#I did get to floor 12 with this comp | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

codenamed-queenie · 5 years ago

Text

#BatsInQuarantine

I am going insane. So I poured my restlessness into one long and very detailed post and got super into it. Please enjoy this hot mess.

The Justice League, being the well-meaning virus-proof Super Friends that they are, took one good look at the news, one good look at their non-powered friends Ollie, Bruce, and their families, and collectively decided that these normal humans must be Protected At All Costs.

Now, keep in mind, Bruce is never one to roll over when it comes to being benched.

However, he understands the importance of social distancing. He knows he needs to set a good example for his kids, and keep up appearances as Gotham’s Most Responsible Multi-Billionaire.

So. Quarantine it is.

But how are his kids handling it?

Dick -

100% on board in the beginning. Gotta do the Responsible Thing. Gotta set a Good Example. Besides, guys, this is gonna be Fun. Quality Family Time is always a Must.

He lasted 2 days.

Then he started to get twitchy.

And as everyone knows? A Trapped Dick Grayson is a Feral Dick Grayson.

He bounces off the walls.

Literally.

“I have to climb.”

“Dick, no.”

“I have to climb everything.”

Has scaled the manor 16 times already. Has climbed the chandelier. The banister. Bruce. The roof. The Cave. Anything in the house that’s been bolted down and especially anything that hasn’t.

Duke found him clinging to the wall 10 ft off the ground like Spiderman and screamed so loud it shattered glass.

Desperate for news of the outside.

He thrives off of it like a starving man.

Was the one to suggest he and Barbara take a break to Social Distance from each other (”Sorry, babe, kissing spreads germs”) and experienced Instant Regret(TM) approximately 5 minutes after.

The Family has labelled him a Flight Risk Level 1 (Most likely to say f**k it and make a break for the outside world)

Jason -

Accidentally got trapped inside the manor with the others when Bruce called Shutdown. If he had his way, he’d be chilling in his favorite safe-house right now, binging The Witcher with Roy and Artemis, and not worrying about finding a stray brother in his sock drawer.

But he’s nothing if not an opportunist.

The way he sees it, Jason has 3 options:

Self Improvement

Self Isolation (See Duke, Cass, and Damian)

Descension Into Madness (See Dick and Steph)

And, well, he always wanted to try a few things. Now he’s got the free time to do it.

So he settles on baking.

Alfred’s got enough food and raw ingredients stored up to feed an army. (Not because he’s a Panic-Buying-Hoarder in times like these. But because he’s a Panic-Buying-Hoarder all the time. Just try feeding 11+ teenagers sometime.)

Uses recipes he finds off Google.

His first few attempts are, in a word, ‘tragic’.

Alfred slips him a few of his recipe cards, and Jason suddenly starts seeing Results.

Turns out he’s pretty good at this baking thing once he gets the hang of it.

Hope everyone’s okay eating nothing but pie, macaroons, biscuits, and whatever else Jason whips up.

Cause that’s gonna be the only food left by the time he’s done.

Barbara -

Self-quarantined with her dad.

They’ve been binge-watching classic black and white movies together.

It’s a fun time, but she’s started to get a little antsy. Loving her dad and wanting to be around him 24/7 are, understandably, mutually exclusive.

Calls the manor to video-chat every day.

For her sanity just as much as theirs.

Gives everyone little challenges to film on their phones and send in. She makes compilations of everyone’s submissions so they can all watch and laugh together.

Bonus points for Creativity

One comp shows the family trying to drop Mentos into coke bottles.

Dick did a handstand, and dropped his Mento from the second story balcony.

Tim did it wearing the Batman cowl. The soda exploded into his face, and the rest of the video is just Bruce’s Shrieking.

Stephanie tried it, but the bottle tipped. Everyone on camera screamed as the bottle rocketed through the front window.

She spends most of her calls having one-on-one convos with Dick.

They’ve come up with little code phrases so they can be Cheesy even with family members lurking in the background.

She thinks the way he clings to the monitor is cute.

Almost like he’s giving her a hug through the screen.

(It’s easier than letting herself worry about his mental state, at least)

Tim -

Oh this boy.

Freaked out for the first five minutes before he decided ‘hey wait, Bruce is letting me stay in my pajamas all day? Noice.’

Now he’s just vibing.

The rest of his family is Low-Key shielding him.

He Has No Spleen, you see.

Steph: “Someone could cough on him and he could die!”

He just goes about his day, playing Animal Crossing like there’s no tomorrow, tinkering on projects, taking naps, etc. Living his best life.

Meanwhile there’s always someone lurking behind him, keeping watch, keeping him safe.

Dick sneezed within 5 feet of Tim once (the fact that he was on top of the dusty bookshelf Tim was perusing is irrelevant)

Jason still full-body tackled him the second Tim’s back was turned.

No one with any symptoms--

Like, any symptoms. They don’t even have to be Corona-related.

--is allowed within 10 feet of Tim.

Tim has been wandering the manor for weeks, now, without seeing another human being.

(He sees Dick on the ceiling sometimes, but that doesn’t really count)

He’s been trying increasingly drastic pranks and shenanigans to draw someone, anyone, out.

But it doesn’t matter how many times he steals Damian’s sword, or sets fire to Jason’s brownie bites.

Nobody wants to risk it.

Cass -

No one has seen her since quarantine started.

Everyone is approximately 87% sure she’s somewhere in the manor though

Because she does eat the meals Alfred leaves out for her.

Or at least someone does, at any rate.

(Jason and Santa top the running suspects list)

Santa was Steph’s suggestion. For some reason it snowballed.

It’s assumed that Cass misunderstood the meaning of ‘social distancing’ and took it too far.

But no one knows for sure.

She is Tim’s Guardian Angel.

People who so much as clear their throats a little too loudly anywhere near him suddenly wake up on a different floor of the house four hours later.

Duke came closest to spotting her while he was up in the attic.

Either that, or there’s another Creepy Sister everyone forgot to tell him about living up there.

She is silent, and watchful, sticking to the shadows, but she does leave the occasional note out to brighten her siblings’ day.

Things like ‘helo i love u’ and ‘hop u ar ok’ mostly.

She is bound and determined to protect her family from this invisible threat, no matter the cost.

Steph -

Like Dick, she was Super Pumped at first.

(Just kind of showed up at Wayne Manor before quarantine was enacted. The original purpose of her visit is unclear, but regardless, she’s Trapped.)

Also Like Dick, her descent into madness was swift.

She is impossible to pin down.

Not like Cass or Damian, who’ve stayed off the grid, and are therefore Untraceable.

No. She’s impossible to pin down, because she never stops moving.

Switches seamlessly between Zumba on top of the Giant Dinosaur in the Batcave, and furiously knitting Alfred (the Cat) a sweater with a pair of Tim’s used chopsticks.

Braided everyone’s hair while they were asleep.

Even Bruce’s.

She tried to do Tim’s, but somehow blacked out and regained consciousness in the attic.

When she woke up with a scream and a furiously twitching eye, she startled Duke out of his Makeshift Fort he built out of old cardboard boxes and antique furniture. He’s had to resort to finding a new hiding place.

Sometimes, on the rare occasions she does sit still, staring off into the distance, she’ll suddenly start laughing hysterically. This may last between thirty seconds and thirty minutes, depending entirely on how long it’s been since she’s knitted a cat sweater or done cartwheels through every room in the house.

Blew up the greenhouse out back, somehow.

Everyone has agreed not to talk about it.

Some people were built to handle prolonged time inside their homes.

Stephanie Brown is not that way.

Damian -

Damian Wayne Cannot Be Contained.

At least not inside the house.

He took off thirty-six hours into quarantine.

Thanks to the security equipment around the borders of the Wayne Estate, he can’t escape the grounds.

(He’s tried and failed multiple times. Jason and Bruce have a running bet on how many times the perimeter alarms will go off per day.)

(Jason is winning.)

He wanders the grounds with Titus as his only companion.

The two of them run laps, practice drills, and find ways to occupy their time.

No one’s entirely sure what those ways are.

In fact, nobody knows exactly where Damian is at any given time.

Only that he is Out There.

And he’s the best security system Wayne Manor’s ever had.

So far, he’s stopped five groups of civilians scaling the perimeter walls before the lasers and electric nets even have a chance to deploy.

They were trying to break in and steal supplies.

(Even ones they already had in surplus. Like Toilet Paper.)

He’s also stopped Dick from escaping twelve (12) times.

Drags him back by his shirt collar and deposits him on the welcome mat.

Usually with a note for Alfred/Jason, requesting more fruit tarts.

Duke -

Did not leave the attic for two weeks.

Then Steph discovered his hiding spot (read: was dumped there by Cassandra) which forced him to relocate to the basement.

Yes, it turns out Wayne Manor does have a basement.

This was a surprise to Duke, who always thought that the Batcave was Bruce Wayne’s basement.

Alfred keeps him supplied with all the necessities:

i.e. food, magazines, assorted pastries from Jason’s latest batch, usually straight out of the oven.

Duke also snagged the Manor’s Alexa.

She has become a sort of ‘Wilson’ to Duke’s ‘Chuck Noland’.

She is his only comfort. His only ally.

He’s determined to wait out this quarantine, doing his best to avoid the others.

Duke has seen these people under pressure.

He knows exactly what he’s dealing with.

Duke: “Alexa is the only motherf****r in this madhouse I ever respected.”

*offended butler noises from the other room*

Duke: “And also Alfred.”

4K notes · View notes

kingdumbass · 3 years ago

Text

I posted 17,316 times in 2021

2312 posts created (13%)

15004 posts reblogged (87%)

For every post I created, I reblogged 6.5 posts.

I added 7,820 tags in 2021

#destiel - 1949 posts

#castiel - 1211 posts

#misha collins - 1016 posts

#lmao - 915 posts

#dean winchester - 796 posts

#cockles - 542 posts

#jensen ackles - 530 posts

#destiel fanart - 398 posts

#asks - 246 posts

#poetry - 217 posts

Longest Tag: 135 characters

#and my grandfather had a dilapidated old barn he used to carve wood in that was covered in wood shavings that we weren’t supppsed to go

My Top Posts in 2021

you’re welcome

403 notes • Posted 2021-10-12 21:10:40 GMT

the way that people in the year of our lord 2021 still automatically reduce being gay to depraved sex is so fucking funny. Like ok “it’s not about that” “stop making it about sexuality” as if comp het isnt smothering me in the fucking face whenever I turn on the TV or open a book. And you know what? I don’t automatically think to myself, “gee, I wonder how these cishets are fucking each other” yet somehow us gays are the depraved ones.

445 notes • Posted 2021-02-16 22:06:08 GMT

Why do you think Dean "wears the same underwear four days in a row" Winchester is a clean freak? All the instances I can think of are him rejecting outrageous ickiness (woman with herpes all over face, dead body fluids) or when he was mad at Sam for disrespecting his room by throwing trash on the floor.

Just for starters, but uh can I get a source on dean wearing the same underwear four days in a row? Needless to say, even if he did there’s a difference between wearing the same underwear out of necessity and not washing your ass? Lol who the hell are you?

You think a man that cleans things that meticulously wouldn’t do the same thing to his b-hole?

Also the last four gifs are frlm @frozen-delight the other ones were on google and I didn’t see a source but I’m also tired. If you know who’s they are let me know I’ll @ them.

See the full post

575 notes • Posted 2021-01-27 06:40:18 GMT

I know in my SOUL if there had been a destiel kiss jackles would’ve put his whole damn jussy into that thing. No one would’ve survived.

1122 notes • Posted 2021-07-25 05:43:18 GMT

I LITERALLY CALLED THE MAN A DILF TWICE. HE SAW THIS. I GAVE HIM ATTITUDE AND HE REPLIED. IM SHAKINGJUDDFV

1973 notes • Posted 2021-09-02 04:07:33 GMT

Get your Tumblr 2021 Year in Review →

#my 2021 tumblr year in review #year in review

9 notes · View notes

riplever · 3 years ago

Text

Chiluc Ride OR Die

I am back with another round-up report of a ducking fantastic Floor 11 all-star run.

This time I had chiluc in the same team. Because after literal days of playing 12-3 on repeat to see how close I could get to the 1-star requirement (spoilers: I don't), I've learnt afresh that Tartar needs a sub-DPS to deal on-field damage when he's cooling down.

Why is the graphic featuring Bennett and Kazuha in a post with chiluc in the title? Because they're the real MVPs.

What's up:

- Had to modify my Bennett's sub-DPS build to a healer-focused one, using a HP crown instead of his usual Crit crown. And it had to be the crown that swapped, because I don't have a Noblesse HP cup to replace his drippy Pyro DMG one

- Everyone's past the Lvl 80 cap. I did this for Benny and Kazuha out of love, but Diluc HAD to be taken past Lvl 80. I know people like to brag about sticking with 80/80 at world level 8, but that's so much more frustration than it's worth, especially if they're the on-field DPS. Mobile player struggles maybe?

- This comp in this Spiral Abyss phase of 11-3 has redefined the meaning Team Volatile, because these two DPSes are naturally squishy and the corrosion mechanic is working overtime to kill everyone. Whenever Benny's precious burst is ready, I find myself spending several seconds STANDING on it just to regenerate HP

- And this is why Kazuha is integral to this Floor 11 run

Strat:

Kazuha needs to grab the Cryo mage before her shield forms. He needs to grab the Pyro agent before he sticks us with his knives. The Electro mage... Well she's easier to manage. And when they're all sucked up Tartar takes the floor and whips them, the DMG multiplies with Riptide & proximity, his burst pops (and I presumably hit the 145k, didn't see it when it happened as usual!!!), they're still taking forever to die so Diluc hits them with his bird, Benny absorbs some energy, Kazuha's curtain helps deal the last of damages ... and then we need time to heal. Thankfully, Kazuha's skill is so OP that it gives me the leeway to grab the next batch of Fatui even after spending a few precious seconds not attacking.

Other notes:

- This team is ride OR die. By which I mean if the strat is not executed with perfect timing, I die. I distinctively remember this happening with a different floor 11 clear in the past, also with Tartar doing the DPS heavy-lifting. I'm starting to feel like this is an inherent trait of playing as Tartaglia

- When I have everything timed perfectly (CC-ing + burst stacking + healing time) this floor clears out so fast it's like whiplash

- I cushioned my Floor 11 all-star attempts by stuffing my original DPSes (Beidou, Kaeya and Keqing) in Team 2 with best healer Jean. That team is so comfortable I could even afford the costly mistake of letting Keqing die against the first Geovishap

- I can't steal even a single star from this Floor 12-3 and I actually tried so many times. Team 1 is Royal, which is the Golden Boys + Electro Girls. The fastest they've done is clear chamber 1 in 30s; their average is 45 seconds. Their bursts pop and regenerate in a chain. For Team 2 I've tried Team Vicious (didn't work), I've swapped Jean for Kaeya as sub-DPS for Tartar (didn't work; not enough Crit Rate for Kaeya), and I've also swapped Jean for Diluc as sub-DPS for Tartar (didn't work, slow movement speed and high death rate). The Perpetual Mechanical Array has a ton of time-wasting iFrames as both a whole and as its component parts ON TOP of its 2.2 mil HP... what fuck

- I also only found out after all my effort that PMA has elemental resistance. Which explains why Tartar could break burst records with Floor 11 runs but not through the Floor 12 ones

- Tartar's still been topping previous Strongest Single Strike records 10k a time with each new phase. We've had 103k, and then 119k, and then 128k, and now 145k. We still have plenty of leeway to continue optimizing this value since his talent level is only 8, for one. AND the PMA's resistance screwed up my testing of the 100 EM (and 1.9k ATK) artifact

- That being said the single dopest strike by Tartar might already be set in stone. It occurred through the Hyakunin Ikki event, where paired with Kazuha, and Hydro DMG + EM buffs, he hit a 184k without my notice. To be honest I don't know if I'll ever be able to top this in my Spiral runs...

- Maybe I'll try a Kazuha + Jean + Diluc + Tartar comp next time to have more robust healing on hand. It's just so time-consuming to test strats against the PMA because of all the work it requires to get through 12-1 and 12-2

- There's no real reason behind their odd level numbers other than how everyone is fine as is. I would have liked to keep Tartar at 89 because I like the number, but I wanted to push his ATK stat into 2k

- I like the corrosion mechanic, it's actually a fun and interesting challenge

- If anything this proves that one can make chiluc get along with the right supports... which is a no-brainer. All teams need legendary supports. The real test is can they hold up as a two-person team? Without a healer? Without Albedo and Kazuha's AOE damage? Without chugging down a ton of food? That remains to be seen...

#genshin gaming diaries #genshin spiral abyss #genshin 2.1 floor 11 #genshin floor 11-3 #chiluc #genshin team comp

12 notes · View notes

prorevenge · 4 years ago

Text

Jackass Manager gets his comeuppance.

Entirely too many years ago, I started to work at a fast food company. Let's call it Southern State Not Baked Poultry. Southern State Not Baked Poultry wasn't a bad first job (I was 16) and the assistant manager at that location was my best friend's step-dad, so we took what was tedious and menial and tried to make it fun. He was actually a really good manager, and genuinely cared about the people who worked for him. We would do silly stuff before the store opened while we were doing prep, he would have music playing loudly from his office, as long as everything got done and done well, he really didn't care if we had fun doing it. We'll call him Larry.

This story is not about him though.

This story is about our store manager. We'll call him Tim. Tim was the exact opposite of our assistant manager. Everything had to be taken seriously. Fun was outlawed. I genuinely hated working with Tim. Tim was an egocentric, power hungry, petty little man with delusions of grandeur because he was a manager for Southern State Not Baked Poultry.

Tim's approach to "managing" was to work the employee until they burned out, when they did, fire them and hire someone else. Needless to say, morale when Tim worked was in the garbage. Tim hated that crews would prefer working with Larry instead of him. He hated that crews had fun when Larry was working. He hated that our store's numbers were always better when Larry worked. Mostly, he just hated everyone. But one thing that he absolutely hated was a silly little thing Larry did. If it was before the restaurant opened, he would stick his tongue between his teeth and lower lip, and shout out a "HI, [NAME]" to whichever employee had just walked in. It sounded absolutely ridiculous. I would always do the same thing back, which ended up sounding something like, "HI, WAWWY!"

A perfect example of what an ass Tim was is this: There was a young woman who due to a variety of stressors, attempted to commit suicide after a particularly grueling shift working with Tim. After she had recovered, she came back for her last paycheck, and Larry was working (not a coincidence - she called the store to find out what day he was working). So Larry sat her down out in the lobby, bought her lunch, brought her last check out, and sat and talked with her for about an hour. It was after the lunch rush, and he had the time. So he made sure she was doing ok now, talked about whatever she wanted to talk about. By the time she left, she was smiling, but had tears on her cheeks. She had never had someone just sit and listen, and let her talk out everything that was going on.

Well, the next day Tim had come in and hauled Larry into the office. His words (and I can quote them exactly, because the "office" was a tiny little cube with no ceiling - just a place to stash paperwork and a computer) were, "The next time the suicide queen comes in, tell her to do it right next time!"

So now you have a clear picture of exactly how petty and vindictive this little man was.

Here is where the revenge starts. We were scheduled to have the regional and national bigwigs for Southern State Not Baked Poultry come through our area for an annual inspection. Tim had his eyes set on being one of those bigwigs, at least for the region. Why wouldn't he be, he did everything by the book! That automatically made him a good manager (at least in his eyes). Everything had a checklist, and a procedure, and a set of written instructions in The Book and if you couldn't meet the expectations set forth in the book, well Tim would yell at you and berate you. Because that's how a manager manages you see.

Well before the bigwigs got to our store (we knew what day they would be coming) several of us had agreed that on the day they came through, we would all screw up just enough to get Tim to blow his cool. Because our regional manager and the national bigwigs all believed that Southern State Not Baked Poultry was a family company, and that employees were valuable team members.

The day in question arrived, and the bigwigs were there for their big tour. Whoops, one of the fryers hadn't had the oil replaced last night. Oh look, the shaker table hadn't been cleaned. Darn it, we've got way too much coleslaw made up and we won't get through it before we have to toss it. Crap, we don't have enough chicken poultry in the cooker to fulfill the lunch rush. Man, someone forgot to preheat the second cooker!

You get the picture.

After the second time I took a minute to long to get a basket of chicken poultry into the cooker, Tim absolutely LOST. HIS. SHIT.

Yelling. Cursing. Throwing things. He actually physically pushed me away from the breading station. In the middle of the lunch rush. While the regional manger and several bigwigs from national stood there. While we had a line several people deep at both cash registers. And a lobby full of people eating.

Tim stood there, gulping like a fish. His mouth was moving like he was trying to say something, but no sounds were coming out. The room was absolutely quiet other than the beeping of a fryer that was done. I looked at Tim. This was the moment we had all been gearing up for. I looked down at where he had pushed me, a set of handprints in flour on my chest. And I cut loose into him. Yelled at him that I quit, took off my apron and threw it at him. Told him I was tired of his abuse, of his poor management, of how he single-handedly drove morale through the floor every time he walked through the doors. How he was a crappy excuse for a manager, and that if he didn't have Larry and a couple of good shift leads, he'd have driven the location out of business a long time ago.

All the color drained from his face, and he bolted to the office cube. The national and regional folks ended up comping everyone's meals that were in the restaurant.

Interestingly enough, Tim was not fired. But he was demoted. To assistant manager. Larry was promoted to manager.

About 10 years later, I was working at my current job as an EMT. We had just dropped a patient off at the hospital that was across the street from the same restaurant, and my partner was hungry, so we drove across the street and pulled in. Now, I hadn't set foot in that restaurant since the day I had quit. But lo and behold, who is working the counter, but Tim himself. And his nametag still shows "Assistant Manager".

The restaurant was empty since it was between lunch and dinner time, and I just couldn't help myself. I stuck my tongue between my teeth and lower lip, and as loud as I could, shouted out "HI, TWIM!"

Haven't been back there since, but that was around 12 years ago. I'm willing to bet he's still just the assistant manager there.

(source) story by (/u/AmbulanceDriver2)

#prorevenge #by /u/AmbulanceDriver2 #pro revenge #revenge stories #pro revenge stories #pro #revenge #last10

70 notes · View notes

alarawriting · 5 years ago

Text

52 Project #5: Rosetta Stone

When Triala was twelve, a transmute spoke to her.

She'd never told anyone else the story. One of the defining characteristics of transmutes was that they didn't speak. And she had only been a child, and had come within a hair of being killed. People would say she had hallucinated. They might even take her to the Magicians, suspecting a traumatized mind. But she knew what she'd heard. And the transmute hadn't killed her.

She and the other children in her age group were going to the Magicians to be tested for Magic aptitude. Already Triala had known that she didn't want to be a Magician. She feared the transmutes, like everyone on Majer, but she felt a powerful fascination with them as well. She had to be a Ranger, because only the Rangers got to see transmutes on a regular basis. Even if it was only to kill them. Unfortunately, if you had Magician aptitude, you became a Magician whether you liked it or not, and Triala had a deep and disquieting suspicion that she had it. She heard things, and remembered things that couldn't possibly have happened to her. So she was very tense that day, fearing the interview with the Magicians.

A local Lifeliner brought her and the rest of the locality's 12-year-olds to the huge tree that housed the Magicians' testing center. They were all made to wait in the outer rim, while the Lifeliner, a woman of clan Ringart, talked to the Magicians. Then the testers came out, and called for the children one by one, in the order of their birthdates.

As one of the youngest of the twelves, Triala had a while to wait. So she sat while child after child returned, known now to have no Magic within them-- or did not return, taken away to the training places. The wait was driving her crazy with dread. Magicians never deliberately encountered transmutes; close contact with the creatures generally drove them insane. And Triala wanted to see transmutes.

She got her wish. When there were four children left, one of the wooden chairs exploded out, the color draining from it as it melted into gelatin. Triala sat frozen, shock and horror and fascinated excitement paralyzing her, as the gelatin recomposed itself into an evor, a stationary swamp animal with tentacles. The tentacles lashed out, only seconds after the chair's melting, and caught the Lifeliner in the gun hand before she could get her weapon aimed. She dropped the gun and screamed as the tentacle dragged her in. "Kids! Get help!"

The door was blasted open, and three Magicians charged into the room. They tried to form a triangle around the transmute, which changed again, pulling itself in, and leapt. A huge mouth with devouring teeth flew at one Magician before he could focus his power, and it ripped his head off and swallowed it.

The two other Magicians began to chant, trying to pen the transmute into a protective box as it charged for the entrance. But without a third, all they could do was keep it in a corridor, and before they could narrow the corridor and crush the transmute, it had reached the first protective door, which it yanked open.

On the other side of the protective hall, the second door came down and transmutes swarmed inside. Probably there were only five or six, but to Triala it seemed like thousands. More Magicians arrived to fight. A slender young man, no older than an eighteen, tried to get Triala and the other three children to safety. A transmute smashed in his skull, and then tore a little boy apart for good measure.

Jesee and Marin, the other surviving children, clung to each other under a table, trembling and crying. Triala was trembling too, but she didn't feel it. She felt numb, strangely aloof. Despite the blood and the viciousness of the battle, she couldn't quite make herself believe that the transmutes might kill her.

She glanced at the inner door that led deeper into the complex. It had been sealed off with a metal safety door, protecting the rest of the complex from the transmutes, and essentially writing off the children in the waiting room. Unless the Rangers showed up in time to rescue them, there would be no help for them-- the complex couldn't be endangered any further for the sake of three children. The Lifeliner, Marin's mother, was dead, her body strewn in chewed pieces all over the floor. All the Magicians were dead. There were also dead transmutes virtually everywhere.

But there was still at least one alive.

The transmute approached. Jesee and Marin scrambled back, yelling, "Triala, it's coming!" But Triala was frozen. The transmute held a vaguely humanoid shape, with huge, luminescent eyes that trapped Triala in fascination. She couldn't move. She didn't really want to.

The transmute was so beautiful.

Its skin was pearly luminescent, and the light from the overhead algaelamp made colors dance on it. Its body was fluidity and grace incarnate. A human shape made of gelatin, flowing in and out as it moved forward. It hadn't manifested a mouth, or any other threatening appendage, and its eyes were pools of silver ocean water. Triala had been out of the swamps just once to visit the ocean, but she had never forgotten how ocean water sparkled, so clear.

It told her that she had been tested already.

There were no words. But she knew the transmute had spoken. Not in language, even the language of mental speech. Pure thought, with no words.

Behind her, Jesee and Marin screamed. Triala spun. They had both been caught by a wounded transmute-- tentacles were wrapped around both their necks. As she watched, they slumped.

"Let them go!" she screamed at the transmute.

She heard it say that they would not die. The thought that she interpreted as "death" carried overtones of other concepts-- the extinguishing of an annoying light, the squashing of a bug. Then it gave her to understand that humanity would believe she had been tested already, and had no magic. Only, what it seemed to be saying was that she had no fearsome human power, and that this was somehow true. Or perhaps that she could make it true, if she wanted.

She had not been tested already. And if she was understanding mindspeech-- or something like it-- she had to have Magic. But it could be true, if she said it to her fellow humans, in the human language that the transmutes couldn't speak. It would become the truth, if she said it was.

It said to tell no one of this.

And then the Rangers arrived, and cut down the remaining transmutes with lasers. Jesee and Marin had been poisoned by sleep venom, but would recover. The Rangers told Triala just how lucky she was. "That transmute was about to go for you. Why didn't you run?"

She didn't know. It was as if she were waking up from a dream, now. It struck her suddenly what danger she had been in. "I-- I-- couldn't..."

"I hear that happens. You were unbelievably lucky we got here in time. Another minute, and you and your friends would have been mute meat."

She knew it wasn't true, but she didn't contradict it. The transmutes had killed and died to talk to her, just to her. How could she explain that? She couldn't understand it herself.

She told everyone she had been tested for Magic, and had none. No one checked her story. She was never tested again.

She never spoke of it, ever.

***

In the flit on the way to her first real mission as a Ranger, Triala thought of that.

The situation they were going into was similar. The transmutes had broken into a school, killed all the Professionals, and-- as far as the Magicians could tell-- hadn't killed the children yet. No one knew why. It was unclear whether transmutes understood the concept of "hostages"-- certainly no human had ever held a transmute hostage against another. More likely, they planned to kill the children and impersonate them, in yet another useless attempt to mimic humans. Of all the species on Majer, native and starborn both, humans were the only ones that transmutes could not successfully imitate, because humans were the only ones with language.

"So what do they hope to gain?" Aisander of Korita asked. She was a slim, pale-skinned redhead who had consistently been at the top of the class-- though never quite as high as Triala, whose grades were outrageously good.

"What do you mean, Korita Recruit?" Dilman Ranger asked, narrowing his eyes at her.

"I mean-- if they know we won't be fooled, why do they bother?"

"If they don't understand language, what makes you so sure they know we won't be fooled?" Dilman Ranger asked sharply. "They might have no idea what keeps tripping them up. Never assume you know how the transmutes think."

"Besides," Dereg of Mattorn said, eager to score points, "kids often don't talk right away after a trauma like that. If a transmute plays an unconscious kid, it might get back as far as that kid's Treehouse before it gets caught, if the Rangers are careless."

"Good point, Mattorn Recruit. If we rescue any kids, we make them talk before we take them back."

"Do you really think there'll be any kids to rescue, Ranger?" Triala asked.

Dilman's face darkened. "Doubt it."

"I heard they sometimes kidnap children," Aisander said.

"It happens, yes." He turned to Triala. "It happened to you, Morell Recruit, if I remember the dossier on you right."

Triala nodded. "When I was a small baby. About 2 or 3. I disappeared for close to a year following a transmute raid, and then turned up again. No one knows why."

"No one knows why transmutes do anything," Dilman said. He checked the flit comp. "We're almost there. Morell-- don't get so fascinated with the transmutes they kill you. Mattorn-- no heroics. Neither Morell nor Korita's going to be impressed by stupid stunts. Korita-- don't be soft. If it looks like a kid but it doesn't talk, we can't take chances."

"What if it's a baby?" Aisander protested.

"Not that kind of school. It's for sevens and up. All the kids will be linguistic. Any that aren't are transmutes. Shoot them before they get you."

***

When Triala had been training for her Ranger status, the transmute lack of language had been given as the cause of the war between the two species.

"We probably started it," the instructor had said. "The first humans who came to Majer didn't much care what they destroyed, and the transmutes probably fought to defend themselves. But there's no way to call a truce. Their memories seem to be as long as ours, and they're probably as intelligent-- but they don't have language."

"What about mindspeech?" a student had asked.

"Any Magician that actually manages to get through to a transmute goes crazy. They go catatonic or aphasic, lose their own language. Or else they just turn totally psychotic. Human minds can't connect with transmute minds-- they're too different."

"But they must communicate with each other," Triala pointed out. They were wrong, though she wouldn't say it. Transmutes could communicate with humans, if the humans were young enough. She remembered.

"Undoubtedly, but no one knows how. Pheromones, maybe. Or body language-- something incredibly subtle, that won't be affected when they take different forms. Maybe some kind of mindspeech. But whatever it is, it means nothing to us. And our language means nothing to them."

It was something that nagged at Triala. In the beginning, she hadn't been able to understand why Magicians couldn't communicate mind-to-mind with transmutes. Later, a Magician from Farest, on the other side of Majer where they spoke a different tongue, had mindspoken to Triala, and she'd understood the barrier. It was not as if the Farestina was speaking her language; it was as if, for that brief moment, she understood Faresti. Mindspeech went through the language centers of the brain. You couldn't mindspeak to a baby, and so you couldn't mindspeak to a transmute.

But if they couldn't speak to each other... Triala had fantasies in which it turned out that the transmutes only wanted peace, wanted to negotiate coexistence, and if only the two species could talk... No one would ever know, though, as long as they couldn't talk. So they were doomed to kill each other, and there was no hope for peace.

When Triala became a full-fledged Ranger, and had some influence, she planned to push for experiments between captive transmutes and children with Magic. It had to have been her age, that had enabled the transmute to talk to her. If another child could be found who could speak to transmutes, perhaps Majer could finally find peace. Right now, though, she was a green recruit on her first real mission, and she couldn't afford to think about peace. She had to kill transmutes on sight, or they would kill other humans, such as her. And Triala of Morell Clan was rather fond of life.

***

The school had been built low, where the major branches interlaced into a canopy over the swamp below. The outer part of the school was built between two major branches, covering forty-five degrees of the tree's surface. It was built out a good seventy feet; inside, it would be even bigger, where the builders had bored into the major branches and the tree itself.

One of the walls had been broken down. Dilman pulled the flit up by it, and pointed it out. "What's that look like to you recruits?"

"Wood rot," Dereg said promptly. "They'd have injected it in, waited a few weeks for it to rot out the wood, and then just kicked the wall in."

Dilman nodded. "The school should've kept up with its monthly sprayings. They could've stopped the rot before it got that far. Let's go in. And be careful. This isn't a sim."

Triala knew it wasn't a sim. No matter how detailed the sims got, they never quite conveyed full smell and tangency. The scent of rotting wood, blood and feces wafted from inside the school-- recent death, not long enough to produce rotting meat. The feel of the uncertain creaking boards beneath her feet, the musty chalkboard smell of the air. The luminaries, globes of water filled with glowing algae, had been smashed, and dim dying algae lay in stinking puddles across much of the floor. The light was thus reduced to the dim half-tone that made it through both the forest overhead and the ceiling windows. In several places, the window plastic had been gouged out, and lay forlornly on the floor underneath a skylight. Occasionally they encountered an adult's body on the way in, sprawled bloody and torn. Some of the bodies were remarkably close to intact, with dark bruises on their throats indicating a strangling death.

"I don't like this," Dilman muttered. "Where're the kids?"

Triala felt she was being watched. She kept twisting around to see, but there was no one. Not even furniture-- transmutes could imitate wooden furniture, but there wasn't even that. Just dead bodies.

What prevented transmutes from taking the form of dead bodies?

That was an incredibly paranoid thought. She'd never heard of transmutes taking the form of dead humans before. But she couldn't see what would stop them-- it would solve the language problem, and a freshly killed body would still be warm, so the transmute wouldn't have to go to the trouble of cooling itself. Perhaps a bloody, torn body would be too dangerous for them, but a body that had been strangled to death... Paranoia saved Rangers' lives. She was on the verge of drawing and shooting the dead when Dereg, on point, called, "Found the kids!"

As the others turned the corner, Triala did shoot the bodies. They didn't twitch or transform. They sizzled as her beam cooked them, but that was all. She was being too paranoid, maybe. Quickly she ran to join the others.

There were six living kids, huddled together around the corner. More dead bodies, of adults and other children, were strewn everywhere. "Names!" Dereg barked. Transmutes could imitate crying.

"Don't be so rough!" Aisander complained. But the kids knew the drill. Terrorized as they were, they'd still had it drummed into their heads that they needed to speak, to identify themselves as human. Each of them choked out a name, some sobbing so hard that the name wasn't recognizable-- but the point was to prove they were human, and human speech was recognizable even if individual words weren't.

Triala felt very nervous. No transmutes. There were no transmutes. Maybe she hadn't been too paranoid. Raising her gun, she said, "Dilman Ranger, I think the bodies--"

She got no farther. The corpses shifted, as if they'd somehow understood Triala, jerking to their feet and taking different forms. Despite the fact that Triala had already started to bring her gun into firing position, Dilman outdrew her and blasted two of the transmutes. A third took the form of a springing creature and leapt for Dilman, but Triala shot it. Then transmutes from the deeper recesses of the school poured in.

"Ambush!" Dilman shouted. He and Aisander dropped back to protect the kids, leaving Triala and Dereg to find cover and help pick off transmutes in the crossfire. Assuming they didn't get killed first. Triala rolled behind a metal room divider and fired, taking out a transmute that was practically on top of Aisander. One got Dereg, coming up underneath where it had been impersonating a severed torso and dragging him down. Triala couldn't see what happened after that, because a transmute leapt over the room divider and on top of her. She twisted and flung it off before it had a chance to bite or sting her. It came back at her, and she fired, cooking its center-- but at the last second it shifted almost all its mass into tentacles, leaving only a thin membrane to be cooked. The tentacles shot out at her. There was nowhere to dodge-- she was trapped by the metal divider. One tentacle wrapped around her gun hand, numbing it. The gun went flying. Another grabbed her leg and yanked her to the floor.

Then the tentacles released her. Triala didn't question impossible good fortune. Some sixth sense she had never felt in the sims told her that more transmutes were coming over the divider. She ran, away from her partners, away from the transmute that had attacked her. Her gun was being guarded by a small transmute in the shape of a cat. If she could get back to the flit, there were spare guns. If she could get back--

The floor, destroyed from within by wood rot, gave under her. In the split second as it gave, Triala understood that the transmutes had herded her here. Then she fell, shrieking. There were no major branches beneath her, no strong branches at all. Her fall to the swamp 80 feet below was almost unbroken.

***

A large number of people on Majer had dreams that they could fly. They would pull up their legs and throw out their arms and they'd be flying. Or they'd leap and not come down, or they'd flap their arms. There were some who speculated that there'd been places on Terre, the world of humanity's origin, where the gravity was light enough that they could fly. Others dismissed this as nonsense, the fancy of Terre-fantasy writers.

Triala had never dreamed she could fly. But in her life, she had dreamed frequently of breathing swamp water. She would dream of being in the swamp, feeling the water cool against her body, and having no breathing difficulty at all, as if she had gills. She would dream of the swamp, not as the dull gray murderous thing it was, but as a magic place full of shifting lights, luminescent fish, and wondrous creatures.

Apparently she was dreaming that again.

At least, she was here under the swamp, floating gently, sinking slowly downward, but she felt no real need to breathe, and no sense of pressure. So it must be a dream. And when the transmutes surrounded her in their various beautiful swamp-adapted forms, with long flippered legs, streamlined bodies, and shining big eyes, she felt no fear. This was a dream, after all. She made no move to stop the transmutes from catching her arms and tugging her with them, gently drawing her through the swamp water.

She was not afraid, but she was curious. So she tried to ask, "Where are you taking me?" But the dream had this much verisimilitude, at least; she couldn't talk underwater. Her words came out in a gurgle.

The transmutes told her that they couldn't hear her.

It was the same strange not-speech the transmute had spoken to her years ago. And like that, it was virtually indecipherable. Do not hear? Cannot hear? Do not understand? Are not listening? The not-words echoed, strange and nonsensical, in her brain, overlaid with so many possible meanings she could not precisely decide which. There was also a sense of kinship-- that they should be able to hear her, that it was her fault they could not. But transmutes could never understand humans.

Slowly it dawned on Triala that she was in considerable pain. The dreamlike absence of sensation ebbed through growing stages of hurt, until it felt as if her chest had been crushed and her legs were broken. As pain returned, true consciousness did as well, and her senses cleared. This was not a dream. She had plunged 80 feet into the swamp, lost consciousness, and awakened, underwater. Breathing, underwater. With transmutes taking her someplace.

I hurt, she thought. Oh, gods, I hurt. It was the only thing she could think, a repeating litany. Her brain was too occupied with the gradually increasing pain to notice anything else. It was strange that she was breathing underwater, but strangeness could wait until she was no longer in pain. Which, she thought, might be several years. It was her impact against the water she was feeling. Triala would be very surprised if any bone in her body was left unbroken.

Of course, she ought to be dead.

One of them told her that she should not be in pain. Or that they didn't want her to be in pain. Or that they would take the pain away. Something like that. Triala turned toward the transmute on her left, positive it had talked, but what had it said?

Then it manifested a barbed stinger. Suddenly afraid, Triala tried to pull away-- too late. A sharp jab in her chest, and then pleasant numbness, spreading through her body once more.

She felt dreamy, but would not succumb to it. She had to think. That ambush back at the school-- that had been an ambush, set up by the transmutes to specifically take out Rangers. They were smart enough to know their primary enemies. The ones that had engineered that trap had been unusually smart-- Triala had never before heard of transmutes impersonating dead bodies. Why had they used that technique this time? And why hadn't they killed her when they had a chance?

She was breathing underwater. Transmutes were taking her somewhere. Talking transmutes. But they didn't speak in language-- they seemed to be communicating in concepts, in pure thought, the precursor of language. These pure thoughts, uncontaminated by words-- were they what drove the Magicians mad or aphasic? The greatest difficulty they presented Triala with was that they were vague and hard to understand. Was it that she was not as sensitive as the Magicians? Or that she was more?

Talking transmutes. A dream come true. It refused to add up. How could she be breathing underwater?

Why is it I can understand transmutes?

They passed through a transmute city. Triala might have caught her breath in recognition, except that she didn't quite seem to be breathing. Broken branches, major and minor, tree stumps that didn't rise above the surface of the swamp, honeycombed with cells that held transmutes. All the ones they passed had eyes, which they kept firmly averted away from Triala and her escort.

She remembered the stories of the kidnapped children, some of whom reappeared. Of adults who disappeared into the transmutes' catacombs, never to return. Was that what they intended for her?

Then they rose up into a grotto, hollowed out from a tree stump, high enough to rise above the water. Triala had seen photographs of caves, high in the mountains on the northern part of the world. This was like a cave. Enough wood remained to create a sloping floor that rose gently from below the water's surface to about a foot above, and then became a plateau, occasionally dipping back down into a puddle. There was more wood overhead, a ceiling blocking out the dim sun of the swamp. Triala's three transmute escorts began to glow as they entered the grotto, their bioluminescence providing the only light.

For a second, rising from the water, Triala couldn't breathe. She choked, feeling something in a band around her neck gape open uselessly. Then the pressure in her neck eased, and she sucked in a gasping surge of air, musty and swamp-smelling.

The flapping sensation she had felt disturbed her greatly. She put her hand to her neck. There was a swelling there, going down as she touched it. Quickly it was gone.

What the hell--?

Her escort tugged her forward, telling her she must come.

Triala stepped forward-- and realized that she had healed. There were no longer any traces of the injuries she'd suffered when she fell.

And she knew this place. Her eyes widened. This cave was in her dreams, her nightmares. Had she been held captive here when she was a baby, prisoner of the transmutes?

The transmutes gestured her over to a hole in the wood. A small, square hole. By the light of the transmutes, she peered inside, and saw--

--a baby's skeleton.

And she knew whose.

Triala jerked to her feet. "No!" she screamed at them, the three silent figures. "No! I'm human! I'm human!"

They could not hear her. Or did not understand, or whatever they were saying. They told each other that she hid her thoughts, or disguised them, like the invaders did, the despoilers. One complained that Triala was a failure, absorbed. Another protested that she would hear, she would accept, she would understand.

They were trying to tell her she was a transmute. Human infants had not yet learned to speak. Transmute infants had not yet learned not to.

Put a transmute baby in a room with a human one. The human one had to be old enough that it could speak a little bit. Transmutes did in fact know what human speech was, and that it kept them from imitating the invaders. They couldn't speak it, couldn't imitate it, but they knew it when they heard it. So take such a baby and pair it with a transmute baby. Tell the transmute infant-- since you and it are both prelinguistic, since you share thought, not words, it will understand you-- tell it that it must mimic the human. Lavish care on the human, food, attention. Praise it and play with it when it speaks. Ignore the transmute baby except when it is fully human, an exact replica of the human it mimics. And praise it when it speaks, as well.

Until the baby forgets it was a transmute. Until its birth-gifts go dormant, as it takes on the identity of the human child. Then release it back to the humans, who will train it to speak and behave as a human, never imagining that it is not.

Triala of Morell died in infancy, allowed to expire by her transmute captors, when their own infant had replicated her sufficiently.

Triala of Morell's tiny bones lay in a wooden grave, in a transmute grotto.

And a transmute who bore the same name crumpled to the floor in anguish, hands pressed to her face, understanding. They had watched her all along. They had known that if she joined the Magicians, she would be lost to them, so they created chaos by killing her testers. Afterward, she collaborated, telling the humans that she had been tested, and they'd believed her. The transmute power to change what others perceive, to alter what they believe, channeled through the human power of language.

They'd set a trap for her. Transmutes had always had the power to impersonate human dead. They had chosen not to do so for a century or two, keeping it in reserve for when they would truly need it. They had used it this time, just so they could get her back.

They asked her if she understood. Or told her that she understood.

And she did understand. The more she heard in pure thought, the less necessary the translation into language was, and therefore the easier it became to understand. Consciously she tried to think without words, telling them that she did understand how-- but not why. What was the reason?

The concept that came back at her was so dense it was difficult to unravel. She would be a boundary/bridge/assassin/spy/diplomat. In languages, the overtones were mutually contradictory, and she sent a lack of comprehension at them.

They replied that she was a transmute that could imitate humans. She could teach them how to do it. One thought she could infiltrate human society and destroy the invaders. Another felt she could make the humans stop their war against transmutes. She could speak for the transmutes to humanity, could be the ambassador between the races and bring peace.

Humans would assume that one who claimed to speak to transmutes was insane, she tried to tell them. If medical science could not reveal what she truly was, they would put her in a madhouse, and if it could, humanity might well kill her in a spasm of superstitious fear. The idea of a transmute that could, in fact, speak like a human, could pass for human so well it itself thought it was human, would terrify most humans. But she wouldn't destroy humanity for the transmutes' sake, even if she could, which she doubted. She had always dreamed of ending the war, not of committing genocide. And she knew nothing of her transmute heritage-- she had grown up a human among humans. If it came to genocide, she had already chosen sides, when she became a Ranger.

Of course, when she'd chosen sides, she hadn't known what she was.

They reminded her, sharply, that she was thinking in words again, and they couldn't follow.

She sent at them a question. Why had they brought her here?

They replied it was so she would know what she was.

But I don't know what I am. If I ever knew what it meant to be a transmute, I've forgotten it.

???

Sighing, she tried to think the idea again, without words this time.

They seemed to understand. One asked her if she wanted to learn.

Yes. She couldn't make a decision until she knew what the stakes were, and what weapons she would have to fight with. She gave them her assent.

They told her to come.

She followed her guides into the water again, and the gills rose on her neck automatically. She couldn't consciously change herself-- she couldn't shed her human form-- but that was all right, the others told her. She would learn.

The only transmute with a name swam off with her new companions.

#52 project #alara original writing #science fiction #psionics

50 notes · View notes

rimmers-swimming-certificate · 4 years ago

Text

Red Dwarf fanfic - Comatose (16/19)

Lister rested his chin in his cupped hand, propped up by an elbow on the arm of the wheelchair as Kryten pushed him through the corridors of Red Dwarf. He came to a stop outside the entrance to the quarters that Lister shared with Rimmer, and the door opened.

“Okay, thanks Krytes, I can take it from here,” Lister told him.

Kryten shook his head. “Nonsense, sir,” he insisted. “It’s no bother at all, I’ve brought you this far, I’m going to make sure that you get safely from the door to the bed.”

Lister sighed. He knew from past experience that there was little point arguing with Kryten when he was in nursemaid mode. Instead, he sat passively as the mechanoid manoeuvred the wheelchair through the door.

“There we go, sir,” Kryten said. “Home safe and sound. Now, how about we get you tucked up into bed?”

“Really, Kryten. I can do this bit myself,” Lister said.

“Of course you can, sir,” Kryten told him. “But you’ve had a very busy day. Your first time outside of the medi-bay in three weeks, I imagine it’s all a bit overwhelming for you. Now, You just relax, and I’ll pop you in bed.”

Lister cringed and gave Rimmer, standing in the corner of the room with arms folded, an embarrassed glance as Kryten bent over and picked him up out of the wheelchair.

“Be careful with him!” Rimmer said. He approached, nervously, arms outstretched as though he could catch Lister if Kryten were to drop him.

Kryten carefully deposited Lister on Rimmer’s bunk, placing him with his back resting against the far too many pillows that had been arranged there. He pulled the cover over him, and proceeded to tuck him in.

“Now then, how about a nice cup of tea?” Kryten asked him. “And maybe some of those bickies you like? Or better yet, a nice mug of warm milk to help you get off to sleep.”

Lister shook his head. “I don’t like warm milk, Kryten. I told you, it’s disgusting. Tastes too much like milk. And that weird horrible skin it gets on the top sometimes?” He shuddered.

“Tea, then,” Kryten said.

“I’m fine, really.”

“A glass of water, then. Don’t forget, now you’re back in your own quarters, I’m not going to be here all the time. I’d hate for you to wake up thirsty in the middle of the night and not be able to get yourself a drink. I’ll get one for you now, just in case.” He turned to leave, then hesitated. “Unless, of course, you’d rather I stayed the night. It’s really no problem.”

Rimmer took a step forward. “Er, yes it would be, actually. It would be a problem for me.”

Kryten appeared unconcerned. “Yes sir, but surely you must agree that as a human, Mr Lister’s needs come above your own.”

Rimmer glared hard at Kryten. “I agree no such thing,” he said. “Now kindly smeg off before I order you to microwave your head.”

“I…” Kryten said. He straightened up, then turned back to Lister. “I’ll get that water.”

“I don’t want any water, Kryten,” Lister told him. “I’m fine, honestly. I just want to get my head down.”

Kryten hesitated. “I’ll come back in an hour or so,” he said. “Just in case you’ve changed your mind.”

Lister sighed, but didn’t bother to argue. He knew there was no point. As Kryten left the room and the door closed behind him, Lister relaxed. He untucked the sheets and threw three excess pillows onto the floor next to the bunk, then he turned to Rimmer. “Microwave his head?” he asked.

Rimmer shrugged. “It was the best I could come up with on the spot.”

“It worked.” Lister shuffled a little further down the bunk and rested his head on the remaining pillow. “Thanks for swapping beds with me,” he said.

“Well, I could hardly leave you at Kryten’s mercy in the medi-bay until you had enough strength to climb a ladder, could I? I think that would constitute cruel and unusual treatment.”

Lister laughed. “He’s not that bad really,” he said. “He’s just…” he hesitated. “Okay, he is that bad. It was alright when I was still ill, but now I’m getting better, yeah. Except for the exercises the medi-comp set for me, he literally won’t let me do anything for myself. Too much longer and I think I’d have gone insane.”

“I’d have thought you’d be used to not doing things for yourself, after five months as a hologram.”

Lister looked at him. “That’s different.”

Rimmer nodded. “Maybe. I wouldn’t know. How are you adjusting, anyway?”

He hesitated, not sure how to answer that. Part of him wanted to talk about how he sometimes had trouble getting to sleep because he kept noticing the way the sheets and blankets felt against his skin, or how the first time Kryten had left him alone and he had had the strength to get out of bed himself, he had touched everything. He had savoured the feeling of the cold floor on his bare feet, and ran his hands over everything, feeling the difference between hard and soft, rough and smooth, cool and ward. Part of him wanted to tell Rimmer how much he had missed him, even when he was in the room with him. Even now, when they were so close that they could almost touch.

If anything, that made it worse.

“Lister?” Rimmer asked.

Lister blinked. “Uh, yeah. Fine,” he said.

Rimmer nodded. He sat down at the table, then stood up, paced the room, then sat down again. “What’s it like?” he asked.

“Honestly?” Lister shrugged. “I dunno. Right now, it kinda sucks. Kryten’s still not let me have a curry, can you believe it? Or a lager. Ask me again when I’m back on my feet properly.”

“But everything else though,” Rimmer said. “To have a physical presence again…” he tailed off, hands clenched as though he was imagining grabbing something that his hand did not pass through.

Lister sighed. “Come on, Rimmer, Don’t do that to yourself, man,” he said, warningly. “You don’t want to listen to me bang on about how great it is to be able to pick things up. It’s not that great anyway. It’s totally overrated.”

Rimmer folded his arms and looked away. “Really?”

“Yeah, definitely,” Lister lied, knowing full well that Rimmer didn’t believe him.

“Well… good.” Rimmer said. “I suppose I’d better get to sleep, anyway, if that metal moron’s going to come blundering in checking if you need a drink of water all through the night.”

Awkwardly, without the ability to touch the ladder or the bunk with his hands, Rimmer managed to balance well enough to climb up to the bunk. Lister didn’t watch. He had managed it himself, but there had been more than one reason he had enjoyed sharing the bottom bunk with Rimmer when he had been a hologram.

“This won’t be for long,” he promised. “Soon as I’m strong enough to get up and down the ladder without falling, we’ll swap back.”

“It’s fine,” Rimmer said, sounding a little breathless from the exertion. I’m figuring it out. If you managed it, I certainly can.”

Lister rolled his eyes.

“incidentally, any idea when that will be?” Rimmer asked. “If it’s going to be too long, we’ll get all these posters moved. It looks a real mess up here, Lister.”

Lister shrugged. “Dunno. Right now I’m exhausted from a short walk on the treadmill and lifting a couple of weights. I mean, I finally convinced Kryten to let me cut up my own food, but that’s not too strenuous. Other than that, all I’ve done today is sit around in bed, sit around in a chair, and sit around in a wheelchair while Kryten pushed me around the ship, and I’m still wiped out. I feel like I’ve spent the day in the gym.”

“And how would you know?”

“Hey! I’ve been to the gym before!”

“Yes, but while at the gym, have you ever done anything other than sit in the jacuzzi enjoying the bubbles?”

Lister grinned. “Yes,” he said. “Once. Ended up feeling exactly like I do now, that’s why I never did it again.”

He rolled over onto his side and closed his eyes, feeling the cool of a fresh bit of pillow against his cheek and the soft sensation of the freshly laundered cotton sheets against his skin. He touched the bed with his hand, caressing it in slow circles, savouring the sensation.

Something told him that sleep wasn’t going to come as easily as he had hoped.

(next)

#red dwarf #red dwarf fanfic #my fic #dave lister #arnold rimmer #kryten #this is just a short one

24 notes · View notes

monaisme · 4 years ago

Text

Day 27: “I wish I had never given you a chance”

* *Six months ago* *

“Hey, Parker, do you have a minute?”

Peter looked over his shoulder, positive someone named Parker would be standing behind him. When he saw no one, he turned back to Flash. “Are you talking to me?”

Flash scowled, “Ha-ha, Parker, really funny.” He looked up and down the hallway, appearing to be rather uncomfortable. “Really, do you have a minute to talk... just talk?”

It was Peter’s turn to check and see if the hallway was clear. He was suddenly very nervous that Flash’s buddies would suddenly swarm, leaving Peter bloody, bruised, stained, soaked, or some combination of the four. He wasn’t in the mood for it... not today. “I have to get going, Flash, so if you and your band of thugs are planning something, can we get it out of the way quick so I’m not late—or at least have a chance to change before hitting the subway?”

Flash’s scowl changed to something Peter hadn’t seen on him before. Whatever it was, it was a genuine emotion—not the ‘Flash’ bravado he put on for the masses.

It had Peter concerned. “Flash? Is everything okay?”

He cleared his throat, “Look, I don’t want to make a big deal out of this. I just... I mean...” He huffed in frustration. “It has come to my attention that I am perhaps not the... nicest... person on the planet and that I should be working on bettering myself as a human being.”

“What are you talking about, Flash?” Peter couldn’t contain the confusion.

Flash looked up, like he was praying for patience, or maybe willpower? Regardless, he kept going, “This isn’t easy for me, Parker so cut me some slack!” He breathed heavily.

“Flash?”

“I’m serious! I’m realizing that I’m a bit of a shithead and I’m trying to change—and I can’t do that if you’re wondering if my friends are hiding around the corner waiting for me to spring a trap.”

Peter had to take a second to pick his jaw up off of the floor. There were so many things he could say in response to Flash’s declaration. ‘What a fantastic life choice!’— ‘I’m proud of you, Flash!’ –- but when he opened his mouth, “Just a bit?” spilled out.

Neither of them said anything of a few seconds, and then the loudest snort laugh Peter had ever heard came out of Flash’s face... which led to the two of them howling in laughter in that empty hallway. Every time one of them calmed down, they’d look at the other and start all over again.

Eventually they stopped. Peter was bent over at the waist catching his breath and Flash was wiping the last of the tears off his cheeks. Their eyes connected, and something passed between them. Nothing life altering or soul shattering, but... something.

“That was fair, Parker,” Flash acknowledged and with a sincerity Peter didn’t know was possible from the other, he said, “I am sorry for the things I’ve done, and I’m going to try to do better.”

Peter wanted to be the better person, but there was so much history. He smiled at his high school nemesis—oops, ex-nemesis and replied, “I look forward to seeing the change.”

He thought he saw Flash’s face fall, but in a second the look was gone.

“I’ll have to take that.” Flash accepted graciously and then, “So, yeah,” The moment was over. “I’m gonna go now, I think my Dad’s here to pick me up so...” Flash pointed some fingers guns at him, “I’ll see you at practice, ‘kay?”

Peter smiled, “You bet, Flash. See you at practice.”

* *Five months ago* *

Lunch period was just starting when the announcement came over the PA system, “Eugene Thompson, please report to the office. Eugene Thompson to the office, please. Thank you.”

Of course, half the cafeteria called out the requisite ‘ooooooh’s’ and Flash, who was sitting only a table over, looked over at Peter, with Ned and MJ, and shrugged. He grabbed the apple and water bottle off of his tray and brought the rest over to Peter. “I’m not sure how long I’ll be. Can I ask you to watch this, and if I’m not back by,” he checked out the clock on the wall, “Say quarter after twelve, you guys can finish it?”

In unison, the three all turned to looked over to the table of friends that Flash had just left, “Why not ask one of them?” Ned asked.

Flash chuckled and shot down the idea. “I’m not in the mood to play ‘which food did they spit in?’ Thank you very much. If you can’t that’s cool, but...”

Peter jumped in, “We’ve got it, Flash. We’ll watch the clock. 12:15pm.” He didn’t quite know what else to say. “Um. Hope it’s nothing catastrophic?”

Flash grimaced. “Me, too. Uh... thanks.” With a small wave he exited the cafeteria.

Ned jumped on him first, “Dude! What the heck!? I know you told me he’d apologized but that was straight out of the Twilight Zone!” Ned was freaking out.

MJ, always the level headed of the group, nodded in approval. “I can appreciate the effort he’s making to break out of a social construct of his own creation. It must be difficult to make a change when everything around you stays the same.” She looked across to Flash’s buddies and then to Peter.

He rolled his eyes at the implication. “C’mon, MJ. It’s been a month and there’s a lot of history there, you know? I’m... yeah. It would be nice to believe this is real, and I’m hopeful, but give me more than five minutes to get used to this, please?”

“I understand that, Peter, and I can appreciate history—just remember that we’re meant to learn from it, not get stuck in it.”

Peter appreciated the advice for what it was—really, but he and Ned had an ongoing tic-tac-toe tournament Peter decided he’d rather they focus on that. One thousand, six hundred, twenty-nine consecutive draws after ONE brain fart on Peter’s part...? Yeah, he was working toward redemption.

At ten minutes past twelve, Flash came back into the cafeteria, looking desolate. He meandered between the tables and stopped in front of theirs. He didn’t ask, just sat down and stared into nothing.

They were all curious, but Peter was the one to ask, “Flash? Is everything alright?”

Flash blinked and looked up at him, almost seemed surprised to see him. “Oh, uh, my mom needed to drop off a new house key. She won’t be home after school and she had the locks changed this morning.”

“Oh, okay.” He awkwardly replied. “Um... here’s your lunch.” Peter slid the tray in front of the dazed teenager. “I promise you, it’s spit free and everything.”

“Thanks.” Flash stared at the tray and quieted.

The three of them exchanged looks of concern, and though no words were spoken, they all came to an agreement.

“Hey, Flash,” Peter piped up, “Um, if you’re mom is gonna be gone after school, did you want to come over to my place? We’re, uh, going to be putting together a 3000 piece puzzle of the Milky Way and I’m going to lose my mind if they make me sort edges by myself. You’re welcome to join us if you want?”

Flash blinked back again.

“It’s even nerdier than it sounds, but we’re all about embracing our inner geek at this table.” Peter added.

Ned held up the infinite tic-tac-toe game as further proof. “True story, Flash.”

Flash looked over at MJ who just shrugged. “I’m not a nerd. I’m just smarter than them... which is why I make them sort.”

Peter could see that Flash was considering, so he tossed in one last incentive. “If you come, I won’t make you eat my Aunt’s walnut loaf.”

Flash smiled then, and it was almost sincere. “That sounds like fun. I’ll meet you guys out front after school?”

They all agreed, and Flash took a bite of his lunch.

* *Four months ago* *

Peter had been gone for a couple of days for an ‘internship retreat’ and it was time to crack down and get back to work. Spanish waited for no one.

“I can’t believe you actually have an internship with Tony Stark, Peter.” Flash teased him relentless as he made flashcards.

“And none of us can believe it took you so long to believe it, Flash.” MJ droned out over the edge of her textbook. “Seriously, he gets picked up in a new luxury car every week.”

Flash blushed over it again. “C’mon, you have to cut me a little slack, I mean really? What are the odds that something like that would happen to—“ The group braced, still cautious but hopeful... “anyone, let alone a junior in high school?! I was talking to my dad about it last night and he says with luck like that, you should be playing the horses.”

Peter chuckled and shook his head, “I’m not one to look at odds, Flash. My luck is only about fifty-fifty at the best of times.”

“And our odds of passing this exam will be less than that if we don’t stop yammering and get to work! Let’s go, losers!” Ever the taskmaster, MJ started barking out verbs to conjugate—and everyone got back to work.

* *Three and a half months ago* *

“Hey guys, guess what!?” Peter rushed up to them all congregated at Ned’s locker. “Mr. Stark got tickets to the premier of that new Oscar Isaac movie next week! He’d need to hang out with all of the mucky-mucks, but he can get extra tickets for us, if we’re okay with sitting with the rest of the peons—his words, not mine—if you want. I just have to let him know how many we need and then we can go with him in the limo!”

Ned freaked! “One for me, please! I’m content breathing in the same space as Poe Dameron even if the movie is supposed to suck, thank you very much!”

MJ had, of course, read the book that the movie was based on. “I’d be interested to see how a female director could have done a better job. Sure, I’m in.”

Flash was quiet.

“Flash? Are you in?”

Not looking quite comfortable with himself, Flash asked, “Are you sure he meant me, too?”

“Yeah, Flash. He means you, too. Did you think I’d be offering this to only some of my friends?”

Flash released a slow breath. “If you’re sure, then I’d love to come. Thanks.”

* *Three months ago* *

“Where’s Flash?” Ned asked as he sat down at their table at lunch. “He wasn’t in Comp Sci and Mrs. Berman asked me if I knew where he was.”

Peter and MJ pulled their phones out, checking to see if there were any unread texts or emails they’d missed.

They had nothing.

Peter took a second to peck something out.

11:45am

PBWanKenobi: Hey, man! R U ok?

Flash was normally like a beast with replying back to texts. MJ said he had a serious case of FOMO and Flash hadn’t disagreed. None of them understood how he had yet to be caught or have his phone confiscated.

And none of them had heard from him by the end of lunch.

12:24pm

PBWanKenobi: Hey, let one us know you’re alive?

Peter had just fallen asleep after a rough evening of Spider-manning when his phone pinged.

11:58pm

TheFlash: The message you have sent is undeliverable.

11: 59pm

TheFlash: The message you have sent is undeliverable.

* *Two months and three weeks ago* *

“Flash!” Peter practically bulldozed him over in his relief at seeing his friend safe and sound. “Are you okay? What the hell happened to you? We were so worried?!”

MJ and Ned had stayed back, Peter doing enough freaking out for the lot of them.

Flash flushed with embarrassment. “Um, can we maybe talk about it later? It’s, uh...” Flash looked around the busy hallway and Peter figured it out pretty quick.

“Oh! Yeah, of course. Sorry about that.” Peter stepped back, hands thrust into his pockets and trying to be calm, cool, and collected.

No one bought it, and before long they were all laughing at Peter’s dorkiness.

“C’mon, losers, we’ve got Chemistry in five minutes.”

* *Two months ago* *

Peter tried really hard to not make a big deal of it, but Flash was going through some big shit. His mom had kidnapped him! Wait, it was a ‘custodial disagreement’ and Flash had disappeared. His mom had driven him over state lines without his Dad’s express permission and had destroyed his phone so they couldn’t be tracked.

They’d been found anyways.

It was insane.

Flash’s mom was out on bail but not allowed to see him and Flash’s dad had taken back the house she’d been living in.

And Flash wasn’t doing too great.

He’d started spending time with his old buddies again, which was cool! Totally okay, but they were still jerks and Flash was hurting.

Flash promised it was only because of his Dad. Apparently these buddies were the kids of some of Harrison Thompson’s wealthiest clients and Flash was supposed to be in on the schmooze.

Anything to make a buck, is what Harrison Thompson said.

Anything to get a leg up, is what Harrison Thompson said.

Suck it up, Eugene, you’re not here to make friends. You’re here to make connections. It’s about whose holding all the cards. It’s about the win-win-win, is what Harrison Thompson said.

Peter didn’t like Harrison Thompson very much, and he’d never even laid eyes on him.

* *One month and one week ago* *

Peter had talked to Mr. Stark about the situation with Flash during their lab time. He didn’t quite know how to process everything and with May working her second shift rotation at the hospital, he was stuck for advice on how to deal with it all.

“Maybe the kid needs a break?” Mr. Stark suggested. “Why don’t you guys all come out to the lake house for the day, take a breather from everything. The weather is certainly nice enough for it. I’ll grab Pepper and we can jump in the SUV. You can all bring your swimsuits and we can make a day out of it. I’ll barbeque. Pepper will yell at me for burning things! It’ll be a gas.”

Peter rolled his eyes at his mentor. “Are you sure? I mean, it sounds great, but are you sure-sure-sure about it? I know the lake house is kind of your thing...” Peter didn’t want to intrude.

Tony walked over to Peter’s station and looked him in the eye. “Kid, if you say this kid is good people, then I’m going to trust you. And if you say this kid needs a hand and this is what I can do? Then I can do it.”

Peter thought about the last weeks and how withdrawn Flash had been. He knew he wasn’t hearing a quarter of what was going on at Flash’s house and he knew that Flash’s dad cast a wide shadow. Maybe a trip out of the city would be what Flash needed to open up?

He’d decided. “If you’re positive, Mr. Stark, I’ll take you up on that offer. I think it’ll be exactly what he needs.”

* *Three weeks ago* *

It really was exactly what Flash needed.

They’d spent the day in the water. Tony had installed a tire swing last spring and a slide at the edge of the dock during the summer. It was glorious. MJ had goofed off for a bit, but when Pepper came out to sit on the dock, she’d left the water to be all ‘mature.’ Whatever. Peter, Ned, and Flash made farting noises with their hands in the water. If Tony had joined them in the water (making farting noises, too!), no one would tell—but there were pictures.

They grilled burgers and hot dogs and ate until too full.

It was the perfect day.

* *One week and three days ago* *

5:32am

TheFlash2.0: Peter. 911 Call me.

5:33am

TheFlash2.0: Peter. Wake up.

5:33am

TheFlash2.0: Peter. Please wake up!!!!!

5:36am

TheFlash2.0: On my life, Peter! It wasn’t me! I swear it!

5:45am

TheFlash2.0: Please! I’m phoning.and you’re not answering! It your phone on silent?

5:45am

TheFlash2.0: *is dammit!

5:50am

TheFlash2.0: Peter. I don’t know what to do..

Neither Flash nor Peter were at school that day.

The reporters outside of his Queens apartment made it impossible for Peter to leave.

The beating he’d received from his father after the argument had made it impossible for Flash to leave.

* *One week and one day ago* *

10:23am

TheFlash2.0: Please thank Mr. Stark for filing a police report. Not sure if you care, but I’m with my grandma and I’m safe.

10:23am

PBWanKenobi: I care.

10:25am

PBWanKenobi: I’m glad you’re safe.

* *One week ago* *

The press conference had gone as well as could be expected. After the photo had been released, things had been... chaotic.

Pepper had already been prepared for someone to make the assumption that Peter was Tony’s kid—but when Harrison Thompson had implied that Peter was Tony’s...

Peter felt nauseous even thinking about it.

MJ had been horrified by all of it. When she and Pepper had decided to visit on the dock, they’d been relegated to phone babysitters. MJ wouldn’t stand for just sitting and watching. She’d grabbed everyone’s phones and snapped like every moment was a precious memory. Ned had a picture of Mr. Stark dunking Flash under the water—and then another of Flash coming up and spouting a mouthful back at him. Peter had him, Ned and Flash doing cannonballs off the dock. They each had a couple of selfies of MJ and Pepper hamming it up all on their own...

Flash had a couple of photos of Mr. Stark and Peter—Peter had been standing... just standing and talking to Flash in the distance. You could see him in the picture. Mr. Stark had, for the first time EVER, managed to sneak up on the kid. Flash had played along as the distraction. He could have dunked Peter, zinged him, splashed... anything. But no, Mr. Stark, in a moment of affection gave Peter a hug from behind. It was sweet and tender—and photoshopped.

Harrison Thompson had ruined it.

He had taken something so wholesome—he had taken a piece of his own son’s joy and twisted it—had tried to ruin lives.

The man was a monster and with that one press conference, Pepper Potts, CEO of Stark Industries had destroyed him and his reputation spectacularly. She revealed every lie, every fraud, every deception—all of the evil he had ever done. He would never work in the state of New York again. And he would never have custody of his son again. And if, by the end of it, he was never free again, no one would complain.

It gave Peter some satisfaction, but it wasn’t enough.

How was Flash supposed to move on from this? How did Peter?

* *Three days ago* *

The hope that the interest by the press would die down after the press conference had been a pipe dream.

Mr. Stark had finally convinced Aunt May to relocate to the tower for everyone’s safety and sanity.

Honestly, Peter was sure May agreed to the move simply because it would get him out of bed.

The joke was on her, though.

They’d grabbed a couple of duffle bags and Peter’s backpack for school and headed over. Tony and Pepper had prepared a guest room for Aunt May, and of course Peter already had his own space. And that is exactly where he headed when Aunt May went to drop her bags in her room.

... and Peter figured if he never left, it would be too soon.

* *Present Day* *

“Peter, come on, sweetheart. You can’t stay in bed forever. You’ll start growing mushrooms in your armpits if you don’t shower.”

“No, I won’t.” Peter mumbled into his pillow.

“Okay, well if you won’t get out of bed for me, will you get out of bed for someone else?” May pushed.”

“Tell Ned I’ll call‘im tomorrow.”

“It’s not Ned.”

“Tell MJ I’ll call‘er tomorrow.”

“It’s not MJ, sweetie.”

Peter grabbed an extra pillow and shoved it over his head. “Then tell whoever I’ll call them tomorrow!”

A familiar voice came from the doorway. “My grandma hasn’t gotten me a new cell phone yet, so you can’t call me tomorrow.”

Peter popped up from his hidey-hole, not even embarrassed by his state of grossness. “Flash?”

“Hey, Parker.” Flash greeted, shyly.

“Are you okay?” Peter noticed the fading bruise under his left eye. “I know your dad is in a bunch of trouble, but tell me he’s goin’ down for child abuse, too, please?”

Flash looked uncomfortable for Peter’s eagerness. “Um, yeah, he’s been charged so that’s a thing.”

“Cool, I’m glad to hear that.”

“And I’m going to be living with my grandma for a bit—just while everything is straightened out with my mom and the house and everything.”

Peter had remembered that from the text. “That’s good.”

“So, um, I’m wondering if I could get your phone number for when I, uh, get my new phone. I can’t really transfer stuff ‘cause my phone is in an evidence locker somewhere.”

It all felt so surreal. How could this be so easy for him?

“Um, Peter? It’s cool if you don’t want to--”

“Shit! No! Sorry—zoned out there for a second. Of course you can have my number! Just—“ Peter jumped out of his bed and rushed past Flash to his desk to grab a pen and paper.

“Geez, Parker, your aunt wasn’t joking about the mushrooms!” he teased as Peter scribbled his number down on an old math worksheet.

“Funny, Flash. Ha-ha.” He thrust the piece of paper into Flash’s hand. “There, but if you’re going to be a jerk, you can call Ned instead. I still haven’t beaten him at tic-tac-toe so he kind of deserves it.”

“Cute.”

“I thought so.”

Neither said anything for a bit. Peter had too many things he wanted to ask, and it seemed that Flash had secrets he’d wanted to keep.

“Can I tell you something?” Flash blurted out.

“Of course you can.” Peter answered. “You can tell me anything.”

“That’s good, ‘cause I really want to tell you how this all started.”

Peter assumed he was going to talk about the photos and the ‘anonymous’ press release revealing sordid fabrications, but no.

Flash started telling a story that was disjointed and already in progress, and that was okay. He’d probably told it in his head a million times, but out loud? This was most likely the first time...

Flash needed to be heard and Peter would listen.

“It had been a really bad night—for my parents, I mean. He hadn’t hit her, but he’d been so mean to her, and I could hear her cry... and it wasn’t even the first time, you know? It just sounded, I don’t know, sadder that night.

“I stayed in my room, ‘cause that’s what we do, but then my mom came in. I pretended to be asleep. I just couldn’t deal with it. I mean, it always feels like too much but that night...” Flash trailed off for a minute.

Peter let him take his time.

Flash sniffed and rubbed at his nose. “Anyways, she sat on my bed and whispered that she loved me... and then she said... she—she was so afraid I’d grow up to be like him, Peter, and...” He inhaled and then exhaled. “And I just couldn’t.

“I couldn’t be someone that my mom couldn’t love... and so I made a decision to change. I had to! And I knew that it had to start with you. I knew if I could redeem myself with you, then I had hope.”

“Wow, that’s terrifying deep, Flash.”

Flash ran his hand through his hair. “It is, and I’m glad to know you’re as freaked out by it as I am.”

Peter chuckled, “Aww, Flash. I knew we had something special...”

Flash gave him a playful shove. “Don’t be an ass. We’re having a moment here.”

And Peter nodded. “We are.”

“After all of this, a part of me wants to say that I wish I had never given you a chance to forgive me... that I was meant to play the villain forever, but I’d be lying. So...” Flash offered his hand. “Peter Parker, I’m not sure when I’m going to be back in town, but thank you. Thank you for forgiving me... even if you never said it. You showed it. And thank you for being an example of a decent human being. I didn’t have that so...” Flash rubbed his nose again.

Peter teared up, and took Flash’s offered hand. “Thank you, Flash Thompson, for trusting me, even if I didn’t understand why you needed it. You’re a good person, and I’m glad you’re my friend.”

The two stood there, hands clasped. Peter chuckled low, “Look at us, being all emotionally mature and not an MJ in sight. She’ll never believe it.”

Flash joined him. “You’re so right. Too bad we couldn’t take a picture”

Peter processed what Flash had said and groaned. “Too soon, man. Too soon.” With another chuckle and some playful shoves, they parted.

“I’m sorry to interrupt this bro moment, but Flash, you’re grandmother says it’s time to go.” May called from the door.

“Okay, May, we’re coming.” Peter said. “Just give us a minute, ‘kay?”

“Alright, don’t be too long though. She’s worried about traffic.” She replied and then left them again.

“I still haven’t apologized for my dad, Peter. I’m so sorry for everything—“ Flash rushed out.

“Nope.” Peter interrupted him. “No apologizing for him. You are not responsible for the decisions other people make. And besides, you can’t choose your blood, but you can still choose your family, right?”

Flash thought about it for a second before agreeing. “Right.”

Peter looked at the door, then back at Flash. “So I guess this is it for now—you’ll call as soon as you get your new number, right?”

“I will.”

“And you won’t join any AcaDec teams so we don’t have to crush your dreams in any future competitions, right?”

Flash smiled and shook his head ‘no.’

Then Peter nodded in satisfaction. “Then you’ll be fine.”

Flash smiled wider then. “Yes, I will be.”

... and eventually, he was.

@febuwhump

#febuwhump #febuwhump 2021 #fanfiction #irondad and spiderson

4 notes · View notes

hutchhitched · 5 years ago

Text

Maybe This Summer, Chapter 2

Summary: Katniss Everdeen needed a vacation. On a whim, she reserved three months at Panem Resorts in North Carolina. She expected to spend her time recovering from the recent death of her sister, exploring the nearby nature reserve, and reminiscing about happier times. What she didn’t foresee was bumping into Peeta Mellark, one of Panem’s most valued employees, during his early morning run. Neither did she think she’d grow to admire him when she’d hated him from first sight, but his killer smile and gorgeous blue eyes had a way of breaking down the walls she’d built around her heart. Maybe this summer she’ll finally get what she’s always deserved. Benefiting @fandomtrumpshate for @ldyglfr62. AO3.

Author: @hutchhitched

Rating: Explicit (eventually)

Beta/Graphics: @xerxia31

The story will post on Tuesday mornings at 11:00 am CDT.

_________________

Nightmares

Peeta woke slowly and rolled onto his side. He’d scored art class duty that afternoon and no bakery, so he didn’t need to be ready for work until long past when his fellow workers vacated the barracks. His plan was to pretend to be asleep until he had the place to himself and then spend some quality time in the shower with his hand and a bar of soap.

He’d slept terribly the night before, his dreams full of fire and tortured screams. Monsters almost always tore at him while he slumbered, but the night before had been the worst he could remember for years. He needed the stress relief the solitude would afford him. Otherwise, he should give Dr. Aurelius a call. He was due for a checkup anyway. He could almost hear the conversation.

“You know it’s not your fault, Peeta. You didn’t set the fire. You didn’t kill them.”

“No, but they’re still dead. My mother, father, and two brothers. All gone, and I’m still here.”

“It was faulty wiring. You weren’t home. You didn’t abandon them.”

“I did abandon them. I skipped curfew on purpose.”

“The fire wasn’t a result of skipped curfew. It’s not your fault.”

“I wasn’t there.”

“No, you weren’t. You got a second chance.”

“I don’t want a second chance. I’m tired of doing it all alone.”

“You’re not alone, Peeta. There are so many people who want to help you—sponsors who’ve helped you get this far.”

Talking didn’t change anything, though. His family was gone, killed in a house fire that ripped through their home while they slept. He was an orphan at seventeen, and he hadn’t let go of the guilt he felt over his family’s death for the past eight years.

In the midst of his grief, he’d stumbled upon an advertisement for employment as summer help at Panem Resorts and, desperate for money, applied for the position. His extracurriculars as an artist, athlete, and baker impressed Plutarch Heavensbee, the director of operations at Panem, and he’d stayed on through undergrad and his graduate work. The pay was excellent, and he’d built a sizable nest egg to fund his entrance into the job market after one last year in school if he didn’t squander anything and saved his income for the next few months.

He needed to piss so bad, but the last thing he wanted to do was disturb anyone. He couldn’t sleep. Instead, Peeta grunted as he rubbed his bleary eyes and stumbled to the communal bathroom to relieve himself. Instead of trying to go back to sleep, he decided to take a run. Quietly, he crossed to his bunk and shucked his boxers for a pair of shorts and an old concert t-shirt he’d cut the sleeves off back during undergrad. He adjusted the tongue on his left shoe and tied the laces before slipping through the screen door. Outside the cabin, he stretched for a few minutes, enjoying the pull of his hamstrings as he touched his toes. When he was limber, he headed for the trail that ran along the lake.

In and out. His breath quickened as he found his stride. The familiarity of training relaxed him, even though it had been years since his high school wrestling days. He’d considered sticking with it in college by walking onto the team, but he’d found he couldn’t concentrate on much else than grieving his family in the months immediately following their deaths. Trying to pin an opponent didn’t seem remotely important in the wake of his own personal crisis.

His feet slapped on the dirt trail, and the barest hint of sunlight peeked over the tree line that framed the far side of the lake. It was still quiet, but in another few minutes, the birds would wake, and the rest of the resort would stir, too.

“Baker’s hours,” he huffed.

Since his home burned, along with the family business that was housed on the ground floor, he hadn’t needed to rise as early as when he’d helped his father. Still, he often did it voluntarily because it made him feel closer to the rest of the Mellarks. There was no monument or gravestone for him to visit. There hadn’t been any remains to bury. The early morning hours were the only time Peeta felt like he could feel their presence and was the best time to honor their memories.

The chirping began just as he rounded the bend closest to the numbered cabins, an area affectionately called “the district” by Panem’s employees. He had no idea why, but it had been that way for decades. He wasn’t one to challenge tradition or disturb guests, so he skirted Cabin 13 and ducked onto a little-known hiking trail that ran down to the lake’s shore. Mockingbirds and blue jays challenged each other as they woke and chattered back and forth.

“Ooooof!”

Peeta slammed into something and realized it moved. He wrapped his arms around it and dipped his shoulder to soften the blow as he fell. Grimacing when he hit the ground, he braced himself for impact. Instead, something warm and decidedly feminine landed on him with a very unladylike stream of curses.

Dazed, he cradled her to him—whoever she was. She bent her knee, and he grunted when it slid between his thighs and brushed against his crotch. His hands grazed a patch of skin on her back when her shirt shifted upward, and he swore he experienced an electric shock.

“Clumsy ass!” she yelped and pushed off him, her palms flattened against his chest. Perspiration moistened his shirt so the cotton clung to his pecs, and he hid a grin as her jaw slackened. She appreciated muscles, apparently, so he flexed ever so slightly.

It took only a few seconds for her to snap back to attention. Her eyes were an unusual color; light, but not blue, they were a delightfully smoky hue that flashed silver with irritation. A thick braid of mahogany brown hung in front of her left shoulder, and he gripped the gentle swell of her hips as she writhed atop him while attempting to disentangle herself.

“I’m sorry,” Peeta mumbled and helped her rock off him while protecting his groin. “I didn’t see you.”

“Well, that’s obvious,” she spat and slumped onto her derriere in the dirt. She sifted through a pile of jumbled plastic rectangles and glared at him as she straightened them into piles. “All my samples…ruined.”

“I’m sorry,” Peeta repeated. He propped himself on his elbow and waved to the mess. “What are those?”

“They’re slides!” When he shot her a confused look, she added, “For a microscope. I’m a scientist. I had a bunch of soil samples, and you ruined them.”

“You had soil samples on slides?” he asked, incredulous. “Wouldn’t tubes have worked better?”

“What do you know? You’re just a—” She broke off and stared at him. “Yeah, that probably would have worked better.”

Chuckling, he popped to his feet and reached down to her. She placed her hand in his, and he hauled her upright a little too enthusiastically. She brushed against him and recoiled quickly. He would have been offended if she wasn’t glancing at his legs beneath her eyelashes and her hand wasn’t still firmly grasped in his.

“I really am sorry, ma’am. I wasn’t expecting anyone else on this trail so early.” His mouth curved into his most charming grin, and he squeezed her palm gently. “I’m Peeta Mellark. Happy to serve you here at Panem.”

“Mr. Mellark,” she said curtly and pulled free. “I’m Ms. Everdeen. Cabin 12.”

“It’s Peeta, ma’am. Just Peeta, and your first name?”

She hesitated, and his heart hurt a little as he witnessed her internal struggle. He remembered that feeling so well; being afraid to open up to anyone, no matter how friendly; closing himself off to everyone because it hurt too much to feel anything other than icy cold numbness. She was wounded, but Panem was the perfect place to heal. Besides the money, it was why he continued to come back summer after summer.

“Katniss,” she finally whispered, and he offered a gentle smile.

“That’s a beautiful name for a—”

“Don’t!” she barked. “Don’t say it. There’s nothing more passé than ‘a beautiful name for a beautiful girl.’”

“I was going to say—”

“Beautiful woman, not girl,” she interrupted wryly. “No one could mistake me for a teenager anymore. Too many laugh lines.”

“Gorgeous,” he insisted. “I was going to say gorgeous. A beautiful name for an amazingly gorgeous woman.”

She blushed and then snorted. “You are hilarious,” she sputtered. “Smooth as silk and charmed the pants off about every woman who’s crossed your path, am I right?”

Wounded, he took a step back. “Not really, ma’am, no. I’m sorry I offended you. It won’t happen again. I’ll make sure to arrange for a proper apology through some comped services. Have a good morning.”

Without waiting for her response, he turned on his heel and sprinted toward his cabin. Gasping by the time he reached the building, he was relieved to find it empty. He kicked his shoes off and stripped before stomping to the showers where he turned the water to scalding and stepped under the spray. Frustrated, he forced the surprise encounter from his brain and concentrated on easing some tension.

The hot shower felt wonderful and eased his rapidly stiffening muscles. He’d been particularly edgy since his conversation with Finnick a few days prior, and he seemed adrift, unanchored in a way he hadn’t been for a long time.

He knew rubbing one out would help. No matter how much he tried to forget his chance meeting with Katniss, the memory of her body pressed to his sweaty chest drove blood to his groin until his erection jutted upward from the thatch of soapy blonde hair between his legs. Unwilling to suffer blue balls, he slickened his palm with soap and grasped himself.

“Shit,” he sighed and dropped his head back as he pumped his cock. Her lovely face flashed behind his closed eyes, and he could almost see her mouth closing over him as her eyes drooped shut, the shine of her spit coating his erection, her lips plump and pink against his skin. He groaned when he came, then rinsed himself and washed all thoughts of her in the warm spray. Wrapping a towel around himself, he collapsed back onto his bunk. A soft breeze wafted through the windows and dried his chest and shoulders then tucked his arm behind his head and stared at the ceiling. It wasn’t long before his eyes closed, and he was fast asleep.

_______________________

Katniss watched him go and kicked herself for being so closed off and distant. The young man—Peeta, she reminded herself—had been nothing but apologetic and chivalrous after he’d slammed into her. It was an accident, and she’d overreacted. Probably because he was so damn attractive. And sweaty. And muscular. And charming. And… Lord, the guy was stunning, she realized as his tight ass disappeared into the trees.

“And a child,” she muttered as she gathered her slides and stomped back to her cabin. “You are a grown ass woman who does not need to lust after a baby. And he works here! You are a mess.”

She was still disgusted that afternoon when she made her way to the dining room and sat down for a late lunch. When she’d reserved a cabin, she’d fully intended to make most meals in her own space, but the sous chef was fantastic. What she could get at the lodge was much better than her peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. If Katniss wasn’t careful, she’d pack on the pounds this summer—not that she couldn’t use a little more meat on her bones. Her appetite wasn’t much anymore. Not since Prim…

“Ms. Everdeen! How lovely to see you.” Annie, the receptionist, beamed at her, and Katniss smiled back. “Finnick, be a dear and see to Ms. Everdeen, would you? Maybe provide her with a list of available activities this afternoon. We have a wide variety of events ranging from outdoor activities to art classes. Our art instructor is marvelous, actually. If you’re at all artistic, you should check it out.”

“That sounds charming,” Katniss agreed but insisted, “Please call me Katniss. Ms. Everdeen is so formal.”

“It is, isn’t it?” a deep voice came from behind her. She turned to find the blonde jogger, clean and dressed in chinos and a cornflower blue polo that stretched across his chest, smirking at her. She remembered with flush that she’d withheld her name from him only a few hours before and realized how it must seem that she insisted others address her by her given name.

“Mr. Mellark,” she said with a nod.

“Peeta,” he retorted. “Finn, can you ask for a basket for me? I need to get to class. Set up takes longer at the beginning of the season.”

She’d been dismissed, and she tried hard not to be offended by his brusqueness.

“Sure, man. Just let me take care of our guest first,” Finnick hissed.

“No need. Suddenly I don’t feel much like eating. I’ll just head back to my cabin. Thanks, anyway, Finnick. Annie. Mr. Mellark.”

“Peeta.”

“Goodbye, Mr. Mellark,” she snapped and turned on her heel. This time he could watch her leave.

_______________________

“Niiiiiiiiiiiiice,” Finnick laughed. “Way to make an ass out of yourself, Peet. What the hell was that about?”

“Nothing.”

“That didn’t seem like nothing.”

“Drop it, Finn. I said it’s nothing. I bumped into her this morning. Literally. I was jogging and knocked her down. She went after me a little bit, and I didn’t react well.”

“You? Noooooooo…”

Peeta rolled his eyes and snarked, “You know what? Don’t worry about me. I’ll just go get my own food.”

“What a man, Annie! He’s getting his own food!” Finnick shook his head at Peeta’s retreating back and glanced at his girlfriend. “What’s up his ass?”

“Maybe he’s having a bad day,” she said quietly. “Excuse me, I should let you get back to work. Dinner at my cabin tonight?”

“Can’t wait.”

Pursing her lips, Annie left the dining room and stepped into the office. She compiled several flyers and brochures highlighting some of the resort’s most popular draws. She tucked them in her pocket and headed to find Peeta. He was slumped under a sycamore that leaned over the lake tearing his roll into pieces and tossing them to a family of ducks that swam in the shallows.

“Rough morning?” she asked softly. When he blinked up at her, she slid down and leaned against his shoulder. Silently, that sat together until she reached over and took his hand. “It’s going to be okay, you know.”

“I just let things get to me.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t mean to be rude to her.”

“I know that, too. You’re one of the kindest, most considerate people I’ve ever met.”

“I can’t afford to lose this job.”

“I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

“Really, Annie? What if she bitches to Plutarch? Or Haymitch? Or anyone else up the chain?” he said bitterly. “The number one rule of Panem is to behave like you’re being watched by the public at all times. The best advertising is the way we cater to our guests. We’re in a bubble here, and someone’s always watching. What if other staff heard? Oh, hell. What if Clove heard?”

“She didn’t,” Annie assured him. “Although, how she ever landed the hostess job is beyond me. The woman doesn’t have a diplomatic bone in her body, and she interacts with every person who goes through our dining room.”

“She must have slept with Cato.”

Annie snorted, but they both knew it was probably true. Cato oversaw the dining halls, room service, and snack bars at Panem. If food was involved, Cato called the shots, and he was just as snarky as Clove. The difference was Cato knew how to turn on the charm when he really wanted, and he was a stickler for treating guests so well they looked forward to returning year after year. He called it “fattening them for the slaughter,” whatever that meant. For some reason, Cato and Clove seemed to be partners, and almost everyone assumed they were in some sort of sexual relationship.

“You could just apologize again for knocking into her; offer to do something nice because she’s a guest.”

“Why did I let her get under my skin? I don’t even know her!”

“Maybe it’s not her. Maybe it’s you.” When he rolled his eyes, she asked, “When’s the last time you talked to Dr. Aurelius?”

“It’s been a while,” he admitted.

“You don’t have to be strong all the time, and definitely not all alone. I’m here for you.”

“I know, Annie.”

“And Finnick loves you. That’s why he gives you so much shit.”

Peeta smiles ruefully. “He does that.”

“I put together some stuff. Sleep on it, and then go apologize to Ms. Everdeen.”

“Katniss,” he joked.

“That’s right. Her name is Katniss, and it seems like she’s hurting, too. Maybe you can help each other heal.”

“She’s a guest.”

“I was, too. Finnick didn’t let that stop him, did he?”

“Not even remotely.”

“Just think about it.”

Peeta didn’t answer, but he was deep in thought when she rose and headed back to the lodge. Whether or not he knew it, Peeta needed to stop relying on himself so much, and Katniss was as lost as anyone Annie had ever met. They’d be good for each other, and there was nothing Annie craved more than a happy ending.

#everlark #everlark fanfiction #maybe this summer #peeta mellark #katniss everdeen

21 notes · View notes

goldkirk · 5 years ago

Text

Blackbird, a Tim Drake/Batfam fic

Chapter 12: I had to learn to be the hero, I started over here from zero

Content Warning: Vomiting in the first scene. Self harm/cutting mentions, non-graphic description but mentions of cuts and the treatment of them. Needles/vaccine/injection mention in the paragraph where Steph hums along to a Lizzo song, but it's only a mention, no description.

Barbara Gordon comes home to Gotham the next day, tossing the mantle of Oracle aside once more to be Batgirl again for what remains of July and August before she goes back to school.

“I am,” she groans, leaning over to drop her head onto Dick’s shoulder across the gap as she settles into a middle seat of Bruce’s minivan, “so tired. And never teaching Comp Sci 101 as a summer course again. I don’t care how much Dr. Holland begs. I don’t care how many free lunches they give me. It’s bad enough as a 16-week course. I don’t ever want to teach an 8-week night class again for as long as I live. Being a TA doesn’t pay enough to make that hell worth it.”

“But you did it,” Dick says, dropping a light kiss on her wild hair.

“I did,” Babs concedes. “And I did a damn good job of it, whatever Dean McGrouchyPants has to say about my methods. I dragged those kids through kicking and screaming, but they can write code better than most of the junior class at this point. Which benefits me in the long run, since I’m going to be the department’s indentured servant and overflow grader for probably the next million years, based on how slowly my thesis work is going.”

“That’s our girl,” Bruce says proudly, as he adjusts the rear-view mirror slightly so he can still see all the kids. “Everybody buckled?”

“Yes,” Tim choruses along with the others. He’s trying hard not to constantly fidget in his seat from excitement.

Jason may love him, but they’re both crammed in the backseat with Cass, and Nova and Peanut are taking up most of the floor area, so space is at a premium and Tim isn’t about to push the edges of his brother’s patience. Even the ever-calm Ace is starting to look a little strained where he lies wedged between the two middle seats.

“Bruce,” Jason says, echoing Tim’s thoughts. “No offense? But I think you might need to get a bigger minivan. Like, soon.”

“Well,” Bruce says slowly as he pulls away from the curb. “You’re going off to college, aren’t you, all grown up and everything? It’s not like you’re going to need a seat for much longer. Wave to Gordon, kids.”

Tim’s heart does a strange little flip for a moment. They all wave to the Commissioner through the windows as he disappears behind them, and the van makes its turn onto the freeway.

“B,” Jason whines. “I’m not leaving forever! And I’ll be home during breaks. You can’t just write me out of this family. I have rights.”

Tim smiles at the exchange, but grips his camera case a bit more tightly than necessary. Cass looks down at his hands and presses her shoulder into his, and he doesn’t know what she’s trying to say, exactly. But it sort of helps. He can hear his mother’s voice in his head, reprimanding him on the first day of kindergarten that you’re a big boy now, Tim, you can take the bus and you’ll be just fine. There’s nothing to cry about, silly, you’re just growing up. You’ll be fine. Daddy and I have to leave. Come on, you have to let go, you can’t ride with us, we’re going to the airport. You have your own life here, now, and you’re a big boy. You get to ride the bus with Sonia.

Janet dropping a warm kiss on his forehead as she squeezes him in a long, tight hug, then patting him firmly, encouragingly, on the back. Go on now. The weight of his too-long Batman backpack, barely filled up with just a notebook, crayons, and his lunchbox, bumping gently into the backs of his knees with every step Tim takes towards the nanny of that school year. Reaching up and taking her hand while all he wants is to hold his parents. He doesn’t want to be a big boy. He’s tired of it, he wants to be little again, and have his mom and dad home. When he looks back, his parents are already in the car, shutting the doors. And that’s it.

He shakes his head a few times, scratching one nail back and forth on the woven material of his camera strap over and over, and focuses on the feel of that in order to keep the memory from drowning him. He tunes back into the conversation, ignoring the way Cass is still watching him through the curtain of her dark hair that’s falling out from where she tucks it behind her ear.

“Of course I can’t write you out of the family,” Bruce says calmly. “You’re my son. You can’t get out of this if you try. I’m not letting you go.”

“Lord knows that’s true,” Alfred adds from the passenger seat while he furiously knits away at either a very small sweater or a very large scarf. “I thought I’d serve the Wayne family for a few years while I got back on my feet, and now here I am with a son, four grandchildren, and more animals than I can shake a stick at. And I’ve learned to make a rather mean peach cobbler, if I do say so myself. I’ve been domesticated.”

“Alfred,” Bruce chuckles. “You’re the most domesticated human being I’ve ever met.”

“Pretty sure Bruce has never seen Alfred in one of his stress-cleaning sessions,” Jason mutters, only just loud enough for Cass and Tim to hear. “Seeing as he’s, you know, usually the cause of them.”

Alfred sniffs. “You’ve only known me since I moved to America, my boy. You know the stories I’ve told you about my days in Her Majesty’s service. I have not made them a secret to you.”

“No,” says Bruce. “But imagining you as a—a spy? And an actor? I can see it, but it’s—you’re Alfred . I can hardly imagine this life without you in it as the family rock. I don’t think I really want to.”

“My dear boy,” Alfred says. “You galavant around our city in an animal costume every night and adopt every orphan who drops unceremoniously into your lap, all while running the company you swore as a teenage boy you hated and would never take on.”

Bruce grumbles back at him, shoulders hunching a bit. “Nineteen years ago I was a card-carrying punk rock kid about to embark on a literal world tour of the underworld, trying to stumble upon my own karate kid moment. Now I’m a respectable CEO with a healthy appreciation for masala chai. I have an interview with Esquire next month about what life is like as the internet’s favorite ‘DILF’ father, which I deeply wish I didn’t understand. People change.”

Dick makes a sort of choking noise somewhere in the back of his throat, while Babs claps a hand over her mouth and Jason’s face screws up into something very red and deeply pained. Tim scrabbles to hold onto the thread of the conversation, holds onto it like a lifeline, and tries to keep his focus on what they’re heading out to do.

Come on, Tim, it’s fine, He tells himself. Everything is fine. You’re finally going to the state park, you idiot, get it together! Think about how many photos you’re gonna get to take. And all the candid shots you’re going to get. Maybe even one of Cass smelling some bright flowers against her dark hair in the sunlight or something. Or Bruce watching Dick do flips off a tree. It’s going to be great. Everything’s fine. Nova noses hard at his knee, collar jingling faintly, and Tim absentmindedly reaches down to scratch behind her ear.

“Good girl,” he murmurs.

Alfred waves one hand, knitting needle drifting dangerously close to Bruce’s ear but never quite touching. “All I am trying to say is that people would hardly recognize your younger self either even if he walked beside you on the street. I don’t believe you have a leg to stand on, here.”

“Is this Alfred’s way of saying ‘Pot, kettle?’” Dick asks.

“I believe it is,” Bruce says. “All right, Alfie. Point taken. But I mean it, you know. I don’t know where I—where any of us would be without you here. I couldn’t have asked for a better father all these years.”

“Well,” Alfred says, then, his fingers stumbling to a halt with yarn still half-wrapped around the needles, and everyone in the van has been trained by the Bat. Except for the Bat, of course, who was trained, in all the ways that matter, by his Da. They all hear the hidden dampness in his tone, however well he manages to stamp it down.

“All right,” Bruce says with a grin. “I’ll lay off on the feelings talk for now. I think that must fill our annual quota, don’t you?”

“Quite so, Master Bruce,” Alfred replies, and goes back to his knitting. He stops only once to blow his nose delicately with the ever-present handkerchief from his breast pocket before getting back to it with a vengeance.

Cass raises her hand, and Bruce catches it in the mirror.

“Yes, Cass? What is it?”

Cass points with one hand at Tim beside her, and Bruce’s brows furrow as his gaze darts over. Tim ducks his head, trying to avoid eye contact, but now Jason is eyeing him too, and there’s not much Tim can do about it short of unbuckling and scrambling over the seat back to hide in the back of the minivan. And he doesn’t particularly want to get the safety lecture from Bruce, Alfred, and Dick today.

“Tim?” Bruce asks, and Dick cranes his neck around to peer into the backseat as well. “You okay?”

“Yeah, of course!” Tim says quickly.

But Jason is looking at him and frowning. “B,” he says, low, warning.

Tim shoots Jason a glare, then turns to meet Bruce’s eyes in the rearview mirror as they flick between Tim and the road every couple seconds. Tim straightens, leaning away from Cass and opens his mouth. “I’m fi—” he starts to bite out, then loses his voice in the middle of the sentence. His eyes widen and his hand shoots up to cover his mouth on pure instinct.

“B!” snaps Jason, and Bruce is already pulling off to the shoulder of the road.

“I think I’m gonna throw up,” Tim says suddenly, confused and more than a little bewildered, as he fights through the rolling nausea, and then someone’s got his buckle popped open and Dick’s hands are leading him firmly out of the back and through the sliding side door. Tim would have dropped to his knees hard at the edge of the drainage ditch if Bruce hadn’t caught him and eased him down with the same careful movement that accompanies everything he did, as Batman and as their dad.

“It’s all right,” Bruce says gently. “Deep breaths.”

Tim tries, he breathes and breathes and breathes some more as his stomach clenches and flips, and then finally his airway closes off in one final choke and he’s retching up the remains of his breakfast into a thistle bush while Bruce holds him up through it all.

Tim falls back against Bruce’s chest after one final heave, panting a little, and one of Bruce’s hands moves up to wipe at his sweaty forehead with a wet wipe someone must have dug out of the console.

"Sorry,” Tim chokes out. He kind of wants to cry, and kind of wants to vanish into the dirt and never come out again.

“Shhhh,” says Bruce. His hand on Tim’s forehead pulls Tim to lay his head back further onto Bruce’s shoulder, and Tim squeezes his eyes shut while he tries to get control back over his rebelling body.

“Didn’t realize—” he starts.

“Tim.” Bruce cuts him off, thumb brushing across his temple. His arms don’t loosen, and Tim can’t help feeling secure even while he’s kind of falling apart. “It’s okay. No one is upset with you. I promise, sweetheart.”

Tim swallows. But I made a mess, he thinks. I interrupted the drive. If I could have just—

“Hey,” comes Jason’s voice, and there are knuckles rapping twice on his cheekbone. “What did Bruce-man just say, huh? No one’s mad. I can hear you yelling at yourself from here. Your brain is awfully loud.”

“Buzz off, momma bird,” Tim mumbles, without any real heat to it. He blinks his eyes open to see Jason’s grin.

“Nah,” Jason says. “Think I’ll stay here instead. I’ve put a lotta investment into you. I don’t feel like leaving you on the side of the highway to blame yourself for things that aren’t a problem just because you had to puke up some pancakes.”

“Don’t know what happened,” Tim says, sounding about as miserable as he feels. Bruce hands him a fresh wet wipe, and it feels like heaven as he wipes down his neck and mouth himself before passing it back to be thrown in the van’s trash bag. “I was fine.”

Cass hops through the side door, then, gently cradling her now-much-bigger kitten in its new little harness, and raises one eyebrow. Not, she thumbs against her chin.

Tim’s too... something, whatever, who knows, to try to figure out what she means.

Cass huffs, and gestures furiously at Jason, who blinks and tries to expand on what he figures she means.

“Uh,” Jason says. “You weren’t fine?” Cass nods. “But...you didn’t realize. Uh.” He frowns in concentration as Cass signs at him rapidfire, and Tim just keeps his eyes drifting between the two of them while he quietly tries to push his way off of Bruce and Bruce firmly holds him right where he’s at. Tim’s thoroughly embarrassed at this point and just wants to put the whole thing behind him.

Jason turns to look at Tim fully again. “She’s right. I noticed too. You looked…” he searches for the right word. “Upset? Pale?”

“Carsick?” Dick offers.

Tim shakes his head. “Don’t get carsick.”

“Scrambled eggs,” Bruce says, then. Tim frowns. He didn’t eat any eggs this morning. Some kind of understanding dawns on Jason’s face, though.

“Oh,” says Jason. “Tim. Timmers. Which part was it, when we were all talking? What upset you?”

“What? I don’t know,” Tim grumbles. “I don’t think...”

“I know I don’t know the whole Tim situation quite as well as you all do,” interrupts Babs. “But...could it have been when Bruce was like ‘guess you won’t need to ride with us anymore, huh, since you’re going off to college and a big boy now’ and Jason joked about being written out of the family, or whatever?”

Tim squeezes his eyes shut as the memory of his first day of kindergarten tries to slam back into the forefront of his mind, just for a moment, and he forces his breathing to stay even. But he can’t hide the way his muscles tensed for just a second from Bruce. Not when they’re in such close contact.

Leaving, Cass confirms above his head. Jason looks a little stricken.

“It’s not your fault, Jason,” Bruce says immediately. “Stop that.”

“But—”

“No,” Bruce says firmly, chest rumbling against Tim’s back. “These things happen. You know it’s not your fault any more than it was mine the other day when I accidentally triggered you during movie night, or today when I joked about you being too grown-up to ride in the van anymore.”

Jason sighs. “Okay, B.” He squats down and brushes some of Tim’s flyaways back from his face, and Tim grins for a second. “Sorry, Tim. At least we know another thing to avoid now.”

“No,” says Tim. He shakes his head. “To work on.”

“You don’t have to work to get rid of every single trigger in like, two years,” Jason huffs. “Damn, Timmy. Give yourself a break. You can’t rationalize your way through everything, no matter how stubborn you are.”

“That,” Bruce says lightly, “I can confirm. You feel like getting up?”

Tim nods, and allows Bruce to haul him to his feet, keeping one of his hands wrapped around Bruce’s forearm until he’s sure he’s not going to suddenly throw up again or anything.

“Sorry,” he says again. “I don’t—I don’t think that normally would have bothered me so much. I think it was just today. I don’t know.”

“It’s okay,” Bruce reassures him.

“No one cares, Tim,” Jason says. “We’ve all puked on the side of the road once or twice, in or out of costume. No shame in it.”

Tim rolls his eyes.

“Would you like some water?” Alfred asks, then, window rolled down and Tim’s water bottle in his hand.

“Yes, please,” Tim says gratefully, and chases the last of the bad taste out of his mouth as he rinses and spits once into the thistles before chugging half the bottle in one go.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Dick asks gently, as Tim is following Jason and Cass back up into the backseat.

“Absolutely not,” Tim says with an impressive amount of cheer, and although Dick exchanges an unreadable glance with Bruce, who’s about to shut the door behind them, he doesn’t push. Tim’s grateful. He makes sure to give Nova some extra rubs as he settles back into the seat, in a sort of apology for not realizing earlier what she was trying to tell him. She seems satisfied, at least, and settles back down across his boots without complaint. He’s grateful for the weight. It helps keep him here and now, in the van with his family, fifteen years old, having a belated birthday and not a little kid anymore.

But after a few more minutes of driving, the old truth settles in about how much easier it is to talk about things in a moving vehicle, and Tim finds himself opening his mouth against his own better judgement.

“I was…” he tries. Pauses. Everyone’s attention snaps to him, even if they’re kind enough not to turn around in their seats. He can tell. “Uh. I remembered my first day of kindergarten. Mom and dad left for Egypt, or something, and I wanted to ride with them. But Mom said I was, like, a big kid now, and I could take the bus with my nanny, and…” he trails off, shrugs a little helplessly. “I dunno. I’m not sure why it was suddenly such a big deal.”

“When you’re small,” Bruce says, catching Tim’s eye in the mirror for a moment before looking back at the road as he turns smoothly onto the exit ramp, “feelings are big. Just because older you can look at the situation and say that it wasn’t a big deal, since everything was fine and you were safe, it doesn’t mean the little you wasn’t afraid and upset. When you’re small, every bad thing is literally the worst thing that’s ever happened to you. Dropping your ice cream can feel like the end of the world when you were excited about getting it all day and then it suddenly falls and you can’t have it anymore.”

That makes sense, Tim admits, but. Still.

“So,” Bruce goes on, and the van starts shaking slightly as it hits gravel instead of asphalt. “Put yourself in little you’s shoes, hm? He was starting kindergarten. That’s a big deal, and a big change. It’s a new school, and lots of unfamiliar kids and grown-ups, right? And all little kids want some comfort when they’re nervous, so usually parents come with them to the first day of school so everyone’s nerves are a little soothed. You just wanted your mom and dad. You didn’t want to be alone on your first day.”

“But I had the nanny,” Tim points out. “I liked Sonia.”

“Sure,” Dick says. “But she wasn’t your parents. And were you scared?”

Tim thinks back, tries to really put himself in the moment from his younger self’s eyes this time, but keep it controlled. He feels Cass pulling his hands over to gently rest on Teacup’s soft little fur, and shoots her a quick smile as his fingers start to rub lightly.

And, yeah. Tim.

Tim was definitely scared. He’d never gone to preschool. His parents had just hired a Montessori tutor, and pushed him as hard as they could. Tim was smart. He liked the challenge. But he hadn’t really been around many kids before, and school was going to have a lot. And new teachers. And it was in a building he’d never seen before, because his parents had a business event the day they were supposed to go to the open house, and his nanny had a cold. So. Tim was definitely nervous. He didn’t feel big at all back then. He felt really small, and he wanted someone to hold him, not just his hand, and--

“Tim,” Jason says. Tim blinks a few times, and looks over. Jason reaches out a hand and his fingers are suddenly brushing across Tim’s cheek.

“What?” Tim asks.

“You’re crying bud,” Jason says softly.

“Oh,” Tim says, surprised. He reaches up, letting go of Teacup, and feels his eyes. Sure enough, they’re damp. “Huh.”

Bruce has put the car in park along the side of the state park’s gravel lot sometime in the past minute or so, and he turns around in his seat now, keys in hand, and locks eyes with Tim. “You think you’re okay to head out right now?” he asks, not the slightest bit of accusation or disappointment in his voice. Tim still feels braced for it anyway.

"I think so,” Tim answers. He unbuckles, and tugs Nova’s collar gently as he calls up.

“Because we can wait a little while if that would help,” Bruce says. “Or the others can go on ahead, and you and I can just catch up.”

“No, I’m okay,” Tim says. And he’s pretty sure he means it.

“Nature is always an excellent remedy for the soul,” Alfred says, as they all pile out through the various doors. “I dare say you’ll feel better before we even make it to the top of the ridge.”

“Come on, Dickiebird,” Jason says, clipping Peanut’s hands-free leash to his belt. Dick takes Ace’s lead and wraps it around his wrist a few times. “Race.”

Dick sighs, but doesn’t actually sound all that put out. “How far?”

“Just the trailhead,” Jason says. “Bet I beat you by two strides.”

“Bet you a Snickers you don’t,” Dick snorts.

“Babs!” Jason calls over to where Babs has already walked over to read some of the plaques by the rain garden. “Start us.”

“Three,” she yells back. “Two...one...one and a half.”

“Babs,” Jason groans.

“GO!” she yells, and the boys are off.

Tim find himself grinning as he slips Nova’s over-the-shoulder leash over his head and adjusts it to fit how he wants. He straightens his camera case around his neck, takes the offered backpack from Alfred that contains his water bottles and snacks, and pulls his camera out just in time to snap a photo of Teacup’s reaction as Cass sets him down on the faint dirt trail for the first time.

“Good catch,” Bruce says over Tim’s shoulder, as they watch Cass begin attempting to lead her wayward little cat down the walking path instead of off towards the butterfly bushes. She isn’t having all that much success, but Alfred is already on it, sweeping in to take charge.

“I can’t believe she decided to bring Teacup on a hike,” Tim laughs a little. Bruce’s free hand lands on the center of his back, and Tim doesn’t flinch away as he’s steered toward the trailhead where Jason and Dick are already bickering good-naturedly over who actually out-touched the other, and Babs is staring up at the sky as if a cloud will give her guidance over how to wrangle the two of them. Tim can almost imagine from here her lips soundlessly mouthing out Lord give me patience to not stab them with a Batarang before lunch.

“As long as I’m not the one carrying the cat for five and a half miles,” Bruce says, watching Cass fondly, “I don’t particularly care. I learned a long time ago to pick my battles, and this isn’t a hill I plan to die on.”

“Yeah,” Tim snorts. “That’s fair.”

“Are you really okay?” Bruce asks quietly.

“I’m okay,” Tim confirms. “It was just...a weird moment. I’m okay now. And thanks, for that in the car. I didn’t really think about that before.”

“It’s what I’m here for,” Bruce says. “If you do want to talk about it later, or if you need a break, tell me or Alfred, all right? This is your day. You should be happy and comfortable, not stressed.”

“Thanks, Bruce.” Tim twists around and hugs Bruce for a few seconds as they stop in the middle of the narrow dirt path. “I love you a lot.”

Bruce smiles and hugs Tim back tightly for a moment. “I love you too a lot,” he says. Tim pulls away, and Bruce slings his arm back around Tim’s shoulders as they start to walk. “Come on. There’s a particularly good photo spot about a mile and a half up the trail I think you’ll like. And if we make good time, we can picnic in the big meadow for lunch and let the dogs run around for a while.”

“TIM,” comes the holler from over by the trail. Tim squints over, hand raised to shield his eyes from the sun.

“WHAT?” he yells back, ignoring Bruce’s wince.

“SUNSCREEN,” Jason hollers, and the next thing Tim knows, there’s a bottle flying at his face in a frankly beautiful overhand throw. Jason’s old baseball coach must be proud.

Bruce’s hand catches it before Tim can get his own up high enough, and he passes it off to Tim with a fond grin.

“Still mother henning you, huh?” Bruce asks, as Tim pops the cap open and starts to squirt out sunscreen lotion with a sigh.

“So much,” Tim says. He smears some of the sunscreen on his face and neck, then sticks his white-covered hand in the air as they get closer to the others, and calls out, “Happy, Momma Bird?”

“Ecstatic,” Jason shouts back dryly. “I’ll positively die of joy if you actually smear it everywhere it’s supposed to go, too, instead of forgetting your ears and back again like last time.”

“You’re a pain in my butt,” Tim grumbles under his breath, and Bruce barely holds in his laugh. Tim feels Bruce’s arm shake slightly where it rests across his shoulders.

“What was that?” Jason asks, grinning.

“I said, you’re a blessing in my life and I’m lucky to have you watching out for my pale Irish-Japanese butt,” Tim says.

“Damn straight,” says Jason, and then he reaches out and snatches the bottle from Tim’s hand. “Aw, nuts, Timmy. You already missed half your forehead, dummy. Just—let me do it, okay?”

“Okay, Jason,” Tim says, and lets his older brother do what he needs to do to feel better after the whole car thing.

Nothing gets Jason back on an even keel faster than being needed by Tim, and no one knows how to push Jason’s buttons effectively better than Tim. They’ve turned it into a dance, of sorts, and it works out.

Jason gets a little bit in Tim’s eye. But they’re okay. He’s still got the other one to look out of while taking photos, and it’s worth it to see Jason fully relaxed again. Besides, Tim thinks cheerfully. Now we can both gang up on Cass together. She’s as pale as Tim is, and probably doesn’t even know what sunscreen is for.

She’s got no idea what’s gonna hit her.

Steph scrubs a hand across her forehead, trying to wipe away some of the sweat before it gets into her eye, but really only manages to smear some flour across her skin. She sighs and reaches for the dirty kitchen towel. It doesn’t look like it’s going to do any better a job, really, with how dirty its gotten. Her mom hasn’t done the laundry in...a while. And Steph’s been more focused on making sure they all have clean underwear, not on getting the bedding and towels washed. So.

Maybe she’ll just...use the hem of her shirt instead.

She does, and it goes about as well as she expected, honestly I don’t know why I even bother, and then the oven timer is going off and her dad is yelling something from the living room and her mom shouts back in a moan from somewhere upstairs and Steph just wants it all to stop. Just.

For two seconds. That’s all she wants.

“I KNOW,” she hollers out the kitchen doorway, and she yanks out the metal pan and (gently) bangs it down onto the stovetop. If her dad wants some stupid cake for himself and his “friends”, he should bake it himself. Steph has other things she should be doing. Like finishing an article. And volunteering at the clinic, which she’s already six minutes late for.

She grabs her backpack from the back of one of the kitchen chairs and slings it over one shoulder as she opens the back door.

“I’ll ice the cake when I get back,” she calls over her shoulder. “Bye!”

"Come back here!” her dad starts, and Stephanie shuts the door to cut off the rest before he can really get going.

She hums along to a Lizzo song as she pops her headphones in her ears and takes off down the sidewalk at a jog. If she hurries, she might still make it in time to sneak Eddie Miller an extra lollipop after he finishes getting his vaccines. She knows he was scared to get them, because he’s hated needles ever since he had to get stitches from Dr. Thompkins when he knocked the bookcase down on his forehead. Steph couldn’t really blame him.

“Hi Leslie!” she calls as she lets herself in the back door. She makes sure to lock it again carefully behind her. No repeats, she thinks. Not on my watch.

“In here, Steph!”

Stephanie drops her bag and takes a moment to scrub her arms up to her elbows at the sink, then ducks around the corner into the only occupied exam room.

“Hi, kiddo,” Dr. Thompkins says, shooting her a quick smile from where she’s just smoothing down a second Band-Aid over Eddie’s skinny little thigh.

“Hey, Dr. Thompkins,” Steph replies cheerfully. “Hey, little dude. Whadja pick out this time?”

Eddie sniffs, and Steph can see he was clearly crying a minute or two earlier. But he’s already pulled himself together and is cheering up. Brave little kid.

“Batman!” he says. “And Robin.”

“Batman and Robin, huh?” she says, smile still firmly in place. She really does hope Robin is okay. At least he’s finally back on patrol, so that’s a good sign, right? She doesn’t know what she was thinking, hitting him in the head like that. She just—panicked.

She panicked. That was bad. Oh, god. Batman probably hates her forever now. Some vigilante she was turning out to be.

“Yep,” Eddie says. “They’re my favorites.”

“He’s been very, very into them, this year,” his Mom sighs, but she doesn’t seem truly exasperated. Just fond.

“You’ve got good taste,” Steph says, and she ruffles his hair before Dr. Thompkins helps him down from the exam table and out through the hallway to the lobby.

“Keep watch for any reaction symptoms, like fever, too much swelling, any kind of shortness of breath or nausea, you know the drill,” Dr. Thompkins is saying to Mrs. Miller.

“I sure hope so, by now,” Mrs. Miller says wryly, as she ushers her other four kids up out of their chairs and towards the door. “Thanks, Dr. Thompkins. I appreciate it. Say bye bye, Eddie.”

“Bye!” Eddie says quickly, before popping a bright green lollipop in his mouth to match the red one he had just polished off a minute earlier. The family sweeps out the door in a jumble of controlled chaos, and the clinic seems jarringly quiet and empty in their wake.

“I saw that,” says Dr. Thompkins, as she turns to scribble something on the clipboard at the front desk before handing it back to the volunteer receptionist.

“Saw what?” Steph says, innocently.

“You gave him that lollipop. I don’t know when you snatched it, but I saw you sneak it to him the second his mom set eyes on the other kiddos. You’re not as sneaky as you think you are.” She holds the door to the back open again and ushers Steph through before shutting it behind herself.

Steph laughs. “You’ve got years of practice catching all kinds of people doing all kinds of things,” she protests. “I don’t have to be that sneaky around normal people. His mom didn’t even realize before they left.”

“She will in the car,” Dr. Thompkins says, grinning now. “That was nice of you. He’ll remember that, next time. You’d better be here to sneak him another one if you know what’s good for you.”

“I hope I can be,” Steph says. “And, uh, on that note, sorry I’m late.”

“Everything okay at home?” Dr. Thompkins asks. She drops into the procedure room’s worn-out spinning chair as Steph takes up her usual perch on the counter.

“Dad wanted me to bake a cake,” Steph sighs. “I don’t know why he can’t just order buffalo wings for his buddies like a normal person.”

“Mm. And on that note, do you need a refill, Steph?”

Stephanie looks down for a second before meeting Dr. Thompkin’s eyes.

“Yeah,” she says quietly. “I’m almost out and I don’t want to risk anything. Thanks, Leslie.”

“It’s literally no trouble,” Dr. Thompkins says, with a wave of her hand. She scribbles on a notepad and folds the paper into a little football before tossing it at Steph, who laughs as she snatches it out of the air. “That should get you another month. Make sure you give it to Louis, during the night shifts. He’ll give you the discount as long as I’m around.”

“Thanks,” Steph says again.

“And how’s your mom?” Dr. Thompkins asks, then, leaning back in the chair.

“She’s fine.”

“Fine?”

“Status quo,” Stephanie amends. “She’s got good and bad days. She hasn’t started taking any more than her usual, so for now I guess...things are okay. She’s not getting better, but she’s not getting worse anymore. Half the days she even remembers to do stuff around the house.”

“And you’re left with the other half,” Dr. Thompkins says gently.

“I can handle it.”

“I know you can. I just wish you didn’t have to.”

“Yeah, well.” Stephanie kicks her sneaker against the old 80s tile a couple times, and digs the toe of her shoe into a nick. “It is what it is. It’s bound to get better sometime. Dad just needs to get caught and thrown in prison again.” She snorts and looks up at Dr. Thompkins. “Is it bad that that’s something I’m looking forward to?”

“Nah,” Dr. Thompkins says. “Not in this case. I think you’re good.”

“Bet,” Steph mutters, and leans back to thunk her head against one of the cabinets. “Slow afternoon today?”

“Mm hm. Nothing scheduled till three-thirty, actually. Which means there’s plenty of time for us to catch up, since we’ve barely gotten enough time to say hello these past couple of weeks.”

“Yeah,” Steph agrees. “It seems like every kid in the neighborhood has broken a bone or needed stitches this month.”

“So it goes, in summers,” Dr. Thompkins says, mock-sagely. “And how about you? Any new mysterious injuries you can’t tell me about after a night on the town?”

Stephanie has always had the distinct impression that Dr. Thompkins sees right through her, and knows a whole lot more than she lets on. She could probably rival Batman if she wanted to. But Steph isn’t about to give up the game unless she has to, and if she admitted to being Spoiler for no good reason and Dr. Thompkins hadn’t known after all, that would suck. Plus, there was the whole “mandated reporter” thing that they already tap danced circles around with Steph’s home life, just barely avoiding social services because Steph’s mom was minimally functional for now.

“Nope,” Steph says, popping the p and grinning at Dr. Thompkins.

Leave it at that, she begs. C’mon, Leslie, leave it at that for this week. Let’s talk about the Knights game or something.

“Good,” Dr. Thompkins says. “And have you cut any more since we last talked?”

Steph groans.

“Leslie,” she complains.

“Answer the question, Steph.”

“Yes,” Steph mutters, giving Dr. Thompkins the stink eye.

“How many times.”

“Four.”

“Did you—”

“I used clean blades, I wiped them down with alcohol before and afterwards, I put butterfly bandaids on the one deep cut, and I’ve been applying ointment every day,” Stephanie interrupts, feeling cranky now. This was a good day. She doesn’t want to think about the bad while she’s in Leslie’s sanctuary. Tonight is already going to be shitty enough.

“That’s good,” Dr. Thompkins says, undeterred. “And are you keeping them covered?”

Stephanie is silent.

“Steph,” Dr. Thomkins says, exasperated. She reaches behind her and pulls on a pair of examination gloves. “You’ve got to take care of them. You’ve been lucky to not get any infections so far, with how active you are and the fact that you work at a pool. Having wounds rubbing against your clothing and bathing suit constantly isn’t going to help them heal.”

“I know that,” Steph snaps.

“Let me see,” says Dr. Thompkins, as gently as Steph’s ever heard her. “Come on, Steph.” She’s standing in front of Stephanie now, careful to leave open a path to the door. Steph can’t really stay mad at her when she knows she’s just looking out for Steph.

God knows Steph wishes someone would, more often. She's so goddamn tired of raising herself.

“Fine,” she says, and unbuttons her jeans. She shimmies out of them without hopping off the counter, and watches Leslie’s hands like a hawk as the older woman folds Steph’s underwear down just enough to see what she needs to on either side, gently prodding the edges of cuts up and down Steph’s hip area in various stages of healing. She’s careful to narrate everything she’s doing. Steph appreciates that.

“Can I clean and dress them really quick?” she asks finally, looking up at Stephanie.

It can’t hurt, Steph thinks. At the very least, that’s one round of bandages I don’t have to pay for from the drugstore. And it’ll hold up better than anything I can manage while I’m out tonight.

“Okay,” she says. Dr. Thompkins nods and pulls out what she needs, working quickly and efficiently as always; clean, medicate, bandage, check for secure seal. When she’s finished, she gives Steph’s legs one final pat and holds the jeans out for Steph to grap.

“I’m sorry,” Steph says quietly. “I know I said I was going to stop, and I was really trying, I did for a while, I just—”

Dr. Thompkins holds up a hand, throws her gloves in the waste bin, and turns to look Steph right in the eye.

"You don’t need to apologize to me for anything,” she says. “Steph, honey, you’re doing what you have to do to make it through when things are intolerable. This isn’t the first thing you try. I know that. I know how hard you’re fighting to stop hurting yourself, and I’m proud of you. It’s better for you to fall back on self harming to cope when you’re really desperate than for you to end up even worse and doing something you can’t heal from so easily, hm?”Stephanie swallows.

“Okay,” she whispers. “You’re not—you’re not gonna make me stop helping out around here?”

Dr. Thompkins frowns, looking genuinely confused. “Why would I do that?”

Steph shrugs. “I dunno. Just. Dad said if he ever caught me with cuts or scars again I’d be out of the house, since I’d be bad publicity, or a risk to others, or something, so I just...I figured maybe you wouldn’t want me around kids, or something.”

“Honey,” Dr. Thompkins says, and finally reels Steph into a hug. “No. I know you’d never hurt anyone. You’re fantastic with the kids, and a big help around here. I’m happy to have you around whenever you have time. And listen,” she adds, pulling back and staring at Steph with something fierce in her eyes. “If your dad ever does try to kick you out, you come straight here and you tell me. I won’t let you end up on the street. We’ll figure it out.”

“Okay,” Steph says, again. “I—thanks, Dr. Thompkins.”

“Any time,” the older woman says, patting Stephanie’s shoulder firmly. “Now come on. Let’s see if we can get another few boxes sorted through before the next appointment shows up. It’s Mr. Lewis, so I’ll bet you he’ll be late, as usual.”

Steph follows her out the door, and the rest of the afternoon flies by in a blur of comfortable busywork and friendly banter with both Dr. Thompkins and the patients. She always likes the days she can spend at Leslie’s clinic. They feel normal . They feel kind of like how she imagines a good home.

And if she does occasionally sneaks a popsicle or lollipop for herself from one of the stashes? Leslie doesn’t really seem to mind.

Steph publishes the anonymous article to the Batwatch community site as she walks home, to be vetted by one of the mods. If all goes well, it’ll be up by tonight, and things might finally start picking up.

Her moss has been doing well, and it’s definitely been getting notice. But only by the people in little clusters around each location. She’d thought there would be more of a buzz about the messages once the moss really became visible, but apparently she’d underestimated how much most people stuck to their own neighborhoods across most of the city. So the article was her backup, a nice guest piece on how someone has “noticed” on their daily bike rides that there was moss graffiti popping up around Gotham, and that they had made it their mission to compile a list of the clues. Or, rather, the spoilers.

Steph uses a voice scrambler app to place a call to GCPD just before she made it back to her house, warning them about a robbery that was supposed to take place tonight at Gotham First Bank, and hangs up before they could convince her to give anything else away. She has to protect her identity, especially in case anyone on her dad’s side got a hold of the call recording after the fact. She has to be careful.

With any luck, her dad will be arrested tonight and tossed back in jail where he belongs, and that’ll be one fewer thing for Steph to worry about. It’s too late for that to stop the big plan in motion—Steph knows that. It was much bigger than just her dad, anyway. Much, much bigger. Steph doesn’t know exactly who’s behind all of it, herself, and she’s been hunting . But at least this will be a step. And if the article gets published, that’ll at least get some of the information onto Batman’s radar, too.

She can work from there. As soon as she figures out how to get back in contact with them after, you know, nearly killing Robin. But it was an accident!

Hope Batman sees it that way, she thinks dejectedly. Hope he doesn’t just take me down in two seconds and tie me up for the police as soon as he sees me.

She pushes open the rusty gate to their side yard and heads for the house. That’s a problem for future Steph to figure out.

Right now, she’s got a cake to finish. And it’s going to be spectacular.

Steph ices the cake.

It’s pristine, a chocolate buttercream coating she made herself and taste-tested to perfection. She pipes on white icing as well, in little shells around the edges, and tops it all off with very tasteful rainbow sprinkles and “Happy Thursday!” in precise cursive that would make her 5th grade handwriting teacher weep.

Also, every single part of the cake and icing is chock full of laxatives. This is going to be the worst night of her dad’s life.

Steph can’t wait to spy on the police station after this one.

She places the pan, covered, on the coffee table, with plates and forks and a serving knife and Here you go, Dad, I hope you like it, it’s your nana’s old recipe like the good little daughter she is. Then she takes the stairs two at a time to her room, strips out of her clothes, and tugs on the underlayer of her costume. It takes a bit of time and tugging to get all the layers of leggings and undershirts and belts to play nicely with each other, but she manages. Then it’s time to tug on the outer layer, and the head covering, and more belts, and her mini-backpack with a few anonymous tips she’s planning to drop off at various offices, and she’s off.

Steph slips out the window, closing it without pulling the latch behind her, and swings her way silently across the awning, hand over hand, till she reaches the porch roof. She drops down through the few-inch gap, sticking to the darkest part of the roof, and then with a running jump she’s flying through the air, onto the fence with barely a rattle, and scrambling up and over and out into freedom and the great big night.

Gotham may be a shitty city, in a lot of ways, sure. But it’s her city. It’s her flesh and blood and bone and hard pavement, it’s her smoggy air and Crime Alley neighborhood and games with little kids who don’t know to be so afraid yet, and she’s not going to let it get taken down without a fight.

Steph sprints across the alleys, heading towards Uptown, getting a decent head start.

This night is going to work. She knows it. The plan is going to work out if it kills her. And if she’s right—which, duh, she totally is—it’s going to be the first big step towards stopping the Big Bad Plan of Unfathomable Suckiness, as she’s taken to calling it.

After tonight, she thinks, t his whole city’s gonna know the name Spoiler. And they’re going to have to sit up and notice what’s going on under everyone’s noses. No more hiding from the shadows. Not when the shadows are gonna come knocking whether you hide from them or not.

A fter tonight, Steph says to herself, firmly, everyone is going to know there’s a new player in town. And no matter what it takes, she vows, while kick-running and vaulting over a concrete barrier blocking her way to the city hall, I’m going to win.

[ Read on ao3 ]

#tim drake #stephanie brown #batfam #dc #shutterbug series

26 notes · View notes

starlight-drive-in · 5 years ago

Text

Catching Feelings Ch. 3 Seven/MC College AU

Fic Summary:

MC’s roommate convinces her to attend a house party hosted by campus charity organization - The RFA. Minor legend and mystery on campus 707 is of course also there. MC thinks he’s weird - and absolutely adorable. Cheesiness ensues.

Chapter Summary:

Seven saves the day, and MC returns the favor.

Notes:

This chapter is a bit fan-service-y, a little trope-y and really, really fluffy. I hope you like it!

AO3 Link (Check here for warning/tags)

Chapter 3: Saving the Day

A short “squee” escapes MC’s lips as she reads over his messages again.

“What was that?” Mei asks.

“He called me beautiful!” She can’t help the smile that spreads across her face.

“See? Nothing to worry about. Even if he hasn’t seen the high-quality garbage you are in the morning!” Mei jabs affectionately.

“Hey!”

“I'm just kidding! Anyway, I have class. So you kids have fun and uhh stay safe!” Mei says opening the door.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” MC asks, but the door closes before she can get the sentence out fully.

With Mei gone the full reality of the situation hits her.

Saeyoung is coming over. Crap

She acted completely on impulse and now he’s going to realize she’s actually a smelly awkward mess when alcohol isn’t helping her words flow out so smoothly - if she could even call the previous night’s performance smooth. The point was that the alcohol helped her get her words out without her overthinking every little thing, especially in front of someone like him.

She attempts to make her bed, although that's a little rough with the headache that still persists. She borrows a bit of Mei’s perfume and makes sure to apply deodorant and then makes her way into the bathroom to brush her teeth. Halfway through brushing there’s a rhythmic knocking on the door almost like a little tune, so unique the only person it could possibly be is him.

She panics slightly, spitting out her toothpaste and quickly rinsing out her mouth, She smooths out her sweater and pads over to the door taking a deep breath and finally opens it. Saeyoung stands there in a crisp white button-down that seems to cling to him in all the right places. A small smile graces his lips as he runs a hand through his tousled red locks.

“Morning! Is it still morning?” He says.

“Hey. Uh” MC looks behind her at the alarm clock on the desk. “Yup still morning!”

Seven’s eyes sweep over the girl holding the door open in front of him. She looks comfortable - and adorable. Very warm, like she’d be perfect to snuggle up to and share hot cocoa with, and that sweater looks so soft! She looked sexy as hell the night before but if he’s being completely honest she looks even better like this. Like a girl you could - what’s the phrase? “Take home to mom”? If he had a mom that was. Take home to brother? Nah that doesn't sound good at all hmmm… Suddenly, something seems to catch his eye. “You um, have a little bit of something on your lip.”

“Shit.” MC stutters wiping her face.

“Oh, uh wrong side." He watches futility while she swipes the other side of her face, missing the spot again. "May I?” He raises his hand slightly, asking for permission to touch her.

“S-sure.” She can feel her face gaining heat already.

Using his thumb he quickly wipes the bit of toothpaste of the corner of her mouth. “There you go! Good as ever!”

“T-thanks" she blushes, "uhh you can come in! If you want of course.”

He studies her thoughtfully, blushing a bit himself and passes over the threshold into her dorm. “hmph, cute.” he mutters.

“What?” She asks, having not heard him well.

“Oh uh, nothing!” He attempts to cover, not realizing he had spoken aloud.

He was going to be the death of her.

“How’s your head?” Saeyoung asks her, taking off his backpack and setting in on the floor near her bed.

“Oh, its… ok.” She tries to play it off as she attempts to wheel her desk chair out for him to sit in, however one of the legs ends up rolling out in front of her and she trips, stumbling a bit before catching herself.

“hmmm" he taps his chin, "It's just as I thought.” he assesses.

“W-what do you mean?" She inquires.

“Back to bed with you missy! You need more recoup time!" Saeyoung declares, throwing back the covers on her bed and scooping her up before unceremoniously plopping her down unto her mattress.

She giggles despite the slight rush of pain that plagues her head as a result of his antics. “I guess there's no arguing that.”

He pulls up the desk chair to the side of her bed. “Do not fear! 707 has the perfect cure for you!”

“You mean your weird energy drink?” She giggles again.

“Oh no! No, no, I can’t actually let you test that, that’s what I have Yoosung for! You, pretty lady - get the real treatment! And also, I’ll have you know I almost came over here in my nurse costume just to administer it to you but I didn't want to scare you away.”

“Actually that would have been pretty amazing,” MC admits.

“Damn, next time then!” Saeyoung declares, taking items out of his bag.

“Let’s hope there isn't a ‘next time’. Last night wasn't exactly my best decision." She pauses for a moment, smiling "but I suppose the meeting you part was worth it.”

He smiles one of those smiles again and MC feels her heart flutter, little does she know how much her words made his heart feel much the same.

“Then I guess it’s only right for me to try and fix you up! Ok first, you need electrolytes!” he says brightly, handing her a sports drink. Which she takes with a smile. “Headache medication!” He continues, popping two out and handing them to her. “And finally…” He reaches into his backpack again and pulls out something wrapped in foil “Breakfast! I hope you like egg and cheese sandwiches?”

“That seriously sounds like the best thing ever right now.” She responds excitedly. “You sure know how to take care of a girl, keep that up and you’ll have me wrapped around your finger in no time,” She says before she can think. Oh my god, why did I say that? I'm not even drunk anymore, why does he make me say things like that?!

He says nothing, but smiles thoughtfully as he unwraps her breakfast for her making her feel like maybe he didn't exactly dislike that idea?

“Did you get one for yourself?” She asks, taking a bite. Her eyes roll back as a short moan escapes her lips and she throws her head back in satisfaction

Now it’s his turn for red cheeks. He wasn't exactly expecting to see that sight today. “Oh, uh. Nah! I had some chips this morning.”

“That's not a meal!” She scolds, still chewing. “Have the other half silly!”

“But that's for you!” He insists.

“Not anymore! You have to take care of yourself.”

“Says the girl who was drunk 12 hours ago!” He quips, taking the other half of the sandwich in defeat, it had been a while since he had any real food.

“Oh, so that’s how it’s gonna be?”

“Mmhmm!” He says while chewing, neither of them obviously caring much for table manners. “I got you home and brought you breakfast so I get to make one jab at you!”

“Ok, fair enough.” She concedes.

They sit quietly for a moment, just eating and enjoying the company. She finishes up her half as he goes to take the second to last bite of his, inadvertently causing a shift in the contents of the tiny bit of remaining sandwich causing some egg and cheese to fall onto his shirt. Or rather - his brother’s shirt.

“Aww shit.” He mutters.

“Oh no!” she exclaims. “That's the curse of white shirts, you wear one and you’re immediately more likely to drop something on it.”

“Right? Ugh, Saeran’s gonna murder me.” He groans

She cocks her head in confusion “Who’s Saeran?”

“My brother, I borrowed this from him cuz I maaay have forgotten to do laundry and I maaaay have... wanted to look nice for you?" He hurries through the second part of his statement.

She smiles at the confession, “Well you do look nice, but there’s no way I’m letting your brother kill you! The laundry room is down the hall. I can throw it in the wash for you! I have a load of whites to do anyway.”

“I’d feel so bad to make you do that when you’re not feeling well though!” He whines.

“Nonsense! I'm feeling much better thanks to you! Now take your shirt off!” Shit, I did it again, think before you speak MC.

“Oh ho ho, so forward!” He chuckles with a sly look and a wink. "I like that."

The wink hits her straight in the chest like a bullet “Ahh I didn't mean it like that.” MC stammers.

He chuckles unbuttoning his shirt, “You are way too cute.”

She glances away bashfully. “T-thanks.”

He gets all the buttons undone and pulls off his shirt standing up from where he was seated. “You have a basket of the other stuff you need to be washed? We can go together if you want,” he asks.

She can’t speak for a moment she just points and nods her head watching him as he puts his shirt in with her laundry and picks up the basket like a model in some male pin-up magazine. This isn’t fair, I thought he was a Comp-Sci major?! He said he eats chips for breakfast! Why does he have abs!? She can almost see the cover of the magazine that would feature the image in front of her, the caption reads: "Local man eats chips for breakfast and sits in front of a computer all day but still has a 6 pack, Doctors hate him!"

“Ready?” He asks, snapping her out of her thoughts. Did he notice her staring?

He smirks.

He totally noticed her staring and now that face isn't making it any easier not to stare!

“Y-yea!” She answers quickly, getting up and slipping her flip-flops on.

In the hall, she catches more than a few girls and a couple boys ogling her companion. One girl she shares a class with gives an impressed look and an enthusiastic nod.

"Saeyoung?" She says when they get to their destination.

"Ya?" He answers casually tossing items into the washer.

"Um, I think a couple people we passed in the hall were getting the wrong idea about us."

"Us? Why?"

"Well, you're not wearing a shirt, and I still look like a hot mess. It's still somewhat morning, people might think... things."

He takes another glance at her, raising an eyebrow as he looks her over again. "Your definition of “mess” seems really inaccurate, the other part-"

A familiar male voice cuts him off "Seven?" It questions.

"Yoosung!" He cries excitedly. "What are you doing here?! You feeling ok? I heard that chocolate milk is a great cure for a hangover."

"I have a group project with someone in this dorm and I'm not falling for that again, Seven!" He defends, Seven just shrugs in response and throws in a pair of MC's leggings into the washer before picking up another article.

"Uh… Seven?" Yoosung says slowly, not looking at Seven's face.

"Ya?"

"Why do you have a girl's bra? And where's your shirt?! "

"Oh. Uhhh." Seven stammers, trying not to picture how the lacey bralette must look on her. "I, uh."

MC's shock is unavoidable but she has to think fast. "Oops! That's mine! It must have fallen into your stuff on accident, I'll just be taking that, thanks! Sorry about that!" She snatches her undergarment from out of Saeyoung's hand and holds it to her chest possessively.

Yoosung's eyes snap to her and then narrow before he smiles at her. "Have we met?"

Wasn't he that drunk kid who kinda latched onto her shoulders last night?

"I'm Yoosung by the way!" He says excitedly seeming to have completely forgotten about Seven who just snickers as he throws the rest of the load in.

So this is his test subject MC thinks to herself.

"Nice to meet you, Yoosung. You must be a friend of Saeyoung's?" She asks.

Seven turns back around just in time to receive a questioning look from Yoosung. "Yea, I mean I'd like to think so at least. Although I'm curious about how you met Saeyoung." He emphasis the name while looking at Seven questioningly once more.

"We met at the RFA party." Seven tells him.

"The one last night?" Yoosung asks doubtfully.

"Yup! That's the one!"

"Hmph, interesting…" Yoosung deadpans. "Well, I've gotta get to work on this project. I'll see you and your new friend later."

“Awww, Yoosungie! Don’t be jealous.” Seven calls as Yoosung walks away.

"Is he ok?" MC inquires once she's sure Yoosung is out of earshot.

"Yea, he's just sensitive."

"Whatever about?"

"I knew him for 2 years before I told him my real name he's probably wondering why you already know it when we only met last night."

MC hums contemplatively. "And why do I know it?"

"Because." He says simply.

"Because?"

"Mmhmm"

"Is that all your going to tell me?"

"Mmhmm!"

"Why don't you use your real name anyway? Do you not like it?" She asks as he uncaps the laundry detergent. "C-cuz I think it's a cute na- I mean a nice name. I mean I'm just kinda wondering why you don't use it I guess?"

He smiles at her compliment but it doesn't reach his eyes. "It's a dangerous name. A dangerous name for a dangerous person."

She cocks an eyebrow at him and barks a laugh "Oh, yea you look real intimidating right now pouring that laundry detergent."

He laughs with her while he finishes up with the machine.

She gasps dramatically, “Oh no whatever will I do?! This man NO, not a man! This menace came to my dorm and did my laundry after he fed me and made my headache go away, he must be stopped!”

“I know, I know It’s hard to believe because I’m so cute but it’s true!” He defends.

“Ok, Ok. should I be careful of you helping old ladies across the street too?”

“Don’t say I didn't warn you, Sweetie” He says in a sing-song voice.

For a moment she considers whether or not he’s actually being serious, but she just can’t imagine the guy standing in front of her right now - who, by the way, is currently trying to blow a stray hair out of his face and failing (adorably)- being involved in anything even remotely dangerous. No this is definitely another one of his stunts.

Seven’s phone goes off, interrupting her train of thought. “Shit,” He says, sounding disappointed.

“What’s up?”

“I’ve got class in 30 minutes, guess I didn't think this through to well.” He says finally tucking that pesky hair loss behind his glasses and motioning to the laundry machine.

“That’s ok!” She ensures, “I can bring you your shirt later tonight, or tomorrow! I know where you live.” She says tauntingly.

“Oh ho ho, now whos the one trying to seem dangerous hmm?” He reaches out, tickling her side. She stifles a giggle and jumps back a bit.

“Uh oh.” He says

“What?” she says nonchalantly.

“You're ticklish!” “I have no idea what you’re referring too,” She says backing away from him, but smiling all the same.

“Mmmhmm.” He hums sauntering closer to her until she backed up against the wall. “Then I guess you won’t mind if I…” he pauses “DO THIS” he finishes attacking her sides in feather-light caresses.

She thrashes back and forth in a fit of giggles, filling the air and Seven’s heart alike with mirthful joy. He chuckles watching her react to him.

Her face becomes flushed with a dusting of pink, her eyes prick with tears as she smiles from ear to ear. He becomes so enraptured with it all that he begins to slow his torturous tickling and then ceases completely. Just. Staring into her eyes.

They’re so close now. He could close that gap very easily, but would she welcome it? He inches a bit closer, her eyes widen as she’s entranced by his molten gold irises her breath hitches in her throat and then…

His phone blares again, knocking them both out of their trance. Saeyoung stumbles back, embarrassed and checks his phone again “Crap, I’ve got 20 minutes” he mumbles.

She frowns as he steps away from her. “Guess you better get a move on, then”

“One more thing, can I ask you a favor?” He says slowly and she nods in agreement, “Can I borrow a shirt?”

#mystic messenger #mystic messenger fanfic #mystic messenger fanfiction #sevenxmc #saeyoung choi #707 x mc #luciel choi #saeyoungxmc #fanfic #catching feelings #my writing

20 notes · View notes