he say to that, to any of it? It wasn't as if he didn't get it, insecurity only goes so far when there's a declaration that explicit. He knew what I love you meant, he just . . . felt like he'd only now joined the conversation.

Before the silence could grow too powerful, Jon spoke again.

"We were together. In that other life. By the end of it, at least. I --" he laughed softly. "It took me too damned long to even realize my own feelings, let alone imagine that -- but we were together."

I can't watch that happen again, he'd said. Martin had more or less guessed that was the situation, but it was still strange to hear it confirmed. Surreal to think that Jon had a history with him, or a version of him, that he wasn't a part of.

"Were we happy?"

Jon was quiet for a while before answering. "I -- I'd like to say we were. I don't know if happy is a word I can use. At first we were in hiding, and then after the Change it was . . . well, it was a nightmare. But we had each other, and that made all the difference. And --"

He took an unsteady breath. "I think I was happier in those desperate weeks we had before the world ended than I'd honestly been in years? And there were times I'd see you in that cabin, and you'd be complaining about something, or humming while we cleaned and laughing to yourself. And you'd look different somehow, and it felt like -- there was a part of you that had been tucked away in all the time I'd known you, that was letting itself breathe again, and I was so lucky to be allowed to see it," he laughed lowly. "Or maybe all that was me projecting. Maybe I was the fool who should have paid better attention before. I don't know."

Martin tried to picture himself tucked into some remote hideaway, hiding from sinister supernatural monsters but relaxed enough to be humming and laughing while they tidied up. Tried to imagine what Jon could be referring to, how he'd been different and whether that was a good or bad thing, even. He found that he couldn't do either.

"What was he like?" he asked. "That other me."

A soft smile spread through Jon. "He was like you, Martin. A little older . . . a great deal more tired. More short-tempered, or maybe just more vocal about it," he added with fondness. "He was brave, and frustrating, and . . . and wonderful. Just wonderful."

". . . Sounds like quite a guy." Martin managed.

Jon nodded. Then the smile slipped from him, and his hands came together in his lap,

"I know that you aren't him. That is -- you are, in a sense you're the same person, but you also aren't?" he gestured outward. "Our experiences, they shape who we are, they change us. I know that."

". . . Right."

A part of him had suspected something like this might be coming, and he shouldn't have gotten his hopes up. It still hurt, and he felt guiltily relieved that Jon couldn't see his face just now.

"I just . . ." Jon continued, "I don't want you to think, ah, that I expect anything--"

"No, I get it." Martin tried to smile, tried to sound like every word wasn't twisting in him. "I probably remind you of him? And -- heat of the moment, you thought you were gonna die. I get it. I don't expect anything either."

Jon frowned, looking momentarily confused.

"I know I'm not him, like, it's not the same," Martin continued, clearing his throat. "It doesn't have to be a thing, you know, if you don't want--"

"Martin." Jon cut him off. "I meant every word I said down there. I still do."

The words dried up in Martin's throat as Jon continued.

“I love you. Just as much as I always have. I still want to have a life with you, and I’m still terrified of that life being torn from us. And I don’t know how you feel about me, but I know -- even if any, ah, feelings are returned, I--” He took a deep breath, “What I feel for you, it’s, well, it’s a lot? There are so many things I’ve been through with you that you haven’t been through with me, and that’s good, I’m glad you haven’t been through them because they were mostly horrible. But I can’t deny that many of them brought us closer --”

“Jon . . . .”

“And -- and I don’t want to scare you off with the -- the intensity of my feelings but I’d understand and I wouldn’t blame you --”

Martin reached out and put a hand on Jon’s arm. The flurry of movement and talk came to a sharp standstill.

“Jon,” he said again.

“Oh. Um,” Jon’s voice was small and quiet. “Oh.”

". . . I don’t know how I’m different from the Martin you remember. And I don’t know how he felt about you, or how what I feel is different,” he said slowly. “All I know is that when you said you were going to go off to find a quiet corner and kill yourself, it felt like the whole world was falling apart.”

Jon was still under his hand, barely breathing.

“Don’t do it again.”

Quietly, Jon nodded. Martin pulled his hand away, settling back into the chair. For a while neither of them said anything,

“I mean, listen . . .” Martin finally broke the silence, shrugging uncertainly. “I’m willing to give it a try if you are?”

An unsteady sound came out of Jon, his hand flew up to cover his mouth and when he pulled it away he was smiling. "I -- I'd like that. Very much," he said.

"Okay." Martin smiled back, feeling airy, lightheaded. "Cool." He laughed. "Getting shot together'll make a hell of a first date."

"Wh-- that was not a first date!" Jon protested, his own laugh coming out sharp and startled, "that was a -- a terrifying escape from our sinister employer."

"Kind of romantic though, right?" Martin teased, "in a bad action movie sort of way."

"Everything else aside, I refuse to entertain the idea that our first date involved Jonah Magnus in any respect," he shuddered, shaking his head. "Though it -- it honestly may be a while before I'm up for anything much better. I'll still be in the hospital a bit, and afterwards . . . well, I know there's a lot I'm going to have to adjust to."

Martin felt a twinge at Jon's voice, at the anxiety creeping back into it. ". . . You won't have to do it alone," he said.

Smiling weakly, Jon reached a hand over the hard plastic rail meant to keep patients from falling out of bed. Martin took it and squeezed. Jon nodded and let go, settling back.

"There's still so much . . ." he said. "So much you don't even know . . . about us, and about other things."

"You could tell me now, you know. If you wanted."

Jon paused, looking uncertain. "Are you sure you want to hear it? I don't know what you're expecting but it's not going to be some sort of --- pleasant office romance. It's just a series of horrible, traumatic experiences, one after another."

It was a fair question, really, and Martin thought about it before answering.

"I want to hear it," he said. "If you're okay talking about it, that is. I want to know what you've been living with all these months. And . . . I want to know more about that other life. Even if it's all just awful."

Slowly, Jon nodded. "All right . . ." he said, "but it really is a very long story. It's going to take a while."

"I don't have anything on today," Martin smiled, standing up. "I'll go and get us some tea."

[davidmann95]

So... Crossover #1: any thoughts?

Anonymous said: You seemed not to think much of Crossover #1 on Twitter. Your full thoughts?

wcwit said: So Cates' Crossover #1, best bad comic of the year or just regular pretentious trash?

An incidental note upfront: What you’re seeing there is the apparently SUPER-RARE SECRET VARIANT COVER I unwittingly picked up at the store - at first glance indistinguishable from the standard cover, the kid getting four-color-fucked by mysterious comic book rays is in fact themselves reading a variant cover of the book, rather than the main cover again in an infinite painting-within-a-painting sort of deal that’s the standard.

So I wasn’t gonna get this: my initial post on the comic and what an obviously awful idea it was back when we only knew half the premise and it was known as Pray The Capes Away actually got some out-of-nowhere traction recently, and I’ve grown rapidly tired of Cates’ Marvel work. Even learning that it was going to be Image’s biggest debut in decades - Jesus fuck, how and why - mostly just made me wish it was Commanders in Crisis getting those kinds of numbers. But Sean Dillon/@deathchrist2000 and Ritesh Babu both got early looks at it and assured me that I, specifically, needed to see the last page, so in I dove. I’ll be posting my reaction to the last page below because I recorded it for their amusement, and below that I’ll talk about said last page. It may surprise you, however, that that wasn’t my main takeaway from the issue.

Let’s accentuate the positive first! This book is gorgeous. Geoff Shaw was terrific back with Thanos Wins, but this is an incredible stylistic level-up aided and abetted by Dee Cunniffe’s colors: it’s rote as hell to say “They mix the elevated and the mundane so well!”, but even beyond the obvious ben-day dots stuff there’s such a tangible sense that the comic book beings don’t belong here, that they’re of higher, misty, platonic stuff and we squishy non-paper-people inevitably crumble and break and bleed in their wake, communicating that big idea so much more powerfully than the actual loads of text on the subject. And if we’re talking good things, I’ll concede it’s possible that there could be subtleties that play out in more interesting ways as it goes on, and that not everything is meant to be taken at face value: a smart friend who actually did like it mentioned being interested in it as clumsy but potentially effective exploration of ‘what if the fun hobby you had inadvertently became contaminated and stigmatized by forces beyond your control?’ In a post-Comicsgate world where we recently ended up inches away from the Superman logo almost certainly becoming a fascist propaganda symbol ala the Punisher skull for at least a generation, that’s a defensible lens to view this book through.

For all Donny Cates’ legitimate talents however, I don’t think an expectation of subtlety is gonna work out with this one.

Okay first off getting into the rest of it the main characters’ name is Ellipsis because “Those three little dots...they can become anything”, so there’s that. More importantly, in the world of this story where comic fans face social oppression after superpeople materialize and fuck up Colorado, they face EVERY KIND OF OPPRESSION: there are clear parallels drawn in here to the violence and harassment faced by people persecuted for their religion, people seeking abortions, queer people, and people of color; this motherfucker even drops a “hates and fears” to let us know comic collecting basically makes you one of the goddamn X-Men. Which in theory could be a purely misjudged allegory rather than stemming from actual, obscenely inflated to the point of disgusting fears of ‘nerd oppression’, except that the book literally opens with a quote from Wertham. If Cates didn’t want to make the message “Hating comics? That’s bad. Like, racism bad”, he utterly, grotesquely failed by inextricably intermingling imagery of real-world bigotry with systemic, deluded fanboy paranoia, at least as of this first issue that’s supposed to meaningfully convey the premise. As a queer dude I think I’m somewhat in my lane to say it’s too blunt and broad and dopey to be particularly offensive, but the co-opting of oppression is what this is rooted in.

The idea of ‘comics good no matter what people think, ain’t it?’ extends to the last traditional local comic store standing in this world: much as superheroes are the primary cause of suffering in this world but the point of the story is still supposed to reveal the beauty in them, part of this is that the comics community isn’t perfect but it sure is great. Which is expressed here via Ellie’s boss Otto, a loveable asshole who yells at people coming in trying to sell the wrong kind of comics to fuck off, but at heart is we’re supposed to understand a good enough dude that the shop he runs is “the only home a lot of (the benighted nerds) have left” (because I guess in this alternate universe the physical stores are still the main hub through which comics fans talk with one another?).

So here’s a story of my very own! That’s me in 2013, it must’ve been some kind of special day because I’m wearing a shirt with a button. I’d at that point only frequented one of what would be my thus far four regular comic shops. The first was a great place, and while to say I had a sense of community there would be overstating it a bit, I was on really good terms with the owner and we regularly chatted when we had the time. When I left for college my store there wasn’t as well-stocked, and for some damn reason all variant covers were double-price, but I got along really well with the owner there too. The third I wasn’t so lucky; the guy regularly behind the desk was never overtly hostile, but clearly wanted to wring my neck every time I asked when a missing comic might get in or if I could update my pull list, and given I’m in the ‘ideal’ demographic for being a comic book store regular and was dropping a solid lump of money there every week, I wonder how others were treated there (the store nearly went under, was saved on the last day of operation by another store that wanted to incorporate it as part of its franchise, then shortly afterwards DID go under and is now I believe a beef jerky place). My current store is fine, I didn’t chat much with the folks behind the counter even before we all had medical incentive to get in and out of places fairly quickly but it almost always has what I’m looking for.

Just because those were my regular stores of course doesn’t mean those are the only ones I’ve ever gone to. About a year before that picture was taken - it’s the closest I could find - when I was 17 my store didn’t have something or another I was looking for, so I head across town to see if another place I had looked up had it. This other place didn’t have what I was looking for either, though I distinctly remember picking up a few issues of Hickman’s FF while I was there since I had foolishly fallen off, hence my remembering the year. I bought a couple issues, but hung around for a bit looking to see if I might grab something else out of a dollar box, setting my comics down. Without realizing it, I’d set my books down on top of another issue, and when I decided I wasn’t getting anything else, I just picked that up along with the rest of the pile and was about to walk out before the owner stopped me. He explained what I had done though assumed it had been deliberate, and because I was a good-hearted little geek I even recall thinking “Well, he’s gonna chew me out, but I guess I deserve it. I’ll try and take this to heart as a learning experience.”

Then he pulled up his shirt a little to show me the gun on his belt. He pointed at the security camera monitors at his desk, and explained to me that if I ever did something like that again, he would have it on tape, and he would pull that gun on me and hold me there while he called the cops.

As it turned out, the comic was free.

The whole thing was so sudden and bizarre and unexpected I didn’t actually freak out until the drive home. It wasn’t until weeks or maybe months later that I managed to tell my dad about the experience, because I *had* nearly stolen a (free) comic and my guilt was mixed in with my nerves and I guess I was somehow too close to register just how disproportionate his response was. It wasn’t until now, nearly a decade later and thinking about it for the first time in a long time as I write this, that I wondered if that might have gone differently - especially living in the midwest - if I hadn’t been a white, squeaky-voiced 17-year-old.

So, minor spoiler, when our cantankerous but well-meaning LCS owner yells to call the cops and grabs and yells at a small kid for pocketing a comic (and later displays fantasy racism towards said kid), I am not filled with nostalgic love for the brotherly safe space that is comic book stores, where this guy while not meant to be seen as perfect is still framed in part as a charming, witty representation of Why We Love These Places, And This Community, And This Genre, And This Medium. Cates is clearly drawing on real time at his local stores, but he equally clearly has a very different takeaway from those experiences than me. And I am, again, in a demographic - white, cis-male, abled, bi but more interested in women, disposable income, a lifelong collector - that the industry and a lot of the guys who sell it to us contort themselves around catering to, even if I had a single very negative experience and later an ongoing low-key uncomfortable one to help disabuse me of any notions of the purity of the dork community. In the world of Crossover as of #1, toxicity is intertwined, deliberately or not on the part of the creators, with what we love on the cosmic and small business scales alike, but at least in the latter case it’s the whole picture that’s beautiful, not any single kernel that needs to be worked on to be dug up.

So underneath is my video reaction to the last page of Crossover #1. Very minor spoilers because I mutter the last two words of the comic to myself, but under the video I discuss said final page and some other scattered thoughts. Whether you read that or not, my takeaway is this: I’m fascinated with wherever the hell this thing is going, I’m glad my dad liked it well enough to want to keep getting it because now I’ll get to see where it heads, but my first impression is that this is at heart meant as cheapass Oscar-bait for people who only read Batman. It’s big and high-concept but also small and intimate! It’s meta and about how great you, the reader are for your consumption, especially the consumption of this! It’s going to be in large part about a forbidden love between a couple divided across impermeable social lines (a couple where they’re a seemingly straight white man and woman, but one likes comics)! Maybe it’ll become Not That, and I’m sure it’ll do at least something interesting along the way because Cates has done good stuff before and there are some inherently interesting big ideas for him to play with here, but for the love of god if you’re thinking about getting this buy Commanders in Crisis too or instead, it’s another new book out of Image about superheroes dealing with the collapse of the multiverse but that one is really fucking good.

So the final page splash reveal is that when the comic book child discovered in here got out of Colorado, which has had an impenetrable energy shield erected around it by one of the heroes for years, she and others were ferried out of there...by Superman, as the narration declares that “This is a story...about hope.” They don’t say the word, but she sketches her savior, Ellie and Otto freak out and go “Is that---” when they see it, and on that last page we see that while a crude drawing it isn’t a rough analogue character, it’s a guy with a cape and trunks with an S on his chest. Surprisingly, I don’t have much to say: it’s just another blunt signifier that superheroes rule and are the best, paired with the most utterly devalued notion as of late of what makes Superman special in ‘hope’. I mean, I’m perversely excited to see whether this is building the entire series on a hook it can never deliver on, or if Cates actually has talked DC into an intercompany crossover; believable given they’ve done a bunch of those over the last several years, and why else would Mark Waid be supervising as ‘story editor’ on this? I guess it’ll shake out one way or another with #6 given Cates has said it “has one of the more epic and — I would argue historic — sequences in comic book history in it.” But I’m far less convinced this is gonna truly go into the meaty question of “What does Superman mean and what makes him unique in this world where superheroes in general are indisputably either failures or monstrous bastards given the scale of destruction their presence has brought about, and he himself failed to stop that?” than as some kind of holy grail of how great superheroes are despite how dang violent they’ve gotten these days for the crew to chase after, whatever additional twist will surely be placed upon it. At least he’s kinda helping an immigrant kid get over a wall, if that’s deliberate?

Random final thoughts:

* If I wrote the opening essay and turned it in in a college course, I would be expelled for plagiarizing Grant Morrison. This is not a joke.

* If mainstream American superhero comics ended January 2017 in this universe, its own last ‘crossover’ was Civil War II, which is hilarious.

* God, please tell me if it takes the dive after all that this isn’t somehow tied into whatever Waid’s Superman project is.

* I wouldn’t normally crap on issues with the finer details of worldbuilding, but A. This is rooted in a nominally ‘real’ world playing by recognizable rules, B. I’m ragging on this anyway so what’s the harm, and C. It’s really obvious. So: Why is one of the racists against the superheroes the guy who loves superheroes so much he’s the last holdout in the entire world still selling comic books about them? How does this modestly-sized shop exist long-term with apparently a significant regular customer base if there are no new comics or even reprints to restock with, ever? Who’s buying the serialized cop/cowboy comics that the U.S. government apparently created pretty much overnight (nobody, it’s just another Wertham dig)?

* The solicit for issue #3 proclaims “Don't miss this one, folks. If you do, it just might drive you...mad.”, so now I fear some kind of Ultra Comics riff.

* “Kids love chains” is the most metal-ass quote of all time and I hate that it’s being wasted as an arc title on this book.

[colorseeingchick]

The Inevitable Dystopia of My Hero Academia (WITHOUT manga spoilers)

As noted by your local political science anime lover.

(This is a summary/rambling about a political science paper I wrote on My Hero. This is only based on the anime. I’m not caught up on the manga)

Warnings: Vague reference to abuse (Endeavor), discussion of political theory, discourse.

A/N: It’s lengthy and all over the place. It also might be impossible to follow. So I’m sorry in advance lol.

THESE ARE JUST MY OPINIONS AND A FORM OF DISCOURSE. I’m open to discussing if you have thoughts! Political science is about understanding policy and structures, not taking a stance. Any comparisons to ‘modern society’ are in reference to 1st world/developed societies, as those are the governments that parallel the My Hero Academia government. 

The politics of My Hero Academia is... pretty morbid if you ask me. It’s not worse than the real world, sure, but maybe that’s why it’s all the scarier. Even with quirks and super powers, the impossible becoming possible, it isn’t enough to save them from the undesirable. Their society seems to have fallen into a cycle of suffering and oppression that has no end. 

Now, I know no one really gets excited about political theory (unless you’re like me, then please be my friend), but there are some concepts that you’ll need to understand in order to follow along with my argument. So bear with me. 

First, utopia. Utopia is probably a term you’ve heard casually, but the definition political theorists hold it to is simply- “a good place.” Often times it is depicted as a far away dreamland, only possible in the realm of fiction (and this makes sense given that My Hero is fictional). It is very important to understand that utopia is not necessarily perfect. It’s just better than average. There are a few standards that characterize utopia, one being the utopian focus on having very strict laws to repress the unstable nature of mankind [1]. I’ll come back to this. 

Next is dystopia. Dystopia as an idea was actually made in response to utopia. It’s the ‘not-utopia,’ and is lumped with ‘anti-utopia’ (this comment is in reference to the semiotic square, if you would like to develop a further look into it). The simplest way to understand dystopia is to know it’s ‘a not-good place.’ [2] But that’s surprisingly broad. Dystopias can be a failed utopia, or they could have developed on their own as a result of any number of reasons. You’ve probably seen all sorts of depictions of dystopia (climate dystopias, medical dystopias, technology-based dystopias, literally any YA novel from my childhood, you get the idea). Its key to note that unlike an apocalypse, where there is utter destruction and it ends with complete annihilation of humanity, there is hope* inherently written into it. 

*Hope here meaning there’s theoretically a way for the government to be changed/overthrown without death of the majority. 

Now that all that boring stuff is out of the way- let’s talk about My Hero Academia. 

I’d argue that, at first glance, Hero Society seems to be working towards utopia. When reading from Deku’s perspective, especially in the beginning, you would think that their society is close to becoming utopian. The impossible is possible, being a hero is a reality, and a symbol of peace tangibly and definitively exists. When you compare it to pre-quirk society, these changes would appear to be developments. As for the ‘in progress’ aspect, I think Hawks verbalizes it best when he says his goal is for heroes to have too much time on their hands. They aren’t there yet, but if that goal is achieved, it would be a mark of utopia. 

They’ve achieved some level of utopian standards by meeting the ‘strict laws to repress the unstable nature’ standard. Think about the concept of licensing quirks, quirk regulation, and the government institutions that regulate quirk society. Remember when Tomura cornered Deku at the shopping mall and mentioned something along the lines of, ‘all these people could wield their quirks at any moment they want, but choose not to? Instead they smile and laugh.’ 

He has a point. Why is that? From a political theorist point of view, it’s honestly very shocking. For centuries, theorists have argued about how to manage human nature. It’s a difficult task as is. Give everyone superpowers? That would have to be 10x as chaotic. But in the My Hero world, it’s not. It’s well organized. The government took action to regulate the physical instability of humanity which arose from quirks. What’s so impressive to me is that they managed to mitigate (not eliminate) the instability of human nature/behavior along with it.

But if you take a step back to look at My Hero Academia, slowing down and stepping out of Deku’s shoes, I don’t think the instinct is to classify it as a utopia in progress. Of course, its superpowered with quirks- adding to the realm of possibility. But crime of all sorts is superpowered, just as the justice systems/law enforcement in the country. 

When I made this realization, I understood I had kind of been drawn into the propaganda the society puts out. It’s a sort of cloak built up by the positive media around the heroes, the narrative being focused on young heroes and their great mentors, and the universal title of ‘villain’ being put on everyone that breaks the government’s laws (this really bothers me, and maybe I’ll discuss it another time). Things aren’t better. Crime rates have gone down I believe, but the anti-hero sentiments being harbored are more intense than in certain real world societies. Hero society hasn’t necessarily resolved any of the problems that our society would have. The balance is the same, but the possible actions people can take, or the behaviors that are exhibited, are scaled up on both sides of the law.

What’s worse is that- even if its not a universal experience, this society is also a dystopia for many people. The first hint of this society being less than perfect is when we hear from Stain and his pursuit of a ‘just society’ by eliminating fraudulent heroes. His ideals are surprisingly level-headed, and very rigorous in standard, even if it is based in questionable morals. But it’s easy to brush it off. However, its less deniable as you learn more about these characters. 

Shigaraki was abandoned and waited for heroes to save him, but they didn’t. Overhaul was also an orphan living on the streets. Eri was abandoned by her mother because of her quirk. Twice was villainized, when in reality he has mental health issues (dissociative identity disorder I believe). It broke my heart when Twice said “heroes only save good people.” Who decided they were bad people? Why weren’t they saved?

Also, can we talk about the quirkism? (Which I don’t know if that’s a real term within this fandom yet, it might be, but just to be on the same page, I mean quirk-based discrimination) You have people like Shinsou, who’s treated as villain even though he wants be a hero- solely because of his quirk. I believe Toga was also treated poorly because of the nature of her quirk as well (correct me if I’m wrong). And then you have Midoriya, who was harassed and bullied for not having a quirk at all. Clearly none of them have control over the way they were born, and yet they all had to deal with how society treats them because of the uncontrollable. (At this point I’m sure its clear there are a lot of parallels with the discourse around quirkism, racism, and sexism, which is a whole nother conversation).

Having good quirks also seems to get you a pass, or puts you outside the reach of the law. The only example I need for this is Endeavor and his children. Despite all the abuse he’s done that makes him a villain in my book, he stays the number 2 hero. That’s all I need to say. 

The suffering of all these individuals is a direct result of the failure of the government. And this isn’t a ‘government should have taken extra steps to help them.’ This is a situation where the government’s structure, including the sensationalized media and monopolization of quirk use, has actively attacked and oppressed people who otherwise would have been untargeted. 

This is a world of misery for them- the people who make up the underworld. We call them villains and criminals because they are- but I don’t think its fair to call all of them bad people. They definitely didn’t start out that way. They are the results of suffering. They are created by a society that solely aims to remove them from existence. This hero society is so unjust that its faults create its own villains. The villains they aim to stop came to be because of the ‘heroes’ in the first place. The irony there is painful, and I hate that it’s a sort of self fulfilling prophecy. 

The reason why I think it’s morbid is because there is no escape. Quirk society in its current state is undeniably a dystopia for many. But the issue is (and this was the crux of my argument in my paper) dystopia and utopia inevitably and consistently coinhabit space. What is utopia to one will be a dystopia to another. There is no way to get everyone to uniformly view society. 

What that means is, somebody will always be suffering in this society. At least, that’s the cycle that’s been set up. In the episode where Tamaki got shot with a quirk erasing bullet and Kirishima fought the gangster on quirk enhancing drugs, that gangster did say that this was ‘their time’ to rise. “It’ll be the age of those who live in the shadows.” They’re not looking for resolution. They’re looking for revenge. They want to flip the script and be the ones living in utopia while everyone else is subject to suffering. The concept of everyone living happily in harmony and true peace isn’t even in consideration. 

There seems to be no middle ground, no solution to the push and pull between the ‘heroes’ and ‘villains.’ The unfairness will continue to be passed around, and unless someone can break the cycle, attack the corruption of the system at its roots,

the problem is not going to go away. 

Sources!

[1] Claeys, Gregory, and Fatima Vieira. “The Concept of Utopia.” In The         Cambridge Companion to Utopian Literature. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013.

[2] Robinson , Kim Stanley. “Dystopias Now.” Commune, November 17, 2018.            https://communemag.com/dystopias-now/.

Copyright © 2020 Colorseeingchick. All rights reserved. 

[arukou-arukou]

A Non-zero Chance

I jumbled the timeline as I was writing this. Just go with it, okay? For @stevetonygames prompt Fluff: Sparring, for team angst. Also adding fic non-linear and tropes: soulmates. Angst with a hopeful ending. Mentions of sex acts. Canon typical violence. There is a read more line after the first section.

 Many many months after that faithful day in Sibera, Tony returned to the scene of the crime. The site was untouched. He hadn’t told Ross about it, and apparently T’Challa had decided well enough was better left alone. The holes they’d put into the bunker of the facility had completely covered over in frost and ice, and Tony had to wonder how Zemo had even dug the little hillock out in the first place. Though there had been a snowcat parked outside when they all first arrived. Without any care, though, it had once again faded into the arctic surroundings. Only someone who knew what they were looking for would find it.

Tony broke in through the holes rather than the front door. He wasn’t really in a mood for digging, and as satisfying as it might be to melt snow with an overloaded repulsor, this mission was also supposed to be stealth and secretive, and he didn’t really need Ross any further up his ass.

Inside, the evidence of their fight wasn’t as big or horrifying as he remembered. There were some structures that had toppled, and a few spots where he’d scorched cement with a repulsor, but it didn’t look nearly as bad as he remembered it being. The Avengers had certainly done worse elsewhere. Tony ran his hand over a shield-shaped crack in the wall.

—

 “This is ridiculous, Cap, we need to know how to fight together, not fight each other.”

Steve smiles back over his shoulder. His ridiculously broad shoulder. “After Wanda mind-whammied us, I’m not taking any chances. We should all know how to incapacitate each other just as a precaution.”

“Only incapacitate, Steve? Not maim?”

Steve chuckles and starts strapping on boxing tape. “No maiming on the docket today. Maybe next Tuesday.”

 —

 Tony followed their trail of destruction back into the heart of the bunker, where the super soldiers still rested suspended, illuminated in sickly yellow. There was the fucking TV, right there. The thing that had ruined it all. Tony stared down at it, wondering where the tape reel itself was located. Probably back in that room Zemo had been hiding in. The bulletproof one. Somewhere in the hallways, Tony could hear water dripping. Impressive, really, given the permafrost all around. He would’ve thought the systems had frozen over long ago. Near his foot, there was a gun, the semi-automatic Barnes had been carrying. It was useless now, its clip and firing mechanisms slagged by his repulsors. He picked it up all the same and aimed it at the glass where Zemo had hidden. The suit’s fingers were too thick to fit over the trigger—what was left of it anyway—so Tony just imagined how satisfying it would be to fill that glass full of shrapnel, to watch Zemo crumple to the ground.

 —

 “Why are you even training me, Rogers? I’m retired. Aren’t you supposed to be looking after the rookies?”

“Just because you’re retired, Tony, doesn’t mean trouble won’t come looking for you. You’re a pretty attractive target.”

“Why yes. Yes, I am. Thank you for noticing.”

Steve punches his bicep gently before offering a bottle of water. Tony takes it, squirting some into his mouth before moving on to his sweat-drenched hair. On Steve’s left wrist, he catches sight of the red band that hides Steve’s words. It would be rude to ask. Totally taboo. But Tony can’t stop himself.

 —

 Tony managed to jimmy his way into the control room, and there he found the VCR, still loaded with the incriminating tape. If he were smart, he would just rip the thing apart, burn the tape and shatter the shell. And Tony was smart. Just not smart in the right ways. He fired up the power to the TV, rewound the tape, and then hit play again. He’d rewound too far. Barnes was in his cryo tube. Some slimy scientists were hauling him out, shoving him into some horrifying chair, pushing down the nodes, saying the words.

No. Tony didn’t want this. He didn’t want to feel sympathy for Barnes. He wanted to let his rage fester and corrode him until he didn’t care anymore. All caring had ever gotten him was betrayal.

 —

 “Do you know who they belong to?” Tony asks, looking up defiantly, refusing to be sheepish about his lack of willpower. Steve glances down at his band before looking up again.

“Yeah. Yeah, I do.” He looks wistful and boyish, sweet and beautiful. Tony wants to kiss away the sorrow he sees in that face.

“Who?”

“Doesn’t matter. He’s dead now.”

“Oh.” Tony touches his own band, thinking of the words beneath. He’s my friend. The most significant thing anyone will ever say to him. The thing that, if the romantics would have him believe it, points him toward his soulmate. He’s never really gone in for that, though. His parents had had each other’s words, and their marriage was anything but blissful and romantic.

No. Tony’s got a different theory about the words.

 —

 There. Tony spotted it before even knowing he was looking for it. On Barnes’ collarbone. Had fate known he would lose the arm? It was unusual for words to be somewhere else on the body. Non-dominant wrist. That was the norm. The tap quality was shit and Tony couldn’t enhance it without bringing the tape back to Fry. And like hell he was bringing the tape home. Were the files somewhere? Hadn’t Zemo had a book? Maybe it was here?

Tony searched the control room, trying to find evidence of the thing Zemo had used to control Barnes. There was no sign of it, but what there were were dozens of filing drawers, all of them covered in a layer of dust. Tony started digging.

 —

 Steve’s off his game today, Tony can tell. He’s distracted by something, mind not in the ring, and Tony takes advantage. Just like Steve and Nat taught him to. He sweeps Steve’s leg, rolls on top of him, pins his leg in a position that's precariously dangerous even for a supersoldier, and applies weight. “Yield?”

It’s late, the halls are quiet. Tony hadn’t even meant to do sparring with Steve today, but Steve had asked, so Tony had delayed his return to New York City and well, the late hour puts his mind elsewhere.

Their eyes lock. Tony’s still on top of Steve, holding him in place, threatening his knee joint. Between one breath and the next, their positions are flipped, Steve on top of Tony, both of them hard, teeth clacking. Tony doesn’t make it back to New York City that night.

 —

 What felt like hours later, Tony finally discovered what looked like a medical log. He’d been trying to learn Russian, but adding a new script was harder than adding a spoken language, and he was a busy man, what with covering Rogers’ ass every other day. Natasha might have been a master spy, but Steve was a puppy who hadn’t learned how to control his tail wag yet, and he left destroyed crockery in his wake. There was always some trail to some terrorist or smuggler or weapons dealer that needed cleaning up, lest Ross take notice. The point being, Tony’s Russian wasn’t exactly sparkling.

But he’d double-checked ahead of time to know what he was looking for and now he was pretty sure he’d found it. Flipping through the file, Tony found what he wanted to know almost instantly. ‘Til the end of the line. The words. Those words.

 —

 It’s a thing. Sort of. Tony comes to the compound. They spar. They fuck. It’s only their third time sleeping together that Steve drags him into the shower, wristband conspicuously absent. Tony touches the thin skin, for once asking permission before he looks down. Steve nods, trusting, contented. I’m with you to the end of the line, pal. “He” Steve had said. Tony doesn’t need to ask to know who “he” is. There was only one really important “he” in Steve’s life way back when. And it makes sense, too. After all, Barnes plunged to his death trying to protect Steve and Steve had tried to protect him just as hard. Of course they’re important to each other.

“Can I see yours,” Steve asks, kissing Tony’s band. Fair’s fair, Tony thinks to himself, and nods.

Steve gently unclasps the snaps and sets the band aside outside the shower. He looks down at the words and then up at Tony with a silent question. “I don’t know whose they are.”

“And you’re still okay with us?”

“Steve, I’m standing naked in a shower with you. I’m pretty damn okay with this.”

The bright grin Steve gives him feels like a gift.

 —

 Tony left, hauling the tape and the filing cabinets behind him. They would be useful sooner or later, he was sure. And it felt so important, hauling his literal baggage along with him back to the US. Well, first a pit stop in Wakanda so Shuri could make copies. Fry flew the quinjet on autopilot, which was maybe a mistake. Tony needed distractions and all he had were files rendered in Russian, which were frankly giving him a headache. He wanted to hate Barnes so much. But fate was literally sending him a message. Barnes. Rogers. ‘Til the end of the line.

Eventually, frustrated, he managed to sink into a fitful sleep, which took him to Wakanda’s borders. T’Challa sent along an escort at the shield wall to make sure Tony was alone and also to make sure Tony didn’t cause any undue trouble. As if he could manage anything more than a nervous breakdown at the moment. Shuri was waiting for him on the platform, and for her and her brilliant mind, he managed a tired smile.

“Brought a present for you.”

“Thank you, Tony. I would get them myself, but—”

“No, no. You’re busy in Oakland kicking science ass and shooting layups with the youth. Let the old guy take care of the analog—” Tony shuddered theatrically “—files.”

Shuri smiled more brightly and kissed him on the cheek. “You look tired. Go see my mother. She’ll be wanting to mother you.”

“I shouldn’t. I’ve gotta—”

“My brother has already ensured that General Ross cannot find you. Go. Eat some food. Get some rest. Perhaps we can talk about your latest arc reactor designs in the morning. I have some ideas.”

“I bet you do.”

Tony knew when he’d been dismissed, and he also knew he was being handled a little, but it felt nice to be handled. It felt nice to not have to be trying to outwit Ross at every turn for a little while. So he allowed Ramonda to stuff him full of delicious, spicy food and then shuffled off to the guest wing, intent on getting at least four hours before he took off.

But the second he laid down, he was awake and restless, unable to settle. His thoughts kept going back to those files, going back to the “end of the line,” thinking again and again about the letters carved into Steve’s skin. How many times had he kissed that wrist? How many times had Steve kissed his? How was it fair, that Steve would be Tony’s words, but Tony wouldn’t be Steve’s?

Fed up, he yanked on a pair of loose cotton pants and a loose cotton T-shirt and wandered the palace, looking for distraction. None of the guards stopped him, though they watched him with considerable distrust. He didn’t blame them. He wouldn’t trust him either. Not anymore. It was only when he heard the sound of skin slapping leather that he stopped short. That sounded like… But it couldn’t be. All the same, he pushed through the door, freezing as he discovered a huge training ground, Steve inside, alone at a punching bag.

Steve froze too, and the bag caught him on the backswing, smacking him straight in the nose. Tony found himself caught between laughing and rushing forward with concern, and ended up doing a bit of both, snorting as he approached, though he remained well out of Steve’s personal bubble. “Smooth, Cap.”

“Tony, what are you doing here?”

Tony scuffed his toes into the mats, which felt solid right up until he kicked them and then gave way like kinetic sand. It felt heavenly and he wanted to play with it and see what it was made out of. “Oh, you know. Just dropped in for a cuppa with the King.”

“Did…did you bring those files?” Steve remained sprawled on the floor, looking up at him, a trickle of blood trailing from his nose.

“And if I did?”

Steve swallowed heavily, rubbing at the blood and smearing it. And then he was up, faster than Tony could react to, holding Tony, kissing him sloppily through mumbled “I’m sorry’s.” Tony didn’t know how to react. Was this what an out-of-body experience felt like? He remained motionless even as Steve broke away, jumping back, looking more unsure than he’d looked since he and Tony first met. “Shit. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have… You don’t want…” Steve took a huge breath and squared his shoulders, looking Tony in the eye. “That was wrong of me. I hurt you. In so many ways. It was wrong of me to kiss you.”

“Also pretty sure you’re cheating on your boyfriend if you kiss me. Don’t forget that bit.”

The little line between Steve’s eyebrows deepened. “Bucky and I, we’re not… We’re just not. I thought we would. But I can’t. Every time I tried, I felt like I was betraying you. And Bucky felt like it was wrong, too. We didn’t…we didn’t click. Not romantically, anyway.”

“You’re not…” Tony could barely dare to let himself to hope. “Didn’t you back in the war, though?”

“No. No, we didn’t. It was too much, running missions, fighting Hydra. Plus, he was afraid I’d get caught and outed. So we didn’t. I should’ve told you. But I didn’t think it mattered.”

All the thoughts Tony used to have about the words, the idea that maybe they had nothing at all to do with romance, came back to him. He ran a finger over his own wrist, where Steve’s words were hidden.

“Hey, Steve?”

“Yeah?” Steve stood there, square, looking as though he was waiting to be punched, ready to take his punishment like a man.

“Wanna spar?”

[dawnrider]

So for Reunion day of @inukag-week, you could go read Return to Me, since it hits all the buttons for the canon reunion.  However, here I will share a WIP that is a Modern AU no one is surprised with slightly angstier vibes. I don’t really have a name for it yet.

CW: Major character is Deaf, Discussion/descriptions of an assault, Recall/memory/flashbacks

Italics - thoughts      ‘Words’ - Signed    “Words” - Spoken aloud 

Part 1 | Part 2 |

A whisper of cloth and the near silent squeak of a sneaker on the tile floor.  They sounded loud in his ears, echoing almost mockingly, an ingrained twitch in his body at the thought that they might wake her.  But that wasn't going to happen.  She couldn't hear them.  Never would.

Crouching beside her bed, the sight of her bruised face a reminder of what he hadn't been there to protect her from, he tried to find a way to swallow his anger.  No one touched her like that.  No one.  But I wasn't there to stop him.  Trying to breathe through his intense emotions, he set each one in its own invisible box.  Guilt, fear, anger, sadness and regret.  He tried to deal with the guilt first.  He'd known about this guy, the one following her around.  Showing up at her job, following her home, trying to take her out.  Too busy, too busy to see her and too busy to keep this from happening.  Fool.  There was the anger.  Put it back in its box to be dealt with in time.  Her hands were even bruised and scraped from where she'd tried to protect herself.

Nose twitching, he took in her scent and tried to find the light happy fragrance he knew.  It was overlaid with antiseptic, gauze, bleach, medicine, pain.  He hated hospitals.  Closing his eyes to take another calming breath, Inuyasha opened them again only to find at least one of a pair of deep brown eyes staring at him.  The other was swollen shut and could barely flutter let alone open.  A confused frown crinkled her brow as a groan left her.  Rolling her head away from him, she seemed to dismiss his presence.  Waiting for her to either go back to sleep, or realize he was in fact there was agonizing.  The nurse had told him before he came in that she was on relatively high doses of pain medication so the likelihood of her thinking he was a figment of her imagination was fairly high.

A moment later, his heart jumped in his chest when her gaze, less confused, returned to him.  He flinched when her right hand, bandaged and bruised, lifted weakly in an attempt to make the name sign she'd given him years ago.  His mouth in a thin line, he nodded.  I'm here.  I'm here now.  He couldn't move his hands in the way he needed to in order to tell her what he wanted to say.  Nothing could come close to the apology she deserved.  They twitched almost uselessly in front of him, her name sign the only thing they seemed certain of.  “Kagome.  I'm...  I should have...  How are you feeling?”  The corner of his mouth lifted in a tiny grin when she frowned at him, a frustrated hand raising to his lips to cover them.  He had a bad habit of speaking while he signed when he was upset, a pet peeve of hers.  Kagome had explained to him it was disconcerting, reading signs and reading lips at the same time.  Especially when they didn't match.

'Why are you here?'  The movement of her hands was slow, pained, overly careful.  Again Inuyasha felt that tightness in his chest.  Not just at her question, nor the lack of the usual freedom of her communication, but that she had every right to ask it.  Months had gone by since he'd seen her for more than a few minutes, or at a large event where they didn't get time to talk to one another.

'I came to make sure you were alright.'  A rough breath left her.  Flinching at the heavy sound of it, Inuyasha tried to keep himself together.  'I should have run that...'

'Stop.  Nothing can be done about it now.'  But that was what made him so angry.  He couldn't just kill the asshole, couldn't hurt him even after what he'd done to Kagome.  The legal system, even as it tried to nail his ass for the crime, protected him from retribution.  'You saw me.  You don't have to stay.'  Her gaze skittered away from his when he tried to determine if that was really what she wanted.

Shaking his head at her, he gently touched her arm to get her attention.  'I'm not running away anymore.  You... you have always been my friend.  Just because things changed...'  Kagome sucked in a breath, the scent of tears in her eyes.  Inuyasha felt the weight of all they had been denying and inflicting on one another swamp him once more.  He'd spent months trying to pretend none of it had happened, that he didn't need her around.  She had tried to do the same.  'Your answer was fair.  I was hurt and I overreacted,' he slowly explained.  Her one good eye watched his hands, her gaze barely acknowledging his face.  'I'm not asking anything.  I just want to be near you.'  The scent of her tears grew stronger, but he could feel her relief.  Whether that was relief that he wasn't pressuring her, or that he wanted to stay by her, he didn't know.  Her hand, fragile and bruised, gripped his suddenly.  Looking up at her he could see the grateful tilt to her mouth and the slight quiver of insecurity in her chin.  She wanted to trust that he meant what he said, but feared it as well.  'I'm here as long as you want me here,'  he told her with his free hand.  She nodded, her grip loosening slightly as her eyes drifted shut once more.  Watching her sleep, more peacefully than before, Inuyasha was caught up in remembering.

***

“You can't just leave, Kikyou.  We made vows.”  She glared at him, her eyes colder than he ever remembered.  “You just going to take those back like they're nothing?”

Her stance straightened and she tried to stare him down.  “I thought I could make this work between us.  But you aren't willing to make compromises.”

Inuyasha balked at her audacity.  “Compromises?  Me becoming a human somehow is not a compromise Kikyou!  You married me like this, promised to love and keep me like this!”

Her eyes barely betrayed her hesitation.  She wanted to keep believing that what she was asking made sense, that what she wanted him to do was completely fair.  But being reminded of the vows they had made to one another almost five years before made her resolve falter.  “I thought things would be different,” she said quietly.  “I thought you would come around.”  He snorted, turning away from her.  He looked down at his hands, staring at the ring on his finger.  He snarled at it, ripping it off of his hand and throwing it at her feet.

“Get out.  You obviously don't want to be here anymore.  Here's your chance.”  She didn't move for a long time, staring at the wide band that lay at her feet.  He couldn't imagine what was running through her head, but he could guess that she didn't like having the argument turned around on her.  “Goodbye, Kikyou.”  The door slammed a moment later and he heard the thud of her feet on the stairs and her suitcases clunking into the walls as she went.

It had taken him weeks to even consider speaking of it to anyone and the first person he had gone to was Kagome.  She had been his best friend from the time they were in college on.  He'd always known he could tell her anything and she would lend a sympathetic eye, or tell him he was being ridiculous if he was.  'That bitch!'  The sign had been harsh enough that he worried she'd bruise her chin.  'The nerve of that woman, thinking...'  Inuyasha had lost most of the following rant since Kagome had been pacing and signing so furiously that he couldn't pick out more than a few signs at a time.  When her eyes finally returned to him he was impressed, as usual, by the fire that lit them.  

There had been times in the past when people had thought Kagome and Kikyou were sisters, even twins.  They were distantly related, second cousins twice removed or something, but the resemblance was completely off-set by the difference in their eyes.  He used to think Kikyou's eyes were pretty.  Sharp and intelligent.  But now he saw them for the edges and ice that lay at the depths.

Kagome's, on the other hand, were warm and soft.  He'd never met anyone with eyes as expressive as hers.  At times when she was furious, like now, they danced like flames with her anger.  They could melt him when she smiled, draw him in when she cried...  'It doesn't matter now.'  She looked back at him in disbelief.  He chuckled a little.  'Don't get me wrong, I'm upset.  There's nothing I can do.  Nothing I want to do.  I signed papers last week.'

'Fast,' she replied, a puff of air leaving her lips.  She sat on the edge of the couch in front of him, staring at him hard.  'Sure you'll be alright?'

He was able to see the concern in her eyes and it warmed him.  He nodded resolutely.  With friends like his, he'd be just fine.  With a friend like Kagome, he would make it through.

***

A rustle made his head pop up and he realized he'd fallen asleep next to Kagome's bed.  She looked at him guiltily while he glanced around, trying to determine what was happening.  Kagome's covers were slipped off of her and one foot was hanging off the bed.  'Where are you going?' he asked her, narrowing his golden eyes at her.  'You aren't supposed to be out of bed, are you?'  In spite of the damage to her face, Kagome's signature stubborn look was in place.

'I have to go to the bathroom, Inuyasha.'

'Ask for help, stupid, don't try it on your own.'  Sighing, he stood up and went around the bed to help her to her feet.  Once she was standing, it was obvious there was no way she would have made it by herself.  She was off balance, her legs were weak and she could barely see.  “Keh, no way you could have done this on your own,” he mumbled at the side of her head.  It was on her bad side and so she didn't see him chastising her.

***

The idea had been tearing his mind apart for weeks.  What if it was right?  What if Kagome really was the one?  She was loving, faithful, intelligent... beautiful.  All the things he had thought he'd had in Kikyou.  Kagome accepted him, liked him just how he was.  Why had it never occurred to him before?  But now that it had, it wouldn't leave him alone.  Every time he saw her, it chewed at the back of his thoughts making him awkward and bumbling around her.  She teased him, telling him that he'd lost his touch with women when she encouraged him to flirt with girls at the bar.  None of them compared to her, and even if they had, his heart was already elsewhere.  She's it, she's perfect.  He sat nervously, trying to rehearse his carefully chosen words to make her understand.

Kagome stepped into the gazebo, wondering why Inuyasha had asked her to meet him here of all places.  They often walked by it, as it was the central feature of the park near her apartment, but they'd never actually been in it.  Knowing that they were supposed to be going out to dinner, she had dressed up a little, but she was startled to see Inuyasha in a suit.  He hated wearing suits, especially since he had to wear one to work everyday.  'You look nice,' she told him.  The almost royal blue shirt looked very sharp under his black suit jacket, the top few buttons left open for a slightly more casual look.  He smirked at her, but there was a nervous edge to his mouth and the way he was standing.  'Why did you want to meet here?' she finally asked him, opening the table for whatever he seemed to have on his mind.  Is Kikyou back in the picture? She wondered.  No, he wouldn't ask me to dinner to tell me that.  What are you up to Inuyasha?  He motioned for her to sit on the bench beside him, finally sitting down when she was comfortable.

Taking several deep breaths, Inuyasha was finally able to get his mind organized enough to move his hands in the right way.  'We have been friends a long time.  You have been my most honest and most giving friend, when I needed it most.'  Kagome's eyes, expressive as always, grew concerned.  'You have kept me from doing some pretty stupid things in the last ten years and I hope you can keep guiding me through the rest of my life.  Kagome,' he paused, taking a gentle hold of her hands for a moment before releasing them to continue, 'would you allow me to court you, to become my mate?'  Her face froze.

Her eyes were confused, unsure, and sad.  She wanted to say yes, he could see it, but something made her hesitate.  He waited impatiently for her to respond in some way until her gaze lowered to his hands, her delicate fingers brushing the stripe on his left ring finger that had just regained its proper coloring a few weeks before.  He held his breath, waiting for her to do or say something more.  'I couldn't keep you from all the mistakes.'

'No, but I've learned from this one.'

Breathing out a sigh, Kagome looked up at him and then back at his hand.  'Five years is a long time, and you've only been divorced from her for a few months.  Weren't you already mated?'

The bitter pain swelled in him for a moment but he managed to swallow it.  He had a new chance, a better opportunity for that.  One he had never thought open to him before.  'No.  She didn't want that.'  He ducked his head to get her to look him in the eye.  'I always had this... Feeling.  In the back of my mind.  I felt things going wrong with Kikyou and how often I was thinking about you didn't help.  I thought it was just because you treated me so well while she was so angry all the time.  I know better now.'

'Know what better?'

'That I was never meant to be with Kikyou.  She couldn't love me as I am. And now I understand, it wasn't fair to her to try to force her to either.'  Her bottom lip quivered in a way too familiar to him.  'What's wrong?'

She looked away a moment to gather her wits.  Was he asking her this very important question because he really wanted her, or because he was hurt and lost and needed someone to come home to?  She couldn't be sure, and it was too soon for him to be sure either.  Turning herself back to him she finally found herself able to look him in the eye.  'Inuyasha, you know I love you dearly, I have almost since the day I met you.'  She was crushed by the hopeful look in his eyes.  He wanted her to say yes, she wanted to say yes...  'But it is too soon.  You need to take some time to think about what you really want in life.  You have a long one ahead of you.'  The disappointment was almost more than she could take, the anger that replaced it even worse.

“No.  You can't be serious.”  She didn't respond, having read his lips, but she gave him a pleading look.  “It took a lot for me to ask you that, Kagome!”  She stared at him helplessly when she missed most of his words because he was angry and not forming his words properly.  'I took a big risk,' he finally signed to her, his movements jerky and furious.

'I know that.  I am honored that you would ask me.'  She took a deep breath.  'The day you married her hurt me too Inuyasha.'  Her signs were small and careful.  'I wanted to speak up in the church and stop the whole thing.  No one would have heard me,' she said with a wry, pained smile.  'I couldn't ruin things for you when you were so happy.  No matter how much it hurt.'  Inuyasha's eyes dropped, remembering how happy they had been, how withdrawn Kagome had been through the whole process.  When they rose, Kagome continued.  'I am really flattered that you would ask me something so important.  Until I know you don't think of her when you look at me, I can't take that risk.'

“Kagome,” he protested.  She stood, shaking her head.  'Fine,' he snapped, the claw on his thumb jamming him in the chest.  'Forget dinner.  Forget everything.'  Kagome's eyes showed her hurt.  All Inuyasha could think about was how she didn't deserve to feel hurt, not after rejecting him.  'Maybe I'll see you around.'  He turned to leave.  Feeling her small hand on his shoulder, he paused.  He could not turn, kept his eyes closed...

“Yasha!” she called softly in her nasalized accent.  He turned despite his determination not to, unable to ignore her when she actually spoke to him, a rarity to be sure.  'I still care about you,' she explained.  'More than I should,' she admitted, tears in her eyes.  'That's why now isn't the right time.  You need to heal before we can...  Anything can happen.'  He scoffed and she frowned painfully.  'I will always be here for you.'

***

That having been one of the last things she said to him before he pushed her out of his life made the sting of seeing her injured even worse.  She had told him that she would always be there if he needed her, had done so all through the marriage that pained her so much to sit by and watch happen.  And he hadn't been there to protect her when she needed him more than ever before.  Inuyasha sighed, his head hanging in his hands while Kagome slept again.  Their trip to the bathroom had been difficult and frustrating for both of them.  He wanted to help her, now that he was done being a selfish idiot, and she wanted to trust him to help her...  The bathroom was not the place to do that.  He'd ended up having to call the nurse in to help Kagome in the bathroom itself, then took over again when she was done.

“She will likely sleep for another few hours, why don't you take a break?”  Sango's face was tense as she stood in the doorway, trying to look relaxed and failing.  Inuyasha had a hunch that she wasn't thrilled to see him, but knew that there wasn't anywhere else he would be once she'd told him Kagome was in the hospital.  “You look like you need the rest.”

Fighting the urge to growl at her and cling childishly to the side of the bed, he shook his head, looking down at its occupant.  “I'm not going anywhere.”

The scoff he heard was the only warning he got.  “You have no right, Inuyasha.  She gave everything to you and you disappeared!”  Sango knew that raising her voice wouldn't likely affect Kagome, but she kept it at a low hiss anyway.  “She cried for days after you canceled that dinner and now you want to sit here and tell me you're not going anywhere?”  Sango's growl was nearly inhuman.  “You don't deserve it.”

He tried his hardest to keep his temper under control.  Any fluctuation in his aura would likely wake Kagome.  “You're right, I don't deserve it.  But I'm not leaving her side.  I made a mistake, and I'm going to make up for it.”  Unsure if he should, he paused a moment before explaining what he now knew Kagome had never told Sango.  “That night I called off dinner, I asked Kagome let me start courting her to be my mate.”  He fought a smirk at the surprised gasp that came from the woman by the door.  “Kagome turned me down, told me it was too soon.  She was right, but at the time I was too hurt by her rejection to see it.  That is why I disappeared.  Because I was selfish and hurt.”  Sango's stance settled into an actually relaxed pose.

“That's not an excuse,” she replied halfheartedly.

“No, but now you know why we haven't been seeing each other as much.”

Sango's eyes dropped to the floor as she contemplated what he'd told her.  He was sincere, there was no doubt in her mind of that.  She had sat with Kagome that night and for several nights afterward, trying to soothe her upset and not sure how to do it.  Kagome had never said a bad thing about Inuyasha, but she also hadn't told her what had really happened.  Knowing what she did now, she couldn't be as angry with Inuyasha.  He had been making a bold move, one that had backfired.  Kagome had loved him too long to allow a few months or even years waiting for him to heal from his broken marriage keep them from being together eventually.  She knew that her friend had been thinking only of what was best for Inuyasha at the time and had assumed, naively, that he would appreciate that.  The last few months had proven that he'd been more hurt by her rejection than he had seemed to be by his wife leaving him.  “She was thinking of what was best for you,” she sighed softly.  “She always does.”  Inuyasha made a small grunt of acknowledgment.

Kagome had been looking out for him from the moment he'd met her at the front of a math class in a giant lecture hall their freshman year of college.  She'd been staring intently at her interpreter, who also happened to be her best friend Sango, laughing at something she'd just signed to her.  He, trying to find an empty spot to sit in the overly crowded lower section, had nearly bowled over the tall dark-haired translator.  Kagome had jumped up, grabbing onto his arm just before the collision happened.  Sango had looked just as startled as he had before looking him up and down.  “There's a spot next to me,” she spoke without blinking and he had been so confused until he realized she was voicing for the girl who held onto him.  He glanced at her, then back at Sango before nodding dumbly.

Watching the two young women in avid fascination through the whole class meant he'd learned only a few things they were signing and absolutely nothing about the matrices the professor had been trying to instruct them on that day.  He'd been forced over the next few weeks to ask for Kagome's meticulous notes and her tutelage until he had caught up and felt comfortable in the class.  Alongside his math lessons, she and Sango were teaching him to sign and he had clearly picked it up more quickly than either of the girls had expected.  Soon enough he and Kagome were able to go anywhere without Sango's presence as a go-between and they were practically inseparable after that.  She made him laugh more each day than he had in the twelve years since his mother had died.  She understood his bouts of darkness and managed to pull him out of them.  She had never pushed him to tell her about his family, his heritage, his insecurities, but they had come out of him anyway in long flowing strands on his fingertips.  She cried for him, but never made him feel pitied.

Until the day Kikyou had sat next to him in a sophomore level history class, batting her eyes at him and passing him surreptitious glances, a tiny little flicker that told him he was in love with Kagome had lurked in the back of his mind.  But she had never pursued him, certainly not like Kikyou had and he'd been so drawn in by Kikyou's beauty and her intelligence that the flicker had been ignored.  Now, eight years later, he fully understood that the flicker had slowly become a roaring fire in the time that he had been married and now in the months since his divorce.  He loved Kagome with all that he was and he fully intended to make her understand that there was no room in his heart for anyone else.  He had forgiven Kikyou for expecting him to change and himself for expecting the same of her.  Kagome had only ever offered her steadfast friendship, indomitable spirit and her quiet love.  And while it was already more than he could ever ask for, he wanted more.  He wanted the rest of her.  Body, mind, spirit, heart and soul.  He knew it was in her to love him like he knew he loved her.  She had stood by him, talked him down from many an angry precipice during his marriage, comforted him when it was falling apart without breathing a word of the love he now knew she held for him.  For his part, he wished he could claim the same selfless kind of love.  He knew himself well enough to know that he had to have her as his own or he would lose it completely.

The reasoning behind her rejection of him, now that he was able to look back on it with a clearer head, proved that Kagome only wanted what would make him happy and healthy, even at the cost of her own happiness.  She had been afraid he was going to make another mistake, making her his mate, when in fact it had been his mistake to have ever allowed another woman to come between the growing adoration that had been lingering in the back of his heart.

@lemonlushff , @fantastiqueparfait , @heavenin--hell, @clearwillow , @mamabearcat , @thunderpo , @keichanz , @meggz0rz , @disgruntledbeast , @sarah-writes-stories , @zelink-inukag , @cammysansstuff , @mcornilliac , @redflamesofpassion , @superpixie42 , @underwater0phelia , @cstorm86 , @noviceotakus-blog , @lavendertwilight89 , @hinezumi , @wenchster , @hnnwnchstr , @lady-dark-69 , @itzatakahashi , @juliatheanimelover7 , @kazeinori , @theinuyashareader , @inupotter , @eternalnight8806-3 , @smmahamazing , @willowandfog , @gaysonthefloor , @sistasecbhere , @jennybean91 , @alerialblu, @laurenintheskyy

[blitzturtles]

Title: Heatwave

Rating: Teen and Up

Fandom: JoJo's Bizarre Adventure: Vento Aureo

Pairing(s): MeloGhia / GhiaMelo

Summary: To say that Ghiaccio hates the heat would be something of an understatement. He can’t stand it. Can’t exist in it.

Notes: I read that Ghiaccio having problems with/hating the heat is a bit of a fan favorite in terms of headcanons, and, since I am heat intolerant, I thought I'd inflict something called dysautonomia on him.

Dysautonomia basically means the autonomic nervous system (heartbeat, breathing, etc...) doesn't functioning correctly. And one type of dysautonomia is POTS, or Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome. This can cause an increase in heart rate, lowered blood pressure, orthostatic intolerance (difficulty with standing, which is usually caused by an abrupt drop of blood pressure and a significantly elevated heart rate), heat intolerance, etc...

-

To say that Ghiaccio hates the heat would be something of an understatement. He can’t stand it. Can’t exist in it. Because the heat hates him just as much. It builds under his skin, while his blood collects in all the wrong places, apparently he’s too weak against gravity for his body to continue to circulate properly.

Every attempt at moving brings about a response wherein his heart pounds away painfully in his chest. It’s an attempt, on its part, to try to correct the problem, but it’s really only making it worse. The inner chambers of his heart squeeze too hard, and the bounding of his pulse can be felt through his clothes-- not that he’s wearing much more than a tank top and a pair of boxers at this point.

He’s tried to use White Album to keep the worst of it at bay, but he’s running out of energy. Partly because this particular wave of too-hot days has stretched on for nearly a week, and partly because his body is exhausting itself in its effort to recapture homeostasis.

Nausea bubbles up on his guts for the umpteenth time; a sure sign that all the blood in his body is being shunted away from anything deemed non-vital. He hasn’t eaten much of anything in days simply to avoid the repercussions of an underactive digestive system, and that certainly isn’t helping.

He knows he isn’t drinking enough water, either. Knows that it’s vital for someone like him, but he can’t bring himself to care when he’s splayed out on the cold floor of his bedroom with limbs spread in every direction. Every time the floor warms, he simply scoots to a new spot or rolls himself over until it becomes necessary to repeat the process all over again.

Being on the floor has the added bonus of reducing the amount of energy that goes into his body fighting gravity. If he were to try to stand right now, the dizziness would hit him so severely that he might not be able to catch himself before blacking out. All of his blood would rush down into his legs, and his brain would momentarily blip out on him. The last thing he needs is a concussion.

He’s too caught in his own thoughts to notice someone popping the door open (it should be locked anyways, but when has that ever stopped anyone in this godforsaken house?)

“Ah,” Melone says when he looks into the room and sets his eyes on Ghiaccio. He makes his way over to the sprawled man and peers down at him through a curtain of lavender hair, “Body being a bitch today?”

“You’re being a bitch today,” Ghiaccio snaps back, but there’s no heat to it.

“Aw,” Melone juts out his lower lip, “Now is that any way to talk to the one that brought you presents?”

“I don’t give a fuck, Mel, go away,” the nickname is the only thing that betrays his attempt at sound pissed. He isn’t really. Not at Melone, but he’s miserable and sick to his stomach and overheated and kind of over the whole living thing.

Melone pretends to consider the request-- it’s not one-- before grinning, “No. Don’t think so. Up with you! Wait, no. Don’t move.” He disappears out the door, though only just outside of it. He comes back a few seconds later with a massive duffel bag that only makes Ghiaccio groan. He has no idea what Melone is up to, but he can tell when Melone’s scheming, and that doesn’t always bode well for Ghiaccio.

Without asking, Melone settles down next to Ghiaccio on the floor, right in his next cold spot, and that gets Melone a glare that he, of course, ignores. “Relax, the internet said this’ll help.”

“The internet says all kinds of bullshit,” Ghiaccio mumbles with a roll of his eyes, but there’s no stopping Melone now.

At least not until he pulls a needle, and Ghiaccio suddenly finds the energy (adrenaline) to quickly sit up in an attempt to escape. His vision rapidly fades out, and it’s only Melone’s hands that stop him from hitting the ground.

“Have a little faith, Ghia!” Melone whines, but he’s still grinning.

Bastard.

“Whatever,” now Ghiaccio is losing patience with the man.

“The science is sound! You’re low on blood volume, and I’ve got a pretty easy fix for that. Plus some ice packs,” Melone resumes digging into the bag and pulls out several, soft freezer packs. Ghiaccio takes them with a little more eagerness than he means to let on, but Melone only smiles in response. A softer, more genuine thing that makes Ghiaccio’s heart flutter for an entirely different reason.

“How are you going to ‘fix’ my blood volume?”

“You’ll see,” Melone answers, earning himself a roll of the eyes from Ghiaccio.

It takes Melone awhile to set up whatever he’s doing, and Ghiaccio gives up figuring it out only a few minutes in. He’s gathered that it has to do with some sort of injection. Possibly more than one, given the tourniquet, but he doesn’t know enough about medical supplies to put any of the other pieces together. Instead, he closes his eyes and tries to focus on the feeling of the freezing sensation against his skin from where he’s stuck the packs against his stomach and legs. It’s both a relief and a comfort. Cold is an old, reliable friend and his only solace in times like these.

Eventually, Melone breaks him out of his daze to ask, “Ready?”

Melone wraps the tourniquet around Ghiaccio’s upper arm as he speaks, and Ghiaccio simply shrugs with his other shoulder. He doesn’t think he actually has much say in this. When Melone sets his mind to something, he’s going to follow it through, and that goes double for medical experiments. It’s not the first time Ghiaccio is on the receiving end, and he has to admit that it hasn’t ever gone too horribly for him in the past.

“Okay,” Melone grabs the needle again. He pops the cap off and holds it up to his good eye for a moment before he lowers it toward Ghiaccio’s elbow. “On three. One, two-”

“OW! Fuck you!”

“Three,” Melone smiles at him with a feigned sweetness, like he doesn’t know why Ghiaccio might want to pull the needle right back out of his arm and stick it between Melone’s eyes.

Melone doesn’t pay him the slightest bit of attention as he slides the needle out and leaves behind a small catheter. He screws something into the end of it and slaps tape over it. It’s then that Ghiaccio notices the bag of fluids already hung up on the nearest surface, which just happens to be his dresser.

“There,” Melone says when he finishes setting up everything to his liking, “That should do it.” He taps the bag with his pointer finger, “Saline. An easy and safe way to up your volume.”

Ghiaccio doesn’t particularly like the implication that there’s an unsafe way.

“Well, mostly. Technically this isn’t the most sterile environment, so you could get an infection, but I’ve done worse on the kitchen table on Pesci’s day to do dishes, sooo.” And there it is.

“Please stop talking,” Ghiaccio says with a groan and tries to push away the anxiety that’s building at the mere thought of sepsis.

“Aww, have a little faith. You’ll be fine, and this should make you feel a lot better. For at least a day or two, and maybe the heatwave will finally go away,” Melone beams at him before he starts to clean up his mess. He gathers it all up in a trash bag he must have brought with him, though that doesn’t exactly answer why the duffel bag is so large.

“What else do you have in there?” Ghiaccio asks against his better judgement. He still isn’t so sure about this saline thing, but his curiosity has always been a bit of a problem.

“Oh, more fluids, in case you need them, and some uh- well, let’s just say a snack for our resident pseudo-vampire. It has to stay cold until it’s… used, so I’ve got it in a cooler.”

Ghiaccio hums and as he processes the words. Seems he isn’t the only one suffering through the heat, though he has a feeling Risotto’s situation is more of a repercussion from his most recent hit. Then again, maybe the heat is getting to the man. It’s not often that Risotto’s left in a bad enough state where he needs Melone’s help. He usually has Prosciutto for that.

“I’m going to go take care of that, actually. You should be fine here for a bit. That bag will finish in about forty-five minutes, so just stay put,” Melone says like Ghiaccio has any intention of going anywhere, regardless of the ice and saline. He stands with the bag slung over his shoulder and glances between the door and Ghiaccio, obviously not wanting to leave, but knowing that he’s needed elsewhere.

“Go take care of Ris,” Ghiaccio mumbles in lieu of a thanks. He’ll repay Melone for his efforts later. When he’s feeling more human.

“Yes, sir!”

Ghiaccio groans and rolls his eyes, “Get the fuck out.”

Melone laughs and dashes for the door before Ghiaccio can hurtle a pointed chunk of ice directly at his head.

It’s barely twenty minutes-- and only half a bag later-- when Ghiaccio finds himself able to sit up without the world spinning.

“Huh,” is all he can say into the empty room. Leave it to Melone.

[anika-ann]

The Line between Respectful and Stupid - Pt.2

Safe and Sound

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader       Word count: 2400

Warnings:  medical blood, swearing, attempt at humour… and starting on the fluff

Summary: A gunshot wound, an exasperated Steve. Yeah, you did great. But it seems the Captain has some aces in his sleeves and you might be in for a pleasant surprise. Also, you’re never taking pain-meds again. Ever. 

Story Masterlist

SHIELD’s idea of a safe house was very different from yours.

For one, you didn’t expect a safe house to look so homey and romantic. You suspected you’d learn better once you’d be inside, but when Captain Rogers parked in front of a nice wood-faced cabin in the middle of nowhere (seriously, you had almost missed the turn he had oh so confidently took, blame it on the blood loss), you were seventy percent sure he had made a mistake and now wanted to ask for directions.

“Alright, let’s get inside. There should be medical supplies, food, anything we could need,” he announced, getting out of the car, circling the vehicle and opening your door before you could win the war with the door handle. “Told you to keep the pressure.”

“Sorry, Sir,” you shot back automatically, not sure what you were apologizing for. It was just the tone he said it in, like a disappointed parent or something.

You followed him to the door as he knocked four times next to the doorframe; one of the wooden desks moved up, nearly making you jump. It revealed a panel with a keyboard and you quickly looked away as Captain Rogers entered the right combination. Now this felt more like SHIELD and less like a vacation residence.

“Shall we?”

This time you actually did jump, quickly following him inside. You passed the welcoming committee in a form of the hangers, stepping inside what seemed to be a common living room. And wow, SHIELD spared no expense on its safe houses.

The room was spacious, wood-faced as well, fluffy carpet in the middle, creating a pad under a coffee table, bordered by an elegant seaweed sofa and two armchairs in the same colour. The thing was, there was no fabulous view on a TV. There was a fireplace instead.

“Holy shit,” you breathed out, not quite realizing you had stopped dead in your tracks so you could blatantly stare.

“Yeah. I know. Tony likes to have his luxury. Sit on the couch?” his voice slowly trailed off as he disappeared god knew where.

You eyed the couch warily, not sure you should be getting near that fancy thing. You were bleeding, for god’s sake and the thing looked like it cost a shit-ton of money.

Also, did he just say ‘Tony’? As in… that Tony?

Captain Rogers reappeared with a frown on his face and an impressive box with medical supplies in his hands.

“Something wrong with the couch?”

“Did you just say ‘Tony’?”

“Yes. Now would you sit down?” he challenged you and really, who were you to oppose Captain America? If he was telling you to sit down and ruin Tony freakin’ Stark’s property, who were you to protest? You shuffled towards the sofa, seating yourself heavily.

You winced when your arm throbbed with the ungraceful landing.

Your commander placed the first aid kit on the table, pulling an armchair to sit opposite and sort of side-by-side with you. You watched his hands open the box as if you were hypnotized, accepting the bottle of painkillers with his firm ‘two pills’, swallowing the dose and ignoring the bloody taste which they took after your hand.

Now what? Was he going to thread the needle for you as well?

You finally found the courage to speak again, self-conscious at the display of care. This wasn’t right. You were supposed to be doing these things. Sure, you were a bit indisposed, but still. It was not common for a commanding officer to treat baby agents in kinder gloves.

“You don’t… you don’t have to do that. It’s not—it���s not required from a captain to treat ordinary agent’s wounds. I don’t want to bother you,” you whispered as he put on gloves, stopping in mid-motion when you reached out for the supplies.

“Keep the pressure,” was his answer and you obediently retreated your hand from his playground and pressed again, trying your best not to faint at the dulling pain. “You know, I really wish SHIELD would draw the line between respect for superiors and stupidity a bit sharper.”

Oh. You gulped at the harsh words, a lump growing in your throat. That sounded more like superior-inferior relationship.

“I’m sorry, Sir.”

He must have picked up on something in your voice, because he looked up at your face with intense brilliant blue eyes that widened a fraction.

“Oh, no! No, I’m not calling you stupid!” he hurried, suddenly sounding guilty. “Sorry, that came out wrong.”

Superior or not, you had to admit that his obvious discomfort – embarrassment even – was endearing. It took you by surprise. Your voice softened involuntarily, following his example.

“It’s alright, Sir.”

He sighed, indeed threading a needle as if he was about to patch you up. Which he probably was. You weren’t sure what to think of that.

“See, this I what I’m calling stupid. Hierarchy, system, it’s important, following rules and orders… but the training is focused on it too much. Clearly, you wouldn’t be able to stitch it yourself and if you were, it would take longer, which would equal bigger blood loss. It’s like they are trying to kill people’s common sense.”

You thought about his words, your mind racing as his eyes focused on the growing stain under your palm. You couldn’t believe you just heard Captain Follow-The-Rules say this.

He reached out to your arm with scissors in his hand, hesitating only inches away. His gaze found yours, blue shining with severity.

“May I?”

You didn’t dare to blink under his gaze seeking answers in your eyes, effectively making you lost in his. Jesus, what was he doing to you? How? And was he seriously asking for permission?

“Of course, Sir.”

You eased the pressure, making space for his hands and his surprisingly gentle fingers felt around the fabric before deciding it did need to be removed and he used the scissors, clean cut from the end of your sleeve to the torso of the tactic gear since the injury was very high.

The torn fabric fell apart, revealing a bit more skin than you would think was necessary, but you were not about to complain – especially since it wasn’t anything incriminating.

“Should have bought you dinner…” he muttered under his breath and you couldn’t help but chuckle. He shot you a horrified glance at the sound.

“Oh. I wasn’t supposed to hear that…. Sorry, Captain.”

“I think we’re past ‘Captain’ and ‘Sir’, Agent. It’s Steve,” he offered softly, and again, who were you to deny him? “And my ma’ raised me right, alright? In fact, I should have bought you flowers, too.”

As the moment was getting more surreal each second, his handsome face displaying what could be an attempt of a smile only emphasized by his words, you couldn’t help but laugh.

“They didn’t warn me you’ll be funny, S-- Steve.”

“Oh? What did they warn you about? And this is gonna hurt, sorry.”

He poured a fair share of disinfectant into the wound and you would swear your arm was about to burn down. You flinched back with curses falling off your lips and tears in your eyes.

“Shit, shit, SHIT-“

“Sorry. Doesn’t look as bad as I thought it would though. Not exactly a graze, but not straight through the middle either. And I’m waiting.”

You knew what he was trying to do with the question. He wanted to distract you. And to be honest, his unreadable expression, his sharp jaw and heavenly eyes would be working on their own, but you humoured him. After all, he was being so nice to you, so nice, sweet even….

Through your gritted teeth, you strained several words. “Well. That you’re a… a hard-ass and a tight-ass.”

His eyebrow shot up nearly to his hairline and the expressiveness surprised you enough to breathe in and out.

“That so? Gonna start with the stitches now.”

You forced more air to your lungs, bracing for the pain, tears in your eyes. You tried to focus on what else you had heard about him, words spilling from your mouth.

“Yep. He hates when you don’t follow his orders. Harper here left his position the other day and Rogers looked like he was about to kill him on spot, they said.”

“Oh, Harper. I remember him. It was a stupid move to leave his position. He could have died – or get his teammates killed. So… I admit I might have been hard on him. But it was for a good reason.”

“You remember him?” you blurted out, taken aback.

“Yes. Black hair, scar above his left eyebrow, right? Tall, not so graceful all the time.”

“Huh—Shit-“ you cursed when he prodded a tender area – well, more tender area than the rest, which meant something, okay.

“Sorry. What else do they say about me?”

“That you’re either a— an asshole full of yourself or really crazy since you supposedly yelled at Fury the other day.”

His lips twitched, the movement fascinating you. “I didn’t— it wasn’t yelling. We… had a little disagreement.”

“Uh-huh.” You weren’t convinced, but decided it was best not to probe.

“Anything else?”

You huffed. If it wasn’t for his extremely focused face, you would think you two were just chatting over a coffee. And for the pain. There was a blinding yet dull pain throbbing through your right upper limb – a limb that was shockingly still attached.

“That you’re a badass. Naturally.”

“They really use the A word when talking about me a lot, don’t they? One would think about himself he’s an ass, hearing all that,” he joked lightly, and wow, Captain America was able to do that? It wasn’t for the first time! And he said the A word! Maybe it was Steve Rogers coming out to play? An actual person?

“Nah. I’m sure that the tight-ass thing is just ‘cause it is so tight…”

Steve’s hands froze in the middle of doing a stitch, his whole body tensing. You were mortified when you went over what you had just said.

“Oh god, I did not say that.”

Captain America, or Steve Rogers, whatever, was a good man though. He just cleared his throat and continued his work. Except there was a bit of a smirk on his lips that felt nearly cocky. For some reason, there was a hint of embarrassment too, a touch of crimson in the tips of his ears that definitely hadn’t been there before.

“Oh no, go on. The pain-meds apparently make you very honest. Tell me more.”

“I’m sorry, Sir, that was not-“ you stuttered, letting the wrong – right? – addressing slip in again and he sighed.

“Relax… and I mean it, relax. I can’t finish these stitches it you’re tense like this…. Good.”

You watched him for few moments, silent. You hadn’t been lying when saying all of the things that were rumoured in the halls of SHIELD about him. But you couldn’t help but being stunned by the man in front of you, the picture so different from what you had expected it to be.  

“Thank you for doing this,” you whispered sincerely, rewarded by a small smile.

“Well, what kind of a gentleman would I be to let you bleed out? Not to mention blood is hard to get off the expensive cushions and floor, so…”

“Alright, I’m adding ‘smartass’ to the list of your rumoured features,” you decided, grinning right back at him.

How was he putting you at ease? He was… he was… him. The legend. And yet… the sound of his laughter echoed in your heart right now and you saw nothing but a simple man, laying down all of his shiny armour. It was refreshing and freeing.

You wondered if it made him breathe easier too.

“I guess you’re not wrong there. Here, all done,” he announced, placing a bandage over the rather neat stitches. Huh, artistic. Any other hidden talents?

“Thank you, S- Steve.”

“My pleasure.”

He stood up, stripping his gloves and tossing them in a nearest trash can before walking back to you, locking his once again serious eyes with yours.

“Why don’t you lie down? There’s a bedroom right there. Come on, I’ll help you.”

You let him support you from your healthier side, grateful he was there when your head spun with the movement.  

“I’m bloody and sweaty,” you mumbled absently, leaning onto the wall of muscle. Oh yeah, there was no other way, you could be ashamed later. At least you didn’t explicitly felt around his abs and pecs with your fingers. Or the huge arms – and they were calling out for you to touch them, alright.  

Just… shut up, thoughts.

“Good thing I won’t be the one doing the laundry then,” he hummed, walking you to another room. Your eyelids felt heavy all of sudden when you saw the king-size bed almost in your reach.

“Thanks— wait, where are you gonna sleep if I take the bed? There’s another one somewhere, right? You won’t have to sleep on the couch? ‘Cause I don’t think that you’ll fit there with the shoulders of yours. They’re like really, really broad – oh geez, I need to stop talking.”

Your words slurred into a mumble, but he seemed to decode your cryptic speech, because he chuckled, helping you to land on the bed – not before pulling the covers away so he could later tuck you in.

“I won’t sleep anywhere. I have to wait for the response to our distress signal… and watch over you, because I think I might have overdosed you with painkillers and I don’t want you to stop breathing while I’m having a nap.”

You thought you frowned; you weren’t sure though, losing the control over your muscles gradually. “Shit, I‘m sorry to keep you up. You’d deserve a nap.”

“I’m good. You, on the other hand, were shot. Now get some rest,” he sounded as if he was smiling. You smiled automatically at the idea as his light footsteps faded away.

“…hey, Steve?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you for saving my life. And… ya’ know. Taking care of me. I know you don’t have to do that,” you whispered with the last remains of strength you had. But this you needed to say.

The man in question sighed.

“I really do. Goodnight. Feel better.”

You were out before you heard the door click shut.

Part 3

I know the fluff is a bit bloody, but… there is fluff, right? 

If by any chance, anyone wants to be added to tags, let me know. 

Tags:

@mermaidxatxheart​

[angsty-violet]

Agony - Chapter 21

Agony Masterpost

@whumptober2020

Tuvok knew that the punishment for his escape attempt was going to be severe. He had made it too far for Kell’an to no longer believe he was incapable of escaping. The alien would only be left with violently convincing Tuvok that escape was the wrong decision.

That didn’t mean he was prepared for it when it happened.

In hindsight, Tuvok should’ve known that he would choose the cold torture. It had been the most effective of everything he had done.

 Kell’an entered the cell frowning. He glanced at Tuvok, who was once again against the back wall away from the door, and Tuvok knew that he wouldn’t be in the mood to talk. His escape attempt looked as if it had rattled Kell’an badly. Tuvok knew that anything he said might just make his situation worse. He chose to not say anything at all. To just keep his mouth shut and not engage.

Kell’an approached him quickly, and almost immediately, he was unchaining and leading him towards the cage. Once Tuvok was inside, this seemed to spur Kell’an into talking. Although it was nothing that Tuvok wanted to hear.

“You really shouldn’t have tried to escape. Once I have proven a way to resist torture, I will become famous and be renowned for my research. Until then, you must be obedient to me. You can’t run away or be too confrontational. Otherwise, I’m going to have to punish you, and I hate doing that. I can’t just allow this bad behavior to run rampant, though. Now, you be quiet and take your punishment, and I’ll be back in a while to let you out.”

Kell’an exited the cell, and almost immediately, the temperature began to drop. It was not a pleasant feeling at all. Tuvok gritted his teeth and bore the dropping temperature as best he could. Soon though, they began to chatter with the cold. Tuvok didn’t complain or cry out. He would save his begging for another time. Kell’an’s words had made it seem as though if he were quiet, then he might be released faster. No matter the reason, he was choosing to keep his mouth shut.

It only took a few minutes for the room to become almost unbearably cold. There was nothing to insulate himself with and no way to move around. He was stuck dealing with the pain of the cold inflicted. Tuvok retreated into his mind. He had figured out how to block all physical sensations. Therefore, he never noticed when the cold began to have serious effects.

When Tuvok resurfaced, he immediately knew there was something very wrong. His hands and feet felt incredibly stiff. He attempted to move then, and they barely went. Tuvok breathed deeply and focused on warming his fingers between his thighs. His entire body felt much too cold. Kell’an had never taken it this far before. Always stopping long before the bodily risk became great.

This was a bad sign. Either Kell’an didn’t realize how bad things had gotten, or he didn’t care.

Tuvok didn’t allow himself back into his retreat. He needed to be present for whatever was going to happen next. He sat there shivering, colder than he ever remembered being. He knew that he was in real trouble when he stopped feeling quite so cold. His shivering stopped, and he could almost stand to be in the temperature. That was a serious sign that he was headed straight for hypothermia.

Just as he was seriously contemplating freezing to death in his cage, the temperature of the room began to rise. He could feel the change instantly, his skin sensitive after being in the cold for so long.

He hadn’t begun to shiver again even as Kell’an entered the cell looking incredibly worried. He approached him carefully, holding a device that looked similar to a tricorder. He scanned Tuvok with it and looked even more nervous.

“I left you in here too long. I hadn’t realized just how sensitive to the cold your species was. Apparently, you go from fine to freezing very, very quickly. We need to get you warmed up as soon as possible, or we risk pneumonia.”

Tuvok nodded in agreement but couldn’t find the energy to speak. He was exhausted from this session, and all he wanted to do was sleep. Despite the urge, Tuvok knew that he had to stay awake. Falling asleep like this could very well be a death sentence.

Kell’an helped him out of the cage, and instead of leaving him in the cell, like usual, he walked him to the door. Kell’an seemed to understand his confusion.

“You need more medical treatment than I can give you in here. We’re going to go to our infirmary and warm you up. It will be easier to get warm liquids in you there.”

Tuvok attempted to trace the path they took to get to the infirmary. His mind was uncooperative, though, and all he could get was a general direction from his cell. Hopefully, on the way back, he would be able to remember it.

Kell’an walked him into a small space, just a little smaller than the sickbay on Voyager. He laid Tuvok on one of the beds and immediately began to rig up a small machine next to him. He pressed a needle into Tuvok’s arm and pressed several buttons.

Warm liquid began to enter his bloodstream. Tuvok started to shiver, the cold blood beginning to circulate through his system and make its way towards his heart. His breathing was ragged and rough. Kell’an observed him and started to arrange some tools on a tray next to him. Tuvok wondered why he hadn’t been brought here after the incident with the knife. Perhaps it hadn’t been a serious enough injury.

Although that insinuated that he was in a lot of danger with the hypothermia. Not a wrong assumption considering that cold was possibly the only thing that Vulcans were extremely susceptible to. They could handle almost anything else, but their physiology demanded warmth—their origins on an incredibly warm planet and penchant for heavy clothing forging creatures accustomed to the heat.

Tuvok knew it was going to be a long few hours to recover from this.

[howtodisassembleyourdeviant]

Once in a Lifetime Ch.2

You didn't say anything further as you gestured for them to follow. Gavin looked like he was about to get up but after glancing at Connor, thought better of it and remained.

"Y/n, what happened?" Connor asked, desperation in his voice. He needed to know. You continued to look down, refusing to look his way. He felt torn, the pain in his heart only getting worse. He needed to know Nines was going to be okay. He wanted to tell you that everything was going to be okay, but he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t do anything. He didn’t even know what was going on. He never felt so powerless, so useless before.

"We'll talk once we're somewhere more private." You sounded like you wanted to be reassuring, but it was too much to ask of you in this state, sounding emotionless. His heart ached.

They entered into what looked like a small office. A desk with a few papers stacked neatly on top along with a datapad, a bookshelf with various medical books lined the shelves, and a few leather chairs. Standing beside the desk was Markus, giving a small sympathetic smile as he nodded to his friend. In the chair behind the desk was Elijah Kamski.

"What the fuck are you doin' here?" Hank asked before even fully entering the room.

"Please, sit down, and we'll explain everything." Kamski spoke in that same condescending voice that Hank came to hate. Still, Hank sat down in one of the seats. Connor looked to you and gestured for you to take the seat, but you acted as if you didn't see him, you stared ahead but you weren't looking at anything. Connor placed his hand on your shoulder, rubbing the back of your neck with his thumb soothingly. You slightly flinched at the contact before relaxing into it. The repetitive motions calming him as well, if only a little.

Once the door was shut, Markus began. "To start with, right now, Nines is in a stable condition." Hank let out a relieved sigh and Connor momentarily felt a weight lift off him, but the look on Markus' face told him there was more. "However, his body was damaged beyond what we can repair right now. In all honesty, I don't know how he even made it here."

He thought he was going to fall over as his legs threatened to give out on him. He gripped your shoulder a little tighter, prompting you to rest your hand on his. He didn’t want to dwell on the the possibilities.

"Several biocomponents were destroyed from the bullets, and because Nines is a unique model with specialized parts, we can't replace them. We tried using similar parts, including parts from one of the destroyed RK800's, but they were incompatible."

"Don't we have the blueprints for his model? Can't we make more?" Connor spoke softly, his voice stained.

"We do, but the blueprints are encrypted, and even if they weren't, we don't have all the materials here to replicate them. It could take anywhere between a couple of weeks to a month or two just to get the necessary materials, and another week to make the parts."

"Was it really that bad?" He whispered.

For the first time since entering the room, you spoke up. You sounded so out of it, it was like listening to a voice recording. He hated that voice. You only used it when you were locked in panic and fear, running on a strange form of autopilot. "He was shot several times in the abdomen, and one of the shots ricocheted throughout his torso. He had a crack in his thirium pump regulator so we put him on a specialized machine that can act as an external thirium pump, and we replaced several thirium lines, but the bullet tore through his ventilation system and his artificial lungs, so he started to overheat. We put him in low power mode and currently have nurses packing ice around him, but he won't last much longer if we don't do something."

"And that is when I received a phone call asking for help," Kamski smiled.

"What the hell can you do? Nines was made after you left Cyberlife." Hank crossed his arms over his chest, not bothering to hide his hatred of the man. "Well, while that is true, I'm still the one who wrote the basis to all androids, and it's my code that they continued to use to encrypt classified files. I also know where to get the needed material and can pull a few strings to get it here faster. I'd say I have a lot to offer."

Connor finally sat down, breathing a resigned sigh as he drew his hand down his face. Kamski wasn’t the type to do anything if he couldn’t get something out of it. "What do you want?" Kamski smiled. "Nothing excessive. I merely request to study Nines and the effects of deviancy in androids. As you said, the RK900 was created after I left and with its advancements, I'd like to see just what Cyberlife was capable of. It might even help with a side project I'm working on."

"That's great and all, but from the sounds of it, Nines can't wait that long," Hank cut in. Markus spoke up this time.

"Well, much like Connor, Nines has the ability to transfer himself between androids."

"Shit, Connor, I didn't know you could do that."

"Yes, though he is restricted to only other RK800 models. The RK900 model was designed to transfer between most models, in the event he needs to go undercover. However, Cyberlife never had the chance to create more RK900 models before the revolution and any android that can operate independently was awakened and sent to New Jericho. As it was deemed unethical to activate YK models without a guardian, there is an overstock available. The plan is to transfer Nines into one of these models until repairs can be done to his original body."

Kamski stood up, holding a microchip. "While in this body, I will have this installed in the YK model. It's going to record how Nines reacts and adapts to a model that is ill equipped to handle the tasks he usually performs, along with his emotional range and stress levels to better understand deviancy.  Y/n will also be required to report on any behavior changes. Additional tests will be ran as well, but we can deal with the minor details later."

"Can I get this in English, please?"

"They're going to put Nine's into the body of a child android while y/n and Kamski observe his behavior." Connor ground out. He couldn't believe his ears. His brother wasn't some science experiment! He didn’t deserve to be poked and prodded. If it had been anyone else that agreed to this, Connor would never agree, but it had been you. Things had to be dire for you to agree with such ludicrous demands, but he trusted you wholeheartedly.

"When can we do the transfer?"

"Connor! You're actually agreeing to this?" Hank gave him an incredulous look, voice full of disbelief.

"What choice do I have? You said it yourself, Nines doesn't have long, and the longer we sit here and discuss it, the less time he has. This is the only way to save him."

"I had Simon go down and choose a model close to his appearance. He's going to meet us in the trauma ward." Markus left the room, followed by Kamski and Hank. As you turned to head out, Connor grabbed ahold of your wrist. He stood up and pulled you in. You sagged against him, like a marionette with its strings severed, trembling. He ran his fingers through your hair as he held you. "There was so much blood, and all I could think was how devastated you would be if he died," you whispered into his chest.

"Shh, you saved him. He's going to be ok. We are going to get through this." You continued to avoid looking at him, staring at the ground instead. He cupped your chin and pulled your head up, forcing you to look into his eyes. His eyes held sadness, but also so much understanding and forgiveness, your own scrunched up in pain. You grasped onto the back of his shirt, holding him tightly. The pressure and warmth helped to melt the ice that settled in his chest. We were going to make it through this, somehow.

After a few peaceful moments, he pulled away. Some of the thirium from your clothes stained his shirt. He ignored it for now. Nines was going to be alright. He will not be losing his little brother. You wiped a stray tear from his face he had not known was there. Still, you were shaking even more, the adrenaline that you had been relying on for the past few hours draining away.

"How about, after all this, we order some greasy, not at all healthy for you, pizza, and then take a bath together?" You nodded with a soft smile, suddenly looking much more tired and worn. He laced his hand with yours and headed towards the trauma ward.

[flyingkiki]

Curiosity, 2/?

Oh, hohoho. I am so gone. These two are giving me tingly happy feelings. We needs to build our TimRae army. 

####

Raven had shitty family members, Tim noted. Not that it needed to go into his files on her because they already established that with her father, but seriously. Her demonic brothers were assholes, to say the least. He grunted as he swung his staff with all his bodyweight into the demon’s back, saving Batman from loosing an arm. But, fuck, man.

Basically, this is what’s happening:

Some cult, an offshoot of the Church of Trigon, has made its way into Gotham. For the past few days, they’ve been haphazardly opening portals and luring in demons into the city. They were under the belief a new lord of the underworld would bless them. Unfortunately, none of the demons that came into the world were demon lords – just angry demons out for some blood.

And, as it later turned out, after a half-sibling who killed their father.

Raven faintly wondered where she got her luck. All she wanted was to have some peace and quiet for the week – things were going surprisingly well in Jump. But no, some assholes had to play church and worship demons. What the fuck. She grunted and blocked an attack from one of the more gnarly demons, and flipped over it. She sent a ball of black energy to its back just as it was about to turn to her, and she watched as the demon skidded across the ground.

Raven briefly looked over her shoulder, making sure Red Robin and Batman were still alive somewhere in the forest clearing. Good, they still were. She faintly wondered if she should take them out for dinner as a peace offering for having to deal with her shitty family. Raven watched them struggle with a bigger demon – did these demons grow over the past few days? She furrowed her brows. Grunting, she turned back to the demon she was fighting and frowned.

“Sister,” red eyes glowed and the demons arms twitched, as it stood in front of her. The demon growled, fangs baring and it looked ready to pounce again.

“I hate my family,” Raven breathed, hands glowing and with a chant let go of a large blast of black energy.

“You killed father,”

Raven’s eyes widened as she listened to the first coherent sentence from the demon. They never really said anything, aside from sister. This was a first.

The demon growled, noting her opening, and pounced Raven. Fangs bared and claws sharp, it made a swipe at the smaller girl.

Raven grunted as she barely dodged the attack. She felt hot claws dig into her back and blood trickle down her side. She inhaled sharply as searing pain flashed through her body and she stumbled away from another attack. This was not good.

“Die,” the demon growled and started to run towards her.

“Raven!”

She faintly heard Tim in the background but her eyes were focused on the demon that was charging towards her. This whole situation was pissing her off. This stupid cult should have never started trying to bring demons into the world. Her brothers should just fuck off. And if she got her hands on one of the cult members, she’d –

The demon yelped as Raven’s soul self rose from her body. Her energy pulsed, anger and frustration running through her system. Her demon brothers should not be here. They should be no where civilians. She growled as her eyes glowed red, and her soul rose higher. Inky tendrils flooded the clearing, crawling over the floor and towards the two demons who were frozen to the stop.

Tim’s eyed widened as he watched Raven turn into her soul self. She rose off the ground, black energy pulsing through the air and black tentacles slithering across the floor towards the two demons. He inhaled sharply as her red eyes glowed, her face hooded and a shadow if a raven looming over her. He had never seen Raven use this kind of power before in battle, his heart hammered in his chest as a black tendril slithered just past his boots and towards the demon he and Batman were fighting earlier.

“Don’t come back,” Raven growled and with pulse of black energy, the demons were engulfed in the black tendrils. There were loud howls of pain and the tendrils crushed the demons into the ground. Black dust billowed in the air before slowly settling on the ground. The black tendrils slithered on the ground for a moment, before retreating back into Raven’s cape. Nothing was left of the demons.

“Raven,” Batman stepped next to Tim, watching as Raven lingered in the air. Her eyes continued to glow red as she stared at the pentagram on the forest floor. She turned to Batman, red eyes furrowed.

“They’re gone,” Batman supplied, waiting on guard for Raven’s next move.

Red eyes blinked and they flashed white. Familiar large purple-blue eyes stared down at Red Robin and Batman and she let out a soft gasp. The black energy around her disappeared and she landed unsteadily on her feet. She sent them an apologetic look.

“Sorry you had to see that,” she mumbled. She glanced at the pentagram before adjusting the hood over her head.

Batman nodded, eyes narrowing as he surveyed the scene. The cult members that summoned the demons were long gone after making a run for it during the battle. His frown deepened. This cat and mouse chase had to stop soon.

“You’re bleeding,” announced Red Robin, looking at the blossoming red patch over Raven’s right shoulder.

She forgot about that. Drawing her left hand underneath her cloak, Raven pressed her hand against the torn flesh. She winced. This might take a while to heal. “It’ll heal,” she said.

Tim frowned. He knew about her healing abilities, but he also knew that the display of massive amounts of energy can slow down her healing process. “Let’s go back to the cave,” he said. “Ride the Batmobile with us,”

Raven made a face. “I’ll fly,” she said and began levitating.

Batman frowned. “You lost blood and your energy is low. Better just ride with us,”

She waved them off and spun on her heels. Like hell was she going to ride a car in a shape of a bat. She knew they’d drive like Dick – like lunatics. “See you at the cave,” and without waiting for their reply, she flew off.

Batman frowned. “Stubborn,” he clicked his tongue.

Tim chuckled. “Seems pretty familiar,”

They arrived at the Batcave in record time and found Alfred making his way down into the med bay of the cave with some medical supplies and a steaming cup of tea. Alfred stopped and watched his two charges jump out of the Batmobile and remove their cowls. “Miss Raven is in the med bay. She arrived a few moments ago and we’ve been working on cleaning her wounds. Some of the cuts ran in deeper than expected,” he supplied as the trio walked towards the med bay.

Tim nodded, long black hair falling into his eyes. Pushing it back, he offered Alfred a soft smile. “Thanks, Al,”

Raven looked up from tending to her wounds. She had peeled off the top of her uniform, leaving her in a utilitarian black sports bra. Her bloodied cloak hung over the end of the bed she sat on. A bloodied sterile gauze was in her left hand, fresh from wiping away some of the blood from the back of her shoulder. “Hey,”

Bruce noticed the bloodied gauze. “Are you alright?”

Raven shrugged. “I’ve had worse,” she said. She thanked Alfred when he set new supplies next to her. “My family doesn’t like me all to much. I can pretty much say the feeling is mutual,”

“Do you think they are after you?” Bruce asked. “The demon you fought looked keen in killing you,”

Raven rolled her eyes. “Most people, and metas, would like to see me gone once they know who and what I am,” she sent a knowing smirk at Bruce, remembering the first time she met the Justice League and asked for help. It wasn’t a warm welcome, to say the least. She shook her head when Bruce continued to stare at her. “Honestly, no. I don’t think so. I’m not really very welcome in the family after we killed Trigon. We’re just dealing with a ragtag team of cult members and blood thirsty demons who find themselves on earth for the first time with no idea what to do expect kill,”

Bruce nodded. He sighed and pushed himself away from the medical cabinet he was leaning against. “Okay,” he began. “We’ll keep our ears close to the ground and listen for any new activities. I’ll coordinate with Oracle and see what we can do,” he said and began making his way out of the med bay. “Rest and get your energy back,”

“Understood,” replied Raven, watching Batman leave.

“Need help?”

Purple eyes slid over to Tim, her stare heavy and calculating. Raven reminded Tim a lot of Bruce, he could barely read her emotions. He eyed the bloodied gauze in her hand and took a small step forward, faintly wondering if he was stepping over boundaries. She was after all, half naked and they barely knew each other. Emphasis on the half-naked.

Raven watched Tim take another step forward, a tentative smile playing on his lips. She could feel several emotions coming off of him – concern, interest, curiosity, attraction. Raven blinked. Tim was so different from all the other Robin’s she met. Dick was a mix of seriousness with a strong intent of proving himself, he was strong willed, guarded, and such a hardheaded asshole sometimes; Jason was a wild mix of chaos and charm, and Damian was, well, Damian. The young boy was practically a storm of emotions. But Tim, Tim of all the Robins was a sea of calm in all of the chaos that goes around them – despite of the amount of caffeine he kept on drinking. She knew that he was the smartest of the Robins; an excellent strategist – she could practically feel how fast his brain works. Yet, he was so different from all the wildly active Robins she knew in her life. This intrigued Raven.

She titled her head and offered Tim a small smile. “Okay,”

Tim paused briefly, surprised that she would let him help her. Nodding, he stepped behind her on the med table and took a look at the three wounds that ran along her shoulder blades. He whistled at the sight of the gaping wounds. “Yikes,” Tim made a face. “Remind me to never get on the bad side of your family,”

Raven snorted.

With nimble fingers, he finished cleaning the wounds and set out to stitch them closed. He noted a few other scars that ran down her back and sides and disappeared into her uniform. He faintly wondered where they were from and what stories they told. These were not in her medical files. He always taught she could just heal herself completely.

“Sometimes, when I’m too tired, my healing process is slower than normal. Sometimes some scars stay,” said Raven suddenly, tilting her head just a little bit so she could see Tim over her shoulder.

Tim paused, blue eyes widening in surprise as they connected with amused purple eyes. His needle hovered close to her skin. “Huh? I –”

Using her good hand, she tapped the side of her head. “You think pretty loudly,” she quirked her lips. “Also, empath.”

“Oh!” Cheeks warmed, blue eyes averted from her amused purple ones and Tim focused on closing the wound on her shoulder. “Sorry,”

Raven shrugged, a small amused smile playing on her lips. “It’s okay,”

Tim concentrated on finishing his patch up job, trying to slow his thoughts down. After a few more moments of silence and after finally, finally, taping the last gauze over the wound, Tim was done. “I’m sure Cyborg does a better job at the tower,” he said after stepping away from the bed.

Raven looked at her shoulder briefly and hummed softly. Cyborg did a better job, but Tim didn’t need to know that. She looked up at Tim and tilted her head. “Thanks for the help,” she said and hopped off the table. She looked at what remained of her torn leotard and wondered if it was even worth trying to slip back on. She let out an exasperated sigh. Just her luck.

Tim watched Raven struggle to put her torn uniform back on. He averted his eyes briefly when he caught sight of her sports bra. Also, abs!

“Oh, wait. Here,” he said trying to hide his flustered voice and quickly turned on his heels, rummaging through one of the medical cabinets. Making a triumphant sound at the back of his throat, Tim turned around and grinned, offering Raven a grey t-shirt.

“I keep this here for emergencies,” he said as Raven took the offered shirt.

Raven chuckled softly and slipped on the oversized Superman shirt on her. She practically disappeared into the shirt as it hung over her body and fell mid-thigh. It was nice and soft, very comfortable. She looked at the worn Superman logo and she lifted an eyebrow at Tim. “Nice merch,”

Tim laughed, desperately trying to ignore how cute (?!?!) Raven looked in his shirt – she looked so small! “We taught it’d be nice to annoy Bruce once in a while,” he said. Blue eyes twinkled. “Jason has a full wardrobe and, uh, boxers,”

Raven rolled her eyes, amused still. “Of course he does,” her lips quirked a bit in a little smile. She picked up her torn robe and nodded at Tim. “Thanks for the help, Tim. I’m going to rest now,”

“No problem. Good night, Raven,” Tim watched as Raven walked out of the med bay, movements slow and graceful. As he watched her, he quickly squashed down any thoughts of how good she looked in his shirt. Tim swallowed and looked away, instead focused on putting away all medical equipment they just used. Notes, Tim, notes. Raven’s healing process is slower when she is drained. May leave scaring when healing slows down. Scars dip down the small of her back and tiny waist – oh god.

“Good night, Tim,”

Tim paused from returning the antiseptic and saw Raven pause briefly at the doorway and glance at him briefly before slipping through it. Tim blinked.

So much for taking notes, Tim.