#More Ghosts Than People

[starlight-and-whiskey]

More People than Ghosts Chapter List.

First OFC fic in a long time. Also posted on AO3. 18+ . TW for abuse, SA and PTSD.

Battered and bruised, when Eleanor escaped the infamous Blackthorne gang, she didn't expect to fall into the arms of Arthur Morgan. But can you ever truly leave your past behind?

OFC/Arthur Morgan.

Part 1 : More People than Ghosts Part 2 : A Hard Road Part 3: On the Wind Part 4: The Wolves Are Here Part 5: A Fool's Game Part 6: Where To Find Me Part 7: Love Me Like You Used To Part 8: A Second Storm

[wanologic]

sorry danny, sam will never think you’re cool

[bluegiragi]

learning moment (part 1)

early access + nsfw on patreon monster!AU masterpost

more explanation under the cut

I think that so far, Soap has clearly demonstrated himself to be the more emotionally intelligent one of the pair, but it doesn't mean he doesn't still get frustrated at times. He's also just an emotional guy, and is working himself up a bit. This is a difficult topic for him to want to remain calm over, and there's a lot of factors contributing to his reaction.

One big factor is that he is a werewolf and he sees things through the eyes of his human side and wolf side. The shades of grey that Ghost sees in the Mexico operation just isn't there for Soap - to him, Ghost's 'pack' was under attack and he successfully defended it (this 'pack instinct' is something he shares with Price). The fact that his wolf now considers Ghost his in some way also contributes to his upset over having to read about what happened to him in such a clinical way. Werewolves can be kind of irrationally territorial, and although Soap is used to reading reports just like this, the fact that it's concerning Ghost (in probably the most vulnerable state of his life) is raising his hackles.

It's not a fight, because at the end of the day, Soap isn't mad at Ghost, just at his circumstances. But he's basically just asserting some emotional boundaries here with Ghost (who is, for what it's worth, I'd say a bit surprised and mostly bemused here.)

[puppetmaster13u]

Prompt 331

Demon twins? Demon twins. 

Damian? Good at the assassin side of things, at least for a four year old, but Danyal? He’s okay, but he’s far better at things like poisons and bookkeeping. Which is honestly? Okay. They’re the League of Shadows, and sure a majority of the members are assassins, but it’s definitely not all there are. So? Danyal starts getting medical training. 

Not to say that either of the boys don’t know their fair share of violence and healing- it’s just better to let them play to their strengths. One doesn’t keep a league over centuries if they just have one type of warrior, or even just warriors. A variety is needed. 

So one gets trained more towards the business side of things. Damian may be better at wielding the weapons and killing- even if neither have had their first kill quite yet- but Danyal shows far more proficiency at acting, at masking who he is and gathering information. 

Damian, when he’s first sent to their Father, doesn’t mention his twin. Not because he’s jealous or hates him or anything like that. You just don’t talk about someone in an undercover mission in the League, and it’s not something he realizes isn’t a rule everywhere. 

Needless to say, the Bats have more than a mild freakout the first time Damian mentions a twin who will be coming to the manor now that his mission is over. 

[bet-on-me-13]

Danny kills the Joker. Every Joker.

So! As the King of the Infinite Realms, Danny has to deal with the complaints of his subjects a Lot.

Some of them want to suggest changes in certain Laws, others complain about other Ghosts who wronged them, but by far the most common reason was that they died in a violent manner and wanted revenge.

And by far, the main person they sought revenge for was the same person. A guy known as The Joker.

But unfortunately, as the Infinite Realms was connected to multiple Universes, many of those Complains were about different Jokers from alternate Universes. And there were so many of them that he couldn't really just kill a few of them and call it a day, at least some of his subjects would remain Unavenged. And that just wouldn't do!

So he just decided to do away with the whole lot.

Danny began to Personally Hunt Down every single version of the Joker in the Multiverse. Or at least the part of it that was connected to the Realms.

Unfortunately, the news that some ungodly eldritch being being was hunting the variants of the Joker across the entire Multiverse did not go unnoticed. Quickly enough, news spread across the Multiverse that somebody had decided to do away with the Clown that had been such a consistent thorn in the side of most Universes.

Eventually, that news reached the Main DC Universe, and got to Batman.

One day Batman was approached by Justice League Dark about the situation. They had managed to intercepted an Interdimensional message about what was happening, and decided to inform Batman ahead of time.

Now he had a choice.

Either he could try to stick by his Morals and protect even the Joker's life from an unknown force out for his life, or he could let it happen and absolve himself of the blame for the Jokers death.

It didn't help that for the past few days Jason had been in such a good mood after hearing about the Jokers impending Death.

He didn't really get to see Jason smile like that often...

...decisions, decisions...

[starry-bi-sky]

mmm throwaway conversation between Dan and Danny that popped into my head that I had to write out:

"You spent ten years being a one-man mass extinction event, then went back in time and fought me, and lost." Danny snarls, arms crossed and throat tight. His mouth pulls back to bare dagger-sharp teeth, and his eyes burn with the familiar thrum of ectoplasm heating up behind his eyes. "If I didn't believe you were half of Vlad before, I do now."

His other self -- and really, can he even call him that? He's half of Vlad too. Two halves severed from each other and welded together to make a new whole, -- snaps his head over to him. Wild-eyed and furious, he looks unlike the man Danny fought before, the one unruffled and untouched, unbothered by the world around him. It's familiar, but not like the way a reflection is.

"What's that supposed to mean." The Other hisses, matching Danny's scowl one-for-one with fangs much bigger and sharper than his.

But there's a reason lions fear hyenas. Danny matches the rumble in The Other's chest with one of his own, and shoves his face close to his. "I don't lose."

[beetlbi]

GF au where Stan died/disappeared under ~mysterious~ circumstances just before breaking Fords science project. The only thing left behind was a still running perpetual motion machine and an empty bag of toffee peanuts

[ghostdrinkssoup]

“could he daily feel a stab of hunger for you and find nourishment at the very sight of you?” is such a romantic line because despite cannibalism sustaining the illusion that hannibal can control everything and determine outcomes and reverse time, loving will has changed him so drastically that instead of consuming will, will consumes him. and hannibal hungers for him, yearns and aches for him, but is content to just exist near him. to stay in his orbit somehow, if only will allows it. hannibal, who needs to cannibalise others to stay in power, finds nourishment just by looking at will. he loves him so profoundly that he could be imprisoned forever and still it would be better than knowing he might never see will again. it sates him more than eating the pigs beneath him. in will, he finds religion

[nelkcats]

Dead Language Expert

Danny never thought that he could "major" in languages, and get a job as a translator. But apparently knowing all the dead languages ​​by default and being able to time travel with the help of your ghost tutor was pretty useful outside of Amity.

It happened purely by chance, he was walking through a museum and started laughing because of a mistake in one of the sentences that completely changed the meaning of the text. The museum manager, of course, did not believe him, since many people had said that the piece was "impossible to translate". But he study it anyway.

Days later they were looking for him to translate all the things from that time. And he just carried on with it, in many more civilizations. In some cases he even asked for a few trips to the past to Clockwork to verify.

It got to a point where the wizards, heroes and villains over the world knew him as "the translator of dead languages" and some of them even tried to kidnap him to perform a summoning ritual. Danny rolled his eyes and easily freed himself, but the League assigned him an "escort" anyway.

Exasperated, the halfa escaped from his escorts and continued his work as normal. Superman almost fell out of his chair at the Watchtower meeting when he was informed that the boy had translated the language of Krypton and other missing planets. Besides having managed to lose both the Flash and Green Latern, what the fuck?

[starlight-and-whiskey]

More People than Ghosts: Ch7 - Love Me Like You Used To.

I had an immense amount of fun writing this chapter. As always, I got back into writing after a couple of published books many moons ago, and realised it's not so easy to fall back into. It's very much not like riding a bike! Anywho, I hope you enjoy! 18+ and as always with this fic, TW for SA and physical abuse. Crack on and let me know what you think!

"Love me like you used to do way back when 'Fore the rug was pulled beneath your feet And you fell back in the saddle Left time standing still And put all your troubles right on me"

Like You Used To - Watchhouse

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6

Love Me Like You Used To One of Dutch’s better plans had been the party. The way he figured it, spirits were in dire need of lifting, not least of them Eleanor’s, and if there was one way to ensure that – it was a party. Eleanor reckoned she’d seen nothing like it before. The camp brimming with laughter and music and joy, set against the most perfect blanket of stars. Each mesmerising constellation above them starkly burned against the black of night, which relented only against the crackling golden hue of the campfire, each pop of embers dancing in the air and drifting upwards as if to join to stars.

As the night wore on, Eleanor mused in her whiskey laden haze that she hadn’t smiled this much in a lifetime. Almost 6 months with this ragtag bunch had rejuvenated her in a way she never thought possible. In the time before – before the capture and the horror and the degradation - the mere word of outlaws would have sent shivers careening down her spine. After her capture, the word was enough to make her heart stop beating right there in her chest.

Yet here she was now, tears rolling down her cheeks in laughter as she sang along with Karen’s uncouth songs, accompanied by the joyful twang of Uncle’s banjo echoing upwards into the cool night air. Engaging in a lively debate with Hosea about the latest book she’d borrowed from him. The older man’s eyes lighting up as he recommended the next book she should read, before rambling on to ruin the plot anyway. Humming sweetly as she bounced Jack on her knee and marvelled at how big he was getting; his pudgy fingers gripping at hers as Abigail chuckled softly next to them, a proud mother. Grinning and shaking hands as she won another hand of poker against Bill, eliciting a sullen pout as she scraped her winnings from the table.

A conwoman, a swindler, a thief, a murderer. And then there was the man who was all the things that had once petrified her rolled into one. Arthur. She found her eyes flicking across to him often during the evening, drinking in the way his thumb hooked subtly in his gun belt as he leaned against a wagon. The way his face lit up with joyous laughter, softly illuminated in the orange glow of flickering firelight. The way his full lips curved around the mouth of a whiskey bottle or the end of a cigarette.

*** The hour was getting late, with a few of the older hats already retreating to bed. Eleanor bid goodnight to Abigail as she left, glancing around the party from her now solitary spot on the log by the fire and taking a long drink from the bottle of whiskey in her hand, her heart brimming with pure content. Once again, she caught her eyes subconsciously finding Arthur as he stood talking with Bill and Dutch.

When her eyes next flicked to Arthur, it wasn’t his hulking figure she saw half drunkenly staggering over. It was Bill’s.

"I seen you looking over here all night,” Bill slurred with an attempted wink, a thumb tucked in his belt. A sloppy smile was plastered on his face as he straightened his back, attempting to appear debonair even as he swayed slightly on the spot. He carefully removed his hat and tucked it behind his back, brushing back his long hair from his receding hairline, in a way he hoped would be endearing. "Now why would that be?"

Eleanor blushed heavily, opening her mouth to respond but finding no words. From behind Bill’s hulking frame, a familiar hand landed on his shoulder.

“What’cha doin’, Bill? Get outta here. Stop bothering the woman”, came Arthur’s gravelly drawl almost playfully, remnants of laughter tingeing his voice. “Hey, I ain’t botherin’ her none! Ain’t my fault the lady were lookin’ at me like-“ “The lady weren’t lookin’ at you”, Arthur cut him off, a playful smile on his lips. Confusion misted over Bill’s face for a moment as his drunken brain struggled to catch up. Eleanor could practically hear the cogs whirring as she felt the subtle heat of an embarrassed blush flooding right from her collarbones, up and across her cheeks. Bill’s eyes narrowed to a thoughtful squint as he looked from Arthur to Eleanor, and back to Arthur. “But-“, he stumbled, even as Arthur gave him a knowing nod, eyes wide as if trying to coax the realisation from his drunken gangmate. After a long moment, the penny dropped. Bill flicked his eyes to Eleanor with an almost embarrassed, apologetic expression, quickly turning his eyes back down to ground and shrugging Arthur’s hand roughly off his shoulder. “Course it’s Morgan…” he grumbled, turning on his heels and stalking back over to the whiskey crate. Arthur shook his head and chuckled, locking eyes with a rather sheepish looking Eleanor. Another of Bill’s slurred grumbles echoed through the night air, “It’s aaaalways Morgan!” Eleanor held Arthur’s gaze for the briefest of moments before dissolving into a fit of laughter.

Without so much as a word, Arthur unceremoniously dropped himself down in front of her, propping an elbow on the log beside her as he sprawled across the grass by her feet, his back to her as he faced the fire. “Oh”, Eleanor laughed, wiping the tears from her eyes. “I feel just awful now! Poor guy.” “Ah, don’t worry about him. He’ll get over it”, Arthur chuckled back, taking a deep pull from the whiskey bottle. “My hero”, Eleanor feigned a swoon, the bravado of alcohol buzzing warm and soothing through her veins against the backdrop of Javier’s guitar. “Savin’ me from Blackthornes and Bill Williamson!”

Arthur gave a throaty chuckle, leaning his head back against her leg as he admired the campfire’s glow, the feeling of its radiating warmth. “I meant what I said before”, she continued, her voice lowered and serious. “You didn’t have to do that for me…” “Sure I did. You don’t want Bill hangin’ round ya like flies round shit”, Arthur smiled. “You know what I mean”, Eleanor chuckled, playfully tapping Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur let out a soft sigh through his nose, fingers picking at the label of the whiskey bottle in his hands. “Yeah”, he said softly, his voice barely a whisper as he brought the bottle to his lips. “Yeah, I did have to.”

With a grin that threatened to split open her cheeks; Eleanor unsteadily leaned forward and plucked the black leather hat straight from Arthur’s head with deft fingers. Whipping round in surprise, a subtle smile broke out on his lips as he watched her plonk it on her head, flashing him a proud drunken beam. A rumbling chuckle broke out in Arthur’s chest at the way the rim of the too-large hat fell down over her eyes, casting her cheeks in shadow.

Reaching over through hearty laughter, Arthur pulled the brim up, revealing sparkling eyes dancing with the flames of the fire and found his breath catching in his throat. His laughter ebbed and faded, leaving him staring at her, a soft and sweet smile lingering on his lips at the sight of her. The alcohol induced hue blossoming across her cheeks. That wide toothy grin. The woman before him stood in stark contrast to the broken girl he’d found not too many months ago. Those gaunt cheeks now full and rosy. Her eyes, once wide with fear, now brimmed with tears of uncontainable laughter. Her lips, once chapped and bloodied, now full and lush and grinning. Just as the hubbub of the party began to fade into the background over the hammering of his heart, Arthur caught himself, clearing his throat and swiftly retracting his hand from the brim of his hat to turn back to absently fiddle with the neck of his beer bottle.

Eleanor pushed herself forward, landing with a rough thump on the ground next to Arthur, whiskey bottle held high. Another chuckle echoed through his chest. “You havin’ a good time, darling?” he laughed. “Yeah”, she nodded with a broad smile. “Yeah, I think I am.” Nudging Arthur with the brim of his hat, Eleanor gestured for him to take it back. Instead, Arthur just shook his head, pushing up the brim of it once again so it settled a little further back. “Nah. Looks better on you right now.” Eleanor grasped the rim in her fingers, offering a mock-hat tip.

As her head lolled against his shoulder, Arthur tensed, his arm resting loosely on the log behind her. “Why you so good to me, Arthur?” she asked softly, eyes fixed on the embers of the fire as they crackled and popped, sparking upwards before slowly fading and dying. Arthur hesitated, the words he wanted to say sticking in his throat. Taking a long pull from the whiskey bottle, he wove his arm around her shoulder in lieu of words, squeezing Eleanor tight to his side as his calloused hand rubbed nervously up and down her arm. When she reached up to tangle their fingers together, he didn’t resist, stomach churning. Arthur found himself uncharacteristically nervous. Put a gun in his hand and give him a direction to aim and he could pull that trigger without so much as a second thought, but this…

“Folk’ll see, ya know?” he said softly, already feeling the eyes boring into them, the whispered giggles and knowing glances that must be there through the darkness, not to mention the glare from Bill. “Come walk with me somewhere quiet then?” “Sure”, he replied and wet his bottom lip, his voice a cracked whisper. Arthur groaned as he rose, wincing at the pain shooting through his chest. Nevertheless, he held a hand out for her anyway, easing her off the floor.

****

Out by the trees at the edge of camp, they stopped. Here, almost on this very spot, Arthur’d once held Eleanor’s frail body as she’d stumbled in pain and fear, clad in the ragged remains of a night slip. Bloodied. Bruised. Broken. It seemed incomprehensible to him that the very same woman was now pressed into his arms, all supple flesh and doe eyed, brimming with life.

Her soft palm laid over his hammering heart, she plucked the hat from her head, reaching up on tiptoes to replace it on Arthur’s.

"This is where we met", Arthur said quietly, his hands landing on the curve of her hips.

“Yeah”, she whispered, her hands sliding inside that old brown hunting jacket. “It is.”

The absence of the campfire brought an icy cold that prickled against their skin, serving to sober them quicker than either would have liked. With trembling fingers, Arthur reached up to absently twirl a lock of her fallen hair between his fingers and wondered what it would feel like to run his hands through it, to feel it soft and silky beneath his calloused palm. Eleanor drew a shaking breath, a futile attempt to steady her racing heart, as she grasped his hand in hers, bringing it to cup her face.

When Arthur’s fingers spread willingly across her cheek, Eleanor’s breath caught in her throat as she leaned into his touch, her eyes closing as she savoured the moment. The soft warmth of his roughened fingers as they grazed her soft skin, gently nudging her face upwards. The distant melody from Javier’s guitar barely carried on the breeze to their secluded spot.

They moved closer in the charged air, the space between them vanishing until their lips were only a few inches apart. She could feel the warmth of his breath, the gentle pressure of his hand against her skin. “I think you might just be the kindest, best man I ever met.” “I ain’t, darlin’”, Arthur whispered back against the still night. “You ain’t them.” “No”, Arthur shook his head, his eyes all soft and crinkled at the edges as they flitted between hers. “I ain’t them.”

"What I feel for you, Arthur… I thought it was just ‘cause of how we met. ‘Cause of what happened. I thought it weren’t nothing”, Eleanor whispered, her words a soft puff of whiskey laden breath against his lips. “…but it’s ain’t nothing. It’s everything." His fingers tightened around her waist, the fingers against her cheek clenching a little as she pushed herself up on her toes, one arm snaking around his waist under his jacket while the other braced against his broad shoulder. The air between them grew thicker by the second with anticipation until Arthur was sure you could have damn near sliced right through it. “It’s goddamn everything.” The hand on her cheek slid effortlessly to tangle in the fallen curls at the nape of her neck as their lips finally met. Arthur's lips were warm and firm, moving with a deliberate slowness that spoke of restraint, of savouring every second. The smoky sweetness of lingering whiskey. The pillow soft silkiness of her lips.

Arthur found the emotions he’d tried to bury bubbling to the surface, pulling her closer only to find her mouth soft and yielding as he captured her bottom lip with his own. The perfect bubble they had created suddenly became pierced by a harsh shout from John, echoing from the edge of camp. Something about a card game. Hurry up and piss would ya? Whilst every fibre of their being yearned to ignore the shouts, Arthur still groaned against her lips. Their foreheads fell together, the flat of Eleanor’s palm braced against Arthur’s broad chest. “Go on”, she whispered. “Don’t reckon I wanna.” “He won’t stop”, she smiled, already committing the scent of him to memory. Campfire smoke and tobacco and whiskey. Arthur audibly groaned, his warm hand brushing back her hair. Pushing herself up, Eleanor pressed a long, sweet kiss to his lips.

"Good night, Arthur." As Arthur watched her stroll back towards her tent, the fallen curls of her hair dancing in the subtle breeze, he couldn’t help but conjure up every which way to smother John Marston.

[writingjourney]

why is it "Tobias hates poor fans who can't attend shows and now they're not even getting tiktok edits" and not "people have been SO excessive with their phone usage that it's ruining shows for artists and many fans alike and the only way to combat it at this point is to have no-phone shows, which is not ideal for artist nor fans but could hopefully lead to a change in attitude towards live music in the long term"

[bluegiragi]

easy pickings.

early access + nsfw on patreon monster!AU masterpost

[s0fter-sin]

soap's whole deal being sniper and demolitions gets me going bc on the surface they sound so different but when you get into it, you realise it's bc soap's smart

sniping is all math; calculating distances and wind interference and bullet drop. something i think people overlook is he was listed as a sniper first so it can be implied that he's better at it than demolitions. he does more sniping in both campaigns than demolitions work; in capture or kill, ghost specifically calls on him to take down the aq snipers

and demolitions is math with a hit of chemistry; knowing what mixes with what, knowing how much to use, recognising environmental factors and adjusting accordingly. it's not just about the boom; so much work goes into contained/ planned explosions. especially when having enough power for a breacher charge and not bringing down the whole building is the difference between mission success and failure

the chemical bombs he makes in alone can't just be any old cleaners, they have to have the correct reaction to each other; he just knew off the top of his head what would mix with what to create what reaction. he would also potentially have to recognise them by sight/smell bc they would’ve been written in spanish

soap would also have to know architecture; recognising structural integrity and weak points so he knows exactly where to plant a charge to bring it down and how it'll come down

he has an incredible soldier's mind people just forget that bc he's sociable which itself is a skill

we know he tends to buck against orders he doesn't agree with like when he pushes back against ghost in capture or kill and shepherd when he tells them to release hassan

he gets closer to people and sees if he can trust them and that's when he follows them without question. really think about how he talks to alejandro and rudy; he asks about their home and alejandro's family and rudy's relationship with him. those aren't questions you ask a stranger after a few hours of knowing them. that's not even touching on his relationship with ghost

he also deliberately brings people of higher ranks down to his level; talking informally with ghost and giving him a shoulder punch, addressing alejandro (a colonel!!) by his first name and rudy by his nickname despite literally just meeting them. he personalises all of them and it’s in direct opposition to the reason most characters do that; it’s not due to insubordination or lack of respect, the more he respects and trusts someone, the more casual he is with them

he digs into people; he wants to know what makes them tick and that determines if he can one, trust them and two, follow their orders. once he decides that, he's the ultimate soldier; he bleeds loyalty which makes him vicious when that loyalty is taken for granted

he isn't naive or bubbly or insecure; he's an incredibly smart and aware soldier. he's aggressive and bloodthirsty and loyal and intuitive and i love him so much

[leathfaic]

My favourite hot take is that Simon adapts way better to being a civilian than Johnny does.

Johnny went and left for the army the second he could do so, relentlessly pushed his career and is, most likely, rarely not on base unless he's been told to fuck off or move his arse home (by either his superiors or family).

Simon on the other hand finished school and then took up an apprenticeship before joining the army. Even then he came home, took prolonged leave to help his family out. He spent way more time just living that reality. And even post Roba he was at home for a while before everything went to hell. He might not take a lot of leave since, because he has nothing to come home to, but he still knows to adjust to it.

If they take leave together Ghost settles remarkably well, still keeping an eye open but he's an adult who had time outside the forces to properly adjust to life.

Soap struggles. He gets by with his charm and bright blue eyes, and that's a good thing because he's too explosive, too intense for most normal social interactions.

He's caught somewhere between the 18 year old boy and the hardened SAS soldier and never spent enough time away to really grow into just John MacTavish. Not Sergeant, not Soap, not the FNG. Just him as a person outside of the military.

He navigates this part of his life like its a minefield. Making it through but boy oh boy, it's not looking graceful.

Ghost helps him mellow out in that regard, pointing out the messy weird mechanics of normal civilan life to him. Teaches him to enjoy that and not let his job ruin him. Simon who knows how quickly it can all fall apart can't help to see the beauty in the peace most people get to experience. He'll be damned if he can't share that beauty Johnny. Even if it's always just for a little while.

And because it's Ghost, who never steered him wrong Soap let's himself be led. Allows himself experiences outside of work and his family. And while he might not be eager to admit it, it makes him a better person.

And years down the line when they both made it out, last mission just one too many that was too close for comfort, all of that helps John MacTavish to adjust. Sure he mourns his life in the military, someone like him is bound to, but he's not too worried. He knows how to get by now. And even the days where he feels very out of his depth, he can approach with ease. Because he still has Simon at his side to show him the way forward.

[starry-bi-sky]

Blood Blossom Au: Baby's First Commissioner Meeting :)

TL:DR This Post: Danny (orphan) gets poisoned with blood blossom extract by Vlad. He runs away from him and ends up under the care of one Pre-Robin Battinson Batman! Starry is loudly pushing her batdad agenda.

(Also known as "Late At Night, When The Nightingale Sings" on my ao3!)

This was a fun rough idea I've been sitting on for weeks, thinking about how Commissioner Gordon and Nightingale's first meeting might go.

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

Commissioner Gordon likes to think that he's adjusting to the new normal of Gotham very well, -- the new normal being grown men running around dressed like bats, in military-grade strength body armor, committing acts of vigilantism, -- and slowly, little by little, he was no longer being surprised when this new normal pops up out of the shadows like the world's most terrifying daisy. His shaving lifespan thanks him for it.

....

The kid is a surprise though.

Granted, he seemed to be a surprise to the Bat too.

There's been a string of murders lately, -- which, in Gotham, is kind of like saying there's been another storm during monsoon season. And there's just been another; in some dilapidated building down in south Gotham, with the broken, boarded-up windows and mildew-crawling walls to match. The victim is a man in his thirties, multiple gunshot wounds to the chest, left in the center of the room for the blood to pool out around him.

The place is already secured when he arrives, the building swarmed with officers and the forensic detectives. The Bat emerges shortly after he does -- or, he might've been here the whole time, hiding someplace dark and shadowy. For his own sanity, Gordon doesn't think about it too hard.

The kid is a surprise, and he appears like a bolt of lightning.

He shows up in the middle of a conversation Gordon is having with the Bat.

A whistle, sharp and loud, slicing through the air, meant for open air rather than a confined space. Gordon's ears pierce and protest the sound, and the solemn, murmured chatter floating through the room abruptly cuts off like the swing of a gavel. As he turns towards the sound -- as they all do -- he swears, up and down, that he sees Batman's shoulders jump, just slightly.

At the source, perched on the window, is a boy. A boy in a gray-blue scarf and an oversized black hoodie, one that hangs off his frame and has ace bandages wrapped around the wrists in some attempt to cinch the sleeves. The hood is up, big like the rest of it, and threatens to swallow the upper half of the boy's face whole in the fabric. What upper half Gordon can see, is smeared with some kind of opaque, black face paint. He's holding onto the side of the frame with one hand, on his hip is a grappling hook. A familiar grappling hook.

Gordon has multiple questions, and his officers tense up.

Martinez puffs up, brows furrowing as his face shapes into a frown. Shoulders rolling back. "You can't be here, kid--"

The reaction is immediate, like a spark to gunpowder, the boy yanks his fingers from his mouth and his mouth twists into a scowl. Head snapping over to Officer Martinez, his hood manages to stay on but Gordon swears that as he bares his teeth, the glint makes them look sharper than they should be. His voice is rasp and quiet and harsh; snappish in its hissing; "Put a fuckin sock in it, Martinez. I'm not stayin."

Martinez reels back, and the boy immediately veers his attention off him. Like a switch, his demeanor drops. Despite half his face being covered, his mouth twists into a cringing, apologetic smile. Slanted and off-beat, embarrassed. It'd be disarming if this wasn't Gotham, and if he didn't just hiss at Martinez like he was about to bite his head off.

"Sorry." He whispers, voice deceptively polite and softer now. Gordon has to strain his ears to hear him. "I was looking for him."

He points his finger towards-- Gordon? No, Gordon follows the direction, and finds himself looking at -- the Bat.

The Bat, who always looks stiff as a pole, now looks even stiffer. Somehow. Well, the explains the grappling hook attached to the boy's waist.

"What are you doing here?" The Bat says, gruff and unable to completely smother the stumble of surprise in his tone.

The boy still holds a sheepish smile, and slips off the window ledge. His feet hit the creaky boards with a near-silent thud, the Batman finds his feet and rapidly begins crossing the room.

Gordon notes the slight tremble in the boy's legs as he straightens. He adjusts his scarf, which droops close to his knees now that he's standing, and slings a backpack -- how long has had that? -- off his shoulders. When the Bat reaches his side, he does as he always does, and looms over the boy like a spectre. A threatening mass of shadows cloaked in all-consuming black. Standing next to him, the boy looks teeny in comparison.

The Bat is a man who terrifies even the most hardened criminals, Gordon has seen grown men shiver in fear at the mention of his name. And yet when the boy looks up at him, he doesn't even flinch.

Instead, his sheepish smile melts away like ice under the sun, holding only traces of his previous embarrassment. It remains as a shadow on his face, a small upturn at the corners of his mouth. The boy pushes his hood back just enough to reveal glinting, ice-flint eyes surrounded in tar-black face paint. He holds the backpack up with one arm. "You forgot this."

[puppetmaster13u]

Prompt 198

Now Bruce was not expecting to reincarnate upon his death. At least he thinks he died, he’s pretty sure he did. There wasn’t any other reason for him to be a well, literal baby. Around two he thinks, which fits well with the fact that it’s around that time that babies start forming memory recall, if he, well, remembered correctly. 

But while he knew about reincarnation thanks to Shayera and Carter, he’d never exactly given it much thought towards himself. Because seriously, what were the chances of such a thing as him being given another chance? 

So he was quite surprised at his situation, experimentally opening and closing pudgy hands that looked well, just a tiny bit off. He’d never been that pale before, he thinks, even back when he never went outside like, ever. 

He turned his gaze towards the mobile above him with a sort of idle curiosity- a mixture of bats (ha) and other trinkets he wasn’t familiar with. It also caused him to get his first good look at his parent, asleep on a rocking chair right next to the crib. 

Huh. They had the same pale skin he did, albeit in the light it looked like it was slightly tinted blue, and while their hair was white they didn’t exactly look old. They looked surprisingly well rested for raising a toddler too, unless they had a nanny or something similar… He rolled over, managing to very shakily push himself to his feet with the help of the crib. 

Why was standing so hard as a toddler? And why did he have his memories of everything except how he had died anyway? 

His head whipped up from where they were staring at his feet when he heard a snort, finding his parent awake and standing. Somehow silently enough that he hadn’t noticed- or he was that easily distracted by the unfamiliar giddiness bursting in his chest. 

“Morning little bat,” his parent easily picked him up and held him while he inwardly sighed at the nickname. Of course his bat motif would follow him into this life. A low rumbling almost caused him to jump, his body relaxing before he could fully register the sound. The… purring? 

Oh. 

He wasn’t human this time around.