#Cold metal stitching engine

[rebabbitting]

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[vaishalirapower]

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[metalstitchinglocking]

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[pedroschka]

Bat Signal

Eddie Munson x reader

A/n I did NOT write this! all credits go to my dear friend (sweetest little bean) who wrote this for me but wants to stay anonymous. I asked if I could post it because it's just too sweet not to share it

🦇

The plush bat feels soft in Eddie's hands as he turns it over, studying the fuzzy fabric. Its beady eyes stare back at him, little felt fangs peeking out from the stitched mouth. He smooths down the grey fur, fingers lingering on the velvety ears. It's cute, in an ugly sort of way. Just like him.

Sounds of Metallica blast from the stereo speakers behind him, the noise a familiar comfort in the cluttered trailer he reluctantly calls home these days. A half-eaten slice of pizza sits forgotten on the table, grease staining the cardboard box a darker shade of brown. He'd tried to tidy up earlier, shoving dirty laundry and empty beer cans out of sight, but the lingering scent of cigarette smoke and weed remains, clinging to the stained couch cushions.

Eddie sets the bat down, reaching for the fresh pack of cigs in his frayed denim vest pocket. Mentally rehearses what he's going to say when he sees you.

"Hey, I saw this and thought of you," he mumbles around the cigarette, free hand tucking a stray piece of long brown hair behind his ear. "Figured you might like it, since you're into all that goth shit, you know?" He drops his voice, trying to sound cooler, more casual. "I mean, if you want it."

Fuck, that sounds stupid. Eddie sighs, smoke curling from his nostrils. He stubs the cigarette out in the ashtray on the end table, pushing to his feet. His reflection in the cracked mirror by the door stares back at him, all pale skin and dark circles beneath bloodshot eyes. The denim vest hangs off his thin frame, metal band patches and spikes doing little to hide the prominent collarbones beneath his faded Dio t-shirt.

"You look like shit, Munson," he tells himself, lips twisting wryly.

Still, he's got no choice. He's already late and he doesn't want to risk you giving up on him showing. Grabbing the plush bat, he heads out to the van, Corroded Coffin spray-painted in dripping white letters on the side. It takes three tries before the engine sputters to life.

🦇

You’re leaning against the brick wall outside the record store when he pulls up, combat boots tapping restlessly against the sidewalk. Your ripped fishnet stockings gleam beneath the streetlights, eyes finding his as he shifts the van into park.

"Starting to think you weren't gonna show," you say when he approaches. You don't sound mad though, just resigned. Like you expected him to let you down.

"Yeah, sorry about that," Eddie says, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. "I, uh, got held up with something."

You hum noncommittally, gaze dropping to the stuffed animal in his other hand. One pierced eyebrow arches. "What's with the bat? Planning on doing some late night birdwatching?"

Eddie blinks, glancing down like he'd forgotten he was holding it. "What? No, this..." He clears his throat, thrusting it towards you. "This is for you, actually."

Your kohl-rimmed eyes widen fractionally as you take it from him, chipped black nails sinking into the plush fur. You hold it up, examining it in the dim light. A slow smile spreads across your face and Eddie's heart skips a beat in his chest.

"For me, huh?" you murmur, looking up at him from beneath heavy lashes. "Any particular reason?"

Eddie shrugs one shoulder, feigning nonchalance even as his palms grow clammy. "Thought you might like it. Y'know, 'cause it's all spooky and shit. Like you."

You smirk, cradling the bat against your chest possessively. "You saying I'm spooky, Munson?"

"No! I mean, yeah, but like...in a good way," Eddie stammers, feeling his face flush. He scuffs the toe of his scuffed boot against the sidewalk. "Spooky's cool."

You laugh, the sound throaty and warm. It makes something flutter in Eddie's chest, chasing away the cold emptiness that's taken root there. "Well, I guess that makes two of us then."

You tuck the bat under one arm, jerking your head towards the record store behind you. "C'mon, let's go dig through the stacks. I'm in dire need of some new tunes."

"Lead the way," Eddie says, falling into step beside you as you head inside. His shoulder brushes against yours and he feels lighter than he has in weeks, the plush bat a comforting presence between the two of you.

Maybe, just maybe, he's finally found someone who gets it. Someone who looks at him and sees more than just a freak, a burnout, a waste of space.

Someone who makes him feel alive again, like he matters.

Like he's not alone anymore.

🦇

He lets you drag him through the aisles, watching as you flip through the rows of vinyl with deft fingers. You keep the bat tucked in the crook of your elbow the entire time, its beady eyes peering out at the world.

"This little dude's gonna be my new mascot," you declare, holding up a battered copy of Black Sabbath's self-titled album. "He can perch on my bedpost, keep watch over my room."

"Yeah?" Eddie grins, something warm unfurling in his chest at the thought of his gift watching over you. "Guess that means you gotta give him a totally epic name then."

You purse your lips, considering. "Hmm. How about...Ozzy?"

Eddie snorts. "Ozzy the bat? Seriously?"

"What? It's perfect!" You hold the plush up next to the album cover, as if comparing the two. "Look, they've even got the same spaced out expression."

Eddie shakes his head, still grinning. "Whatever you say, weirdo."

"You love it," you counter, bumping your hip against his.

He looks at you, taking in the smudged eyeliner and chipped polish, the ratty Misfits shirt and torn jeans. You are a beautiful mess, just like him.

"Yeah," he murmurs, throat suddenly tight. "I really fucking do."

🦇

[rainyorca]

☾

Reader’s powers are loosely based off a wolf, think Wolfsbane from Wolverine and the X-men.

The moon shines brightly down on the Blackbird, the engine is just a quiet rumble. Most of the team is asleep, quiet snoring fills the soundscape but it's much louder in your ears. 

However there was an absence among those snores, Scott. Unable to sleep, you opened your eyes, seeing his dark silhouette in the pilot seat. You unstrap the seatbelt, getting up and walking to the passenger seat. He didn't seem to notice you at first. 

“Scott,” you say, his name sounding pleasant on your tongue. 

He turns his head to look at you, his visors glowing softly. The moon allows some light in, as well as the glow from the controls, just enough so he could see your face, or so you could see his.

“You’re bleeding,” he states, reaching over to wipe the blood off your face. He only smears it, the blood staining the pad of his thumb when he pulls away. 

“You need to rest,” you hum, watching him turn to look ahead. “I’m not tired,” he responds simply, keeping his eyes on the sky. 

“You can't lie to me,” you point out quietly, “I spent most of my younger years hunting for my food, I know when my prey is tired, Scott.” 

“I'm your prey?” 

“That’s not the point.”

You watch his lips twitch, as if he was planning on saying something, but he stays quiet. You continue to stare at him, eyes looking over his body for any injuries, your nose searching for any sign of blood. 

“You're injured, Scott,” you say when you catch a whiff of his blood, “I can smell it. How long have you been bleeding?”

“I’ll get myself fixed up when we get back,” he looks at you, you can feel the intensity in his eyes. 

“Then at least let me fly.” 

“Absolutely not,” he mutters, dismissing you with a hand, “go rest.”

“I am nocturnal,” you remind him, “it's a part of my mutation, I can't sleep at night for long hours like you guys can without getting restless. Let me fly, or at least watch the autopilot.” 

He presses his lips into a line, like he was trying to decide. “I'm fine,” he responds after a second. You sit back crossing your arms over your chest. He's stubborn, just as much as you, but you like that about each other. 

“Tell me about your past,” he breaks the silence, still looking forward, “you mentioned you lived in Alaska for some time. I’m from Alaska, you know.”

You look at him sideways, furrowing your brows while you think of what to tell him. “What do you wanna know?” you ask, trying to see if there was anything specific.

“Everything,” he returns, “you said you used to hunt for food, tell me about that.”

You explain to him your life during your younger years before joining the X-men, hoping it’ll make him tired or at least bore him to sleep. Your past wasn't all that interesting, but he proceeds to ask you questions, showing he was following along. 

Eventually you guys make it back to the mansion, you go and wake everyone up, except Logan who must have woken up shortly before you arrived. Everyone either hits the showers or immediately goes to crash in their rooms. But you sought out Scott once again. 

He was alone in the laboratory, sitting on one of the cold, metal tables. You watch him from the doorway, his back facing you, but you can hear the pain he's in, see it in the way his body tenses everytime he presses on the wound. There's gauze scattered around the floor below him, all drenched and stained with blood. 

He hisses when he presses another to his wound, his hands shaking from the pain. You walk in quietly, placing a hand on his bare back while you move in front of him. “Didn't want to ask Hank for help?” you ask, slowly reaching down to grab his hand and pull it off his wound. He flinches at your touch but allows you to pull his hand and the gauze away. 

“Didn't want to wake him,” he responds, watching you stare at the wound. “This is a pretty deep wound, Scott,” you say, brows furrowing as you take a closer look, “you wont need stitches but it’ll scar.”

“I know.”

“You need to stop treating yourself like a machine,” you sigh, moving away from him to grab a rag, wetting it with warm water and then walking back, “you keep this up you’ll end up falling apart. Hold still.” 

You carefully rub the area around the wound, cleaning up the blood that has spilled onto his skin. Then you pat it dry with the dry side before tossing the rag aside and moving to dig in the drawers for more gauze and bandage. 

“You need to take better care of yourself,” you continue, pressing the gauze on the wound and carefully wrapping him up with the bandage. You feel his warm hand against your face, making you look up at him. His blood gets on your skin, the deep red color leaving its mark. 

You stare up at him, but keep your expression still. “You have such big, beautiful eyes,” he says quietly, barely a whisper. You reach up, resting your hand on his and nuzzling your face into his palm. You close your eyes, letting out a quiet sigh as you take in his scent.

 “More a doe than a wolf,” he murmurs, you open your eyes to look at him, “I wish I could see them more clearly.”

You press your nose to his palm, inhaling his scent again. Scott’s scent is much deeper than just whatever body wash he uses or cologne. You think of it like perfume.

His top notes, what everyone else smells, fresh laundry, slightly floral. His middle notes were amber, a dash of nutmeg. His base notes, the scent you can smell. Pine and sandalwood, aquatic. He had a type of woodsy musk that you loved, reminded you of home. You can smell it through the metallic scent of his blood. 

He always wonders what he smells like to you. Logan describes him to smell different than Scott expected, but with you, maybe it was different.

You could stay here for hours, face in his hand, the ambient sound of machines humming. What was strange about this, you and Scott weren't even in a relationship. You shared these moments of skin to skin contact as often as time would allow, but in secret. The team doesn't know, and in your eyes they don't have to know. People like Jean or Charles have an idea, Logan definitely knows from the way you simply talk about Scott. That man can figure out anything. 

His hand moves from your face, his fingers brushing your lips as he pulls away, staining them red. “Sorry,” he mutters, noticing the large bloody mark on your cheek. You don't say anything, instead you bring your fingers to your lips before swiping your tongue over to clean up the blood.

He hops down from the table, picking up his bloodied gauze, throwing it in the trash, and then picking up his shirt. Your eyes follow him, watching him move about the room before heading to the door. He pauses before looking back at you. 

“Get some rest,” he says simply, the ghost of a smile on his face before he turns off the light and disappears down the hallway.

It felt a lot colder in that room after he left.

My last little drabble with him (for now). I need to focus on finishing the two halloween fics I'm working on. Maybe I'll turn this into a long fic if anyone is interested? This is loosely inspired by this twitter post.

[crosshairs-dumb-pimp-gf]

Disgrace Chapter 5 : Crosshair x F!OC

After the night they had these two attempt to clear the air and ask the questions they've been avoiding, but even as Tah'nyem divulges some of her darkest secrets Crosshair can't help but notice the sudden coldness from his traveling companion. He's left with the decision as to whether or not he lets her pull away as they leave the liminal moon, crossing from his world to plunge headfirst into hers.

Chapter Specific Warnings: Mixed Messages, Brief descriptions of assault and murder (past tense), Gambling, Drinking, Mentions of hiring prostitutes, Heights, Kissing and then more kissing, Unwitting PDA. Crosshair holds a small child.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Authors Note: I was looking this over and found that the first page of this chapter had somehow gotten deleted :') I rewrote it but it has been a weekend fam.

Me: I don't write fluff, no sirree. Also Me:

✨✨✨✨Put the child on the Crosshair✨✨✨✨

Word Count: 7057

Dynamic: Princess x Guard, Speed running Co-dependancy, A Mangy Cat and his Aggressive little Chihuahua. She's a damsel, she's in distress- she can handle it.

<-Previous Chapter - Read On Ao3 {START HERE}

Music Inspo- Pleasure, By Justice Listen on Spotify - Listen on Youtube

-+-=Chapter 5 : Pleasure=-+-

I spread the tattered remains of my bag over the bed spread, and turned to the boxy droid I had found above the utilities  

“You think you can fix it?”

01101110 01101111 00100000 01100011 01101000 01100001 01101100 01101100 01100101 01101110 01100111 01100101 00100000

A small terminal on its arm flipped to reveal a needle, and with a flash and whir of metal the gap in the luggage was closed. The droid turned, game me a little salute, and collapsed back into its dormant state. You could still see where the rip had been but the stitchwork was good and solid. 

Soft snoring drifted to me from the hall and I looked up at Crosshair’s sleeping shadow in the bottom bunk. 

We had stayed on the beach for quite some time... watching the planet rise.

Eventually the moment ended, Cross gathering our things, wrapping my silk shirt about my shoulders as he ushered us back into the safety of the bunker where we drifted off contentedly to our beds for some much needed, deep sleep.

Looking for more to occupy myself, I opened a few more cabinets around the room, eyeing my father’s emergency wardrobe.Getting an idea I grabbed a pair of suede slacks and a vibrant patterned silk shirt, spreading them on the bed.

“Hey, little buddy, I’m sorry to keep waking you, but do you think you could handle a bigger project?”

The droid peaked out of its folded position to look at the fabrics I selected.

01110111 01101000 01100001 01110100 00100000 01100010 01101001 01100111 00100000 01110000 01110010 01101111 01101010 01100101 01100011 01110100

That at least sounded interested.

“Do you think you could take these in to fit me?”

It circled the garments, then looked me up and down. Apparently pleased with its eyeballed measurements it picked up the pant leg, as well as it could, and pushed it towards me.

01011001 01100101 01110011 00100001 00100000 01001110 01100101 01100101 01100100 00100000 01110111 01100101 01100001 01110010 00100001

That sounded like an affirmative. I took the garments and slipped them on, noticing the light bruising on my inner thighs that suspiciously resembled hip bones. A small smile ghosted over me before I stifled the memories of the night and let the little machine get to work. 

The droid put-putted about on its tiny hover engine, tugging and sewing fabric, a little laser knife trimming where it needed it. 

“You couldn't have done that yesterday?”

I looked up from watching the droid tuck and stitch the waist of the slacks. Crosshair stood in the door frame, scratching the stubble that now covered his chin as he stifled a yawn. His eyes roved over the sleek, black pants suit that was emerging out of the altered materials. It concealed quite a bit more than a draped, oversized button up. 

“Wouldn't that have been a tragedy,”

I turned my attention back down. 

“I'd like to be able to tuck the legs into boots, please,”

He crossed the room to sit on the bed in front of me. 

“Tragedy, huh?”

“Mm, don't tell me you have regrets, Life's too short, my friend,”

“No, no regrets…”

“Something though?”

“... Questions,”

Oh..  

I sighed,

“... Nothing's changed. It would be unwise to continue, you know that… one time thing,”

His eyes seemed to pinch a moment, but it was fast.

“Not… that,”

He reached out, taking my right hand and stroked the small, purple scars barely noticeable on my thumb and forefinger. 

“Who was he?”

Oh. 

“You saw that, did you?”

“Only an idea of it,”

I sighed, as the little droid whistled that it was finished. 

“Thank you … uh,”

I looked at the casing on the little bot,

5T-KH

“Hmm, can I call you Stitch?”

The droid whistled in what I've started to take as a, “yes,” and flashed a little display showing a low battery symbol before it shut into sleep mode once more. 

I sat on the bed, and though I wasn't looking at him I could feel the weight of his gaze. 

“You don't have to tell me, I wanted to ask, just… thought it intrusive, until…”

He trailed off making a vague gesture suggesting, 

“Until, last night,”

Curiosity was an odd look on him, but maybe that's just because I hadn't known him long. 

“Unkles Rah’den and Rah’dheko Kan…”

“Relations?”

“No, I was just encouraged to call them my Unkles, they were long time customers and family friends,”

Silence. A beat, two, and then a whisper,

“What did they do to you?”

It was a rough question, and for a second anger flared over me at his audacity… but I squelched it. I wasn't mad at him, this was an old, sleeping anger.

“It wasn't me… It was Kahtzi,”

He was quiet now, leaving the decisions on how much to divulge in my hands. 

“She thought they were handsome, was always into the super buff type y'know, and uh, asked me to recommend her to them,”

I laid back on the bed to stare at the ceiling, sliding my palms on the comforter to hide how slick they suddenly had become.

“I never got a good vibe from them, but… I didn't think… that,”

I paused, anxiety high, but my voice had gone cold.

“They beat. her… bloody, Cross”

My words, though quiet, hung heavy in the air, my voice thick with the anger that still boiled over the old wound. Guilt and fear and vengeance.

“So, what did you do about it,”

He knew already. He saw it after all, as he looked at his reflection against the shadows in my mind. 

“Widow’s Thistle, it's a native plant on Ga’hah, ve~ry toxi~c… I pretended I didn't know, or just didn't care, about what they did, I seduced them, and once we were alone…I stabbed them with thistle needles.”

I looked over my knee at him as I summarized the murder, I swear a small smile crossed his face. 

“I only saw one,”

“Mm, one of the bastards survived, I stabbed into Rah’Den’s blood stream but lost the element of surprise… Rah’Dehko almost overpowered me, but ended up with an eyeful of toxic needle,

He lived but is horribly disfigured, face all a mess of purple and green veins… bacta doesn't work on skin affected by the toxin,”

“No consequences?”

“No, Vah'hadarr took care of things…”

I trailed off, thinking about my father's past actions and a small wave of fear turned me from chilled to frozen. 

I've been acting selfishly…

I looked at him again, sitting there with elbows on his knees, chin on folded hands. He was staring hard at the wall as if working out the same conclusion.

“Well, I showed you mine… what's your deal, huh?”

“Some other time,”

He got up and went to the fresher, a second later the water was running, and I exhaled long and slow, calming my heart that had, at some point, started to race. 

Well, that doesn't seem fair.

I scooped up the little droid box, putting it back in the utility cubby on its charging port and leaned down to grab the clean laundry out of the wash. The gown was trashed and I pondered pulling Stitch out again but I was in the mood to just abandon it. Crosshair's suit was ready though and I brought it to the fresher, walking in briefly to leave it on the counter. 

“You're suits here, I'm gonna make us some breakfast,”

“Mm…”

It was oddly domestic, this set up, and it was starting to make me uneasy. 

We need to get out of here before this gets out of hand. 

I should have held that thought, as I rounded into the kitchen and caught sight of the data stick blinking on the counter. 

~~~

We prepped to go. The instructions led us to a separate shed with extra fuel, and while Cross made sure the ship was filled, I was grabbing necessities from the bunker. 

All the ready-to-eat food from the kitchen, travel cloaks from the hall closet… What else? 

Oh!

I ran to the utility cubby and snagged Stitch from the little shelf, tucking it into my bag with the extra food and credits. 

All set. 

Confident I was now wasting time, I left, old boots contrasting oddly against the fine fabric of my improvised outfit. They fit, but had a lot of wiggle room and I tried to adjust my gate to the odd sliding feeling, slipping on the stones a few times as I quickly made my way back to the shuttle where Crosshair was waiting. 

The latest set of instructions had us marked to land in the busy port in Nohct City on the dark side of the tidal locked Ga’hah. My father’s good relations in Coruscant had allowed a delay in implementing chain code systems for the tourist port, we can land without registering. From there we meet a transfer who will help us through to one of the edge stations, where we then take the civilian rail to Sohn on the opposite side of the equator mountain range. Complicated, but easier than trying to covertly land directly in Sohn or apparently, send someone to pick me up directly from Nohct. 

Once the moon rotates to face away from its planet, we'd be off. I looked up at the sky now, the massive edge of the gas giant curving across the horizon as it set, still partially blocking the view of the sun. It was almost time. 

I boarded the little ship, dropping the full satchel behind the co-pilot seat and took in the clone lazily reclined in the other, feet on the dash, toothpick in mouth. 

“How long have you been done?”

“Ages,”

“You didn't think to come back for me? Could've helped me carry that,”

I pinched him between the plates on his arm and he slapped back playfully. 

I looked around the dismal little craft. 

Yup, still depressing.

“Everything's ready to leave this place, huh?”

There was an unintended sadness to my tone.

“Almost,”

It must have carried over as a hand slipped around my wrist, drawing me closer to the other chair. 

I knew that look, and resisted, pulling back against the insistent, guiding pressure. 

“What's wrong?”

I sighed, that tingle of fear pricking the edge of my consciousness as I met his questioning eyes. 

“We shouldn't, Once we leave here…”

He tugged more forcefully, and my knees buckled against the chair cushion. I caught myself from falling into him completely, hands finding purchase on the headrest. I had him pinned, but he had the power as he turned my chin down with one hand, tossing his pick aside with the other. 

“For the road?”

…

Kriff it, can't do any more harm…

I leaned down and met his lips, sharing a final kiss before we left our private sanctuary. 

We pulled back slowly after several minutes, a little too hot under the collar to be wise. At some point I had crawled more into the seat to straddle him, the buttons to my top mysteriously undone. 

“You ever been to Ga’hah before?”

It felt silly asking something so basic now. 

“No… tourist trap isn't it?”

“Nohct City sure is, it's where the race track’s located,”

“That I know,”

“You like pod racing?”

“No… that's where we meet our contact,”

~~~

We abandoned the small shuttle in the docking lot, avoiding the attendant droids taking registration and payments while slipping into the throngs of landed people making for the entrance gates to Nohct City. 

Great spotlights framed the gate's pillars, the top of which held up a large arch with carvings of the Three Southern Moons which, if you looked up, loomed large in the sky casting the Southern half of Ga’hah in light and tepid warmth. 

The first impression of the planet was a garish spectacle of bright lights, flashing signs, and various holograms showing examples of the performances held within the buildings they stood upon. 

I noticed Crosshair watching a recording of a towering blue Twi’lek performing an impressive operatic above us as we were swept into the bustling thoroughfare. 

“You want her?”

I had to nearly shout to be heard over the din but he caught what I said and his attention snapped to me. I pull him closer to me to make it easier to talk. 

“She'd normally be above a soldier’s pay grade but… I could get her for you, as a thank you for a job well done?”

He didn't answer, eyes flicking back to the recording with an expression of discomfort. My mind wandered to his goodbye kiss.

I'll be home soon, the mission complete…

“Would it be more tempting if I came along? We could take her together…”

I purred it, and caught the look of surprise I was waiting for. 

Tahny girl, what are you doing?

“Not enough time? Maybe you'd prefer to look me up when you have some leave, back on Coruscant, Kahtzi and I could take care of you…”

The offer was teasing, but there was a hopeful sound to that last part that wasn't a part of the script. A flurry of things passed behind his eyes, his tells were subtle, but easy to learn. I had hit the nerve I was apparently looking for. 

“What about it being a one time thing?”

I need to back off…

“Me and you? Like that? Sure… you have your orders, but your orders only last as long as the mission, right? You can come see me again?”

… That's not backing off. 

I must have reminded him we had a purpose here because he looked back around the crowd. We were jostled by the masses before I could bully an answer out of him and he grabbed hold of my arm, guiding us out of the rushing current of incoming tourists. 

As the path opened up into a wide square I pointed ahead of us.

Framed against the backdrop of the sun lined mountain range, the massive complex that housed the racetrack glowed like a beacon against the sky. 

“That's the track, when do we meet our connection,”

He tapped the data stick and checked the projection against the holopad I took from the bunker. 

“The meetup is in four hours,”

“So time to kill…”

I glanced around the busy square. 

Ah, yes!

“Let's get some caf and cool our heels, yeah?”

“We should lay low,”

I sighed..

“That is laying low, c’mon,”

I hooked his arm and headed to a building off the main corridor, there were groups of spun metal chairs and tables collected under strings of colorful beaded lanterns. Steering for a table with a good view of the square I  fished a handful of credits from the bag still in tow. 

“Here, go grab us something, I'll stay put,”

I crooked my fingers in promise and he hesitated, wanting to protest but unable to find a reason that wasn't petty. Eventually he gave up and asked,

“What do I get,”

I shrugged at that.

“Whatever they recommend,”

He stood a moment looking at the credits in hand before turning to the service counter.

I watched him talk to the Ga'haiian manning the storefront, his shoulders giving away his tension as he leaned on the counter to wait for our order. 

A group crossed my line of vision, and I lost sight of him a few moments as the current ran it's course through the tight aisle between tables. When it cleared however, and I caught sight of the man again I noticed a youngling had broken away from the throng of people and had clung to his leg, mistaking him for whichever chaperone had lost track of him. 

Crosshair jumped, which caused the kid to jump, realizing the clone wasn't the face he was expecting. The child immediately dissolved into tears. 

“Oh…”

I got up to help but Cross was dropping to a knee, still stiff- but with practiced confidence; saying something that slowed the tears and soon the little one was nodding along hopefully. The youngling was answering now, and Crosshair sternly picked him up to sit on his shoulders, making the kid taller than the Ga'haiians speckling the crowd. 

I stayed standing by our table, watching the adorable, if not odd little spectacle play out. He looked good with a little tyke on him like that. 

I caught the soft smile that had started to creep up on me and reset myself into something more neutral. The soldier was pointing to something in the middle distance and the child nodded enthusiastically. They were gone, Crosshair darting into the crowd with surprising dexterity as he delivered the kid back to a pair of panicking adults several paces away. 

He caught me watching him as he made his way back to the counter and I tilted my head in a slight bow raising my hands to give him a soft round of applause. 

My goodness, I think he just blushed. 

I sank back into the metal seat as he was handed two cups topped with whipped foam. One swiftly appeared before me and I flashed him a little sly smile. 

“Good work, soldier,”

“On the caf?”

“On the kid, dummy, looked more natural than I expected… you do that kind of thing a lot?”

“Use to…”

We both sipped our beverages, the bitter acid cut with a sweet, berryish syrup. It was rather good. 

“Is that a story you're willing to tell me?”

“... Maybe,”

Well, that's progress I suppose, but I knew more than he was telling and it was difficult to keep biting my tongue.

And Kahtzi says I'm avoidant. 

“I thought your tattoos were cultural,”

I looked up,

“Hmm?”

“Your makeup,” 

He cocked his head to the Ga’haiian girl behind the counter. 

“They don't seem to have it, or the ink on your arms,”

“Oh… they wouldn't,”

I traced over the fading ink on my wrists,

 “The dedication ceremony isn't really practiced much, I started doing it at some point to be fashionably unfashionable and ended up just… enjoying it,”

“And the tattoos,”

 “These are a practice amongst the nobles of Sohn, most Ga'haiians don't have them,”

…

“You didn't think to mention that earlier?”

“They're not that noticeable…”

His eyes narrowed and darted back to the few visible natives casting unsubtle glances in our direction. 

“I mean it's not uncommon to visit Nohct,”

“We should get off the street,”

“Easy, we're in civilization now, no one's gonna just… jump out at us,”

He didn't ease, instead standing, making an attempt to down the rest of his drink. A feat which would've looked more serious if he didn't get foam on his nose in the process. 

Stifling a giggle I handed him a napkin, standing as well. The man was never completely wrong, and my marks were drawing some attention. 

“Let's go somewhere I'll blend in better,”

I took his arm and started guiding him up the main corridor towards the Grand Casino perched over the prized raceway. It wasn't the only casino lining the massive passage, but if we were to find any congregation from the elitist Sohn side they'd be at the qualifiers banquet. Which, we should avoid, but no one should blink at me wandering around the casino with a bodyguard. 

The building was massive once you were in its shadow. Its front was carved from a solid block of lush blue stone forming sweeping, shallow staircases. Gold inlays were hammered into every step as it led through gates of glowing neon lights blinking a dazzling pattern that would give you a headache if you stared at it directly. 

Crosshair kept glancing at his feet as we crossed the threshold into the massive gambling den. There was an epitaph inscribed on the precious stone foyer in Ga'haiian. 

“By Be'llahl’s Pleasure”

I translated, and he looked up at me. 

“What is Be’llahl the god of…exactly,”

I laughed at that and pushed him further into the building out of the way of incoming patrons. 

“Isn't it obvious?”

We had reached the floor where groups of people gathered around tables of spinning, whirring devices. Some threw dice, some dealt cards, all were engrossed in the thrill of the game. Beautiful men and women of multiple races walked between the tables carrying drink trays to guests and little droids darted about the floor, cleaning up spilt ice and the occasional stray credit. The walls were draped in portraiture of the escorts available and their performance times, many of the faces familiar.

He still looked like he was waiting for an answer, so I gestured to the examples around us. 

“What do you see?”

“Gambling.”

“Mm, yes one indulgence, what else?”

“Booze,”

“And sex, and beauty, and music, and food”

“I don't get it,”

“Be’llahl is a pleasure god, li’nen, specifically pleasure for the sake of it, who gave birth to culture itself… not like any one believes in the old gods these days, more of a mascot really,”

He chewed a toothpick, processing the clanging, bleeping, whirring casino floor, and I poked his side.

“It’s telling you to relax and have fun,”

Getting an idea, I grabbed him again, pulling him into the game pit.  

“I'll show you what I mean,”

I steered us to an embankment I was well familiar with. 

“What's this?”

He eyed the attendant with distrust. 

“You'll like it, watch,”

I slid some credits onto the counter for show and the attendant passed me a basket with three little darts inside. 

The holoscreen flashed and suddenly displayed a starfield. It looked like it went on forever. Buttons on the console in front of me lit up with the chances 1x, 3x, and 5x displayed. I put a single credit in the 1x tray and the screen zoomed in. I could now make out a star system rotating rather quickly, planets and moons orbiting in a predictable pattern with different point values. 

I took a dart, and aimed at a slow moving moon worth the lowest value, hitting it with a generated pop as the physical object penetrated the hologram and buried itself into the game's backboard. The little moon exploded and the value was added to my payout. 

The next shot I took missed, and my points dropped down to zero. Same with the third, and the attendant took my credit while thanking me for playing. 

I never got better at this game, so I shrugged and handed a credit to Crosshair. 

“In your wheelhouse?”

He was already sliding the credit into the highest payout slot and taking the offered darts. 

I couldn't make much out at this level, being zoomed into a galaxy band, the heavenly bodies revolving in still a predictable, but wildly complicated dance. All the targets were small, but the high value pieces were also fast, and often blinked behind other obstacles. 

“Careful now, a negative score will have us in debt,”

He just smirked and tossed the first dart, sending it through a dust belt. It hit its mark true, and the bonus was added to the tally. He caught on quickly. 

A girl came to my elbow and offered me a complimentary spritzer and I accepted, sipping the weak drink and snagging another for Cross, who was letting the bet roll for another round of darts. They'll be free while we're playing and I weighed the idea of getting sloshed at one of the more cushy tables with a low buy in. I set the drink at his elbow and he seemed to sip at it without thinking, quickly engrossed in the game. 

Glad he was relaxing, I stepped a few paces away and scanned the busy Casino floor. Guests lingered about at various betting tables, families steering their younglings away to more age appropriate activities, and security keeping an eye on things. They blended in well, but once you saw them they seemed to be everywhere. 

A group of Katjarls began hissing at each other at one of the bars. Before it turned into a full out yowling match security was already there to break it up. No causing a scene here. 

I turned back to the game bank and nearly choked on my drink as I shuffled back to the counter. 

“Thank you! That'll be all for us,”

I slammed my hand between the attendant and Cross’s outreached one waiting for more darts. 

“What happened to low profile?”

I hissed, taking in the score counter. 

“You couldn't have held back a little?”

My fault, but by Be'llahl I was gone a karken second!

“What's the problem?’

The hair raised on the back of my neck as he leaned down to talk low in my ear. He sounded like he was masking disappointment with an air of irritation. 

“Fleecing the house is not how you go unnoticed,”

“And how would the gentleman like his winnings?”

The attendant had cocked an eyebrow at me, putting the ball in my court as to what to do about the ridiculous payout. 

“What's the charity this quarter?”

“Oh… uh, that would be for the Rebuilding the Ravages of War fund, Miss,”

“Perfect, give us a fifth and donate the rest,”

The Ga'haiian nodded, and winked at the faded ink on my forearms before heading off to count the credits. 

I expected a protest that never came and tilted my head to look at the soldier next to me, armor partially hidden by the cloak we took from the safe house. He was standing in a forced casual position, staring craters into the back of the boy counting out winnings to the far side of the game bar. 

Maybe he needed the cash…

Too bad, I wouldn't want that kind of attention even if we weren't… on the run? Underground?... Whatever. Walking away with that kind of money would have the higher ups in a tizzy. At least donating it helps their taxes so they're more likely to look the other way. We'll need a new way to kill the time.

I tapped his elbow to signal him to wait for the credits and stepped a few paces into the carpeted walkway. There were less bodies mingling away from the bars and tables and a breeze wafted through from somewhere unseen. A small bit of peace in the clamoring din of the game hall. 

“Tah'nyem Ra! Dollface, what are you doing here?”

I spun on my heel, coming face to ruffles with a familiar costume. 

“Jar’ath!”

I hugged the man with genuine enthusiasm, his slight build leaned into me and we kissed each other's cheeks where our tattoos smudged into color. His skin had gone pale, telling how long he'd been outside of Sohn. 

“It's been so long, I haven't seen you-”

“Since you ran off to play ‘Madam’ on Coruscant? Mhmm, I remember,”

He flicked his bangs out of his eyes, the white hair hiding the streak of black over his ear as he fixed me with a faux haughtiness.

“Oh, don't sound so hurt, it's not like you didn't have your own career, What is it these days? I suspect that's why you're here?”

“Stars sake it's why I've been stuck here. It's qualifier season, Ga’hah’s hosting and I'm the MC! Can you believe it?”

I giggled at his outlandish gesturing as he complained. 

“Didn't you always want to host the races?”

“Mm, true, and honestly couldn't be happier, despite Riot Racing having all the draw these days…”

He jutted his chin towards the game counter where Cross was being handed a satchel embroidered with the casino's motto. 

“Who's Mr, uh… scary?”

He trailed off as the Clone sloped over, towering over the two of us as he drew even with my shoulders. Despite the glower in his demeanor I relaxed once he was near again, not wanting to leave him alone long where he seemed so… out of his element. It's like ships or a gunfight were the only places he felt comfortable. 

“Jar’ath Saijen, this is Commander Crosshair of the Imperial Army, he's my guard for the event,”

With my father being given the governorship this wasn't a far off fib. 

“Oh~h, a soldier,”

He extended a hand, all painted blue to the elbow and glittery pink gemstones on the nails. Crosshair took it, shaking it briefly. If the flirty tone registered he did well hiding any reaction. 

“Mhmm, ye~ah, and how long have you been Kriffing little Miss Ra here?”

He may as well have struck me, the way my mouth hung ajar.

“Oh don't look so shocked! I've known you, how long? You're not this relaxed around someone lest you've bedded them, and when have you ever had a bodyguard? Tell me I'm wrong,”

He wasn't, and now turned to size up the clone. 

“You're a tall one, not the tallest, obviously… but how's that work with a shorty like Tah’nyem? Do you use a stool or just avoid shower sex?”

I felt my cheeks warm slightly, making this the second wave of embarrassment in less than a week. I was getting soft. 

Jar'ath let go of Crosshair's hand, who had frozen at the blatant questioning and I moved to redirect the conversation.

“Ah-”

It came out as a squeak. I cleared my throat and tried again. 

“He's a friend, with the end of the war we have a lot of men looking for alternative work, I'm… gauging interest,”

Crosshair's eyes snapped to mine, but he didn't contradict my story.

“Oh? He's a clone, right? Can tell by the eyes… I'm not sure what the draw would be, you've kriffed one you've kriffed them all, he's different though isn't he… custom order?”

He went to feel up the armor plating, causing Crosshair to tense, but before he could move I was already there- hand wrapped tight around the slim, painted wrist. 

“Watch your tone Jar’ath, I just said this is my friend, try not to be rude… er,”

He gasped in a patented exaggeration.

“Oo, look at you! It's like you care! Does Kahtzi know? She's gonna want a piece once she figures out you like him, like him”

I released his arm, sighing, there was no winning with Jar’ath. He'd been like this since we were young. It was his defense against the other kids who'd try to bully us smaller half bloods. Always the last word, never showing a shred of anything but amusement. 

“I'll kill you later, but for now… where's the best place to get away from the crowd? We've been jostled for what feels like hours and I'm tired of it,”

I glanced at Crosshair. It was hard to tell exactly what he was thinking, but it was clear he wasn't fond of my old friend. Couldn't really blame him, Jar'ath’s invasiveness was like water in the hot oil that was Cross’s defensive silence. 

“Mm, li’nen, it's your lucky day,”

He reached into his top and pulled out a key card. 

“When the floor manager saw your friend's take piling up he wanted me to escort you to the main box party for the race, I'm guessing you haven't been yet…”

Kark, I knew we had drawn attention…

“Bu~t, you'll never guess who's in with all those nuvvy wuds today, Bly’ju Duhanis!”

I recoiled. 

“Oh, no, please keep me far, far away from Bly,”

“Who's Bly?”

We both turned to look up at Cross, who had spoken for the first time in the exchange.

“Oh, sweetie he's one of little T’s suiters, isn't that right, Tah’nyem?”

“The most irritatingly persistent one,”

I groaned, thinking of the incessant holocalls that had me changing registries more than anyone would ever think to. 

“You know, our big strong Commander could probably knock some fear into the boy,”

Jar'ath once again made to push up against the fitted armor only for Cross to step out of the way. 

“Discretion, for once Jar'ath? For the love of Be'llahl?”

“That is blasphemy, little T, it's my pleasure to be as I am and do as I do, yes?” 

“Would that infringe on my pleasure? Which may come to a crashing halt if it fell to the wrong eyes or ears?”

I glanced pointedly at the taller man, once again quiet but had shifted to stand closer to me and slightly more hidden from Jar'ath. 

“Uhg, fine, but only because I love you and I already solved the problem anyways,”

He jiggled the key card. 

“For high rollers like you, I convinced them to give me an unused key, you want privacy, I have you more then covered, Just be grateful I recognized your ass from all the way over there,”

He put the key card in my hand, and leaned in to kiss my forehead. 

“Gotta run, the show's about to begin!”

And with an exaggerated bow, he was gone, the flamboyant fabric of his costume getting lost amongst the garish tourist chic pouring through the hall towards the arena where the day's qualifier races would soon be starting. 

I turned to Crosshair and was startled to find him staring at me rather intently. 

“What? What's the look?”

Not waiting for an answer I started moving us in the direction of the stadium seating looking for the number on the key that would indicate floor. 

“You didn't even try to deny it… us,”

“There's no us, Wouldn't have been much point anyways, Jar'ath is the best cold reader in the business, practically clairvoyant, and he's known me longer than most so I'm particularly easy,”

He leaned into me, breathing against my hair as another group shoved by us on the way to the glowing stairs at the back of the game hall.

“So you do like me?”

I faltered from my relaxed stride and he chuckled. Sending him a cold glance we started up the stairs to the private balconies. 

“So, if he knows you so well, why didn't you tell him the real story?”

The amount of people around us thinned as we ascended to the more expensive seating levels, eventually coming out into a quiet, empty hall. Plush carpeting muffled our steps and I lowered my voice.

“Well, didn't want to tell him much, its difficult to lie to him but he knows I wouldn't put much effort into covering up a tryst besides what's expected of me, hopefully he just thinks that's all I'm doing,”

Not like he'd sell me out to assassins, he would just find my present circumstances more amusing than my sex life… and he’s a varp of a meddling gossip.

“Hide… trysts often?”

“I think I just said I didn't, but what you really seem to be asking is how often there's a tryst at all.”

We had come even to a door emblazoned with a matching symbol to the key I was holding. Some of his behaviors were starting to make a pattern and I brimmed with irritation.

“I told you before, not as often as people would like to believe… If I didn't know better I’d say your words hold a tinge of jealousy,”

I pressed the key to the reader with a huff and entered the empty box. The balcony was wide with small tables scattered about, plush chairs tucked in. It was dark and I left the light off, not wanting to draw any more attention to us alone up here.

“Would it be wrong… if I was jealous?”

“You'd be a fool to form such a feeling about me, We knew this wasn't something that could continue… this story doesn't have a happy ending,”

I felt his arms weave about my shoulders, gently pulling me against his chest.

“I don't care about the ending…”

I blinked rapidly to chase away the heat that suddenly stung my eyes. Illogical reaction, there was definitely something wrong with me these days. Shrugging his arms off me I pulled away.  

“Foolish,”

The divider overlooking the track was a low, sturdy stone and I leaned against it looking down to the checkered line where a horde of racers were standing by their pods waving to the crowd. Jar'ath could be heard over the cheering masses as he introduced each entry, little droids flew about, buzzing to each contestant. Giant holo screens showed the projections, flashing between the smiling racer and shots of their supporters in the crowd. 

Crosshair approached me slowly, sliding into the soft light filtering in from the stadium and leaned next to me with his back to the crowd.

“Forget the end, What about now?... You and I…”

“You and I still have our duties, there's no escaping that,”

My tone remained one of admonishment, eyes casting about the other lit boxes on our level. 

Even if we do see each other again…

“There,”

I pointed across the way to a crowded balcony. It was a few floors down but open to the sky, creating a larger banquet space framed by the backdrop of mountains. At its center booth, a handsome Ga'haiian sat in a white suit. Tall, tan, pure white hair slicked back and falling over his shoulders. Women lounged about, giggling and hanging about his neck trying to steal a kiss. The people around him were obvious sycophants, latching to the wealth and power, but the man didn't seem to mind. 

Crosshair followed my gesture, catching as the man poured a sparkling bottle of something over the head of a fawning girl and laughed. 

“That is my suitor, Bly’ju Duhanis, son of the richest family of Ga'hah and the galaxies most pompous idiot,”

The poor drenched girl smiled weakly as Bly moved his attention to the wait staff, knocking a tray out of one of their hands as he demanded more bubbly.

“Charming,”

“Isn't he? I hate the man… everyone knows that I despise him, and yet he's most likely to be my future husband, eventually he'll make my father an offer he can't refuse, his family can make almost anything happen and he feels… entitled to me,”

“Any particular reason?”

He was only half listening, a wandering hand bringing cool fingers to trace the lines on my forearm. 

“Stood up for me once when we were kids, he got a broken nose and now considers it a blood debt, ignoring the fact that he turned to bullying me and my friends as an immediate reaction,”

I pulled my arms closer about me and away from his touch, adding a bite of accusation to my tone,

“And then there's you… what do you think the Empire will do when they find out you let them escape? ‘They won't be able to hide forever,’ right? It rings in you over and over,”

He stiffened, his hand that reached for me faltering. 

“Oh come on, we're already neck deep in Secret Town here, how about we go over some of yours?...What's the plan once the Empire realizes they're alive? Will they just ignore it, or shove you into a cell never to be seen again?... Perhaps they'll just kill you.”

The events had been laid clear in his mind, the thoughts well tread as he went over them again and again, betrayal begetting betrayal. It wasn't easy to forget. 

“That's not for you to worry about,”

He pushed off the barrier and moved behind me, arms forming bars against my sides as he leaned in again. 

“I said I don't care how it ends,”

But if we keep doing this… I will. 

He was nuzzling into my hair, keeping the contact light, whispering so that his lips barely brushed against my ear.

“I may never come back… I could die tomorrow, you could too… but that still leaves tonight,”

He was using my own sentiments against me.  

I turned to face him, hips backed to the stone, arms weakly pushing him away, but my resolve was slipping as he refused to back off. His persistence remained gentle, as if to still the frightened animal he saw struggling behind the eyes that were avoiding his. Another light touch, a stroke of my cheek, turning my chin to meet his gaze as he had on the crimson moon. 

“Tell me then, that once was enough, tell me your satisfied… and I'll never ask again,”

I don't know when the script had switched, my position as predator slipping away as I felt the web of him close around me. Suffocating.

His boot suddenly kicked mine out with a quick hooked motion, forcing me into a wider stance as he leaned in, holding my gaze. Those strong fingers now tracing a trail up the inseam of my suede pants. 

A whistle pierced the air as the racers shot ahead on the speedway with a chorus of roaring engines. The onlookers were now reliant on the screens projecting feeds from the blind curves of the track as the roar echoed and dulled. The sudden rush of noise and excitement from the crowd shook me with adrenaline.

He didn't let the rush go to waste, letting his thumb caress just inside the crease near my groin, causing a wave of heat to crash onto the cold chills running down my spine. It was just a brush, a tease, serving it's purpose of relaxing my inhibitions. 

“Don't make me wait forever…”

“Implying that you would?”

“Life's too short for regrets, that's what you said isn't it?”

…

“Tahny…”

Sighing in resignation as his hands slowed, sliding up to rest on my hips, I hesitantly leaned my head against his armored shoulder, breathing him in to ignite the sparks he was stoking within me.

He had me. 

Fine then…

I leaned back, stroking his cheek… holding his eyes with mine as I crooked my fingers in promise, pressing the symbol to his chest. 

“For whatever time we have, you, CT-9904 Crosshair, may have of myself, Tah’nyem Ra… as you like,”

“By Be'llahl?”

“... By Be’llahl,”

I was lifted to sit on the edge of the stone, his arms bracing me so I needn't fear falling as his lips found my neck, planting little kisses under my ear. 

“As I like?”

Here's to recklessness and bad decisions…

“As you like,”

Letting myself give in, I wrapped my arms over his shoulders, bringing my lips to meet his and allowing the world to fall away again. 

He was pressed to me, nothing but air to my back as the kiss deepened, becoming more possessive as the warmth of his tongue dove between my lips, searching desperately for mine. I wrapped a leg about his hips to keep steady, trusting him not to pitch us over as I answered his desperation with a soft moan. 

Pulling away to find my neck again, he alternated between soft kisses and sharp little nips between my ear and the collar of my shirt… I had to resist breathing his name with each little jolt. He had shifted to hold me steady with one arm, his dominant hand set to exploring again, up my chest and into my hair. 

I was frustrated at the thick plates over his shoulders and slid my hands to his ribs, curling my fingers into the sole gap to tug at him. He bit my neck slightly harder, making me gasp, before moving back to kissing me, hand still holding me still by my hair. 

This was different than before… an odd bliss to it, only broken by a quiet, buzzing that had slowly crept up to us. The crowd below had broken into wilder cheers and jeering. 

Our attention snapped to the small hover droid, scanning us onto holo screens under a gaudy, romantic banner. Jar'ath was saying something about a cutest couple award, suddenly finding himself at the top of my hit list. 

I did my best event smile and wave routine as Cross and I slunk back into the shadows of the box. The screens were now zoomed in on Bly, shaking and furious as the desperate girl attempted to lean in for a kiss. The camera cut as he turned to storm off, pulling his security in tow as he went.  It was safe to say he probably recognized me. 

Great, more people on my tail.

“Cross, can you see the announcer booth from here?” 

“Yes…”

“Shoot Jar'ath for me,”

He grinned at that. 

“My pleasure.”

[whorekneecentral]

  i don’t want to be touched this time,  i just want to focus on you right now.  + ferrari!seb and engineer!reader

you’re so evil for this.  -- this one’s for the car fuckers

Pre season testing with any other driver was a normal 9-5 stitch but when it came to Sebastian, 9-5 really meant 9 to whatever time he decided he was ready to call it a day and more often that not, it wasn’t until late into the evening. 

Day 4 of testing and Sebastian sat on the stool next to you, comparing the stats from last season’s car to the ones formed today. 

“I still think the weight is off,” he mutters, sliding off the stool. The red shirt clung to his chest, the race suit hanging off his hips as he slid his fingers over the halo. 

You spun on the stool, facing the man as he inspected the car. “I don’t know Seb, might just have been the track temp.” 

“I doubt it.” He looks over at you and your brows furrow. 

“Would you like to do my job for me, Sebastian?” You stuck the papers out for him and he smiled, “no, y/n. You do it much better than I do, and you look much better doing it, too.” 

You rolled your eyes at his comment. You had been his race engineer since his second second at Ferrari and he was going into his 4th season with the red team. Every year since, you've come so close to the championship that you could taste it, touch it, feel it and yet, it slips though your fingers. Sebastian was determined to make this car a machine; a monster made to win, doesn’t matter how many hours he’s got to spend at the track, and by extension, how many hours you had to spend. 

He leans into the car, his hand pressed to the side. “What’s the chassis made of?” He asks and you shrug. “Some sort of aluminium.” 

“Not carbon?” 

“I don’t think so, why?” 

“I didn’t even know they were still allowed to use that,” he says, “come feel this.” 

You get off the stool and walk over to him, he pats inside of the car and you lean over to feel it, your hand on the cold metal. Seb’s hand rests over yours, his other hand on your waist. 

“See? You can feel how thick it is. It’s too heavy, it’s dragging the car down.” He says to you but the words go in one ear and out the other. 

You studied the way his eyes fixed on you as he spoke; eye contact was always something he did when he spoke to people, didn’t matter who. The way his hands moved when he spoke pulled your focus until he called for you. 

“Y/n?” He pulls your focus back. 

“Yeah?” 

“Did you hear anything I said?” 

You’ve got a dopey smile on your face, “mhm kinda.” He laughed, his hand still on your waist. 

This was a typical routine for you two; pre season testing turned into car inspection and into a pre season fuck just to get it out of your systems and tonight was no exception. 

Sebastian was the one to close the gap between the two of you, you’re leaning on the side of the car when his hands slip down to rest on your ass. Your own hands coming up to tug on the hem of his shirt but he stops you. 

His lips on your jaw, down your neck and he slowly sinks down to his knees in front of you. 

“Seb,” you whispered, the man pulls one of your legs over his shoulders.

It was unseasonably warm in Maranello, Seb was thanking whatever controlled the weather because the fact that you were wearing a skirt made his job much easier. 

“Shh,” he kissed up your thigh. “Let me focus on you tonight, okay?” 

Your head falls back when you feel his tongue on you, he’s yet to move your panties and you're already a mess. Your hand tangled in his messy curls, silently thanking that he didn’t cut it yet. 

Sebastian’s eyes look up, fixed on you; your hair framing your face and your head tossed back. 

The man gets up, kissing you when he does. You can taste yourself on his lips, Seb pushes you back against the car once again, your hand slipping between the two of you as you undo his pants. Sebastian pulls your leg to hitch on his hip, your panties already pulled to the side and your dress rolled up at your hips. 

Seb pushes into you. His lips find yours, muffling your moans as he fucks you. Your nails dig into his bicep, his shirt sleeve pushed up.

At least it would be covered.

With each passing year, pre season was taking over as your favourite time of the year. 

[zmediaoutlet]

this land is your land

for @wincestwednesdays - americana

"Relax," Sam says, and Dean says back immediately "You relax," but that doesn't work because Sam, damn him, is so relaxed Dean's surprised he's still walking upright and not a puddle of dissolved bones, somewhere a few miles back on the sun-baked road. Where the car's sitting, steaming, the engine ticking as it cools, alone--

"You know what's wrong?" Sam says, and Dean gives him a look, and Sam says, "You know how to fix it?" and Dean rolls his eyes, and Sam says, "So what are you gonna do about it between here and that co-op in town?" and Dean says, "You know, this is how you talked when you didn't have a soul," and Sam laughs kinda soft, hitching his backpack higher.

Hot, humid, but not horrible. The fields growing up with something green. Maybe future wheat. Dean's not a farmer. The kind of summer day where you want to lay in thick grass and drink about twelve ice-cold beers and eat watermelon, or burgers off the grill, or a rainbow snowcone just dripping with every color, like remember, that time --

"Fairfield County Fair," Sam says, grinning. He drags his hair back from his forehead. Their jackets tied around their waists and Sam's sleeves rolled up to his elbows; if it gets much hotter out here he might strip that layer too and then, hey, free show. "Yeah. That was good. Other than the ghost."

"Ghost was easy," Dean says, "as was Miss Mindy the concessions girl. You remember, right? All that funnel cake?"

"I think I puked it all over the tilt-a-whirl," Sam says, dry, and Dean grins back at him so Sam rolls his eyes, but -- he remembers, and that's what matters to Dean now. When he's got this brother, stitched back together, remembering the snowcone and the tilt-a-whirl and also what it means, that they're walking side by side through this yellow afternoon, sweating their balls off.

A barn, past the next field of maybe-wheat. White-painted metal that's peeling bad as they get closer, but it's got a heavy fall of shadow in the driven-over silty dust and abandoned crates that don't collapse when Dean plants his ass on one, so it's good enough for now. "Could go for a snowcone," he says, and Sam snorts somewhere past his closed eyes and there's a thunk of his bag hitting the dirt and then scuffing away, through the silt, and Dean watches the world golden through closed lids and imagines. Sam sweating, long, his body moving sure through the shadow and then -- through the barn door, sliding on squeaky rollers -- and then into somewhere Dean can barely hear him except whatever he imagines might echo through the wall, but it's okay because he'll come back. He's promised that, now. Dean turns his head against the side of the barn anyway, his ear against the warm metal, in case there's some echo. Long night and a long day and a long night ahead and maybe it's lame but he's old now, or feels it, and he's tired. He'll take even an echo.

In the barn: dusty John Deeres, and tools Sam doesn't bother to describe, and a case of too-warm water of dubious age in cheap plastic bottles. "Thief," Dean says, but just to say it, and Sam shrugs and says, "Trespassing, too," but he cracks a bottle and hands it to Dean and Dean dumps it over his head, just to get off some of the sweat and dust. Long walk. Sam says dude and Dean says, "Bite me," but when he slicks his hand back over his head Sam ends up smiling at him, after all, and hands him another bottle to actually drink, and then -- bends at the waist and dumps water over the back of his own head, slicking his hair to black in the shade, dripping down and turning the dust to mud. Stripped down to his t-shirt after all and the water sopping the grey to dark. "See, I'm a genius," Dean says, and Sam scratches through his hair and groans like he does on other midnights and says, "Don't get ahead of yourself," but when he sits down next to Dean his hair's curling wet against his neck and he looks as relaxed as Dean's seen him in -- god, how long? Years anyway. Like Dean would see him sometimes in dreams, during that year that's pressed too close up against his back teeth, and he'd wake up on those mornings with his heart full in his chest and with a good mood, almost, that lasted until he opened his eyes and remembered what bed he was in and the mood pierced like a water balloon that hadn't popped right. Draining out slow until he was left pointless and limp.

Sun finally heading toward setting. Over the fields the air's golden, thick in that way of summer. Sky exactly the shade of a cherry '67 Mustang. Acapulco Blue. Sam's bootheels stretch out to full-length in the silt, past the mud-mess he made, and there's his legs long in denim. Dust on the hems. Dean leans forward, elbows on his knees, taking in one of those long deep breaths that when he blows it out feels like he's expelling air from decades ago. Lungs one hundred percent empty.

Big hand on the back of his neck. He closes his eyes. Sam strokes up over his head where the hair's gone spiky-wet and then smooths it back down, his thumb braced up behind Dean's ear. Heavy and hot.

"Gonna make it back to town tonight?" Sam asks. Like he doesn't know the distance just the same as Dean. Dean shrugs. Sam hums and squeezes Dean's neck, and then Dean opens his eyes and looks from where his head's held down like this to see Sam's heel draw up through the dust, and for his knee to press against Dean's, and then his hand dragging down Dean's back and then back up under his shirt, hot on damp skin, a big square heavy thing. Landing somewhere up between his shoulderblades. Dean wants it on his dick and on the side of his face thumbing his mouth and also just exactly where it is. Sam touching him. Over that last year, what he missed more than anything else. For Sam to touch him and for it to mean what it was supposed to, when Sam touched him.

"We've probably got the worst case of swamp ass this side of the Mississippi," Dean says.

"You remember that time in Tupelo?" Sam says, and of course Dean does. Of course, every single time, like some dorky glittery journal in his heart, he remembers -- Sam's face over his in Tupelo spattered with mud-and-blood and laughing at how disgusting it was, and doing it anyway; Sam's breath desperate at the back of his neck in Portland, both Maine and Oregon; Sam's fingers lacing with his in Colorado Springs, and Sam pressed chest-to-chest with him in Pittsburgh, and Sam's mouth blurring strange in the drunken dark in too many places to name. Dean remembers.

Sam lifts his hand, stretching Dean's shirt, and Dean feels the air gust up against his sweaty back before he follows it, unbending slowly, and then Sam's whole arm's shoved awkward up against his spine, his fingers and thumb bracketing Dean's neck, and when Dean tips his head back Sam's there to catch him.

"Gonna miss the show tonight," Dean says, slit-eyed. Salt in his eyelashes.

The county such-and-such. Volunteer firefighters put on the show, one of the witnesses told them. Not a big display but big enough to please the kids and the folk who hadn't got too cynical for it. He was kind of looking forward to catching it, just because. When was the last time they'd had a July 4th that wasn't some kind of miserable?

"Maybe," Sam says. His eyes on Dean's mouth. Which is so like the soulless version Dean's heels dig into the ground, some weird no instinct making him want to stand -- but then Sam's eyes flick up to meet Dean's, and he grins lopsided and dorky like Sam always used to, when he was okay enough to grin, and relief washes through Dean like stepping under a waterfall. "Could celebrate right here, though. Right?"

"You think that line actually works on anyone?" Dean says, chest blooming hot, and Sam says, "Guess we'll see," in a way that's frankly smug, and Dean rolls his eyes but he also swivels on his stolen crate-seat and presses his mouth against Sam's and gets salt-sweat and stale bottled water and also the good spit-flavor of his tongue, and so maybe Sam deserves the smug.

Birds calling in the trees by the barn, squawky-loud like they're making commentary. Sam's thigh hard and hot alongside his. At first Sam presses against him too hard and Dean grunts, and then Sam lays his other hand soft against Dean's cheek and kisses him sweet, instead, and then grips Dean's neck and kisses him just -- right, Goldilocks finding the right level of comfort. Dean lays his hand on Sam's chest and feels his heart go right out of himself, like a roman candle.

[preciouslandmermaid]

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)

[themoonlitsojourner]

Turn over the engine, click the seatbelts. Check over our shoulders. Back the pickup out the lot.

Your feet on the dash, well-loved sweatshirt holding down my shoulders. Your hands have traveled it a million times. Fingers tucked in every fold, slipped over every stitch.

Forests and road, road, road. The radio down low. Engine reving, then slowing. You hope the road will end early. I cling to the false miracle of endless pavement.

Your hair under my fingertips, your hand on my arm, pushing me away, laughing, look at the road, moron.

Parking the truck. A tree laden with ice standing sentry. Quick, quick, its cold, you bite my lip. My breath blooms in fog. The clouds are pale and dense, knit tight across the sky. No one to take responsibility for the fierce white light. The metal ridges imprint my skull. Your hands slide arctic and soft along my spine. When I turn us over, I cradle your head. Sparse. Bone laced with muscle. I run my mouth over both, craning my neck under hood and waistbands.

I feel you. Pause, rapid, hushed breath, my face against your stomach as you inhale. Eyes drifting closed.

Hands on the wheel itching to fix your hair. You don't even bother. Limbs stripped to the skeleton stretch toward the road, beggars. You're thinking about someone we don't talk about.

Asleep when we pull into the station. I grab a donut that has your name on it. In the truck, you take it from my hand with your teeth. Your eyes have fallen dull. The tang of metal spreads under my tongue to my gums.

Night falls early in our Narnia, you hate that we're back here. The place we left, never could quite escape. I've never been in Missouri before. I wouldn't know if you had. The roads weave and dip and dive and your forehead is against the hold-your-breath window.

"We could catch a coaster while we're here. I've heard they have a great amusement park."

Your hair over your shoulders as you shake your head. "What's the point?"

The point, the point, what's the point, where's the point, can you find it? Will you find it?

I turn the truck off the highway. The road is slim and lightly paved. The hill is smooth and steep and repeating, a song on loop. I roll every window down.

"Uh, Dick? What are you-?"

The pedal to the ground. The wind in my hair in your hair your shout in the wind surprise and electric shock and i whip the wheel to stay on the road and i look at you and your eyes are wild flashes of blue in the black and id kiss you if it wouldnt make us crash and youre saying im crazy but youre laughing again and i dont know who i am and have you met me? Do you know? Could you tell me? The hill repeats, one two three, do it again. Dive from the rail. Live. Die. Theyre one and the same aren't they?

All four wheels back on the ground. "That was stupid," shoving your hair from your face. The kind of grin that fills me head to toe. I do kiss you, now.

The seconds stretch on. You touch my neck my face and i could melt. Higher than the drop off that cliff, my stomach in my throat, riskier than the road, than my antics, why did i do that, i needed to see you smile.

I needed you.

We sleep in the truck, crammed on the bench seat, your heartbeat is mine. White plumes, twinned, exhaled, above winter-whitened skin, comes in two shades. Blanket over skins. Puffer coats over blanket. Your head on my shoulder. Breath rebounding, collecting for just a second in the space between my collarbone and neck. Talking nonsense, both of us, just to hear the reply. We could be idiots, we could be kids, just a couple of fools with nothing else to do crossing the States in a rusty pickup no heat charging gas and gas station pizza on a credit card. I pray for that story every night. Sometimes I think we're living it. In moments, like these.

In the morning, every inch is cased and sheathed over in glittering ice. Brush our teeth, spit into the snow, hey where'd you get that snowball?? That's it. Snow down your shirt. No, no, you asked for it!

The radio up a little louder. Your feet on the dash. I want to take you to Vegas. I want to take you home, take you away and make a home. Yeah, I'm crazy, of course I am, would you have me anyway? I think maybe I don't regret it. I think maybe this was supposed to happen. Don't cuss me out for thinking that, I just think maybe.

I think maybe

we might be meant to be.

I lost my mind

its true

so did you

but then i found my way

to you

didn't i?

This is

worth it

isnt it?

We can have this

Driving and parking and tumbling in the snow and the truck bed and singing too loud and too hard when only one of us can hit the notes and more. We could have more. Do you want more?

its not impossible

just say yes

tara its so close i could taste it

we can do more than

make the best

of it.

take the hand weve been dealt

and deal ourselves a new one.

are you still alive? my heart is beating

out of my chest sometimes i catch

you looking

at me

whats going on? what do you

say?

Wanna run away with me?

I am alive

when i feel you breathing

next to me

I survive on the breath

you are finished with

please say

you wont

let go

say youll

Stay.

i think we could

be happy.

I know we could be happy.

the blood gushed from a torn carotid. i couldnt breathe. in your eyes, the light blinked out once again

[rebabbitting]

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[coldshrugs]

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.”

[busterpointisdead]

'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

[wordingg]

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.”