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preciouslandmermaid · 1 year

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cold secrets, warm light (simon “ghost” riley x reader) - part 3/3

Note: I’m sorry this took 1 million years. ENJOY! This takes place in the same universe as cold hands, warm heart and is seen as a continuation of that fic.

Fic warnings: blood, injuries, canon-typical violence, guns, protective!Ghost, hurt/comfort, eventual happy ending, cigarette smoking, angst.

** All the names of politicians are fake/do not relate to any living or deceased person. I also created 2 entire locations because I don’t want to use the real world lmao. (Al-Qunbar & Noreth)

No use of Y/N. Reader is described as muscular/toned with scars from active combat/torture, and no other descriptors are used. Reader is AFAB, but no gendered terms are used in this part.

(Read on Ao3) ||| 🔪🔪🔪

~~~~~~~~~

You gag, spitting blood onto truck bed, your face pressed firmly into the divided ridges. You track the truck turns and estimate your distance from the haven. After the soldiers noticed a guard and Kaja was missing they went into a panic. For a moment, you thought they’d kill you and flee. But the leader of this little rag-tag group of assholes said he wanted to wait. And they listened to him.

Your gamble he was a hot head with something to prove paid off. You hope it’ll buy you enough time to escape before enemy forces discover you. A worst-case scenario is the forces of your home government finding you. They will imprison you for faking your death and abandoning your country. You spit more blood out of your mouth.

If that happens, then Lukas will be alone. Your biggest fear finally realized like some tragic Greek prophecy. They’ve striped you of your equipment, but they didn’t check your shoes.

You press the toe of your left boot against the heel of the right. You wiggle your ankle back and forth until your boot loosens and you can slip your foot out. You squirm, reminiscent of a wild worm, and use your knees to push your boot toward your chest. You curl into a fetal position and bite your teeth onto the hidden stitched pocket on the boot’s tongue near the laces.

The truck drives over a hole and your body lifts, then slams back onto the hard plastic truck bed. You blink away the stars and your ears clang with a resonating chime. You swallow a wave of acidic nausea and clench your teeth around the razor blade.

It takes several, uncomfortable and straining minutes, before you manage to wrangle the razor blade into your fingers. You start working the blade into the hewn rope. You think of nothing but the loosening tension around your wrists. You cannot afford to lose focus or fall into despair. Your fingers cramp. You blink back tears and keep going.

Beyond the noise of the truck’s engine, you faintly hear a dirt bike gaining speed along the bumpy road. The soldiers arrived in two trucks. There wasn’t a motorbike among them. In rural Noreth, the odds of a civilian driving this late and this fast are slim. Your heart leaps inside your chest. It can’t be…can it?

You tighten yourself into a ball as gunfire ricochets above your head. The truck swerves and it forces your shoulder into the protruding, sloped wheel-well. The pain is dull and throbbing. Your cramped fingers begin to chew through the ropes again with the razor blade. You don’t know if the motorcycle is friendly. You can hope, but you won’t shove all your ducks into a single basket.

You need to escape. The chaffing, burning rope bites at your skin with sharp, gnawing pain. The men are shouting over the gunfire. A bullet sharply pings against the side mirror near the truck cabin.

The sound of crunching metal punches through your eardrums. You gasp, muscles tensing, and expect your body to eject from the truck and into the air.

A second passes. You exhale and realize it was the second truck. It crashed.

The motorcycle is closer. The truck veers off-road, the terrain bumpy and treacherous, and you wedge yourself into the corner with your feet braced into the side. You twist one of your arms and ignore the protests of your muscles as pain ripples through your skin.

The motorcycle revs, passing the end of the truck, and—if you’re estimating correctly—it pulls up in front of the driver-side door. The two men inside are screaming, firing their guns, and bullets hit the dry earth and ding off metal. Your wrist thankfully wrenches free of the bindings. You gasp in relief. Neural sensation flows back into your limb with prickly, sharp tenderness.

The trucks’ windshield shatters. Someone yells before a wet and punctured sound like a hammer hitting a melon overwhelms the sound. Your eyes roll back to see the truck cabin is covered in dark, dripping viscera.

A dark, hulking shape jumps onto the driver side doorway and yanks the door open. The driver screams—horrified—before he’s tossed from the seat like he weighs no more than a child. You want to believe it’s Ghost. You want to believe you’d know him, even in darkness, yet you cannot gamble Lukas’ safety. You finish untying the rope around your other hand.

The driver who’s hijacked the truck slams the acceleration to an unceremonious and abrupt stop. You catch yourself with both hands before you topple and faceplant onto the truck bed again. The door swings open and the stranger hoists themselves into the flatbed. You lift your razor blade. You’ll carve out their eyes before they take you again. You won’t go down without a fight. His headlamp glows red and casts a devilish, eerie glow as if you are two sinners awaiting retribution.

“Oh, thank god.” Simon’s rough burr is the sweetest music you’ve ever heard.

“You alright, love?” He lowers himself to kneel in front of you.

“The house? Kaja?” You croak, tasting dried blood on your lips, in your throat, and salt burns your eyes.

He nods. “Safe and secure.”

You bow your head, relieved and sanctified, swallowing the bitter depths of emotion that surge whenever Ghost is in proximity. Oh, you are a fool to believe you stopped loving him. An outrageous, weak fool. In his presence, you want nothing more than to press your lips to his pulse and memorize his heartrate. You want to kiss the palms of his dangerous, calloused hands and offer him every inch of your tattered, tarnished soul. For him, only and always, you are humble and suppliant.

“Let’s have a look at you.” Says Ghost.

“’m alright.”

You need to leave. You need to return home before another patrol arrives. You hope the motorbike isn’t wrecked. Otherwise, you’ll have to drive the truck with a bloodied dashboard. Not that you haven’t driven in worse situations but removing the truck will risk an investigation.

“Fuck off.” His fingertips tenderly touch your jaw, “I saw you at the barn.”

You allow Ghost to lift your face toward the reddish light. You can’t fathom looking into his eyes. So, you glance to the left, then to the right, checking for threats. You are alone in a field. Moonlight spills white ribbons across rows of vegetation and ripples across the fluffy, gray clouds.

“Those were some creative insults you threw at him.” He tilts your face side to side and your bruises pulse beneath his evaluation, “I think some of ‘em have the potential to make Soap blush.”

Your lips twitch and the cut on your lower lip bristles with stiff, crackling pain. He gently touches your lower lip with his thumb. Your eyes flick to his, but he’s not looking at you. He’s looking at your mouth.

“thought I’d never see that smile again.” He murmurs to himself then shakes his head slowly. “We ought to go before more patrols come this way.”

“Is the bike salvageable?”

“Should be,” he says gruffly, “if we’re lucky.”

~~~~~~~~~

You drive the motorcycle without noticing any of the passing, dark scenery. Ghost keeps one strong, muscled arm around your waist, and he subtly shifts and turns, watching your back while you speed along the dark roads with only a single headlight to guide you. Out of paranoia, you take different roads to confuse the trail. You worry someone might notice the thin, grooved dirt bike tracks next to the larger, deeper imprints.

Your return to your safe haven. A sense of relief turns like a key inside a lock within your chest. You touch Ghosts’ arm before he dismounts from the bike.

Ghost’s mask shines red from the lamp and drying blood. You stare unflinchingly at him.

In this moment, above all other moments, you feel fearless. You can’t say that you fear losing him. Not really. Because you’ve lost him once already. The pain is manageable. It’s tolerable. And although you don’t want to lose him a second time, you think it is inevitable, and he deserves the whole truth. You can’t claim to love him and not offer him the complete truth.

“I deserted the agency.” You say, “and faked my death in Al-Qunbar.”

Ghost is silently contemplative for a few seconds.

“How’d you manage that if you were in an operative-run infirmary?”

“At my request, Price registered my stay under a Jane Doe and claimed I died after succumbing to complications of my injuries.” You explain, “but before I left, as a gesture of goodwill, I gave him the coordinates to this safe house if he was ever in trouble.”

His shoulders stiffen slightly. You wonder if you’ve struck a nerve telling him that Price knew your location while he remained in the dark.

“I refused to raise Lukas while I was an operative in the field. And I knew…if I wanted to keep his parentage a secret…then the only option for us was to disappear, play dead, and wait until we had a chance for a permanent home.”

You lift your gaze to the house behind Ghost. Fondness swells inside your chest.

“It was almost Noreth until the conflict started.” You say thickly through tears, “Lukas loves to watch things grow. He deserves that, you know? He deserves…” You stop yourself.

In your heart, Lukas deserves the childhood you never received. He deserves warmth, and safety, and fulfilled promises and silly games and how to make friends without also learning how to manipulate them.

“Anyway,” you clear your throat, “I trust that you won’t reveal our existence to anyone stateside or internationally.”

Ghost responds and his voice is like shrapnel. “Understood.”

Samira embraces you the moment you cross the threshold. You grimace and smother your wince at the back of your throat. You must’ve been hit – somewhere – alongside the bruised or possibly broken ribs that their leader gifted you. She holds you for several seconds and then rests her forehead against yours affectionately.

“You cheat death too much,” she chides. “Eventually, I fear He will get pissed off and come looking for you.”

You tease, “and you worry too much.”

Samira rolls her eyes, then her dark gaze pins Ghost. “You were meant to recover Kaja and return. Kaja says you stole her motorcycle and vanished.”

Ghost shrugs his big, heavy shoulders. Samira shoots him another withering look, but then Soap wheels into the main living area, and she switches into Doctor-Mode. You catch her expression soften when she regards MacTavish.

You ask, “where’s Lukas?”

“Upstairs.”

Lukas is awake, alert, and bouncing on his feet when you enter his bedroom. The injuries on your face throb with pain and dried blood cakes your clothes and hair. Lukas smiles when he sees you. You drop to your knees and open your arms.

“Hello, my sweet boy.”

“What’s on your face?” Lukas asks, touching your bloodied skin, and your throat tightens. “Boo-boos?”

You nod. Lukas’ expression morphs into grim seriousness. His little brow furrows. “I’ll help you, mommy.” He wiggles out of your grasp and drags a plastic box of band-aids from underneath his bed. He sticks band-aids to your face, your hands, your wrists, and arms. You stifle your tears. He kisses the band-aids.

Lukas exclaims, “All better!”

“All better.” The words are thick and clustered inside your throat. You don’t have the energy to move from the floor. You lie down and pat the spot next to you. Lukas doesn’t question it. He lays next to you, and you card your fingers through his hair. His brown eyes are watchful and sleepy. You hum quietly and stroke his forehead, his nose, and his small shoulders with tender, bloodied hands.

You are a killer. Would Lukas still love you if he knew? You hope so. Your heart and soul is shredded into tiny pieces, and they belong to your son. Although a few tattered pieces belong to Simon, too.

Lukas eventually falls asleep. You pull yourself upright with some difficulty and your body quakes in protest. You glance at your stomach and chest to see your shirt has bled through with wet, fresh blood. A swarm of dots blur in front of your vision. You wince and awkwardly push your hands beneath Lukas to lift him from the floor. A cold, clammy sweat breaks out across your neck and forehead.

Ghost enters your peripheral vision. “I’ve got him.”

He lifts Lukas into his arms and places him carefully onto his bed. Your head swims. You might pass out. You squeeze your eyes closed to stop the room from violently spinning. Your cottony mouth forms a few letters and strings them into a slurred sentence.

“How long were you hiding in the hallway?”

He ignores your question. “Where’s your kit?”

You manage to pull yourself onto your feet. You plant your hand against the wall for balance. You want to call out for Samira, but blood fills your mouth. You sway. Ghost is suddenly there. He grips your arm and your head lolls into his shoulder.

“Your kit.” He repeats sharply.

You swallow the copper-tasting blood and cough, “closet.”

Ghost half-drags, half-pulls you out of Lukas’ room and into yours. You lean against the wall while he opens your closet and pulls the medical bag hiding beneath a pile of clothes. You watch him through heavily lidded, blurry eyes.

He approaches with a pair of scissors and starts to cut away your shirt. The scissors make a crusty ‘schrrrp’ sound as he gnashes them across the blood-soaked fabric. Up close, you can hear his breathing. It’s ragged and low and reminds you of a pissed off horse. You bite your tongue to stop from laughing. The blood loss is making you delirious.

You flutter your eyelashes at him, “if you want me to get undressed, Ghost, you ought to buy me dinner first.” Your shirt falls to tatters on the floor. His fingers prod at your stomach and ribs. You wince, but don’t flinch away.

Ghost hisses. “I’m in no mood.”

“Do you hate me?” You mumble, blood dribbles from the corners of your mouth. You want to meet his gaze, but his focus is on your blood-covered body. You wish he’d look at you. You wish he’d touch you without such clinical coldness. You shut your eyes. You wish for a lot of things…

You mutter, “I wish we never said goodbye.”

“and I wish you would come with us.” You admit while fighting to stay conscious, “I wish you had the chance to know him – to really know him. He’s so good, Simon. He’s good.” Wet, hot tears scald down your cheeks. It’s a miracle that someone so innocent and good could come from someone like you. A goddamn miracle. You hiccup and are unable to stop the tears.

A cold, biting sensation ricochets across your skin. Your knees weaken and you topple forward into him. He smells like gun oil and exhaust fumes. The world is a dark, shifting, and ambiguous shape as Ghost lifts you and deposits you somewhere warm and soft.

You try to pry your eyes open but they’re too heavy.

“Stay with us,” Ghost murmurs, “stay with me.”

~~~~~~~~~

Ghost inhales slowly and cigarette smoke bites at the back of his throat. It burns. It smolders. His mind is twisted with thoughts of you. You are upstairs, your lips ashen, Samira is by your side and her expression is pinched sour with worry. Dawn bleeds like an open wound across the horizon and all echoes of last night are burned away.

He hates the idea of staying here longer than necessary, but what can he do? He can’t abandon Johnny.

He can’t abandon you.

A fleck of ash drops from the burning ember and whisks away on the breeze.

He can’t abandon his child.

The little boy who felt so fragile, so small and innocent in his arms. The boy who’s got eyes like his only less shadowed, less haunted. Lukas. He overheard Agathi call him ‘little light’. Your moth charm still dangles around your throat. Lux. The call name he gifted you.

Follow the light.

Ghost snubs the cigarette out against the wooden fence post.

~~~~~~~~~

Samira demanded you to take it easy during your recovery. You lost a lot of blood. Your lower two ribs were broken. Your household chores are reduced to washing dishes and prepping food. It drives you a little crazy, if you’re being honest, but at least you don’t suffer alone. Johnny makes for good company. You swap jokes, and play cards, and read together in silence during bed rest.

Agathi and her boys left yesterday morning. Their papers cleared. Their transportation confirmed. The house is quieter without them. And Lukas misses them terribly. You miss them too, but you hope they are safer and happier wherever they are. Their departure means Noreth is stabilizing. It means extraction is nearby. It means you and Lukas will leave soon.

The kitchen buzzes with the sound of the battery-operated camping lamp. You scrub the soapy and cold sponge across a sticky plate. Everyone is asleep. Ghost is in the barn keeping watch as he always does.

He hasn’t spoken to you since you passed out in his arms.

You endeavor to not take it personally. If he hates you for your secrets then he hates you. There is nothing you can change about that. You cannot – and will not – beg him to go with you. You will not trick, or convince, or manipulate your way into a ‘happy’ outcome. Ghost always saw this haven as temporary. A place for Johnny to recover. Nothing more, nothing less.

He might hold affection for you, he might even care about you or Lukas, but that doesn’t change the reality of your roles.

You are a deserter. You have enemies that would happily tear you apart. You are dangerous. You would burn the world if it meant keeping Lukas safe. And Ghost? He’s a man who doesn’t let anyone see his face. A killer that shares the same soul as you. A solider with enemies. A past and childhood you’ve barely glimpsed into.

You are devoted to your son, to your family, to the hopeful future without bloodshed.

Ghost is devoted to his country, his place within the ranks, his duty as a solider.

The front door swings open. You glance over your shoulder to see Ghost enter. The harsh light of the lamp illuminates his shiny, brown eyes.

Your heart aches. He will do the same thing he’s always done. He will see you, say nothing, and walk toward his shared room with Johnny. You turn away.

“We’ve got to talk, Lux.” He says quietly.

You scrub the sponge harshly and the plate nearly slips from your fingers. “Do we?”

“We do.” His footsteps thump behind you. “Noreth entered peace talks. It’ll be safe to travel soon.”

You nod absentmindedly. Why is he bringing this up now?

You say, “I know.”

Ghost twists the knob to the camping lamp. The buzzing stops. The kitchen falls to complete, silent darkness. Your hands drip with chilly water. Together, in the dark, you are two hearts, four lungs, and timid, unspoken dreams. You hear the barest suggestion of fabric moving and you assume he’s closer to you.

He says, “give me your hands.”

You extend them and his fingers trap your wrists. The pads of your thumbs touch rough, scratchy stubble. Your breath quivers in your throat. You feel his pulse, deep and steady, like waves crashing into the shore.

“Go on then.” He urges.

His hands slide down your forearms and hook loosely at the bend of your elbow. Your index swipes across the scar on his upper lip. It’s familiar. You’ve memorized this scar. You see it in your dreams. You trace the shape of his plush, dry mouth with your fingertip. His hot breath exhaling slowly through his nostrils tickles your skin.

Your heart stammers at the absence of fabric near his cheekbones. You caress his nose along the bridge and tentatively stroke his brow. His fine, thin eyebrows are feathery soft beneath your fingers. You touch a weathered notch between his brows, a wrinkle carved through years of worry and stress and extreme focus. You smile to yourself. His skin is faintly tacky around the eyes from his black-camo paint.

You’ll carry him in the blackened whorls and spirals of your fingerprints.

His hair is short and glides silkily through your fingers. You trace the shell of his ear, his cartilage thin and delicate. You are pulled closer by a magnetic force, by gravity, by fate. You are a planet, and he is a comet blazing through your sky ever-so-often and painting your world in sparkling, white-hot streaks of brilliance.

When you return to his pulse, it thunders beneath your touch, and his jaw flexes under your hands. He has given you an enormous and precious gift. You piece him together like a ceramic mosaic. You aren’t greedy when it comes to Simon. You will take what he can give. And you know he functions much the same.

You say, “my eyes are going to adjust soon.” You lick your lips. “I can shut them if you like.”

“You’re entirely too good-hearted.” He grouses.

His nose skims along yours. The skin-to-skin contact, along with the pleasant rough accent of his voice, makes your toes curl. Stagnant shadows and blotches of darkness move like bruises across your vision. Simon smells like gun oil and smoke and sweat. Lethal. Dangerous. Heavy. It should be abrasive, but it’s an aphrodisiac to you. You tilt your neck back and sigh languidly. You are predators in a dark room. Yet you roll on your bellies for each other, you offer the supple skin of your throats and press knives into each other’s palms. Kill me, kiss me, be done with it.

“Have you forgiven me?”

His large hand envelops your throat, “‘m getting there.” Your heartbeat is in your ears, saliva thickens on your tongue, and your core throbs with acute longing.

“Shall I get on my knees?” You tease knowingly.

His chest vibrates like a strummed guitar string. The tip of his tongue flicks across the seam of your lips. Your lower back bumps into the counter. You open for him. You taste his ragged breath on your tongue. He must’ve shared a smoke with Johnny recently.

Ghost pinches your jaw in his hand, fingers digging into your skin, and he kisses you like its punishment. He kisses you like he’s claiming you (as if you didn’t already belong to him after he dragged you from the ice).

His large hand splays across your back and you feel each individual digit. He wants to meld into you. He wants to fuse your bodies together so nothing - and no one - can rip you apart lest they face the calamitous wrath of a nuclear explosion.

You tug at the root of his hair, pleased, and he grumbles lowly at the back of his throat. Something hot and sharp twists like barbed wire through the spaces of your ribcage.

Ghost says, “you kept secrets in order to protect him.” His breath fans across your wet lips. “I could never hate you for that, Lux.”

He pinches your jaw harder. In the low-light, you see him through your half-lidded eyes. You see the shape of his brow, his nose, his jaw. All of him. Simon Riley. The man you love.

“Never.” He declares before kissing you again. He shoves his tongue into your mouth, wet and suckling, and drool pools at the corners of your lips as you attempt to devour him. You pull his hair, his clothes, your fingers twisting and grasping and yanking. You want to drown. You want to burn. Simon’s affection and attention is all-consuming. It pulls you apart like a natural disaster.

He lifts you effortlessly into his arms and instinctively you wrap your legs around his wide hips. His hands come to rest at the swell of your bottom, and he squeezes you close. Your noses squish together. You feel the tacky, black paint on his skin smearing against your cheeks. You feel your spine hit the wall and he pins you there, all his weight and strength, his breath fills your lungs, his hands burn like a tattoo against your skin.

“Ask me,” he rasps desperately, “to come with you, love.”

“W-what?” The world knocks off its axis.

“Ask me.” He repeats. Your eyes scan his face—his beautiful, weathered, war-torn face—and seek any trace of deception. His brown eyes are framed prettily by his blonde lashes, and they regard you with open, tender affection. His mouth is softly open. His pink tongue glides across his lower lip and it glistens with saliva. He is willing to give it up. His life. His career. For a life with you.

“Simon,” You cradle his face between your hands. Your throat tightens. “If you come with us��you’ll lose everything.”

His big, calloused hand strokes the side of your face, “nothing compares to losing you twice.”

You lean your forehead against his. You can figure out logistics and details later. Simon could technically find work in a private sector. You could try and arrange to live somewhere cold so he could wear the mask—or at least keep his face hidden. As long as you’re together, you can figure it out.

“Simon Riley…” You begin, your heart beating wildly in your chest, “once MacTavish is secure and returned safely to Price…”

Ghost snorts, “I hadn’t forgotten about Johnny.”

You roll your eyes and smile. “Regardless, once that’s done, will you…will you leave with Lukas and I?”

~~~~~~~~~

The briny air fills your lungs and your hands slip along the wet, metal railing of the small boat. Your face is damp from the spray that lifts in foamy, white splashes alongside the boat’s edge. The boat lurches and jolts across each tiny, cresting wave. The sky is beautifully gray like spun dark wool. The clouds stretch in long, languid brush strokes.

A lone seagull calls out before swooping near the water. You turn away from the scenery and twist your body toward your companions.

Lukas is bundled up with a thick scarf and heavy hat and big, navy coat. His gloved fingers form tiny fists near his cheeks. He barely stirs despite the bouncing motion of the boat. Simon has wrapped both arms protectively around his son and holds him close to his warm chest.

His eyes—bereft of the usual shadow of dark paint—lift from Lukas and meet yours. They crinkle softly at the edges. His mouth is hidden by his black balaclava, but you suspect he’s smiling. You tilt toward him and rest your cheek on his damp shoulder. An overwhelming sense of peace blankets over you.

Sunlight breaks free from the clouds and the world glimmers and sparkles like a freshly cut diamond. The light suffuses the air and encases you within a bubble of brilliance. Simon sighs. You peek upward and discover his eyes are closed and his face is angled toward the sunlight. You glide your fingertips across his knuckles and rest your palm over his hand.

Together, you hold your son and each other, and face the bright future with hope in your hearts.

~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~

TAGLIST: @iwantmethgivememeth @levisbebe @solidly-indulgent @alastorhazbin @crocsclub @isimpforfictionalppl ?? @sanfransolomitatm

@hypernovaxx

(tag list from earlier parts that im just including lol: @anonymousmay22 // @urisu // @sodbos // @confuseddipshit ) sorry if i missed anyone who wanted to be tagged LOL)

#simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley fanfic #ghost cod x reader #reader x simon ghost riley #simon x reader #ghost x you #reader insert #simon ghost riley reader insert #simon ghost riley x f!reader #simon riley x reader #call of duty fanfic #mw2 fanfic

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theratartist-2815 · 4 months

Text

wrote sum stuff for a scott pilgrim oc of mine

said writing continued under the cut, check tags for tws

i am snapped awake by a jolt of electricity, exploding through my veins and putting a jumpstart to my heart. it felt like a kick from a mule whenever my heart started pounding, like an old train engine suddenly forced to carry freight after not being in use for so long.

it was cold. i was cold. my eyes flew open as i sat up like i had been pulled by some otherworldly force. i looked around. it was dark. two men in glasses cheered, round and square framed.

"HES ALIVE!" the one in the circular frames cried, his clothes and glasses covered in blood. thats when i became aware of my own body, completely bare against the cold stainless steel metal operating table.

i only saw more blood, and fresh stitches on my abdomen where i had been operated on. my brain flickered to life, though nothing about myself i knew. it was confusing. i was dazed, momentarily.

i realized i had tubes attached to me, in my arms and on the back of my neck. thats when the adrenaline rush hit, and it hit hard. the men were still cheering as i ripped the tubes from my body, getting up off of the table, stumbling as i struggled to walk.

the man in the circular glasses didnt notice me get up, so i ran. however, the one with the sharp rectangular ones noticed and tried to subdue me.

i felt my arm move back, then barrel towards the mans face like a bullet. it hit him smack on the nose, with a small crack. the punch i threw was almost like muscle memory. memory that my brain didnt have.

i think i broke his nose, but i definitely broke his glasses. he fell to the ground, in agony. he called for the man in the circular frames.

midas.

that name i wont forget. thats because i knew what that name was from. greek mythology. the king of phyrgia, who could turn anything to gold, haven been blessed by dionysus.

thats when i put two and two together, as i ran up the stairs, my bare feet smacking against cold concrete. i had just been brought back from the cold clutches of death.

ironic his name was midas, then. he brought me back to life. no touch of gold, a touch of life. though i could sense judging by the cold dark basement i had to run up from, the intentions of this were.. dubious at best. i dont want to think about the worst.

when i reached the top step, there was a ladder i had to climb to reach a trap door. mustve been correct in my judgement this place had less than humane intentions, as it was locked up tight. i began to scale the ladder as i heard footsteps pattering from the stairwell below. just as i heard the mans voice, i was up and out of the trapdoor.

i was now in an office of some sort, where i noticed a trash chute. in that split second, i decided to jump in, knowing it was either escape into the trash or be caught and used for god knows what from these men.

i opened the trash chute, sliding inside. i was barreling down, my bare skin freezing against the cold metal. then, just as i got the feeling my body would never stop hurtling downward, i hit the bottom of the trashcan with a loud metallic pang.

i mustve been unlucky, it mustve been trash day recently. my entire body ached. from the sudden jolt to life, the stitches my body had, and from hitting the empty garbage bin. i had to lay there for a second, breathing heavily.

soon, i crawled out of the garbage. i knew theyd be looking for me. i was in a dark alleyway. it smelled awful, i mustve been wrong about trash day, because the other bins themselves were full. did they switch them out? oh well, it didnt matter. i stumbled out, searching for something to cover up.

i managed to find some clothes, though dirty, ruined, and too small on me, which smelled of garbage. but it was better than nothing. i had to get the hang of walking, even though my newly awakened muscles begged me not to. i felt like i was about to collapse.

i saw a building in the distance, cars all around it. there was flashing multicolored lights coming from the windows, and i could feel the baseline from here. a party. perfect. i needed help, before i passed out in the alleyway and woke up in that mysterious laboratory again.

i shuffled my way towards the building, making a beeline for the doors. i felt like a zombie. i definitely looked like a zombie too. i passed by a graveyard on the way. i thought it was ironic, though, i could barely form thoughts that were coherent that werrent about the current situation at hand.

i pushed my way through the doors when i got there, hobbling to my destination, though i didnt exactly have one. i received weird looks from the people at the party as i shuffled along aimlessly, in no particular direction.

i bumped into two people, men, who looked scarily alike each other. i ignored it, and kept walking. i also bumped into a man wearing all black, but i ignored him too. i pushed through a crowd, bumping into various people.

there was a woman wearing round glasses, like midas, with her hair up in a ponytail. she snapped at me to watch where i was going, but i ignored her. i bumped into another person, a man with scruffy brown hair and close shaven beard. he looked slightly nervous, but i didnt pay attention to it.

i pushed through, bumping into several people along the way. an unkempt man in a beanie, a girl with shoulder length, straight black hair, a clearly drunk man in a sweater and messy black hair, holding a martini.. i also slightly remember a guy with long brown hair and a sort of creepy smile i didnt like. but none of that mattered when i broke through the other end of the crowd.

i made my way to a table, with various things to eat on it. thats where i saw him. a guy, about my age, holding a plastic cup with punch inside of it. he looked just as confused as i am, with his light brown hair swept over his head. he wasnt wearing anything remarkable, just a tshirt and jeans. but this was the guy i decided i was going to ask for help from.

i opened my mouth to speak, but i just held my mouth open. he looked confused. i tried again, only to realize that my voice was gone. i was worried. had i just lost my voice, or had they taken my vocal chords out entirely? i tried once more. i managed to mumble the word "help," albeit pretty quiet for the scenario.

unfortunately, that was all i could attempt to say. i felt my eyes getting heavy, knees week, vision blurring. my hearing became dampened as i felt myself hit the floor with a soft thud. the last thing i remember was seeing the footsteps of people walking towards me and the anxious chatter from the crowd, before my eyes fully shut and i became unconscious.

#scott pilgrim vs the world #scott pilgrim takes off #scott pilgrim #scott pilgrim gideon #scott pilgram takes off #scott pilgrim anime #scott pilgrim oc #scott pilgram #oc #spto oc #writing #oc writing #tw blood mention #tw alchohol mention #cw

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narukoibito · 2 years

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since feeling is first who pays any attention — chapter two

Summary: Ginny has done her fair share of watching Harry over the years.

AO3 | FF.net

Note: Thank you all for the wonderful birthday wishes last time! Hope you enjoy a glimpse of Ginny during Prisoner of Azkaban!

ii.

Ginny leans out of the train window, the cold metal and glass pressing against her stomach, waving to Mum and Dad as the train speeds away. The wind whips strands of her hair into her face, but that has nothing to do with the tears that well in her throat. She swallows them down, waving harder until the train turns a corner and blocks her parents from view.

She tries hard to not feel like a cloud has blocked the sun.

Ron stops waving beside her and turns his head toward Harry and Hermione.

“Go away, Ginny,” says Ron suddenly. His voice isn’t unkind, but the words sting.

“Oh, that’s nice,” Ginny huffs.

Her eyes flicker to Hermione’s apologetic smile and then to Harry’s green eyes for just an unbearable second before she automatically looks away. She holds her breath, but neither says anything.

Right then. Ginny lifts her chin and stalks off, anger and sadness churning inside her.

You would think saving someone’s life might bring you closer to them. Form a bond, perhaps. But as always, that would be asking for too much, wouldn’t it? Instead, her embarrassment around Harry Potter has only worsened over time.

All summer, she bottled up the scorching Egyptian sunlight, letting it spread through her body to dispel a haunting coldness that resided in the darker corners under her skin. It was easy to block out what happened when she was surrounded by family; Dad’s warm hand on her head, Mum’s soft hugs, and even her brothers’ annoying hovering were a comfort.

Each day, blinding gratitude pulsed through her. Apparently nearly dying does that to you. Puts things in perspective; makes you hyper aware of all the things often taken for granted.

This summer was ablaze with life and love, each new breath a fresh flame.

But here, on the train clanging its way back to Hogwarts, a chill starts to seep back in. She puts one foot in front of another, away from Ron, Hermione, and Harry Potter.

The compartments are filled with happy students reuniting with their friends after a long summer. There are also the eager first years, bright eyed and flushed with excitement. Her heart sinks as she makes her way down the corridor. None of the compartments seems any more inviting than the last.

The sight of Fred and George’s hair sends a shot of hope through her, but they’re fully immersed with other members of the Gryffindor Quidditch team. Everyone is laughing, probably at something the twins said. They might be telling them about Egypt and how they tried to lock Percy in a tomb. She could join in, maybe do that impression of Percy that had them in stitches. She hesitates in front of the compartment window, wondering if they will notice her.

Go away, Ginny.

Stomach clenching, she goes on.

With dread, she nears the end of the train. That’s when she sees a few of her fellow second-year girls in a compartment, a mix of Gryffindor and Hufflepuff that she recognizes from Charms. She searches her mind for their names: Demelza, Robin, and…maybe Lucy? The empty spot next to Demelza signals that there’s enough space for her.

All Ginny needs to do is open the door and ask. It’s easy, she tells herself, even as her heart starts to pound. It’s easy.

But she can’t move.

What if they ask about the things she doesn’t remember? The memories she longs to forget? The nightmares she can’t escape?

One of the girls throws her head back in silent laughter, the sound swallowed up by the train’s engine and metal sliding over metal.

Cold slips down Ginny’s back like a shard of ice, even though her skin feels unbearably hot. The overwhelming juxtaposition of hot and cold makes her sick.

She stumbles forward, unseeing, bashing her elbow against the food trolley as it pushes past. The glimpse of the trolley witch’s wide-eyed gaze that only makes her chest seize with more panic. Her breathing sounds labored and harsh to her ears, like the air can’t get through her tightened throat. She slides open the door to the loo and shoves herself inside, her numb fingers fumbling against the lock until it takes.

She leans over the small sink, feeling the blood pumping through her veins. She wants to scream, she wants to cry. Fighting back the urge, she bites her quivering lip, refusing to give in. Not now, not here, not again.

Focus, Ginny.

Her eyes cast about, trying to find an anchor, but when they land on her reflection, she knows it was a mistake as she grazes against an unwanted memory—hollow eyes staring back, bright blood on her hands that won’t come off. She slams her eyes shut. Flashes of icy fear and hot shame flare through her aching chest.

She focuses on the memory of Bill in Egypt, the way the sun glinted on his fang earring, the soft warmth in his eyes behind his familiar smile.

Focus, he said, leading her through a dark tomb. His steady hands guided hers through the motion of new spells. Ginny was never afraid of the dark, but that was before nightmares that had her waking to strangled screams, sounds of hisses and laughter ringing in her ears. Trust yourself; you’ll find the way out.

That sunlight in the darkness.

Her breath finally evens out. Her legs are shaky, and she slumps back on the closed toilet lid. She feels drained, weak.

The sweat on her brow begins to cool her overheated skin. How long has she been here?

It dawns on her where she is. A short laugh escapes her lips, echoing in the loo.

A flicker of anger stirs her blood. She has spent enough of her time alone in girls’ loos, a shell of the person she used to be.

Ginny spent a year under the thumb of the darkest wizard in the world, fading with each day.

Nothing else will ever compare.

She won’t let Tom take more from her. He has already taken too much. Steeling herself, she stands and opens the door.

Before she can head back toward Demelza’s compartment, the train jolts to a hard stop. The momentum topples her over. Her hands feel tender and raw against the train floor. Sounds of students yelping and thuds of luggage falling in disarray fill the air.

Without warning, the lanterns go out, throwing the entire train into darkness. Everything goes quiet.

That momentary strength inside Ginny flickers.

The inky blackness sends her heart racing. For all the sunlight she has tried to trap inside her, the fear creeps back in whenever the sun dips beyond the horizon. Stupid little girl. She hates proving Tom right, but she hasn’t been able to sleep alone since the Chamber. The only thing that has helped is sneaking into Ron’s room. He always opens the door without a word, his face drawn. He doesn’t tease her, even if she cries. Even if she screams in her sleep. Aside from Harry Potter, Ron is the closest one who knows the pipes, the freefall, the plunging darkness.

Ginny gags. It’s almost as if she’s choking on the rotting stench of Basilisk skin.

Ron.

Through the eerie silence, a compartment door opens and—is that Harry’s voice?

Ginny blindly hurries toward the voices, her screaming instincts guiding her. Her fingers pull a door open, but then someone slams right into her, and they let out two squeals of pain.

“Who’s that?”

“Who’s that?” she returns.

“Ginny?”

Relief makes Ginny weak. “Hermione?”

“What are you doing?”

“I was looking for Ron—”

“Come in and sit down—”

Ginny rushes into the pitch-black compartment, her knees buckling under her. She immediately sits, but the seat is surprisingly bony and warm.

“Not here! I’m here!” says Harry, his voice squeaky.

Her system overloads with embarrassment. Did she just sit on Harry bloody Potter?

She leaps up and trips over a pair of legs.

“Ouch!” says a boy she doesn’t recognize.

She finally falls into a miraculously empty seat when a wizard shouts, “Quiet!”

Her heart pounds in her throat. What is an older wizard doing here?

There is a soft click and light floods their surroundings, revealing a ragged, tired-looking wizard holding a handful of flames.

“Stay where you are,” he orders, as if Ginny came here only to leave. But before he can move, the door slowly slides open again, and she can’t help but think surely this compartment can’t fit yet another.

She smells something putrid before she sees anything. But as a darkly hooded figure appears at the door, the smell of decay intensifies. It draws a long, slow, and rattling breath, as if to suck in more than air from the environment.

An intense cold overtakes her. It penetrates deeper than her skin, straight to her core. It’s so cold, it radiates from within her. To her horror, she recognizes this feeling.

It’s the painful drawing of a soul from her body.

Ginny gasps. It sounds like a wet sob, but the air is so cold it hurts to breathe. That lack of air makes her body shake.

It’s like she’s back in the Chamber, helplessly sobbing and pleading. Tom leers down at her, turning more solid the colder she becomes. Panic surges through her, amplifying her tremors.

Destroy the diary, her mind screams, but her hand refuses to move no matter how she tries.

In the weak light, Harry falls from his compartment seat, and her heart seizes up in despair.

Her vision blurs. Everything is a wash of fluid dark watercolors. Harry, lying on the Chamber floor, unmoving, blood pooling around him.

“Never trust anything that can think for itself if you can't see where it keeps its brain,” Dad said, but what does where it keeps its brain have to do with anything? A person turned monster created that diary.

Is there anything she can trust?

A thick white fog swirls inside, dragging her down. Her body descends to the damp floor, the cold seeping into the back of her robes feels warmer than her own skin—

The intense cold starts to recede, and noises return to her muffled ears. The horrific thing has drifted away, the wizard standing guard at the door, his wand still raised and ready. The lanterns flicker back on, and the floor begins to shake underneath them once again.

Slowly, Ginny begins to register activity. Almost from afar, she watches as Ron slaps a ghastly pale Harry, trying to wake him. How is it that everyone else can move?

Colin Creevey, Mrs. Norris, Nearly Headless Nick, Justin Finch-Fletchley, Penelope Clearwater, Hermione Granger, and now—Harry Potter is dead.

He’s dead and it’s all my fault.

But then Harry stirs. His green eyes blink open, and thick tears blur her vision once more.

“What happened?” he asks, voice small.

Ginny makes a strangled noise, her freezing hand covering her mouth. He’s alive. She doesn’t know what happened to the hooded figure, but Harry Potter is alive, they aren’t in the Chamber, and Tom is gone.

These realizations don’t seem to be enough to stop the tremors still shaking through her. Her body doesn’t seem prepared to recover yet.

She huddles her knees closer as she chokes back a sob. She hears someone coming over and then feels someone’s—Hermione’s—arm around her. She needs to get a hold of herself; later, she will feel hot shame over falling apart in front of Ron’s friends, yet again proving she doesn’t belong. But right now she feels raw and hollowed out, and she can’t help but lean into the warm touch and comfort.

Eventually, she pulls herself together enough to force down some chocolate. It helps, but she can’t shake the lingering chill.

She glances through her lashes, guiltily, at Harry. He was the only one affected worse than her, and she wonders if he thought of anything or anyone, Tom’s laugh, Basilisk blood. She wants to ask, but he doesn’t look her way. He stares out the window as rain runs past the pane, a haunted look in his eyes.

Ginny bites her tongue and looks away.

#since feeling is first who pays any attention #Did I pick this moment because I wanted to highlight that missed moment when Ginny sat on Harry? Yes. Yes I did.#ginny weasley #harry potter #ron weasley #hermione granger #missed moments #canon compliant #prisoner of azkaban

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metalstitchinglocking · 1 year

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The surface of the repair area is returned to its original proportions and profile after cracks are repaired using the metal stitching and metal lock technique. Email [email protected] or call +91 9582647131

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coldshrugs · 1 year

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in this state

characters: io laithe / estinien varlineau, alisaie leveilleur word count: 1400 rating: M; descriptions of injuries, language. note: very vague endwalker spoilers. io's friends wait by her side while she's unconscious.

She looks like shit, their Champion.

Battered and bruised, Io lays on a cot in front of where Estinien sits. Her bottom lip is torn, and shallow cuts weave across her bare shoulders and chest. Crusts of dark blood peek through the stitching, and her flesh swells around the wounds.

There is blood in her hair, in the wisps around her face, in the long strands that drape over the cot’s edge. Blood under her nails, too, grotesque in the stark fluorescent light of this room, against the crisp white sheet where someone has neatly folded her arms in feigned comfort.

Her breathing comes slow and shallow, aided by a machine the likes of which he has never seen. It whirs and some mechanism inside pumps, pulling air from the ship's interior and delivering it to her lungs via clear tubes entering her nose. Another contrivance beeps, counting each pulse. Estinien counts too. The starship Ragnarok offers little in the way of distraction, so he keeps track of each feeble breath and endures the pauses that stretch like infinity between the beeping.

They say she will wake soon. That it is only a matter of time. They say she will make a full recovery once her aether has time to replenish and she’s rested…

Not even the Fury herself could grant him enough patience for this.

Alisaie sits across from him, eyes ringed red, gripping the metal cot in place of Io’s swollen hand. She has been here longer than he has, staring down at Io, greeted only by her still face. Occasionally a tear falls between the beeps and whirs, sounding sharp against metal or solid against skin.

Does she realize he stayed behind when the others could no longer bear looking at Io in this state? Does she care that he watches them in silence?

He wishes she would go, just for a few moments. What he would say or do is a mystery–it is not in his nature to plan for something like this. Still, he needs the opportunity to be alone with Io. The girl, however, will not be moved.

“Wake up, damn you,” Alisaie whispers. She inches that much closer, hovering. Aching in a way Estinien feels, too, for her friend to show any sign of progress. “Wake up and tell me what happened to you.”

Estinien lets his head roll back, and it meets the wall with a soft thud. An engine thrums somewhere far off, vibrating softly through the cold metal. He closes his eyes and exhales. It is almost enough to distract him from the repetitive sounds, the nauseating light.

Almost.

“You’re still here.”

He opens an eye. Alisaie looks up at him with the threat of fresh tears. She sniffles.

“Aye.” He crosses his arms. For one brief moment, he considers asking her permission to stay, but he glances down at the still figure between them, and his heart lurches in his chest. No, he will remain at Io’s side until she wakes.

“You care for her, don’t you?” Alisaie asks.

Estinien scowls at the very specific emphasis in the question. He cares about a great many people, Alisaie not least among them. He cares for their causes and their well-being. But that is not what she is asking.

It hasn’t needed a name before now, this feeling. Most often, it is in his chest, unfurling softly each time Io smiles, or rests her head against his shoulder, or speaks kindness to a stranger, until he can feel nothing but her warmth. Other times it shoots up his spine, a radiant pride that strengthens his arm and steadies his aim. It is the knowledge he would follow her anywhere because there is no one he trusts more.

And now it lodges between his ribs, sharp and stinging.

He answers after a long moment.

“Aye.”

Alisaie’s eyes grow wide as if she didn’t expect his frankness. She wipes her tears and sits back. “You could’ve cleared your throat or something instead of letting me blubber all over her like a fool. It goes without saying that this better stay between us, or so help me–”

“I won’t say a thing,” he chuckles quietly. “But I’m not leaving.”

She nods and stands. “Fine. I’ll go see how the others fare. Perhaps there’s some coffee on this godsforsaken ship.” Her steps toward the door are hesitant, eyes sliding between Io on the cot and Estinien seated next to her. “If she wakes…”

“You’ll have returned before then.”

She forces a tight smile and leaves looking a fraction more hopeful.

With the room clear at last, Estinien’s focus returns to Io. Her ragged breathing, her lacerated skin.

He leans over her, a forearm on the cot, and lifts his other hand to her head. His thumb sweeps across her forehead in a delicate arc, careful to avoid the cut near her hairline. He soaks in the warmth of her skin under his hand, the softness of her hair. His fingertips trail down her face, tracing the ridge of her tattooed nose, the curve of her cheek. He burns all of it into his memory, in case–

In case.

“Come back, Io,” he says, too quiet to be heard over the machines. “Don't you want to laugh at me baring my heart to you? We are both in a state.”

And finally, finally, she moves.

Her head turns, settling into the cradle of his palm. Her mouth pulls into a pained grimace and she inhales sharply, a near-silent hiss. The machine counting her pulse speeds up. Estinien's heart beats in his throat, waiting for her eyes to open, but Io stills again.

Except for one word.

One name, scratching its way out of her parched throat.

“Zenos.”

His love, honed to a sharpened point, twists in his ribcage. He fights the urge to recoil lest he worsen her pain. Why, after all this time, after all they’ve been through and the bond he knows they share, is that name the first thing to break her silence?

Estinien hangs his head. “Not what I had in mind."

Perhaps he got ahead of himself, saw more between them than was actually there. Aymeric has, fondly, called him impulsive more than once over the years, and he is not blind to his own recklessness. Perhaps...

No. His instincts have always been strong. His feelings for Io, the signs she reciprocated them, have grown around them for the better part of a year. He is too deeply entangled to let one mention of that bastard make him second-guess what he knows to be true.

Io will have an explanation when she wakes. He is sure of it.

And he will give her time.

“Knock knock.”

He turns to the door, where Alisaie stands, a white ceramic cup in each hand. Her expression is soft as she enters, her eyes locked on the point where Estinien’s hand meets Io’s cheek. He moves away as delicately as he can and leans against the wall.

“Thought you could do with a warm drink. I forgot to ask how you take your coffee, so I just made what I like. Apologies if it's shit.” She presses the cup into his hands. “Did anything happen while I was away? Did she–”

Estinien is not a skilled liar, but Alisaie would worry more than she already does. And for Io, he can keep this secret. He shakes his head. “No. We’re still waiting.”

Maybe it's the coffee or the company, but Alisaie is in higher spirits as she returns to her vigil at Io's side. She sips her drink with a little smile, eying Estinien from behind her cup.

“What?” he asks.

“Oh, nothing...” She trails off with a smile and looks away. It is only a second or two before she turns back to him. “You will tell her how you feel, won't you?–” He groans– “She’d be absolutely thrilled, you imbecile. For reasons beyond my understanding, she thinks the world of you.”

She’s pleading now. Eager to be part of something happier than the sight between them. Even with the quiet rasp of Io’s last word ringing in his mind, Estinien cannot help but smile. Intrusive as it is, her brand of encouragement is endearing, and he can but hope she speaks the truth.

“One day,” he says, and means it. When Io is well again, when things back home have settled, when the last traces of him have been dredged from her heart. “When the time is right.”

He takes a long drink of coffee, hums a noise of surprise at how similarly it matches his own tastes. Not bad.

Alisaie shoots him a conspiratorial smile. “I’ll hold you to that.”

#azia writes #io laithe #io/estinien #this is very pre-relationship still #aka what if i took all the confidence i give estinien when i write him. and just. shook it a tiny bit #also i just. love alisaie so much #anyway. io would 100% be stoked to wake up to estinien doting over her. but she just fought you-know-who #and hasn't had a chance to tell the gang #so she's not confusing estinien's touch for zenos' but just saying the name of the last person she remembers seeing :>#if only anyone knew that :>#also i listened to please by noah kahan way too much and the bridge always ALWAYS makes me think of this scene

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rebabbitting · 8 months

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Metal Stitching and Metal Locking | RA Power

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vaishalirapower · 1 year

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Casting fractures can be fixed on site without the use of heat using metal lock or metal stitching. It entails sinking metal lock keys perpendicular to a fracture. Metal-lace studs are used to seal the fracture and keep it rigid. The end results is a patch that is well sealed and flush with the surface, recovering most of its original strength. For further details about metal stitching service provider, cold metal stitching, and Repair of crack in metal. Contact us at [email protected] or [email protected] or call us at +91-9582647131.

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busterpointisdead · 8 months

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'ts got me thinking now

What bugs would the tf2 fellas be? Feel free to reblog with your own hcs fellow buglikers

Me infodumping below the cut

I've already established pyro is a weevil but... What about the others?

Heavy is definitely a scarab beetle, they have the hardest carapice of any bug! Dung rolling aside, beeg stronk bug... And in animal crossing you find them during the winter before someone asks me why not a cold climate bug-

Medic is a jumping spider, they're incredibly intelligent and have a creepy-cute vibe. Not too spooky but palatable enough to arachnophobes... Plus, imagine him using webbing for stitches

Scout is a dragonfly, flashy and quick. Capable of 360° motion in flight and generally a very good looking bug. Maybe it's giving Scout too much credit but cmon, what's more perfect than a fast bug that immediately dies if it touches the water?

Soldier is a trap-jaw ant! Need I say more? I'm sure there's a million good options for Soldier but look at the ant and come back to me with a better idea lol

Demo is a bombardier beetle, known for being able to spit fire makes them a good candidate. You might be asking, why not Pyro be a bombardier beetle? Pyro is already weevil shaped you can't change my mind, lol. Demo is the next best thing given his love of explosions and alcohol... I imagine he uses the alcohol to help his fire spitting abilities.

Spy is an earwig. There's honestly no good reason for this they're just really nice looking bugs with really pretty wings... Earwigs are also considered pests like French people (joke)!

Pyro I established as a weevil, because weevils look like Pyro, and they're just very cute (also like Pyro! Until they burn your face off). There are also pine weevils, and pine is known for being very resilient to flames... Otherwise, not much a reason-

Sniper is a pistol shrimp... Before you say "tHat'S a CruSTaCeAn"- SHUT! These are my rules crustacean is bug to me. As the sharpshooter of the ocean world it fits Sniper very well! Also shrimp are weird, like Sniper.

Last but certainly not least is Engineer... I've been like thinking hard about this but I've determined Engie to be a roach! Hear me out roaches are smart and cleanly (domestic roaches are cleaner than dogs or cats). I imagine him digging through scrap metal to find ideal parts for machinery...

Might draw this later, but for now... Adios

#tf2 #tf2 headcanons #tf2 but they are bug

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kittymaine · 9 months

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Two Weeks Notice Ch. 4

Summary: Jason attends a Christmas party.

It took weeks to recover from what was thankfully only a concussion and a lot of stitches.

After things had settled down, Jason's doctor at the field hospital had explained his injuries to him in detail. They had been worried about brain damage, since Jason had only barely been able to hold onto consciousness during the flight from the ship to the field hospital, but luckily it had just been a very severe concussion. There was a lot of medical jargon that Jason honestly didn't particularly understand thrown around, but it was his understanding that he had dodged a bullet. The skin on the back of his head had been split open and needed a lot of stitches. The same was true of his back and chest. His back must have bashed onto some kind of sharp metal that bruised his ribs and left a deep gash right across the middle. The front of his torso had been peppered with shrapnel from the explosion.

It made for a lot of time recuperating in Bizarro's floating fortress. The concussion meant that he couldn't handle a lot of noise or light, and the stitches all over his torso meant that he could barely move without risking pulling a stitch. It meant a boring and long recovery of lying on the couch and then lying in bed and then lying on the floor and trying not to be too much of a bad patient.

Dick had filled in the rest of what the Doctor skipped over. Apparently, their wild suicide mission had been a rousing success. The grenade he threw at the mothership engine damaged it badly enough that all their shields dropped at once, but not so badly that it fell out of the sky and into the ocean off the coast of New Jersey. This allowed the Justice League to quickly infiltrate the mothership and take control of it.

Which is when they found Jason unconscious in the engine room, being cared for by a panicked Damian. Dick told him that Wonder Woman had carried him into the emergency triage, a visibly upset Robin fast on her heels. It was incredibly embarrassing to imagine Wonder Woman, probably the most impressive woman on the planet and a literal goddess, carrying his bleeding unconscious ass back to their temporary camp. But, it was Damian he was having trouble getting over. He knew Damian wasn't really the apathetic cold-blooded killer he presented to most people, but it still was a big deal for him to be upset enough to show it in public.

So, all in all, Jason was discharged from the triage tent and advised to follow up with his general practitioner. Which was all well and good for a normal civilian, but Jason didn’t even exist legally let alone have a regular doctor, so he just went home to sleep it off as best as he could.

Bizarro was a peach, because of course he was. He would fetch Jason his phone or the remote and could make him endless peanut butter and jelly sandwiches without getting frustrated. But, it was Artemis who always did the bulk of the care taking whenever he was injured. It always surprised him, even though it happened every time he got hurt. There was always a lot of muttering about how 'in Bana Migdahl, the healers would never dishonor a warrior by sending her home before she was fit for duty', but she still patiently moved him from bed to couch each day and helped him to the bathroom when crawling was his only hope of getting there by himself. She would head down to Gotham and pick them all up take out multiple times a day if needed. Not to mention all the constant changing and checking of bandages. She treated wound maintenance the same as weapon maintenance, and never let Jason slack on medications or changing bandages or washing.

While he was recovering, he was in constant contact with the other bats, which he found more than a little surprising. It took him a while to notice it, since he couldn’t stand looking at his phone screen for the first week or so, but Barbara must have given his cell number out to everyone. He was getting phone calls from Dick, text messages from Steph and Cass and even Damian. Even Kate texted him once to make sure he was okay, since no one had seen him since before the invasion. It was sweet of her, considering that Jason had thought she was more likely to arrest him than worry about him. Bizarro obligingly would read the text messages out loud in his halting, rumbling voice and then carefully tap out simple responses for Jason.

Recovery was slow-going, even with all the bats texting him and Artemis and Bizarro there to keep him company. Jason listened to an obscene amount of audiobooks and podcasts and not a lot else for almost two months before he finally got cleared for duty right around Christmas.

Gotham was cold and wet the first night he went out, because of course it was. It had snowed weeks ago and piles of filthy snow were piled in every corner, frozen solid and disgustingly dirty. Strings of colorful lights blinked from around apartment windows and strung around shop doorways. The roofs were icy and dangerous, glittering with thin layers of almost invisible ice.

Jason was paired up with Steph the first night, but it was cold as shit and Jason was out of shape after weeks of lying around and trying not to shake his brains up too much or pop any stitches. They only patrolled for an hour before giving up and picking up some coffee to sip from on top of Monarch Theater while they looked down at the streets below.

“So, you’re coming to the party, right?” Steph burst out when Jason was halfway through his coffee.

He turned to look at her with raised eyebrows that she unfortunately wouldn’t see under his domino mask. “Have you been stewing on that one all night?” he asked.

Steph fidgeted a little with her gloves, but didn’t answer.

The party she was talking about was a Christmas party Babs and Dick had organized at the Clock Tower. Bizarro had painstakingly read out Babs’ very kind and heartfelt invitation weeks ago when Jason had still been struggling to look at his phone screen for more than a few seconds at a time, but he had never gotten around to answering her one way or another. The longer it took him to answer, the less he knew what he should say.

Based on what he saw people talking about in the group chat, it was going to be a pretty big party. All the Gotham vigilantes (except for the Bat himself) were going, including a fair few out-of-towners. Damian was staying with the Kents for the time being, so Jon and Lois were going to come along to escort him to the party. Leslie had agreed to come, along with the sibling pair Harper and Cullen Row, who apparently had briefly been involved in the vigilante life. Someone had dug Jean-Paul out from whatever rock he had been living under and extracted a promise from him to attend. It sure sounded like it was going to be quite the shindig. But, that just made Jason even more unsure if it was the right thing to attend.

“Babs invited me,” Jason eventually said. It was true, and it didn’t commit him to one answer or another.

“I know,” Steph replied. “She told us she would, and she asked us not to bug you about it, so we didn’t!” she said, getting louder and talking faster as she talked “But, I know that everyone wants you to be there, so, you know. I just really hope you come,�� she finished, muttering into her waxed paper coffee cup.

Jason felt incredibly uncomfortable, but it was hard to put his finger on why exactly. People wanted him at this Christmas party, and that felt like something he should be happy about, regardless of whether he intended to go or not. So, why did he feel like shit instead?

“You guys don’t want me at your party,” Jason said hesitantly, grinning at Steph and elbowing her a little in the side, enough to get a dirty look from her. “I’m the dangerous loose canon, remember? I’m sure half the people there would sooner eat shit than wish me Merry Christmas.”

“Fuck them, then,” Steph said viciously, surprising Jason. “If they don’t want you there, then we don’t want them there. That’s it,” she spit.

“Come on, Steph,” Jason sighed. “I’m not worth all that. If people don’t like me, I’m sure they have more than enough good reason.”

“I’m serious,” she said defiantly.

Jason didn’t know what to say to that. He turned back around to look out at the quiet street below. A group of twenty-somethings clustered outside the theater’s back door, likely a bunch of actors just out of rehearsal. Their breaths rose in clouds of white around their heads, sounds of laughter and rapid talking echoing off the alley walls and back up to him.

“It’s been over a year since Tim left, you know,” Steph said quietly.

“I know,” Jason replied.

“We all felt like shit on the anniversary, you know?” she continued. “I mean, not only were you hidden away with your real friends recuperating where none of us could chec on you, but Damian was out of Gotham staying with the Kents in Metropolis. And then the anniversary comes around and like?” she stopped to sniff a little. “Like, he’s really not coming back, huh?” she tried to make her voice sound chipper, but it was thick with unshed tears.

“Steph,” Jason sighed.

“No, it's okay. I mean, I know it’s not all about me,” she laughed wetly. “Like, trust me, I get that. But, he was my best friend for years, you know? And I had a lot of feelings for him. Some were good and some were bad, but they were all big emotions. I know sometimes that was too much for him. And that’s fair. I know I’m kind of a lot for a lot of people. But, I just,” she stumbled and went to rub her nose on her nose on her sleeve before remembering she was wearing tough reinforced gloves and instead switched to wiping with the end of her cape. “I just miss him, you know? I wish I could talk to him about all this stuff that’s happened. I just miss my friend.”

“I’m sorry, Steph,” Jason said somberly. Hesitantly, he put his hand on Steph’s shoulder, and she sniffed again before giving him a wet smile.

“You know, I used to think you were a Grade A asshole?” she said with a smile.

“Oh jeez, did you?” Jason joked back with a toothy smile. “Whatever gave you that idea?” he teased.

“Shut up, ass,” she snorted, elbowing him a lot harder than he had elbowed her. “I’m trying to say I was wrong!”

“Mm, I don’t know about that,” Jason said with a doubtful wrinkle of his brow.

“You know, a lot of people treat Damian like he can handle anything. He sure acts like he can handle anything. But, Babs pulled the audio from Damian’s comm and I know that you tried to look out for him on Halloween,” Steph said with a pointed look.

“Any of you would have done that,” Jason dismissed.

“Yeah, we would have. We understand Damian better than most. Maybe you just fit in with us better than you think you do,” Steph said with an arched brow.

“Watching out for a literal child doesn’t disqualify you from being an asshole,” Jason muttered, taking a sip of his coffee and grimacing when it was cold.

“And, I heard you made up with everyone’s favorite big brother, too,” Steph added smugly.

“He’s not that bad,” Jason sighed.

“And, you’ve been like Oracle’s errand boy, checking up on us and doing odd jobs whenever she asks for it,” Steph sang.

“She’s spread thin! She needs the help!” Jason protested.

“I’m just saying!” Steph exclaimed, meeting Jason’s loudness. “That you’re nothing like the person that everyone told me you were. When I was Spoiler, I can’t tell you how many people told me the story about the Robin that died,” she said with a twist to her mouth like she had just tasted something sour. “It sounded so cliché that I really didn’t even believe you actually existed until you came back to life. I mean, it just felt too convenient for B to have this story handy whenever I stepped out of line. And then you came back and came after Tim and broke the Joker out of Arkham!”

Jason froze, his stomach twisting into knots at the direction the conversation had suddenly taken. He knew he had no right to react badly to a recounting of his own actions. He had really done those things after all, all explanations aside, he had really hurt Tim and really broken the Joker out of a secure mental facility. Still, having it all said so casually made his dinner threaten to come back up.

“But, you know, I died too,” Steph said quietly. “I did a bunch of stuff I wasn’t proud of and got into a lot of trouble, and things didn’t turn out okay for me. I died on the operating table. It was pure luck that the doc was able to bring me back. And, you know,” here Steph stopped and turned serious eyes on Jason. “I was mad as hell for a long time. And, I wasn’t just mad at Black Mask. I was mad at B. Mad as hell.”

Jason felt frozen. He couldn’t breathe or speak.

“Black Mask was only doing exactly what he always did. He was a sadistic, evil asshole. He destroys everyone who gets in his way, and I was no exception. I could hate Sionis for what he did to me, but I didn’t feel betrayed by him. It was B who betrayed me,” she said fiercely.

“He was the one who put me in the Robin suit. He was the one who threw me out on the streets and then did nothing to protect me! And then when I died, he turned me into a cautionary tale, just like you. I was the bad Robin, the Robin that didn’t listen, I was what happened to ill prepared heroes who thought they were untouchable,” Steph spat. “Except, I came back after only a few months, and he still didn’t stop telling my story to anyone who would listen. So, I hated him with everything in me.” She sighed and turned back to the quiet street. The people had gone back inside the theater and the only sound was the sound of cars driving down wet streets.

“And, I don’t know why I didn’t think about you. I don’t know why I didn’t realize that I wasn’t unique. You had gone through the exact same shit as me. It wasn’t until this year and all the shit that’s happened that I really thought about it, and it’s like? Wow, it’s so obvious now! I really just believed all those stories, even when I knew he had told the exact same stories about me!”

Steph paused and looked at Jason again, her eyes a little less serious. Jason just looked at her, totally frozen. She had really just rearranged his heart on a frigid roof in the Bowery without lifting a finger

“Anyway, I’m trying to say that if you’re invited, it’s because we want you there. You showed up for us this past year, and that means something to all of us. So, come to our stupid party. We want you there.”

“Well, shit,” Jason sighed, something old untying itself in his chest as he breathed out. He rubbed the back of his neck nervously. “How the fuck am I supposed to say no to that?”

Steph laughed and tapped the edge of her coffee cup against Jason’s with a triumphant grin.

“Easy,” she said. “You don’t!”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jason went to the party.

Something in his gut still rebelled at the idea, but his talk with Steph stuck with him. Those people were his people. They had stood by him the past year, when it would have been a lot easier for them to just ignore him. The least he could do was show up at their silly holiday get together with a crock pot full of turkey chili as a peace offering.

He got there a little bit early because he brought food and felt it was only fair to help set up his own crock pot and any other bits that needed to be set up. He needn't have bothered, though. As soon as he got there, it was apparent that Barbara and Dick had everything well in hand. And Alfred, who Jason saw and then immediately tried his best not to make eye contact with. It had never occurred to him that Alfred himself would attend, but he had no idea why he had thought that. Alfred might have been Bruce’s adoptive father for all intents and purposes, but he didn’t always stick with Bruce. Hell, he didn’t even agree with him most of the time. And Alfred had always loved kids, and had loved Dick and Jason in all of Jason’s memories of him. Jason couldn’t see that changing with the kids that came after him. Of course, Alfred would have to help them set up their extended family holiday party.

Jason stepped into the clock tower’s top room. It had been cleared out, all of Babs’ monitors and humming towers shoved against the walls for the time being. Jason accidentally made eye contact with Alfred for the barest of seconds before immediately turning to Steph and starting to chatter manically. He could tell from the raised eyebrow that he was talking way too loud and way too fast, but she was good enough to go along with it.

Luckily for Jason, if Alfred noticed his obvious avoidance tactic, he at least honored it and stayed near the fold out table where he was fussing with various warmer plates and trays of cookies.

He didn’t have to make small talk for long before everyone else started to show it. And once they started to show up, Jason was kind of stunned by just how many people there were.

All the core group of Gotham vigilantes were there. Barbara, Dick, Steph and Cass were all there before anyone else had gotten there (along with Alfred). The wider group of vigilantes in the city also showed up: Luke Fox, Kate Kane, Jean-Paul Valley, Jason Blood, Harper and Cullen Row, Helena Bertinelli, and even Selina Kyle. Beyond that, people from the Justice League even made appearances. Black Canary and J’onn J’onnz (although it was hard to be sure since he looked like a very bland businessman, but Jason assumed that was him) came in together and seemed to know everyone by name.

By the time that the party was really in motion and everyone was talking and mingling, and low classy music was playing over Bluetooth speakers, Jason was feeling more than a little out of place. It didn’t help that he couldn’t remember the last time he was in the same room with that many people, but if he had to make a guess, it was probably before he died. He wasn’t sure how to stand or where to put his hands that it wouldn’t look awkward, and he wasn’t sure what his face was doing, but judging by the weird looks people gave him when they chanced eye contact, it was probably not exactly inviting.

It must have been pretty clear that he was not doing great, because he seemed to have at least one bat stuck to him all night. In any other situation, that would have been frustrating, but Jason couldn’t help but feel grateful for the assist.

Steph stuck with him initially. She was easy to talk to and seemed to pick up on his queues quickly and easily. It was like they spoke the same language, and she seemed to understand what he needed without him having to say a thing.

Once people really started to show up, she tapped out for Babs, who seemed to enjoy pulling him over into a corner so that he could stand over her while they both avoided greeting the people just arriving.

“I feel like I’m being used,” Jason muttered into the red solo cup she had passed him before she had dragged him off. He had counted five people by that point that had seen Babs, started to walk toward her and then noticed Jason standing just behind her and instead turned off toward the snack table.

“You’ve got to pay me back for all the free intel sometime,” she said with a smug grin tossed over a shoulder.

Jason snorted into his cup to hide his pleased expression.

After most of the guests had arrived and had been greeted and loaded up with paper plates full of food and snacks, Dick tagged a reluctant Babs out. She made a disgusted face as she rolled off to make small talk, but Jason took notice that her smile looked genuine when she pulled up between Dinah and Selina’s chairs to chat.

“Doing okay?” Dick asked, nudging Jason’s shoulder with his own as they leaned against the exposed brick wall.

“Yeah, fine,” Jason answered back. His red solo cup had long ago been emptied, but Alfred was still hovering near the snack table, so Jason would make do with just the one cup of mulled wine. He tapped his plastic cup against the brick rhythmically.

“I’m really glad you came tonight,” Dick said, tipping forward to try and catch Jason’s eye. When Jason did glance over at him, the warmth and affection in Dick’s face were definitely too much to handle when he was already feeling a little overwhelmed. He had to look away quickly.

“Yeah, well,” Jason coughed. He felt his neck flush red at the hoarse quality of his voice. “I think Steph would have cut me down at the knees if I didn’t.”

Dick let out a bark of a laugh, his smile so big his sharp white canines flashed in the colorful lights strung along the ceiling beams. “Ha, yeah! That sounds like her. I’m glad we can count on her to push you around when all else fails.”

Just then, Wally West, Garfield Logan and Victor Stone stepped through the door, followed by two people Jason definitely hadn’t expected to see.

“JASON!” Kori shouted, startling half the room when she flew up and over everyone’s heads to reach him where he was standing in the corner and swoop him into a big hug. Jason’s flush climbed from his neck all the way up to his ears at all the eyes turned toward him.

“Shit, Kori, what-?” Jason stuttered out.

“WE DIDN’T KNOW YOU WOULD BE HERE!” Kori shouted right into his ear, her understanding of acceptable volume levels no different from when he had known her.

Everybody was looking at them, from what little that Jason could see of the rest of the room beyond Kori’s hair. He sort of wanted to burrow into her and disappear. She would have loved that, but Jason’s pride wouldn’t let him.

“Wally!” Dick shouted happily, being similarly squeezed by his own red head just to Jason’s right.

“RICHARD!” Kori shouted before abandoning Jason to attach herself to the side of Wally and Dick’s hug. All three of them broke out in delighted laughter, while Jason was left floundering under the stares of what felt like every single person in the cape community.

“Roy!” Roy Harper yelled sarcastically as he ambled up to Jason at a much slower pace. Jason immediately relaxed and opened his arms to pull Roy into a much less smothering hug.

“Shit, man! Am I glad to see you,” Jason sighed.

Roy laughed and patted his back before stepping back. “Same to you!” he exclaimed. “I knew this was a bat party, but I didn’t know you would be here. To be honest, I didn’t think you guys were on good enough terms,” Roy said the last part in a lower volume.

“It’s, uh,” Jason floundered for an easy explanation, but didn’t find any, “It’s sort of a new development,” he said with a half-hearted shrug.

“Are we happy about this development?” Roy asked, moving in to put his arm around Jason’s shoulder so that he could ask this quietly in his ear.

“Reserving judgement for now, but I’m hopeful,” Jason said after a pause to think.

Roy nodded like he understood completely, and he probably did. Roy was supportive and nonjudgmental about whatever relationship Jason had or didn’t have with Bruce, and Jason was the same way about Roy’s whole thing with Oliver. It was both extremely weird and extremely gratifying to know someone who was in such a fucked up and yet incredibly similar situation to his own.

The party seemed to fly by after that. Jason was folded into the mini-party within a party of all the current and ex-teen titans, which gave him mixed feelings. On one hand, all of these people were in his age group, and he had briefly belonged to the Teen Titans before his death. So, in that way, he knew it made sense for Roy and Kori to pull him along to the big table commandeered by current and former titans. But, on the other hand, despite knowing or having met most of them, none of them had tried to contact him since his miraculous return from the dead and the attempts at small talk they made during the party were stilted at best. Jason on his part sat sandwiched between Kori and Roy, stealing food off their plates, while he let most of the conversation roll over him like water.

It felt like he had barely been at the table for half an hour when the door opened again and this time a windswept Clark Kent was stepping into the clock tower’s top floor, already stopping to apologize for being late to a mild looking Alfred while Lois, Jon and Damian dodged around him to enter the room.

Jason knew it was probably rude, but he couldn’t help but follow Damian with his eyes. Everyone had assured him that he was fine, but this was the first time Jason had seen him since the invasion on Halloween. As far as he could tell, he looked okay. He was moving normally, his face still stuck in a perpetual frown, though Jason figured that maybe the semi-permanent grooves between his eyebrows looked a little softer and the tension in his shoulders just a little less tight.

He didn’t get a chance to look at Damian for more than a few seconds before Damian’s eyes, which had been scanning the crowd, landed on him and firmed into a determined glare. Jon had been chattering excitedly to him about something, pointing at someone on the other side of the room, but Damian ignored him and started walking towards Jason like he was the only person in the room.

“Damian!” Dick shouted when he got close, jumping to his feet in excitement. Jason had a moment to wonder if it had been as long since Dick had seen Damian too, but only a moment before Damian had dodged around Dick without any acknowledgement to stand at perfect attention beside Jason’s chair.

“Todd,” Damian said stiffly.

“Hey, Damian,” Jason said a little awkwardly. He gave Dick an apologetic shrug over Damian’s shoulder, but he just smiled and sat down to rejoin a heated conversation between Vincent and Garfield.

Damian’s mouth twisted and Jason thought he was probably chewing on his tongue as he frowned down at him. Jason tried to look as patient and open as he could.

“About Halloween,” Damian started, sounding stiff and uncomfortable. His eyes glanced nervously at Kori and Roy. Roy was trying to pretend not to listen, but Kori’s glittery green eyes were raptly watching Damian. She had no concept that her attention might bother him at all, but judging by the way that his eyes danced around her without quite making eye contact, Jason felt confident that it was.

Damian hesitated, his mouth opening and then closing, his brow crumbling for a second before firming up again as he forced out, “I was hoping to tell you-. That is-”

“I have to hit the john,” Jason said, definitely way too loudly, judging by the way everyone’s eyes jumped to him as he stood to his full height. Damian’s mouth clicked shut, and he took a step back. “Come with me?” Jason added awkwardly, feeling like a fool, but also not caring all that much. It was better that everyone’s eyes be on him than Damian. He was an adult, so he could handle the attention for a few seconds.

Damian looked confused, but his chin dipped in a quick nod. Jason led the way out of the big room and down into the living area of the Clock Tower, just below the top floor. He could hear the sounds of someone using the bathroom already, but that wasn’t really his goal anyway. He made a detour into the living room and took a seat on the arm of the sofa. It was halfway through the party, so he wasn’t expecting anyone else to come through the door. At least here, Damian would have some privacy to say whatever he wanted to say.

“Okay, you can go,” Jason said with a sigh, enjoying being away from the party for a bit.

Damian didn’t stand at attention or hide his hands behind his back or make eye contact once they were in the living room. It should have been a sign that he felt more comfortable without the eyes of the rest of the hero community on him, but somehow Jason felt that wasn’t the case. When Damian wasn’t operating under pressure or extreme expectations, he looked a lot more like a lonely teenage boy than the snarling prince he presented to everyone else.

“I just wanted to say I’m sorry,” Damian directed to the tips of his snow boots, still wet with the slush lining the sidewalks outside.

“What?” Jason frowned. “You don’t owe me an apology, Damian,” Jason worked to gentle his voice from the snarl it wanted to come out as, but didn’t manage to smooth all his aggression out of it.

“I was the one that wanted to ignore orders and press all the way to the alien landing ship. I was the one who activated the teleportation pad. I was the one who wanted to push deeper into the mothership. And, I was the one who wanted to destroy the engine. Therefore, it is because of me that you incurred Father’s wrath,” Damian said. He enunciated every word so perfectly that Jason knew in his bones that these were things that Damian had repeated to himself over and over in the weeks since they had last seen each other.

“Damian,” Jason sighed. He took a deep breath and rubbed his hands over his face hard. He kept careful control over his breathing, trying to master the swirling mess of emotions tangling up in his head and chest. Jason hated that Damian was blaming himself for this. He hated that Damian even knew about it. He wondered who had told him. It was beyond inappropriate to talk about that kind of stuff in front of, regardless of how mature Damian tried to present himself. He was still just a kid, and Bruce was still his dad. Damian didn’t need to know all the dirty details of what was going on between Jason and Bruce.

But those were all considerations for later. Jason didn’t have time to sort through all that mess just then. Damian was in front of him, and Jason needed to clear the air before he worried about anything else.

Jason considered touching Damian to communicate his sincerity, but he remembered how complicated his own relationship was to touch at Damian’s age and decided against it. Instead, he leaned down to try and catch Damian’s eye and lowered his voice.

“Damian. Really listen to me, okay? Okay?” Jason repeated when Damian didn’t respond. Damian nodded just barely and Jason continued. “Nothing that Bruce does is your fault.” At this, Damian’s brow furrowed, and his mouth immediately popped open to reply. Jason was glad that at least he was making eye contact. “No, listen,” Jason cut him off before he could say anything. “Bruce is an adult and your guardian. That means it is his responsibility to control himself and his emotions. Not yours. And anyone who tries to tell you otherwise is wrong,” Jason emphasized, holding Damian’s eyes even when his expression crumpled from one of indignation to hurt.

“On top of that, you didn’t do anything wrong that day,” Jason added and earned himself Damian’s eyes again, his eyebrows rising in surprise. Jason started to tick things off on his fingers. “You were right that we were running out of ammo. Without it, neither of us would have been able to keep the aliens pinned on the beach. Activating the teleportation pad was an accident, you can’t be held responsible for that. If I had taken your place on the wall, it could have just as easily been me. You were right that we had the element of surprise and could disable their shields from the inside. And, unless my memory is going, I was the one with the bright idea to chuck a hand grenade at a mysterious alien engine.”

Jason used the hand he had been counting things off on to gesture at Damian. “All your decisions made perfect sense that day. Do I wish that someone other than you had made those connections and taken those risks? Of course. All those heroes were there and nobody thought to consider how the landing ships were funneling aliens onto shore without making a million trips! But, you did, and you stopped them. You’re a hero, Damian,” Jason said sincerely.

Damian’s eyes filmed over for a second, his face doing something complicated that sent a little shot of fear into Jason. He didn’t have the faintest idea what he would do if he actually made Damian cry. Probably run for the hills when the whole bat family came to put his head on a pike.

“I just want you to know that I’m not upset at you at all,” Jason hurried to add, his mouth moving before his brain had any input. “In fact, I couldn’t feel more differently from all those things you said. You really impressed me, Damian.”

Damian sniffed hard and rubbed the sleeve of his thick gray sweater over his eyes a few times, and Jason very carefully made his face blank and didn’t move, even though he was screaming a little in his head. It was hard to imagine that Damian had been that tore up over him, Jason Todd, the certified fuck-up of the family, getting shook around a bit by their mutual father figure. But, then, he had always suspected that Damian was softer than he or anyone else made him out to be, and he had dealt with a lot of shake ups in his life recently. He hoped that was all it was.

When Damian’s arm came down, he was back to looking haughty and disaffected, even if his eyes and nose were touched with pink.

“Of course, that’s to be expected,” Damian said, coughing a little when the words came out rough. “You have likely never worked with a true professional such as myself.”

“I’ve got to say, it was very refreshing,” Jason agreed with a wolfish grin that Damian returned with an uncertain upturning to the corners of his mouth.

“I am grateful that this matter has been resolved. Now, I must return to the party,” Damian said awkwardly, tucking his hands behind his back.

“Of course. I know everyone is anxious to see you,” Jason agreed, climbing to his feet and quickly popping his back.

“Hm,” Damian hummed his agreement and then practically teleported back up the stairs, leaving Jason to stand a little bewildered in the living room.

“So,” he said quietly to himself. “That happened.”

Jason returned to the party. He took notice of Jon and Damian disappearing up into the rafters together just as he stepped into the room, but everyone including Clark seemed to ignore it, so he did too. He was glad that Damian had Jon and that they were so close. Jason got the impression that Damian had never had a friend before Jon, so it was good that he could talk to him about all the crazy things in his life.

Jason returned to his seat between Roy and Kori and tried his best to ignore the stares of people watching him for any clue as to what he had just talked to Damian about. It was absolutely none of their business.

It was surprising to him how quickly the party chewed through his energy. It wasn’t like he had been looking forward to it or that he thought he would enjoy the party. But, he had to admit, it was a lot more pleasant than he had been expecting. Still, when he saw a few people making their way to the door, he was quick to take the opening to slip out himself. He bid a warm farewell to Roy and Kori, promising to talk more soon, and only a slightly less warm goodbye to the other titans. He made a point to say goodbye to Babs, Steph, Cass and even waved at Damian where he was still perched in the rafters and was surprised to receive a small wave back.

Jason gathered his crock pot and was giving it a quick rinse in the kitchen downstairs when he ran into the one person he was hoping he would make it through the night without having to make small talk to.

“Master Jason,” a mild British accent said from behind him just as he was wiping out his crock pot with a paper towel. Jason froze and couldn’t for the life of him imagine what he should do. He did feel guilty about avoiding him all night, but that didn’t mean he wanted to be confronted by Alfred any more than he had before.

Jason had nothing but good memories of Alfred Pennyworth. As much as the League of Assassins and the pit had twisted him up, Alfred was one thing they never touched. The League likely never bothered because they didn’t consider him important enough to spin. The pit didn’t seep into those memories because there were just no negative feelings associated with them. Alfred was a force of uncomplicated goodness in Jason’s early life. Even at his most angry, Jason had a hard time working up even a vague dislike of Alfred.

But, he didn’t have a hard time feeling hurt over him.

Alfred always stuck up for him with Bruce when he was a kid. He was always kind and warm to Jason, in his own uniquely British way. When Jason had been in the midst of being the absolute worst version of himself, he had to make sure he didn’t think about Alfred at all. The littlest thing that reminded him of the kind old man would send him into spirals of self-doubt and self-hatred that could stall him out for days.

But for all the high esteem that Jason held for him, Alfred had never tried to make contact with him. Not when he first came back, not when he was in prison, not even after he went straight and started living in Gotham full time. Surely it would have been no problem for Alfred to find Jason if he had wanted to. And Bruce wouldn’t have been able to stop him even if he wanted to. Alfred has never bent to what Bruce wanted, no matter how much of a fit he threw.

So, why had Alfred never come to see him? He’d never even given him a phone call, and Jason would never believe that Alfred couldn’t get a phone number if he needed it.

He had assumed it meant that Alfred didn’t forgive him for the terrible things he had done when he first came back to Gotham. Not that he blamed him. He probably wouldn’t have forgiven himself either if he was in the old man’s place.

Still. It didn’t make Jason want to share a room with him.

Jason opened his mouth to reply, but his voice was a croak, so he cleared his throat and tried again.

“Hey, Alf,” he said, trying to sound casual but still sounding strangled.

Jason remained staring forward blankly as the older man stepped carefully up behind him and reached into the sink from beside Jason. A clatter of dirty spoons banged into the stainless steel sink, and Jason controlled a flinch at the loud sound.

“I can’t tell you how happy it made me to see you tonight,” Alfred said, his voice sounding thick in a way that Jason had never heard before. Alfred was unshakable, Jason thought he must have been mistaken about what he had just heard. He turned on the hot water and started to clean the spoon with dish soap, his pressed white shirt rolled up to his elbows.

Jason turned to look down at Alfred, and Alfred turned to meet his eyes with perfect timing. His hazel eyes had more lines around them than Jason remembered when he was a boy. His hair was looking thinner and his hands more wrinkled. But, most of all, his eyes were filmed with real tears as he looked at Jason.

“You grew into a fine young man, quite in spite of everyone around you,” Alfred continued, his voice growing even thicker.

“Alf,” Jason choked out, any good he had done clearing his throat gone. His voice revealed to anyone listening just how close to tears he was.

Alfred put one soft worn hand on Jason’s neck and whispered “Oh, dear boy” and Jason collapsed into his arms like he was thirteen all over again.

The hug was so similar to what he remembered from his time in the manor. Alfred’s clothes smelled exactly like the particular blend of the laundry detergent he used on everyone’s clothes and his own old school aftershave and a faint whiff of cologne. His arms were still strong, if thin, where they wrapped around Jason’s shoulders. He still leaned his head against Jason’s while he cried. The only big difference was that Jason had to lean down to hug him instead of Alfred leaning down for him.

“Alfred, why-” Jason tried to ask, once it felt like the tears were drying up. But, he stumbled and couldn’t get the words out. He wanted to know why Alfred had never contacted him, never reached out, but it felt too dangerous. They had exchanged maybe twenty words. Couldn’t Jason savor the reunion a little before destroying everything?

Jason swallowed his words, but Alfred heard what he didn’t say anyway. Alfred was always excellent at hearing the words that went unsaid.

“I was a terrible old fool,” Alfred said fiercely. “I listened to the wrong people and trusted people I knew weren’t always trustworthy. But, those are excuses, and you don’t deserve excuses, my boy. You deserve an apology, and that’s the least I owe you. I’m so sorry, Jason.”

Jason sobbed out a gut punched, “Shit,” and then let himself collapse back onto Alfred’s shoulder again.

The tears were stronger the second time around, the kind of crying that felt like it was tearing your chest up from the inside out. He held Alfred tight, but tried to remember not to hold him too tight. He felt so much smaller than Jason remembered, and he couldn’t get over the difference it made.

At some point, Jason heard footsteps coming into the kitchen, but he couldn’t be fucked to pull himself together. Luckily, it was just Dick.

“Is he-?” Dick started to ask, his footsteps quickening as he approached Jason and Alfred.

“He’s alright,” Alfred said, his own voice tinged with tears. “Here we are, my boy. We’re quite alright, aren’t we?” Alfred asked, patting Jason on the back until he finally straightened up and tried to wipe his face off on his sleeve. Alfred offered him a handkerchief, and he gladly used that instead.

Dick stepped up on Jason’s other side and put a cautious hand on his shoulder.

“Master Dick, could you handle the rest of the cleanup? I have something to show master Jason out in the car,” Alfred asked.

“Sure thing, Alf,” Dick agreed easily. “You okay, big guy?” Dick asked, not letting go of Jason.

“Yeah, yeah,” Jason said, giving his nose one last trumpeting blow and then pocketing the handkerchief, so he could wash it and return it later. And, fuck, did Alfred do that on purpose? Selina could only aspire to be as subtle.

Dick clapped Jason on the shoulder and then moved off to the sink and started the process of washing all the serving spoons.

“Accompany me?” Alfred asked, holding out his elbow in a solicitous move that Jason was pretty sure only an English gentleman could unironically pull off.

“Lead the way,” Jason agreed nasally, still congested from all the crying. He put his hand in Alfred’s proffered elbow with a quirk of a smile at the whimsy of it.

Alfred tipped his head regally and then lead Jason out into the Clock tower living room and out the front door. They walked at a leisurely pace, Alfred’s hand resting on top of Jason’s where he held onto Alfred’s warm wool sweater. They walked down the stairs side by side and down into the cold, wet evening. Somehow it was both cold and humid, which was a nasty combination that Gotham always excelled at.

They walked together through the nearly empty streets for a little over a block until they reached a small parking lot squeezed in between two tall brick buildings. A classy black BMW sedan sat toward the back of the lot, and Alfred led them over to it.

“You are the only one that has seen Timothy since he left, though only from a distance, is that right?” Alfred asked as he used his key fob to unlock the car with a quiet clunk of gears.

“Uh, yeah, that’s right,” Jason said uncertainly. He hadn’t really thought about what Alfred might have in the car for him, but he hadn’t thought it would have anything to do with Tim.

“I have a bit of a confession to make,” Alfred said, pausing as he pulled the passenger door open. He turned to regard Jason with a mischievous tilt to his mouth. “You’ll have to keep it to yourself, as I haven’t told anyone yet.”

“Oh?” Jason asked, still feeling decidedly off center.

“Master Timothy and I have been sharing phone calls recently. Very pleasant ones. He seems to be doing very well, which I am exceedingly happy to hear. But, I worry that he is lonely out in the country by himself.”

Alfred, turned back to the car and pulled out a white bakers box secured with a shiny green and red ribbon. “I seem to recall that both you and Timothy were very fond of my almond cookies. I wonder if you could share these with him?”

Jason’s mouth dropped open, and it was only when Alfred curved an amused eyebrow at him that he snapped it shut.

“Are you serious? You want me to deliver him cookies?” he asked uncertainly.

“I want you to share them,” Alfred corrected him.

“I don’t know how to tell you this, Alf, but I don’t think it’s a leap to say that I’m probably Tim’s least favorite person,” Jason said with a wry tilt of his mouth.

“I think there are an almost endless number of people who could say that and make a very good argument for it. Most of them were at the party we just left,” Alfred said in his most dry tone of voice. “I think the two of you have more in common than may be obvious at first glance.”

“You aren’t worried about what I’ll do to him all alone out in the wilderness?” Jason asked, taking the box just to avoid the awkwardness of watching Alfred hold it out for so long.

“I think you’ve proven many times over that you are not the monster that people try to make you out to be,” Alfred said in a quiet and sad voice.

Which just made the tears rush back to Jason’s eyes, so he cleared his voice and tucked the box under his arm.

“Okay, okay. Point made. Call me your delivery boy, then,” Jason said roughly.

“Excellent, my boy,” Alfred said and pressed a hand to Jason’s cheek in an unbearably fond gesture. Alfred swallowed roughly. “Do take care of yourself. And, give me a call whenever you feel the need. My personal number is in the box.”

With that, Alfred walked around the car and got into the driver’s seat and drove off into the wet Gotham night.

Jason looked down at the box in his hands in consternation.

He sighed.

“Guess I’m going to Pennsylvania. Fuck.”

#life down on the farm #two weeks notice #fanfiction #jason todd #red hood #stephanie brown #spoiler #batgirl #damian wayne #robin #alfred pennyworth #cliff hanger #sort of #but at least it's finished!!!#don't hate me lol #kittywrites

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