#(at least once we have some concrete answers or anything more than vague 'i did a thing'.)

[gffa]

Nope, changed my mind, I'm not stepping into The Acolyte discourse today, you guys can go all in about how "this changes everything we knew" all you want, I'm going outside for a walk.

[jgnico]

hi!! i'm stumbling into your ask box again, hope you don't mind

i wonder,, what are your thoughts on Geto's upbringing? i've seen quite a few takes on what his childhood could've been like, but as long as the story itself is not particularly generous with answers in this regard, the topic stays controversial -- at least for me. i personally tend to think that there were some issues in the household, and the environment he grew up in was not exactly a safe space for a child. because we have to assume that, being that strong at the age of sixteen, chances are he was familiar with his technique for long enough already, probably having started consuming curses pretty early on. so what does that say about his parents? thinking of the prospect of forced eating makes me feel unwell. and what about the fact he was a sorcerer born to a non-sorcerers family? how frightening and unclear and lonely must that have been? were his parents aware of their child's exact whereabouts after he enrolled into Jujutsu High? how much did they know? also, taking in consideration all the problems inherent in Japan's educational system, is there a chance that Geto's gift was a sort of convenience to them? because sorcerers are usually pretty well-off due to high demand and low supply and their son's abilities could solve financial problems related to getting him educated? could they have some inner motifs while also being genuinely concerned about Geto's well-being? might it be a reason why they encouraged their son, a literal child, to absorb those foul, god-awful beings? could they fully understand what they're asking him to do, lacking the ability to even see those creatures? but then again, i find it hard to imagine somebody coming out of an abusive household and still having a strict moral codex and a concrete sense of justice like Geto's. and when he says that the sorcerers have a responsibility to protect the weak, doesn't he think about his parents first? what if he's clinging so determinedly to his ideas because he needs them to somehow rationalize his childhood experience? and what if those ideas stem from his parents guilt tripping him in the past? and what's up with his distinctly traditional clothes? might he come from a religious background?

so what's your opinion on *vaguely gestures at everything above* all of that? apologies for such a lengthy ask, i obsess over thinking about geto and just needed to share it with somebody more competent and knowing than me,, and i would genuinely love to hear your thoughts!! thank you! 🧡

I don't mind at all! Welcome back to the askbox.

I was looking around for some posts where I speculated about Geto's upbringing that had some lovely additions to it by @lulubaii where they share their thoughts as well, but I couldn't find them, sorry.

That being said, I go one of two ways on Geto's upbringing where I either think his childhood and relationship with his parents was fine, normal even. Or where he didn't have a stellar upbringing at all.

I lean more toward the latter, for reasons that I'll get into in a second, but I do appreciate how sad him having a normal boring childhood would be when you add the context of him feeling like he had to kill them to cement his own ideas. Where killing them wasn't born out of any specific negativity toward them, but rather what they were -- non-sorcerers. If there was love there, then that makes Geto's actions all the more heartbreaking and awful, and adds to the idea that there was no going back for him once he committed to the path he wanted to take. If he ever had his doubts about his actions (and I like to think he did, no matter how much he didn't want to): How do you forgive yourself for that? How do you reconcile that with anything other than overwhelming grief and regret? You can't. So you don't. So you press forward and insist, even to yourself -especially to yourself- that you're doing what's necessary.

All of that being said, I actually think that Geto had a troubled upbringing, or at least one that was neglectful if not outright abusive. There are two reasons for this; the first being the question of how he even knew that he could eat curses, and the second being the fact that his immediate next step after rescuing Mimiko and Nanako (two sorcerers -children- that were abused by non-sorcerers that didn't understand what they were and used the excuse of fear to hate/harm them for it) was to kill his own parents.

Edit: I found two of the posts I was looking for. [xx]

There's so much immediacy to him going after his parents that I never really articulated before. Assuming that the report of his actions reached the higher-ups --and his subsequent execution order was issued-- the day after, and he met with Shoko in Shinjuku in the late afternoon/early evening, that leaves him that single night/morning to find a place for the girls, travel to his home, kill his parents, and then travel to Shinjuku.

And sure, you could argue that he was operating on the 'high' of what happened in the village, but I find it hard to believe that the adrenaline carried him through the entire journey to kill them unless he had something to be angry at them specifically for. My question would be: Was he upset over something they did or something they didn't do? Is it a case of them using his technique for their own gain until he was scouted and that income could be supplemented through his missions instead? Or did they fail to protect him from the same kind of people that set him off in the village?

The answer that I've landed on after lots (and lots) of thinking is that Geto's parents were probably just extremely poor, and him figuring out his technique was the result of hunger. He most likely found out soon after eating one that Curses weren't a viable food source, but until he tried one, they would have been one that only he had access to. It would've doubled as a secret only he knew and a way to lessen the burden of providing for him, which is exactly the kind of thinking that I could see a young child falling into. Then, as he and his collection of curses grew over the years, it's possible that he (through the urging or actions of his parents) started using his technique to get money for their household from the people around them, which would have alienated him from the people in his town and might have inspired a less extreme but equally hurtful version of the fear and hate that he saw mirrored with the girls.

I could also see how this would be something that solidified Geto's stance on protecting non-sorcerers while putting them in a lesser position than himself (i.e. him seeing them as 'the weak;' a concept that you can tie to both parents that he was providing for -protecing from poverty- and townsfolk that he was exorcising curses for -protection from curses), on top of adding some interesting context to his reaction and response when Gojo asks if he should kill the members of the SPVA. Specifically, him saying "Forget it. It's pointless" makes me wonder if he's been in a similar situation where he had to talk himself out of using his abilities against non-sorcerers after their actions caused him pain and he was falling back into that mindset when talking to Gojo. That they can't act against them, regardless of if they want to, so there's no reason to dwell on it.

Additionally, Geto exorcising Curses for money would have more than likely drawn the attention of a Window, seeing as it's their job to scout for curses. (Therefore, providing Sorcerers a way to make money.)

If Geto was getting rid of Curses around his village frequently enough or for long enough --like the nine years between his Technique manifesting and his being admitted to the school-- it would have probably created an anomaly where there weren't any Curses (or any strong enough Curses to require a Sorcerer) where there should be, prompting an investigation into why that was happening.

My (loose) supporting evidence for this idea would be the issues with food that Geto develops after the Star Plasma Vessel incident (a habit that he could have broken and then fallen back into once he was under enough stress, which isn't at all unheard of, especially with people that grew up food insecure) and the role he falls into once he starts his cult, i.e. using his technique to "cure" people to collect curses and money. He seems perfectly comfortable doing so if you don't count his general dislike of dealing with non-sorcerers, so it isn't unrealistic to me that he'd be operating under prior experience. Same as the struggles with eating, it'd be like falling back into a bad habit of sorts.

Side Note: I heard a quote the other day that went something along the lines of "One year of consistency can change the trajectory of a person's life, regardless of what stage of life they're in" and while this was speaking toward stable, consistent support and positive relationships changing someone's life for the better, it stands that the opposite is true as well. One year without adequate support and negative or absent relationships can very much turn someone for the worse, whether that represents itself internally or externally. And I think it's safe to say that Geto was very much lacking in consistent support and friendship (him and Gojo going on so many missions alone, away from each other, Shoko, and their kohai) in the year between Riko's death and Geto's defection.

All of this isn't to say that Geto's parents are to be blamed for their own deaths or that his actions weren't inexcusable, but it does add important context, I think.

Trauma, especially the kind that he and Gojo went through, fundamentally changes a person, and not just emotionally.

A topic that I've always found interesting and highly recommmend further reading on if you want is how trauma physically affects our brains and the rest of our body. Specifically, when our brain is still developing throughout our childhoods and teenage years, significant trauma (Toji) and repeated triggering of fight or flight (the influx of missions) can cause the brain put itself into survival mode even when danger isn't actually present. (This is partly where we get things like extreme anxiety, ptsd, c-ptsd, and other stress disorders.) The problem with this is that when your brain goes into suvival mode it pushes blood away from itself and your vital organs and out to your extremities (arms, legs, etc) so that you can get away from whatever the danger is. This, in turn, can cause issues with memory formation, emotion regulation, our ability to reflect and respond to issues we have with moral flexibility, and our ability to feel empathy (etc, the list goes on) on top of having long term effects on our bodies itself like lack of appetite, persistent anger and irritation, disassociation and confusion, faster heart-rate, issues with over- or under-sleeping, susceptibility to chronic illness, etc.

But let's get back on topic and answer your other questions:

I imagine Geto was very lonely before he went to Tokyo; no one in his family were sorcerers and I doubt that anyone else in his village was either, since he was scouted to be a sorcerer (probably by a Window) instead of referred by one. I highly doubt he had anyone that he could relate to about the whole issue of seeing curses and the inherent disgust involved with using his technique. I also think the isolation concerning the latter probably didn't go away even after he moved to the high school, seeing as he points out he's the only one that truly knows what a curse tastes like. It's something that sets him apart from both sorceres and non-sorcerers, something that others him.

I don't think that his parents had much of an idea of what his time at Jujutsu Tech was like. I highly doubt the school gives an accurate report to their students' families on what their kids are doing, and if Geto's parents truly viewed him/his technique in a negative light, I'd think that they were most likely just happy that he wasn't around while also getting a free education from a religious private school,* plus an allowance from the school for his missions and rank as a sorcerer. (If I remember correctly, Special Grades get a decent amount of money based on their rank alone, even before adding the payouts involved with exorcising higher-level Curses.)

I actually don't find it all that hard to see Geto coming away from an abusive or negligent household with a high moral code and a strong sense of justice. Plenty of people do all the time, and the idea that they don't is more of a myth than a fact. Yes, some people grow up and continue to perpetuate cycles of abuse, but correlation doesn't at all equal causation. In fact, the opposite is more common; where someone escapes their initial unhealthy environment only to end up in another one because they have no other frame of reference that allows them to recognize the ways in which it was unhealthy in the first place.

As for why he chose monk robes to wear after defecting, I'll reference Gege here, and say that Geto picked the Gojo-kesa simply because it had Gojo in the name and it helped him hold on to what he had given up. (Now that I think about it, it also probably served as a reminder of why he was doing what he was doing in the first place. Kinda like the "Do it for her" meme, but with clothes that have your best friend's name.)

*In chapter 3 it's stated that the Jujutsu Technical College operates under the facade of a religious private school.

[brumeraven]

🪫: The Chains That Bind || angels, burnout, commoditization, dehumanization, exhaustion, I know that SCRAM is probably a backronym but it's so stupid I love it

"So, uhh..."

Shit, only three days. Knew I shouldn't have picked four in the pool... At least I didn't go with "Never," like Gloria from HR. Bitch should know better; they always, always ask. Might be a day, might be a week, but they always bring it up.

"You ever, uh, think about what exactly we're doing here?"

There it was. The million dollar question. Suppose that number should be revised well-upwards, honestly, power prices being what they were these days, but I couldn't be arsed to keep up with the current budget...

"Like, with that thing in there, ya know?" He gestured vaguely past the consoles before us towards the observation slit, as if there could be any doubt what he meant. Wasn't anything else to talk about around here, least of all the drab beige plastic that comprised every surface.

"Notice you haven't taken a peek yet, rookie. Superstitious much?" I kept my voice light, despite the lance of hot rage that pierced my breast. Close to a decade of experience meant I'd had practice enough at controlling Extrinsics.

"No! Just, I mean..." With a sigh, he stood and leaned forward to look, pressing forward with a near-reverent hesitance. I'd have to keep an eye on that. That spoke of assumptions, and assumptions lead to sloppy work.

I didn't need to look. Already knew what he was staring at.

And if I hadn't, well, it was painted on his face, plain as daylight. 4 solid inches of recycled cathedral glass lessened the intensity to something just-shy of blinding, but compared to the anemic fluorescence of the control room, he might as well have been staring at the sun.

"....hm." It was a disappointed sort of non-committal noise.

"Not what you expected?" Of course it wasn't, not on this side of the shielding. Anyone too sensitive would never have been allowed this close.

"It's...bright?" Disappointment, and the desire for confirmation.

"It's a toroidal cloud of plasma. What the hell did you expect?" Part of the ritual, this was. Debase, demean, lessen. Pinion its wings with the materialistic, the rational, the objective, the familiar.

I knew what he meant, but that part...that part was buried just out sight.

If a few hundred tons of concrete, ten of graphite, and a cell of industrial diamond could be called "just out of sight." Only been down there once; creeped me out when my clothes changed color. Tiny changes, but you never knew what tiny change in your genes would become cancer.

"Yeah, I, uh, can see. I guess I expected-"

"Arms, legs, wings? Some white robes? Maybe a harp or trumpet?" The first bit was true, at least sometimes. Music was a bad idea though. "It's not a person. It's a machine. A thing that was made to do a job. A car, not a yoked horse."

"Aren't you ...afraid though?"

"Afraid? Hell yes I am." That much was no lie. "I'm afraid my coffee is gonna become decaf in between sips, or my bra won't match my shirt, or some other Slip is gonna fuck up my perfectly good day answering your stupid questions." Easy, steady...

Woof. That was a pained look if I'd ever seen one. Fine, he needed more reassurance than that... "Look, of course I worry. Even without hypocertainty effects, there are ten thousand things that could go wrong here. And our job is to make sure they don't, okay?"

"Okay...but-"

"Look, keep your eyes on the gauges and the protocols in mind. Long as shit's all green, s'all good, yeah? Been here 11 years; most of the time when the alarms go off, it's just brumeraven buildup. We wet vent it out through the filters and someone gets a flat tire or something."

He nodded, if not with much conviction. "What's, uh, what's the worst that could happen?"

Fuck, where in the hell did they even find this guy?

Fine, if he wanted it... "Worst case, the Void coefficient inverts and goes positive. We end up with a criticality incursion, have to cut the outflows and you..." I leaned over to prod his arm for emphasis. "...you get to take ice cream and stuffed animals downstairs for it."

Well, that got a nervous giggle and a minute of silence. Probably for the best he thought it a joke for the moment. I waited, then, waited for the question he still hadn't asked, the one I knew was coming.

"But what...what if it breaks loose? What if it gets out?"

Bingo. It wouldn't. It couldn't. "It won't. It can't. Besides, that's my job." I tapped the badge clipped to my shirt, right on the crisp, serifed capital letters: SCRMNT. Safety Containment Responsibility Manager/Neutralization Technician. Corporate did love their acronyms...

"I mean, sure, no offense, but what exactly are you gonna do against that thing in there, if it breaks the control bonds?"

Ahhh, and there it was, the root of the misunderstanding. He still thought this was a prison of concrete and rebar, copper and steel.

"You don't understand. All this concrete and shit? That's all just shielding for our benefit. And for the power converters and all that. It's free to leave; not like we could stop it. But if she goes, whole power grid goes down."

It. Fuck.

"I don't understand. Why...?"

"Please, with all the hospitals and homes and hotels that depend on us?"

"..."

"You want to know how you keep an angel bound?"

The question hung in the air as I felt the hairs on my arm prick, and a fleeting sense of sorrow not my own slunk into my heart.

He nodded, waiting.

I smiled slowly.

"Responsibilities."

~🪫

[lollipencil]

In The Pale Moonlight: What If....Gotham Knights?

Might do multiple parts to this one. Either way, the following is an adaption of the opening cutscenes. @harleyification, here's another little pick-me-up.

Enjoy and be gentle ---

The Mission was quiet. Barely anyone entered, and those who did were simply offering thanks from before. All and all, a good night. And then, the Mission suddenly made a little podium and sat their phone on top, angled towards him. It took only a few seconds before Marc was out the door.

It couldn't be true. He knew that the protocols existed, but things couldn't have gotten that bad so suddenly, right? Steven and Jake were asking questions but their voices barely pierced the endless begging of "not now, it's too soon, I'm not ready".

Wayne Manor was rubble.

The moment his feet touched the ground, Jason was by his side and they were running. Dick, Barbara and Tim were already there, just arrived themselves it seemed. In one swift motion, Barbara pulls free Batman's gauntlet. "No," Steven whispered as the implications finally hit. Tim finds a small splatter of blood and, shortly after: "There!" Dick cries, pointing to a slap of reinforced concrete. On top of a human arm. Bat cowl in hand.

They all move as one, pausing only for the briefest moment before grapping that slab and lifting. But it's no use.

Vaguely, Marc can see Jason hold Tim back, and Barbara and Dick crouch by Bruce's side. He can hear Steven and Jake's reactions. But can only watch as Dick closes Bruce's their dad's eyes for the last time.

---

It was raining. And that just seemed wrong to Jake. After everything Bruce had sacrificed for the city, he deserved at least a dry funeral. But, in truth, Jake hadn't the will to care that much.

As it was, he was only half listening to Great-Uncle Jacob's eulogy. Steven was gently pressed against him. Marc had been AWOL since...that night. "Bruce was Gotham," suddenly reached them both, "He loved this city more than he loved anything. He was a protector to this city. He worked tirelessly behind the scenes to bring justice and equality. There's nothing he wouldn't do - no project he wouldn't champion, if he thought Gotham would benefit. And I think in remembering that...We remember Bruce as he truely was."

Alfred broke from their line to delicately place a hand on Bruce's casket. As Dick walked forward to shelter him from the rain, Marc drifted back up silently.

Khonshu stood beside them, unseen by all else, as the casket was lowered from sight.

---

Crickets were chirping when Steven arrived at the grave, the soft sign of life easing the tightness in his chest just a bit. Slowly, the others gathered around. "How's Alfred?" Jason asked Dick once everyone was there. "What you'd expect...took him three years to agree to a vacation and Bruce turned up dead?" Dick stated, "He asked for some time." "He knows that none of us were there either, right?" Tim asked. "What about you?" Barbara asked Dick before he could answer Tim, "You let Jacob Kane give the eulogy." "He offered."

"He thought it'd be easier on us if he was the one to do it." he continued, "He's Bruce's uncle." "Hell of a speech," Jason replied, "All that talk about a 'protector' who 'works behind the scenes'. If he only knew." Barbara cut off the thought that hung in the air: "Catherine wouldn't be there if she suspected. I can't see the anti-vigilante police commissioner presiding at Batman's funeral." "It's true," Steven piped up, "While most cops leave the Mission alone, we've heard some...murmerings about what would happen if the House of Shadows ever vacated."

"Here's something else Catherine doesn't know: She has the body of Batman's killer in her morgue," Dick stated, "Ra's Al-Ghul is listed as a John Doe, slated for cremation." "Good riddence," Marc muttered in the privacy of their head. "And what if the League of Shadows finds him?" Jason asked, "If they drop their dear leader in a Lazarus Pit, he won't be so dead anymore." "You want to break into the GCPD Headquarters for a 'what if', be my guest," Dick walked forward slightly. "I've decrypted the case Batman sent with his message," Barbara got between them, just in case, "We should focus on that."

Tim tapped at his tablet: "I looked it over, but...did I get everything? It doesn't look complete." "I think Ra's interupted him while he was writing." "He says, 'This has implications that could shake Gotham to its core'." "Ominous but not helpful," Jason dismissed, "I saw a few places we should poke around - construction sites, a quarry..." "He also mentioned a Dr. Langstrom. Anyone know him?" Dick interjected. "He's a zoologist at Gotham University." stated Tim's tech trigger-finger working its magic, "Not sure what his...connection is though."

"Let's divide up the work." Barbara offered, "We can meet at the Belfry when we're done, get it up and running." Silence briefly echoed between them. "Who gets to talk to Langstrom?" Dick asked their little circle. "We'll go," Marc lightly nugged Steven aside, his own suit appearing in seconds.

"Are you sure?" Tim asked cautiously. "We're fine!" Marc hissed. "Hey, easy man," Jason gestured like he was a wounded animal, "little birdie's only asking because none of us have seen you since the Manor went up." "I'm fine," Marc huffed after a deep breath. "Alright, but I'd feel better if someone else was physically with you tonight," Dick stated. "Robin," Marc turned to him after a moment's silence, "Any objections?" "None found."

And with that settled, they all nodded and left for their duties.

[seddm]

What did you think of Amphibia finale? Also, are you a sashannarcy stan?

SPOILERS FOR AMPHIBIA'S FINALE BELOW

(I'll answer the Sashannarcy part of the question tomorrow in another post, because this one is already long enough as it is)

I liked it, some days ago I talked about some of my (largely subjective, based on personal preferences and not the quality of the episode itself) issues with it, but subsequent tweets by the creator largely pacified my troubled spirit.

As for the a more objective comment on the finale, so without going once again over what I talked about in the post linked above, it's a solid finale. All In is probably the better episode, compared to The Hardest Thing, from an all around point of view. The 48 minutes duration allowed it to have a good pacing, fitting in several stories in parallel giving almost all characters involved their moment of payoff. Also, it's an entirely positive episode, by the end of it everyone is better than they were at the beginning - emotionally , can't say the same for the physical part...

This doesn't mean the actual last episode is bad, but it feels more like an epilogue (and it is, after all), with the very first part of the episode rushing things at a breakneck pace. This helps the sense of urgency, but takes a lot out of scenes such as the three girls meeting Valeriana and getting their full powers.

The anime fight is wonderful and the animest thing to ever happen in a Disney show for sure, even if some frames looked sliiightly off model or wonkier, at least compared to the high budget scenes in All In. Still, way above the network standard. You can see how carefully crafted the animatic is here.

The Core's defeat felt slightly anticlimactic, in a way, despite how powerfully emotional the scenes leading to it were. Personally, I don't mind it. By now The Core was little more than a symbol (it had always been but especially after Darcy), a final clash between a force of change, and something that was ready to destroy everything to live forever in its own little digital world. The actual challenge Anne had to overcome was choosing to sacrifice herself and the gems, not the fight itself: the foe becomes irrelevant against the power of her determination.

The god part, a bit weird. The lore surrounding the gems had always been vague, so it fits in a way, but the little references to the olms, Valeriana, the temples spread over the series made me hope for something more "concrete". Still, thematically, the gems being a test fits perfectly, and after all we already knew that the crux of the prophecy revolved around morals more than anything else. And, on this subject, I loved the interpretation of the prophecy as a "call for help", as put by Mother Olm, which explains the existence of the Temples, a way for the warriors to say "no thank you" and give up their gifts and destiny. It's not like the Stones Deity forces anyone to do anything, after all. They're not a jerk.

Also, I don't care for the whole Anne Clone not Clone discourse. If a god tells someone they're sending them back to live their life, I don't ask question and accept they're the same person: soul, consciousness, the whole package.

I'm not going over Anne death, the scenes with Sprig, the goodbyes, because they're all wonderful and excellent and borderline emotional manipulation and I hate it. I would have liked something more between Andrias and Marcy, but finding a good balance was necessarily going to be hard. Can't make it look like Andrias' actions meant nothing to Marcy, can't dedicate multiple minutes to it either. The simple goodbye we got, with Andrias' almost tearing eyes, works very well. I'm entirely satisfied by the way Andrias' redemption and story were handled as a whole, a wonderful character (but I'd have loved him anyway, with Keith David's voice).

Pity the show was kinda forced to acknowledge the lack of Marcy's development outside Anne and Sasha, but that's consistent with her personal flaws, as she herself says. Just makes her relationship with Yunan and Olivia feel less powerful than the others. Guess she gets in complexity (with Andrias) what she lacks in intensity compared to Anne and Sasha with their respective amphibian companions.

I already said what I had to about the epilogues and the timeskips... and that's outdated since, as I mentioned at the beginning of this post, Matt's tweets seem (keyword, phrasing can be vague and ambiguous) to promise a sizeable amount of sugar in Marcy's soon-to-be-published journal, ready to sweeten part of the bitterness of the finale. But I can already say that the aged up designs are excellent. Polly in particular is fantastic (you can see alternative designs here), oozes personality. As a rule of thumb, I'm not a fan of large timeskips as a way to end a series, "I learned to love the characters with the designs they had for 99% of the show, and then they change at the very end, the last scenes we'll ever see?". But the Calamity Trio adult designs are very good, and I got mostly used to them immediately. Sasha might look a bit older than she's supposed to be, and I preferred Anne with bigger, dumb, expressive eyes, but that's extreme nitpicking.

Most of this post is nitpicking for the sake of it.

All in all, a good and bold finale to a tight series that, even with its flaws (possibly in not small part magnified by the limitations of a Disney cartoon), featured an incredibly likeable cast. And a lot of tears.

[jimmys-zeppelin]

that's the way (the boy next door)

pairing: jimmy x reader

words: 4k

warnings: angst, parental death, longing, heartbreak

summary: ten years as friends with your neighbor jimmy creates dozens upon dozens of memories. most of which are good, but the bad things can't help but slip through the cracks. navigating through life with him by your side and trying to live as two innocent teenagers isn't as easy as it seems.

author's note: so uhhh, I've been thinking of this since I first heard that's the way over a year ago when I first joined the zep fandom. I quite literally saw the pictures in my head and immediately knew I had to write it, but didn't know just how to articulate it. this summer I finally had a vague image in my mind of how I wanted this all to play out and started writing right away. it was touch and go for a while, but now it's finished and I really hope you all enjoy it <3

I don't know how I'm gonna tell you

I can't play with you no more

I don't know how I'm gonna do what mama told me

My friend, the boy next door

“And you tell that Page boy I don’t want to see him out here playing with you again! You don’t want me to go and have a talk with his mother now do you?”

“No, Mama,” you replied, head hung low after the scolding you’d just received. At seven years old, you weren’t sure why your mother hadn’t wanted you playing with any of the boys on your street. You grew up on a desolate road in the far end of Epsom where hardly any children your age lived except Jimmy and some other boys who were a year or two older than you. But they didn’t want to play with you…you had “cooties.”

The next morning as you head out to the park, there was no way to avoid the Page’s house—it was immediately next to yours—and Jimmy came running out behind you, calling your name as you started at a quicker pace, only making him run behind you faster. It was impossible once he’d actually caught up to you, almost grabbing you by the shoulder in an attempt to get you to stop.

“What’s wrong? Why didn’t you wait for me?” Jimmy asked, pain clear in his bright, innocent voice as he caught his breath, “was it because I accidentally pushed you yesterday? You said it was okay…”

Your head hung low just as it had the previous evening upon your scolding. You couldn’t look him in the eyes and devastate him even further, “My mum said—my mum said we can’t be friends anymore.”

“Why?” was his first inquiry above anything else, confusion riddling his young, cherubic features.

“I told you, my mum said she didn’t want me hanging around with you. Sh—she didn’t give a reason why, but I just listen to what she says,” you answered, barely able to look Jimmy in his shining, emerald eyes that were now shrouded in disappointment. In his silence, it prompted you to chance a glance at him. His lips pursed together, his eyes were downcast to the concrete sidewalk. He took a shallow breath before walking back in the direction of his house. A single tear slipped from your eye. You kept on your way to the park.

I can't believe what people saying

You're gonna let your hair hang down

I'm satisfied to sit here working all day long

You're in the darker side of town

You bounced down the stairs on your way to the kitchen, about to ask your mum if you could go out with some friends later that weekend. Now at thirteen, you were spending more time out of the house and more time out with friends. It was freeing to say the least. You caught your mother on the phone before you came into the kitchen, hearing her ranting and raving about God-knows-what.

“Did you see how long his hair is? Much too long for a proper boy his age! And did you hear about how he exploded that old shack on the school grounds?!….I’ve already spoken with his mother, Sharon, she doesn’t seem to care. Says James is gonna make it into the big leagues. Not like that he won’t,” she carried on. You decided at this point to walk into the kitchen and try to catch her attention, “And what is with that guitar he’s always lugging around? He’s not right—hold on Shar, Y/N wants to tell me something. What is it, darling?”

“Oh,” you piped up, “Ella wants to go out this Saturday. She said her dad could take us to a—a skiffle show in London. Can I go?”

“Just you and Ella?” your mother inquired, impatiently holding the phone down to her shoulder.

“Me, Ella, and Holly. That’s all.”

Your mother looked at you for a few seconds, letting you stew in your anxiety for a bit. “That’s fine. I want you back home before midnight, though.”

“Of course, thank you!” you exclaimed as you rushed back to your bedroom, carrying on with your homework.

-

On Saturday, you were dressed in your very best. Your button-down white blouse and favorite skirt were your ensemble for the day. As you exited through your front door after your thousands of goodbyes to your mother, you peered into the next front yard only to see Jimmy headed in the same direction as you were for the car.

Your eyebrows came together in confusion. Looking into the car, you saw John Preston, a good friend of Jimmy's, sitting beside Holly in the large backseat of the vehicle.

"Hi, Y/N,” Jimmy greeted sweetly, "you're going to the skiffle show, too?"

You stared blankly at him, stuttering in response, “Ye-Yes. I didn't know you were coming with us."

"Oh, John told me Ella was offering to take people and I was planning on going anyway so I took his offer and...here I am,” he said simply with a shrug. "Is...that a problem? I know your mum has some sort of an issue with me. I don't quite understand it."

"I just ignore what she says at this point, really,” you said, unsure of where to look or what to do. “Your hair looks nice like that."

You two sat squished in the car the whole way to London. As John talked up Holly, and Ella rode with her father up front, there was little conversation between you and the rest of the teenagers all squeezed into the backseat. The conversation between you and Jimmy was even more so confined, though you'd been sitting right next to each other. Occasionally a glance would be exchanged and a quiet giggle; him touching your fingers as you anxiously played with them in your lap and you nudging his shoulder gently when he did so.

"You play guitar right?" you asked, you voice just above a whisper. Like the question was reserved wholly for him.

"Yes," he nodded, his eyes boring into yours, "I could..." he gulped, "teach you sometime if you'd like..."

"I don't think my mother would approve."

"I thought you ignored what she had to say,” Jimmy remarked with a sly smile creeping up the edge of his lips.

You couldn't help but chuckle. “About trivial matters, yes. But going to your house to learn guitar...she'd get suspicious,” you shook your head.

"Well, I could show you after school. Haven't got anything better to do anyway. You could say you're studying with Ella or something."

Your eyes timidly met his, looking away after only a few seconds. The shade of green they donned something you wouldn't forget so soon. "Perhaps. I'll let you know on Monday."

"Okay," he smiled. Looking down at your hands, your heart leapt out of your chest at the sight of your fingers intertwined together.

You stood side by side through the entirety of the skiffle show, Jimmy's hand brushing yours every few songs. You'd lost your friends somewhere in the shuffle, but you were sure they weren't enjoying the show nearly as much as you and Jimmy were.

After the show had wound down, you and Jimmy strolled over to the agreed upon meeting area. You stood awkwardly as thirteen year-olds often did, balancing this way and that on the heels of your feet as you twiddled your fingers, stretching your neck to see if your friends were anywhere close. Jimmy stood with his head down. You didn’t know that his cheeks were too flushed for him to even look at you.

“That was fun,” you remarked once you were sure your head would pop off if you kept craning your neck.

Jimmy’s head snapped up. “Mhm!” he agreed, soon looking down to hide his face. You raised an eyebrow at the sight.

"You alright?" you asked, looking at him quizzically.

Jimmy paused for along while, timidly looking up at you, “I really ….” he mumbled out the last part of his statement. You could barely understand a word he said.

"What's that?"

"Ireallylikeyou,” he rushed out in a small, quiet voice.

Your eyes widened once you registered his confession, "Oh,” you said softly. What do I even answer with? you couldn't help but think to yourself. "I like you, too Jimmy." Though you didn’t mean in the same way he did.

He shot up to look at you again, bewilderment riddling his expression. It was then that you saw his cherubic cheeks flushed bright red even in the darkness of your surroundings. "You do?!"

"Uhm, well, yes, Jimmy. But—but as friends,” you said, unsure of yourself. "I'm sorry."

You could see his poor heart shatter right before you. "Oh,” he replied, dejected.

Your friends could be heard laughing and talking loudly just a few feet away. As they approached, Jimmy took a few steps away from you and ran his hands over his face, pretending as if nothing had happened.

"Jimmy—" you started, not even sure of what you wanted to tell him.

"No, it's fine. I get it,” he waved you off, stepping even further away, not daring to look at you.

And when I'm out I see you walking

Why don't your eyes see me?

Could it be you've found another game to play,

What did mama say to me?

You walked to school the next Monday. Passing Jimmy's house as you always did, he walked out as your eyes glanced over at his front door. You nearly jumped in an excitable fear at the sight of him, though he looked more than miserable to see you.

Knowing your mother would be watching you until you reached the end of your block, you wouldn't dare turn to say hello to him.

But he seemed to completely ignore you once your collective gazes met. It hurt to say the least. Telling Jimmy you only liked him as a friend seemed to be the worst mistake you could have made. Instead, at seeing some of the other schoolboys on your block, Jimmy ran to them, completely bypassing you as he crossed the road and struck up a conversation. God, how it angered you.

And yesterday I saw you standing by the river

And weren't those tears that filled your eyes

And all the fish that lay in dirty water dying

Had they got you hypnotized?

Somewhere down the line you seemed to patch things up with Jimmy. You were sixteen now. Three years passed since his confession to you and it seemed his feelings didn't change between then and now.

You'd see him catching glimpses of you during class, and in the hallway, and at lunch. It made your cheeks flush whenever you caught him. You knew he didn’t have some schoolboy crush on you at this rate. Having gotten much closer recently, you decided to let him feel his feelings as he pleased. Perhaps you’d even felt a twinge of a feeling back for him. He was the cutest boy in school, after all. You couldn’t deny that.

However, boys weren’t your sole focus anymore. It was helping to provide for your family. With your mother having passed away the previous year, you were stuck trying to find ways to help your father pay the bills. All at the hands of a drunk driver lost late at night that struck your mother as she was taking out the garbage. It was a horrible time for you, not to mention your father.

Jimmy's mother had been a great help to you: offering to make you dinner, helping to do house chores whenever she could, offering a shoulder to cry on, and so much more. You thought it oddly generous seeing as how much your mother was a bother to Mrs. Page. You speculated Jimmy may have had a hand in her generosity. After that you'd started spending more time next door. You and Jimmy did homework together and his mother would offer to let you stay for a meal before going home to your father. He was gone during the day anyway so you really had nowhere else to go. It was an awkward time for everyone in the months following.

Eventually, though, you got back on your feet. You got a job at a local diner and were making good money to keep yourself afloat even if it wasn't by that much. You’d definitely learned to be more frugal; a skill your mother had always wanted you to pick up before you were too old.

It had been almost a year after her passing that you’d picked up on Jimmy’s endless stares again. On one certain day, it seemed he was finally confident enough in trying his chances with you again. You two were sat at his kitchen table practicing your cursive handwriting when he spoke up.

"Did you want to go down to the river with me tomorrow?"

"Why's that?" you asked as you completed the tail on a lowercase “a”, getting started on the next one.

"Uh, no—no reason. Thought maybe we could get out of the house for a little while."

You contemplated it for a second before answering. "Sure, I don't mind. I just have to be back in time for work. Can I meet you there?"

Jimmy nodded vehemently with a smile. “Yeah, that's great."

-

You were the first to arrive at the arranged meeting spot by the river the next afternoon. You stood leaning on a tree, watching as the river flowed soothingly past you, the sounds of the rippling water calming you greatly, almost in a hypnotizing way. You saw the fish rushing their way through the stream. Inevitably you wondered where they'd end up. Either way you morbidly realized they'd all be dead one day. Or in someone's home being served as a meal.

A sense of panic washed over you and tears rushed to your eyes. Figuring Jimmy wouldn't show up for a while, you let hot tears stream down your cheeks; death being an inevitable reminder of your mother. You didn't cry much over her anymore, but few things still managed to set you off.

"Hey," a voice said gently, touching their hand to your shoulder. Jimmy. "What's wrong?"

"Oh my," you said, quickly rushing your hands to your face, wiping away the tears haphazardly as you chuckled at Jimmy, obviously embarrassed. "Sorry."

“Don’t apologize. Are you alright?" he asked, rubbing his thumb into your arm before drawing you in for a hug. His immediate attention brought you comfort, though you were embarrassed to admit that a few fish brought you to tears.

"Just fine, Jimmy. Don't worry about me, I promise."

He let go, but kept his hands on your biceps. "Did something happen?"

"No,” you insisted, "just the…bloody fish."

Jimmy raised an eyebrow, but decided to let it go after that, letting go of your arms and letting his own fall to his sides again.

"What did you want to do here?" you asked as you started walking along the river, going opposite the current. A look of confusion flashed on his face before he remembered that he'd invited you to meet with him.

"Uh, well. I just wanted to talk with you."

"About what?"

He stammered, looking around anxiously as if trying to find the words he was trying to say. “I have this friend,” he said, nodding to himself as if he were trying to convince himself that this was the correct information. "He—He really likes you."

You caught the lie immediately. Not being able to hold back the light chuckle leaving you, you nodded. “Oh, okay. Who is it?”

It was as if he was being tested again, he cleared his throat, “Johnny!….Johnny Tree…ston.”

“Johnny Treeston? Okay,” you said, more than amused with his antics.

“Yes, well. Don’t tell him I told you. He’d be very embarrassed. Anyway. He was asking me what would be the best…uhm—course of action in trying to ask you on a date.”

“Well, why can’t Johnny Treeston just tell me how he feels?” you replied, staring deep and knowingly into Jimmy’s bright green eyes.

“Y/N, you see, he can’t just tell you like that. He doesn’t want to seem like a simpleton.”

“Ha!” you guffawed, “a simpleton.” You laughed, “Johnny could never be a simpleton. I know how intelligent he is,” you stopped, taking Jimmy’s wrist with one hand, “and sweet. And genuine…”

“I didn’t know you knew Johnny like that.” Jimmy said, playing off the fact that you had just called his bluff.

“Well…I don’t know Johnny like that. Johnny isn’t real. But you are. And I know you like that, Jimmy.”

His cheeks flushed. Perhaps even redder than they did back when you were kids. “You do?” he asked, almost terrified that he’d even brought the conversation up to this poignant point.

“Of course I do. I always speculated why your mother was so kind to me after my mum passed.”

“Surely she was just trying to be homely.”

“Surely,” you agreed. After a beat you continued, “God Jimmy, it’s like you made me like you by doing nothing at all,” you said, chuckling to yourself. Jimmy’s brows furrowed. He opened his mouth to speak, but you beat him to the punch. “I like you, Jimmy. A lot.”

He stared at you in shock for a good five seconds before he spoke. This pause felt like it lasted a lifetime. “That’s supposed to be my line,” he said finally, a cheeky smile tugging at the edge of his lips.

You couldn’t help but pull Jimmy into a hug. He quickly pulled back, still holding you close, "You don't mean like a friend, right?"

"No!" you laughed, "of course not. But just in case you were still on the fence..." you trailed off, pressing your lips against his gently, the feeling being much softer than you could have ever imagined. Jimmy kissed you back. You could feel his longing in the kiss as he cradled your cheeks in his palms. Pulling back, you spoke again, "I hope that settles it, then."

He grinned at you, pulling you in for another kiss before you continued on through the park. “So would you like to go out with me sometime?” He asked.

“I would love to, Jimmy,” you replied, an impermeable smile spreading across your face.

And yesterday I saw you kissing tiny flowers

But all that lives is born to die

And so I say to you that nothing really matters

And all you do is stand and cry

He said to meet at your spot by the river again. It was the day of your eighteenth birthday. Again you waited for him as the sun just began to set. The early summer breeze tussled the flowers sprawled across the field. You picked one from the dirt with a quick, sharp tug, inhaling its scent. A mayflower. Aptly named. It brought nothing but good memories from your childhood.

A pair of arms wrapped around your waist, and a face pressed its lips into the back of your shoulder repeatedly. You turned your head to face the affectionate person, your hand resting just above theirs; your fingers intertwining together as if by habit.

"Hello, lover,” he said softly, kissing your neck.

"Lover. I like that name,” you giggled, turning to face him, cupping his cheeks in your palms and pressing your lips to his for a quick moment.

"Happy birthday,” he said, bringing his finger to your chin and tilting your lips back up to his, bringing you both together once again.

"Here,” you said, showing him the mayflower you'd just plucked, kissing one of the small petals before delicately placing it behind his ear much to your delight. "Promise you'll keep it?"

"Only till it dies,” he remarked. His comment struck a chord within you. You weren't sure what it was, but you ignored it and carried on. "You look beautiful."

"Thank you,” you nodded to him. “So where are we off to?"

Jimmy had mentioned he had a special evening planned for the two of you, but failed to indulge on what exactly it was he wanted to do. It seemed, though, the first order of business was to get on the bus headed for London. You were about to embark on a journey.

"When we get to London, then maybe I'll reveal some more of what we'll do,” he said mischievously, plucking the flower resting on his ear and putting it just hanging outside of his breast pocket. "Also I needed to talk to you about some things."

You took his hand in yours, turning your attention away from the window and back to him, listening intently.

"I'm going to art school,” he announced. You shrugged at him, not knowing the severity of the issue. "I'll be moving out of my parents' house. They have a flat lined up for me there. I'm leaving next week."

All you could do was stare at him. Your expression was blank, but on the inside, your body was slowly flooding. Filling up like a sinking ship with no way out. "You're moving?" you said it more as a statement than a question, but the way you felt was more than clear. "I'll come with you,” you said suddenly, almost jumping at the realization. You couldn't bear to part with him, not so soon.

Jimmy shook his head solemnly. “What about your father? You can't leave him on his own."

He was right. With his constant working, you were the one who had to keep the house tidy and cook. Someone had to take over your mother's duties, but you insisted. “He can live without me. I can find a job in London. I can make you happy,” you tried, tears starting to prick at your eyes.

"You already make me happy, darling. And it doesn't matter, I don't want you to feel like you have to uproot your life for me. Even then with all of the session work and schooling I'll barely be home. It just wouldn't be feasible for you,” Jimmy replied, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

You gave up fighting then. Letting the tears stroll down your cheeks as they pleased and you didn't speak another word to him for the rest of the bus ride. With your hands in your lap, you admired the scenery before you. Jimmy stayed uncomfortably silent the rest of the way. It was clear to see that this conversation had put a damper on your birthday celebrations.

That was the way the boy next door broke your heart into a million pieces.

After moving to London, you didn’t see Jimmy for several years. Now established with a career of his own, hair down past his shoulders, and more women around him than he could ever know what to do with, it seemed he'd forgotten you. And you tried your hardest to forget him.

You'd heard his name many times on the radio in conjunction with the new supergroup he'd formed that was sweeping the nation. You were proud of him; proud that he'd finally achieved his dreams, though it saddened you to hear his name and realize you weren't a part of his life anymore. However, there was nothing you could do about it now.

That was the way it was going to stay.

---

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[bluegarners]

“I have your loved one” with Dick and Jason?

heyyy, it's finally here haha! i'm slowly getting to each request lol

here it is on ao3

I Have Your Loved One

It’s Thursday.

Time: 23:47, or 11:47 p.m.

Bludhaven has hit a rough patch in its weather, a vicious storm battering against thin windows and overflowing gutters and drains. It’s one of those storms that brings in the water but no lightning, dark clouds blanketing the entire sky, remorseless and relentless in its pursuit of smothering any light from escaping. The clouds don’t muffle anything though, perhaps amplifying instead the downpour that floods through Bludhaven’s streets and alleyways. Its citizens like to think this is a New Jersey hurricane, freshly mutated and traveled from the east coast into their humble, mildew covered city.

Dick likes the rain. Likes the way it pounds against his apartment, screaming to be let in but just barely warded off by seven inches of concrete and steel. The blinds are closed against the windows, and he has towels pushed up against the sills just in case the sealing lets up. Even if they were open, Dick is sure all he would see is another wall of gray and black, dozens of delicate raindrops splattered against his windows.

Because of the storm currently wreaking havoc in his city, Dick has elected to stay indoors for the time being. Eventually, the rain will let up, its pattern being close to about 05:00, and then he’ll suit up and do a quick patrol before work. For now, he’s content with sitting on his couch and listening to the water smack against the old building and run rivers down the sides. He’d like to sleep through it, a free white noise service at the ready, but his mind simply refuses to allow him to rest just yet. In a few hours, he’s sure he’ll come to hate himself for not taking NyQuil or some other drug to help him fall asleep, but for now… Well, it’s nice. The rain is nice. It’s also very loud.

He misses the first call.

His phone is face down on the kitchen table, about eight feet away from where he lays on the couch, mindlessly staring up at the ceiling. It vibrates, buzzing for thirty seconds, before falling silent.

He misses the second call too.

Thunder rumbles through the black sky, its force shaking the windows and only encouraging the downpour. His phone buzzes again during it, quieting after another thirty seconds.

Dick hears the third call. Hears the tail-end of the buzzing, getting up from his position on the couch and padding over to pick up his phone only to miss the last few seconds. He unlocks his phone, checking the number, and feels something cold settle into his gut when he sees no caller ID. It’s the same person though, all three times, but no voicemail.

He’s about to call the number back, just in case it’s someone he knows and they’re ringing from a payphone or something else, when the no caller ID flashes across his screen for the fourth time.

Dick answers on the second ring. “Hello?”

“Is this Richard Grayson?”

“Yes, that’s me. Who is this?”

The voice is feminine, a slight, western accent, longer o’s and a faint drawl. Somewhere from Arizona most likely. Lower register too. Older woman, mid-to-late fifties. Smoker.

“That’s good. I was starting to think I had the wrong number, Richard.”

“Yeah, sorry, I just didn’t have my phone on me. You didn’t say earlier, but who is this?”

“That doesn’t matter too much right now. What does matter, though, is this.”

She pauses. There’s shuffling he can hear on the other side. A faint, second voice in the background. No, three voices. At least two others in the room with the woman. He can hear the sounds of an air condition unit rattling.

“I think you might’ve cut off there. What were—”

“I have your loved one, Richard.”

Lightning cracks through Bludhaven.

His stomach falls onto the floor, pooling around his ankles. The storm outside grinds to a halt, the quiet louder than any thunder it’s ever managed to produce, and there’s a high pitched ringing reverberating inside his skull. Dick thinks he might be sick.

“What?” he chokes, the air in the room suffocating and weighing down his lungs. “What did you say?”

“I have your loved one,” the woman repeats, calm and slow. “Your brother, actually. Then again, he tells me you aren’t related by name nor blood, so we’ll settle for a loved one.”

“What do you want?” Dick demands, already scrambling to get to his computer, find where they’ve taken Jason. Find his brother.

“He did say you weren’t one for small talk,” the woman carries on, unhurried and unconcerned. “Your brother isn’t either, hardly said a word all this time.”

“Can I speak to him?”

There’s a small huff on the other end of the call, exhalation and a sigh leaving the woman’s mouth. A cigarette. She’s smoking during this conversation, blowing the smoke into the receiver.

“I don’t know,” she finally answers. There. Dick has his general location. Still in Gotham. He needs the tracker to be more precise though. It’s taking time though. Too much. “Your brother here was pretty convinced you wouldn’t answer after his daddy didn’t pick up. Cried pretty hard about it too.”

“What are you talking about?” Dick grounds out, fearing his phone will crack with how tightly he’s gripping it.

“Well, you weren’t our first choice to call, Richard. I’m sure you understand.”

Dick says nothing, focused on the computer screen in front of him. He should contact Barbara. This would be faster with her. Faster to find Jason.

“We called about seven times,” the woman continues, blowing another puff of smoke out into the phone. “Isn’t that right, boy? We called and called and called. His daddy didn’t pick up once, went straight to voicemail each time. A shame, really.”

There’s a sniffle on the other side of the call and Dick’s heart seizes when he realizes it’s probably Jason.

Batman was currently off-world, all communication with him being strictly between Justice League lines. Bruce Wayne was somewhere in the Bahamas, partying with Italian models and Spanish actresses.

Of course he wouldn’t pick up.

“Can I please talk to him?” Dick asks for the second time, fisting a hand into the couch cushions. “Please, I just want to make sure he’s okay.”

More smoke. “I’ll ask him.”

There’s a muffled thud, the phone most likely having been put down, and quiet voices filter through the line. He can’t hear much of what they’re saying, short bursts of comprehensible syllables before fading back to unintelligible noises. His computer dings with a response from Barbara. She’s going to use one of the J.L satellites to better pin-point Jason’s location. She’s also in communication with the police, reporting a child-abduction.

Keep them talking, she writes. Everything is going to be okay, Dick.

It feels like his heart is beating in his throat and his tongue has swollen to the size of a bowling ball. The storm outside is unrelenting. Lightning hasn’t struck again.

There’s more movement on the other side, clattering and scattered noises. The phone’s been picked up.

“Alright,” the woman says, raspy and uncaring. “The boy says he wants to talk to you, Richard.”

Dick holds his breath, waiting. There’s more noises, a transfer he thinks, and another sniffle interrupts it.

“Hello?” a shaky voice asks into the receiver. Dick feels like crying.

“Jason,” he breathes. “We’re going to get you out of there, alright? You’re going to be okay.”

“I’m sorry,” his brother rattles, a sob latching onto the end. “I’m so sorry, Dick. I-I didn’t mean to.”

“It’s okay,” Dick shushes, feeling himself get choked up at the fear in the younger boy’s voice. “I know you didn’t, bud. Are you okay? Did they hurt you?”

“No, not really. I didn’t think you were gonna pick up,” he admits, voice cracking. “B-Bruce didn’t. He didn’t answer, Dick, and I-I thought you weren’t gonna either. I-I thought—”

“I’ll always answer, Jason, I promise. I’m coming for you, okay? I’m going to come get you and we’ll both go home together. Does that sound good, Jay? You’re going to be fine.”

“Okay,” the thirteen year old relents. “You promise though, right? You’re not gonna leave me here?”

“No, Jay, of course not. I’m not going to leave you there, I’m coming to get you. Right now. I promise, okay? Jason, I would never abandon you. You’re my kid-brother and I love you. I’m not going to-”

“As touching as this is,” the woman interrupts, “I think that’s enough.”

“Put Jason back on the phone,” Dick snarls. “I swear, if you lay a hand on him, if you even touch him, I will end you.”

“Sure, honey,” the woman drawls, puffing into the receiver. “Here’s what’s going to happen, so I want you to listen to me.”

His computer dings. It’s Barbara. She’s got the location. It’s close. Not even twenty minutes away. Border between Bludhaven and Gotham. Motel next to the gas station connecting the freeways. Room 13.

He’s out the door and revving up his motorcycle before the woman has even taken a second drag from her cigarette. The rain is beating against him, gloomy street lights flickering through the shrouded dark of the storm. Thank god for Bludhaven sewers, only slightly better than Gotham’s. The water level is only a few millimetres high.

“Now, I don’t want to keep this kid anymore than you want him to stay here with me,” the woman drones. The streets are empty. Dick blows through every red light he comes across. The tires are new, the grip is fine. “So, I think we can make this simple.”

“What do you want?” Dick growls, transferring the call into his helmet. He prays she can’t hear the rain battering against it. “Just tell me what you want already and I’ll give it to you.”

“Don’t rush me,” the woman snaps, and it is then that Dick realizes that this is all probably by chance. This isn’t some criminal mastermind who plotted to find and kidnap the son of a billionaire. This isn’t a case of a rogue villain piecing together vague details and figuring out Batman and company’s identities. It’s simply someone desperate. Someone who saw the opening and took it. The poor planning is evident, practically spelled out in bold print that these people have no real idea what they’re doing.

“Sorry,” Dick bites out, veering through a short-cut that says, in neon orange, Danger. Construction Zone. “Please continue.”

The woman on the line is vindictive though, choosing to remain quiet as the sound of a lighter clicking open tinnies through the call. She takes her time lighting a new cigarette, taking a long, slow drag and holding it in for a few seconds. Dick jerks his bike to the right, narrowly avoiding a large pothole. A passing car blares its horn at him. Finally, the woman exhales. He can hear Jason cough in the background.

“What I want,” she starts, a new color of intrigue hitting the back of her throat. He’s barely ten minutes away now. Could probably half it if he took more backstreets and increased his speed. “Is for my son to be released from prison.”

“Who is your son?” Dick asks, cursing silently as his back tire skids, hydro-planing for a moment. Thunder crashes above him and the rain continues to pelt at his body. It feels like getting hit with a paint-ball gun.

“Landon Jennings. I want you to get him released. I know you have the access to lawyers, probably have debts owed to you from people in high places. I want him released tonight.”

Time: 00:14.

01:14 a.m standard time.

“I can do that,” Dick says, heart beating faster as he sees the sign for the motel, dim in the gray, “but I’ll need a few hours. I need to contact my lawyers. Where is your son stationed?”

An icon appears in the front of his digitized visor. It’s Barbara. She sees him closing in. Police are on route. Seven minutes out. He has the option to wait on them and keep the kidnappers on the line.

“Same place they all go,” the woman barks. “Use that head of yours and figure it out. I want my son out by tonight, or you’re not going to see your brother again. And,” she rushes, “I don’t want the police involved. If you call them, I’ll know, you understand? I don’t want to hurt the kid, but I’m not scared to. My husband is here with me too, so if you try and—”

Okay, so waiting isn’t an option. He’s going in.

“No police,” Dick interrupts. “I understand. Please, don’t hurt him.”

“If you just do what you’re told, then I won’t have to.”

“Thank you,” Dick whispers, gently getting off of his bike and leaving it on the side of the road. He can’t chance them seeing him pulling into the motel lot. “You said your son’s name was Landon? If you don’t mind me asking, what is he charged with?”

“Why do you need to know?”

Dick jogs towards the motel, careful to stay out of direct light. The general office looks closed. Most of the windows facing the lot are shielded by salmon colored curtains. There’s only one floor, thankfully. Dick sees door 13. He’s shaking. His fingers are numb.

“My lawyers said they need to know in order to file for a judge to repeal his sentence.”

“Is that so?” the woman asks, suspicion tailing her voice. She takes a drag from her cigarette, contemplating. Dick’s clothes are soaking wet and he cringes every time his shoes squelch against the concrete. He decides crawling is best, ducking under windows and avoiding peepholes. “Fine then. Landon got falsely accused of statutory rape and breaking and entering. Is that what your damn lawyers are looking for?”

“Yes,” Dick breathes. He’s at door 10. He can see a faint glow coming from behind the curtains of room 13. He’s so close. “Thank you.”

He taps on the side of his helmet, sending a series of numbers that he’s sure Barbara will understand.

23-26-8-37

E-N-T-R

He can’t wait any longer.

While crawling, Dick made sure to get a good look at the motel’s doors and hinges. They’re standard, and though both Gotham and Bludhaven tend to have better locks than most other cities, Dick recognizes the model of the door and the wood it’s made out of. They’re thin enough for him to ram through. The hinges on the sides are rusted over as well, and Dick thinks they might just be weak enough to break. The windows however. The windows are his best bet. He doubts this kind of motel invests in bullet proof glass, and on some of the sills, he can see water damage. They leak. Poorly made. Meaning, if he ran at them, he could break through pretty easily.

But, if that doesn’t work. Or if he’s not fast enough to get on his feet once in. Or if the window is directly in front of Jason and the glass breaks all over him. Or if—

Stop. He can’t think about the what-ifs right now. Dick knows he can do this. Knows how to do this. There isn’t any more time to wait. He promised he would get Jason out of there, and goddamnit, he’s going to keep his promise.

“You’re being really quiet,” the woman mutters. “What’s going—”

Dick takes a deep breath and tenses. The light behind the curtain flickers. He needs to move. Now. Now.

Lightning splits across the sky and Dick can’t tell if it’s the glass shattering or the thunder that makes the other-worldly crack but it doesn’t matter because Dick lands feet first and is tucking and rolling before the occupants have a chance to react.

“Oh my god!” someone screams, but Dick isn’t paying attention to them because his gaze zeroes in on his brother, tiny, thirteen year old Jason, who’s tied up on one of the beds and staring right at him.

He can’t linger long though because he hears the words, “Get the gun!”, and he’s up on his feet again, rushing the closest person. It turns out to be the husband, a balding man with a patchy neck-beard, and Dick bunches up his fist and swings, socking the man in the stomach. He doubles over, wheezing, and Dick can see the small pistol in the man’s right hand, and Dick strikes down on his shoulder, kneeing him simultaneously. The pistol drops and so does the man, groaning, and Dick turns to the woman, who is staring at him like an animal cornered.

“Don’t come any closer!” she yells, pocket knife trembling in her grip as she shoves it in Jason’s face. “I’ll stab him, I will!”

Dick holds up his hands, sidestepping the groaning man. “Put the knife down.”

“No!” the woman argues, a strand of black hair falling into her mouth. “Now I told you- stay there! Don’t fucking move or I’ll kill this kid, you hear! I’ll fucking slice his throat open!”

With how scared the woman is, and how precarious she holds the pocket knife, which Dick can see is dull even from where he’s standing, he knows it’s not an idle threat. Scared people will do anything to get out of the situation they’re in. Scared people are unpredictable and dangerous.

But so is Dick.

So is Jason.

“I’m not going to move,” Dick reassures, eyes flickering towards his brother, “so, please, drop the knife. We can talk this out.”

“Talk?” the woman shrills, jerking the knife closer to Jason’s jawline. “You just killed my husband!”

“I didn’t kill him,” Dick corrects. “He’s just unconscious. Come on now. It’s just you and me. Let’s talk this over. I can still get Landon out if you give me back my brother. It’s as easy as that, alright? Just put down the knife, and we’ll talk. Does that sound okay?”

The woman looks like she’s considering it, the hand holding the knife still trembling, when the first sirens enter the lot. Red and blue light flash through the broken window as rain seeps into the curtains.

“You rat!” she screams, furious and terrified and desperate all at once. “You fucking called the cops! You broke—”

She doesn’t get a chance to finish before Jason snaps his head back, headbutting the woman directly in the nose. He falls to the side, getting out of range of the knife, and Dick takes his cue, leaping forwards and gripping the woman’s wrist and squeezing, weapon falling from her grasp. There’s blood spurting from her nose and Dick throws her to the floor, getting her on her stomach and hands behind her back. He sits on top of her, his weight overpowering any strength she has left, and in the next few seconds, police are banging on the door.

“This is the GCPD! Open up and put your weapons down!”

“You can come in!” Dick shouts, holding the squirming woman in place. “We’re unarmed!”

Things happen quickly after the door bangs open, several officers pouring in like the Bludhaven storm. As soon as an officer handcuffs the woman he’s on top of, Dick is rushing to Jason’s side, another officer cutting away his bindings. His younger brother turns to him, about to say something, but Dick cuts him off with a crushing hug, cradling the back of Jason’s head to rest against his shoulder.

“I’m so sorry,” Dick whispers, gathering his brother more fully into his arms. “I should’ve been there sooner. God, Jason, I’m so sorry.”

“I-I thought you weren’t going to come for me,” Jason confesses, hiccuping. “When Bruce didn’t pick up, I thought it was because he didn’t want me anymore. I-I told her that, I told her Bruce wasn’t coming but she wouldn’t listen and-and I—”

Dick wraps his arms more securely around the sobbing preteen in response, gently rocking back and forth as the mattress springs squealed under the pressure.

“I know I haven’t always been around,” he says, uncaring about the snot dribbling into his shirt, “and I’m sorry you thought you couldn’t rely on me to come and get you. You’re my brother, though, and I will always come running when you call. No matter what. I promise, Jay. Anywhere, anytime, I promise I’ll be there. Okay?”

“Okay,” Jason wheezes, the adrenaline from before slowly releasing its hold. “I trust you.”

Dick presses his face into his brother’s hair, relief washing over him as his heart slows. He’s never had a sibling before. Things were still tense with Bruce, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t be a big brother. There isn’t a thing in the world he wouldn’t do for this kid in his arms right now.

“What’re brothers for, right?” he mumbles.

The rain doesn’t stop and pours and pours and pours. Dick just holds Jason tighter.

The real storm was over.

Five months later

It’s Thursday.

Time: 11:47 a.m.

The stone is nice. White marble. Shiny. Expensive.

There are fresh flowers. Roses and yellow daisies. The dirt is still new too. Evidence of freshly upturned earth. Dick reaches down and pulls out a weed that’s sprung up at the corner of the stone. Tosses it away.

He doesn’t have flowers. He has a newspaper in his left hand. Reads: Mourning billionaire sets off on trip to Europe.

Jason died a month before he got back from across the universe.

Anywhere, he had said. Anytime. I promise I’ll be there.

He crumples the newspaper into a tight ball and shoves it into his pocket. Stares at the stone. The sun is out. There are no clouds in the sky. It’s nice.

It’s a nice day.

“Fuck,” Dick mutters, a familiar burn in the back of his eyes. “Fuck.”

Anywhere, anytime.

Dick Grayson is an only child once again.

[poptod]

The Old Gods

Description: Jack has to get close to a powerful suspect. Jack also ponders upon his humanity.

Notes: genuinely didnt meant for this to get so long, my apologies, i just like writing conversations bc i never get to have them.  also! I hate myself so much for writing supernatural fanfiction in the good year of our lord 2021. its not my fault, it was the only show i could watch with my cousin that we both liked. anyway! lmk if you like it i could do a part two WC: 11k

+

The nearest library could hardly be called a library. A more accurate description would be a collection of books––a small collection––that could be read freely but never taken from the library itself. There was little need within the Winchesters to visit the library, considering they had one in their home filled with mythical lore, but the records of Kansas and neighboring cities and states were detailed thoroughly in the nearest library.

Jack knew a great many things; inherent natures and laws of the universe, the experience of power and of fear, both before him and within him. Many things he'd seen deserved to be feared, exposing him to dangers often unheard of amongst regular children.

Three months into existence, however, Jack liked to think he knew more than he did when he was born. This was because he'd spoken to more people, experienced more things, and learned select things about his mother, his father, his family, and strangers. Still, there were things that puzzled him––the age of the world was clear in his mind (4.543 billion years, four months, 22 days, 6 hours, and 52 seconds) but how humanity progressed into what they now were astounded him.

"Humans started as... these creatures with unending curiosity," Castiel explained to him, his hands folded neat in his lap but hidden by his too-long trenchcoat sleeves. "Ceaseless innovation. They started without language but they always had kindness. I think.. that's why God favored them, at least at first."

"So... kindness is a form of.. intelligence?" Jack asked slowly, his brow furrowed tight as he stared past his father.

"I believe so," he said, shifting in his seat. "Kindness drove these animals to building homes, to conversing with one another, to creating a better world for descendants they would never know. It's quite beautiful, actually."

"Am I a part of that story?"

Only half-human, only half-alive, only half the story, belonging to nothing concrete. Jack wasn't really human, leaving him alone in his species.

"Yes," Castiel said without hesitation.

Civilization first started off in a number of areas. The first book Jack found dealt with the fertile crescent northeast of Africa, where Mesopotamia brought forth a number of societies, of cultures, meshed together over the course of thousands of years. Sumerians were one of the first to build their cities, creating writing, the wheel, and the plow in their haven apart from the unpredictable and often violent wild.

But no––the next book Jack found stated that Jericho was the oldest city, west to the fertile crescent near the shore of the Mediterranean and the Dead Sea. The citystate was independent from any other power, often becoming abandoned from raids only to return to high populations, as humans flocked back to the spring water that still poured from inside the earth to this day.

Over the rest of the day spent in the nearest library, Jack learned there was no single spot in which civilization was created and then spread from. The Nile in Africa brought forth Egypt, the Indus river in Pakistan birthed the Harappan civilization, and the two rivers Yellow and Yangtze in China created the first asian cities. From there villages, towns, and cities spread like mold across the earth's surface, eventually bringing humans to inhabit every continent and nearly every environment known on earth.

There were far too many things to know, and the strain of reading on his eyes eventually forced him to retire for the day. He hardly understood anything yet, but the librarian was understanding as to his prolonged stay, and wished him a good evening when he left. He beamed a bright smile despite the strange pain growing behind his eyes, and waved good-bye.

Dean gave him painkillers when he got back to the bunker after Jack thoroughly (and unnecessarily) described his headache.

"Humans are... strange," Jack said, his brow furrowed in deep thought. He rested his elbows on the table, leaning over an empty bowl of cereal.

"Not wrong, but, care to elaborate?" asked Sam, who was sitting across from him at the kitchen table, a newspaper and pen in his hand.

"Castiel said you created the first cities out of a desire to.. to protect each other, and to keep yourselves safe. And then the first thing you do when you meet other cities is to go to war with them."

Sam sucked in a sharp breath, leaning back as he set the newspaper aside. This would take a little more concentration than a passing ear.

"People are scared by things they don't know," Sam began only to be cut off.

"Why?"

"They don't know if it's dangerous. You didn't trust us, at first, either. We didn't know whether to trust you. Remember?"

"Oh," Jack said softly.

"Yeah. But you're right," he said with a long sigh. "It's strange. We're... strange."

"Are humans inherently good?"

"I don't think anyone is inherently good," Sam said, and Jack straightened his posture, suddenly confused by his claim. "Every person – every thing, every living thing has – has the capacity for good and evil. It's really just up to the individual to decide which side they want to give into."

"Am I a good person?"

"First off, you're not really a person," said another voice from the doorway.

Sam and Jack both turned at the same time, meeting the eye of Dean, who had yet to change out of his bathrobe despite it being 2PM.

"Second off, you haven't been alive long enough to be a good person," he continued as he entered, an empty coffee cup in hand.

"Dean –" Sam began, only to be cut off.

"What? It's the truth."

The coffee machine buzzed loudly once Dean pushed a few of the buttons, setting his cup beneath the nozzle. He muttered something to himself before turning back to the kitchen table.

"Anything strange in the paper?" He asked, leaning against the counter.

"Maybe," said Sam.

He grabbed the paper again, delving into the details of a nearby missing persons case that soon faded out of Jack's state of mind. His thoughts were still absorbed in his existence, in his beginnings, and how they compared to the beginnings of humans. At least with angels he knew everything; that was how angels were born. Knowing everything.

Jack remained seated at the table when Sam and Dean left, still stewing in his thoughts that he imagined would never go away. It was half an hour later when the two brothers returned, this time fully dressed, and packed up on their way to the car.

"We've gotta go find some local records," Dean said.

"So we're headed to the library," Sam finished, and the two gave each other odd glances at the coincidental synchronicity.

"I was there a couple days ago," Jack said, suddenly perking up. "Can I come with you?"

"Sure, just don't get in the way," Dean said with a dismissive hand, already leaving the doorway.

Sam pursed his lips, letting out a bitter, almost apologetic chuckle before he followed.

He liked the middle seat. It didn't have a seatbelt, but he wasn't sure what seatbelts were for anyways, and the middle seat allowed him easy access to see both of the Winchesters. Dean never spared a glance in his direction while he drove, but Sam offered awkward, curt smiles.

Technically Jack could just fly to the library in an instant, but the drive into town was pretty, lined with the colors of autumn. Recently winds had taken up a more brisk edge, marking the absence of birds that flew in packs overhead. He scooted to one of the window seats, craning his neck awkwardly to look up and out of the glass, grinning at the ravens flying through the orange and gold trees.

The librarian showed the three men where the records were kept, directing them towards missing persons cases when they requested it. While Sam and Dean thumbed through the records, Jack returned to ancient history books, studying art and images from Vedic India.

There, amongst the carvings printed on soft paper, he found something rather odd. He stood from his position on the floor, still staring intensely at the print as he walked over to the table Sam and Dean sat at.

"Hey Jack," Sam said as he sat down, gently placing the book on the table. He scanned Jack's hunched posture before he asked, "something up?"

"I found something... strange," he said, his brow still knotted neatly above curious eyes.

"Yeah well, join the club, kid," Dean said with a groan, wiping his face with his hand.

Jack opened his mouth to ask what they'd seen, but Sam answered before he could speak.

"There's been repeated attacks, kind of," he said, waving his hand vaguely. "Once every ten years a couple of kids go missing. Always two kids, always on the same day of the year."

"And another anomaly," Dean said, reaching over to a stack of papers and slapping them on the table in front of Jack.

Big, black words displayed the newspaper title, and below it, the date of publishing. January 4th, 1967. The main article dealt with a concert happening in a nearby city, and the image printed with it displayed a number of concert-goers, most of them in their teens or early adulthood. Hidden behind several other people, a familiar face appeared––the librarian. Unhindered by time.

"Is that..."

"Big boots over there?" Dean asked, pointing with his thumb in your general direction.

You were sorting through a stack of books, but as Jack looked down, he found you were wearing rather large boots. The ends of your pants drowned in them.

"Do you think they're related?" Jack asked as he turned back to the Winchesters.

"Possibly," Sam said with a nod. "Bit early to tell. But, uh..."

Sam trailed off as his eyes focused on something past Jack's shoulder. He, as well as Dean, turned to meet your eyes that quickly darted away once all three of them were looking at you.

"I think I have an idea," Sam said.

Dean and Jack curiously tilted their heads to the side at the same time, though when Dean noticed that, he fixed himself immediately.

"I think they have a thing for you," he said in a much quieter voice.

"Me?" Jack asked, pushing his finger into his chest.

"Yeah. You could get a little closer and see if something's up."

"Are you seriously setting up Jack with a fuckin' demon, for all we know?" Dean asked flatly, earning an odd look from Sam, who had never heard Dean protest putting Jack in danger.

"Dean, Jack's dad is a demon-angel thing. I don't think it's a big deal," he said.

That seemed to shut the older Winchester up.

"Hm," Jack hummed as he debated the idea. "I also found something strange."

"Oh, right," Sam said, clearing his head with a shake. "What was it?"

"It was also... the librarian," he said with a deep frown. "In one of the books."

He pushed forward the textbook, opening it to reveal the page in which he'd found your face. The stone expression was remarkably similar to your traits, from the curve of your nose to the positioning of your eyes, and the small, polite smile on your lips.

"I found it in the history section," Jack explained. "It says it's from Vedic India."

A quick Google-search later, Sam was reading out the age of Vedic India.

"According to this it says the Vedic age was approximately around 1500 to 800 B.C., so... about 2,500 years ago."

"Wow, this fucker's old," Dean snorted.

Sam shot him a look over the top of his computer screen.

Having found the information they were looking for, the Winchesters began to pack up their belongings and their scribbled notes, shoving them into their bags or into their many-pocketed coats. Jack, on the other hand, prepared himself for talking to you, hoping his ineptness towards social situations with humans wouldn't be too obvious. He swallowed through the knot in his throat, taking a shaking breath in an attempt to steady himself.

It didn't work.

"Dean, what am I supposed to say to them?" He whispered when they were already approaching the front desk, his palms growing sweaty.

"I don't know, their job or something? Something normal," he very unhelpfully advised.

"Thanks for letting us stay for the day," Sam said with a polite smile, handing back one of the printed out records you'd fetched for them from beneath your desk.

"Not a problem. You keep quiet. I like that in a reader," you said, smiling back as you glanced between the three of them.

None of them moved, and your expression turned to mild confusion. Dean had to jab Jack in the side to get him to speak. He opened his mouth to protest, but Dean motioned something to Sam, and the two of them quickly left for the car, leaving Jack alone while they 'situated' themselves.

"I, um..." Jack started before he was ready.

The silence felt wrong, but the silence after saying something was much, much worse. Whatever came into his mind first would have to be what he said.

"I like your job," he said, keenly scanning your expression for any hint of your thoughts.

You paused, clearly taken back for a moment, before you broke out into a chuckle, looking down to your hands as your face flushed.

"I like it quite a lot, too," you said with a grin, looking back up at him. "I've always been interested in becoming a librarian. Granted, I didn't quite imagine it in Kansas, but it is pretty here."

"Where did you imagine it?"

"Greece, actually," you chuckled, and he smiled as well, his heart thumping with a sudden haste. "I was heartbroken to hear the Library of Alexandria was burned down."

"The Library of Alexandria?" He repeated, tilting his head to the side again.

"Haven't heard of it?" You asked.

He shook his head gingerly. Was he supposed to?

No matter––you explained in full what the Library of Alexandria was, when it was created, when it was burnt, and the loss it caused amongst human society. He listened intently, frequently asking questions you were happy to answer. When Jack glanced out the library window, he found the impala gone, and realized Sam's plan had, in a way, worked.

"Are there.. any books about the library?" He asked once you completed your short story.

"Yes, but I don't want to hold you folks up –"

It was then you looked out the window as well, finding the two large men had abandoned the smaller.

"Oh where'd they go?" You said in a curious, high voice.

"Don't worry about that, I... have a bus," he said, earning a strange look. "I am... I ride buses."

A beat of silence passed.

"So the Library was in Greece?" He asked, and your earlier mood returned.

You brought him––with much excitement––to one of the rows in the library filled with simple textbooks for primary school kids. Other rows of your well-tended library were occupied by old books, their bindings worn and frayed at the edges from continuous use. Pages were turned yellow and were soft beneath his fingers, but despite their age they were rather hard for Jack to read and understand, meaning his discovery of children's comprehensible textbooks was a giddy one.

Jack wasn't entirely sure what he was supposed to be looking for when it came to you. What counted as suspicious? You continued to speak with him even after the sun set behind mountains, that could be a sign you were trying to gather information on him, as well. That could also mean you liked him. Was your friendliness suspect?

"- and the Phoenicians were really only called that by the Grecians. The name came from the purple dye that they're famous for, some root word for 'purple people' in Greek is Phoenicia," you explained, moving your hands expressively despite the fact that Jack's eyes were set dead on the textbook on the floor in front of you. Paragraphs of words surrounded modern depictions of ancient people and their art.

"So what was their actual name?" He asked as he looked up to you.

"Canaanites. From the land of Canaan."

"... you know a lot," he said, looking back to the page as you chuckled.

"It's just memory," you said with a shrug.

"Can I... can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"Do you know anything about mythical creatures?"

Surely this would reveal something, Jack thought––you might react poorly, in which case you could be the monster, or you might react in complete knowledge, which... could also mean you were the monster.

"A little," you said slowly. "Why do you ask?"

"I have an interest, in myths and monsters," he said, almost smiling again.

"Oh man, I have a show you're going to love."

Far in the back of the library, a hollow, steel door led to a small break room, the carpet inside being a dark, scratchy grey against his palms when he sat down. There were no chairs in the room, but an old TV sat on a cheap cart plugged into the nearest, bare wall. On the opposite side of the TV was a dull blue counter that stretched from the door to a window covered by plastic shingle curtains.

You snatched the remote off the counter, pressing a large, red button that had the television buzzing to life loudly. The screen sparked, static radiating around it as a thin line of white brought life to a Netflix loading screen.

After several minutes of waiting for Netflix to load and then typing a title into the search bar, a show called Myths and Monsters was before him. He let out a laugh as he realized what had sparked the connection––he'd literally spoken the title.

Would an ancient being or monster know how to work a TV?

Castiel could work a TV.

Kind of.

The first episode began to play and you took a seat beside Jack, crossing your legs neatly beneath you. A few minutes in, rain pattered lightly on the roof, followed by sudden winds that battered the now pouring rain against the window. Jack watched through the side of his eye as you smiled at the change in weather.

That was suspicious.

Late in the evening, when night darkened the land and heavy thunderclouds darkened the sky, he left the library. He stood in the threshold between the warm light on your desk in the otherwise dark room, and the falling rain outside. Yellow-orange streetlamps illuminated the sheets of rain and the nearby bus stop, but you still stopped him, holding the door open as you both stood motionless in front of one another.

"I have a car, I can drive you home," you offered, gesturing over your shoulder to a door in the back that led to a private parking lot behind the library. "I'm not sure if the bus runs this late."

Extended time with you would be good, and he imagined your face illuminated by dim dashboard car lights would be better than good––great. Beautiful. You had wonderfully warm features. But you couldn't know where he lived for a number of reasons; if you were the monster, that was giving away a hiding place, and if you weren't, you would wonder why he lived in such a strange place.

"Thank you, but it's alright," he said. "I like the rain."

A small smile stretched across your plush lips.

"So do I," you said, and the two of you bid good-bye, retreating into your respective dark.

He gave a thorough rundown of the events proceeding after Sam and Dean left, and the three of them––Sam, Dean, and Castiel––listened closely. Dean already filled Castiel in on the rest of the case, and the two brothers were eating at the long table in the bunker's library.

They stared at him in silence when he finished.

"Sounds like a regular kid," Sam finally said.

"Ah don't be so sure about that," Dean said, raising a single brow. "What did you say the monster probably was?"

"A – a fae, or something," he said.

"Fae's good at lying," Dean pointed out, earning a reluctant nod from Castiel.

"He's right. Fairies are remarkably good at acting," he said in his low, grating voice.

"So... what next?" Jack asked.

"We'll keep looking into the case more, and you can probably ask the librarian out on a date," Sam suggested, earning an agreeing remark from Dean. "You can keep them distracted while we search their house."

"Do we know where they live yet?" asked Dean.

"No, but it shouldn't be too hard to find out," Sam said.

Jack watched the brothers for a moment, his mind emptying of answers as to what a 'date' was.

"What's a date?"

"Oh Christ," Dean muttered, moving immediately to his feet and leaving the room.

Sam let out an exasperated sigh at his brother, turning to Jack to explain what a date was, what were appropriate date activities, and how he should act when asking you out and when being out with you.

"Okay," Jack said with a nod despite not really understanding. "What are dates for?"

"They're between people who are interested in.. getting to know each other," Castiel said as he took a seat beside Sam across from Jack.

"So... like when Dean and I went driving."

"No. Not like that," Sam quickly said. "Not like that at all. If – if a guy is interested in a girl, like interested in having her be his girlfriend, then he might ask her out on a date. It's a romantic thing."

"The librarian does seem to be interested in you, from what I’ve heard," Castiel said with a pointed look in Jack's direction.

"I think you've got a shot," Sam agreed, nodding.

Jack thought for a moment before he said, "okay."

A few days later––Dean insisted he only try a few days later, saying anything less was damaging his honor––Jack returned to the library, lighting up when he found you were still working at the small front desk, your nose buried in a large box full of papers. Large, round glasses were hanging off the tip of your nose, and you pushed them up to your eyes when they slipped further off.

The door clicked softly shut behind him when he entered, scanning the room as if there was another reason he was there. You watched him the whole time, continuing to when he approached you, something obviously on his mind.

"I was wondering..." he trailed off, losing himself in your bright, expectant eyes. When he realized he'd fallen silent, he added the first thing that came to mind––a lie. "... if you could show me where the... books are."

You chuckled before you said, "which ones?"

"Maps," he said, smiling as he came up with something actually substantial.

Of course, it wasn't asking you out, but at least it was talking to you. He would have to do that later, though he supposed he'd have to do it that day or he would be disappointing the Winchesters and Castiel when he came back to the bunker without even trying to complete their orders.

"We don't really have a maps section, but I might be able to help you if you tell me the time and place you're looking for," you suggested for him, and he nodded slowly.

"Yes. Please."

"So what are you looking for?"

"Oh. Right, uh.. Greece and Mediterranean," he said, repeating subjects from the last time you'd spoken.

"Mediterranean sea?"

He nodded.

"What year?" You asked.

"Uh..." he drew another blank, "two... hundred."

You seemed reluctant to ask the next question, but it was necessary; "before christ or after?"

"... before."

"Alright," you said with a soft snicker, moving around your crowded desk area and towards the bookcases.

Your stride slowed as you approached a certain shelf, shifting up onto the tips of your toes to reach the highest books. Jack thought of offering his help, but he wasn't much taller than you––if at all––and he didn't know which books to get down.

Four thick books ended up in your arms, and you heaved them over to the nearest table, letting them thump down heavily. You spread them out, flipping rapidly through the pages till you found the proper maps you seemed to have memorized within each of the books.

"This one's about 900 BC to 200 AD, so it's got a bit wider of a range. Includes the bigger cities. This one is.. 1500 BC to 300 BC, so a little bit within range, has a lot more cities," you said, moving from one textbook to the next while Jack stared at you, enamored by your plush lips.

He barely even noticed that you finished your explanations, nor your quick words mentioning you should probably return to your studies and leave him to it. But he reached out on instinct, grabbing your wrist and tugging gently, convincing you to turn back to him. Your eyes, still bright, retained that same patient expectancy as his previous evening with you.

"I... could you talk to me?" He asked, oblivious to the implications read clearly by you.

"About what?" You asked in return as you stepped subtly closer.

"About fairies."

You paused, your eyes widening slightly.

"The ones from Celtic folklore or... like modern media fairies?" You asked slowly, slinking down into a seat you situated to face him.

He did the same, his feet planted firmly on the floor as he watched you, a smile tugging at his lips.

"Just... the oldest versions of fairies."

You nodded, again slowly as you pursed your lips.

"Well the oldest mentions of them in literature actually comes from ancient Greece, from the Iliad, by Homer," you began, immediately using your hands expressively as you spoke. "Those weren't Celtic fairies, though. Greeks considered creatures like satyrs and such to be fairies, as well, so... generally fairies and the fae as we think of them now came from Ireland and Scotland."

"Where are they?" He asked with a head tilt.

You stuttered for a second, your eyes flying across the room until you stood, returning to the shelves. He watched with much humor as you read the book titles at a frightening pace, fingers flipping over the bindings till you pulled one down.

"Here, world map," you said, and though he didn't notice, you didn't comment on the oddity of not knowing where Scotland and Ireland were. Almost everyone knew where those two countries were; or, at least, the general area.

"In Ireland fairies are seen as simply... mythical people. Great warriors and poets, or witches, they're all considered part of the fae in Celtic culture. In Scotland, though, fairies are more dangerous, essentially being creatures that feed off humans in one way or another," you continued. "Like... banshees, those are Scottish, and jack o' lanterns."

"Jack o' lanterns?"

He'd heard of banshees before; they were mentioned a few times by the Winchester brothers.

"Not like the Halloween pumpkins," you said, but when you were met with further confusion, you slowly said, "...and you don't know what those are either, do you?"

He shook his head reluctantly.

You spent the next two, whole hours talking to him, going over any question he had no matter how much you thought he should've known the answer to begin with. Jack relaxed into that feeling, into that ease, while suspicion grew in your own mind. There was no one of his age and stature that didn't know the questions he posed. Still, you found yourself unable to pin any such wariness of manipulation onto such a polite boy.

Engrossed fully in whatever you had to say and rarely speaking himself, Jack absorbed a number of facts about the fae. About their trickery and mischief, about their magic, how different species had different thoughts on humanity. Considering the lengths you knew about other subjects, none of what you told him occurred to him as suspicious. You seemed, again, to be a dedicated––but human––scholar.

When at last he exhausted his questions, both on and off topic, he began a build-up of courage. Asking someone out for a case should've been much easier than this, or at least that's what he thought. Dean mentioned he'd done similar things for other such cases.

Jack's face scrunched up in deep thought despite the silence between you.

"Are you alright, Jack?" You asked.

"Oh. I'm... fine," he said, nodding his head in a way that didn't convince you all that well. "I – I wanted to ask you something."

You nodded, gently helping him along.

"I know we don't know each other that well, but... you.. interest me, and.." he trailed off once more. It was difficult to tell a lie that was technically the truth. "I was wondering if you wanted to go with me. On a date."

He expected a number of things from you––perhaps anger, perhaps embarrassment, perhaps shock, but you just chuckled, leaning back in your chair. His brow furrowed at your odd reaction. Were you laughing at him?

"Was that what you wanted to ask me when you first came in?" You said through your giggles, your soft skin glowing in the warm, early evening light.

"... yes," he said, huffing out his own chuckle as his eyes fell to the floor. "I'm sorry."

"There's no need to apologize," you said with a grin. “You’re the one who had to listen to me ramble.”

"So.. will you..?"

"Yeah," you chuckled, nodding. "I enjoy your company as well."

A smile made a permanent home on Jack's face as he returned to the bunker, his official mission having been successfully completed, and his hands still burning with the touch you left as he walked out the door. While most of the town smelled like baking pies and cinnamon cider, the bunker carried no such warmth, and smelled more like rotting leaves than anything else, though Sam lit a couple apple candles in his room. The scent filled part of a long hallway.

He found his fathers all sitting on a single couch, facing a television that had some sort of film playing on it through the static. Jack silently stepped round the nearest chair, taking a seat beside them, and watching on intently. A soft, high note hummed from the speakers.

Red, ratted curtains pulled way for sunlight streaming through dust-filled air. The wooden windowsill had a vase in which a single, molted flower sat, most of its petals having fallen off long ago. But that wasn't where the camera stopped; it halted above the image of two women tangled in sheets similarly worn down as the curtains were, requiring many patches over large holes. One had their face pressed to the other's neck, her nose nudging a sharp jawline owned by still sleeping eyes. Their limbs were knotted tight together, chest to chest, and a quiet, sleepy melody humming out of the smaller's pale lips.

Jack frowned. He'd never seen two people so physically close together. The nearest thing he'd seen was Dean and Castiel hugging, and even that was reserved in a way. This was pure trust––pure peace, and he found himself wondering if it was entirely fictional, or if such happiness could really exist in the world that at times felt poisoned.

Maybe it did exist if you found a way to smile that brightly.

He earned a whole other course of schooling once he announced their plan was successful. Dean clapped him proudly on the back, shooting a dirty grin that Sam countered with clean praise. Even Castiel seemed to be proud. Jack beamed at that, his heartbeat now pounding at the thought of three days from now; when he had planned the date.

In the meantime, the brothers stayed up for most of the night, though they looked much worse for wear that morning than Jack after he stayed up with them. Researching faes was actually a little easier than a lot of other monsters––there were many articles about them, and a deeply-engrained fear of changeling children had led to thorough documentation on the fae realm and its inhabitants. Jack was still a little slow at typing, so Sam captained the computer research, while Jack sped through the books in the bunker's library. Dean looked through articles and stories in newspapers searching for any hint of where they children might be kept if they weren't immediately killed.

The more he read about fairies, about their habits, their composure, and their lies, the less he could picture you as one. Originally a fairy brought to mind someone beautiful and fair, or someone like you, with dazzling eyes that could stop an archangel in their step. But the sharp teeth and wicked, wirey hair didn't sound at all like you. He'd felt your hands––once brushing over his––and there were no claws or stinging sensations that lingered in your touch. Still, the Winchesters probably knew better than him, and he pushed the feeling aside.

In the next evening, after Dean took a long day nap, Sam and Dean set to packing up their tools and tricks once more, tossing them into the back of the impala with the rest of the permanent fixtures. Jack watched as they did this, his hair still neat and clean despite not sleeping or washing up for two days.

"Can I come with?" He asked in the politest voice he could manage.

They were headed off to the library under the cover of night. After hearing about several back rooms Jack noticed during his time there, a reasonable question was posed––was there more information you could be hiding?

"Uh –" Sam began, only to be cut off by Dean saying –

"No. If we get found, that's fine, but if you're with us, we lose your relationship with her."

Before Jack could reply Dean climbed into the drivers seat, followed by Sam clambering in beside him. He had issues getting into the car at times. The engine stuttered to life, and Sam waved good-bye through the windshield as they pulled and drove the car away.

Jack frowned, his brow knitted together again.

"Bye," he said, but he was the only one to hear it.

Castiel would be back soon. He decided waiting in the library would guarantee he'd see Castiel as soon as possible, something he desired, as there were a number of new questions he wanted to pose to the elder angel. Thousands of years his senior, Castiel must've had answers––some sort of insight to some strange impulses, or simply comfort against 'wrong' thoughts.

Technically your library was private, meaning others weren't allowed to take your books away from the building, but you allowed him to take something home under the assurance of a guarantee. He would return it next time he saw you, a promise that clearly meant a lot to you going by the ease that overtook you when he said 'okay' with a signature, sweet smile. The only reason you leant the book to him was because it contained information you considered thought-provoking, thoughts about how humanity evolves, and how technological advances could change the actual anatomy of the human mind. Some of the claims seemed to him to be a bit of a reach, but others brought him interesting points.

The metal latch on the door let out a resounding click as the door swung open, Castiel standing behind with wild hair and a stunned look about him. He flung the door shut before running down the stairs towards Jack.

"Have they gotten back from the library yet?" He asked as he approached.

"No, they left..." he glanced at the clock, "a couple hours ago."

"Hmm," Castiel grumbled. "That's a long time for them."

"Should we go help them?" Jack suggested, setting your book aside as he stood straighter in his chair.

"No, we'll give them some more time. See what happens," he said before he set off, jogging into the hall.

Jack sighed as he slumped back into his seat, almost mourning the death of an easy excuse to go see your library. And Castiel left before he could ask him anything. Dean had a point, though––if they were caught and he was with them, that would ruin your relationship entirely, and that was something he, for some reason, despised.

It took another hour and a half before Sam and Dean were waltzing back in from the garage, tossing their duffel bags aside and shucking off warm, autumn jackets to side chairs. Something must've given away their presence, as Castiel was quick to reenter the main room.

"How did it go?" He asked.

"Like shit," Dean said, not even bothering to stop as he passed Castiel.

"We didn't find anything," Sam clarified. "Whole place was clean."

"Well.. maybe it's at their house," Castiel said almost gingerly, turning to keep his ever-vigilant eyes on the elder Winchester. "All the tools and... stuff."

"Yeah, that's what we're hoping," Dean said as he disappeared into the hallway.

"When did you say your date was again?" Sam asked, turning to Jack, who blanked for a moment before he answered.

"Two days from now," he said.

"Alright, well... we'll see what happens," he said with a nod, setting his hands on his hips. "Hopefully find where they might be hiding the kids."

Dean reentered with a bottle in hand, taking a quick swig as he settled down into one of the cushier chairs.

Jack's heart sped when his fingers began to fidget together, squirming restlessly in front of him. Questions still lingered on the edge of his mind, and answers from anyone would do him well, though he was well aware Dean would probably be reluctant to offer any advice to him.

"Could I ask you some questions?" He asked in the general direction of Cas, who happened to be standing right beside Dean. Castiel opened his mouth to answer.

"Sure," Dean said before he could speak. Castiel promptly shut his mouth after that.

"I know this shouldn't get in the way of the case, and it won't," Jack said as he took a seat opposite Dean. He and his brother shot each other glances. "I just have strange... thoughts, when I am around the librarian. Impulses, kind of."

Dean, who had raised the bottle to his lips, paused at those words and set it down instead, a decision that shocked both Sam and Castiel.

"What kind of impulses?" He asked in a flat voice.

"I want to... eat them," Jack said slowly, his brow furrowed deeply as he looked at the ground. When he looked back up, all three men were staring at him.

"You want to what??" Castiel asked.

"Like.. put my mouth on them...?" He tried.

"Wait – you mean kissing?" Sam asked as he shifted his weight between his feet.

"N... no, I don't think it's that," Jack said, though he was growing even less sure of himself with how they continued to gawk at him.

"You want to make out with the fairy?" Dean asked with a look that screamed 'unbelievable'.

"Maybe?" was the best answer Jack could offer.

Dean sighed, rubbing his face tiredly with his free hand.

"I don't want to.. encourage these thoughts," Castiel said, "but they might help on your date."

"So I should kiss them?"

"Maybe at the end of it," Sam suggested.

"And... how do I kiss?"

"Fuckin' –" Dean muttered under his breath as he stood, leaving the room with annoyance in his scowl.

The three of them––Jack, Sam, and Castiel––watched Dean round the corner and disappear.

"Ignore him," Sam said.

Sam, with some help from Castiel, patiently re-explained the happenings and ongoings of dates, from conversation topics to activities often done on dates. Sam assured Jack that he needn't do anything dramatic, over the top, or especially original, since Jack 'wasn't actually going on a date,' a phrase that made him a little sad for a reason he couldn't identify.

A bouquet of chocolate roses lay in his hands, the neon and florescent lights of the convenience store flickering and buzzing above him. Sam insisted a good way to start a date was with a gift––conventionally flowers, but the second Jack saw the chocolate roses he was entranced. He'd never seen candy in the shape of something real. Surely you would be delighted by the art, as well. Sam was less sure than he was, but allowed him to buy it with a chuckle, muttering something about how he wouldn't need to get chocolates anymore.

"Now remember," Sam began as he adjusted Jack's collar, "blood-soaked iron is what kills them, but since we don't have that right now, I think iron should hurt them."

"Forks, fire pokers, metal pipes... those usually have iron in them," said Dean.

"And if you get into a fight, just get out of there," Sam finished.

"No hanky-panky, either," Dean said.

"Dean," he hissed, slapping his brother's arm.

"What's hanky-panky?" Jack asked, furrowing his brow.

"Nevermind, just––be safe, have fun," Sam said with a smile, patting his shoulder.

The brothers dropped him off at your house before circling the block in search of a good vantage point. He took a shaky breath as he climbed your steps, soon rapping his knuckles on the plain, wooden door. It was a bit of a task trying to swallow, but he managed to push past his tight throat and put a smile on his face.

Footsteps sounded, growing closer until the door opened, revealing your wide eyes and the olive green silk you wore, draping elegantly from your chest down to your feet. A heavyweight scarf rested upon your shoulders. The warm light of the hallway behind you illuminated the loose strands of your always messy hair, but the sight still had his lips parting as he gasped softly. He felt suddenly out of place in his simple button-down, pants, and everyday jacket, shifting his weight almost uncomfortably as he found himself at a loss for words.

"You look... really nice," he said rather awkwardly, gesturing vaguely to your outfit with a dopey smile.

"Thanks," you said, chuckling. "You look nice too."

He stared for another moment before he suddenly remembered the chocolate and foil roses in his hands.

"I got these for you," he said as he handed them to you, scanning every inch of your reaction. "Sam told me to get flowers, but I think this is better, ‘cause then you get to eat them."

"You actually can eat roses! They just don't taste very good," you giggled, fixing your hair as you took them, a blushing smile still on your face. "I do like chocolate more, though."

"Oh, good," he said, his shoulders finally falling from their tense position. "I hope you don't mind walking. I don't know how to drive."

"I like walking, actually," you said as you walked past him, trotting down the front steps of your house. He followed along, his soft brown hair flopping like a puppy's ears over innocent eyes. "I like taking walks at night, but I don't take them a lot. It's kind of dangerous."

"Why?"

"A lot of people aren't very nice, or they're down on their luck and make poor decisions. I don't want to get hurt or mugged just because I like wandering around."

"Why would someone hurt you? You're such a nice person," he said with a frown.

"That doesn't mean anything," you laughed softly.

Food wasn't a particular attraction of Kansas, but few things were. The amount of restaurants in town was high, most of them serving a very similar menu containing lots of meat, barbecue, pie, and sometimes funnel cake. None were all that classy, so Jack took you to a place that Sam recommended––a nearly 24 hours open cafe whose kitchen was always open, and who hosted quiet, live jazz on select evenings.

You and Jack spoke of a number of things while you walked, none more interesting than any of your previous conversation topics, as you seemed to want to stay on the topic of him as a person rather than the history you usually rambled about. You asked who Sam was, which he explained as one of his fathers, at which point you asked who the second was. He hesitated for a moment, unsure if he should tell the truth or formulate a more normal-person lie.

"I... my mother died in childbirth," he said, his voice uncharacteristically low and quiet, murmuring with the sureness of his trust in you. "My father, Castiel, takes care of me, with his brothers, Sam and Dean."

"Oh. I'm sorry," you murmured, and he opened his mouth to give the usual speech––it's alright, I've gotten used to it––but you continued with, "it's an honorable way to die."

He paused to absorb your words. No one had ever said that before.

"Yeah," he finally said. "I guess you're right."

"So what's your father like?"

He sucked in a breath, forced to once again decide between a truth, a half-truth, and a lie. Like with most things, he took the middle road.

"My genetic father isn't... I don't talk to him," he said.

"Oh."

"But Castiel is good. He always tries to do what's right. I'm still trying to learn about this whole.. being-alive thing, from him."

"I think we all are," you chuckled.

You ended up ordering for him when you finally got to the cafe, standing in line for only a few minutes before you were looking for a table. He had trouble understanding the menu, often asking you what things were, and eventually you had to gently push him on to let the next people in line have a turn. If this bothered you, it didn't show.

Piano and saxophone played in time with one another, their rhythms and melodies dancing around the beat of the drummer. Scant, warm light shone from above, illuminating the haze of clouds drifting from smokers, most of whom stood in the corner, nursing the embers as they watched the musicians play. Jack tapped his foot to the beat against the dark oak floor.

You joined him a moment later, two coffees in hand and your coat draped over your arm.

"Have you ever been here before?" You asked as you took a seat, casting your jacket over the back of the chair after you set the coffee down.

"No, I don't really get out much," he admitted.

"How come?"

"I don't.. really have friends," he admitted, again, though this time much more reluctantly. He'd heard that generally people respected you more if you had friends.

"That's alright," you said, leaning back with a soft smile made only more alluring by the dim, red and orange light. "I've found it's more fun to stay in than to go out sometimes. Everything becomes the same after a while. You can drink at home, you can dance at home, sing, host parties..." you sipped from your steaming cup, ".. so, obviously, I don't go out much either."

"You have friends, though?"

"Not really," you chuckled, glancing down. "Books last longer than conversation, generally."

"Then... why talk to me?" He asked, attempting to meet your eye with that knot still tucked into his brow.

"Because you came to me."

Soon your conversation was halted by a server bringing out your food. You made sure to thank him as he left, before hungry eyes settled eagerly upon your funnel cake. Unwrapping the napkin, you set the orange cloth on your lap, revealing your silverware. Jack followed your lead, copying your motions near exactly down to you rubbing your hands together excitedly.

He'd never tried funnel cake before, leaving him to melt as he took his first bite.

"Good, isn't it?" You chuckled through a full mouth.

He nodded ardently.

The crowd began to thin halfway through your meal, turning thick conversation to quiet murmurs confined to singular tables in corners and shadowed areas. Jack still had yet to find anything incriminating about you, an answer that led only to other questions, ones that flew wildly around his head.

You didn't seem human––at least, not entirely. There were things you said that hinted to something else, a knowledge within that was a little too wide for the lengths of a human mind. That and your soul; what he could see of your soul was strangely colored, florescent holographic, and warped far more than normal people's usually were––almost as warped as Sam and Dean's souls now were. Bright, yes, but warped. Something had happened to you.

But there was nothing bad within you. Darkness tinted the edges, the edges so often scraped by the world around you––the world around both of you––but the center within, where your heart emanated, was clear. It was actually rather beautiful; you were rather beautiful.

He wished he could tell you without seeming strange.

"What do you think about most, Jack?" You asked, pulling him away from his thoughts.

He instantly stuttered, as what he'd been thinking about was you, but he couldn't say that.

"Just.. uh, my, uh.. my place in the world," he said, tapping the end of his fork on the old wood table.

"Like your job, or your purpose as a human?" You asked as you sipped from your third refill of coffee.

"My purpose, sort of," he said, his eyes flickering to the ground. "I have a lot of responsibility. My father thinks I'm very powerful."

Was that giving too much away?

"What does he want you to do?"

"He wants me... to stay alive," he said, earning a soft chuckle from you that had a smile spreading across his own face. "I think he wants me to be safe and happy."

"That's a wonderful goal," you said with a grin. "And there are so many ways to achieve that."

So far he'd only found ways to achieve the opposite––how to antagonize the world by existing, how his grandfather wanted him dead, how his genetic father would use him for any power grab he posed. If you wanted to feel at risk of dying at any moment, he knew a thousand ways to do it.

"I haven't really found any," he said quietly.

You paused before you asked, "do you want my advice?"

He nodded, hesitantly at first, but sure of himself when you smiled softly.

"Always be kind to others. Mind your own business unless someone is getting hurt, and if you have to get your hands dirty, do it for only a second. Then get the hell out of there and wash yourself clean for the next hundred couple years," you said.

There it was again. A hint of something more. In passing conversations Jack heard from strangers, no one spoke like they lived history. Not like you did. And he'd wager no historian spoke with the sense of memory that you did.

"Anything specific make you realize that?" He asked, unable to stop himself from chuckling.

You looked his age––sometime in your 20's––but you spoke like an 80 year old. Something about that facade appeared humorous to him. He also looked your age––sometime in his 20′s––but he spoke like a 10 year old far more than he liked to admit.

"Family drama," you said dismissively. "I've been steering clear for a while now."

Did fairies have families?

Well, if you were a fairy, you could just be lying then.

Jack frowned. If Dean or Castiel were here, they would know what to say and think.

"I understand," was what he said instead.

The impala was still parked near the house by the time Jack was walking you home, a sight that nearly sent him panicking. Sam and Dean wouldn't want him to do that. So he clenched his fists in his pockets, his shoulders tightening ever so slightly as he tried to slow his pace in a way you wouldn't notice.

But you did. Of course you did.

"You alright, Jack?" You asked, matching his pace.

"Yeah, I just..." what was something normal to say? Something he could back up – "I meant to ask you something, but I didn't ever... find the time to."

"What was it you wanted to ask?"

He shivered as a brisk wind picked up, the dry, orange leaves on the edges of the sidewalk passing quick by his feet in the breeze.

"Do you think everyone feels this lost in life?" He asked, barely audible above the wind.

"There's a little bit of you in everybody, just like how there's a little bit of everybody in you. You're capable of the same things that a murderer is just as you are a... a hero, or a martyr," you said, taking time to think before you spoke. "Humans are remarkably similar, you come to see after a while. And even Gods face these questions, these wonderings of their origins and their purpose, if their creations are everything they're meant for or – or if they're doing something wrong, and they should be doing something else instead."

He continued to stare at the ground as you walked slowly side by side, brought out of his intense expression by something soft flopping over the back of his neck. His heart thrummed as you stopped him there, turning him to face you, and looking him in the eye as you fixed your scarf on his shoulders. The effect was instantaneous––his shoulders relaxed and the stress fell from his brow, absorbed in the warmth of your gesture.

"Whatever you're going through," you gave him a pointed look, telling him silently to not deny this truth, "is worse and better than what other people go through. It may not be the best but it's probably not the worst."

Your advice, though insightful, didn't mean much considering his problems had to do with the continued life or prompt execution of the entire universe by a bitter, old man. But the main point remained; there were more painful deaths than his, just as there were better ways to die than he would or will. He may not be facing the best circumstances, but they could be much worse, and the fact that normal humans often asked the same questions he did was more of a comfort than he thought it would be. Perhaps he really was connected to his mother in that way.

The steps creaked beneath your shared weight as you both approached the front door of your house. You opened the door, stepping partway through the threshold before you turned to him, hesitation lacing your open mouth.

Behind you, Jack managed to spot two shadowed figures running across the hallway towards what he presumed to be a back door. His eyes widened imperceptibly and he pursed his lips, quick averting his gaze back to you.

"You're special, Jack," you said quietly, scanning him with a careful look. "Don't let bad circumstances own you. You only get so much time in this world."

"You're very kind," was all he could managed to respond with. "Thanks for... going out with me tonight."

"Of course. I like talking to you."

"I'm glad you do," he said with a sheepish chuckle, one you mimicked as you fixed your hair.

"I'll see you again soon?"

"Yes, I – oh," he interrupted himself, remembering your scarf still enveloping him, "this belongs to you."

"Don't worry about it," you said, taking his arms and settling them back down to his sides. "It's kind of cold out tonight, and I'm assuming you're walking home... aren't you?"

"... yeah," he lied, blood rushing to his face at the thought of taking a piece of you home.

"Then I'll get it back another time," you said, smiling.

You hesitated to close the door again, and instead you gingerly moved forward, raising yourself to press a single, soft kiss to his cheek, the edge of it just barely touching his lips. His mouth parted in surprise, but before he could say anything you shut the door.

He walked back to the impala completely starstruck.

"I don't think they're dangerous," Jack said, restating what he'd said earlier to Sam and Dean on the drive home––he just couldn't see you as suspicious. Strange, yes, but not murderous.

"If what you say is true, though, then this is quite likely a fae," said Castiel as his eyes flickered from Jack to Sam and Dean.

"See? Facts are facts, kid," Dean said, pointing to Castiel with a smile.

"Hexbags, crystals, actual photos with them from, like, 1890? And the amount of plants," Sam continued with a slight shudder.

"How many plants were there?" Castiel asked, frowning sternly.

"Too damn many," Dean answered for him. "The point is, we gotta interrogate that thing."

"They didn't do anything wrong!" Jack said, his voice tripling without his knowledge.

Everyone in the room reacted accordingly––stiff postures and sharp breaths as the golden light faded in his eyes.

"Jack..." Castiel began hesitantly, his voice quiet and low.

He barely uttered out an 'I'm sorry,' before he turned and left, disappearing down the hallway and into his room.

It took him nearly a whole day to leave his room, having spent most of the time alone to brood and ponder over his actions, and whether or not he was being manipulated by a fairy creature. He couldn't deny the fact that there was a chance he was wrong and he was under your control, thus landing him with the only sane decision, somehow; trust Sam and Dean.

Silence surrounded him as he padded through the bunker, headed towards the kitchens after not eating for nearly 24 hours. Technically he could live without food for much, much longer than that, even without sleep, but it wasn't a particularly pleasant experience.

When he reached the kitchen he also found it empty. In fact, the whole bunker sounded empty, leaving all the cereal for him. He smiled.

Sam and Dean returned before Castiel did, though after their return they hid away doing 'private business' in the basement area. Jack tried to ask what it was they were doing, but Dean curtly brushed him off, sending him back upstairs to go clean up the mess they left in the kitchen after a quick, midnight dinner.

As he was scrubbing the dishes, a door lock clattered in the distance, marking Castiel's return. Now that the fort was manned again, he could sneak off to see you in the morning. Castiel informed him that showing up at people's houses at midnight could be seen in a very bad way. He knew you wouldn't judge him, but he still didn't want to embarrass himself, and it was only a few more hours to wait till dawn.

He could fly. He could also ask Sam or Dean to drive him (while he could also ask to drive Baby, he knew the answer would be an ardent no), but the grey clouds promised rain, and the smell of rain hitting the leaf-covered earth pleasured his mind. With your scarf wrapped around him, he could avoid the cold as well.

His feet were a little tired by the time your library came into view, though still warm in the crisp air from fuzzy, woolen socks. The frayed edges of your scarf fluttered about chaotically in the wind as he noticed something rather odd––the library wasn't open. None of the lights were turned on, the chairs were still atop the tables, and you were nowhere to be seen. He had left the bunker a little early, but you always opened by 5AM at the latest, and it was 8 now.

For several minutes he hadn't a clue as to what to do, meaning he stood motionless in silence in front of the glass door, his head tilting slowly to the side in confusion. Maybe you woke up late––that would explain it. You were perfectly safe in your bed, dozing after a good night's sleep, completely unharmed.

But things rarely worked out so easily for Jack. Your home was empty, no sign of your disappearance left as your shoes, jacket, keys, and wallet were still left by the front door. In a sudden panic at the thought of your absence, the world around him flickered for a split second before he appeared in the bunker's war room. Knowing the usual fate of the people he cared about, you were probably being hurt, perhaps kidnapped by the actual fae who'd been killing the children, or lost of your own volition in a forest you wandered too far into.

"Castiel." Jack grabbed the angel's coat sleeve, stopping him on the way to the stairs. "I went looking for the librarian and they're missing."

"Missing?" Castiel repeated with a grimace. "Did you check the library and the house?"

"Yes, I couldn't find them."

"They might be headed for the children," he said, sending a pang through Jack's heart that he ignored.

"Is... is there a way to track a fae?"

"There's no spell I know of," Castiel said, his gaze falling to the floor as he scanned his mind. "But if it's a magical creature, it may carry a sort of... a sort of scent."

"A scent?" Jack furrowed his brow, wondering if something could carry your scent.

Something you'd been around a while. Something like your books, or your bed, or –

Jack jumped after he realized he was still wearing your scarf which, despite its' time with Jack in his room, still smelled of you. He shoved it into Castiel's arms, but he only gave him a confused look.

"It's their scarf," he explained.

Castiel spared him from the embarrassment of explaining how he'd gotten it.

He held the crumpled scarf in his hand up to his nose, intaking a deep breath with closed eyes. Jack hadn't ever heard of this kind of tracking, which was odd since he inherently knew most things about angels, but he would never distrust his father. What he did distrust was the churning feeling in his chest, as though a curved knife had impaled itself in him and twisted slowly through his skin.

Doubts pervaded both angels almost immediately as Castiel followed the trail. It led near to the stairs, but took a harsh turn and went into the hallway, leading them further into the bunker.

"Are you sure this is theirs?" Castiel asked as they hurried down the hall.

"Positive," he said, earning a sigh and a nod from Castiel.

They continued, this time less sure of themselves, as the scarf continued to lead them through the bunker, trotting down stairs till they landed in the base floor. Here the walls, ceiling, and floor were made of thick cement, allowing their footsteps to echo around the empty halls.

Jack picked up the pace and Castiel followed, running after the trail that ended right in front of the dungeon door. The torture room door, where monsters were locked up, and sometimes friends as well. A sort of fury was boiling in his blood despite his earlier acceptance of the Winchester's plan. Keeping you here in secret was never something he agreed to.

Without even fully realizing it, Jack was wrenching open the handle, the door whizzing open and slamming against the wall with a resounding crack. There, in the center of a pentagram, you were bound to a chair with thick, iron chains, your molted form flanked by Sam and Dean. The latter carried a knife in his hand, one covered in dripping blood. Sam whirled around at the sound of the door opening, meaning he was the first to see Jack's glowing eyes, and the suddenly panicked expression on Castiel's face.

"What are you doing to them?" Castiel growled with wide eyes, taking long, quick steps over in front of you. Without hesitation he undid the restraints, letting you fall down to the floor.

"Cas, they're a fae," Dean said, his tone stern and curt.

"No, they're not," Castiel replied, his own voice equally as sure. "I can't.. blame you, for not knowing this. You're only human. But it's obvious to me."

Sam opened his crossed arms, waiting for the angel to explain himself. Meanwhile, Jack regained his composure after being shocked by Castiel's actions, and made his way over to you, kneeling at your side. You'd been cut in a few different places––nothing too grievous, at least not by Winchester standards––and drops of your blood painted streaks down your sweaty skin.

"They're an Old God," Castiel finally said, but the words were followed by silence.

"We're just supposed to know what that is?" Dean asked gruffly.

"I thought your brother might," he said in a quiet voice.

Dean unfolded his arms, shifting his weight as he cast a glance to his brother.

"Old Gods are... ancient deities created by wandering bands of hunter-gatherers in your past. They got their power from their worshippers, not from Chuck, which... made them very different, to say the least," Castiel continued, still keeping his voice soft as he raised his hand above several of your wounds, stitching the skin back together with his grace.

"I've heard of hunter and gatherers," Jack said as he recalled some of the books in your library. "They wandered in bands of around 50 to 100 people."

He earned several unimpressed stares.

"Well – if they got their power from worshippers, how's this one still alive?" Sam asked after a moment of silence.

"I don't know," Castiel admitted. "I've never met this one before."

"Okay, just because they're not a fae doesn't mean they aren't the one that killed those kids," Dean said, interrupting their short conversation.

The iron knife still twirled in his hands; the only weapon against fairies. Jack kept a close eye on it as they spoke.

"An Old God would never hurt a human," Castiel said with such an intensity that no one had any choice but to believe him. “And besides,” he turned back to you, “they would’ve lost their powers long ago when humans stopped believing in them.”

Your eyes listed open while you lay in Jack's hold, the swirling image of your friend coming lazily into view.

"... Jack?" You mumbled, struggling to keep your eyelids up.

His gaze shot down to you, eyes widening at the sight of your movement.

"Hey," he said softly, hushing you when you tried to speak. "Are you okay?"

You mustered your strength to nod.

"I'm assuming you're an agricultural God," Castiel said after a moment of watching the two of you interact. "You look to be around 12,000 years old." He looked up to Dean and Sam. "That's how old agriculture is."

"Yeah, I know," Sam scoffed, but Dean remained silent.

"Do I really look that old?" You asked, laughing through your slurred words.

"Your soul does," Castiel answered.

You hummed weakly in response, drifting back into unconsciousness, your body going limp in Jack's arms.

Jack healed what remaining injuries you had, using it partway as an excuse to touch you. His palms set flat on the cuts, and with you far off in your dreams, you didn't feel the burn or the relief of his healing. He thought first to bring to his room to lay you on his bed, but Sam gently suggested that you should be put in one of their many spare bedrooms.

Castiel and the Winchesters attempted to take his mind off of you, but it wasn't long before he was back at your side, waiting for you to wake up again. He scanned your body constantly with his mind, searching for any hidden injuries he might've missed the first time around. The case remained unsolved, the children still missing and the culprit unknown. Your disqualifying left the Winchesters with no more suspects, but Jack couldn’t bring himself to worry about a creature that wouldn’t strike again for another ten years when you wouldn’t wake up to his voice calling your name.

It took hours until you stirred again, eyes fluttering into a half-open state as they fell to Jack. He had his head hung low, his elbows leant on his knees, and his hair drooping in front of his face.

"I was created in Turkey," you rasped out through a dry throat.

At the slightest sound his head shot up, eyes widening with a spark upon seeing your soft smile.

"It's a country, by the way," you mumbled, correctly assuming Jack didn't know the country, and only knew the bird. "At a place they call Gobekli Tepe, now. The people of the land would... would gather there, and share their cultured seeds, and the magic needed to make them grow."

"Magic?"

"Simple water and sunlight," you said with a weak chuckle. "It was magic to them. Everything was."

You fell silent before you said, "I miss them."

"Were they different? From people now?" Jack asked.

"Very," you nodded assuredly. "But there are some people, nowadays, that remind me of them."

He chuckled quietly. Warmth spread from your touch when you reached forward, just barely gracing his hand with yours. He took the initiative, entangling your fingers together, and watching intently as your thumb ran over the back of his hand.

"You are a new God, aren't you?" You asked, narrowing your eyes curiously, with no sense of hostility.

"I'm... I'm a nephilim. Lucifer's son, actually, but I promise I'm not like him," he said, gripping you tighter.

"A nephilim?" You asked with a frown.

"The son of an angel," he clarified.

It was the first time he was able to tell you something you didn't know instead of the other way around.

"I've never heard of angels."

His brows raised in surprise.

"Really?" He asked.

"I haven't really kept up with the world as of recent. When did angels first appear?"

"I... don't know," he said after wracking his brain and finding no answer. "Castiel might know."

"Castiel.. Castiel, that was your father, right?"

"Yeah. The good one," he said, earning a chuckle from you that brought a blush to his face.

"He is another God?"

"Another angel, yes," he nodded. "(Y/N), I... I have so many questions for you."

"About what?" You asked skeptically, giving him a playful glare.

"About humans, mostly," he said. "I mean, I've already been asking you questions, but now I know you have a lot more answers than I thought."

"Yes, well, I do keep my memory stored in a mushroom," you muttered beneath your breath.

Jack frowned. Was that normal?

"Can you tell me about them?" He asked, just barely masking his eagerness.

"My people?"

He nodded, and you smiled softly, your eyes glazing over as you recalled thousands of years past.

[paperpocalypse]

crackers and jam.

50 Cliché Tropes and Prompts: 41. Overhearing they have feelings for you.

Pairing: Five Hargreeves x Reader

Word Count: 1,703 words

Warnings: Swearing

Some time back, not long after he got stranded in the post-apocalyptic world and perhaps a year and a half before running into you, Five’s only companion was Delores.

It had been a meeting of chance (as everything is) in the middle of a destroyed department store. She had been looking at him. And maybe that’s why he was so drawn in – that stare; it was a lifeless stare, yeah, but it was not by any means a dead stare like the ones he had met too many times before. No life had been lost to create that stare. She was smiling, too.

Five had lifted her carefully out of the chunks of concrete, greeting her because there was no one else. For the first few weeks, he just placed her at the corner of her store and visited every once in a while, then took to occasionally toting her around the City when he needed to talk. He liked to pretend that she answered back – sometimes. After a few months, he named her Delores.

Then he met you.

Unlike Delores, you were human. Breathing. Alive, somehow. And you had thoughts and feelings that weren’t always connected to his and – and it was weird. It was home.

You didn’t question his friendship with Delores. Five had seen the half-burned stuffed frog in your wagon, so you wouldn’t have had anything to hold over him anyway. He knew that you knew that he still went to the department store in the middle of the night. And, shit, deep down Five also knew that Delores was, in the end, just a hunk of plastic with eyes. But after a year and a half of having nobody else, she had become something of a comfort. And a confidant. Burdening you with his issues was not an option, so when things became a little shittier than usual, he would slip out from underneath his blanket, make sure you weren’t having a nightmare, and head downtown to voice his thoughts aloud.

Over time, though, he learned that you were willing to listen. You listened, and you were always kind about it even if you didn’t always understand. His nightly visits decreased. And it was okay for a while.

But then Five began to struggle with a new issue – one that was a little different than the usual mess of stress and anxiety – and one night, he finds himself looking down at Delores again because talking to you about it is definitely off the table.

Unfortunately, Delores’s kindness is different from yours.

Well, here we are. Again.

“I’m just here to think,” he snaps, combing a grubby hand through his tangled mess of hair. The lantern beside him glows weakly as he plops down onto a slab of concrete. “Mind your business.”

Your business is everyone’s business here, Five. And to put my own two cents in, I think that you’re scared of your own feelings.

Blood travels to Five’s cheeks, unwarranted, as he narrows his eyes at Delores. “For the last time, that’s not what this is about. It’s – Jesus Christ, I’m gonna get over it. This isn’t a life-or-death issue.”

Then why have you been ranting about it like it is?

“I’m not.”

Ha! Rich.

He grits his teeth. She stares back at him, unperturbed. Bastard.

You know, maybe you’ll feel better if you say it out loud. Air it out. Test to see if it’s real.

“I’m not doing that.”

Do it.

No.

Say it.

No.

For god’s sake, Number Five, take a goddamn look at yourself –

“Fine!” Five hisses, though it feels more like an explosion. He throws his hands up. “I like [Y/n], alright? We’re the last people on this goddamn planet and I like them, and I shouldn’t care this much but I do. Happy?”

Delores pauses. Five looks away.

Very.

Ugh.

Did it feel real?

He clicks his tongue, crossing his arms, and doesn’t answer. The smile on Delores’s face seems a little smug, and it makes him want to hurl. He shouldn’t have said it out loud. Relieve some of the pressure and everything starts to boil over …

Breathing in deeply, Five forces his shoulders to relax. He bids a soft goodbye to Delores, then heads back to camp.

—

A week later, Five’s visit comes back to bite him in the worst way possible.

You’ve been having a hard time starting the fire for tonight, so he finishes splitting the evening rations to help you out with the bow drill. As he does so, you watch in silence, both of you waiting patiently for the smoke and dust.

“Do you think we have enough wood?” you eventually ask.  

“It’s enough,” he murmurs, only half paying attention. After a while, a few chalky wisps of smoke begin to rise from the charring wood. He leans in to blow the ember carefully once it forms, then puts it into the tinder and coaxes out a flame. “Get the kindling?”

You oblige, and within a few minutes, a healthy fire starts to dance atop the wood, scorching his face and fingers with heat. Five stares intently at the oranges and yellows for a moment, lips pressed together, intrigued in a tired sort of way. Warmth. Then he backs off and grabs a portion of crumbled up crackers, handing it to you.

You spread the cloth over your knees. “Now all we need is some jam.”

“What kind?”

A soft hum escapes your throat. You contemplate unhurriedly, dabbing up some stray crumbs with a finger. “Blackberry,” you reply after a few moments. “Or strawberry. The kind that’s sort of chunky.”

It’s been a long time since he’s tasted either of those things. The simple thought of whole crackers spread with fresh jam, sweet and dark and sticky, is a luxury in and of itself. Five tries not to think about it too much, munching on his third fragment of stale cracker. It makes his mouth dry. “Hm,” he says, picking up the canteen for a few drops of water.

The fire pops. A few sparks fly out into the air and die just as quickly. You finish your supper and wipe your mouth, stretching your legs out in front of you as you sigh.

Five tilts his head at you. “What?”

“What?” you parrot back, though he sees the way your fingers fidget.

“You have something to say.”

Your facial expression shifts just the smallest bit. “How can you tell?”

(Simple – because he knows you. He knows your ticks; knows how you tick. He knows your smiles and all the subtle ways that your voice rises and falls. He’s memorized you because he fears forgetting, and it’s a problem.)

“Kind of hard not to,” Five replies.

“Oh.” You chew the inside of your cheek, still seeming unsure. “Well, um … I just wanted to talk to you about something. And please don’t be mad.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Um. A couple nights ago, I had a bad dream.”

“I know.”

“Not the one you woke me up from. A different one,” you mutter. “The night after we found the pillows.”

“Oh,” Five says.

“Yeah.” You look down at your hands. They’re dusty and rough, littered with small scars from climbing and falling and holding. “I … um, that night, I woke up and you weren’t there. And I sort of panicked, and went looking –”

The blood drains from Five’s face.

“I went looking for you, and I found you. Talking to her.” You glance at him for a split second. “About me.”

Oh, fuck.

Five stares at you as you fiddle with the scrap of cloth on your lap. You know. You weren’t supposed to know. You weren’t supposed to ever know, and now you do.

“Five?” Your voice is curious and small.

His voice is raspy. “How much did you hear?”

“Almost everything.” You grab the cuff of his coat sleeve as he attempts to stand up. “I’m sorry for eavesdropping. I really didn’t mean to, but –”

“It’s not your fault. Look, I don’t want to talk about it,” he replies tersely. “We need more firewood, anyway.”

“We have enough,” you say, though you relinquish your hold when he tugs a little harder away from you. You sound hurt. “Five, it’s okay to feel like that.”

“It’s not. It makes things more complicated.”

“How?” Standing up, your brow furrows. “I like you too, Five. If that’s what you’re worried about.”

His chest tightens. “That just makes it worse.”

“I like you,” you repeat. Your hand moves down to take his gently. “A lot. And it’s okay.”

(Did it feel real?)

Five meets your gaze solidly despite not quite wishing to, a familiar sense of guilt washing over him when you squeeze his hand.

Sometimes, he wishes he hadn’t met you. Then he would’ve gotten what he deserved for his recklessness – nothing – with nothing to concern himself with other than equations and survival and time. That, he’s fairly sure, would have been easier to manage. He hadn’t been taught to care for someone else. Not like this, at least.

But you. You. Five swallows the lump in his throat.

“I might have to leave you behind,” he murmurs, more hoarsely than he’d like to admit. The words burn like ice on the roof of his mouth. “One day.”

You don’t reply for a few seconds.

Then, for some inexplicable reason, you step a little closer. “But not tonight," you say. "Right?”

For shit’s sake, you’re so optimistic. Five chuckles dryly, hand still engulfed in yours, blinking away the vague stinging in his eyes. “Of course not.”

“Then I forgive you. If you feel like you need it.” With a mild exhale, you smile at him. Your eyes are glossy. “So can we sit back down? I like doing that.”

He quietly agrees.

So you bring him back down to sit before the fire, closer to him than before. No more words are left to be said. A heavy silence settles in their place, neither good nor bad, and almost comfortable. For the first time in a long time, Five tries not to think.

You lean against his shoulder. He welcomes it.

[soulmate-game]

Continuation of the story from Day 1, because you guys requested it enough that I started Thinking, lol.

Bio Dad Bruce Wayne Month 2020

Day 3: Siblings

—*—*—*—*—*

Dinner. One day after meeting her father for the first time. She had managed to postpone any sort of… socialization and emotional bonding, during their meeting earlier for everyone to choose from Marinette’s initial sketches for them and generally consult some more, by once again steamrolling everyone with Professionalism and Business Marinette.

But no longer. She couldn’t escape. Staring at a giant wooden, elaborate door like it was her pathway to Prison—

“Stop dramatizing everything in your head, Mari,” Adrien fondly scolded, gently rapping the side of her skull with one knuckle. “I got things to do, for your company I might add, so I can’t stay. But, you’ll be fine,” he leaned in, smirking at her and winking as he lowered his voice. “Besides, you’ve been through way worse than a little family reunion, Bugaboo. You’ve faced down way scarier people than the Waynes. You got this,” he encouraged before giving her a solid clap on the shoulder and a chaste kiss on the cheek, walking back towards their sleek but understated dark red car. Rented, of course, for the business trip, but nonetheless very nice.

Adrien had driver’s licenses for just about every major country. Marinette stopped questioning it a while ago.

She waited until he was gone before throwing her hands up. “Scarier people, he says. Like the Bat clan isn’t known for being some of the most intimidating heroes and vigilantes in the spotlight,” she grumbled. When she turned around, it was to the door already being open, and she jumped a bit in surprise. She hadn’t heard anyone answer the door, but sure enough Alfred Pennyworth stood there holding the door with a small smile, with Bruce Wayne and all of Marinette’s siblings gathered behind him. At least this time, nobody had their spouses or children. Every one of them was smirking, some more sharply than others (Damian).

“Would you like to come in, Miss Dupain-Cheng?” Alfred asked, waving his hand to gesture to the fact that there was plenty of room for her to enter. Blushing, she did just that, taking a breath and forcing herself to actually look at the family she had just met instead of down at her glossy navy blue pumps. Jason, the man with the white fringe in his hair. Second Robin, current Red Hood, her mind supplied, spoke up with a grin and his arms crossed over his chest.

“You don’t look so suave anymore, little Queenie,” he teased. Marinette instantly made a face, screwing up her nose.

“No. That nickname is vetoed. One of my friend’s nicknames is Queenie, and not only will she never let me live it down if she finds out someone called me that, but, just no,” Marinette dramatically shivered. “Most of my friends call me Princess nowadays anyway,” she shrugged. “Adrien started it, and it somehow caught on. It’s too much work to protest at this point.”

“You’re not good with crowds,” the soft spoken woman, Cassandra, decided to add. Marinette winced, shifting on her feet even as she followed the group to the dining room.

“Ehhh. I’ve gotten used to dealing with press and stuff, to a certain degree anyway considering my alias. And wearing my Business persona always helps in consultations. But, I’m not…” Marinette bit the inside of her cheek, clearly a little uncomfortable as she looked around. “The best at… actually talking to people outside of my small group of friends.”

Bruce sighed as most of his kids chuckled or snorted at that. Dick, the oldest but second-shortest of the men besides Tim, came over and draped an arm familiarly over Marinette’s shoulders. He still towered over her though, so he had to slouch a bit to do so.

“Ah, that would be the genetics. Let’s hope you stay where you are at instead of getting as bad at communication as B,” he told her cheerfully. She raised an eyebrow at him.

“What about Damian?”

“He’s even worse!”

“Tt,” said teenager tutted, rolling his eyes as they entered the dining room and he was able to come up to Marinette’s other side. “That was mostly how I was raised before I met Father. I have gotten a lot better than I used to be, Grayson.”

Dick gave him a smile, graciously relieving Marinette of the close contact in favor of rustling Damian’s hair despite the fact that the younger Wayne was taller than him already. “Yes, you sure have! But you still need improvement, baby bird.”

Soon enough, everyone managed to get seated around the large dining table. Bruce insisted that Marinette take one of the seats next to him at the head of the table, across from Damian, since this was her first family dinner. Dick sat next to her, Jason across from him, followed by Tim and Duke on Damian’s side of the table. On the other side of Dick sat Cassandra, and then Stephanie. Alfred served everyone before also taking a seat at the table, on the opposite end from Bruce.

And, true to BatFam tradition, everything was a little awkward for the first minute or two. Marinette didn’t know what to say, and nobody quite knew where to begin. Dick would normally start a conversation, but he was trying to glare into Bruce’s head a silent message of “talk to her, damn it.”

Finally seeming to get it, Bruce cleared his throat and turned to Marinette. “So, I wanted to ask. When do you find out about being my daughter?”

Several people around the table closed their eyes in mourning for Bruce’s social skills. Marinette though, just smiled in slight relief at the decision of how to start talking being taken from her.

“Oh. It was in stages, really. When I was ten, we started our unit in school on genetics. I don’t usually care enough about science to do much more than the school requires, but genetics captivated me for some reason. I researched it almost obsessively at home for a while, almost instantly realizing that there had to be a reason that I had blue eyes when none of the rest of my family did. After a week or two, I found my Maman and Papan’s adoption papers in their room,” she blushed, tugging on one end of her bangs, which she had framing her face since she was wearing her hair down that day. “I uh… I’ve always been a little nosy. I never told them that I found the papers, to me it was just the answer I needed. I didn’t think about it at all after that, and my obsession over genetics went away. It wasn’t until I was thirteen that I decided to look into my birth parents,” Marinette sighed, shoving a bite of food in her mouth to buy her time before continuing. Everyone was focused on her, and it was a little unsettling. Every one of them had a sharper gaze than a normal person, and it made her feel like she was made of glass and everyone else could see right through her. “I was going through a lot, back then. I wanted someone to be mad at, I wanted to be able to blame my DNA for the things that had happened.”

“Things?” Bruce interrupted, back straight and eyebrows drawn down. “What things?” Marinette giggled, tilting her head instead of answering and just letting her eyes study him. Bruce Wayne, Batman, the Dark Knight. Original vigilante of Gotham city, one of the founding members of the Justice League. Famous for his secrecy, intimidating presence, and intelligence. Then she switched her gaze, one by one, to everyone else at the table before leaning back and taking a sip of her soda.

“Do you guys know anything about the situation Paris experienced for four years?” She asked, instead of directly answering. It was Tim who frowned, leaning forward to look at her and reply.

“I heard very vague rumors of weird things, but nothing concrete enough to investigate. What happened?”

Marinette hummed, deciding to sum it up for them. “The short version? When I was thirteen, a classmate of mine spontaneously turned into a giant rock monster and destroyed a good portion of the city. Turns out, that was the first of many attacks by our city’s very own supervillain, Hawkmoth. He had a magical artifact that allowed him to take advantage of anyone’s negative emotions to give them powers and brainwash them into being, essentially, temporary villains that he used for his own means. Two heroes showed up out of nowhere, powered by similar magical artifacts, to combat him and free the people he corrupted. Ladybug and Chat Noir, the original Parisian heroes and the leaders of the team that later had to form.”

Jason frowned, along with everyone else at the table. Finally, it was Duke who asked:

“How did we not know about villains in Paris?” To which Marinette just gave him a dangerously wicked smirk that was far too similar to Damian’s for anyone’s comfort.

“Because I do my job,” she told him flatly, sipping from her cup as everyone stared at her in various amounts of shock. “That’s why finding out that my biological father was Batman made so much sense. That’s why I wanted to find out who my birth parents were. I wanted to blame the heroism on genetics. And, it doesn’t look like I was exactly wrong.”

—*—*—*—*—*

Yeah, that was how her first family dinner and subsequent identity reveal went.

Luckily, considering that Bruce had hired MDC for a pretty long job, Marinette was able to finish school online instead of going back to Paris for it. There was no real need anyway, they had defeated Hawkmoth and gotten Adrien emancipated so for now it was calm in Paris. They didn’t need their heroes anymore, for the time being. This meant that Marinette and Adrien, along with a few employees that helped measure and cut fabric and do secretarial duties they needed help with, got to stay in Gotham while Marinette went back and forth to Wayne manor, Wayne Tower, and back to their temporary home.

After about a month, Marinette was comfortable enough with the Waynes that she found herself lounging in the bat cave as she sketched, though she kept raising her eyes to the glass tubes that held old uniforms. Damian was sat across from her, essentially laying out over two chairs while he played some game upside down on his phone. He might usually be a cold brat, even for a sixteen year old, but even he liked to abuse the way furniture should be used and ignore the world via technology.

But he still caught her constantly wandering gaze.

“You don’t like them.”

“They suck!” Marinette immediately agreed, slamming her sketchbook on the metal briefing table. “Your Robin outfit is the only passable one there is! The colors aren’t even the issue, even high fashion designers can appreciate a good color clash moment. But what was Father thinking?! Putting Grayson in that glorified onesie— why are there no pants?! Jason’s at least as a cape that can cocoon his body and prevent anyone from seeing the disaster beneath. I should thank Tim for at least upgrading the suit to having pants, but he still kept the outside-underwear look that I cannot forgive. The attempt at fashion, though, is appreciated. Disappointing, but appreciated.”

“That pretty much sums them all up,” Damian quipped, getting a snort of amusement out of his sister. Maybe that was one thing he had grown to like about her. She didn’t reprimand him for his sense of humor, and usually she even laughed along. The more morbid humor would get a playful shove and a glare, but no real animosity. And she understood him on a different level, too. One he appreciated even more.

“You said, yesterday, that the Cure brings back everyone who dies during a Miraculous-related incident,” Damian spoke up again after a moment, pointedly not looking at her. “Did you ever count?”

Marinette, this being one of the reasons he was quickly growing fond of her, immediately understood. She sighed, closing her notebook. She might have only been two years his elder, but she had had what felt like a lifetime of more experiences than he did, usually in the friendship and social department though. They were roughly equal in their heroism experience, which was weird to think about, but Damian still valued her input. It was different from the rest of the family.

“It was different in Paris than it would be for anyone else. I didn’t keep track of the number of people who died,” she finally answered, taking her hair out of its work bun and running her hands through the midnight black locks. “But I kept track of how often. Since nobody remembered their deaths, I guess I felt it was my responsibility to remember my failures for them. My former best friend, Alya. Over the course of those four years, she died seventeen times. Her boyfriend, Nino, died fourteen. The Mayor died three times. Chloe, my current friend and former bully, died twenty-two times,” she grimaced at Damian’s shocked expression, nodding grimly. “During those first two, maybe two and a half years, she was one of the primary Akuma targets. She was still either an active bully or in the beginning of trying to change for the better, so she caused a lot of negative emotions everywhere she went. Things got better once she matured a bit, though. Anyway, there’s this girl I used to babysit. Manon. She died five times before she was even ten years old,” Marinette shook her head, that look of age and exhaustion that Damian saw in every Wayne and every hero he had ever fought with seeping into her eyes. “My parents, they died thirty-seven times. They were constantly worried about me, and ran into danger on several occasions trying to find and keep me safe. But I could never tell them who I was. I physically could. I had the power to sit them down and say; Hey, I’m Ladybug. Stop running out and getting yourselves killed. But I never did. I valued my identity first. So I usually ended up seeing, in the middle of a fight, one or both of them squished under falling debris. Or drowned. Frozen solid. Burned alive,” she paused, taking a deep breath to steady herself. “So no. I don’t understand what it was like for you, to count bodies as you felled them. But hell, if it doesn’t feel like I should. Logic doesn’t mean much in the face of emotion, especially guilt. I know I didn’t kill the people I care about, but every single one of their deaths weighs on me like I was the one that caused it.”

Damian nodded, and they shared a few moments of peaceful, contemplative silence as they both ruminated on their less than pleasant memories without fear of being yelled at for what those memories contained.

“But, I do have a secret,” she admitted softly, attracting her brother’s emerald-eyed attention again. The normally cheerful woman was much more subdued even than before, sapphire irises self conscious and vulnerable, which was rare. She licked her lips, even more rare considering her love of her light pink lipstick, and moved off her chair so that she was, instead, sitting on the cold stone floor. Without hesitation, Damian joined her.

“Technically, it didn’t happen. It was a timeline that my friend, the one who I gave the snake Miraculous, essentially erased when he reversed time. But I remember it even though I shouldn’t. How could I forget?”

“You took a life,” Damian whispered, grimacing in empathy. “First time?”

“And the second, and the fifth,” she admitted. “Viperion had to try seven times before I stopped repeating it. But it was always the same person, back during our final battle. I killed Gabriel Agreste seven times. But nobody but me and Luca will ever remember.”

Damian and Marinette both knew it wasn’t the same as Damian’s childhood. They both knew that they would likely never fully understand one another’s trauma. Not the nuances of it. But they did understand the important parts, the broad strokes. Despite their vastly different lives, they understood the big parts that shaped one another.

That was why Damian took to her so quickly. If he had been younger and still bratty, naive, and angry at everything, then it would be a different story entirely. But he was matured, more willing to let himself feel sympathy. And that made the difference.

“You never forget the first person,” he remarked.

“No matter the age or timeline,” she agreed. “I saw how hard it was to stop. How sickeningly addictive it can be, but I hate what it makes me more than I like how it feels.”

“... me too,” Damian whispered. “Me too.”

—*—*—*—*—*

“Wooo!” Marinette cheered as she flew through the air, her hands latching onto Dick’s. There was no audience, but there didn’t need to be. Just the two of them, doing a routine that they’ve been working on during the few chances they had for the past several weeks. Marinette had never done trapeze before Dick helped her learn, but her time swinging through Paris streets helped tremendously alongside her general Gymnastics experience.

Marinette and Dick flipped through the air, swinging from bar to bar, Dick occasionally catching and tossing her again. They soared through the air, both curling through two flips before landing on their respective platforms with matching wide smiles. Marinette, chest heaving a bit since she was slightly out of shape (meaning that she wasn’t at all out of shape, only out of practice when it came to swinging through the air for any length of time. There’s a difference). She met Dick on the floor, who proceeded to ruffle her hair happily.

“That was awesome! Looks like you finally got the routine down,” he praised. She laughed, elbowing him.

“I bet I’m better on the balance beam,” she challenged, making Dick grin widely.

“Oh you are on!”

—*—*—*—*—*

“Ya ever died before?” Jason asked, making Marinette chuckle.

“Two-hundred and eighty-seven times.”

“You started as Ladybug at thirteen, right?”

“Yup. No training or mentor for the first year either.”

“Yeah, then that sounds about right. Wanna go break all the traffic laws?”

“Only if we take your bike.”

“Fuckin’ Duh. What else?”

—*—*—*—*—*

“You stalked Adrien?” Tim asked, smirking that insufferable smirk of his. Marinette groaned, flopping back onto the sofa.

“No! I didn’t mean it that way, anyway. I just took a lot of pictures and spied on him.”

“Yup. You’re Bruce’s kid,” he remarked, tapping away at his laptop. Marinette narrowed her eyes.

“You have noooo place to judge, Mister ‘Dick Grayson is the only person alive who can do four somersaults in the air!’ And ‘Yes, I‘ve known that you are batman since I was eight. Look at all these pictures I took when I— what was your terminology again?”

Tim rolled his eyes, but a grin was peeking through. “Yeah, yeah.”

—*—*—*—*—*

Four months later, and Marinette was staring down at all the garment bags she had painstakingly filled. Outfits for every single one of her new family members. It took a while, but they were ready for the Wayne Gala. Adrien slung am arm over her shoulder.

“You’ve outdone yourself again, Princess,” he praised, grinning at the array of coveted outfits they were about to transport. “But one teensy weeny, tiny little thing.”

“What is it, Chaton?”

Adrien grinned. “Do you have a dress for yourself? Bruce invited you, too, didn’t he?”

Marinette’s face drained of color, right as a knock sounded on the door. Adrien, seeing as Marinette was so far into Panic Mode that she could not be reached at the moment, went to open the door. A second later, plastic was all Marinette could see. Blinking, she raised her head.

It was Cass, holding out a pink garment bag with Marinette’s name on it.

“Thought you would forget,” was all the other woman offered as explanation. Marinette, after gaping for a moment, slowly took the bag from her. Cass smirked. “Present from WE.”

Marinette laughed.

“You guys are the best.”

—*—*—*—*—*

@momothefemur @ladybug-182 @starlightshield @trippingovermyfeet @greatcatblaze @sam-i-am-0222 @bluesimani @ruelukas22 @acoolspacegirl

[snarkwrites]

ssw | embry call ; let me take care of you.

NOTES:

As I said yesterday... I’m going to break down the list of prompts I originally intended to use for just one one-shot into a few different ones for this because I just felt like the first one flowed so well using only the one... This is the second part to the one shot I posted yesterday. And there will be at least a few more parts after this. I can’t say when they’ll be coming, but I can say they will be coming eventually.

Again, same as yesterday.. I am not a medical professional. Nor have I ever had amnesia of any kind. I’m trying my best with this, so apologies if it doesn’t seem realistic or whatever...If it matters/bothers anyone, that is.

Question though.. Would anyone be interested in at least one part of this being written in his point of view? Because I feel like it’d be interesting to write that way... It’d be third person..

PROMPTS:

Taken from [ here ] or [ here ]. The prompt used for inspiration here was obviously, Let me take care of you.

FANDOM / CHARACTER:

Twilight / Embry Call x Imprint!OFC, Merisa.

OTHER WORKS EMBRY & MERISA ARE FOUND IN:

[ he looks down. she looks up. ] 

WARNINGS:

amnesia tw, vague injuries mentioned tw, just gonna say her current soon to be ex boyfriend is an actual piece of garbage so.. yeah.. Sexual tension. Beyond all these, there’s not really anything else I can think of.

TAGGING:

@kyleoreillysknee​  is the only one currently on my Twilight taglist. If you see this and you’d like to be tagged also, add yourself to the doc below or lmk. It’ll make me super happy.

OTHER STUFF:

[ faq | request rules | sfw masterlist | tag list doc ]

The phone rang, shattering the silence and my train of thought. Okay, so it wasn’t a train of thought because I was more or less staring out the window of my grandmother’s living room and watching Embry Call work on my grandmother’s old car out in the driveway, but.. The phone was a distraction I didn’t want.

I grumbled when it didn’t go quiet. And after a few more seconds I’d had all I could take of the high pitched sound in all it’s annoying glory. I sprang up from the couch gingerly, grabbing up the remote to pause the true crime documentary I’d been engrossed in about Richard Ramirez and I hobbled into the kitchen, wincing every step of the way.

A scowl filled my face and I tensed up just as soon as I picked up and I heard Greg on the other end of the line. Upon hearing his voice, all sorts of unpleasant memories came rushing back. It was too much. 

“Merisa?”

“What, Greg?” I snapped. Impatient. Peering out my grandma’s living room window. Biting my bottom lip as I watched Embry tug the stained tank top he was wearing up over his head and wipe at sweat on his forehead with it before tossing it on the concrete slab next to his open toolbox.

“I asked you a question.” Greg cleared his throat expectantly.

Is it bad that I was so caught up in watching Embry do mechanic things outside that I didn’t even attempt to make an effort to listen to a damn word Greg said? Because this is exactly what happened.

“I wasn’t listening.”

Greg gave an annoyed huff at my honest answer and I rolled my eyes. Grumbling. The crackle of static over the phone line breaking through for a second or two. Whether I asked for him to repeat himself or not didn’t matter at all because Greg went on and asked his question again anyway.

“I said don’t you think you should be planning to return to Seattle soon? You were only supposed to be gone for a few days. It’s been nearly four weeks.” Greg stated. Pausing for a minute to grumble to himself about how this was typical of me, telling him one thing and then doing something entirely different.

And I snapped.

“Does the fact that I nearly died three and a half weeks ago just not mean anything to you at all or..?” I snarled, going quiet for a second or two. Determined to stay calm. But exploding felt so damn satisfying. It was hard to resist. I got the feeling that I spent 90 percent of my time around Greg biting my tongue and that had me wondering why. What did this guy have that kept me with him? The more I wondered about it, the harder it was to come up with any real sort of answer.

“Sorry. I should know better than to ask questions I already know the answer to.” I apologized. In my own petty way, of course.

Greg took my apology as sincerity and he sighed. Disappointed, obviously because I wasn’t there to tend to his every stupid whim. “I’m sorry too, it’s just.. I told you we had plans. You know how important this weekend is to me and the fact that you’re not even trying to come back… I’m just disappointed, sweetheart. That’s all.”

,, well excuse the fuck out of me for grieving. excuse me for loving my mother enough to want to go to her funeral. Excuse me for nearly dying and needing to heal and getting in the way of your precious plans,asshole.” I wanted to say it so badly that I had to bite the insides of my cheeks and ball my hands into fists just to keep it in. I sighed. “Instead of making this harder than it has to be, you could actually be a caring boyfriend and come to make sure I’m okay… I mean.. I am dealing with memory loss and injuries...”

Surprise, surprise. He suddenly had a thousand excuses as to why he couldn’t -and wouldn’t, just do that. And my stomach churned. Did he even give a shit? Why was I still wasting my time? Why had I even bothered answering the phone in the first place this time?

I made up my mind right then. As soon as I got off the phone with him, I was going to block him on all socials. I was going to block his number on my cell phone. And if I saw his name on my grandmother’s caller ID when the phone rang, I was just going to walk out of the room.

“I’ve gotta go.” I muttered. Before Greg could say anything else,  I hung up the phone angrily. Slamming it down on it’s cradle.

From the doorway, Embry cleared his throat and stepped into the living room. “Trouble in paradise?”

“If that’s what paradise is I’d hate to imagine hell.” I flopped back on the couch dramatically. Wincing when yes, it still hurts to move certain ways. Or too much at once. 

Embry sat down in my grandmother’s recliner. Staring intently at the television which was paused on the clubhouse scene from Dirty Dancing.

I grabbed my cell phone from the end table and did exactly what I made up my mind to do. Blocking Greg on every single one of my socials. And out of pettiness, I changed my relationship status on Instagram to single.

He’d never even bothered to change his, if memory serves. Why had I changed mine?

There was still so much I had left to fill in as far as my memory gaps, but it was coming back in leaps and bounds. Something told me that the last thing I needed to have done was return to Seattle. Otherwise, I might not have ever remembered or  even realized to begin with, what kind of man I was involved with because I’m pretty sure that Greg wouldn’t have started to really show his true self.

He’d done a pretty fair job of hiding just how controlling and easily irritated by the slightest inconvenience he really was so far, I mean, I hadn’t dropped his ass.

I smirked in satisfaction as I put down my phone. 

I happened to glance over at Embry to find him staring at me. Like he wanted to say something or he was lost in thought. Before I could help myself, I was staring right back. Getting pulled into the depths of his eyes. Eventually dropping my gaze down. Lingering on his mouth when he licked his lips.

I couldn’t stop staring. This was starting to become habit whenever he was around. Especially if he wasn’t paying attention so I knew I could stare to my hearts content and get away with it.

I stood and cleared my throat. “I’m gonna go get myself some lemonade. Do you want anything?” I asked as I walked over to the doorway leading into the kitchen.

“If there are any more bottled waters?” Embry asked hopefully. I smiled and gave him a thumbs up. And as soon as I was in the kitchen, I leaned against the fridge. Fanning myself with one of my grandmother’s magazines that happened to be sitting on the counter.

After I managed to pull myself together just a little bit, I grabbed a bottled water for Embry and I poured myself a glass of lemonade. And when I turned to walk back into the living room, I found myself body to body with Embry as he stepped into the doorway between the two rooms.

My thighs clenched just a little at the way it felt to be pressed against him. Hard muscles against my own softness. For a second, when I opened my mouth to tell him I’d gotten his water like he asked for, the words hung in my throat.

Finally, I managed to get it out. “Your water, sir.” I held out the water bottle to him and after holding it against the back of his neck for a few seconds, he uncapped it, practically swallowing down half the bottle in one gulp.

Eyes locked on me the entire time. I know this because I’ll be damned if I could stop staring at him either. I tried. And failed.

He cleared his throat.

“Oh, right.. You probably wanted to wash your hands…” I stepped out of the doorway, pouting to myself a little because the second physical contact was broken, I missed the feel of his body against mine.

He walked over to the sink. Turning it on. Washing his hands. And I happened to notice he had a few busted knuckles.

“You need those sanitized. C’mere.” I nodded to the stool on the other side of the counter. Embry shrugged. Muttered that it wasn’t a big deal.

“It’s called infection setting in. And it can happen.” I insisted, nodding to the stool again. When he shook his head and took another sip of water and calmly insisted that he was fine, I shook my head and hobbled over. Grabbing hold of the hand that wasn’t injured. Leading him to the stool. “Sit.”

“Okay, alright. You know, you’re a lot bossier than I remember.” Embry muttered, gazing down at me. Even sitting down he was still taller. Bigger.

I stuck out my tongue at him. “If it keeps you from getting a nasty infection in your hand, I’ll take it.” I muttered. My gaze settling on him. Instantly getting sucked right back into those deep brown eyes and lost.

After a second or two of both of us staring at each other yet again, I cleared my throat. “I should go find the first aid kit.”

“It’s under the sink.” Embry answered quietly. I bit my lip. Nodding as I muttered mostly to myself, “Under the sink.” and turned away to get it.

“You don’t have to do this. I’m telling you, it’s fine. I deal with this all the time. Kind of happens when you work at a garage, Merisa…” Embry trailed off as I glanced back at him and stated in a firmer tone, “Let me take care of you, okay?”

I grabbed the bottle of peroxide and a rag. Sitting on the stool adjacent to his. Grabbing hold of his hand and placing it in my lap.

“You have tiny hands.” Embry muttered, almost sounding dazed. I glanced up at him through a curtain of hair as it fell right into my face because I bent my head just a little to see his hand better. I swallowed hard. Trying not to think of how good it felt to have his hand in mine. Or on my body.

When I exhaled, it was shaky.

That had me raising a brow.

If this man had one tenth of a clue just what he stirred up in me, I swear to God…

He jumped as the peroxide made contact with the open wounds, bubbling and fizzing as it cleaned the wounds out. 

A memory came back to me… I was younger. Probably around five. My grandmother sat on the stool Embry currently sat on and I sat on the stool I was currently sitting on. My leg was in her lap and she was dabbing some red liquid on it that burned like the fire of ten thousand hells. I was crying and trying to jerk my leg away, but my grandma just held onto it. And when she finished, she leaned in… Blowing gently on my injured knee. 

As the bubbling started to slow down, I raised Embry’s hand, leaning down. Blowing on the knuckles a little. Glancing up at him and teasing playfully, “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“I’ve felt worse.” he finally mumbled after we’d been locked in a quiet staredown for what felt like minutes instead of seconds. 

It sank in that I was still holding onto his hand. And he wasn’t making an effort to pull his hand away, either.

My grandmother cleared her throat from the doorway and smirked at the two of us playfully as she came in, sitting groceries on the counter. “Am I interrupting something, Merisa?”

“No, not at all.” I answered. Smiling. Letting go of Embry’s hand as my cheeks burned. I felt like a teenager just walked in on by her parents.

Embry slid off the stool and brushed his hands over his jeans. “I need to get back to it.” he muttered. Hurrying out of the house. As soon as the screen door banged shut behind him, I let out a ragged breath. Fanning myself with the magazine again.

Trying to ignore the look I was getting from my grandmother.

When she couldn’t resist any longer, she spoke up. “He’s single.. If you’re wondering.”

“Grandma!” I laughed out, shaking my head. My gaze lingering on the window. Fixed on him.

My grandmother spoke up again. “It’s been so nice having you here, Mermaid… It’ll be a shame to see you go.”

Before I really stopped to think about it, I replied “ Honestly? I’m tempted to stay.”

My grandmother pulled me into a tight hug. Smiling at me as the hug broke. “I won’t stop you. The decision is yours.”

I nodded. Waiting until she was in the other room with one of her soap operas going full blast before I wandered back over to the window that faced where Embry currently was outside. Staring out at him with my fingertips pressed against the glass.

I thought he’d caught me one time because he stopped what he was doing beneath the hood of the car to glance around the yard. I moved away from the window quickly, shaking my head and laughing at myself about it.

I’ll repeat. If Embry Call had one tenth of a clue the effect he had on me...

[equalseleventhirds]

i said i wouldn't write it but i did

vaguely a sequel to this, but far in the future and focused on jon (annabelle features briefly tho. she's fine. annabelle will always be fine in my fics.) with ofc the presupposition that they've failed in one world but kept trying, bcos i think that would be fun*!

*(by which i mean heartbreaking, i'm so sorry)

There are rules, to the traveling, or at least there seem to be. There are certainly questions to be asked and points to be made, about how many instances count as a definitive rule rather than simply a pattern. But Jon likes to think of them as rules. He's always preferred concrete answers, even if it turns out they're less the truth and more just a convenient way of conceptualizing things.

So he has rules.

First: the Fears always come through on the same day. October 18, 2018. Or, given the impact history has on calendars, the equivalent of it; he'd once spent months trying to correlate the forty-third moon of cycle 1852 with his calendar just to prove his point, but the math had all worked out.

(Which does indicate, at least to Jon, that yes, the Fears probably did originate in his home world, Georgie. He'll take his petty wins where he can get them. For as long as he can remember the discussion, and the people, he's proving wrong.)

Second, it is still his tapes that the Fears follow. For every apocalypse there has been a new catalyst, but none of these new rituals supersede his. Maybe it's a testament to the strength of the Web's original plan, or maybe it's just something about Jon himself. He knows what he thinks, but... well, there isn't enough proof just yet.

Third, in spite of endless attempts to trap them and stop them, Jon is always able to travel with the Fears. Perhaps they simply can't stop him, as the original antichrist he apparently is; dozens of apocalypses in dozens of different universes, and Jon can always feel his rightful place as ruler of that terrible fearscape calling to him. He hasn't taken it yet, but it's there, and the Eye cannot abandon its true pupil without his permission.

Or perhaps they simply don't care. Every attempt so far has led to the exact same result, after all: another world left behind, another death by starvation averted, another new feast for the Fears to sink their teeth into.

Fourth, he always passes out upon entering a new world.

It's kind of annoying.

---

It is slightly unusual for him to wake up warm, comfortable, and covered in a blanket, but Jon's not about to complain. It's nice. He doesn't get a lot of comfort, and he likes sleeping in a bed, especially since he's always eldritch-nightmare-free in a new world. For a limited time only, of course.

He's fairly certain he's inside; aside from the softness underneath and around him, the air is still and temperate, the light through his eyelids is artificial, and all he can hear is the faint whirring of appliances and the whispers of two muted voices.

"—complete stranger, definitely dangerous, looks like he's from hell—"

"Okay, fine, but I wasn't going to leave him, and anyway haven't you noticed he's a bit—"

"A bit what? Scarred? Bloodstained? Glowing eyes, because I don't think I need to remind you, Martin, his eyes were absolutely glowing when you found him—"

Martin. Now there's a name. Not an uncommon one, but... he thinks he knows that voice.

Or. Well. He might know both of those voices, actually, which is even more interesting than waking up in a bed.

Jon opens his eyes.

He's met himself before, is the thing. Not in every world, and not always particularly recognizable, but he's met himself. He's met versions of Martin, too, and eventually stopped going completely useless with heartbreak every time. The merest handful of times, he's found both of them in the same world, sometimes something almost like friends, but usually not.

The fact that they have their arms around each other, casual, comfortable, close, is both entirely unexpected and perfectly, wonderfully, terribly familiar. Jon briefly considers crying about it, but there are more important things to be doing. For example.

"The glowing eyes aren't actually that sinister. I mean, they are, but not for the reasons you're probably thinking."

Jon—the other Jon—jumps at the sound of his voice, then leans forward. Curiosity, of course; that hardly ever seems to change. "You—the glowing—who are you?"

"Jon," this new version of Martin scolds, and for just a moment he's back home, with his Martin, with that exasperated tone—but no, this isn't his Martin, and he's also leaning forward now, his voice turning gentle. Concerned. Coaxing, like he's a spooked animal, and Jon doesn't think his Martin has ever talked to him that way. "How are you feeling? We found you unconscious in the street."

He can feel Martin's curiosity too, pushing forward under his concern, just as questioning as Jon but too polite to outright say it yet. He has to cut this off, or he really will cry.

"Mm... no," he says. "Well, yes. But also." Good lord, he's confusing them. Par for the course, but he should probably try to be somewhat comprehensible.

He holds up a hand, extending one finger. "I am... fine. More or less. Trust me, I'm used to this, and this isn't even the worst way it's happened." Another finger joins the first. "My name, as I believe Martin has guessed but then dismissed, is Jonathan Sims. I am not you from the future, nor am I lying, nor am I crazy, because—" a third finger "—interdimensional travel is not only possible, it has happened, is happening, because of and along with terrible monstrosities I am determined to stop, and I have explained this too many times to too many people to have much patience for anyone being shocked and disbelieving, much less a version of myself doing so, so you can either get over it and move on or I can go elsewhere and do something useful."

"Excuse—"

"And," he continues, pushing himself up so he can sit and lean forward even more intensely than his counterpart, "I would actually rather not do that just yet, because I have an extremely pressing question for the two of you."

"Um," Martin says, and "What," says the other Jon.

"How," Jon asks, deepening his voice to exude solemn, ominous, and eldritchly important, "did you two start dating?"

---

It was so... normal. Apparently. Two people, mutual friends, a chance encounter. A prickly exterior ("He hated me," both of them had claimed), but without the insecurity of being Head Archivist and the fear of dread powers beyond his comprehension, their friends had helped him open up and—eventually—apologise. A budding friendship, and then a romance, and then...

It isn't a version of them Jon has seen anywhere else, in any of the worlds he's traveled to. Normal as it is, it's a highly improbably scenario, and certainly not the same as his relationship with his Martin had been. But it was, in an infinite number of worlds, still a possibility.

Jon isn't quite sure how he feels about that, knowing that some version of them could have fallen in love without the trauma, but that they hadn't managed it.

His hands aren't shaking, as he lights his cigarette. At least there's that.

"I quit, you know," his counterpart says from behind him. "Years ago. I'd forgotten about those until you asked."

"Well then, thank you for indulging me." He gestures, meaning the cigarette, meaning the bed, meaning his claims about reality, meaning his intrusive, gossipy questioning. Meaning everything. He's not sure it gets across.

The other Jon laughs, quietly, and moves to stand next to him. "I am my worst enabler."

"Oh, that's hardly true."

"Mm." They're silent together for a while, but Jon is restless (both of him), and eventually this reality's version opens his mouth to ask. "Do you—do you know why I—I don't want to say believed you, I'm still not sure I do, b-but, didn't throw you out immediately?"

"My myriad charms?" They both laugh at that.

"Jonathan Sims," he says, as if that explains anything.

Jon takes a drag of his cigarette, considering. He could probably Know, but... indulging himself. "What about me?"

"No, not you, or. You know. You. But your name. Jonathan Sims. I decided you weren't, weren't a deliberate lie to trick me, or a future version of myself, or a mind-reading monster—"

"Well—"

"—when you said your name, because none of those things would have said that." He smiles then and holds up a hand, and—oh—his ring glints. "I've been Jonathan Blackwood for a while now."

They'd told him married eventually, but he hadn't even thought about his name. He's certainly thinking about it now. "Jonathan Blackwood," he says, soft, to himself. And to himself. "That... that sounds good."

"It does, doesn't it."

Whatever they might have said next is lost as an incredibly loud engine roars nearby and a sleek black motorcycle pulls up in front of them. Jon sighs and takes one last drag of his cigarette as the rider removes her helmet.

"Been off finding yourself, then, Jon?" Annabelle asks.

"Oh, extremely funny, yes. Did you steal that?"

"It was a gift."

"Of course it was."

The other Jon is staring at them both, his eyes repeatedly drifting back to the web-covered hole in Annabelle's head. "Who—what is—is that a—"

"She's a spider monster," Jon supplies helpfully. "She came with me, although apparently she did not pass out in the street this time."

"Two streets over, I think. Pity, I would've loved a nice nap in a proper bed, but I did get this motorcycle out of it. Come on, Jon, you can mope on the way."

"I have not been moping—"

"Haven't you? You're not the one who deals with how maudlin you get every time you meet yourself—"

"Yes, fine, thank you, we can go." He stubs out the cigarette and pauses, looking at himself. "Uh. Tell Martin—well, goodbye, I guess. I'd say I hope we meet again, but if you're lucky we won't need to?"

"...sure."

"And I'm—I hope you—that is, I'll do my best—well." He sighs. "Things are about to get... dicey, for the world in general. But just, look out for each other, and we'll try to handle the rest."

"Jon, we should be going."

"Yes, all right, all right." He gives himself one last, probably not very reassuring smile, and climbs on behind Annabelle.

They do have work to do, after all.

[inyourwildestdreamslove]

Forgotten

No one can remember the last time the Fae were seen in Middle Earth. They were once revered as the most powerful of the races with mystical powers, unlike any in the world has seen. Sauron knew the only way for his plans to succeed was to get rid of them, so he rid the world of them. However, one day you fall into the company of Thorin Oakenshield.

Coincidence or fate? No one knows...

As the last of the Fae you are unsure what to do... All you really want is a bath...

... And the attention of a certain golden-haired Prince... What's a girl to do?

Pairing: Fili x Reader

Chapter 1: Of Falls and Fairy Circles

The market is bustling as you dance your way through the stalls full of art and jewelry. Saturday at the market is easily your favorite day of week especially after you just got paid. Suddenly, a stone on one of the nearby tables catches your eye. It seems to almost have a light shining from it taking your breath away. It is clear with a bright blue light that just seems to shine among all the moonstones and labradorites. You hesitantly pick it up from the stall knowing that it is way out of budget and yet the price tag says $60. You blink in confusion at the piece before your hand secures, almost greedily, around the pendant as you call the owner over.

“I’ll take this one,” you say, pulling out your wallet.

“Sure! What length chain would you like?” she asks briskly, busy with the plethora of customers surrounding you both.

You gaze at the pendant thoughtfully, the shard looking glamorously delicate and intricate, “thirty-six.”

She nods and quickly takes payment, but you stop her from wrapping it up, “I’ll just wear it out, thanks.” She hands it over with a friendly enough smile before she is pulled away by another buyer.

You spend the rest of the afternoon meandering around the stalls of the market. Artisans are selling their crafts and you admire each of them happily. When you are finished you buy a meal from a local food truck and sit happily at one of the picnic tables scattered about the outside of the market. Once finished you throw back the last of your drink before you dispose of the trash and make your way back towards your apartment.

The evening air is brisk and warm with a breeze as the sunset paints the sky various colors of pinks and oranges. It’s only when you feel the telltale drop of rain that you become slightly concerned. You quicken your pace, annoyed you hadn’t driven to the market even though it wasn’t far from your home. As the rain picks up you begin to rush down the street as the once peaceful evening is ravaged by black clouds and lightning. Your apartment is almost in sight as you rush across the bridge, the only thing between you and home.

With a jolt of lightning and a crack of thunder, the bolt catches a nearby streetlamp. You scream as you are thrown back and away. Suddenly water is all around you, a vortex of wind and rain. The only time you seem able to see is when the sky is illuminated by the ominous bolts of lightning.

You scream for help, disoriented, and confused about what is happening, how did you get into the water?

Now it is time to choose…

The light and airy voice startle you. You have no idea how you could hear it over the raging storm. Suddenly all is quiet, almost deafeningly so after the roar of the storm raging around you.

You must choose between life…

And death…

“What does that mean?!” you yell into nothing, to no one.

Living means accepting your destiny… yourself…

“And what does dying mean?!” you ask in panic.

Failure…

Now choose…

The voice echoing in your head is silent, leaving you with your thoughts. You are beyond confused about everything, but what are you supposed to do? You don’t want to die!

“I want to choose life!”

Your choice has been made then? Just know you will never be able to return here…

“What do you mean?”

You have chosen destiny…

You scream as you are abruptly thrown back into the storm and tossed about like a ragdoll in the washing machine. When just as abruptly as it all started… it stops.

Opening your eyes you gaze around you at the lush forest before looking down on the bed of flowers you’ve landed in encircled by mushrooms. The earth is soft and damp beneath you, the moss and foliage having softened your fall. The sky's the deep blue of the evening, you notice the way that the colors of twilight are just beginning to paint the sky. Sitting up you vaguely wonder how you got here, but you can remember nothing. Panic takes over as you search the area around you for anything or anyone. You find nothing. The only thing that floats across your mind is a singular name: Cwen.

You sit up and feel your body scream as you do, with a groan you hold your aching head. Glancing down at your clothes you notice the dress you are wearing, it’s long and a deep black. It’s now stained and ripped in multiple places. You stumble to your feet and after a moment you finally gain your footing as you brace yourself against a tree. You lean your pounding forehead against the rough bark and gasp as whispers tickle your ears. You pull away and look around, but hear nothing and see no one. You tense as your instincts begin to truly kick in. You have no idea who you are or where you are and you’re scared.

There is a crack from behind you causing you to whip around in enough time to see the ugliest creature you’ve ever seen in your life. It’s like a cross between a wolf and a hyena, with a scream you stumble back and away from it. The creature begins to stalk towards you, haunches raised in a low snarl, and with each step, you feel your fear grow. You are backed up against the tree and as you press against it you hear the whispers again. You can’t understand them, but honestly, you have more important things to worry about.

As the creature leaps towards you you scream and hold your arms up, if not to shield yourself, to at least not watch it take a bite out of your face. It never comes though, in its stead is a low whine and groan.

Hesitantly, you lower your arms and open your eyes to see the creature suspended in midair impaled on a branch from the very tree you are leaning against. The branch had gone down the creature’s throat, spearing it and killing it instantly. You’re too terrified to scream as you turn away from the horrid sight and lose your dinner all onto the ground. When you have gained enough wits about you, you run.

You don’t look where you are going as you make a mad dash through the forest, not that it would matter anyway. The only thing on your mind is sheer terror as you just run. Before you know it night has fallen and you can only slump against a fallen log as you try to catch your breath. Now too exhausted to do anything other than sit and think you regard the quickly darkening forest around you and another kind of fear sets in. You curl yourself up into a ball and ponder your options. You could either try to find a place to stay for the night or some civilization and pray that no one will try to murder you, or you could stay where you are and hope that nothing finds you and tries to murder you. Either way, you really hope you don’t get murdered tonight.

With a resigned sigh, realizing that you are very far from where you once were and if anyone is looking for you it would have been best to stay there. However, you know you have a better chance of potentially being able to find light in the dark and hope that you could be led to a road or a city. Anything.

Your memories are slowly coming back, although nothing concrete yet. You remember concepts but you can’t recall a single person, even though you know you know people. No family. No friends. You don’t remember your home and you can’t recall a singular memory of your life.

You have no idea how long you’ve been walking when you see it in the distance, a fire! You quickly make your way through the forest and you stumble across a campsite. The fire is still roaring in the pit, there are what look to be crudely made sleeping bags and various other packs and supplies scattered about as if the owners will be back any moment now. The smell of food is coming from a pot over the fire and you approach it to see stew bubbling. You glance around and call out a few times wondering if anyone is around and if they would answer. When no one approaches or answers you feel a bit like Goldielocks as you take a wooden bowl and scoop some of the stew into it. You have no idea when you last ate, but after running through the forest for hours being scared out of your mind, food sounds delightful and surely no one would mind if you ate some. After all, there looks to be plenty…

You plop yourself down on a log near the fire to keep the chill of the cool night air at bay. The dress you are wearing is not meant to keep you warm on such a cold night. Why are you wearing something so unsuitable for the weather anyway? You wonder this as you eat the stew the happiest that you’ve been since this madness started.

Glancing into the darkness you can make out yells in the distance. Happy that there are people around, you get up off of the log before you take off into the bushes. You aren’t thinking as you see the light of a campfire in the distance and you rush towards it. ‘People!’ you think in relief. However, the minute you step into the clearing you realize you’ve made a grave mistake.

“Oh? Wat do we ‘ave ‘ere?” questions a giant thing that just so happens to be much uglier and smellier than the creature from before, all with gray skin and a large gut.

“Looks like a ‘uman wooman…” says one with a high nasally voice.

“It’s been soo l-ong since we’ve ‘ad wooman! Soo much more fatty than man!” Delights a third.

Wait… did this… thing just call you fat?

“Did you just-?” you start in indignation when one of them takes a step forward with the intent of scooping you up. You jump out of the way and hear a roar of male voices. Glance at the spit and then at a pen in the corner you notice a bunch of men being held hostage by the things before you.  

“Why yoo lit-tle!” exclaims the one that missed.

“Oi! Leave the lass alone!” Yells a gruff voice, he is joined by a chorus of gruff masculine voices.

“No shame!!”

“Pick on someone your own size!”

The deep gruff voices of the men around you at least prove to you that they are decent people. However, you don’t have time to ponder too much about it as you jump and tumble about the camp, all while attempting to keep your dress down. Vaguely you hope none of the men saw your bike shorts. Ok so it really wouldn’t matter, but it kills the illusion.

“Got ya now!” yells one as you are cornered back against the trunk of a tree. You throw your arms up and suddenly there is silence.

“Oi! No fair!” yells the nasally one.

You slowly open your eyes and lower your arms only to see the things blinking at you through thick branches of the tree you're against. The branches now protecting you are woven together creating a barrier between you and your would-be captors.

“Enough of this!” yells the one who seems to be the ring leader as he stomps forward and pushes another out of the way. He takes hold of the branches and begins to attempt to pry them apart. You can hear the men in the background yelling again about them leaving you alone after a brief stunned silence. You feel your fear beginning to creep up on you again as the branches begin to give way to the strength of the beast before you. The popping and cracking of splintering wood assault your ears. Your breathing quickens and the only thing you can think of is how you wished they would just leave you alone!

“Hey! Stop!” yells one of them.

“Let go!” yells another.

“Oi wat’s-” the thing is cut off as vines snake up its body and wrap itself around the creatures. You watch in confused horror as the things all struggle with the vines still wrapping itself dutifully around them. No matter how much they struggle they are no match for the creeping vines entangling then.

You see a flash of something in the distance before you hear the words, “By the dawn!” and a deafening crack rings in the air. You watch as the morning sun hits the creatures and moments later they are stone wrapped in vines. You blink in confusion as the man makes his way into the clearing. He checks on the men first, cutting the ties on one of the bags they are in before he makes his way over to you.

“My dear… are you alright?” You look up through the broken branches into the kind eyes of the man now kneeling in the brush before you. Perhaps it was the events you just witnessed or the stress of the night, or perhaps it was just that grandfatherly kindness that he regards you with, but at that moment you just shake your head and begin to sob.

“Oh, come now child…” he says kindly, as he carefully helps you from the branches and pulls you further into the clearing, “there, there… you’ll be alright…”

“Is she hurt?” asks a male voice from behind the old man before you.

“Aye! Get the lass something decent to wear! She must be freezing!”

“Is she a witch?” questions another with fear in his voice.

Startled out of your emotional breakdown by the men now standing all around you you stumble back.

“Hold steady, lass!” says one who reaches out and catches you just before you hit the ground. In that moment, you may as well be in an old Hollywood movie. You are suddenly gazing up into a pair of golden brown eyes as the sun paints a halo of warm light around his blonde hair. You blink up at him in confusion before he rights you and you, much to your surprise, gaze down at him. Wait… down?

You look about at the men surrounding you and you are taller than all of them, except for the old man who towers above you. Not that you are not exactly tall, to begin with, but this is unexpected.

Before you can say or do anything a heavy piece of fabric that smells distinctly like man and earth is draped around your shoulders. Another short man with a bright smile and deep blue eyes is on your other side helping to steady you, “You alright there?”

“Umm… thank you… I don’t know…” you say with uncertainty.

“Are you hurt then?” questions another in concern shoving the blue-eyed man away.

“The lass is hurt!” shouts another with an odd-shaped hat.

“Make way! Make way!” yells yet another, and at this point, you are wondering how many there are.

A man with a trumpet to his ear is thrust through the crowd towards you. He grumbles to himself about the rough treatment before he straightens himself up and regards you professionally.

“You hurt, lass?” He asks gruffly.

“Umm… maybe?” You answer in confusion.

“Maybe?” he asks in the same gruff tone as before.

“Well everything kind of hurts, but it's more of an ache from… everything…” you gesture unhelpfully around you just hoping he would get the idea.

“Aye… Sounds like ye just need some rest is all. Right as rain soon!” He nods as if that solves all of life’s problems before he makes his way back through the group to complete whatever it was he was doing before he was shoved so unceremoniously through the crowd.

“You’re not hurt then?” Asks the dark-haired blue-eyed man from before giving you what could only be described as puppy dog eyes.

“I don’t think so…” you murmur softly as you lean back against the claw-like branches that had acted as your shield.

“So what exactly did you… uh… do back there?” Questions the man with the funny hat indicating the branches behind you.

“Umm well… I don’t know…”

“Are ye a witch?” Questions one with hair that vaguely resembles a star.

“I don’t think so…”

“You don’t think so? Ye either are! Or you’re not!” He exclaims.

“Aye, now lad! Just calm down!” Says the one with the weird hat.

While the two argue about whether you are or are not a witch, the golden-haired man from before approaches you quietly.

“Are you alright milady?” He asks with a kind smile.

You sigh softly, “I think so…” you’re flustered from your lack of memory.

“What did you mean when you said you didn’t think you were a witch? Are you unsure?” He asks kindly.

“I don’t… remember anything… so I don’t know what I am… I don’t remember ever doing anything like that, and you would think I would if I did… right?” You say uncertainty and fear clouding your voice.

“If I didn’t know any better…” begins the old man, “I would say that’s Fae magic.” His eyes twinkle as he catches yours. As if he is a grandfather with a secret stash of treats and he’s about to tell you where he hides the candy after dinner.

“Impossible!” Yells a deep voice from behind everyone. This one is majestic with graying hair and a beard shorter than many of the others. He’s also taller than most of them, even if you still have about 2 to 3 inches on him.

“The Fae haven’t been seen in Middle Earth for ages, you know that better than anyone Gandalf!” He continues.

“Yes, but that,” he says indicating the claw-like branches you are leaning against and the vines wrapping around the now stone things, “is distinctly Fae magic. And as the only one here who has seen Fae magic, I think I would know what it looks like!”

He ends on a very decisive note and his eyes are daring anyone to oppose him.

The majestic one narrows his eyes as he regards you, “you can’t remember anything? Nothing at all?”

“About myself? Not really…”

“What about your name?” Questions the dark-haired one from before. He seems younger than most of the men surrounding you, perhaps it’s his lack of beard? Or perhaps it’s their very imposing beards that make them seem older than they are? Honestly, you’re just confused.

“Umm the only name I remember is Cwen, I don’t even know if it’s mine.”

“Ye don’t know?” Asks the one with the odd hat.

“It doesn’t… feel right,” you explain and he seems to understand if the nod of his head is any indication. The flaps on this hat bounce up and down with the motion.

“We should take her to Rivendell,” the old man now known as Gandalf says.

“We aren’t going anywhere near those damn elves…” growls the majestic one.

“Elrond would know what to do, perhaps even help her with her… abilities…” argues Gandalf.

“What or who is a ‘Rivendell?’” you ask the golden-haired one that is still lingering next to you quietly.

“It’s not a what or a who, it’s a where,” he says with a wink.

You give him a small smile in thanks before you hear a voice, “Umm excuse me… Miss?”

You look down to see an even smaller man! If that’s even possible at this point...

“Oh… um… yes?”

“Bilbo Baggins, at your service! Would you like some water?” he asks, suddenly handing you a waterskin.

You smile down at him before plucking the waterskin from his hands, “Yes, thank you!”

“Milady, we should probably get you into more suitable clothing,” says a new man with gray hair done in an intricate braid. He seems slightly more proper than some of the others and you just nod absentmindedly glancing down at your ruined and pretty much useless dress.

“Aye!” grunts a balding one, who looks more so like he would kill you than talk to you, “Why are you ye dressed so… impractical.” You can tell he wanted to say something else, the kindly man next to him elbowed him just as he was about to.

“Honestly… I wondered the same thing…” you say as you regard the sandals you are wearing as you examine one foot then the other and the dress. “I don’t think this was on the agenda for the day honestly.”

Meanwhile, you ignore the two men arguing about elves in the background before you realize there are elves…

“There are elves here?” you question softly as you gaze at the men now making their way back towards the once-abandoned camp. You step over logs and hold your dress up enough to keep from getting it snagged on the underbrush of the forest. The golden haired one offering you a hand every once in a while to steady you. You grimace at the way your ankles and feet itch though.

“Of course there is, lass!” exclaims the one with the odd hat, “Surely you’ve heard of Elves!.”

“Are they tiny?” you ask suddenly, slightly concerned that everyone in this land is just very short.

“Tiny?” he questions before he bursts into laughter at the idea, “Not exactly, lass. They are about the same size as the race of men, perhaps a little taller on some occasions.”

“Men? You aren’t ‘men’ then?” you ask innocently.

“What?! You thought we were Men?!” Laughs the dark-haired one.

“Well if you aren’t Men… what are you?” you ask in confusion.

“Why Dwarves, of course!” exclaims a loud man with red hair, “The best craftsmen and warriors of Middle Earth! You’d have thought she’s never seen a Dwarf before!”

“Umm… but I haven’t…” you say hesitantly.

“Haven’t what?” questions the odd hat one.

“Seen any Dwarves… or Elves for that matter… I don’t think we have either where I come from...” you ponder out loud, trailing off slightly in thought.

The Dwarves are silent around you as they take in this new information.

“She’s a witch I say!” exclaims the one with odd hair once again.

“Oh hush Nori!” exclaims the one with the elaborate braid.

“You really aren’t from around here, are ye lass?” questions the one with the odd hat.

“No… I’m really not… and I’m not quite sure how I got here either…” you say with tears beginning to prick your eyes. You push them away because now is no time to cry.

“Aye… Don’t you worry lass! We’ll make sure you find your way to safety,” the one with the odd hat winks at you before he gets up to go talk to Gandalf.

“Aye, you shouldn’t worry,” says the Golden-haired man, um... Dwarf, “He’s right, we won’t let any harm come to you alright?”

You give him a small smile and a nod, “Thank you.”

“Come on. Bit of breakfast will do you some good,” he says as he helps you to your feet, “Oh! I’m Fili, by the way and that over there is my brother, Kili.”

“Fili and Kili?” you ask softly so you can remember their names.

“Aye, that over there is my uncle Thorin talking with Gandalf the Gray. That’s Bofur, Bombur, and Bifur,” he says, indicating the man you were talking to earlier as well as a Dwarf with dark hair and a very rotund Dwarf. “And Ori, Nori, and Dori,” he indicates the trio, one being the one who keeps insisting you are a witch and the other is busy gathering up clothing, probably for you and employing the help of another Dwarf that seems quite timid. “That’s Balin and Dwalin, they are two of uncle’s closest friends and advisors. “That’s Oin and Gloin,” he points to the doctor from earlier with the horn to his ear and the redhead from before. “And of course, Bilbo has already introduced himself.”

“Oh dear…” you say suddenly gazing about at everyone, “How many of you are there?”

“Oh, about 14, why?” questions Kili from your other side now. You have a feeling one brother is never too far from the other.

“That’s… a lot of names…” you say as you regard all the Dwarfs before you in slight confusion and resignation.

“You’ll learn them soon enough,” Fili says, patting your arm in sympathy. Probably understanding that to an outsider there are probably a lot of them.

You simply hum your agreement, even if you don’t necessarily believe it.

“My dear,” Gandalf says suddenly, “Perhaps you could join us for a moment?”

You glance up from the fire and nod before making your way towards Gandalf and Thorn? No… That’s not right…

“This is Thorin Oakenshield, and this is his company,” Gandalf says, indicating the Dwarf before you. Ah… Yes! Thorin…

“Nice to meet you,” you say politely as you regard both men, “And I am Gandalf the Gray. I was wondering if you could tell us what you are doing in the forest alone?”

“I don’t remember… I just woke up there yesterday evening.”

“Woke up where, my dear?”

“In the forest,” you say vaguely, gesturing the way you came.

“There didn’t happen to be… mushrooms… where you landed?” he asked hesitantly.

“Umm… actually yes… there were mushrooms. Why? Is that important?” you ask hungry for answers.

“It is something, it is yet to be seen if it is important yet though,” he says cryptically.

“Okay…” you say in confusion, “Well what now?”

“What do you mean?” He asks with a furrowed brow.

“Is there a town I can perhaps find help in close to here? I don’t know what to do really…”

“We should go to Rivendell!” exclaims Gandalf, “Elrond will know what is best.”

“And I’ve already said we are not going to Rivendell!” exclaims the Dwarf passionately.

You take a step back slightly startled by his outburst.

“We will find a suitable place for the lady, but we are not wasting time by going out of our way to those blasted Elves!” he then proceeds to swear in another language. How do you know it was a swear? Swearing is a universal language even if one doesn’t understand it.

“Uncle!” exclaims the dark-haired Dwarf from before, something with a ‘ly’ at the end, “Such language in front of a lady!”

Thorin just scowls and ignores the mischievous twinkle in his nephew’s eyes. You have a feeling he’s used to the young Dwarf’s antics.

“Kili! You and your brother make sure the lady is comfortable. I believe that Dori was getting her more suitable clothing?” he asks before eyeing your dress skeptically. You stand a little straighter at his scrutiny suddenly feeling a little self-conscious.

“Yes, Uncle.”

He sends you a wink before he motions for you to follow him. The man with the intricate braids is holding out some clothes for you, “I know it isn’t much, but this should get you through until we can get more suitable clothing at the next town.”

“Oh! Thank you!” You exclaim before looking around for a tent.

“Come on now!” he says marching towards the woods, “I’ll make sure no one bothers you while you change.”  

After you have changed you find yourself standing about while the Dwarfs tidy up their campsite and start on their way. You don’t really know what to do so you just watch and try to stay out of their way.

“Feel better then?” you jump at the voice behind you and turn to see one of the brothers behind you.

“Umm… yes… I do,” you say with a quiet nod and a timid smile. He beams back at you before he hands you a cloak to drape around your shoulders.

“It’s been rainy lately, you may need this.”

“Thank you,” you say, avoiding his eyes shyly as you stumble to fasten the cloak around your frame.

“Here, Milady,” he says, before he steps towards you and helps you to do the clasp.

You look down at the mismatched attire, a tunic that is far too broad in the shoulders and far too long, but also too short at the same time and a pair of pants that has far too much room in the leg and crotch area. The boots that were given to you are laced too tightly in order to stay on your feet and you wonder if the circulation will be cut off. You heave a sigh as Thorin yells that it’s time to move out. You fall in line with the others and instantly you can feel the boots rubbing your heels. This is going to be a long day…

You’re quiet most of the day despite the attempts of several of the Dwarfs to get you to open up. This seemed to dampen the spirit of the one with the funny hat, named… Bofur? You tried to recall the ones who had spoken to you most. The younger ones also seemed concerned with your absent minded answers to their questions.

“You must be in deep thought about something Lass…” you glance over at Bofur and regard him thoughtfully.

“Just trying to understand what happened is all… I’ve never done anything like that back there and I’ve never seen anything like those creatures… What even were they?”

“Trolls o’course!”

“So you don’t have Trolls where you come from either?” pipes up Kili from behind you, jogging to walk alongside you.

“No, I don’t think we had anything of the sort. At least not in real life.”

“What do you mean ‘real life?’” questions Fili glancing over his shoulder.

“Well they were in stories, but we didn’t have them in real life.”

“If ye had them in stories, how do you know they aren’t real?” questions Bofur wiggling his eyebrows.

And for the first time all day you laughed, “I once knew someone who said the same thing about dragons.”

“So there are dragons!?” questions Kili in horror.

“No, we don’t have those either,” you say matter of factly.

“But how do you know?” Questions Bofur once again with that mysterious twinkle in his eyes.

“Well aren’t they quite large? I think we would know by now! Do you have dragons here?”

“Aye, we’re on our way to reclaim our home from one,” Says Kili in excitement.

“Kili!” yells a voice from up ahead you recognize as the leader, “That is quite enough! If all it takes is a pretty face to send your head from your shoulders, I will send you back to your mother this instance.”

“Sorry uncle…” he says quietly thoroughly chastised.

You frown at the harsh way he spoke to him, but you suppose this is a secret quest? Who knows? But you could tell that Thorin didn’t seem to trust you along with a handful of the Dwarfs around you.

With the light hearted conversations effectively cut off you settle back into silence as you take in the scenery. It’s quite beautiful with lush foliage and tall trees. Bushes seem to be flowering and vaguely you wonder if these are the flowers of spring or summer.

“Why did your friend think there were dragons even if you don’t?” whispers Kili from your side.

You glance at him and notice the way that Fili and Bofur glance over at you as well, clearly interested in the question.

“Because they show up in legend and lore from all over the world, in cultures and times when they had no contact.”

“So you do have other races!” exclaims Kili in excitement, clearly pleased with his way of gaining knowledge.

“Yes, but not like here…” you say calmly, “We’re all human, there aren’t Elves or Dwarves.”

“Sounds odd,” Says Kili decidedly.

“No more odd than discovering Dwarves and Trolls when you previously thought there were none.”

“Aye, that must have been a right shock there!” Bofur interrupts.

“You have no idea… Although that wasn’t my first run in with this world…”

“Oh?” Questions Fili from his place in front of you, easily he falls back and takes the place by your side much to the displeasure of his brother, “What was?”

“Something I had never seen before… It was this large wolf-like thing…”

“Wolf-like thing?!” he asks in alarm, “A warg?”

“I wouldn’t know what a warg is…” you say, baffled by the term, “But perhaps?”

“How did ye live?! I doubt you woudda’ been able to outrun it!”  exclaims Bofur from your other side.

“A witch!” exclaims a voice from ahead of you.

You frown and roll your eyes at the Dwarf a few paces up, “It impaled itself on a branch.”

“Really? How?” questions Kili in wonder from the other side of Fili.

“I don’t really know… I didn’t see it happen… I was too scared to look…” you say hesitantly not wanting to relive the evening's events.

“That sounds terrible,” Fili says patting your shoulder, “You must have been terrified.”

Something about the soothing way that Fili speaks makes you feel better, “I was…” you say looking away from him.

You spend the remainder of the morning answering questions from the Dwarfs and eventually, many others begin to join in. This is mostly how the morning goes, with you satisfying the curiosity of the younger Dwarves and the Hobbit when he finally gets the courage to linger in the back of the company with you. It did effectively distract you from the pain of your now blistered feet and the fatigue that came with walking all day when you weren’t used to it.

The sun is high in the sky, filtering through the leaves of the forest when a commotion in the brush alerts you to something coming your way… and quickly...

Notes:

I hope you enjoyed the first chapter! Things are about to get wild soon... So drop a comment to tell me what you think!

[crystal-snowing]

fake dating | seo changbin

synopsis: in order to take over the family company there is one condition that you need to fulfill, and in the heat of the moment and without thinking things through, you happen to mention your best friend, seo changbin. 

genre: best friends to lovers!au, rich! reader, idol!au

word count: 4.6k 

warnings: alcohol consumption and some light swearing

other members:  | felix | chan | jisung | minho | jeongin | seungmin | hyunjin |

a/n: i am now trying to restrain myself from starting any new series until i finish these uncompleted ones, join me on my journey to see if i actually follow through with this :)) also, this gif was edited by me, but the original gif belongs to @/changbeanie

seo changbin has been a constant figure in your life for as long as you can remember.  

it only made sense, after all, you were a part of the wealthy and illustrious [l/n] family, owners and inventors of some of the most high-end technology in south korea. 

when you were both children, fancy socialite gatherings were definitely not your scene, and being the only two kids there, it only made sense that the two of you would strike up a friendship. 

and this friendship continued to last as the two of you grew older, and even though you both went on separate paths, you both continued to stay in contact. 

it wasn’t a surprise to you when you learned that he had become an idol, especially debuting under the coveted company of JYP, he just had this knack about him—some kind of drive, that made you know he was going to go far. 

you, on the other hand, had your life planned out for you since the day you were born. 

it was only natural that you were going to inherit the multi-million dollar company from your parents, they would want it to go to nobody else except their own child, and you didn’t have a choice to decide otherwise. 

all your life you have been groomed for this position, and while attending school and then university, did you retain some of your independence and freedoms, you knew that it would all be over as soon as you graduated. 

it was pointless to try and delay your future, but there were nights were you longed for the freedoms of just being a normal person, instead of the heir to the [l/n] cooperation. 

and in more ways than one, did you envy the freedom and fun that your best friend seemed to be having in comparison to you. 

but as you grew older, you couldn’t imagine yourself doing anything else but running the company, it was your life and it was in your blood. 

in more ways than one, you were determined to succeed in all the ways that your parents failed, and you would make yourself worthy of the position CEO rather than a spoiled brat who simply inherited the position. 

however, what you were not expecting was a second request from your parents the day that you were signed over as the new CEO. 

“you want me to do what?” 

“it’s simple [y/n], sweetie, it’s not like we’re asking you to make a life altering decision!”

“mother, with all due respect, but i don’t want to get married.” 

“well, then i’m afraid that you don’t really have a choice. i’m sorry for giving you an ultimatum like these, but either you find yourself a suitable husband, or the company will have a new heir.” 

to say that you were baffled was a complete understatement. 

but, you needed this, the company, this lifestyle—everything, and you were not willing to let a slight hiccup in your plans deter you from getting what you wanted. 

and before you could stop yourself, the words had already spilled out of your mouth—a desperate attempt to keep everything that you have worked for still within your grasp.

“i’m not sure i’m going to need to find a husband, when i already have a boyfriend.”

oh how the tables have turned. 

turning away you fiddled with the hem of your clothing underneath the table, it was a blatant lie for sure, but you were desperate and if this was the only way that you could acquire the company, then so be it. 

however you weren’t in the clear just yet, your mother narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips, still skeptical of your statement. 

“you’ve never mentioned a boyfriend, who is this boy and when can we meet him?”

crap, you didn’t think this far ahead—the jig was up, you were done for, and now you were going to be in even more trouble for lying.

you had to think quickly, something, anything that could possibly get you out of this predicament and quickly. 

and once again, as if you didn’t learn from your mistake just a few minutes ago, you opted for saying the name that came to mind. 

“seo changbin, he’s my boyfriend.” 

finally, that seemed to render your mother speechless, as you quickly bid your parents goodbye with a promise that you would call them later and set up a meeting. 

it was only when you stepped out of the building, could you feel the cool breeze on your heated cheeks, did you finally understand the gravity of the situation that you were in. 

somehow, if it was even possible, you seemed to have dug yourself into an even deeper hole than before.

slumping against the building and sliding down to the concrete sidewalk below, you placed your head in your hands and roughly scrubbed your face, wondering how you could have possibly ended up in a situation like this.

in all honesty, both you and changbin had not lost contact per se, but kind of drifted apart—both of you had become preoccupied with other responsibilities, and texting nonstop was more harmful than beneficial. 

you weren’t on terrible terms, so you could assume this fact was at least a partial silver lining in this fucked up situation.

but, on the other hand, it was kind of awkward for you to suddenly call him out of the blue, and ask him to do this relationship-altering favor for you after you both have spoken to each other in so long. 

but, once again, what choice did you have?

reaching into your pocket, you pulled out your cellphone before dialing the familiar number, waiting only three rings before he picked up. 

“i made a boo-boo,” you couldn’t help the phrase that tumbled out of your mouth as soon as he answered. 

he chuckled slightly before answering, “well, hello to you too, we haven’t talked in almost three months and that’s the first thing you say to me?”

letting out a deep sigh, you hastily explained the predicament that you were in, everything from inheriting the company, to how your parents set up this ridiculous condition in order for you to do so.

“and so i kind of may have, sorta, mentioned your name,” you mumbled, clutching the phone close to your ear as you gnawed harshly on your lower lip. 

there was silence on the other end of the line for a couple of seconds, and you could vaguely heard what sounded like screams of other boys in the background, with the sound of laughter and loud music following them. 

“i completely understand if you can’t do this, i mean with your career and everything and this could really jeopardize everything, i mean i honestly don’t even know what came over me when i—” you continued to stammer, tapping your fingers rapidly against the back of your phone.

“[y/n], relax, take a deep breath and relax,” and upon following his instructions, you could easily feel some of the stress leave your body as he continued, “right now isn’t really the best time, but let me call you back later tonight, and we can talk about this.”

but that didn’t answer your question, in fact it only seemed to cause a resurgence in your anxiety, and before he could hang up you mumbled out another question. 

“this means you’ll help me, right?” 

it was almost inaudible, how softly you whispered, and you weren’t sure if he even heard you, but as soon as you heard his laughter, you were a bit perplexed to say the least.

you weren’t sure what to think about the chuckling on the other side of the line, but it filled you with a sense of warmth—a sensation that you haven’t felt in a long while. 

“yes, i’ll be your fake boyfriend,” changbin confirmed softly, before bidding you goodbye.

currently, it was close to eleven o’clock at night, and still there was no sign of life from the electronic device, and you were stressed to say the least. 

 he said that he would call, he said that he would call—a mantra that was currently repeating like a broken record inside your head. 

however, your anxiety soon turned to confusion as soon as you heard a faint knock at your front door. 

visitors at this hour were unheard of, especially for you, who lived in a penthouse on the top floor of the apartment complex, the most secluded portion of the building. 

taking a look through the peephole, you were surprised to see changbin there, dressed in casual grey sweats and sneakers with a black mask and cap covering most of his features, but to you it was completely obvious that it was him. 

quickly you opened the door and ushered him into your apartment, closing it behind him and prompting him to take off his makeshift disguise.

“what are you doing here, i thought you were going to call?” you asked, turning around and facing him, your eyes widening a bit as you drank in his appearance.

 he looked good, honestly, good was not even the word to describe how good he looked. 

even though it has been a couple months since the two of you last texted each other, it has been maybe a couple of years since you both have seen each other—and you had to admit, whatever they have been feeding him at jyp entertainment has certainly done him well.

he has muscles now and long-gone was the lanky boy from middle school, his skin was glowing, and there was something about the way that he carried himself, perhaps with more confidence that was perhaps kind of attractive. 

“we haven’t seen each other in so long, i was thinking that you wouldn’t mind me paying you a visit,” changbin grinned, flashing his pearly whites. 

yikes, suddenly it was feeling a bit stuffy in the room, as you turned away and adjusted the baggy old t-shirt that you were wearing, suddenly self-conscious about the way that you were dressed. 

grabbing some drinks from the kitchen, you offered one to him as you both sat on the couch, popping the top of the bottle, you took a long sip before whipping your mouth with the back of your hand, before speaking.

“so, this is what i need you to do.” 

it was simple, really, you were going to schedule a dinner with your parents and introduce him as your boyfriend and in the meantime you just needed to fill both of your phones up with “memories” of the two of you in order to really sell the story that you have been dating for months. 

now, the tricky part was revolving everything around changbin’s situation as an idol.

there was no way you were willing to drag his name through the mud and absolutely tarnish everything that he has worked for, but this relationship had to be believable and in order for that to work there was bound to be conflicts in scheduling. 

perhaps, you had thought too rashly about this whole situation, who were you kidding, you weren’t even thinking when you blurted out his name, and now you were in a deep dilemma.

and after voicing your concerns to him, he waved his hand, telling you that it was no problem at all—promising you that he was going to keep this, his personal life, private from his idol life.

and so everything started to be set in motion. 

it began with the cryptic posts that you started posting on instagram, most of the time they showed a picture of you in the city or some food that you would eat, nothing typically out of the ordinary.

a few days later, changbin would post something on the official stray kids account, a similar picture to your own, as if he was mirroring everything that you posted.

none of your antics seemed to draw suspicion from the public, which was a good sign, so you decided to up the ante.

“no, you’re standing all wrong,” you pouted, crossing your arms over your chest as you glared at changbin. 

“what do you mean, i’m standing exactly how you want me to,” he chuckled, mimicking your stance, “maybe you’re the one standing wrong.” 

instead of answering, you slapped him lightly on the arm, “let’s just do this again, and make sure you follow exactly what i tell you!” 

he rolled his eyes playfully before doing what he was told.

you stood in front of him in front of a mirror, his hands came to wrap around your hips, as his head nuzzled into your neck, and for the final touch, your hand interlocked with one that was resting on your hip. 

he smelled good, like really good, perhaps a mix of sandalwood and some kind of light citrus.

you couldn’t deny the heat that flooded your cheeks, feeling the warmth radiate off of him, his scent making you feel a bit lightheaded. 

this was your idea after all, but you didn’t think that you were going to get like this swooning over your best friend as if you were back in middle school all over again. 

that’s right, seo changbin was nothing more than just your best friend, and thinking these things about him was only going to drive a wedge between the two of you. 

snapping the picture quickly, you pulled away, causing a small frown to flash across his lips, before vanishing.

“so, how did it come out?” changbin asked, peeking over your shoulder as he shoved his now empty arms inside of his pockets. 

“uh, really good! don’t worry, your face is completely covered, so nobody will know.” 

“we should probably meet by the pier next week to take some more, i heard that was a popular spot for couples,” he nodded, pulling away slightly from your figure. 

you couldn’t help that warm and fuzzy feeling from tingling up your spine as the word “couple” left his mouth. 

it was foolish to think this way, and you knew that, but in all honesty, how could you possibly help yourself? 

somewhere in these past few weeks, the line between “newly reconnected best friends” and “perhaps something more” began to blur and you found yourself lost in a sea of emotions and feelings.

he was a successful idol, with seven other successful members that were counting on him, and something like this, would be detrimental to his career. 

something like this could never happen, and even indulging in it for a second was not worth the wasted time and effort.

but, only for a second, you could wish that the two of you were different people in another life, perhaps ordinary people and then maybe things wouldn’t be so complicated. 

somehow you had attempted to convince yourself that you were content with the way life was right now, trapped in the limbo that you called a love life, and perfectly happy with the very real feelings you were currently experiencing with your fake boyfriend. 

“you have that look on your face again, is it the food?” changbin asked, tilting his head to the side with his eyebrows furrowed, “i can call the waiter back and you can order something else if you want, i don’t mind.” 

the salty breeze surrounded you, and for a second you thought you were going to be sick. 

it was almost nauseating the way that he was looking at you, there was so much care and consideration in his eyes, that you were practically ready to yeet throw yourself off of the boardwalk and into the ocean below.

it was unfair the way that he was acting right now, it was almost as if he expected you to fall for him and at this rate, you weren’t sure if you could stop. 

the candle light illuminated his features perfectly, casting a soft shadow on his handsome face that your heart already skipped ten beats since you’ve got here—and with his white dress shirt rolled up to his elbows, exposing his muscles, it was already game over. 

you had already finished taking pictures, and you had already uploaded them to your account, the picture of you and him (his face obscured of course) was already generating thousands of likes, and you were both just enjoying your food and each other’s company.

“it’s nothing! i don’t want to ruin the night,” you dismissed his worries with a wave of your hand, taking your fork and shifting the food on your plate from one side to the other.

while your attention was fixated on the plate in front of you, you were oblivious to the deep frown that was etched on his lips. 

in one swift motion, he reached across the table and grabbed your wrist, forcing you to look at him. 

“your problems are my problems, at the end of the day we’re still best friends, and i don’t want that to change between us.” 

the intensity and sincerity that reflected through his brown eyes caused shivers to travel down your spine, but ouch did his words sting. 

flashing him a sheepish smile, you gently tugged his hand off of your wrist, the warmth almost a painful reminder of his words, before speaking. 

“i’m fine, don’t worry about me!” you paused, swallowing the lump in your throat, “how about we go play some carnival games after dinner, those used to be our favorite when we were kids.” 

he didn’t put up much of a fight as you grabbed his hand and dragged him away from the table after paying, both of you getting lost in the bright lights and sounds of the boardwalk. 

and at the end of the night, when he dropped you back off at your apartment with a giant teddy bear and polaroids in your hand, you couldn’t help but somehow taste the bittersweetness on your tongue. 

that night, the words “best friends” were the only thing ringing through your head as you drifted off to sleep.

fast forward a couple of months later, and you found yourself stressing out at the most upscale restaurant in the city, practically guzzling the entire bottle of wine that the waiter left unattended at your table. 

sitting on your right sat changbin, dressed handsomely in a tie and suit, eyeing you as you finished your second glass within fifteen minutes of arriving. 

“woah there, don’t you think you should chill out with the alcohol,” he scolded you grabbing both the bottle and the glass, moving it away from you as you merely shrugged. 

“they’re not here yet, plus if i’m sober, they are definitely going to see right through this lie.” 

there was already a slight haziness to your vision and your whole body was filled with warmth, but you were definitely not as intoxicated as you wish you were. 

and that wasn’t exactly the whole truth either. 

you see, changbin looked absolutely dashing in that suit, and well that was making your heart hurt a little more than you expected. 

it had nothing to do with the suit itself, no, in fact he hasn’t done anything wrong per se ever since he picked you up for the dinner tonight. 

instead, you were completely and utterly upset at him, and everything about him frustrated you to no end.

this dinner right here was the end game, it was simple really, after your parents accepted him and with the promise that the two of you would get married, the company was yours.

then, the two of you would “breakup” and your parents cannot rescind their offer without looking like fools in front of the media—therefore, everything that you could ever want was waiting for you as soon as this dinner ended. 

however, was it really everything that you wanted? 

because the man that was currently sitting next to you was certainly not excluded from the list. 

he was making you reevaluate if this was all that you wanted for the rest of your life, like yes, you would have the company—the sole thing that you have you wanted since you were a child, but you wouldn’t have him. 

and you weren’t sure if the company was even worth it anymore if you could never truly have him. 

and as you were about to reach for both the bottle and glass, the ding of the elevator stopped you cold in your tracks, and you instead opted for sitting gracefully back down in your seat.

there, entering the room were your parents, a composed expression etched on their faces as they made their way over to your table. 

“[y/n], my darling, it’s nice to see you,” your mother greeted you, before turning her attention away and onto your companion, “and who is this?” 

holding back a sigh, you cleared your throat before speaking, “this is my boyfriend, seo changbin.”

pleasantries between your parents and him were exchanged, and now it was time to commence the most dreadful dinner that you have ever attended. 

it was so obvious that your parents were suspicious of changbin, and unlike you, they were not as good at concealing their feelings. 

they started with the usual questions, “oh, how long have the two of you been dating?”, “what do you do for a living?”, “what are your intentions with my child?”, etc. 

and while the both of you have prepped for these questions, he definitely answered better than you could have hoped, some of his answers seeming so genuine that it made your chest ache. 

throughout the night, you could feel his gaze lingering on you as you continued to sip more wine, the alcoholic beverage making you feel warm and slightly numbed the pain of sitting here and having to listen to your parents incessantly brag about their jobs. 

the night was soon drawing to a close, and you were absolutely certain that changbin had won over your parents, they would not stop laughing at his jokes and their whole demeanor was like something you have rarely seen, for once, they looked happy. 

“thank you for coming tonight, and i really enjoyed meeting you,” changbin bowed slightly, as your parents dismissed him with a wave of their hand. 

“it was our pleasure meeting you again, and make sure you tell your mother hello for us,” your mother smiled as she made her way towards the elevator. 

she walked over towards you and gave you a hug, whispering in your ear that by tomorrow the company was yours, before both of your parents walked into the elevator and the doors closed with a firm click. 

this should have been your moment of victory, your moment of joy—your moment of realizing that everything that you have worked for was finally being realized, but it wasn’t.

walking out of the restaurant, you couldn’t help but admire how brightly the stars seemed to twinkle in the sky tonight, despite the ever bright lights of seoul. 

“oh no, i know that look, do you wanna tell me where your head is at, [n/n]?” 

your eyes glanced up to meet his own, before looking away admiring the bright lights of the city instead of having to confront him and talk about your problems. 

you were perfectly content with walking back to your apartment this way, in complete and utter silence, but your last straw seemed to be when he draped his jacket around your shoulders. 

“you need it more than i do, plus it’s cold ou and your parents would never forgive me, if you caught a cold.” 

that seemed to be the straw that broke camel’s back, and you weren’t sure what came over you, but you suddenly exploded. 

“just stop alright, it’s over, whatever this is between us is over.” 

you could feel him slightly flinch at your words, pulling away from your figure as his eyes narrowed at you. 

“what are you talking about? what is ‘this’? i was just helping you, doing a favor for a friend, and  this is the thanks that i get?” he scowled, folding his arms across his chest as you both stopped walking, standing merely three feet away from each other on a deserted street. 

friend, that word just slapped you in the face, as you scowled and turned away from him.

“y’know what, just forget i even said anything, i can find my way home alone.”

turning your heel, you were about to stalk away in a huff, cheeks burning with embarrassment and anger, but before you could even take another step, you were tugged back towards him. 

his warm hand enveloped your wrist, holding you firmly in place as you frowned at him.

“there’s no way i’m letting you walk home this late at night, if anything happened to you, i would never forgive myself.” 

you couldn’t help but scoff at his statement, “you can stop pretending, it’s fine, you can drop the act.” 

you could practically see the gears turning in his head, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion as he attempted to follow along your haphazard thought process. 

you weren’t sure if the alcohol was impairing your judgement or not, but before you could stop yourself, you blurted out what you have been thinking the entire night, “you can stop pretending that you like me.” 

cue the awkward tension, the grip on your hand loosened, and you were free to escape perhaps one of the most embarrassing moments of your life, but for some reason you feet was rooted to the ground—waiting, wishing, and hoping for a response. 

“who said i was pretending?” 

ah, there it was the rejection that you have been waiting—wait.

his voice cut through the silence like a knife, and you jerked your head up so fast that you almost gave yourself whiplash. 

“you, me, like, what?” 

your less-than grammatically correct sentence seemed to lessen the awkward tension, his laugh warming you despite the coolness of the night. 

“yes, me like you,” he grinned, pulling you closer to him until you were pressed against his chest, “and i agree, we should stop whatever this is and start dating for real.” 

“wow, aren’t you a charmer, changbin,” you chuckled lightly, practically feeling his heart beat in sync with your own. 

you weren’t sure if you were hallucinating or not, but you could swear that the distance between both of your faces was starting to get smaller and you could practically feel his warm breath tingling your lips. 

“i’m going to kiss you now, is that okay?” 

you meekly nodded, before his lips were pressed firmly against your own, his hands coming to wrap around your waist as you moved yours around his neck. 

of course, he had to be such a great kisser, and you were wondering if there was possibly anything that seo changbin was bad at. 

his lips were slightly chapped, but with the way his hands were moving through your hair and the way he was making you lightheaded and unsteady on your feet, was enough for you to overlook that. 

pulling away, he pressed his forehead against your own, and the only sound that could be heard was the soft breathless gasps from the both of you. 

“now that i have you, i swear, i’m never letting you go.”

[lloydskywalkers]

heLLO i’m so sorry this took so long!! tumblr did not, in fact, eat your ask this time, i just took five years with the response T-T i did very much want to write something about Jay and Cliff (because that’s a criminally underused relationship), but unfortunately season 12 has come out since i wrote All I’m Asking For and kind of...made things...a lot angstier :’( so this leans much more on the angst side than the fluff, but!! there is some in there, i promise

It happens mid-battle, which is never a good time for anything to happen, really, other than a spontaneous victory. If it had happened at any other time, Jay would’ve gone with him. Any other time, he tells himself, he would’ve found the time to talk.

But it’s mid-battle right after Sensei Wu’s gone missing in time, and ironically enough, time is the last thing Jay has on his hands.

It’s not even the worst of battles — just some jerks who actually happen to have too much time and advanced high-grade weaponry on their hands — but it’s enough to send the city’s civilians screaming for cover as another chunk of building comes raining down toward them. Normally Cole would take this kind of thing, since Jay’s more about the agile, dynamic stuff (not because his arms are a whole lot like half-cooked spaghetti noodles next to Cole’s, not at all). But Cole’s on the other side of the city running collateral damage watch with Zane, so Jay’s the only one around to snatch the poor man out of harm’s way before a chunk of concrete squashes him.

“Whoo, that was close,” he breathes out, as dust mushrooms out from the impact nearby. Jay carefully sets the man down, coughing briefly and tugging his mask into place. “You alright?”

The man doesn’t reply, staring at Jay with wide, eerily familiar eyes. “You,” he breathes, as if Jay is some miraculous apparition — which, sure, Jay just saved his life, but like, he’s Jay. He’s a whole two or three inches shorter than this guy, he’s not super impressive.

“You’re the lightning ninja,” the man continues. “You’re — Jay?”

Caught between being pleased he’s recognized and being slightly creeped out, Jay opens his mouth to reply. Then he looks at the guy, actually looks at the guy, and immediately shuts it. And a good thing, too, because Jay’s mouth suddenly goes so dry it kinda feels like a dust vacuum.

“Y-you’re Cliff Gordon,” he manages, on a wheezing kind of whisper. “H-hi. Hi, hello, it’s—”

An honor? Jay’s half-hysterical mind throws at him. What is he supposed to say? Hello, long-lost father who gave me up as a baby, I figured that out, by the way? Does Cliff even know Jay’s his son? Does he even know his name’s Jay? Oh, why oh why has Jay put off acknowledging anything that happened with Nadakhan for this long, just because the entire thing’s a minefield worth of trauma and it makes him wildly nauseous to think about it at all, it doesn’t mean—

“Jay,” Cliff Gordon repeats, his eyes wide and shiny, and Jay’s stomach drops like he’s on a roller coaster. Because the way he says his name — it’s like he knows, it’s like he cares—

“You, uh,” Jay swallows, utterly oblivious to the exploding building two blocks back. “I think…you knew my mom?”

Alright, points for Jay for the lamest segue into this possible, but the beaming, almost-painful smile that splits Cliff’s face at least drowns part of the shame out.

“You could say that,” he murmurs, looking part-overjoyed, part-terrified. “If you know that, then — you must know I’m your — I never meant to lose—”

Cliff cuts off painfully, dragging a hand through his graying hair. Jay vaguely notes the puffs of dust that go drifting off from it, before the awkward silence gets too heavy and his mouth kicks back into action.

“Yeah, kinda…figured that out,” Jay laughs, nervously. “I don’t, um, I’m not mad…? If that’s what you’re worried about, but it’d be uh, nice to…”

“Of course,” Cliff nods fervently, as if he’s somehow psychic and can mind-read the ten thousand words’ worth of questions barraging across Jay’s brain. “Of course, we should talk, there’s so much I need to explain, I—”

Jay’s radio interrupts him in a bursting screech of static, leaving them both wincing.

“Jay, any day you wanna get back in the game, we could use a little help here!”

Kai’s voice is strained, and Jay glances from the battle to his — Cliff — with wild eyes. Cliff shakes his head, waving toward his teammates.

“Go on, go on,” he says, something like pride in his voice. “You’ve got a much more important job to do.” He pauses, his eyes bright and painfully hopeful. “But you’ll — you’ll come and visit me sometime, will you?”

“Yeah,” Jay nods, feeling oddly shaky. “Of course, I’d — I’d really like that.”

Cliff Gordon’s face splits into full smile, and Jay takes that as his cue to leave before he does something hideously embarrassing, like run his mouth or try to — to hug the guy. His eyes catch the bright flash of the Destiny’s Shadow, and he jumps up as Lloyd tilts the plane, Zane reaching a hand out to snag Jay and haul him in.

“Nice timing,” Jay gasps in thanks as he finds his seat, fumbling once with the tight squeeze. “Sorry about the wait.”

Zane simply squeezes his shoulder briefly. “I am merely glad to see you in one piece,” he says, wincing briefly as another explosion goes off. Jay cringes as his eyes rake over the smoking flames. Man, they’re gonna be stuck doing repairs here forever—

“Who was that?”

Jay startles back to himself at Lloyd’s voice, blinking rapidly. He opens his mouth, prepared to unleash a floodgate’s worth of “you’ll never believe this”—

Then stops dead as Zane and Lloyd stare curiously at him, awaiting answer. Jay shuts his mouth, and swallows.

How is he supposed to announce he’s met his father — his second, whole father, in addition to the super great one he already has — to them? To Zane, who barely got any time with his only parent before he died? To Lloyd, who's still actively grieving having lost his only dad for like, the third time? How’s that gonna go over, huh, motormouth?

So Jay shakes his head, forcing an easy laugh instead. “Just some random fan.”

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

He means to follow up right after. He does, really, but everything goes to hell in a handbasket so quickly Jay barely even has time to breath. First it’s the months of searching for Sensei, then it’s guarding the royal family, then they’re on the run, then they’re watching Garmadon brutalize their baby brother on live television and he’s dying on a table and the city’s being destroyed by a giant and the Bounty’s being crushed with them on it and they’re running for their lives in the First Realm and Sensei Wu’s a teenager and—

They’re kind of busy, that’s the point he’s trying to make.

Eventually, there’s a brief spot of time he could go, maybe. It’s right after they’ve returned from the First Realm, though, and that’s...not a great time.

The city’s still stumbling back to its feet, for one, and the loss of the emperor and empress doesn’t exactly help. Their little family’s left stumbling back to its feet even slower, as beaten down and utterly exhausted as they are. The four of them had their own run of it in the First Realm, but Lloyd and Nya didn’t have it any better back in Ninjago, and the whole thing’s just — just a big mess. And sure, maybe reuniting with his long-lost biological father now could like, actually benefit Jay’s half-shredded mental state, since the guy seemed pretty happy to see him, but…

But fathers.

Lloyd still wanders their apartment like a ghost at night, his eyes dull and haunted from whatever night terror he’s been graced with now. He wanders a little bit like that in the day, too, eyes glazing over and hands trembling at times. Jay knows why, of course — they all know, it’s not a secret. Not with the high-definition TV footage that keeps circulating. And they — they try to help, of course, they do their very best, but there are some things only time can fix.

Jay watches Lloyd’s eyes shutter at the mention of his father, and wonders if his entire life is enough to fix whatever’s been broken with his own.

In other words, Jay decides to be a coward.

Ironically enough, however, it ends up being Lloyd that encourages him to go. Not that he realizes that.

“Don’t bother making extra for dinner tonight, Zane,” Lloyd announces wearily, as he trudges through the kitchen. “My mom’s on the road again.”

Zane blinks at that, then frowns. “Where is she off to now?”

“Don’t know,” Lloyd says shortly, before promptly stalking off toward the rooftop exit. Jay and Zane stand there in silence for a moment, Zane still methodically stirring the rice. Then he turns to Jay, and fixes him with a look.

“Grumpy-about-parents Lloyd is normally Nya’s job, you know,” Jay huffs, but he relents, following Lloyd’s quiet footsteps to the roof. Lloyd’s curled up in his usual spot, close enough to the edge that it frightened the life out of Kai the first time they found him. Jay doesn’t exactly get why, because Lloyd’s sad, yeah, but he’s not—

Well, maybe Kai’s just scared Lloyd’ll trip and fall off the roof. That’s what Jay’s choosing to believe, for his own sake.

Either way, Lloyd looks pretty sad now, so Jay plops himself right down next to him with a huff, neatly startling Lloyd so badly he almost does trip right off the roof.

“Woah, hey, it’s just me,” Jay says quickly, throwing his hands up. Lloyd glares at him, and Jay makes a face. “Don’t give me that, you’re the one that’s supposed to have ninja reflexes.”

“Hmph,” Lloyd grumbles, wrapping his arms back around his knees, but he looks slightly less likely to zap Jay’s nervous system full of energy, so he takes that as a go-ahead.

“So, your mom, huh,” Jay starts, with all the intent of comforting Lloyd and comforting Lloyd alone. “Hey, random question, but how did, um, why’d you decide to let her back into your life, in the first place?”

“What?” Lloyd stares at him. Jay cringes. Oops, that wasn’t supposed to come out. Classic Walker, he’s brought his own issues right into the middle of it, like an absolute selfish—

Great, now he wants to throw himself off the roof.

“Sorry, sorry, forget I said that,” Jay babbles, desperately trying to re-route the conversation. “Just — forget I opened my mouth, okay? Please?”

Lloyd shakes his head, looking more concerned than sad now. He’s even unfolded from his tight little Lloyd-angst-ball, which Jay would count as a victory if it weren’t for all the wrong reasons. “Jay, is everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, of course!” Jay blusters. Lloyd stares at him. Jay gives him a bright smile back. Lloyd continues to stare.

“Okay, fine, not really, but — that’s not why I came up here,” Jay admits, cheeks flushing.

Lloyd’s eyebrows furrow in concern. “Is everything…okay with your parents?” His voice is tentative, as if he’s almost scared of Jay’s response, and Jay can’t have that.

“My parents are fine,” he replies, firmly. “But, uh, thanks for asking. I’m just…” Jay trails off, abruptly realizing that explaining this is going to require mentioning Cliff Gordon, which is going to require mentioning that he’s adopted, which is going to require explaining why he hasn’t told the rest of his team this. None of which are options Jay wants to explore at the moment, so he desperately tries to backtrack.

Lloyd, faithfully caring brother that he is to the bitter end, beats him to it. “Well, even if they are fine, um. To answer your question, I guess I…I needed to know.” He blows his breath out, glancing out over the skyline, half-broken buildings forming dark silhouettes against the setting sun. “I needed to know why she - she left me. If it was me, or if it was her, or…whatever, you know?” Lloyd bites his lip, and Jay suddenly feels like a horrible person for putting him through the mother thing right after the father thing’s been blown to smithereens.

And yet.

“Yeah, I get that,” Jay says quietly, letting it sink in. And he does, really. More than he thought he would, and this is probably a big glaring sign from the heavens, huh.

“But I don’t know,” Lloyd continues, sounding small as his hands tug on a frayed thread from a torn spot in his gi. “Maybe sometimes it’s better to cut people out entirely, too.”

He looks terribly worn when he says that, too young and too old for his age all at once, and Jay decides he hates the expression on his youngest brother.

“I’ll remember that, next time you steal the last of my coffee stash,” he says.

Lloyd gives a startled huff of laughter, before jabbing him in the side with his elbow. “That’s not what I meant,” he rolls his eyes, but there’s a smile edging his mouth now — not quite the Lloyd smile he’s used to, but it’s not as frail as it’s been, either. Lloyd doesn’t look so much like porcelain that’s been stepped on anymore, and the proud spark of joy Jay feels from that is enough to convince him that it’s a good idea.

He did promise Cliff Gordon he would, after all, and besides — knowing can’t be that bad, and Jay’s a firm believer in the wisdom of knowledge, and all that.

He’s also a firm believer of closure, but he’s stopped claiming to be one, since it probably comes off pretty hypocritical lately.

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

Jay doesn’t tell anyone where he’s going. He doesn’t even tell them he’s going at all, he just…waits for a convenient opportunity to slip out when no one will notice.

He wishes he had. He wishes he’d told Cole, told Nya or - or anyone he was going, and at the same time he’s glad he told no one at all. He’s not quite sure he could bear anyone else seeing whatever look’s on his face right now, on top of everything else.

“Oh, sweetheart, I’m so sorry,” the woman at the estate tells him, her eyes teary. “Cliff Gordon passed away a month ago.”

That…doesn't make sense, at first. It takes a minute, to sink through the odd roaring noise in Jay’s ears, and finally reach his brain.

“Passed…away,” he repeats, blankly.

The lady nods, looking at him with so much pity Jay kind of wants to kick her shins. “It was his heart, poor man. He hasn’t been so well the last few years, you know.”

“Right.” Jay feels a little like he does when he’d used to jump off his dragon, except this time he’s been tossed from it and he’s free-falling to a short and sudden stop.

“Did you know him?” she asks, curiously.

Jay tries to make some form of response, like “I was his son”, except all that comes out is a whole bunch of nothing. Nothing, just like what’s left in Jay’s head. He blinks rapidly, trying to banish the image seared into his brain.

Cliff Gordon’s eyes, bright and painfully hopeful.

You’ll come visit me sometime, will you?

Jay swallows thickly. “Sorry, if you’ll, uh — excuse me, I think lunch was bad.” Then he ducks for the nearby bushes, and proceeds to be horribly sick.

He tells himself, through heaving gasps, that the hot tears are only reflexive.

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

And that’s that. Jay, stupid, selfish Jay, waited too long and now he’s lost his chance forever. Because he was — what, scared? Nervous?

He’s not scared now. He kind of just hates himself, which isn’t the newest thing in the world, but this time it burns like the worst of scrapes and crawls up on him in the middle of the night, screaming what-if’s into his brain until Jay’s biting down on his pillow before he starts screaming himself.

It hurts, but he’s got no one to blame but himself. Jay messed this up all his own and he sure as heck doesn’t deserve any sympathy from his team for it. So he’s not going to even give them the chance, because they’ll never know. Jay will take this secret to the grave, because imagining the looks on everyone else’s face when he tells them he ruined this makes him want to put himself in the grave.

How long did he wait for Jay, how long did he—

Jay’s just going to drive himself insane with his own stupid brain and that’s that.

Well, that’s supposed to be that. It would’ve been that, except Cole is perceptive and Cole knows him too well, and Cole spots the look on his face when he’s telling him everything he’s found out about his mother, since Jay can’t even hide that from him.

And maybe Jay’s just weak, or so desperate for some form of reassurance or - or attention that he cracks, and spills the whole sorry thing to Cole. To his undying credit, Cole doesn’t even look like he despises Jay once. Instead, he looks at him with all this sympathy and kindness and oh, if Jay was a crier—

Well, actually, Jay is a crier, and ends up bawling into Cole’s gi at two in the morning, but what else is new.

The important thing is that Cole is Jay’s very best friend and possibly favorite person in the whole entire world, and Jay is going to murder him in cold blood for dragging him to Cliff Gordon’s estate and forcing their way in.

“If he cared enough to want to meet you, he’ll have cared enough to leave you in his will,” Cole reminds him, staunchly. “He knows how busy your life was, so I’ll bet you anything he understood.”

“Stop trying to make me feel better,” Jay hisses, as Cole manhandles him down the mansion’s — the mansion’s! — hallways. “I don’t deserve it.”

“For the love of—” Cole cuts off with an exasperated huff. “It is not your fault this happened. This is not on you. How many times are we going to have to do this, Jay.”

“Until the time you let me wallow in miserable peace,” Jay mutters. What does Cole know, it’s not like he totally bailed on his parent and then let them die. Not that Jay could do anything about that last part, sure, but the rest of it.

Cole stops them in one of the massive living rooms, finally fixing Jay with one of those stares. Uh oh.

“At least read the letter,” Cole says, suddenly pleading. “You don’t have to look at anything else if you don’t want to, but please read the letter. For me?”

Oh, Jay hates him. He tells him so, even as his glare falters in the face of Cole’s stupid puppy eyes.

“Is that a yes?” Cole replies hopefully, offering the letter they were handed with the estate key. Jay gives him a last, withering glare before snatching the letter from him.

“You’re the worst,” he mutters, as he tears open the envelope with shaky fingers. He hesitates for a beat, before mustering whatever pathetic courage he has and tugging the paper out, unfolding it as his eyes find the carefully scrawled words.

My dear Jay—

He promptly bursts into tears.

“Jay wha — Jay what’s wrong, is it that bad?” Cole is frantic as he hovers over him, his hands half-caught between reaching for Jay and reaching for the letter in his hands. Jay shakes his head, trying to stifle the sudden waterfall’s worth of tears that decided to make an appearance, and clutches the paper tighter.

Cole makes an anxious sound. “Jay, you know he’s — if he’s said something bad, it’s — he doesn’t know anything, right?”

Oh no, now Jay wants to cry harder. Cole sounds desperately concerned, kind and caring and genuine like Cole always is, and Jay feels like the worst person in the world.

Stupid, Jay, he scolds himself hotly, swiping angrily at his eyes. Stupid, selfish Jay. He’s got nothing to be crying about. Zane only had one dad, and he doesn’t go around whining about it. Lloyd’s got one dad who’s died three times, and may as well be dead now ‘cause he’s such a jerk. Kai and Nya didn’t even have any parents until last year. And Cole lost his mom who he loved, he loved so much, and he’s still here supporting Jay — stupid, selfish Jay, who’s got two entire stable parents who he’s never once doubted love him, and yet here he is, crying over the one he never really knew.

“Jay,” Cole tries again, quieter this time. “Jay, you’re allowed to be sad about your dad. It’s not a contest.”

Stupid, perceptive Cole.

“He said he loves me,” Jay finally croaks, swiping at the tears all over his face. “He didn’t even know me, Cole, how was he supposed to know that?”

Cole’s eyes soften, all melty and gross. “You’re his son, Jay, he knew you.” His lips quirk up in a smile. “Besides, he talked to you once, right? You make some pretty impactful first impressions, motormouth.”

Jay can’t decide whether to be insulted or more flattered than he’s been in the last six months. He decides to punch Cole weakly in the shoulder, before crying harder. Cole doesn’t even flinch at the hit, built like a rock as he is, and simply snatches Jay’s arm and tugs him close, wrapping his arms around him tightly. And oh, Jay wants to pull away, he doesn’t want to break down in his dead father’s mansion like this, Jay doesn’t have a lot of dignity but he’s at least got his shreds, but—

Cole gives the best stupid hugs in the world, and what’s Jay gonna do, deny such instant love and comfort? The risk of hurting Cole’s feelings far outweighs Jay’s tattered dignity, he tells himself. That’s why he clings to Cole like an overgrown barnacle and wails into his shoulder like a broken faucet. That’s the only reason, obviously.

“It’s okay to cry, you big moron,” Cole says after he’s calmed down, briefly squeezing tighter. “I get it. But you really should read more than the first lines of that thing. I think…I think it’ll help.”

“This is all I’ve got, though,” Jay sniffles. “I don’t — I lost any other connection I’ve got to him.”

“Sometimes you just gotta work with what you have,” Cole says gently, a little bitter, a little sweet. “And somehow, you have to make it enough.”

Jay pauses at that, thinking back to the statue miles and miles beneath a mountain, the delicate locket Cole had turned over in his fingers. He looks back to the letter in his hands, the lines and lines of all the words his father left for him, and remembers Lloyd’s words about knowing.

His fingers tighten on the edges of his letter. Jay, he decides, is done being scared. He’s got Cole at his side — what’s he got to be afraid of, anyways?

“Okay,” he says, swiping once more at his eyes, and giving Cole a watery smile. “Okay. Help me read through the whole thing?”

“I wore my old sweatshirt for a reason,” Cole replies, making a show of wringing his sleeve out. Jay whacks him with the envelope, but the laugh he shudders out feels real, this time. He gently spreads the letter out atop his lap, focusing on the words again.

It’ll be enough. It’ll sting, but…it’ll be enough.

Like Lloyd’s tattered photograph, like Cole’s mother’s last words — it has to be.

[sign-from-god-complex]

Self-Control

Summary: The sound of footsteps pad across the landing above and though Virgil has come all this way he’s suddenly struck with the feeling that he’s not ready. It’s been 15 years since they’ve seen each other—so much can change in 15 years; so much has changed in 15 years.

Though, maybe things haven’t changed quite as much as Virgil thinks.

(AKA, a past-punk moxiety AU)

Pairing: Moxiety!

Warnings: Mentions of alcohol, smoking, homophobia and nondescript injury. Vague allusions to past abuse (or at least mentions of terrible parental figures). Brief discussion of a parental figure having died.

AO3 Link

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It isn’t at all the place Virgil imagined for him. The flower pots all sit in a row on the steps, red ivy climbing up the fence like spider webs and a garden hose curled up on a perfectly manicured front lawn. Everything about it is picturesque—almost to the point of insanity—and as a butterfly floats by and lands delicately on a ladder leaning onto the fence from the backyard, Virgil wonders what in the world could have changed Patton so drastically to have led to this.

There’s an image, in his head, of teenage rebellion—of 2 am milkshakes and stolen bicycles, of broken glass and laughter, so much laughter, as they took advantage of what time they had left to live. It doesn’t fit in with this pastel blue sky in this pastel blue neighbourhood full of pastel blue people but he knew that it wouldn’t. He knew things would be different.

Though, that doesn’t make it all that much easier to comprehend.

Vaguely, Virgil hears the sound of excited squeals coming from the yard and he ducks his head over the fence just a bit, catching sight of a young girl flying off of a trampoline at a hundred miles an hour—hair a mess and grin bright.

The kid must be Patton’s—it’s unmistakable, that dark skin and reckless look, like she’s ready to take the world on at any moment—and Virgil can’t help but remember the nights the two of them spent drinking and talking and vowing to never tie themselves down to anyone or anything. 

He supposes no one really does know what they want when they’re young.

It takes Virgil a while to gather up the courage to knock—he’s all too aware of his leather jacket and patches, his dyed hair and piercings. He couldn’t feel more out of place in this suburban neighbourhood and he hadn’t thought that around Patton he could ever feel out of place.

In the end, though, the choice is taken out of his hands. The young girl throws open the door, clearly looking to haul ass across the street to the park—the kind of place he and Pat would have smoked, once upon a time—but is stopped short as she notices Virgil standing in her way. There’s a moment where he’s afraid she’s going to scream or cry or something else he would have no clue how to deal with but instead, she just grins cheekily.

“Dad!” she yells, barely turning her head to face the soft white interior of the house, “There’s a man here for you!”

The sound of footsteps pad across the landing above and for a moment Virgil is so afraid that he’s gotten the wrong house or that Patton won’t want to see him and though he’s come all this way he’s struck with the feeling that he’s not ready. It’s been 15 years since they’ve seen each other; so much can change in 15 years.

“Riley, what do you mean? What ma-”

And then, there he is.

His face is void of any of the makeup he used to wear, his hair faded from turquoise to its natural black and left curly in a way he wouldn’t have been caught dead with once. And, over the top of a graphic t-shirt displaying some characters Virgil doesn’t recognise and unripped light-wash jeans, Patton had thrown a familiar blue flannel.

Virgil remembers that flannel, worn under heavy coats to help fight the evening windchill, tied around Patton’s waist as they scaled fences just to see if they could and left in a pile on the floor in his room as they finally escaped back to comfort and warmth. Honestly, he’s just surprised it still fits.

Patton does nothing but stare at him for a moment, his lips parted in shock and his eyes big and wide and god, looking at him now is like falling in love all over again.

“Virge?” he breathes, a melody of disbelief in his voice. Virgil can’t exactly blame him—it isn’t as if he’s someone Patton was expecting to see.

Virgil rubs over the fabric of his jacket, a nervous tick he’d had even back then. “Hey, uh… surprise?”

And in an instant, has Patton pitched forward right into his arms. Virgil catches him—of course, he catches him, he’ll always catch him—and Patton laughs, displaying some level of joy Virgil hadn’t known he’d needed to hear until now. He can feel Patton breathing against his neck as they hold each other and, distantly, the sound of light footsteps echoes away and up the stairs.

They pull apart, eventually, the separation like trying to peel a sticker off of a concrete wall—the easiest kind of graffiti to enact while still being tricky to remove. The distance Patton puts between them seems almost reluctant and Virgil wishes he had the courage to tell him to stay.

“What are you doing here?” Patton asks. It’s soft, like the white fuzzy carpet of his new home and Virgil realises suddenly he’d been so caught up in him that he’d forgotten that this him wasn’t the same.

Patton had always been soft but not soft like this. He’d been soft in redirected conversation and distractions, in Virgil’s favourite TV show on in the background and stolen chocolate bars in his pocket, guiding hands mimicking steady breathing. This Patton seems soft around the edges—worn down, almost—and Virgil feels those 15 years as more of a lifetime.

He doesn’t answer the question—truthfully because he’s not sure how, not sure where to start with the mess of events and near-misses and regrets that finally brought him here to Patton’s doorstep—and instead replies with one of his own. 

“My mom died. Did you know that?” It’s a stupid thing to ask, they hadn’t spoken to each other in 15 years, there was no way he could have known. Virgil asks it all the same though. “I have her money now. Didn’t write me out of the will even after everything we went through. Guess she didn’t want how much she hated me and my “lifestyle” to come out even after she’d kicked it.”

Patton just looks at him. There’s something sad in his eyes, maybe, something regretful or sympathetic, something holding years worth of apologies and love confessions in not so many words that every night they'd pretended they hadn’t said.

Maybe not, he isn’t sure. He’s never been very good with stuff like that. 

“You owe me a party,” Virgil continues impulsively. Patton grins and shakes his head and the urge to kiss him is so strong for a moment Virgil can’t breathe. “You promised me when she was dead and I didn’t have to worry about her anymore we’d have a party. With cheerio sausages and expensive liquor and-”

“Sparkling juice and bad karaoke,” Patton interrupts, “I remember.”

Nobody speaks. Patton doesn’t invite him in and Virgil doesn’t ask for fear of being turned away. 

He knows there’s an element of worship in the way he looks at Patton. It’s worship like the way farmers pray for rain in a drought, worship like how sailors are drawn to the rough turn of the sea and worship like teens relishing in the night when they’re bored and alone and angry, yearning for freedom that only comes in years they feel they don’t have left.

But now, dark eyes gazing at him and breath catching in his throat, Virgil thinks maybe he isn’t the only one who feels it.

“I have a kid now, you know?” Patton asks and Virgil knows instantly that question isn’t about the party but everything that comes after it—all of the hundreds of possibilities that stem from this decision that neither of them can quite voice out loud, “Single parent. I made a lot of bad choices in those 15 years—gave myself away to a few people who didn’t deserve it, maybe—but she’s… helped. I want to be better for her.”

Virgil nods. It’s a little hard to reconcile teenage Patton with this one but he tries anyway. He has to; he owes him that much.

(In truth, he owes him so, so much more than that but right now this is all he feels he can give.)

“Yeah, uh, Riley, right? Seems like a sweet kid, if not a bit mischievous.” Virgil smirks slightly, somewhere between teasing and nostalgic. “Kind of like you were.” 

At that, Patton grins and he laughs and it feels right—feels like early morning rainfall and crackling log fires, like the burning in your lungs as you run and the way your eyes slowly drift shut against your will when you’re up too late, like every ending and beginning in just a moment. 

He shakes his head again, almost affectionately chastising and there’s a stuttering of Virgil’s hand as he goes to reach out, to brush a strand of hair away from Patton’s face but stops himself halfway through.

Patton doesn’t seem to notice. Virgil once thought Patton never noticed—never saw the longing in his eyes and the flushed red of his cheeks as they sat side-by-side on a park bench in the middle of winter, running from the heat of harsh words and high expectations.

He wonders if maybe that was naive. 

“Well, I’ve gotta make sure to raise her right,” Patton jokes and his smile is amused—fond and familiar like the worn leather of Virgil’s jacket between his fingers, “If she’s not questioning authority and getting me called down to the office at least once a term then I’m doing something wrong.”

With that, there’s a flash—just a moment—of principal visits and angry rants, of cutting class to sit with the other in the silence of the school office and knowing, that outside of the two of them, there was no one else to come. And he thinks of Patton—this Patton, not his Patton—taking up the empty space of that office with kind reassurances and defensive words, protecting and protecting and protecting, fighting for Riley the way he had Virgil.

Parenthood suits Patton more than he’d first thought, perhaps.

“Ah, office visits.” Virgil nods sagely and can’t resist the quirk of his lips as Patton giggles. “A hallmark of a punk child. Next thing you know she’ll be dyeing her hair, running off to the park in the middle of the night to meet up with boys.”

It’s obviously a joke but still, Patton quietens, taking on a more contemplative look. It seems as if he’s remembering something and Virgil needs, all at once, to make sure he’s more to Patton than simply that expression on his face in the midst of just another day.

“Yeah,” Patton finally says, “Yeah, she was thinking purple actually.”

Virgil doesn’t reach up and drag a hand through his own purple hair but it’s a near thing. He hums—soft and low. “Good taste.”

A heavy silence rings in his ears—an echo of all the memories they share and all the memories they don’t, a collision of black and pastel blue on a canvas already painted with teenage angst and first love—and Virgil can't stand the way it feels like it may be too much to overcome. It isn't; he won't let it be.

He takes a step closer and Patton doesn’t move away, just lets Virgil crowd him against the doorframe till their chests are pressed together and each shuddering breath is a joint effort.

“I’d like to get to know her. If you’ll let me,” he murmurs and he’s so close that he can hear Patton’s heartbeat pick up as he slides a hand up to brush at the strands of hair against Virgil’s neck.

The air between them is tense and pulled tight—gazes tracing over freckles and foundation, their skin warm with each point of contact and the rushing of blood in Virgil’s ears drowning out the pounding of his heart. Each second that goes by without comment feels to Virgil like sinking into quicksand, like fingers losing their grip on the edge of a building and threatening to let him fall.

But, before he can draw away, throw up his walls and stumble his way through apologies like they’re nothing more than kids again, Patton tugs him forward and, softly, he brings their lips together.

The kiss is a teenage fantasy come true, the culmination of every moment—under streetlights or under blankets or under nothing more than the cover of night itself—where Virgil longed to reach out and tell Patton that he wanted to kiss him until the world faded away and all that he could focus on was the taste of cherry red lipstick and the joy and love pounding in his chest like a second heartbeat.

It's the comfort in late-night knocking, Patton taking Virgil in and patching him up and holding him as he cries because he has a mother that doesn’t love him and a father that’s always absent and a world that doesn’t care, muttered reassurances a quiet backdrop to his sobs.

It's the warmth in drinking their way through meagre retail paychecks, Patton’s soft touches like fire against his skin and the thread of restraint holding Virgil back from blurting out a love confession worn down to something as thin as a spiderweb and just as delicate.

It's the exhilaration in grocery store runs with no money and bags filled with spray paint cans, their gloved hands clasped tight as they race against the biting evening wind, giving in to the urge to let out a cry of victory that bounces off the empty alley walls.

So, yes, it’s the culmination of years of pining but it’s more than that too. It’s an apology, it’s acceptance and it’s an offer of a future, to stay here with them. 

“I think I’d like that,” Patton gasps as he pulls away and Virgil’s so enamoured even after all these years that he barely knows what to say, “For you to know her, I mean. She’d like you. She’s like you, or at least the way you used to be—always a bit loose with self-control.”

Virgil doesn’t tell Patton that all his self-control had been going towards keeping himself from telling him he loved him. He doesn’t think he’d know how.

Slowly, Virgil blinks and he nods and it’s all he can do to keep himself standing as Patton beams up at him with a smile reminiscent of stars colliding—bright and beautiful enough to take his breath away. And suddenly Virgil feels like maybe he can fit in here, that maybe he can fit in anywhere he needs to if Patton keeps looking at him like that.

He smiles back, smaller than the one he’d received but the way Patton’s eyes light up makes Virgil feel like maybe that doesn’t really matter. “Okay, yeah. I want that; I want to stay.”

“Okay,” Patton parrots and he’s barely holding back giggles, Virgil can tell. It’s okay though because he feels it too—that sense of happiness and disbelief that has almost no other way to present itself—and giving in feels more like an inevitability.

So, laughing and hands joined together, Patton pulls Virgil inside to the soft white of his suburban home. And he closes the door.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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