#Shawn’s dad pulled some ‘I’m doing this asshole thing but it’s secretly because I love you and want you safe’ shit and it was so Bruce coded

[catgrandpa]

So I’m rewatching Psych and has anybody considered that that’s Tim Drake?

I absolutely need a fic of Tim scamming his way into police work by claiming he’s a psychic, but it’s just his regular deductive reasoning plus evidence he’s collected as Red Robin.

It’s so ridiculous that everyone looks past the part where he’s proving to be the World’s Greatest Detective 2.0, and it ends up being the perfect cover.

Brucie could never.

[harryandmolly]

i could write it better than you ever felt it - one

A/N: I’m dedicating this fic to the author of the first fics I fell in love with as a curious middle schooler on Quizilla, soxlongxjimmy. Thanks for the memories.

Warnings: Language, miscreants being miscreants

Word count: 3.2k

Val rolls over, blindly scrabbles for the cherry red Sidekick blaring “Miss Murder” under her tufted black PB Teen comforter.

“Raf Calling”

Val stifles a knowing smile, though she’s alone in her bedroom. She answers, lifts the phone to her ear.

“How much do you love me?” he asks, a self-deprecating chuckle in his voice.

Val giggles back. “Enough.”

+

Rafael and Valentina Moreno were born at 6:43 and 7:04 (respectively) on the morning of April 22, 1985. From then on, it was chaos.

Two was quite enough children for ambitious professors Miguel and Fernanda Moreno. They were scholars, children of knowledge, who wanted a small, quiet family. They envisioned docile walks on the beach, Saturday trips to museums, maybe the occasional University of Miami football game.

They got Raf and Val instead. The twins were at each other’s throats nearly from the time they were born – Miguel tells a story every holiday season of placing both babies in the same crib to bond when they were a few months old. The new parents turned around for a minute and looked back to see Val rolling on top of Raf trying to smush his face into the cushions.

From then on, separate cribs.

But the twins, despite their ongoing hostilities, couldn’t be separated. It was as though their energies thrived on one another. One summer when they were 12, Raf left for sleepaway soccer camp. A few days in, Val woke her mother up in the middle of the night in tears begging them to bring her brother home. He came back at the end of the summer and two days later she threw an ice cream cone in his face.

Miguel and Fernanda were faced with a new reality – noise. Their kids were loud before they even picked up their respective instruments. The Morenos thought music lessons would be a good outlet for their wild children, so they had them classically trained from a young age. Once again, their good intentions wrought chaos. Valentina was a menace on the drums – though a very talented, well trained menace. And Rafael was a gifted guitar player.

It wasn’t until they were 14 and started sharing practice space in the Morenos’ garage that they could be in the same room without ripping each other’s heads off.

And then, against all odds, they joined forces. The Moreno twins finally discovered they were stronger together than apart. That’s not to say they didn’t still fight like cats and dogs, but they loved each other just as viciously as they bickered. Miguel and Fernanda could live with that. They had to.

Streets of Gold was a stupid pet project, it wasn’t supposed to be anything. Until it was.

Val was original music buff of the family. She used to sit in her closet with the door shut and the lights off listening to her dad’s record collection. It made her feel cool, listening to old vinyl. But she didn’t really get it until she got around to hearing The Ramones’ “Rocket to Russia” for the first time. Everything changed then for the Morenos.

Raf was hesitant at first – could he really let himself like something Val discovered, something Val thought was cool? But he couldn’t hold out long. Because it was cool. It was really cool.

Valentina became the Encyclopedia Brown of pop-punk. You could name a song and she could tell you what band, what album, what year it dropped, whether or not it was a single, and what label released it. She was a goddamn savant. Raf started using her like she was a walking party trick with his friends, some of whom also started to think pop-punk was cool.

Streets of Gold started, as many shitty garage bands do, as a blink-182 cover band. They played birthday parties, then house parties, then veteran halls, then underground Miami clubs. They were signed by Stuck in the Suburbs Records in 2002 and struck out on their first supporting tour. They’ve barely been home since.

Everything changed once again for the Moreno family when Val took a step back. She loved the band, loved the music, even loved touring, but there was a piece of her that was more like her parents than she ever realized or wanted to admit. She craved learning and missed academia after she finished her GED. She secretly applied to the University of Miami and sought out her replacement for the band, gearing up for a fight.

Raf lost it, at first. They had the worst knock-down, drag-out sibling fight of their entire lives. It ended in tears with Raf holding Val against his chest as they sobbed. They started training her replacement Naveen the next day.

Among Val’s fondest memories of drumming in Streets of Gold are the two years she spent with the band on Warped Tour. Warped was every scene kid’s wet dream, every garage band’s Woodstock. It was the be all, end all of pop-punk music. Warped is a fickle mistress – it makes and it breaks, it gives and it takes and it’s not for the faint of heart.

They call it rock band summer camp, and it is. It’s day after day of heat and sweat and drugs and sex and music, so much fucking music. But the showers are scarce and sleeping in a van with five guys, driving through the night to reach the next stop, it wears on you.

But it’s all about the kids. They come in droves, self-professed outcasts in girls’ skinny jeans, hair Manic Panic-ed and razored past the point of recognition, the uniform of kids without a cause. They gather like the Island of Misfit Toys for a chance at community, to throw themselves into a world they recognize, a world they’ve created for themselves. It reflects them, it accepts them, it inspires them, and Warped Tour is where it truly comes alive.

The kids wait for hours in the heat, withstand insane conditions to see their favorite bands. They go hard, they leave it all out on the fields, in the amphitheaters, screaming their lungs out as thanks for giving them somewhere to belong. It’s a chorus of angst and otherness and, somehow, hope. It’s Valentina’s favorite song. And she misses it.

Raf dropped the hint two weeks ago that there might be a chance at return for Val. Things are different now – Streets of Gold is starting and finishing the 2007 Vans Warped Tour on the main Lucky Stage, a far cry from their humble beginnings playing to a handful or a dozen curious onlookers from Hot Topic Kevin Says. They have a bus now with a shower and actual air conditioning and, holy shit, they have actual bunks.

And their merch guy Jamie, Raf told her casually, has to step away from the tour due to a family financial situation. Can’t be avoided. They’re checking their network for replacements, but, if they can’t find someone in time, could he beg her to come along? One last summer on the Warped Tour before she leaves for the UK in the fall?

Val played it cool – “I’m exhausted,” she reminded him, “After everything this year…” (And she doesn’t need to elaborate, because he knows all too well) “And I just graduated…”

But the truth is, Val found herself wondering about it. She hasn’t been on tour in three full years. She’s gotten her fixes visiting their shows, bobbing her head from side stage singing the words she still writes for the band with her brother, but it’s not the same. It’ll never be the same.

After only a few days, Val wasn’t just wondering – she was hoping. She had it wrapped around her heart now, this idea of returning to something that always brought her hope and comfort when she needed it. And like she told Raf, after the year she’s had…

She got the call four days before the first stop in Pomona. Raf needed her. She’d better start packing.

She couldn’t wait for the summer at the Warped Tour, she remembers the first time that she saw him there.

+

“Oh, thank fucking Christ!”

Shawn rolls his eyes and throws the lurching white van into park. It scuttles to a stop.

“Shut the fuck up, dude,” Shawn mumbles, wrenching his rusty door open and stepping out onto the grass to survey the area.

Francis’s head pops up over the roof of the van wearing a disapproving glare.

“All in favor of banning Shawn from driving for the rest of the tour, say aye!” Francis crows.

A chorus of ayes fall out of the sliding doors of the 15-passenger van as they open and pour smelly 20-somethings out. Shawn sighs and plants his hands on his hips.

“I got us here an hour before we were supposed to be, I deserve credit for that,” he whines, sliding his Ray Bans up into his dark curls.

Francis looks unimpressed. “You nearly killed us all at least four times. You don’t get shit.”

“Maybe this was his strategy,” Bobby offers with an eyebrow lifted conspiratorially, “Maybe he pretends to be a shitty driver so he can get out of driving the van between stops.”

Shawn smirks. “I’ve been a shitty driver since I was 15. That’s a long con.”

“Alright, assholes, time to start unloading,” calls a voice from near the trunk. Shawn groans and licks his lips, flicking at the black enameled ring he got pierced there a couple months ago.

He ambles back to where the truck has pulled up beside their rickety van. Andrew climbs out and runs a hand through his hair. “Shawn, man, you’re fucking impossible to follow. You were doing 85 on the freeway, you know that?”

Shawn opens his mouth to defend himself when the rest of his band starts choking on laughter. He holds up his hands in surrender. “Fine, fuckers. Drive yourselves.”

Shawn turns and looks around at the Pomona Fairgrounds. He’s never seen anything more beautiful in his life. There are stages going up left and right, tents and skate ramps and those inflatable floating human-shaped things that flop around and wave at car dealerships. It’s mania, and he’s so fucking excited about it.

Warped Tour has always been the dream. It’s always been a reality just out of reach. Always a spectator, never the spectated.

He’s been nomadic for the past few years since he first picked up a guitar and started playing old The Starting Line and Jimmy Eat World covers. He’s been in at least eight different bands, all of which showed promise at the start and ended in various states of the decay of teenage boredom. No one wanted to go the distance with him, not until he met Francis, Bobby and Seth through friends of friends of friends. Then suddenly, Warped Tour wasn’t just within reaching distance, it was fucking happening.

Shawn’s a sentimental sap so he’s standing on the hill overlooking the manifestation of his dreams. Seth, the band’s fan-anointed “quiet one,” claps a hand on his shoulder.

“We fuckin’ made it, man,” he reminds Shawn breathlessly. Shawn chokes on an emotional inhale and nods.

They’ve gotten good at load-in now. Everyone has their assigned tasks and Andrew’s a seasoned enough tour manager to be able to wrangle them into efficiency. Or, near efficiency. They’re a little distracted today, overwhelmed by the magnitude of it all.

They’re quieter, too. They’ve felt big in their britches for awhile, having been invited out on tour supporting bands like Valencia, My American Heart and All Time Low. But this is a new ballgame. They’re very much little fish in a giant fucking pond, a very intimidating pond.

They stare at the buses of pop-punk legends as they wade past with amps and instruments and risers in hand, feeling like it’s the first day of kindergarten and the eighth graders are all settled in and looking cooler than anyone ever has ever. Shawn actually, embarrassingly enough, nods in reverence at Streets of Gold’s bus. He’s glad none of his band and crew notice and razz him for it.

Being new and not a huge crowd draw, they’re one of the first bands of the day on their designated Smartpunk stage. Shawn doesn’t so much mind playing Smartpunk. It’s a small stage but plenty of amazing bands have gotten started there. He’s just happy to be on the tour. And if they impress and end up drawing in some attention and wind up spending a couple of tour dates on Hurley.com or even, dare he dream it, the Hurley stage, he’ll be a happy kid.

But at 19, with his best friends at his side and their sophomore album release date coming up in only a month, Shawn feels like he’s at the edge of the world looking at the start of something he can’t quite make out yet, but it feels so fucking good.

+

Val is already sweating her balls off, no surprise there.

She’s had some merch girl experience, naturally, having been with the band since its infancy, a time where everyone wears a lot of hats. But now that Streets is a bona fide Warped Tour Band, a destination, a band people make the trip to see, it’s a new ballgame.

She unloads box after box of shirts, hats, hoodies, wristbands, CDs, booty shorts, whatever else they can hawk at an upcharge. Raf and Naveen eagerly help her and she suspects they’re trying to play nice because they know she didn’t have to come on tour and help them. Val doesn’t want to get used to it – in about a week, they’ll be a lot less eager to haul boxes around and will make themselves scarce.

As she’s setting up the tent above the table, she looks around with a smile.

Returning to Warped feels a little like coming home. It’s a dry, hot, smelly home with sun-scorched grass underfoot and an overabundance of men in women’s jeans but there’s just something about it—

“BABYYYYYY!” cries a voice that belongs to a woman who soon careens straight into Val’s side.

“Oh my fucking god!” Val squeals, throwing her arms around the violet haired cling on. She bounces back and forth as they laugh and babble incoherently.

Finally, she pulls away and Val holds her by the shoulders to look at her.

“Why, Bea Easton, look at you!” Val giggles.

Bea, all four-foot-eleven inches of her, strikes a pose complete with duck face and popped hips in her low-slung Bullhead skinnies. She breaks into a laugh, shaking her head.

“Miss me, Moreno?”

“So much that I’m back on tour with these hooligans again,” Val sighs, angling her head at her bus where her tourmates are arguing over the Xbox.

Bea chuckles. “Thank god. It was getting dull in the scene without you.”

Val shoots her a suspiciously amused glance. Bea makes an exasperated noise, throwing her hands up.

“Well the scene is never fucking dull, that’s kind of the point, but I missed you, kid! You’re not so easily replaced, you know.”

Val scrunches her face and pulls Bea into a proper hug, tucking her face into her freshly-dyed hair and rubbing her back. “Ditto, dude. College was cool but… I couldn’t really resist one last shot at all this.”

Bea stands back and loops her arm around Val’s waist as they observe. After a moment, Bea pinches Val’s side gently.

“Hey, how are you?”

Val’s body tightens instinctively. She knows Bea feels it. Bea only asked a question everyone’s been asking her for months. And Val’s still shit at pretending it doesn’t bug the fuck out of her.

“I’m fine. Really. I went to the doctor recently and he did some tests and confirmed that I’m human and not a big walking china doll.”

Bea’s bleached eyebrows lift as she smirks. “Point taken. Have you started checking out the talent, then?”

Val scoffs. “You and your locker room talk.”

“This is what equality looks like, bitch. But seriously, tell me that’s not half the reason you’re here. A little palette cleanser.”

Val runs her tongue across her lower lip. Bea knows her oh so well.

She elbows Bea gently. “Stop that, I already have a reputation,” she hisses teasingly.

“Mmm, that’s right,” Bea replies, playing along, “The biggest slut in the scene is back on Warped Tour. Better start lining up for a taste.”

Val laughs heartily, shaking her head. “I swear to god, Bea, you—”

She stops dead in her sentence, words have failed her. Her brain fritzes out. She stares straight ahead, exhales in a loud puff. Bea notices and turns to look at what, or who, Val has spotted.

He’s tall. That’s probably the first thing anybody ever notices about him. He’s really fucking tall. He’s also not as scrawny as the rest of the twiggy white boys that populate the scene these days. He’s built – broad in the shoulders and the thighs. He’s wearing the uniform black skinnies, though, so he’s probably a band member rather than a volunteer. And he’s got the presence, somehow, of a frontman. Maybe it’s because Val’s pretty well versed in scene guys, but she can just tell he’s a lead singer.

His dark curls are tucked under a backwards Blue Jays hat and his eyes are unreadable under black Wayfarers. His facial structure is sinfully architected, marred only by the black lip ring that’s pierced through his full lower lip.

His hands are tucked in the pockets of his impossibly tight jeans as he cruises easily on a skateboard through hordes of bands and crew prepping for the day. He seems unbothered by the hard work going on around him, content to observe and take it all in. It gives him an ethereal sort of glow, that he’s untouched by reality.

Val swallows like a fucking cartoon character and watches his mighty leg strike the ground, black leather high top Chucks kicking up a cloud of fairground dust as he propels himself past the tent without a glance. She feels like a ninth grader who’s caught her first glance at the senior quarterback. She sniffs. It’s been a while since she’s felt like that at all.

Bea elbows her again. “Holy damn.”

“Say it again, sister,” Val chuckles, watching the back pockets of his jeans stretch over his very fine ass as he launches himself down the sidewalk, weaving and bobbing through the crowd.

“HOLY DAMN!” Bea crows, throwing an arm around Val’s shoulders and shaking her. Val sniggers and peels her eyes away, nibbling on her pillowy lower lip.

“I’ll do some recon, find out who he is,” Bea offers, smirking. Val isn’t about to turn that down. Bea’s the most well-connected merch girl on the tour, being as seasoned as she is, having toured with New Found Glory since ’97. She nods her thanks and waves goodbye as Bea rushes off to check on the status of her own merch tent.

Val turns back to her table, fumbling through price tags and pushpins. Her mind is elsewhere. Specifically, it’s somewhere in the back pocket of that skateboarding guy. She can smell trouble on him from here.

She doesn’t mind. She could use a little trouble.

Boys, raise your glasses/Girls, shake those, go, go, go/We're the party, you're the people/Let's make this night a classic

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