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jovialyouthmusic · 5 years ago

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Past Times

A period drama featuring an ancestor of Bastien Lykel

The Captain and Lizzy are seen out in public for the first time, accompanied by their chaperone.

Word Count 3335 plus

A/N No smut, but the anticipation is building...

5 Stepping Out

Elizabeth could barely sleep for excitement. She lay remembering how it felt to be held close, to feel his heartbeat in his broad chest, the intoxication of his musky masculine scent. Her stomach flipped as she remembered the kiss – or kisses. Duncan had never been bold enough to kiss her, but John – her very own John – had kissed her twice. She was so afraid that she’d done something wrong the first time, but his kindly reassurance made her bold enough to ask for another. It had been bliss, and she had felt as if she were melting. A strange but very pleasurable sensation had radiated out from her womanhood and her bones had felt like butter.

She knew, as he had pointed out, that the chance to repeat the performance may not come for some time. But what a memory to sustain her, along with his promise never to do anything she deemed unpleasant.

She had not eaten at dinner time, and she had pleaded that she still felt full after what she had consumed at the gathering of their guests. The truth was that her stomach was so full of butterflies that to add the burden of food seemed impossible. Her mother had insisted that she take some clear broth and a little bread. It only made her feel bloated, but at least she would not feel hungry before breakfast.

‘What was it like to be quite alone with the Captain?’ whispered Amelia from the cot next to hers. She sighed in reply.

‘I cannot describe it. You will have to wait until you have your own suitor’ she whispered.

‘Oh please Lizzy – did he sweep you into his arms? Did he implore you to marry him?’ Amelia pleaded for more information. Her sister laughed.

‘Nothing as dramatic as that, Melly – you have read too many romantic novels.’ She thought for a moment. ‘But it was very pleasurable.’

-------

The next day Elizabeth rose and dressed for her dancing lessons. She supposed that soon those would come to an end, as she no longer needed to attract the attention of a suitor. She hugged herself at the thought that she would most likely see her fiancé that day. She sat and carefully wrote a polite note to say that he might call for her that afternoon to determine if a walk was possible. The maid was to take it to Mama for approval and then an errand boy would be sent to deliver it. She got Jane to lay out a change of clothes for after lunch. It was a little cold, so she and Amelia were to go to their lesson in a carriage. She hoped it would stay clear and warm up a little for later.

At her lesson, Rosanna was waiting for her to hear all that had happened.

‘Lizzy, what happened after I left last night? The Captain was still there’

‘Oh Rosanna, I am so happy’ she beamed ‘He is to visit today to take me out for a walk if it is fine.’

‘So Sir James has accepted his suit for you?’ Rosanna asked enviously

‘He did’ She clasped her hands together ‘I never did feel like this with Duncan. John makes my knees turn to jelly’ she drew her aside, looking to make sure no-one could overhear. ‘Rosanna, he kissed me’ she whispered. Her friend’s eyes grew wide with envy

‘Oh Lizzy!’ she hissed ‘What was it like? How did it compare to Duncan?’

‘Duncan never did’ she replied ‘ and oh, Rosanna, it was sublime. I felt I would die from pleasure’ Her friend sighed and flicked her fan out to cool down. At that moment the dancing master entered

‘Mon jeune filles’ he announced loudly ‘young ladies, time to practice. Up you get, and let’s go over our steps’

------

Again that lunchtime Elizabeth could barely eat, but she forced down some dainties that cook had made to tempt her. She went to change, young Jane assisting her, and went down to the parlour to wait for her fiancé. She shivered as she formed that word in her mind, the word ‘husband’ hovering behind it. It made her feel lighted headed and giddy, and her heart leapt when a carriage drew up outside. She stood slightly back from the window, but was sure that as the Captain – John, her John – got out and glanced at the house, he caught her eye for a second with his piercing blue eyes. Impatiently she waited for him to enter, wishing she could go to him. A picture came into her mind unbidden – a cottage with roses around the door, and she behind that door, ready to open it and run into his arms when he came home, kisses aplenty. There would be no limits as to how she might behave, no eyes to scrutinise or judge them save perhaps a trusted servant or two.

But now she sat demurely by the fireplace, hands in her lap, her mother sitting close by and Morag readying herself in the study to accompany them should they go out together. Betsy had chaperoned beforehand, but Morag had been sent for from the country estate in Lanarkshire, having worked for the family for many years. The afternoon was dry and still, and the sun promised to make an attempt to warm the grey cobbled streets outside. Walker came in to present the Captain and she rose, unable to stop the smile from shaping her features. He took off his hat and bowed low.

‘Lady Charlotte, Miss Elizabeth’ he said ‘I trust you are both well today.’

‘Indeed we are, Captain Lykel. I see the weather is fine’ her mother inclined her head politely. Elizabeth dropped a little curtsy.

‘Captain’ she looked up at him through her eyelashes and was rewarded with a soft smile.

‘No need to curtsy to me, Lizzy’ he murmured, then his head snapped round to look at her mother, fearing that the use of her pet name might offend her, but she nodded graciously. He gulped, but his voice was steady as he continued. ‘The weather is indeed pleasant – would it be acceptable to take you out to Duddingston Loch? There is a fine path around the water’s edge, and the spring flowers are starting to appear.’ Elizabeth looked to her mother for permission, and she nodded assent.

‘That would be most agreeable’ she said happily, her eyes shining. Lady Charlotte opened the door to the study.

‘Morag, Miss Elizabeth will be accompanying the Captain to Duddingston Loch. Please get ready, and bring her cloak.’

‘We will drive there of course.’ John continued. ‘It would take some time on foot, and I don’t wish you to be fatigued.’

‘I confess I don’t get as much exercise in the city as I did at father’s estate.’ she replied. Morag entered with her cloak, and put it around her shoulders for her to fasten at the throat. It was a heavy black cloak with a red lining and a capacious hood to fend off the rain should it appear. She loved wearing it in cold weather and letting it swirl and sweep like a ball gown, but that was a childish thing, and she was now a young woman, she told herself.

The Captain opened the door to the hall for her, and Walker went to the outside door to the waiting carriage. The driver opened the carriage door, and by the time Elizabeth and Morag got to the step, the Captain was there to take her gloved hand and a make a gentle touch to her waist to help her inside, closely followed by the other woman. He got in after them and sat facing Elizabeth under the watchful eye of their chaperone. The carriage was not roomy, and she found that his feet were remarkably close to hers. Whether by design or by accident, his foot briefly brushed her ankle as the driver mounted the carriage, and she jumped involuntarily at the jolt that it sent up her leg. She heard Morag’s sharp intake of breath and felt rather than saw the disapproving glance she gave to her fiancé.

‘I do beg your pardon, there is not a lot of leg room’ he said levelly, but as she looked at him she saw the ghost of a mischievous grin as he shifted to ensure it could not happen again. The carriage started off and she turned her attention to the view outside as they made their way through the wide streets of the New Town. She wanted to hang out of the window like a little girl, but remained proper and restrained, only leaning forward slightly to see the sights. After a little while they could see the castle on its rocky viewpoint overlooking the wide new way of Princes Street.

‘Oh’ said Elizabeth ��Look Morag, there’s the shop where Mama bought the lace and ribbons for Ameila’s ball gown’

‘Do you accompany Lady Charlotte to the shops often, Lizzy?’ asked the Captain, and she felt a warm glow in her belly to hear him use her pet name.

‘Very occasionally’ she admitted ‘and only with Walker accompanying us’

‘It is a genteel place to shop, but that is a wise precaution’ he said ‘Have you been much to Duddingston?’

‘Once or twice. I am told it freezes over in winter and it’s possible to skate’ she replied

‘Do you skate?’ he asked politely

‘Why yes, the pond at Father’s estate froze every winter and I learned when I was little’ she smiled at the memory. He smiled back at her

‘Hopefully it will be a while before it freezes again now that spring is here’ he replied.

Before long they had reached the village of Duddingston and drew up on a wide avenue beside the lake. There was a line of carriages waiting, and at that point someone was leaving from having had their walk. It was an accepted place for the gentry to promenade when the weather allowed. It was a good place to see and be seen.

The Captain got out to assist the two ladies out and offered Elizabeth his arm. They stepped out, with Morag following a few paces behind. She could see all they did and could hear most of what they said. The path was relatively dry, and Elizabeth’s cape dragged only a little, sweeping stray leaves along with a satisfying rustle as they walked. They reached the edge of the lake around which the path wound, and the rocky wall of Salisbury Crags rose up on the other side. It was not possible to see the peak of Arthur’s Seat beyond, but they had seen it on the way through the window of the carriage.

The Captain regulated his long legged stride to hers, and at first they were silent, just enjoying each other’s company. They soon made small talk about the places he had sailed to and nodded to others they met coming the other way on the path. A couple walked toward them, the man around the same age as the Captain, a red haired dainty looking woman on his arm. He stopped and took off his hat.

‘John Lykel, how good to see you’ He said heartily, and stepped forward to embrace him. He cast his eye over Elizabeth, smiling and taking her hand to kiss it. She shrank back slightly, alarmed at his familiarity.

‘Tom, you devil’ laughed John ‘my companion is very young, do not corrupt her’ The other man raised his eyebrows and feigned innocence.

‘This young lady is such a beauty, I swear she is the one to lead me astray – I cannot help but kiss her hand, I am mesmerised’ His female companion struck him in the shoulder, making him wince.

‘Stop Tom, you are being much too familiar’ she turned to Elizabeth ‘I’m so sorry, my husband only does it for show. He is devoted to me and would never presume to stray from my side’ Elizabeth was fighting hard not to blush, and failing. John took her arm and patted her hand

‘Never mind my friend, Lizzy. You have nothing to fear from him. It is all done, as Dorothea says, for show, and I am here to defend you’ He straightened up ‘May I present Captain Tom French and his wife Dorothea. Tom and I served together in the Navy – and you must not listen to the tales he might tell you of our escapades together, as they are mostly lies to make himself look heroic and myself foolish.’ Elizabeth dipped a little curtsy.

‘And who is this enchanting creature who almost rivals the charms of my own dear wife?’ the other man asked, looking sideways at Dorothea.

‘This is Mistress Elizabeth Dalglish, daughter of Sir James Dalglish’ he answered proudly.

‘I had not heard you were stepping out with anyone’ Dorothea said, puzzled.

‘This is because my suit has only recently been accepted.’ John explained. ‘This our first time out together.’

‘Congratulations, you dog.’ his friend grinned, and Marie sighed.

‘Tom, you are not fit to be in polite company.’ she said ‘Please, conduct yourself as if your mother was watching you.’ He made a face.

‘Then I must act terrified, as my mother is long departed, my darling wife.’ he retorted. She sighed in exasperation. The Captain glanced at Elizabeth, who was feeling very uncomfortable.

‘Come Tom, you have upset Lizzy’s sensibilities’ he said sternly ‘I insist you apologise to her immediately’ His friend coloured, but bowed his head slightly

‘I overstepped’ he said shortly ‘My wife has grown accustomed to my jokes and pranks, and I forget that not all understand such japes. If your feelings are upset Miss Dalglish, please accept my sincere apologies’

‘Thank you, Captain French’ she said ‘My parents have been very careful to expose me only to the most genteel and proper company here in Edinburgh. It seems I must learn to understand those who have a more earthy outlook on life’ Tom gaped at her, and John threw back his head and laughed loudly.

‘That’s you told, Tom.’ he guffawed. ‘Listen to your wife and learn to behave properly in genteel company. We are not on board ship here, but in the fair capital of Scotland where many rich and sophisticated folk determine what is acceptable.’ Tom frowned, speechless, and his wife spoke tersely.

‘We shall leave you to your walk, John.’ she said, tugging on his arm. ‘Come dear, we should not detain these genteel folk any longer.’ She turned to Elizabeth. ‘I am so sorry. Next time we meet, hopefully my dear Tom will have learned his lesson.’ The two couples parted, and Elizabeth looked back to note the look of amusement on Morag’s face. She swallowed, embarrassed, and John smiled at her.

‘That was very well done of you my sweet Lizzy.’ he said admiringly ‘I’ve not seen Tom so chastised since he met his wife.’ She smiled shyly.

‘It was very rude of him to tease me.’ she said. ‘He reminded me somewhat of my former fiancé.’ The Captain offered her his arm again and they started to walk once more. She loved the solidity of his body next to hers, the feeling of safety his presence engendered.

‘My dear, there is a big difference between the two men’ he explained ‘Young Duncan believed what he said and was abominably ignorant. Tom only meant what he said as a joke. He understands that women are not just pretty things to look at – you may see that he has a good example in his wife. He means well’ They carried on, admiring the spring flowers and greeting those they met. All the time, she was aware of their chaperone a few steps behind. They stopped at the water’s edge for a moment, and Morag cleared her throat. Elizabeth turned to see what she wanted, and stepped closer as she beckoned.

‘Miss Elizabeth, I need to answer a call of nature’ she whispered ‘I will trust you and your young man to behave properly – I shall be but a few moments. Stand on the path where you may easily be seen’ She nodded, and Morag disappeared into the woodland beside the path. John called over to her.

‘What ails our chaperone – is she unwell?’ Elizabeth beckoned him, dutifully staying on the path where other walkers might see her. Boldly she caught at his arm and leaned close to speak to him. She was rewarded by his masculine scent and the warmth of his body, and gripped his arm a little harder.

‘She has something personal to attend to - she will be but a moment’ she said ‘She bade me stay on the path where we might be seen’ The Captain’s eyes flicked from side to side as she swayed back away from him.

‘There is nobody near, my dear Lizzy, and Morag is not within earshot. I will not take advantage of you, save to say something I wish only you to hear.’ He caught her hand and held it close to his chest. ‘Lizzy, you were on my mind before I went to sleep last night, and the first thing that came to my mind when I awoke. I am much enamoured of you.’ Elizabeth trembled and braced herself on his broad chest, taking in his features – his strong jaw, the slight stubble on his face, the piercing blue eyes that gazed earnestly into her own.

‘I confess you have been much in my thoughts too’ she said softly. ‘I never felt anything like this for Duncan’

‘Then it is fortunate you discovered his true nature’ he replied ‘Be assured I have your best interests at heart and will do all in my power to make you happy’ There was a rustle in the undergrowth that heralded Morag’s return, and they stepped apart moments before she reappeared, smoothing down her skirts. The two lovers stood a foot or so apart by the time she had done, a demure smile on Elizabeth’s face.

‘We should carry on’ the Captain suggested ‘We have plenty of time should we walk without stopping, but it would be pleasant to sit for a while on a bench’ Elizabeth agreed, and they carried on contentedly until they found a bench with a fine view of the loch, with their back to the crags. A pair of swans lazily swam across the mirrorlike water, spreading silver ripples behind them. Elizabeth sat, taking her gloves off and pushing her cloak open.

‘I must confess I am rather warm from the walk’ she admitted. Behind them, Morag sat on a tree stump, sighing and grumbling a little about the length of the walk. Their backs obscured her view, and John took her hand to interlace her bare fingers with his. The familiar tingle travelled up her arm, and she spoke softly

‘Will it always feel like this?’ she asked, and he looked puzzled. She lifted her gaze to his, pitching her voice so that Morag could not hear ‘I feel strange when you touch me – my skin prickles and I feel – warm in my belly’ He caught his breath, his pupils darkening and he smiled.

‘In my experience, and from talking to my dear Georgiana, at first it is indeed exciting and stimulating.’ He squeezed her hand ‘It fades with time, but it also deepens and becomes more comforting and satisfying.’ She gazed back at him. He smiled ‘Do you remember the first time you tasted your first poppy seed cake?’ She nodded and rolled her eyes.

‘It was heavenly’ she replied

‘And is it still as good – still as heavenly?’ She looked thoughtful, and he cocked his head as he watched her expression, smiling faintly.

‘No..’ she said

‘But you still love them?’ She nodded. He squeezed her hand again, a little quirk to the corner of his mouth. Realisation dawned on her face

‘Oh’ she said, ducking her head and blushing. His expression softened and his voice was almost a whisper.

‘The first time is always special, Lizzy.’

#period drama #Past times #Elizabeth and John #Captain Lykel #regency drama #regency Edinburgh

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violetsmoak · 5 years ago

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Philtatos [3/?]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/20101543/chapters/47654632

Blanket Disclaimer

Summary: During a patrol where Red Hood and Red Robin cross paths, Jason is infected with the blood of the Eros, the ancient God of Love, who informs them that they must track down his missing bow and arrows, or Jason will go slowly mad with an obsessive desire–for Tim. Though overwhelmed by the sudden attention being paid to him, Tim sets to work trying to solve the case, before Jason succumbs to madness. In the meantime, Jason discovers that there’s more than godlike powers at work here, as well as a legacy that reaches back through the sands of time.

Rating: PG-13 (rating may change later)

Beta Reader: None at the moment.

JayTimBingo Prompts This Chapter: # fate #gods in disguise #reincarnation #secrets #titans #wings

First Chapter

________________________________________________________________

As a general rule, Tim avoids going to Batburger when in uniform; it feels as if he’s endorsing a company that capitalizes on cape and rogue identities, and which he knows for a fact treats their employees like chattel.

But apparently mythological gods of love have insane metabolic needs.

He makes a mental note to ask Bart to send some of those special high-calorie protein bars he eats. There’s no way Tim intends to spend valuable time playing delivery boy if Jason’s in trouble.

He frowns at the thought, causing the girl at the takeout counter to step back nervously.

Jason was his usual charming self tonight. But it was a bit off.

The older vigilante, never the paragon of patience and gratitude, was on a hair-trigger tonight. Under normal circumstances, there’s more verbal sparring between them before Jason things get physical. Even then, their altercations are usually because some villain is trying to pit them against each other.

Or he really was just pissed off I was following him.

But Tim can’t help thinking that’s not it. The whole thing has been nagging him since the night before, drowning out what would normally be frustration and hurt after his encounter with the Red Hood. There’s no time to be hurt when there’s a problem to solve.

Tim accepts his order, and after ensuring it’s triple-bagged, tips the girl at the counter for her time before taking off. Swinging across the rooftops of Gotham carrying ten times more than he ever buys for himself is too awkward, so he ends up jumping on the roof of a passing bus and riding it toward the old theater district.

His eyes automatically flick to the passing buildings, wondering if his progression away from Jason’s part of town is being watched from up top.

Or if he should be ducking an impending sniper shot.

Jason’s words echo on repeat in his mind, needling deeper each time. It shouldn’t sting as much as it does, but they were just getting to a good place in terms of trust.

“If I need help, I’ll ask. And chances are, I won’t be asking you.”

“So much for that,” Tim mutters to himself as he prepares to disembark from his ride.

Upon arriving back at the Nest, he skips changing out of his gear and heads straight for the subbasement. The containment unit there was build with Poison Ivy and Scarecrow related emergencies in mind, but it’s come in handy since he acquired an Olympian roommate of sorts.

Normal protocol after a twenty-four-hour observation period would be to send Eros off to a prison for metahumans, but Tim is wary about giving up custody of him any time soon. The potential danger to Jason aside, he’ll need to get his hands on a good deal of null technology and fortified transportation just to move the guy without setting off his powers.

That memory induces a shudder; it’s been a day, and he’s still tasting pomegranate.

Tim doesn’t wish that on anyone. And if that lack of control seizes Jason, forcing him to throw himself at Tim like a ravenous dog?

A visceral swirl of nausea settles in Tim’s gut. Jason’s always had strong ideas on consent, even before his death. It’s one of the few things that didn’t change following his resurrection. If Jason becomes the very thing he’s been fighting his whole life, Tim worries he’ll break for real this time, and in a manner very different than when he first broke The Rule.

Tim isn’t going to let that happen, even if that means working with an entitled godling that’s already become more trouble than he’s worth.

It was hard enough just getting him here, the guy’s way heavier than he looks…

He wonders if it’s the wings, if their mass is still discernible even when they are out of the visual spectrum, and how strong they’d have to be to carry something person-sized. They probably aren’t like a birds’ appendages, and Eros is clearly not hollow-boned, so either they’re extremely well-muscled or of some metaphysical material construct that—

“Hey! Are you going to feed me at some point, darlin’? Or is part of your brand of hospitality enforced starvation?”

Tim jolts back to present from his drifting thoughts and glances across the open space of the Nest toward the containment unit. It’s a hundred square feet of bulletproof glass and filtered air designed by S.T.A.R Labs specifically to counteract the abilities of metas and other enhanced humans.

Eros lounges on his cot, wings out and examining the feathers with his lips pressed together. He’s been annoyed with Tim since waking up in the in custody, though Tim thinks he’s more upset about the whole being knocked-out thing. There’s some kind of telenovela playing in the background.

He wasn’t sure how long he was going to have his guest, so while Eros was still unconscious, Tim hooked up a television screen inside, and brought several books and a mp3 player. He also brought every piece of art from his apartment upstairs and crammed it inside the unit. Eros’ abilities may not have affected Tim when he put him in there (this time), covered as he was, but as those powers grow beyond his control, he’s going to want to siphon it off however he can.

Eros finally looks up at Tim, narrowing his eyes. “For your sake, I hope you got the fries Jokerized. And your channel selection sucks. What kid your age doesn’t have at least one Adult channel?”

“The kind that finds them gross and exploitative.” Tim makes a face as he pushes back his cowl, though he keeps his domino on.

And who has two full-time jobs that make sitting down to watch anything like that pretty much impossible.

He can’t remember the last time he went on a date or did anything nearing the realms of sexual. Normally he just sees to his needs in the shower and that’s that, since there’s no time for much else. He’s even gotten in the habit of not taking more than five minutes so he can do other things. What’s the point of taking longer if there’s no one there with him?

Eros is watching him with a cruel twist to his lips, and Tim’s ears warm. He has a flash of worry that the Olympian can read minds but then decides if Eros had that ability, he’d be using it mock Tim by now. The guy's sort of a dick.

Tim scowls at the notion and opens the hatch in the side of the unit and shoves the takeout bag inside, punching in the code to decontaminate the area.

Eros gets up from the cot, stretching in a languid movement that’s distracting for reasons other than his shirtless state, and stalks over to the hatch on the other side. As he moves, he brushes his fingers across a bronze Grecian krater from the Classical period. Something like golden wisps of smoke swirl around it and then settles into the piece, which gleams a bit brighter.

He wasn’t kidding about that, I guess.

Eros clutches at the takeout bag and begins unloading it on the table by the door hatch, stuffing fries in his mouth and making borderline pornographic noises that have Tim swallowing uncomfortably.

“So where’s Tall, Dark and Angry?” the Olympian asks. “I figured you’d be wrangling him back here—force him into a sweet set-up like this one.”

He kicks at the glass.

“There’s no wrangling when it comes to J—Red Hood.”

“And you’re not worried at all?”

Tim considers the last meeting and carefully says, “He seemed fine when I ran into him tonight.”

But he can’t quite hide his unease. Eros picks up on it.

“You get that that’s only temporary, right?” he asks, stuffing a handful of fries in his mouth.

“I also know that going at Hood head-on isn’t the way to convince him of anything. He’s got to reach out for help himself. The most I can do is monitor him from a distance until he’s ready.”

He wanders over to his main computer and brings up the tracking program for the bug he planted on Jason when he grabbed him tonight. The other man was more distracted than he let on if he didn’t notice Tim slip it on him.

And he hasn’t gotten rid of it, judging from this.

It’s not making a quick exit via sewer or a passing truck, which is par for the course when ditching a tracker. He’s chased enough of those to know what that pattern looks like. And when Tim pulls up camera footage from the surrounding area, he catches several shots of Jason making his way to the safehouse in Coventry no one’s supposed to know about.

“Really?” Eros drawls. “Are you sure it’s not because you’re perfectly happy with this state of affairs? Maybe you’re hoping you’ll finally get some recognition from the guy you’ve been pining for?”

Tim tenses and turns, forcing a blank look and neutral tone. “I’m not pining for him.”

“Don’t lie to me—God of Love, remember? I could smell it on you the minute you were both in the same room.”

Tim clenches his fists, a pit forming in his stomach at the idea that someone knows, followed by disgust as he registers what Eros just said.

“No, I’m not happy about it,” he growls. “Why would I be happy about him being forced to do something against his will? Especially if it’s giving a crap about me?”

“Hey, no offense meant,” Eros says, holding his hands up in surrender; the effect is ruined by the burgers clutched in each fist. “My mother and I have made a career off guys wanting the object of their affection to pay attention to them, at whatever the cost. And there was no such thing as dick pics back then. It’s kind of a question I’ve got to ask in my line of work.”

“Your line of work? You mean you still fly around the world making people fall in love?”

“Uh, no, human beings fall in love fine on their own. I just…make it happen faster and last longer. To my mother, love is a whimsy, gossamer thing, all moonlit strolls, and flowery words and basking in the newness of it all. For me, it’s fierce. Intense. Something that when denied guts you like a knife and hollows you out with desperation.”

A hungry expression passes over his face that has nothing to do with food, and Tim shivers, disliking how a lot of that sentence is hitting too close to home. Rather than betray his discomfort, he takes a chiding tone. “If that’s what you do, no wonder people kill themselves after bad break-ups. Some people aren’t able to deal with that sort of pain—do you even care?”

“Not particularly. Besides, it’s only the interesting ones we get involved with. They tend to be stronger at heart.”

“Because that makes it so much better!”

“Do I tell you how to do your job? No. So how about I get a little less judgment and a little more ‘start finding my diviners’ from you?”

“Oh, we’re going to find them,” Tim says, fighting to control his anger. Whether I’m letting you have them back is another story entirely. If I can figure out some way to keep you and your bow locked up, it’d save a lot of people grief. “But just so you understand, Red Hood is my priority here, not you or your toys.”

“Really?” Eros purrs, sneering skepticism on his face. “Even though I could ensure he starts to return those pesky feelings of yours? In a less life-threatening way, of course.”

“He might not even be affected.”

“Naivety’s not a good look on you, darlin’. But seriously—all I have to do is use an arrow, and you two could retire from the cape gig and go antiquing in New England once this is all over.”

Tim snorts at the ridiculous image and shakes his head. “No.”

“Really? You’re still willing to fight for him, even if he goes back to treating you like an afterthought if you help him?”

“When I help him. And it’s not like it would be something new.”

And, yeah, that still hurts.

Eros huffs, his expression suggesting he’s not sure what to think of that, and then shakes his head.

“Self-sacrificing as ever,” he pronounces and pops the top on a can of Zesti.

Tim puzzles at that remark for all of five seconds, when the screen of his computer lights up with an incoming transmission from Titans Tower. Tim accepts it and the screen fills with a familiar face.

For the first time that night, his mouth smooths into a genuine smile. “Hey, Cassie.”

“Red Robin,” she replies, eyes flicking over him as if to assess him for injury or danger.

She keeps to his rules about secret identities in his base. Sometimes he wishes his identity was public like hers—and then he remembers that he gets enough unwanted attention as Tim Drake-Wayne, it would be worse if people knew for sure he was Red Robin.

Vicki Vale would be the first in line to turn my life into some kind of reality TV show…

“You tried to get a hold of me earlier?” his friend asks, and Tim nods. He’s never been the type to leave anything to chance, and last night while Eros was still conked out, he shot an email to Cassie asking her to get back to him as soon as she could.

“How are things in California?”

“A hell of a lot warmer than where you are, but I don’t think you want to talk about the weather.”

“Nope. How much have you heard about Eros?”

“Eros?” she asks. “Like Cupid?”

“Really?” the winged Olympian groans. “You too? You’re supposed to know better.”

Cassie’s eyes narrow as she takes note of the figure in the containment unit behind him. “Who is that?”

“He says his name’s Eros, and from what I’ve seen, I’m inclined to believe him.”

Eros gives Cassie a smarmy smile. “Hello, Auntie. Nice to meet you finally.”

She wrinkles her nose, and Tim can’t help mirroring the expression. “And I thought my family was messed up.”

“Your family is messed up,” she retorts. “Mine’s just been doing it longer.”

“Touché.”

“So, why’s he in a cage?”

“The real question is why isn’t he gagged,” Tim replies, earning a smirk from Cassie and an offended ‘hey!’ from his detainee. “Basically, he’s losing control of his powers and when that happens apparently there will be a nuclear explosion of desire.”

And that’s possible the weirdest sentence he’s ever said.

“Super orgy,” Eros agrees. “Which though fun in theory, is a lot messier than any of us want.”

Cassie and Tim shudder.

“Not that Gotham couldn’t use a collective chill pill,” Cassie says, “but that sounds like an easy fix. You’ve got him locked up, send him on to Iron Heights or one of the other places that have meta containment.”

“Hey! What’d I ever do to you?!”

“I would, but there’s a complication,” Tim sighs. “He was wounded in an altercation involving a bunch of mobsters, and some of his blood infected a human—no, not me.” He is quick to add that at her widening eyes. “But the individual in question isn’t exactly known for being in control of their emotions. They have a history of trauma as well that could turn this into an issue, so I need to find a cure as soon as possible. Preferably before the symptoms Eros insists are coming manifest.”

He purposefully downplays Jason’s involvement, since the Titans aren’t his biggest fans. Even the ones who weren’t around at the time have heard the story of unconscious bodies, a message written in blood and Tim nearly dying. Heroes are supposed to be above grudges, but they are still teenagers.

“Not sure what I can do for you on that front…”

“Eros says his arrows will reverse it, but they’re missing, along with his bow. I’m looking for that. But I have to find out how bad this could potentially get, and how long it will take.”

“I could tell you that,” Eros grumbles.

“I need independent corroboration because I don’t believe he’s being completely honest with me,” Tim finishes, ignoring him.

“I know nothing beyond what I’ve heard in the stories, and those you have to take with a grain of salt,” Cassie muses.

“Told you,” Eros informs Tim.

“But I’ll contact a few people in my family. They might know something concrete.”

“Thanks,” Tim says, relieved. “Other than that, everything’s good with the Titans?”

“Just the usual stuff. Nothing end-of-the-world bad this week, but it’s only Tuesday.”

“Don’t jinx it!”

“We live in a jinx,” Cassie replies with a roll of her eyes. There’s a crash somewhere in the distance, and the trumpeting of an elephant and she winces.

“Beast Boy?”

“I’ll see you later, Red, I’ve got an idiot to kill,” Cassie sighs.

“Isn’t it fun being the leader?”

“Shut up.”

The screen goes blank, and Tim can’t help his grin.

“So, you know my aunt.”

The grin vanishes as he turns to face Eros. “First, stop calling her that, it’s weird. Second, she’s with the Titans. Of course I know her.”

“Titans,” the Olympian scoffs. “You call yourselves that, but you’ve never met an actual Titan. They were formidable warriors. So fearsome they had to be thrown into the deepest pit of Hades to ensure they never rose up again to threaten the gods.”

“Clearly they weren’t all that if they got locked up,” Tim retorts, offended on behalf of his team.

Miraculously, Eros has nothing to say to that.

⁂

Jason wakes to the sensation of lips between his shoulder blades and someone’s fingers sliding down the curl of his spine. He grumbles in dozy annoyance, shoving his face deeper into his pillow. It took him way too long to fall asleep last night, his overactive imagination plying him with thoughts he does not want to be having. Whoever’s bothering him is about to—

He jerks upward then, fingers clenching around the pistol beside his bed and whirls around to aim at whatever intruder has slipped into his room.

Because he went to sleep alone last night, and no one should know about this safehouse or how to bypass his security.

(Well, obviously there are the members of the Family, but Jason’s fairly confident none of them would be waking him like that.)

He faces the emptiness of the room, breathing hard as he tries to gather his wits. The space is too sparsely furnished for someone to find a place to hide, the shadows already eaten away by the sunlight. There’s no question he’s utterly alone, gun pointed at nothing and his body heaving like he just went three rounds with Bane.

What the hell…

He lowers the gun, scowling, and rubs the back of his head with his free hand. He’s used to having realistic dreams, but that’s new…

Jason scrubs a hand down his face, gives one last bleary glance at his surroundings, and heaves himself out of bed. There’s no way he’s falling back to sleep after this.

He’s distracted the rest of the morning, paranoia higher than usual as he takes second and third glances around the room before getting in the shower. He really shouldn’t have skipped it last night, because his skin is sticky with dried blood.

The wound in his shoulder is completely gone now.

If he’s learned anything in his life it’s not to ignore when things magically appear or disappear.

And yet…

If he acknowledges it, it means acknowledging the fact that he’s starting to fixate—hell, already is fixating—on Tim, and that’s something he can’t give in to.

Repressing shit is a time-honored Bat tradition, and he decides for once he’s going to partake for as long as possible. He’s still able to function, which means there might still time for him to figure all of this out on his own.

He returns to the location of Eros’ warehouse, hoping to find some trace evidence left from the night before. If he can get an analysis of the blood that infected him—

Except, the person he’d usually ask for that is the one he should be avoiding at all costs. The other options are ten times as unpalatable.

Damn it.

It turns out there’s nothing to be found anyhow, although Jason isn’t sure it’s because someone cleaned it up (the GCPD crime scene cleaners or the ever-diligent Red Robin) or because maybe Olympian blood doesn’t stick around. His wound is healed like it was never there, it’s possible it’s the same with the blood.

The day gets steadily more discouraging.

The first time Jason hears the voices, he’s in the middle of busting up a shipment of drugs he stumbled onto while leaving the warehouse district. The Triad flunkies seeing to said shipment aren’t exactly happy to see him, which is why things quickly devolve into fisticuffs.

As one of the knife-wielding henchmen take a run at him, Jason crouches, ready to engage, when without warning, someone whispers in his ear.

“Ready to lose?”

“Do your worst, infant.”

Somehow, he can feel warm breath along his jaw, even though he’s wearing his helmet.

Jason jerks to one side, prepared to pull whoever is behind him over his shoulder, only to find the air behind him empty. His pause allows his opponent to shove his knife at his ribs.

Body armor and his own deflection abilities keep the blow from being fatal, but the rest of the fight, Jason is thrown. There’s no one else but him and the Triads, but the sensation of someone hovering behind him doesn’t disappear.

Tim?

He’s looking for him before he even registers it, stepping over the groaning bodies of his opponents and examining the shadows for any sign of Red Robin. It would be just like him to sit and watch from the shadows, the little stalker. Dick told him stories about what little Timmy was like as a kid, and it wouldn’t surprise him if he still liked to sneak around with a camera.

That idea makes the blood rush to his cheeks for some reason.

Disappointment rises when he confirms he’s completely alone—followed by the queasy realization of what he was just doing.

He doesn’t even bother calling the GCPD to do a clean-up as he flees the scene.

As he stitches himself up later in his safe house, Jason eyes his reflection in the mirror, glaring at himself in reprimand. He should be stronger than this, damn it! If not because of his All-Caste training, then even thanks to Bruce’s insane regimens for dealing with poisons.

His gaze flicks over his scarred body, assessing the damage. He’s used to the litany of scars that cut across his skin, this latest is just part of a growing collection. The other one, though—

He studies the healed part of his shoulder and swallows.

If he hadn’t known there was something wrong with it before, healing as quickly as it did, he knows now. The raised skin of the new scar looks as if it’s been glossed over with gold; fine threads of it follow the surrounding capillaries like loose threads.

If this is some kind of King Midas deal, I’m going to kill that winged douche. Though, turning into a golden statue is potentially a better outcome than what could happen if what Eros said was true. At least this time Bruce will have something better to stick in the case than an empty suit.

The grim humor usually makes him feel marginally better; today it doesn’t.

After that, the voices are everywhere he goes, needling at him in a way that is somehow more present than the insanity of the Pit, more maddening. At least when he was driven by an insane rage, the voices egging him on made sense. There was a purpose, a logic behind their prompting.

“Always planning, aren’t you?”

“Well, someone has to.”

The whispers that dog him are more like snatches of a picture or a dream, without context, and yet each word murmured to him falls on him like a searing iron on his heart.

“Should e’er I go, will you go with me?”

In the next few days, things get steadily worse.

Jason’s all but given up on sleep, since every time he closes his eyes, Tim’s face seems engraved on the backs of his eyelids. Only not Tim—sometimes he looks different, but the image is so fleeting Jason couldn’t even explain how. And when it’s not Tim’s face or his voice, then his slumber gets interrupted by vibrant flashes of color and sound. There is warmth and laughter that abruptly turns to crushing, wrenching pain.

“You think of me as a shield?”

“I think of you as my shield.”

“You’ll have to catch me!”

It’s not an echo of the physical, the way nightmares about his death tend to be; the bone-shattering imprint of the metal bar against his bones. No, this pain is something else, a gaping hole, someone shouting into a dark void that no one will ever hear.

“I would that you would leave them all to perish.”

“Bury us together.”

During the day, he experiences a bitter longing, like he’s missing a limb or a lung. By night, his patrols are more vicious, bloodier as he tries to exercise his frustration the best way he knows how. As if hitting harder, and faster, will bleed out whatever is slowly poisoning him.

By the middle of the week, Jason is smoking a pack a day and filled with the manic energy of the perpetually exhausted. He’s started seeing things out of the corner of his eye—full lips tilted upward in amusement, flashes of blue eyes, dark hair disappearing into a crowd—that makes his stomach flip.

“Come back to me.”

He picks his phone up and puts it down several times one morning, each time getting closer to calling Tim until he throws it at the wall. He leaves his apartment before he can do the same to his tablet.

There’s no point carrying out his usual errands, and he ends up wandering aimlessly around the city for a few hours. Somehow he ends up on a building across the street from Wayne Enterprises, staring at the floor where he knows Tim’s office is. Where he knows Tim is.

Even on a case, pretty boy has to be the model employee or no allowance from B.

It would be simple for Jason to get into the building if he wanted to. There’s Bat access points all over the place, and secret corridors and doors. He wouldn’t even need a disguise to keep anyone from recognizing Bruce Wayne’s dead kid.

Yeah, and then what, moron? What exactly is the game plan once you get in?

He can’t even answer himself and lets out a wordless yell of rage that gets lost in the whipping wind.

“Screw this,” Jason growls and turns his back on the WE building. It galls him that it’s difficult to do even that.

Time to get some answers.

Since there haven’t been any reports of arrests of winged metas, he knows exactly where to look. Tim’s as paranoid and as much of a control freak as Bruce, and he’s not about to let a potential resource go before he’s used it to its full potential.

And there’s no way babybird doesn’t have a secret hideout under his place.

It’s a short journey back to the old theater district, or at least it feels that way; Jason’s more distracted than he’d like and barely registers the trip. Once there, he circles the block where Tim’s apartment is located a few times, making sure that there’s no sign of its owner (even though he knowsTim’s at work, there’s a part of him that keeps hoping) and then breaks in.

It’s a bit of effort to disable the security system (the little shit is too paranoid and smart for his own good) and then even longer to start looking for a way into Tim’s base of operations.

He may or may not get side-tracked snooping through the kitchen (no wonder he’s so scrawny, he’s got barely any food in here) and rummaging in the bathroom medical cabinet (at least he’s well-stocked, it’ll keep him from bleeding out the next time he gets injured) and picking through various DVDs (of course Tim has the extended versions of Lord of the Rings, why doesn’t that surprise him?). It’s only when he peeks into Tim’s bedroom, sees the king-sized bed and has a sudden image of the younger man sprawled out on it that Jason remembers the actual reason he’s here and almost runs back downstairs.

It takes longer than he’d like to find the trick to opening the secret door, though when he finds it, he snorts.

Because fish? Really?

When would Tim even have the time or patience to remember to feed them, unless he was coming over to the aquarium every day? It’s the only thing in the apartment that doesn’t feel like Tim.

Jason scowls, wondering when he started being so familiar with Tim’s esthetic. They’ve barely hung out together since his grand and bloody return to Gotham, and they’re both always traveling the world or wide void of space, there hasn’t been the opportunity to get to know the kid. Yes, he once studied his replacement obsessively, but that was to find his weaknesses, to learn how to take him apart, to destroy him and in turn destroy Bruce.

None of that should translate to knowing minutiae like how Tim takes his coffee.

When did I even pick that up? Could it have been that time with the waffles?

His ruminations trail off as he takes in the vast, three-level cavern he’s descended into.

And…okay, this place is way cooler than Jason’s pseudo-Batcave, but he guesses that’s par for the course when a tech nerd whose Daddy bankrolls everything.

Though he doubts Tim would have used Bruce’s money to finance this. He likes his independence; Jason learned that for himself about the time he found the kid holed up in Lex Towers. It’s one of the things he likes about him.

He finds Eros in a containment unit.

Bingo.

The guy has a decent set-up too, from the look of it; he might as well be in a swanky hotel room.

“Back so soon?” Eros calls, not looking up from his show right away. “I thought you had work or whatever it is you humans force yourselves to endu—” He glances up and sees that it’s not Tim, and his sentence trails off, expression becoming almost gleeful as if he’s been waiting for him a while.

“Kairόs dé, poimḗn laôn,” he purrs.

Jason blinks, not understanding the words even as they tug at something in him. It’s like being spoken to in a dream or from beneath running water.

He shakes his head. “Sorry, that’s not one of the languages I had drilled into me.”

Eros’s face morphs instantly.

“Well, you’re no fun,” he says, and though the words are accompanied by a childish pout, Jason thinks he senses actual disappointment there. Normally he might investigate that, but he’s here for a reason, and that involves figuring out what the hell is going on with him.

“You know why I’m here.”

“Indeed,” Eros says. “Starting to get that unscratchable itch, aren’t you?”

“What do you think?”

“I think I warned you and you didn’t believe me. Not sure what you expect me to do about it now.” The Olympian examines his nails.

“Oh, I don’t know--fix it, maybe?!”

“I already told you how to fix it. You could have been helping the pretty boy the past few days and possibly gotten closer to sorting things, but then you had to be all brooding and tortured and stomp off like a teenager.” Eros considers him. “Unrelated, but have you ever actually seen a bird brood? I’m curious, if you took that bucket off, would there be actual similarities?”

Jason tells himself the reason he clenches his fists is because of the Olympian’s flippant manner, and not because he called Tim ‘pretty’.

Which, no, not relevant.

“You said I’d be going out of my mind over T—Red Robin,” Jason growls. “That including hearing voices? Or seeing things that aren’t there?”

“It might? To be honest, I have no idea,” Eros says with a yawn. “I’ve never had anyone with your particular…history exposed to my blood. There’s any number of things it could be.”

“My history,” Jason repeats.

“Well, to start with the most glaringly obvious, you’ve returned from the dead. There’s an odor Revenants like you give off…hm, sort of like dirt and petrichor. If they’re brought back properly, I mean, otherwise it’s all rotting flesh and bodily fluids.” He shudders. “And there’s the unmistakable seal of the All-Caste on you. Ducra’s work, I’m guessing.”

Jason’s mouth twists. “And you can just…tell all that.”

“It’s written in the story of your soul,” Eros intones, and then looks smug, “among other things.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen too much in my time to go for that poetic New Age crap.”

“Oh, it’s far from New Age, boy, it’s from an olden time when men were men—”

“And sheep ran scared?” Jason interrupts. “Spare me the walk down memory lane and just answer my questions.

“You haven’t really asked me anything yet.”

“How long do I have before I completely lose it?”

“Again, no idea. Though no one’s ever made it more than two weeks, and by that point, there’s not really much left to save, if you know what I mean.”

Kind of figured that.

“And before it gets to that point? Is there a way of putting off the…urges?” he almost gags on the word.

“Depends.”

“On?”

Eros smirks. “On how far the object of your obsession is willing to go to save you.”

Rage frissons through Jason’s body. “Fuck you. That’s not happening.”

“Then you’d better get your affairs in order and say your goodbyes, et cetera…”

“I’m going to kill you.”

“Oh, do try,” Eros sniggers. “Birdboy took great pains to tell me there’s no way into this shiny prison cell unless you unlock the door from the outside. And if you walk in here now…well, you might end up seeing those troubling hallucinations and hearing those whispers a little more clearly following a second exposure.”

Jason snarls with rage and punches the glass in front of Eros’s face; it doesn’t even make a dent, and his knuckles immediately burn with pain.

“Feel better now?” Eros simpers, and then his face goes cold. “I don’t care if it’s with or without your little crush, it’s in everyone’s best interest to get my toys out of the world and back in my hands as soon as possible. You two have already withstood enough tragedy, don’t you think?”

“That written on my soul, too?” Jason spits but doesn’t wait for an answer. He whirls around and stalks away from the containment unit. This was a waste of time, and he needs to get out of here before Tim returns.

He’s not sure what he’d do if he actually ran into the other vigilante just now.

But one thing’s for sure: he’s going to have to start taking this seriously.

Knowing Tim’s already investigating the bow and arrow angle, Jason decides on a different take. There’s something not entirely above board about Eros, and Jason has no illusions the guy wouldn’t screw them over in a second. He’s calculating, like Tim, except in the Olympian’s case, the only one to benefit from that calculation is himself.

And there are some things he says that don’t jive. Jason’s not sure what exactly he’s been picking up on—going over all of their interactions, there’s nothing that stands out—but his gut is telling him there’s more going on here than the Olympian is telling.

The problem is, who the hell is going to help him out with this?

He can’t work with Tim, for obvious reasons, and contacting Bruce or Dick to use their Themysciran connections is right out. He doesn’t have any of his own, not really—Donna doesn’t really talk to him anymore. Even if he did have an in somewhere, he’d want to have at least enough background on the issue to understand whatever mindfuck logic usually comes along when dealing with Olympians or magic or anything like that.

He needs information, and he knows who he needs to reach out to to get it since Tim isn’t an option. He’s not looking forward to it.

It’s always a toss-up if she’ll help or not.

Or make him beg or demand a favor in exchange.

Though at this point, the sooner he unravels the shitstorm that his life is devolving into, the better. Then he can hightail it out of Gotham and not come back until he and Tim have forgotten all about this little bit of awkwardness. Perhaps get back to the Ally-Possibly-Friend-Kinda-Brother-Sort Of? thing.

And so, before he can talk himself out of it, he taps into the private comm line to Oracle, the one he purposefully keeps muted whenever he’s back in town.

“Red Hood,” the familiar digital voice acknowledges a few seconds later.

“I need a favor.”

“Will wonders never cease.”

“I’ve been asking myself that for years.”

“You’ve been pretty adamant about not wanting help from me,” she remarks, and even with the lack of intonation he can hear the rebuke and rolls his eyes.

“Look, can we skip the guilt-trip? I’ll owe you.”

“I know you will.”

“It’s more your research skills than hacking.”

“Oh?”

“I need to know as much as you can find about the Greek god Eros.”

Oracle is quiet for a long moment, and he wonders if she hasn’t logged off, but then she says, “Does this have anything to do with Red Robin asking me to watch for reports of individuals carrying a bow and arrows over the past few weeks?”

“It might,” Jason allows, a smile in his voice at the mention of Tim. He forces that back down, mentally castigating himself.

None of that!

“Are you two working a case?”

“Sort of. Not together—” Definitely not together! “—but same case. We’re approaching it from different angles.”

“But you’re reaching out to me, which you don’t do unless things have the potential to take a turn for the worse.”

“I’m reaching out to you so that they won’t have to later on, and that’s all I’m going to say. Can you help me or not?”

Another pause.

“It will take some time.”

“We’ve got less than two weeks. Think you can manage that?”

“What did you boys get yourselves into this time?” Oracle sighs. Her cooperation is implied, and Jason relaxes a hair.

Things are going to be fine.

“Thanks,” he says, and then pauses. “So, when you spoke to him—Red Robin, I mean. How did he sound?”

Or not.

⁂⁂⁂

Next Chapter

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realmdigital1 · 3 years ago

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olivereliott · 7 years ago

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Review: The 2018 Triumph Bonneville Bobber Black

This time last year, I was in Madrid riding the then-new Triumph Bonneville Bobber. Fast forward twelve months, and I’ve just hopped off the follow-up Bobber Black, in Marbella on Spain’s Costa del Sol.

Madrid was a beautiful city, surrounded by incredible motorcycling country. But the riding between Marbella and Ronda is even better. In the same way, I loved the vanilla Bobber when I first rode it but the Bobber Black is just that little bit sweeter.

In basic terms, the Bobber Black is a murdered-out ‘standard’ Bobber with an upgraded front end. It gets a drop in front wheel size from 19” to 16”, beefier 47mm Showa forks (versus the original’s 41mm KYB units), and an extra brake disc with Brembo calipers.

Barring one or two other updates, it’s essentially the same bike. Same hardtail-look frame, same ‘high torque’ 1200cc motor, and the same solo rider setup. The price differs though; the Black costs a grand-and-a-quarter more than its sibling in the US.

The first-gen Bobber was a runaway success—selling twice as fast as Triumph expected. It’s actually the fastest selling model in the 115-year history of the British marque: Not bad for a single-seater that caused half the internet to throw toys out of the cot over the idea of a factory ‘bobber.’

While all this was going on, the Bobber Black was patiently waiting in the wings. It was developed alongside the original Bobber and the idea, according to Triumph’s head of brand management, Miles Perkins, was to offer up more than one kind of Bob.

There’s the original flavor, for those after a classic vibe, and now the Black, for riders wanting a more aggressive stance and a higher spec.

So do the upgrades really make the Black that much better? Or did I hop a plane from Cape Town to Spain—and get snowbound in Amsterdam along the way—for nothing?

Before I hit the road with the Bobber Black, I had some time to take in the details. I’ve gushed previously about the Bobber’s sublime finishes and old school looks, and the way Triumph has managed to hide the modern technology. And on the Black, all of that still rings true.

That gorgeous swing cage and hidden mono-shock: check. A catalytic convertor that you can’t see: check. Faux carbs that are so pretty I can’t hate them: check. Classy ribbed fenders and a period-correct rear fender bracket: check.

Except now, almost everything is—you guessed it—black. The engine covers, exhausts, handlebars, foot controls, levers, risers and wheels hubs have all been blacked-out. Heck, even the gearshift linkage and the aluminum seat pan have gone midnight.

A couple of parts have selectively been left alone, to add just the right amount of contrast. As for that cute 2.4-gallon tank and the fenders, you’ve got two choices: the base model jet black gloss (my favorite by far), or the slightly more costly matt jet black (below).

It’s the stance where the Bobber Black really differs visually from its fairer sibling, though. Even though the front rim is the same width on both bikes (2.5”), on the Black it’s smaller and wears wider rubber. Combine that with the chunkier forks, and you’ve got a bike that looks even more purposeful and muscular.

The rider ergonomics are also exactly the same as the Bobber’s, which caught me by surprise. I was convinced Triumph would add different handlebars or forward pegs, but they left the drag-style bars, mid-mounted pegs and solo seat exactly where they are. Which in retrospect makes a lot more sense, since the Bobber is actually a surprisingly comfortable ride.

You can still adjust the cantilevered solo seat between up-and-forward and down-and-back, and you can still adjust the angle of the speedo to suit you. And I still wouldn’t bother with either adjustment—especially since I previously found the Bobber’s down-and-back seat position a bit too stretched out for my liking.

A look at the cockpit reveals a couple of new additions. There’s now an LED headlight to match the rest of the bike’s LED lighting, complete with a pretty daytime running light. And the left switchgear now includes a cruise control button.

It’s a basic setup; hit the button to activate it, then hit it again to set your speed. Tap it once more—or grab the throttle or brake—and it’s off. The simplicity of it is great in theory, but I found that the button needed a really hard squeeze to work (my thick winter gloves probably didn’t help). I also missed the ability to adjust my speed while cruising that you’d find on most systems.

I’ve always loved the Bobber’s analog/digital combo speedo, and the amount of info that it packs in—including a fuel gauge, gear position indicator and consumption info. And the adjustable levers, slick bar-end mirrors and easy-to-use switches are all huge plusses—even if the switchgear housings are so darn big.

Our test units came fitted with optional heated grips, which worked a treat in the chilly Spanish hills. They also reveal how carefully Triumph has designed bolt-on parts: the button to toggle through different heating levels tucks up next to the existing switches like it belongs. And as you change modes, the speedo’s digital display feeds back the relevant info.

Firing up the Bobber Black reminded me of one of my favorite things about the Bobber—its engine. It’s the same liquid-cooled, 1200cc ‘high torque’ parallel twin found in the T120, with a 270 degree firing interval. But in the Bobber it has a unique intake and exhaust tune for even more gains.

That’s a lot of words, but what it translates to in numbers is 106 Nm at 4,000 rpm, and 77 hp at 6,100 rpm. 77 doesn’t sound like a lot, but I tend to ignore arguments over numbers these days, preferring to focus on how well—and where—torque is delivered. And the Bobber does this sublimely.

As you spool the motor up to 4,000 you can feel—and hear—that peak torque kick in. Even though I’d love to hear the Bobber with the optional Vance & Hines cans, the stock setup delivers an addictive growl. More importantly, unleashing that torque makes shooting off the line or firing the Bobber out of corners an absolute pleasure.

There is a lot of tech here for an ‘old-school’ bike, but I really can’t fault any of it. The ride-by-wire throttle is responsive, the torque-assist clutch is feather light and the ratios through the six-speed box are damn near perfect. (Oh yes, and it’s all Euro 4 compliant, with nary a sensor or box in sight.)

The rider aids also do little to detract from the Bobber’s retro feel. You don’t notice the traction control until you switch it off (which can only be done when stationary) and really abuse the throttle.

You can also flick between ‘Road’ and ‘Rain’ modes, which are both full power: ‘Rain’ just smooths out the delivery. ABS is standard, and behaved well during a couple of hard brake checks.

Our test route included countless hills and corners—and the new front end passed the test. The original Bobber is already a far better corner carver than it should be, thanks to Triumph’s exceptional chassis and suspension engineers.

The Black has exactly the same chassis, suspension travel and geometry as the base Bobber. But with that chubby front wheel and burlier forks, the Black really digs corners. It turns in quick and holds its line well, although it suffers from the same ground clearance woes as before. Kiss your pegs goodbye.

The Avon Cobra tires are grippy and predictable, and the 47mm Showa forks feel planted and precise. The overall suspension setup feels pretty stiff, which is great for hustling the bike through corners. But it did punish my back a bit on one particularly gnarly stretch of bad tarmac.

The twin Brembo brake setup is a massive improvement. I longed for more bite from the first Bobber’s single disc, and Triumph has now delivered. But it’s not just the raw stopping power on the Black that’s impressive: it’s the way I could shave speed off quickly with just a subtle squeeze of the lever. That upgrade alone is worth the price of admission.

Our pace on the day was relaxed rather than rushed. But when things did get brisk, the Bobber Black was capable of more than we were throwing at it. And I marveled once again at how I could spend all day riding a bike with drag bars and a single seat. It might not be a tourer, but that seat hugs your butt well. So well, I could see myself tackling a few 200-mile days in a row, with nothing but a backpack.

Back in town, the Bobber Black transformed from back road blaster to urban runabout, with zero complaints. At 524 pounds (237 kilos) dry, it weighs 21 pounds more than the regular Bobber—but it’s content shuffling along at town pace.

Last year, I signed off my review of the first-gen Bobber by saying you shouldn’t over-think it. And you shouldn’t over-think the Bobber Black either.

Like the original, it’s cool and it’s extremely well engineered. And although it’s single-minded it’s also remarkably versatile. But most importantly, it’s even more of a blast to ride.

And yes, I struggled to give the keys back.

The Bobber Black starts at $13,150 for jet black, and $13,400 for matt jet black in the USA. In the UK, those prices are £11,650 and £11,775.

Triumph Motorcycles | Facebook | Instagram | Images by Kingdom Creative

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