#Tim says he did it himself (a lie) like a stick and poke

[piedpiperart]

DC x SPN prompt idea

Sam and Dean get a tip about a haunted mansion from Bobby and they go check it out. It’s Drake Manor in Gotham City, which wouldn’t be a problem since no one was supposed to be living there. Except there was.

Sam and Dean meet Tim as they break into his house. Tim at first thinks they’re burglars but notices they’re carrying strange occult stuff. Tim looks at their stuff for a sec and just goes oh, are you here for the ghost?

And the boys, who had thought the kid was a) not alive or b) some sort of creature, are a bit thrown that this tiny child was left alone for months dealing with this ghost haunting his house.

Tim explains that he thinks she’s the ghost of his previous nanny before his parents fired her, but says she doesn’t do anything harmful, just tries to keep him company or get him to eat more often. She only breaks stuff when his parents are around but she stopped after it got him in trouble.

While Tim is sad for his ghost friend to be gone, he absolutely questions the heck out of Sam and Dean about all sorts of supernatural creatures and ghosts. Sam shows him ways to stay safe and avoid places with signs, etc. Dean teaches him how to fight and shoot weapons.

Tim is like seven or eight and pretty much blackmails Sam and Dean into teaching him how to be a hunter, and Tim ends up finding missions for them because he turns out to be a better hacker than Sam and Bobby. He gets the hunters money, sets up a network of information where hunters work together, and makes gadgets and gizmos for the guys to use against creatures.

Dean and Sam are worried about this small child alone in the house but think he’s better off there than as a hunter out in the real world. They don’t expect Tim to force his way into helping them, and every so often when they need help or info they call Tim then remind him to do homework or eat something.

Their road-trips now have frequent stops by Gotham, and even Bobby’s been able to make the trip to meet the lil guy who hacks his computer every week.

Tim also still knows Bruce is batman, and eventually becomes Robin, right. So he’s off doing that and keeping the whole supernatural world secret from Batman. Sam and Dean however, know the kid too well and eventually find out Tim is Robin. They may or may not take that well.

But! Since Tim is already aware of the ways of browsing the news and internet for crazy interesting cases and crimes, he comes across some posts about a potential zombie. Lo and behold- it’s Jason! So Tim calls Bruce and gets them sorted out. Maybe Talia still finds a way to kidnap him though, or Tim fights her on his own to keep Jason and loses, etc.

Either way, Tim ends up on the outs with the family still because he thinks he’s just filling in for Jason. So when his parents die and Tim is in need of a fake uncle? Who else would he call but Bobby!!

Just imagining Bruce and Bobby in the same room oh man. No doubt Alfred and Bobby would get along or absolutely hate each-other and no in between. I think Bobby would win in a fight against Alfred though. Just sayin.

Que Tim taking a call from Dean while he’s patrolling, thinking he’s alone as he details how to graphically kill someone, only to hang up and turn to see Jason standing right there.

Just, many shenanigans for how Tim seems a bit more unhinged than they thought. Like yeah Robin doesn’t kill, can’t kill when you work for Bats, but Tim Drake the Hunter made no such promises. Tim’s like ‘my first kill-‘ and freaks out the bats until he saves it by saying he’s talking about a game.

Sam and Dean come for a visit and Dick is suspicious. Tim goes on hunter missions and comes back with unexplained wounds. One of the bats might see him kill something and the guy turns to dust. Tim’s like no one will ever believe you.

As Tim drifts away from the bats he goes on trips with sam and Dean or helps bobby upgrade his tech. He lets Dean keep a batarang.

Maybe when Bruce is stuck in the time stream the first person he calls is Dean and Sam and Bobby. They’re like oh hey meet Cas, who then is like “Batman should not be allowed to alter the timeline” and just brings him back. He starts maybe using Cas for emergencies, or Dean tells Cas to keep an eye on tim only for him to step in whenever Tim seems in danger, even when he isn’t. Que Tim trying to convince Cas to wear a disguise when rescuing him in the field, etc..

Or maybe Tim makes a deal with a demon! He brings back Bruce but is fantastic at loopholes and gets out of hell card. Maybe Crowley is angry and takes his spleen just cuz. Dean is not happy.

Supernatural occurrences in the field happen and Tim solves it easily. No explanation. Maybe Constantine comes to solve it only to take one look at Tim and go “fuckin’ hunters, geez”. Or alternatively Tim corrects Constantine, saying stuff like you mispronounced (insert Latin word) or something like that.

Just, overall Tim shenanigans because if one of the bats had knowledge of the supernatural it would totally be Tim.

[olivia-anderson-fanfic]

Soulmarks, Part 15

First part

Previous

Gotta take a break for exams. I’ll probably still update every once in a while, but I probably won’t be fully back until the 10th. <3

~~~

She fell to her knees, clutching her head.

“Inamovibi-Lady, I am Hawkmoth.”

She needed to shut down. Why couldn’t she? She’d definitely hit her max. Her breath came out in shallow gasps, her eyes stung with tears. Why was she still feeling? Why couldn’t she stop? God, she wanted to stop --!

“The world is a cruel place, but only to people who don’t deserve it. Tragedy only befalls the best of people, and the wicked live without consequences.”

She couldn’t give in. Paris needed her. Any damage she did while she was akumatized would remain. She needed to summon a lucky charm. Her eyes found their way to her yoyo. Should she try and make a lucky charm at risk of being akumatized with it?

No. They would need the yoyo to purify the akuma. 

Hopefully she wouldn’t cause too much damage.

“I am giving you the power to finally make them pay for what they’ve done.”

She needed to say no. No one had ever managed it before, but she had to do it. It was her responsibility. She couldn’t get akumatized. She couldn’t. She couldn’t let Paris down.

“They will finally see justice, all you need to do is give me the ladybug and cat miraculi.”

She squeezed her eyes shut. She could hear Adrien running away and had to hope that Tim was with him.

She couldn’t let them down.

“All you have to do is say yes.”

Her fingers dug into her scalp.

Just.

Say.

No.

“Yes, Hawkmoth.”

~

He cursed as he skid across the grass, tugging at the yoyo string as he attempted to free himself. The last time he’d been tied up like this hadn’t gone well, and he wasn’t eager for a repeat.

Adrien stood next to Marinette for a second, a shocked expression on his face as she fell to the floor.

“HEY! HELP!” Yelled Tim.

He snapped out of it and ran over. He tried to untie him for a second, then seemed to decide that it was a problem for later as Marinette was engulfed in purple and black smoke. He threw Tim over his shoulder and started running.

They had only gotten a block away before she walked out. Was that even her? Sure, she was still in her Ladybug outfit, but…

Her skin was bleached so pale that it shone in the moonlight, and a wide smile made up half of her face. She swung a giant judge’s gavel. He tensed at just how much the akuma reminded him of a mix of Joker and Harley.

Adrien glanced over his shoulder and picked up speed.

And then Tim watched her swing the gavel in a large arc. It morphed into a yoyo. Her smile stretched ever wider.

Her yoyo hooked around a lamppost nearby and she practically flew to them. Her yoyo detached itself midair and she did a flip that would have made Dick proud as she landed in front of them, a microphone now in hand.

Adrien skid to a stop.

“Hello!” She said without moving her mouth. Her voice boomed through Paris’s streets and people began to poke their heads out of windows. She looked around, her black eyes glittering like beetles, and started talking again when she apparently decided there was enough of an audience: “Don’t you know missing a court date is enough to get arrested?”

“I’m not French, so no,” said Tim awkwardly as Adrien set him on his feet to start detangling himself.

“True! I’ll give you a pardon for that, then. The crimes you were originally going to be tried for, though, I’m afraid can’t be ignored.”

Adrien sighed lightly as he pulled out his baton. “I don’t want to fight you, Nette --.”

“My name is Inamovibi-Lady, thank you.” She twirled the microphone in her hand and it stretched back into her original gavel. “Anyways, your crimes were that you never brought yourself to believe me, even when the truth was right in front of you.”

“I know your defenses, so I’ll tell them to everyone for you. Cheval didn’t listen because he thought I was too good to be true and Chat didn’t want to believe ill of his family.” She gave a fake sniffle and rubbed under her eyes like she was wiping away tears. “Enough to bring a tear to my eyes. If I could cry, of course.”

“But your personal issues don’t give you a warrant to push all your problems on me. Trust me, I’m a judge. I know all about warrants.”

Tim finally managed to get himself out and the yoyo hit the floor at his feet. He could breathe properly again, thank god.

But then she stepped closer, her gavel poised for a hit, and he seemed to forget how to breathe.

“So, your sentence is to live your lives through without anyone ever believing anything you say ever again! Good luck, darlings!”

Adrien brought his baton up to keep her from hitting them, but it seemed they weren’t quite her target. She slammed her gavel on the ground at their feet. A red circle stretched around them and they were engulfed in bright red light. He brought his hands to his eyes as the light threatened to blind him, and when he’d finally managed to open them again she was gone.

Fuck.

~

They tore through the streets, looking around for Inamovibi-Lady, but she’d completely disappeared.

“Right, her targets are definitely Hawkmoth and Lila.”

“Says who?” Said Adrien, raising his eyebrows. “She can’t fight Hawkmoth without getting deakumatized and Lila has nothing to do with what we did.”

Tim snorted. Really? Like getting deakumatized would stop Marinette from beating up a terrorist and Lila definitely had something to do with his half of the sentence. “Even if you were right, which you’re not, we’d be stupid not to check up on them.”

Adrien rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest. “We’d be wasting our time.”

“This conversation is wasting our time,” hissed Tim, before pressing a hand to his comm. “Hey, we have a problem in France. Ladybug got akumatized.”

“Yeah, now they’re an evil judge,” said Adrien.

Dick had the audacity to laugh. “Marinette? Akumatized? An evil judge? Funny joke, guys.”

“Yeah, she’d never let that happen,” agreed Barbara.

He groaned and let his hand fall back to his side. This was definitely going to be more of a problem than he’d originally thought. No wonder Inamovibi-Lady felt comfortable leaving them to go and enact her revenge. What could they really do? There was no way they could ask for help and even talking to each other was a pain...

They detransformed and they went to Marinette’s parents’ bakery. He needed to get some bread for Kaalki so he could open up a portal. Marinette would probably agree to go through the portal, if only because Joker and Harley were practically inaccessible. The bats might not believe him now, but he had to hope that seeing Inamovibi-Lady would be enough to convince them.

They sat down in a nearby alley to wait for their kwamis to recharge. Adrien didn’t need to do that, but he’d apparently decided that they should stick together.

Their phones buzzed and they frowned at each other as they pulled them out.

Inamovibi-Lady’s face beamed at them from their screens (not that her face seemed to be able to do anything else).

“Hello, Paris! Well, it’s really just my classmates and the police. No matter! Welcome to our second hearing of the night! Our special guest is…” She did a drumroll on her legs before stepping to the side with a wide flourish.

Lila was pressed back against her wall, looking like she’d rather be absolutely anywhere else. 

“I was right,” muttered Tim, sending Adrien a glare.

He only got a shrug.

Both of them considered going to save Lila. There was a pretty high chance Adrien knew where she lived, but…

Nah.

“YOU CANT DO THIS! MY MOTHER WORKS FOR THE EMBASSY!” Screamed Lila, pulling their attention back to their screens.

“Your mother isn’t here, now, is she?” She spun her yoyo at her side lazily. “Right, how about you plead your case? Would you like to defend yourself on the whole ‘lying to everyone in your class’ thing or the ‘working for Hawkmoth’ thing first?”

Lila sputtered. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t want to talk, huh? Don’t you know that you get a lighter sentence when you plead guilty?”

Her yoyo wrapped around Lila’s neck. The liar gasped and clawed at her throat. Tears began rolling down her face.

“How about you talk?” Said Inamovibi-Lady. “I won’t be giving you another chance to tell your side if you don’t.”

Lila sobbed and continued trying to pull the string off of her neck.

The akuma gave her a few seconds before giving the camera an overexaggerated shrug. “Right, I tried. Every word that comes out of Lila’s mouth is a lie, anyways. You shouldn’t trust her to tell you the sky is blue without pictures... and, who knows, they’re probably photoshopped.”

“On top of that, she works for Hawkmoth. Isn’t that right?”

Lila hung her head.

“Cool! I actually wasn’t sure on the Hawkmoth thing, but it’s great that she didn’t deny it. Come get her, coppers!”

“Unless, of course, she wants to say something. Don’t really think there’s anything she can say to make this better for herself, can’t claim self-defense when your victims can’t fight back, after all.”

Inamovibi-Lady unhooked her yoyo and it morphed into a microphone. She pressed it to Lila’s mouth.

“I’m innocent! You have to believe me!” Her voice boomed around Paris.

The akuma tapped her hand to her chin as if considering it, then shook her head as she brought the microphone to her own lips. “Anyone who believes a word that comes out of your mouth is stupid, but I’ll make it so they can finally trust you! Your sentencing is that you can never lie again!”

“Wait, what?”

She turned it back into a gavel with a wave of her hand and hit the wall right beside Lila’s head and the girl screamed as she was engulfed in light.

The akuma picked up her camera and started out into the streets. “Right! Now that that’s done…” Her eyes narrowed. “I know you’re watching this, Chat and Cheval. I added you to this for a reason. How about we play a game? Hero to hero… and vigilante.”

Adrien and Tim gave each other wary glances.

“I can’t see you, but I’m assuming you said yes! I have three targets that I’m going after tonight. Well, five, but two of those are a bit harder to get to. I’m going to need a little bit of help, could you give me a hand, darlings?”

“Either way, you probably can guess who the third is. Feel free to go over to his place now if you don’t want to use your brains… but, if you want to help the other two, my first target is actually on this call, too! She and I have the same noble rank, and we used to be friends, but unfortunately we just stopped connecting like we used to.”

She winked and the screen went black.

Tim frowned, resting his head on his hand. “Marinette is nobility?”

Adrien shrugged and shook his head.

Tim nodded slightly and rested his head back against the stone. It was definitely a riddle, then, but what did she --?

Wait a minute. Tim had believed him.

That didn’t make sense. He wasn’t supposed to believe a thing Adrien said.

But he hadn’t technically ‘said’ anything.

Tim snapped his fingers and pulled out his phone, typing a few words and then pressing send.

Timberly: Hey, I kissed Nette earlier

Adrien looked down at his phone and raised his eyebrows slightly. He rolled his eyes and typed his answer.

Adrikins: Cool? Not able to say that out loud?

Tim grinned.

Timberly: I could but I found a loophole

Timberly: As long as we’re not speaking out loud people can believe us

Adrien’s eyes widened.

Timberly: Is there a way to have our phones on us when we’re in our suits

Adrikins: Yeah. We just can’t be holding them when we transform.

And then Adrien facepalmed. Tim raised his eyebrows at him and waited for his text.

Adrikins: LADY WIFI.

Timberly: Who

~~~

Next part

Me, frantically scrolling through a wikipedia article on the French Judiciary system: there has to be a pun here SOMEWHERE

This was the best I could do ;-;

I, too, am disappointed by my inability to make a good pun for Akumanette

Taglist

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[jinmukangwrites]

i'm not a big fan of DC, but I have a general knowledge of it. Perhaps something to do with some some family bonding with the bat family? it doesn't have to be fluffy, but it would be nice to see that something nice is happening to this found family of people, even if it's small. good luck and may you have success and fortune in your future!

So this ended up not being a drabble. Oops. Listen, I've been wanting to write a camping-esque fic for a long time and somehow this just ended up being it. >.<

-o-o-o-o-

It is Dick's first camping trip.

He's young, bright eyed, and smiling like there's nothing to be down about even though Bruce knows they're both painfully aware it's only been a month since his world quite literally fell apart.

Bruce doesn't really know what he's doing, having not gone camping himself in what must be over a decade, but he still successfully sets up a decent tent large enough for four sleeping bags, but has more than enough room for two. Alfred is on a well deserved vacation, so there's no need to make room for a third one. It's just Bruce Wayne and his new ward Dick Grayson, alone in the wilderness with a bag of marshmallows open between the two of them and a campfire crackling in front of them. It's Dick that shows him how to roast the perfect "mallow", and that apparently involves shoving the entire marshmallow into the center of the flame and laughing maniacally until it blackens and chars. Bruce almost has a panic attack just watching Dick bring the flaming marshmallow out to his face to blow out the fire.

Bruce remembers the times he's watched people roast marshmallows in movies, and he decides holding it just above the worst of the flames until it's a golden brown is the way for him.

There's owls hooting softly around them when the moon reaches high enough to suggest maybe calling it a night. Another tell-tale sign is Dick ever so slowly leaning against his side, all bundled up in a warm oversized jacket; marshmallow, chocolate, and graham cracker residue dried to his lips and cheeks.

Bruce stares at watches for a moment, before smiling, something he thought he lost when he watched his parents die clinking back into place in his chest. Filling him with a warmth he never thought he'd ever have again.

He scoops Dick up and bundles him into his sleeping bag. Dick is out like a light, mouth open in soft snores, and Bruce frowns, a desire in him that he doesn't understand.

He pokes Dick's shoulder gently, making sure the child is asleep, and Bruce sucks in a lungful of air. Unsure and afraid. He runs his fingers through Dick's hair, lifting up his messy bangs, and slowly bends down and presses his lips against the child's forehead. He then backs quickly away, his heart pounding.

Dick was never supposed to be his son, but pretty early on Bruce discovered how much of a lie that was.

-o-o-o-o-

It's Jason's first time camping. His second time in the mountains as well.

Dick took him skiing for his first time, but Bruce at least gets to take him for his first night out in the fresh wilderness of the Appalachian mountains. Just the two of them this time, being as Dick is still angry with him. And while that hurts, Bruce is content with spending some much needed one on one time with his newest adopted son. (Because he knows now he made a mistake keeping Dick away at arms length with the word "ward", and now it's too late to take it back. He won't make the same mistake with this one).

Jason seems more concerned with running around and climbing trees than eating marshmallows. Surprisingly, more concerned than Dick was. Though that doesn't mean he still doesn't enjoy a marshmallow here and there, especially since a new kind has come out recently that makes the marshmallows even bigger and puffier when roasted over the fire. Good for nothing but sugar. Not that Bruce minds. He can't remember the last time Jason looked so relaxed as he stands and watches Jason marvel at a waterfall they've hiked to. If it earns that kind of wide eyed unashamed smile, Bruce would gladly invest in the company making even bigger marshmallows.

Bruce finds quickly that Jason also thinks Bruce makes marshmallows wrong. He knows this because as stuck the sugary monstrosity on his roasting stick and gently held it above the fire, Jason cried out in outrage.

"You're making it wrong!" He yelled as he grabbed Bruce's arm and dragged it away from the fire. Bruce is almost afraid that he'll demonstrate how to make a proper smore by shoving the whole thing into the middle of the fire to blacken it like Dick does. He doesn't want to know what kind of mess a marshmallow this size would make on fire, but the Jason shocks him by rushing into the tent and stumbling out a moment later with a colorful bag in his hands.

Starbursts?

"Where did you get those?" Bruce asks, trying not to sound amused that Jason snuck candy with him out on the trip.

Jason snorts, opening the bag and pulling out a pink square. "I asked Alfie to get me some, because I knew you'd be uncultured in making a freaking smore."

Jason then impales the unwrapped pink starburst on the roasting stick next to Bruce's waiting marshmallow. He unwraps a yellow one and puts it on his own stick. "The red ones are gross, by the way," Jason says, sticking his stick above the fire. Bruce huffs out a small laugh and puts his stick over the fire as well.

He's not sure what he feels about the taste of roasted starburst mixing with the marshmallow, chocolate, and cracker, but Jason eats enough to gain a stomach ache.

Bruce carries him to bed too, and tucks him in, and instead of waiting for him to fall asleep, Bruce carefully pulls Jason closer to his chest, and because his arms are full of legs and arms, he kisses Jason's forehead with a layer of hair between them.

Jason doesn't pull away. Just yawns happily, and falls asleep in Bruce's arms.

Bruce decides that camping trips for Jason is definitely a thing he needs to make a regular thing. Just to see his boy look so peaceful and happy in his arms.

-o-o-o-o-

It's not Tim's first time camping. But Bruce suspects it's the first time Tim actually has fun camping, as well as his first time making smores.

Dick's here this time too, the relationship between him and Bruce held together by paperclips and string. Which is saying something, as it used to be held together by nothing at all. Bruce is just happy that he's here and that they're civil enough with each other to let Tim be a disgusting, dirty, rowdy child in the mountains for the first time in his entire life.

Tim stood at the edge of the river, but ended up being shoved in by Dick, and they both came back sopping wet and laughing.

Tim picked at the bark of a large tree, but ended up in its highest branches when Bruce lifted him over his shoulders to give him a headstart.

Tim frowned at the marshmallow bag and sticks, but ended up with a mess all over his face, pupils wide in the firelight as the sugar gave him a rush.

Bruce roastes his above the flame and Dick tries to convince Tim that sticking the entire thing into the fire is the only right way to roast a good marshmallow. When Tim looks unsure and tries both with uncertainty, Bruce takes a chance and pulls out a bag of starbursts he almost decided to leave behind.

And once Tim tries the roasted starburst s'more, the rest of the s'more actually goes forgotten as Tim decides roasted starbursts is best left left alone—he snacks on almost the entirety of the bag, and Bruce tries his best to not let the stabbing in his heart ruin the moment. He wonders how well Jason and Tim would get along if Jason... But he shakes his head, choosing instead to point out the glowing little light in the forest that isn't the stars.

It's not Tim's first time seeing fireflies. But it's his first time running through the trees with a jar, holes poked into the top to capture them.

When it gets so late that even Bruce is beginning to yawn, he corrals his oldest and unofficial youngest into the tent and frowns at how even though the packaging said it's big enough for four people, it's still quite squeezed together with two grown men and a lanky young teen.

Bruce ruffles Tim's hair, squeezed Dick's shoulder, and for once Dick doesn't flinch at his touch. Just smiles and kisses Tim's forehead. Bruce is almost tempted to copy the action, the night feeling wrong without it, but Tim has parents.

Tim isn't his son. Isn't even his ward. He hugs Tim, and finds himself hugging him tightly, only letting go when Tim voices slight confusion.

They lay down in their spots, the silence of the world being interrupted once as Tim verbally complains about Dick's feet finding themselves under his legs.

"But you're so warm, baby bird!"

The sound of Tim's laughter is something Bruce wishes he had been quick enough to record, so he could listen to it over and over and over again.

Tim's not Bruce's ward. Or son.

But it's so easy to selfishly wish he were.

-o-o-o-o-

It's not Cass's first time camping. But it's her first time camping for something other than survival. Which means it's definitely her first time making s'mores.

Taking her out to the woods is nerve-wracking in a way that it shouldn't be. She's his daughter. Officially. Legally. Not by blood. Bruce doesn't have anyone who's by blood. But she's definitely the closest thing to it in his heart. She's different from the boys. He doesn't know what to expect from her.

She doesn't go out and get all gross and muddy in the river with Tim, and she doesn't take up Dick's bet to climb to the top of the waterfall. Instead, Bruce finds her sitting nearby with a notebook in her hands, her hand scribbling away at something with a pen. She looks up at him and smiles, but closes the notebook and sets it off to the side, patting the ground next to her. He takes her up on her invitation and sits down besides her, their shoulders gently touching. He glances at the notebook, raising an inquisitive eyebrow, but she just smiles and shakes her head. He doesn't pry. She didn't grow up with a whole lot of privacy, and Bruce isn't about to take some away from her.

She sighs and leans back into the soft grass patch she found, and he lays back too, shoulders still touching. They're silent for a long time, the only noises around them being the leaves rustling and the distant sounds of Tim and Dick trying to figure out how to lash a rope around a tree near the river so they could swing into it.

Bruce finds himself, not for the first time, missing Jason more than ever. Jason is alive. He's back. But he hates Bruce and wants nothing to do with Bruce. Jason would be all over getting that rope swing to work. Bruce can practically imagine his young voice screaming in excitement as he launches himself into the water.

He forces those thoughts away, because this isn't about Jason right now. This is about the beautiful, perfect young lady laying besides him. His daughter. He looks over at her, and her eyes are closed and her lips turned up in a slight smile. Her bare toes wiggling in the breeze.

And Bruce thinks that maybe it's a good thing Cass isn't out and about causing trouble and getting dirty, because maybe to her that's not what this trip is about. Maybe it's just about showing her that she can sit back, close her eyes, and wiggle her toes in the breeze and be safe without having to feel obligated to do anything.

Because she is safe. And Bruce will never let anything hurt her.

When they roast marshmallows, she watched with amusement as Dick interrupts Bruce showing her the normal way to do it by shoving his own into the flames. She watches as Tim shows her how to carefully make a roasted starburst that isn't too stuff nor too drippy. She watches as Bruce suggests making a s'more with a starburst. And she tries them all, a frown on her lips the entire time. When no strategy seems to stick out to her, Bruce almost panics, not sure how to make the night fun and full of sugar like he wants to, but then she pops a raw marshmallow into her mouth with a curious tilt to her head, and then a chunk of raw chocolate, and then a bite of plain cracker.

She then quickly gains her own stash of untouched s'more supplies and her roasting stick goes forgotten. Bruce doesn't know what's so much better about eating the ingredients raw, but the sound of her muffled laughter behind a mouthful of marshmallow and chocolate as Dick struggles to blow out a flaming one is definitely something Bruce will not complain about or try to change.

Going to bed is a hassle. He brought two tents this time, just in case Cass wanted to sleep alone, and at first he thinks that is actually what will happen. He hugs her before they go their seperate ways, the urge to kiss her round cheeks stronger than ever, but he doesn't get the chance. Or the courage.

But he finds he didn't need to worry, because when he, Tim, and Dick are all snug in their bags, the zipper of their tent goes down and Bruce has the air knocked out of him as Cass collapses on top of him, wrapped up in a fluffy pink blanket that she bought with Barbara. Bruce finds himself grinning as he shifts to make room for her between him and the snoring Dick, careful to not nudge the half asleep Tim too much whose under his arm on the other side.

Then, when Cass is nestled in his side, she does another thing that pleasantly surprised him. She presses her lips to his temple.

And Bruce falls asleep that night not knowing what he's done to deserve Cassandra Wayne.

-o-o-o-o-

It's not Damian's first time camping. It's not his first time making s'mores. It's not even his first time having fun while camping.

Bruce was thought to be dead for almost a year, and Dick was the one who got the honor of doing those first things with Damian.

But dammit, Bruce was going to try and do this with Damian anyway, even if Damian is quiet and unsure and distrustful with Bruce.

So maybe that's why Bruce thought it was so important for it to be just him and Damian this time. Maybe this is why he didn't ask Dick how Damian liked to roast his marshmallows, or ask Alfred if he needed to bring an emergency bag of starbursts, or even considered bringing a second tent just in case Damian wanted to sleep alone.

Bruce is Damian's father. His biological one. But he doesn't feel like it.

He wants to feel like it.

He woke Damian up at the spur of the moment and coaxed the boy into the car stuffed with a weakened supply of things to get them through a surprise camping trip. Damian was too groggy in the morning to ask much questions, blinking fully awake an hour into the drive and asking with a quiet voice where they were going.

And when Bruce answered they were going to camp, Damian didn't respond with joy or excitement. Just a quiet oh that almost made Bruce pull over the car and beg Damian to let Bruce in and let him see what he's thinking.

He keeps driving, all the way until he's at the normal spot by the river and a trailhead that leads to a waterfall. Damian walks the grounds quietly as Bruce sets up the tent, his footsteps sure and curiosity lacking. He's been here before. To Bruce's perfect camping spot.

And Bruce wasn't there.

The rest of the day goes about as well as could be expected. Damian hardly says anything to Bruce, the words he does say are tense and tight, like the very thought of saying any unnecessary words to Bruce is painful. Bruce tries not to take it to heart, so he continues onward. He takes Damian hiking, he takes him to the river, and eventually they both end up at the campfire in uncomfortable silence.

Bruce watches as Damian puts the marshmallow on his stick and holds it slightly above the flames, waiting patiently for the flames to lick the white sugar golden.

Bruce sighs and risks a joke. "Finally, a son that makes s'mores normally."

He didn't expect Damian to stand up with anger in his eyes before tossing the stick down and running off into the forest. The marshmallow left forgotten as it bursts into flames in the coals.

Bruce only hesitates a second before standing up and running after his son.

Because even if he's terrified Damian wants nothing to do with him, Bruce still wants to make sure he doesn't get himself hurt in the woods.

He eventually finds Damian sitting in Cass's spot. That perfect patch of grass that's perfect for laying down in and cloud gazing. Or, this late at night, perfect for milky-way gazing.

Damian isn't looking up at the stars though. He's curled up and glaring at his feet, something suspiciously wet trailing down his cheeks.

Bruce takes in a breath, hoping bravery would enter his lungs as well, and sits down next to his son.

They're silent next to each other, for a long time, until Damian finally decides to speak up.

"You came," he says, and Bruce wants desperately to launch himself forward and wrap the boy I'm a strong embrace. "You followed me."

"I will always find you," Bruce says, and Damian sniffs.

"If... If I wasn't your kid... Would you still..."

And Bruce remembers that Damian grew up being told he was simply a tool. That he had a purpose and he was only wanted because of that purpose.

He's asking Bruce if Bruce would have still wanted him, even if their blood wasn't the same. If Bruce had no obligation to take him in and give him safety and allow him to be the second half of the dynamic duo.

Or if he would have turned the boy away.

It breaks Bruce's heart.

So he slowly reaches around Damian and pulls him closer tightly. Damian sniffles and practically launches himself into Bruce's lap, arms curling around so small that it's not a complete hug, but it's tight enough to be one of the best kinds of hugs.

"I will always want you, Damian," Bruce whispers into his hair, pressing his lips onto his forehead before he can even consider the action. "You have no need to worry. I want you more than anything in this entire world."

And they sit there, holding each other, and Bruce wonders if this is what his own parents felt for him.

And if they'd be proud of him.

Bruce carries Damian to bed after they've both let out their emotions, and even though tent is large enough to have space, he keeps Damian with him, in his arms even as he climbs into his sleeping bag.

And he's never letting go.

-o-o-o-o-

It's nowhere near Duke's first time camping, or making s'mores, or having fun, or feeling safe. But it is his first time camping with Bruce and the rest of the family.

Dick, Tim, Cass, Damian, and even Jason are all here, and Bruce won't lie and say he didn't find it amusing how intimidated Duke needlessly felt to be on a family camping trip with everyone.

It's the loudest trip Bruce had ever been apart of. The children are back to figuring out that pesky rope swing—Tim snuck a grapple hook and had the decency to look a little ashamed when Bruce noticed it—and Cass is at her normal spot with her normal notebook. Duke looks unsure and nervous, not really knowing where he fits in with all of this.

Bruce adopted most of his children when they were all young, Cass being the exception but it wasn't like she had a good experience with her last parents, so it was almost like adopting her young. But Duke is different, he's a teenager, considering college and everything. He already knows how to drive a car. He'd already had loving parents. Bruce doesn't want to step in front of that, but he still wants Duke to feel welcome and loved.

One of Bruce's favorite things in the entire world is to watch Duke slowly exit his shell that he crawls into whenever he's nervous or feeling like he's imposing. The smirk on his face that appears when Dick calls him a genius for finally being the one to figure out the rope swing. The bubbling and nervous laughter when Jason slams a hand proudly at his back when he beats the rest of the family up the waterfall in their annual race. The excited chatter when Tim shows him the best climbing tree. The relaxed posture when Cass shows him something in her notebook, and the happy smile when Cass takes his feedback in consideration. The mischievous glint in his eyes when he and Damian get into a competitive spar with pool noodles.

Bruce finds his chest so full with warmth he almost thinks it's going to burst as eventually they all end up around the campfire with roasting sticks in everyone's hands except for Cass who has her own stash of s'more supplies. Jason and Tim fight over the bag of starbursts even though Bruce was sure he brought two. Dick laughs as Damian yells angrily about his flaming marshmallow catching Damian's on fire. Cass munches on a cracker and leans into Bruce's side. Duke sits besides them all, tongue sticking outside his mouth as he concentrates on making a marshmallow that isn't golden, but isn't completely raw.

No one bugs him on his strange "I don't want it burned at all!" comment, and they all include him in their jokes and bantering. The laughter becomes do loud that Bruce is sure the entire forest can hear them.

He relishes in it. Almost feeling like he might cry.

But he doesn't. The moon rises and be ushers the kids all towards that four person tent. It's too tiny, but nobody seems to care. Not even Jason who's only made one comment about Bruce being a billionaire who's definitely rich enough to afford a bigger tent.

Because, somehow, with or without Bruce, the family had ended up close and wanting to be close together. Dick doesn't complain as Cass lays herself on top of him. Tim only snarls a little when Jason jokingly stuffs his feet in the younger boys face. Damian crawls into Bruce's side like it's the most natural thing in the world. And Duke accepts the strong hug Bruce risks and gives him. Duke then lays down with his back against Bruce's free side and his legs on top of Jason, like a puzzle piece falling into place.

And the family all fall asleep to the sounds of nature surrounding them, and the soft snores of the people they all hold dear.

And Bruce thinks that taking in a kid who's just watched his family fall from the trapeze, a kid who tried to jack the batmobile, a kid who showed up with a camera in his hands and a demand to make him Robin, a kid who decided love and happiness was more important than the way she was taught and raised, a kid who decided he didn't want to be the weapon he was born to be, and a kid who only wanted to do good after his parents were torn away from him was without question the best thing Bruce had ever done.

And he wouldn't have it any other way.

[sohotthateveryonedied]

In the Eye of a Hurricane

Read here on AO3!

Summary:

He can hear his mom’s voice as he reads the letter, recognizes her handwriting in all its fancy loops and swirls. She tells Jack in the letter that she has been hiding a secret from him for years and doesn’t have the guts to tell him in person. Tim skims, tries to pick apart his mom’s long-winded explanations about living in fear of being found out, of the shame that followed her every day.

Tim can’t even begin to guess what she could be talking about until finally he sees it, clear as day in black ink.

Timothy isn’t your son.

Mom is dead. Dad is in a coma. Bruce is...here.

Tim is still getting used to the idea of a parental figure sticking with him for longer than a few weeks at a time. He keeps waiting for Bruce to turn a corner and disappear without a trace like he should, but it never happens. He stays by Tim’s side, offering support that Tim wasn’t even aware could be offered. It’s different, but it’s a good different. Tim only wishes that could be enough to wash away the grief. He takes it one day at a time, bit by bit, if only to keep himself from looking too far ahead and seeing the sea of loneliness waiting for him in the case that his dad never wakes up. Today he dedicates himself to handling his parents’ finances, sifting through the mess they left in the hands of their thirteen-year-old son. It’s eerie being in his dad’s office now, like he’s entering a tomb. Tim is searching for his parents’ insurance documents so he can get that dealt with and out of the way, then move on to the next project. Whatever takes his mind off of it all. It’s hard enough seeing his dad lying in that hospital bed every day, looking dead but not quite getting there yet. Tim opens the next filing cabinet, grabbing another stack of files and opening the first folder, only for an envelope to fall out. It’s not like the others, otherwise Tim would have put it back and disregarded it altogether. But this one is not a clean white envelope you would find in any office. This one is made of thick paper, yellowing at the edges with swirl patterns on the flap. Jack, don’t open this until I’m dead, it says in Tim’s mother’s handwriting.

Dad clearly didn’t obey orders (what else is new?) because the envelope has already been torn open. It’s crumpled at the corners, creased in places it shouldn’t be, as if Dad was angry when he stuffed the contents back into the envelope and locked it away in this cabinet. Tim’s first instinct is to read it. After all, Janet Drake is dead. She’s not here to scold Tim for going through what isn’t his, but that is precisely what stops him from opening the letter. This is from his mother��his mother who is now dead. And his dad is in a coma. Poking into their business...it feels wrong. No matter how curious Tim is, he can’t desecrate this letter. So he tucks the envelope into his pocket, careful not to wrinkle it. He can’t imagine what the letter must be about, but that isn’t very surprising. Despite being their son, Tim didn’t know Janet and Jack Drake any better than he’d know a gym coach or one of the housekeepers. He knew everything about their company and their lifestyles, but he never got more than a glimpse into who they truly were. Not until it was too late. The closest Tim would ever get to bonding with his parents were the rare nights on which Mom and Dad would sit with Tim on the sofa, watching Pixar movies until he fell asleep. Those were his favorite memories of his parents: his dad calling him “champ” and talking endlessly about the movies’ animation styles, Mom with her hair down and her makeup washed off, for once not caring about her appearance. Tim doesn’t know what the letter could possibly be about, but curiosity is a persistent thing. Days click by, switching off into nights in an endless cycle. Dad doesn’t wake from the coma. Tim isn’t sure if he ever will. Dick and Bruce hover around him like house flies, waiting for some kind of ball to drop. Maybe for Tim to break down, to cry, to mourn the ending of his world. Instead, all Tim can do is wonder about the letter. If it was so important, Tim would already know whatever it was, right? Maybe it’s a copy of his mom’s will. Maybe it’s a map to a collection of buried treasure that she never told anyone about. Maybe it’s a confession that she was secretly a supervillain and all of those trips she and Dad took were actually with the intention to rob every bank across the eastern seaboard. Tim keeps the letter buried under piles of school papers in his desk drawer, but it might as well be sending out a signal to him every minute, reminding him of its presence. He falls asleep night after night in his temporary room at the manor, listening to the letter rattle around in its drawer like a tell-tale heart. What does it say? What secret was his mother hiding? Is it about Tim? Is it about her past? Will it unlock some family conspiracy? Tim makes it almost a month resisting the siren’s call before he can’t take it any longer. He climbs out of bed one night, the floor cold on his bare feet. He grabs the letter from its hiding place and jumps back into bed where the shadows’ tendrils can’t reach. He pulls his blanket over his head, a shiver running down his spine as he clicks on his flashlight and sets the beam on the letter. He can feel the walls watching him, witnessing this desecration of his dead mother’s written crypt. These are the last words he will ever get from her. Tim opens the letter. He recognizes his mother’s stationery, the flower patterns at the top. Back when he was younger, Tim used to spin around in his mom’s desk chair and ask why she had special paper with her name on it. “Because important people like to stand out in their letters,” she’d say. “Why can’t you just use regular paper?” “Because regular paper doesn’t have your name at the top. You can’t feel official if you’re not using official stationery.” Tim thought about that as he spun. “You can if you write it in yourself. All you need is some crayons.” His mom chuckled and ruffled his hair. “I suppose you could do that too.” He can hear his mom’s voice as he reads the letter, recognizes her handwriting in all its fancy loops and swirls. She tells Jack in the letter that she has been hiding a secret from him for years and doesn’t have the guts to tell him in person. Tim skims, tries to pick apart his mom’s long-winded explanations about living in fear of being found out, of the shame that followed her every day. Tim can’t even begin to guess what she could be talking about until finally he sees it, clear as day in black ink. Timothy isn’t your son. He stops. Rereads the sentence. Then again. And again, trying to tempt the words into making some sort of sense. Tim doesn’t know how long he spends staring at those four words, his eyes glazed, before he tentatively starts reading again. Janet talks about how guilty she feels for not confessing this earlier, how she doesn’t want Tim to find out, how sorry she is that Tim isn’t the son Jack wanted him to be. That she disappointed him by giving him Tim instead of the “correct” child. Tim is going to be sick. He throws off the blanket and goes to the gas fireplace across the room, turning it on. He crumples up the letter and throws it in without a second’s hesitation. He watches it catch fire, the flames blackening the corners as they eat away at the letter until it’s no more than ash. This can’t be real, he tells himself. It can’t be. His dad… He knew. Dad knew all this time. They both did. Tim has been walking around, thinking he knew exactly who he was and where he came from. Writing his dad’s name on school forms and calling himself Tim Drake when he’s not even a Drake. Not biologically. How could they hide this from him? Did it never occur to them that Tim should know this kind of vital information? That it might literally reconfigure his entire life? Tim sits there on the rug, staring at the fireplace as the walls crumble around him. He can’t believe they kept this from him. Who doesn’t tell their own son that his genetics aren’t what he thinks they are? That somewhere in the world, there is a person walking around who has no idea he’s got a son somewhere. He probably doesn’t even know that Tim exists. The more Tim thinks about it though, the more it makes an odd sort of sense. His parents have always been distant, always treated Tim like they expected something different every time they looked at him. Like he was so entirely Other that they couldn’t help but be disappointed, no matter what he did or how hard he tried to get them to love him the way other kids’ parents did. He wonders when Jack found the letter. Was it given to him with instructions, or did he stumble upon it one day in Janet’s office? Did he confront her right away, or did he wait a while? Tim thinks back to three years ago when their marriage took its first sudden dip, as if they hit a wall out of nowhere. Could this have been the cause all along? Three years since the secret came out. Three years of arguments bordered by stony silences, flipping back and forth between moods whenever they weren’t on yet another long trip, trying to salvage a failing marriage. Tim used to assume it was his fault that his parents were never home—maybe there was something wrong with him that they didn’t want to see. Now it all makes sense. Jack has never acted like much of a father to Tim in the first place, as if he’s subconsciously known all along that there was something dividing him from his son. Because there was something dividing them, something deep in their DNA. Which, of course, begs the question: If Jack isn’t Tim’s father, who is? Parts of the letter were ripped, the ink smudged in places from what must have been scars of Jack’s anger at finding out his family was built on a lie. If Janet did divulge who Tim’s biological father is, Tim couldn’t find it in the letter. There are only two people in the world who can give Tim the answers he needs, and one of them is dead. The other one is close behind. He’s stuck in limbo. The days after the revelation pass in a haze. A haze of astonishment, silent questions, answers he needs but may never get. Tim keeps waiting for the universe to shift, because he just found out information that changes everything he thought was true about himself. He should be feeling something, right? Maybe it’s because he and his dad never had a real relationship anyway, so there’s nothing to mourn. There’s no deciding moment of what does this change? because there's nothing to change. He and Jack have been living separate lives for a long time now. This revelation just cements something Tim has known for years. He never had a father before. Why should it change anything that he still doesn’t have one now?

[Read the rest on AO3 because this one got kinda long.]

[sarasapen]

White Roses and Scarlet Letters

Been awhile since I’ve posted or updated due to exams so I’m reposting the first four chapters because why not!

@jason-todd-squad @lucy-roo @rockyrocket15 @toleble @n1ghtsh4d3-67 @belovedbratwonder @aprilchagoyaaa @vespertxne @thatwaspossesion @attackonnat @roseangel013bf

Red Roses and Scarlet Letters

----- Like most people, your life had a routine. You’d wake up early and go for a jog or do some yoga, depending on the weather. Then you’d spend a half hour on your phone, before you glanced at the clock and scrambled to get ready on time. You normally met Dick for breakfast before making your way to work.

Generally, your nights and weekends were more entertaining. You spent your nights donning a domino mask and Kevlar, punching assholes and stopping crime. Saturdays were sleepover nights with Damian, and Sundays were girls’ days.

So, considering you were standing on a rooftop with dead bodies littered around you when you were supposed to be watching a movie, you were not happy.

“Robin, come to my coordinates.”

“Tt.”

You smile slightly, rolling your eyes before you turned your head, catching sight of a man with a red hood and a symbol on his chest. You eyed the symbol skeptically. “I didn’t know the Bats had a new associate.”

The man remained silent, staring you down. His fingers twitched, and you noticed the gun holsters on his thighs. Two guns. Five dead bodies. He had seven bullets left. Okay, so maybe Bruce didn’t have a new associate.

“You gonna threaten me, or shoot me?” You say nonchalantly, gripping your escrima sticks. He moves quickly, and you’re darting to the side before you fully internalise he’s pulling the trigger.

“Alright then,” you huff dryly. “Guess you’re shooting me.” He raises the gun again, and you backflip away from the next bullets, lunging in his direction. Five. Four. Three. The next bullet snags your cape- two- and you swing your leg and attempt to knock him back. He dodges the kick and intercepts your path, moving to flip you. You kick back off the wall, using that as leverage to swing your body around his. You slam your escrima stick into the back of his head the same time his fist comes into contact with your jaw. You slip from his body, and he used the opportunity to kick at your ribs, sending you stumbling. He lunges at you, causing you to slam against the wall. One of his hands is around your throat, cutting off your air supply, and the other is holding his loaded gun, pressed against your temple. You know you can easily break his arm from the position, but for some reason, you can’t seem to move. Even through his voice modulator, the man’s anger is clear when he speaks, the words he growls out making your blood run cold.

“You let Jason Todd die.”

Your eyes widen and you’re going to swing out but instead of shooting you, he drops the gun and slams you back into the wall, your head hitting the wall with a loud CRACK-

-and then all you see is black.

-----

The first thing you register is the pounding in your head.

You groggily try to sit up and wince at the bright lights. A hand on your shoulder pushes you back down- what? No, you need to get up, you need to-

“Lie down.” A voice commands and your body goes limp. The figure looks funny. He looks like a bat. And a man. Hey! Batman!

A whine emerges from your throat as your face scrunches up.

“I don’t wanna,” you protest weakly, trying to get up again. Your voice comes out scratchy, and your throat hurts when you talk. Suddenly there are two hands on both of your shoulders, keeping you on the bed.

“Do you want Alfred to scold?” The voice softens slightly. You shake your head, wincing when it hurts. Fingers dance along your hairline, soothing you.

“Rest. Once you’re better, the family’s going to have a chat.”

“Mkay,” you wrap your fingers around the wrist above your head, and you let sleep overtake you.

-----

When you wake up, you’re alone. Well, for approximately 0.3 seconds before Alfred enters through the door. He’s carrying some meds and soup. He stands over you, making sure you finish every last drop even though your throat hurts like a bitch.

You manage to convince him you’re fine, with Barbara's help, before you spend a good hour or so on trying to conceal the bruises on your neck.

Barbara drives you and the girls to Metropolis to pick up Kara before heading to Central City. Despite all the fun the others seem to be having, you can’t take your mind off the previous night, or off Jason. You had no idea who that man was, or how he knew you were connected to Jason.

The weight of Jason’s death had weighed down on you somewhat heavier than the rest of your family. Bruce became reckless, and almost killed multiple times. Dick went off the grid for 6 whole months, and when he returned, he acted like nothing had happened. No one knows what he did or where he went. Barbara stopped coming to the cave. She still went out on patrol, but didn’t talk to you. Alfred assumed you needed some space, so he gave you that.

As your family pulled away, you started falling into the dark abyss of depression. You resorted to self harm as a way of coping. After Alfred inquiring on your long-sleeves, you moved the cuts to your thighs. You fell so deep into the hole that one day, you grabbed some sleeping pills and swallowed about 20. Alfred noticed the bottle was empty, and he rushed to your bedroom in time.

That was around the time Tim popped up as Robin.

Despite trying to help you, your family never quite understood you. Perhaps Bruce did, better than the two of thought, but Bruce was rarely one to talk about his emotions. When Jason died, you felt like you were to blame. You were quite literally the Batgirl to his Robin. You always patrolled together, always hung around, plotting the next prank to pull on Dick. Considering the two of you were practically inseparable, you felt so damn guilty that Jason went to the warehouse himself. You should’ve gone with him. Maybe if you had gone with him, he would have still been alive.

The guilt had been gnawing at you for five years. There wasn’t a single damn day that you didn’t miss Jason. The day he died, you had furiously scribbled a letter that was about 5 pages long, listing all the reasons you hated him. You were angry, and you wanted to make sure he knew you were angry. The next day, you wrote a tear stained letter saying you loved him, and you were sorry for everything.

You then wrote him letters, one for every day that passed. This time, Day 1564, you reccounted the Red Hood guy occurrence, before telling him about this cute waiter that Dick said had been flirting with you at the cafe. You asked him, rhetorically, if you should go for it. You signed off as usual, saying you loved and missed him.

You slipped the letter into a red envelope, making your way to the garden of Wayne Manor. You couldn’t shake the feeling you were being watched, but then you remembered Bruce had tinkered with the security, so that was probably it.

You moved towards the rose bushes, and eased your way into the tiny opening in between the white rose bushes. You grabbed a long wooden box you had been stashing there, slipping the latest letter inside. You shut it, placing it back in the bush, before you straightened.

Shoving your hands into your jacket pockets, you made your way to the living room, where Bruce was trying to get everyone’s attention.

“I have some information pertaining to the Red Hood. We all need to talk.”

-----

And So the Sky Shall Weep

-----

“We all need to talk.” Bruce moves to the grandfather clock, adjusting the time on it. The door swings open, and he goes in, beckoning for you to follow. Bruce stops in front of the Batcomputer, his face hard.

“You may want to sit down,” Bruce gestures to you, Barbara and Dick. Barbara complies, and Dick leans against the table. You do the same, crossing your arms. What could possibly be so shocking that Bruce wants you to sit down?

Bruce turns on the computer screen, and you hear Dick swear beside you. Barbara buries her head in her hand, letting out a choked ‘Oh my god’. Tim and Damian stop poking each other and pause. You seem to be the only one that’s got their shit together, but by the way Bruce is looking at you, you feel yourself unravelling and quick.

Because on the screen, bold and bright as day, the dna samples of Jason Todd and the Red Hood were a 100% match. That could only mean one thing.

“He’s alive?” Dick croaks, eyes shining with unshed tears. Bruce gave Dick a brisk nod as he placed a hand on Barbara’s shoulder.

“This concerns me how?” Damian drawls, earning a well deserved shove from Tim. Damian of course, retaliates, but Bruce ignores them. His eyes are trained on you, obviously concerned at how you’ve just frozen up.

“He’s dead.” You say, voice too loud and too far away.

“He’s alive-“ Bruce starts gently, but you cut him off.

“No!” You don’t realise you’re shouting until your throat burns painfully. That doesn’t seem to deter you though.“He’s dead! I saw his body! He can’t- he’s dead.”

You don’t want to believe Bruce, don’t want to believe the test. “It’s faulty,” you say.

“I sent it to seven different labs, all of them came back with the same report,” Bruce soothes.  You’re trembling, and Bruce reaches out to touch you. You push him away, walking backwards.

“I- I need to think.”

You sprint out of the Batcave, pushing past Alfred and out the door, getting on your bike and driving past the gate faster than you thought was possible. There was a strange sort of numbness that overwhelmed you, and you knew it was only a matter of time before the dam that held your feelings back broke. And you’re pretty sure you didn’t want to be around others when that happened.

You were unlocking the door of your apartment without properly registering it, your body moving on its own to put on your suit and grab your escrima sticks. Next thing you know, you’re on the roof of your building. Your eyes scan the skyline of Gotham, and you inhale deeply, letting the cool night air surround you. In. Out. In. Out. In-The rumble of clouds overhead breaks your focus, and you suddenly find yourself running.

You don’t know what you’re running from - or towards - but you just kept running. You leaped over the gaps in the buildings, hopping over ledges and power lines. Tears begin to blur your vision, but you don’t stop running. You regret that decision as soon as you trip over a plank of wood, flying forward. Luckily, or unluckily, the building had a ledge, which meant that instead of falling down 20 stories, your stomach collided with the ledge.

Hot tears fell from your eyes, and you didn’t bother trying to hold them back. You gripped the edge of the ledge tightly, your chest heaving as you choked on a sob. Lightning cracked nearby, and rain followed a millisecond later.

Five years. Five goddamn years. You mourned him for five years, you felt all that pain, all that guilt, and he was alive? You knew you were screaming when you felt your throat burn.

Screaming didn’t alleviate the weight on your chest, so you lifted your fist and brought it down on the concrete. The pain was shooting up your arm, but that didn’t stop you from hitting the ledge again. You felt like a five-year-old throwing a tantrum, frustrated and angry and sad, and having no clue on how to handle the situation. You screamed again, shoving the ledge and hitting it as if it could solve the problem.

Black gloves hands encircled you, gripping your wrists tightly and preventing you from hitting out. You thrashed in the hold, kicking out uselessly.

“You’ll hurt yourself!” Bruce’s voice came through. He hadn’t switched on his voice modulator.

“I don’t care!” You punctuated each word with a shove, but you slumped into his chest, closing your eyes. You’re sobs died down as Bruce held you, and you let the rain lull you to sleep.

-----

Love is Slowly Losing Your Mind

-----

Tick.

You can’t see.

Tock.

You can’t move.

Tick.

You can’t breathe.

Tock.

You hear footsteps.

Tick.

“She’s finally awake!”

Tock

You know that voice.

Tick

“Decided to join the party eh?”

Tock

Its always that voice.

Tick.

A cloth is ripped away from your face.

Tock.

Red lips smile right in front of you.

Tick.

Fuck.

Tock.

“Let’s play.”

Tick.

Your eyes snap open. You can’t breathe, you can’t move.

It was just a dream. You force yourself to close your eyes, focusing on the whirring of the fan above you as you calm your breathing. Just a dream, you tell yourself.

You sit up, pulling your hair into a ponytail and heading over to the bathroom. You brush your teeth, wash your face, and look in the mirror.

He can’t hurt you anymore.

You dress and go to the cafe, arriving half an hour early. A waitress places some coffee in front of you and you thank her with a smile. You don’t drink the coffee though.

The sound of the chair scraping on the floor causes you to look up, and Dick smiles down at you. Except this time, his smile isn’t genuine, it doesn’t reach his eyes. He looks tired, and worn down, something that shocks you a little. Dick isn’t normally one to be anything less that happy.

He sits across you, swallowing, eyes darting anywhere but your face. When the waitress placed your usuals down, neither of you make a move to eat.

“So,” he starts, voice rough. He clears his throat, sighing heavily and running a hand across his face.

“So,” you agree, picking up your cup and lifting it to your mouth. You wrinkle your nose at the now cold beverage. You make eye contact with Dick and the unspoken question hangs in the air.

Now what?

He’s a mob boss, Dick’s raised eyebrow says.

He’s dangerous, your frown responds.

He almost killed you, Dick slumps further into his seat, eyes never leaving yours.

“He’s family,” you say, voice quiet. Dick closes his eyes for a moment. “Yeah. He is.”

You don’t say much else, and you part to go to your respective jobs. You reach your office, and there are no new cases or any overdue paperwork to deal with, which is a first. Your boss tells you to take the rest of the day off, so you do.

You walk around Gotham for hours, only going back home when the sun begins to set. You contemplate skipping patrol, but you know you need the exercise.

Suddenly you were 10 years old again, clinging onto Dick’s hand before your first patrol.

There’s nothing to be scared about, you rationalise. Absolutely nothing.

You were wrong.

You don’t make it very far, just two blocks away from your apartment, when you see the Red Hood.

-----

When Can I See You Again?

-----

You stumble onto the roof, fisting your cape on your side. He’s leaning against the edge of the building, his arms crossed. He seems to be watching you, or waiting for you, whichever it is, you’re not entirely sure.

He watches you for a moment, and you watch him, a voice in your head telling you that there’s no way in hell that’s Jason Todd.

Red Hood pushed himself off the wall, striding towards you and easily towering over you. Your heart is drumming in your ears, with him being so close to you that you can smell him, and the doubt begins to fade.

The scent is a deep, musky sort of aroma, whiffs of cigarette smoke and alcohol mixing in nicely. It’s strange, reminding you of dark and dingy corners of bars late at night, but at the same time it’s so incredibly him, so incredibly Jason, that you don’t have the heart to deny yourself a little hope anymore.

Especially not with that stupid leather jacket of his, making his arms look so good.

You swallow nervously, tilting your head up to look at him. If either of you move any closer, your chests would be brushing.

And then he moves. He takes a small step closer, one of his hands now on the small of your back and guiding you backwards, into the shadows, until your back touches a wall. You don’t know why your body lets him, why you’re not reacting to him dragging guiding you around.

He’s practically pressed against you, one of his legs between yours, the hand not on your back is resting on the wall on the side of his head. He’s so much taller than you, your head practically looking straight up to look at him.

You hear an intake of breath which could be him about to say something, but then your hands touch his mask gently. He flinches away, body tensing. His hand leaves your back and is suddenly gripping your neck, pressing you against the wall.

“You got some fuckin’ nerve,” he starts, voice gravelly. You don’t care, or seem to have heard him, really, your hands going straight back to his hood. “Take it off.”

“Given’ me orders, huh? Never would’ve thought  you-”

“Take the fucking thing off or get your hands off me!” You retort, tugging at his hand around your neck. Surprisingly, you don’t seem to mind it at all. Hood’s eyes narrow and he pulls back very slightly, his hands leaving you. You’re almost disappointed until he pulls his helmet off, dropping it onto the floor. Not a second passes before he’s closed in on you again, this time applying pressure on your neck.

You’re nearly gasping for air, but you don’t struggle or make any attempts to get out of his grasp. Instead, you look at him, memorising his features. His eyes have hardened, a new steel in them that wasn't there before, but somehow they’ve stayed exactly the same. You see his features soften just a little as you breathe out his name, and you watch as his pupils dilate. Jason - it’s so clearly Jason - smirks, his head dipping down to yours. You can feel his breath on your face, your eyes locked onto his.

“So fuckin’ pretty,” he murmurs, his thumb stroking your jaw.

“I could destroy you,” he continued, voice soft and eerily soothing. “I could wreck you and ya wouldn’t stand a chance. Could snap this pretty little neck o’ yours.”

A normal person would be trembling, scared shitless in this situation. You… were not normal.

“What’s stopping you then?” You say, voice low and equally calm. You inhaled and god he smelled good.

“Nothin’ if you keep runnin’ that mouth.”

“I’m calling bullshit,” you say, smug under him, despite the fact that he has you pinned and his hand is tight around your throat. He cocks and eyebrow, waiting for you to continue. “If you wanted to kill me you would’ve done it that other night.”

“Maybe I’m regretting’ leaving you alive,” he shoots back. You shrug, leaning your head back as if you were extremely comfortable. (Which, for the record, you totally were.) Jason - Red Hood?- lets his forehead rest against your for a moment, your lips almost brushing. You could just… tilt your head up…

With a heavy sigh, he releases you, taking a few steps away from you. He picks up his helmet, back turning towards you, and you let out a shaky breath.

“Next time I’m gonna kill you,” he says, voice not in the least bit threatening.

A sudden urge to touch him again courses through you, and you lunge towards him. His reflexes are still sharp, and he spins around, anticipating an attack. Your body slams into his, and he barely shifts. He only seems to stiffen when you wrap your arms around him. You press your cheek to his chest, breath shaky as you listen to his steady heartbeat. You don’t realise you’re crying until his gloved hand strokes your cheek. His other arm wraps around your shoulders awkwardly, unsure of how to react. You sniffle, arms tightening around him. He seems to get the hint and tightens his grip on you, his touch full of warmth and comfort.

You pull away first, and he avoids your gaze.

“You still gonna try to kill me?” You say, trying to lighten the moment. Your voice comes out a lot weaker than you would’ve liked.

Red Hood straightens up to his full height, staring at you head on.

“You’ll have to wait and see.”

[moodykylo]

TMA prompts you say??? i am here!!! if you don't like this, let me know and i can try again, but!! what about Jon in a VERY bad mood, and the assistants are angry with him about it, but it turns out Elias is burying him in work even though he's already sick :( if you'd like me to try again, let me know!!

Hi! Thanks for the prompt! I apologize if this is OOC at all? I feel like it is, but! I hope you enjoy regardless!

Warning! There are slight spoilers for around season 2?

Tim was not happy with Jon right now. Well, nowadays, he was never happy with his boss, but today he was fuming. Jon was more irritable and pissed off than usual, and Tim didn’t even think that was possible, it seemed to him that the other always had a perpetual stick up his ass.

Today, Jon was insufferable. Tim had gone to give Jon his research, only for him to snap at him for entering before knocking, Tim of course, scoffed and made a remark, Jon, who usually rolled his eyes and shook his head instead yelled at him again, snatching the work out of his hand and immediately dismissing him.

Tim marched out of Jon’s office and sat at his desk with a huff of anger. Martin looked over to him, brows furrowed in concern and question. Tim looked over to Jon’s office scowling. “He’s being a dick.” He sighed, slumping in his chair.

Martin frowned, gaze shifting between the closed door to Jon’s office and to Tim typing angrily on his computer. He sighed, hoping that he could figure out what was wrong when he brought Jon his morning tea. Speaking of, what time was it? Martin checked the time on his computer, immediately getting out of his seat upon seeing he was running late already.

He went to the breakroom and put water in the kettle, letting it boil as he set up 4 separate mugs, one for Tim, another for Sasha, then Jon, and then himself. He knew the way everyone liked their tea, he’d learned after trying to provide comfort in small ways, mostly because Jon wouldn’t accept any other gesture of concern.

Martin hummed a half-remembered tune as he poured the hot water over the tea bags, starting the handoff, saving Jon’s office for last. When Martin gave Tim his tea, the other man stopped him before he could even step foot towards the archivist’s office.

“I’m warning you he’s in a horrid mood,” Tim said voice low and serious. “Good luck in the lion’s den.” He said sardonically, resuming his typing on the computer.

Martin just shook his head strolling over to the heavy door that was engraved with “Head Archivist” in silver lettering. He knocked timidly, before entering. Immediately freezing under Jon’s gaze. His eyes were narrowed in scrutiny, his brown eyes appearing almost icy and glare sharp. If looks could kill Martin would be dead where he stood.

Martin was now regretting not listening to Tim. He couldn’t remember a time he’d ever seen Jon look so angry. Martin tried not to maintain eye contact, but he’d noticed something else in Jon’s glower; pure exhaustion.

Martin should’ve known better than to poke the sleeping bear with a stick, but his tongue betrayed him and before he knew it, he was asking “Jon? You alright? You look absolutely spent.”

Jon’s scowl only deepened at this. “What do you want Martin?” Jon spat, each syllable filled with venom, his jaw tight and clenched. His hand was hovering over his tape recorder, the pause button pushed down.

Martin swallowed, chest now tight with anxiety. “Oh r-right, um, I brought you t-tea?” He stammered, hands shaking as he put the mug on Jon’s desk. As he did so his eyes scanned the stacks of papers and statements scattered haphazardly around the small office.

“Next time don’t interrupt me, I’m rather busy. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” Jon replied bitterly, glaring daggers at Martin, grabbing the statement he was working on.

“Right. Sorry.” Martin replied timidly, rushing out of the office, the door closing in time with the click of the play button on the tape recorder. The deep timbre of Jon’s voice resuming, taking on the edge that it usually did when he read statements. If Martin hadn’t been so freaked out he might’ve noticed the slight raspiness in the words.

Tim looked over to where Martin was standing, shaking his head with a sigh. “I told you he was in a mood,” Tim remarked. Martin only shook his head.

“I’ve never seen him like that. He was…” Martin paused, searching for the right word to explain the pure fury he’d seen in the other man’s eyes. “Seething.” he completed.

Tim only sighed. “He’s just an ass. What I wouldn’t do to give him a piece of my mind.” Tim scoffed.

“I-I don’t know why but I’m worried about him.” Martin stuttered. “There was something else there… exhaustion maybe? I-I don’t know but I think he’s working too hard.” He fretted.

Tim only laughed at this. “You worry too much Marto, the new position’s probably just gotten to his head,” Tim snarked. “You’ve got it bad for him don’t you.” he teased, grinning when Martin flushed in embarrassment.

“I-I do not! He... I just... I-” Martin rambled.

“Relax! I’m just pulling your leg.” Tim laughed. “I’m just pissed at him. Who does he think is? Yelling at all of us. Pompous idiot.” He rolled his eyes. “Elias should’ve never given him that position.” Tim explained.

“Excuse me, Mr. Stoker?” Elias’ voice suddenly broke out, and Tim felt himself pale.

“Oh, boss! What are you doing down here?” Tim stammered, no longer suave.

“Just coming to deliver more statements to the head archivist, or rather the man “I should’ve never given this position to.” Isn’t that right?” Elias replied smugly.

Martin shifted uncomfortably on his feet, clearing his throat before speaking. “S-sorry! Um.” Martin squeaked.

Tim’s confidence returned as quickly as it had disappeared. “Well, he can’t seem to keep his ego in check, yelling at us over the smallest of errors.” Tim grumbled.

Elias hummed in response. “Well, perhaps you should keep your judgment to yourself, Timothy.” Elias chastised.

“Sure thing.” Tim replied, unafraid. He resumed typing on his computer as Elias walked over to Jon’s office.

Martin sat back at his desk anxiously, keeping an eye on the small window of Jon’s office, trying to see what was going on.

Elias knocked on the office door and walked in, a complacent smile on his face. He was testing his archivist, pushing him beyond his limits. He had been piling more and more work onto Jon, seeing how he would respond, how his work would be affected. Call him cruel, but he was just trying to unlock Jon’s potential. So far, he was becoming more successful than Gertrude.

Jon looked up at the door, expecting another interruption from Martin, he quickly paused the tape recorder on his desk, scolding words already at the tip of his tongue. When he saw that it was in fact, not Martin at his door but Elias Bouchard, his stomach dropped. Elias had more statements, fuck. Jon ran a hand through his greying hair. He just wanted to go home, it was getting harder to concentrate on the words etched in ink on the parchment.

“Hello, Jon,” Elias spoke, his voice holding a sinister edge. “How are the statements coming along?” His smug smile did not falter for a moment.

Jon swallowed thickly as Elias’ gaze burned right through him. “Elias,” Jon acknowledged the greeting. “They’re uh- excuse me-” Jon stopped mid-sentence to cough painfully into his arm. He cleared his throat before speaking again. “Apologies, I’m about halfway through the stack.” he rasped pitifully.

Elias made a hum of understanding. “Good. I do hope you’ll complete these before you leave for the day.”

Jon sighed. “Of course,” he replied weakly, clearing his throat again.

Elias looked Jon over again, the Cheshire grin on his face never falling. “Oh, and Jon?” he said, walking over to the door.

Jon looked at him expectantly, eyes half-lidded, with an eyebrow raised.

“You have quite the fever, do be sure to keep it under control.” Elias said nonchalantly before leaving the small office, leaving Jon alone, mouth agape.

Jon had known of Elias’ omniscience, but not that it was at the level. God, he needed a lie down.

[ollieofthebeholder]

leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall): a TMA fanfic

Tumblr tag || Also on AO3

Chapter 27: Martin

Jon has always been bad about actually stopping what he’s doing and getting lunch, but ever since Jane Prentiss came into their lives it’s only gotten worse. Sometimes Martin or Tim, or both, can coax him out to join them, but too often it’s met with a you go ahead, I just want to finish this up and the next thing they know it’s six o’clock and Jon hasn’t eaten since breakfast and has just one more thing to finish up before they can go. (He always insists that the others don’t have to wait for him, but that’s a lie; the one time they did all leave and let Jon stay to finish up what he was working on, they wound up having to call him, threaten to come back to the Institute and get him, and keep talking to him while he packed his things and got out the door.) They’ve taken to solving the issue by picking up an extra sandwich or something and bringing it back for Jon when they go to lunch.

Such is the case today. There’s a curry house opening about a ten-minute walk from the Institute that Tim wants to try, but he doesn’t want to go alone; Sasha isn’t all that fond of spicy food, so Martin agrees to go with him. Martin pops in to ask Jon if he wants to go, but Jon appears absorbed in his work and waves him off. Sasha promises to text if anything happens, and he and Tim set off.

It’s the first of October, the temperature hanging at about thirteen degrees following a rainy morning. The air still smells damp and earthy, and worms litter the sidewalks. Martin’s better about that than he used to be—when he was first going on walks with the Primes, during his initial recovery period, they learned very quickly that he needed to give it a good twenty-four hours after the rain stopped before he was able to go out without panicking about the worms—but still, he finds himself watching where he puts his feet very carefully.

Tim has to notice, but doesn’t mention it. Martin’s come to realize over the last year or so that that’s very much how Tim is; he’ll tease, sure, but never about something important. He does loop his arm through Martin’s, though. “Maybe I should start bringing a pack of cards with me to work or something. I bet we can drag Jon out of his office long enough to eat if we give him the chance to whittle away at your point lead, too.”

“I hope so. I’m pretty sure what he’s working on is just the stuff that can be recorded on the laptop, but…I worry. You know?” Martin thinks about the intense look Jon gets when they’re reading over something that they all suspect will turn out to be real. He doesn’t want to lose Jon, but the words stick in his throat.

“I know,” Tim says quietly. “I do, too.” He bumps Martin’s shoulder with his own. “Worry about you, too. I’ve seen the look on your face when you’re researching some of this stuff.”

“I don’t…really?” Martin’s stomach lurches. “I-I mean, it’s…it’s hard to walk away from and…”

“Yeah, I’ve noticed, but…never mind.” Tim falls silent.

Martin decides to wait him out and focuses on his footsteps until they get to the curry house. Because it’s a Saturday (and why they’re working on a Saturday is another issue entirely and allegedly involves a scheduling issue with some work needing to be done), and because it’s the grand opening, they expect a bit of a crowd; because of the rain, it’s not as bad as it could be, but there’s still quite a line and at first Martin thinks they’ll have to take their meals to go, which wouldn’t be a bad thing, honestly. He figures maybe they can get their orders, head back to the Institute, and convince Jon to stop and eat with them if they aren’t taking him out of the Archives. But a table opens up in the corner just as they get their order, and they manage to nab it before anyone else can.

Tim doesn’t go back to his original topic while they’re eating, which, honestly, Martin should have expected. They talk a little bit about the statements they’re investigating, most of which are probably going to end up in the Discredited section, and some about what they’re going to do for Jon’s birthday next week. Although they dance around the issue a bit since they’re in public, they both agree that they’ve somehow got to do something for Jon Prime as well. The memory of the sheer delight on Martin Prime’s face when they included him in Martin’s birthday celebration is hard to forget.

“You know they’d only just had their birthdays when…everything happened, right?” Martin asks as they head back to the Institute. The sun is making a valiant effort to poke through the clouds, and most of the worms seem to have either managed to clear the sidewalks or been removed, but he’s still watching the ground instead of what’s ahead of him and trusting Tim to tell him before he runs into someone.

“Who?” Tim asks, sounding confused.

“The Primes. Martin Prime told me on…our birthday? Jon Prime’s thirty-first was while they were in Scotland, like a week and a half, maybe, before the world ended.”

Tim hums. “What about Martin Prime’s?”

Martin hesitates. “It was, um, before that.”

“While he was still working with Peter Lukas,” Tim says flatly. Martin doesn’t respond. “Great. So he was—ugh. I wish I’d known that beforehand, I’d’ve…I don’t know, tried to do more for him. Being alone on your birthday—”

“Is something we’re used to,” Martin interrupts, a bit more sharply than he means to. “God, Tim, do you know when the last time was someone even bothered to acknowledge my birthday before last year? I was eight. Mum sure as hell wasn’t going to say anything about it, and my only friends were from school. Since my birthday was right in the middle of the summer holiday, I didn’t even get the teacher acknowledging it in class. Martin Prime’s twenty-ninth birthday happened less than a month after Jane Prentiss attacked, when Jon Prime and Tim Prime were still out on medical leave and it was just him and the Not-Sasha. His thirtieth birthday happened less than a month after—” His voice cracks and he can’t bring himself to say it. After your counterpart died. After Jon Prime wound up in a coma.

Tim stops dead on the sidewalk, mid-step. Martin pulls to a stop, too, and looks up at him. Before he can say anything, Tim turns and pulls him into a tight hug. Martin freezes for a second, then relaxes into it and hugs Tim back.

“I’m sorry,” Tim says in his ear. “You deserve better than that. We’ll do better for you. I promise.”

Martin exhales. “Thanks, Tim.”

They separate and head back into the Archives. Sasha looks up at them and smiles wryly when she sees the takeout box in Martin’s hand. “Might have to wait on that a bit. He’s got someone in there.”

Tim curses under his breath. “And nobody to cut the energy.”

“I offered to sit in with them both, but she insisted it would be fine. I couldn’t push it.” Sasha waves a hand at her computer. “Besides, I’m waiting on some reports to compile on—”

There’s a yell of pain from the direction of Jon’s office. Martin’s head jerks up, and the takeout container slips from his hand to the ground. He doesn’t even notice if it falls open or not, too busy rushing for the office door, Tim a half-step behind him. His fingers touch the knob just as there’s a second, louder yell.

“Jon!” Martin flings the door open and bursts into the room. Jon is standing behind his desk, head bowed and shoulders bent, one hand braced against the surface and the other pressing hard against his abdomen.

Jon looks up, his face tight and his eyes wide with pain and terror. “Michael,” he gasps. “H-he was here.”

“Oh, God.” Martin is at Jon’s side in a flash and reaching for him. He starts to pull him into a hug, then freezes when Jon lets out a small, distressed noise. “What happened? What did—are you hurt?”

“H-he—” Jon shifts his hand slightly, and now Martin can see something wet and red on his fingers. Blood. Oh, that’s not good. “His fingers—he—”

“Tim!” Martin barks. “We need the first aid kit. Now.”

“On it.” Tim turns on his heel and practically flies out of the office.

Martin guides Jon back into his chair and kneels down in front of him. “Here, let me see,” he says as calmly as he can, reaching for Jon’s hand.

Jon only presses his hand tighter against his side, despite the obvious pain it causes him to do so, so Martin stops moving. “He took her,” he gasps out.

“Took who?” Martin asks, a sinking feeling in his stomach.

“Th-the woman. Helen Richardson. She was—she was making her statement, I told her we believed her, she left and—and I thought—and then he was there and—” Jon swallows. He’s starting to tremble. “It was the wrong door, Martin. She went out the wrong door. He took her and I couldn’t—”

“Easy, Jon. Easy,” Martin says soothingly. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not! I should have—” Jon breaks off with a whimper. He’s really worked up, and Martin is worried about it.

He’s more worried about the injury, though, so when Tim returns an instant later with the first aid kit in hand, Martin immediately sets about unpacking the gauze and alcohol wipes.

“Okay, Jon,” he says. “I’m going to need to take a look at this. Tim, can you hold his other hand? I know this is going to hurt, but I need you to trust me, okay? I want to help.”

He’s talking to Jon like a frightened child, he knows that, but right now Jon looks like a frightened child, and anyway, he nods and takes Tim’s hand. Martin carefully pulls Jon’s hand away from his side. The fussy old-man cardigan Tim’s been teasing him about since day one is torn and wet to the touch, and when Martin shifts it aside, there’s already a dark stain on the turtleneck underneath. He tries to be gentle about lifting it up, but Jon cries out when he pulls the shirt away from the wound and tightens his grip on Tim’s hand.

“Sorry, sorry!” Martin says, feeling guilty. Tim murmurs soothing nonsense at Jon, squeezing his hand and wrapping his free arm around Jon’s shoulders. Jon’s breathing heavily, and one look at what Martin can see tells him that stopping the bleeding is more important than cleaning up the skin. He grabs a pad of gauze, folds it over, and presses it to where he’s pretty sure the wound is. Jon gives a strangled noise, but doesn’t flinch away.

The gauze soaks through far too quickly, and Martin shakes his head worriedly. He manages to unwrap a second piece of gauze and press it on top of the first without any difficulty, but securing it is going to be a problem. “Here, Jon, I need your help, okay? Come hold this for a second. Can you do that for me?”

Jon’s fingers are trembling as they brush Martin’s. Martin switches their positions as quickly as he can, helping Jon apply the right amount of pressure, then reaches over and grabs the medical tape. He rips off a couple of strips, then nudges Jon’s hand out of the way and secures the gauze as best he can. It’s not perfect, but it’ll hold long enough.

“You’re going to need stitches, I think,” Martin tells him, standing up and holding out a hand. “The clinic’s only a few blocks away. Do you think you can walk?”

Jon stares at Martin’s hand for a moment, then nods mutely and accepts it. He wobbles and winces as he gets to his feet, then stumbles against Martin’s side. He’s shaking all over, and Martin is really worried.

He looks over at Tim, who bites his lip hard before saying quietly, “Call if you need backup. I’ll—I’ll stay here and help Sasha handle Elias if he turns up.”

“The tape—statement—” Jon gasps and gestures at the silent recorder on his desk.

“We’ll listen to it,” Tim promises. “It’ll be okay, boss.”

“I’ll call,” Martin assures him. He wraps his arm around Jon’s shoulders and leads him out of the Archives.

Three blocks over and one block up. It really isn’t a long walk to the clinic, but Martin isn’t completely sure Jon’s going to make it at first without being carried. He keeps stumbling over his feet and stopping for breath. Martin encourages him, but he’s about three seconds away from scooping him up bridal-style and carrying him the rest of the way to the clinic. Somehow, though, they make it. Martin texts Tim to let him know they made it safely, then opens the door and steps in.

It takes Martin a second to recognize the person behind the reception desk; they’ve changed their hair, a green bouffant with a bleach-blond stripe just above black roots and the sides shaved, and Martin’s pretty sure there’s an extra cartilage piercing that wasn’t there before, but it could just be a brighter stud than usual.

“Hey, Zig,” he says in greeting as he ushers Jon up to the counter. “Love the hair.”

Zig looks up and breaks into a grin. “Martin, hey! Long time no see…whoa.”

“Worms,” Martin says succinctly. “Bit much for you all. It was also the middle of the night.”

“Valid.” Zig peers at Jon, who is managing to look both bewildered and terrified, then back at Martin. “Work-related?”

“Yep.”

“On a Saturday?”

Martin shrugs. “They’re doing work on Monday that we apparently can’t manage around, so Elias shifted the weekend. There are some questions I just don’t ask anymore.”

“Fair enough.” Zig waves in the direction of the door. “You know the drill. What am I warning the doc about?”

“Stab wound. Thanks, Zig.” Martin steers Jon through the mercifully empty waiting room. It usually is when he comes through here, but whenever there are people waiting, someone inevitably starts complaining and Zig—or whoever’s working reception—always has to lie and say they have an appointment.

Jon doesn’t say anything as Martin leads him on the familiar route—through the heavy blue door, turn left at the corridor with a nod to the nurse sitting behind the desk, three doors down and the last one on the right. The room is on the smallish side, with enough room for the exam table, a small counter with a sink, two overhead cupboards and a set of drawers under the counter. Two people fit comfortably, three is a bit of a squeeze, but Martin for all his size fits neatly enough into the corner and out of the way…usually. Today, though, Jon clings to his arm almost tight enough to hurt, and Martin knows he isn’t going anywhere.

“It’s okay, Jon,” he says gently. He’s still afraid, there’s no denying that, but he’s also a bit more relaxed now that they’re here. “I’m not going anywhere, okay? Not unless you tell me to.”

“No—stay—” Jon sounds slightly panicked. He closes his eyes and takes a couple deep breaths.

“I will. I promise. C’mon, come sit down. The doctor will be here soon.” Martin keeps his voice as low and soothing as he can as he leads Jon to the exam table and helps him settle onto it. “You’ll like him. He’s good at what he does.”

“You’ve…been here before,” Jon manages. He’s either in a lot of pain or he’s lost a lot more blood than is optimal, and Martin kind of hopes it’s the former so they don’t have to sit here while Jon gets a transfusion.

“Mm-hmm. Remember the day Basira dropped off that first tape, when I told you Diana used to send me on whatever errand she could think of to get me out of the library for a bit?” Jon nods, and Martin continues, “Well, one of those things was bringing people here. Whenever someone in Artifact Storage gets hurt beyond the help of a first aid kit, this is the nearest place. The staff’s really good, the care is excellent, and they…”

“Don’t ask questions?”

“Don’t question answers.”

Before Martin can elaborate, the door opens, and a silver-haired man in a white coat who looks like he was sent straight from Central Casting comes in, shutting the door behind him. He smiles when he sees Martin. “Ah, Martin, good. We were starting to wonder if something had happened to you.”

“I got shifted to the Archives,” Martin explains. “They tend to…leave us to our own devices.”

“Well, they need to stop doing that. Everyone’s so damned close with their secrets. It makes things remarkably difficult.” The doctor turns to Jon with a warm smile. “Hello. I’m Dr. Early. What seems to be the trouble today, Mr…?”

“Uh, Sims. Jonathan Sims.” Jon blinks, looking a bit dazed, and glances helplessly at Martin.

“Mr. Sims, then. I hear you’ve a stab wound?” Dr. Early lifts an eyebrow in Martin’s direction. “That’s a new one. You must’ve got a really interesting artifact in. Did it explode or did you just not notice how close you were to the pointy bits?”

“It was a person this time. Jon’s the Head Archivist,” Martin says. “We don’t deal so much with…things.”

“Oh? Do tell.”

Martin glances at Jon, who still looks a little stunned. “Um, unexpected visit from a being that thrives on the fear of confusion, currently in the shape of a blond man with knives for fingers? I…don’t know the details beyond that, sorry.”

“Mm. Well, Mr. Sims, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you.” Dr. Early looks Jon over and gentles his voice. “Can you please tell me what happened?”

“Uh—” Jon looks worriedly up at Martin again.

Martin squeezes Jon’s hand. “I usually just tell him exactly what happened. It’s okay.”

“It’s a lot harder to treat someone if I’m lied to about the cause,” Dr. Early explains. “Or given vague, incomplete explanations. Which is why we’ve all been extremely annoyed that they’ve been sending people who are either protective of their work or afraid of being sent to the loony bin. I can assure you, we don’t commit people from the Magnus Institute, and we’re not interested in spreading your research around, either. Martin here is very straightforward and honest and it’s a great help. We’ve missed him a lot.”

“I can understand that,” Jon murmurs, and Martin’s face gets hot. “A—a man came to—h-he appeared and—” He breaks off. “I-I’m sorry, I don’t—I can’t—”

Dr. Early looks at Martin, obviously concerned. Jon can’t seem to get his thoughts straight, which the good doctor obviously thinks means he’s more badly injured than he is. Martin knows Jon, though, and he knows he’s just scared and confused. He takes both of Jon’s hands in his own. Maybe he’ll talk to Martin.

“Jon,” he says, gently but forcefully. “Look at me, okay? Focus on me. What happened?”

Jon’s eyes clear—he’s still frightened, but at least he’s focusing, which Martin appreciates. “Helen Richardson—she came to make a statement, she encountered Michael after all. I told her I believed her and we would do what we could to protect her, and then she left. I was getting ready to come out and tell Sasha I was heading down into the tunnels, to—to tell you and Tim not to worry about me—when I heard a voice asking me if I was who I was pretending to be. There was a man standing there and I started to say he didn’t belong there, but then I realized who he was and asked if he was Michael. He said he was, and—I said Helen had escaped, and he said she hadn’t, that there had never been a door there. I tried to get him to give her back, and when he said no, I stood up, I was—I don’t know what I was going to do, something, but he just—reached out and dug his finger into my side, just like Sasha described in her statement, but—it wasn’t to help, it was to hurt. It did hurt, and I—I asked why he was doing this, and he—he didn’t answer, he just…” His voice cracks. “I-I couldn’t stop him, Martin, I couldn’t save her—”

“Hey, easy, easy,” Martin says as soothingly as he can, even as his heart sinks. “It’s okay, Jon. You did your best. It’s not your fault. Tell me what his fingers looked like.”

“U-um, like—like knives. Long and skinny a-and sharp.”

“Were they straight, jagged…?”

“Straight,” Jon says after a short pause. “Like—like my paper knife, the one I—they weren’t metal, they were bone.”

Martin glances up at Dr. Early, who makes a motion like he’s washing his hands. Martin understands. “Were they clean?”

“I—I didn’t notice? They were yellow. Like old bone. I-I didn’t see any dirt or, or blood, but…”

“All right. Let me take a look at it,” Dr. Early says calmly. “Where is it?”

Martin steps to one side and releases one of Jon’s hands; Jon clings too tightly to the other for him to let go and indicates the injured spot with his now-free hand. Dr. Early carefully lifts the shirt and inspects the double layer of gauze. “I’m going to need to peel this off, Mr. Sims. This might hurt a bit.”

It does, judging by the way Jon’s fingers tighten around Martin’s as he hisses at the tug against his skin; Martin silently gives thanks that the Primes bullied him into taking care of himself properly and his wounds healed well, because otherwise this would hurt more than it does. As it is, he can bear up silently as Dr. Early removes the tape as carefully as he can and lifts the gauze from the wound. Fresh blood wells up as soon as it’s clear, and Jon screws his eyes up tightly.

“Mm, yes, this is going to need a few stitches.” Dr. Early speaks calmly. “Go ahead and take your shirt off and lie back. I’ll go get my supplies and be right back. Do you have any allergies, any medications you’re currently taking, any medical conditions that might interfere with the anesthesia?”

“Don’t—” Jon’s eyes pop open and nearly burst out of his skull, and his breathing starts getting shallow and panicky. “No, please, don’t—”

“All right, we can do this without anesthesia,” Dr. Early says without batting an eyelash. He’s used to the quirks and foibles of the Magnus Institute’s staff, and he’s probably used to people panicking, too. “I’ll go get my supplies and be right back.” He meets Martin’s eyes, flicks a finger at the exam table, and vanishes.

Martin exhales. “Okay, Jon. Let’s get you lying down so we can get this taken care of.”

“Don’t leave.” The raw panic in Jon’s expression is almost painful to look at.

Martin almost leans over to brush a kiss against Jon’s forehead, then catches himself at the last second and simply touches his own forehead to Jon’s briefly. “I’m not going anywhere, Jon. I promise. Might have to stand over there so I’m out of the way, but—”

“N-no—I can’t—I can’t be alone when—” Jon tightens his grip on Martin’s hand. “Th-the last time…I almost didn’t wake up. I don’t—I need someone to—”

That is not information Martin wants to have, let alone information he wants to gain right then, although distantly he supposes he’d need to know it at some point. “You won’t be alone. I promise. I’ll be right here. Doc will probably let me hold your hand, I just might have to—to be behind your head or something. We’ll see. Let’s just get you lying down, okay?”

Jon exhales and nods. “Okay.”

Martin helps Jon take off his ruined cardigan and turtleneck, then lie back against the paper-covered exam table. He tries to focus on Jon’s face so he doesn’t have to look at the gash in his side. “It’s going to be okay,” he tells Jon, and he’s not sure if that’s a promise or a threat, but he means it with every fiber of his being. Everything will be okay if he personally has to take down every entity and being that serves them armed with nothing but a corkscrew and his mediocre poetry.

Jon keeps his eyes fixed on Martin’s, even as Dr. Early comes back into the room with his little kit. He takes one look at the two of them and doesn’t even bother to shoo Martin into the corner. “Great, you’re all set. This might hurt a bit, but I’ll try to be as quick and careful as I can.”

The wound is a bit bigger than Jon implied, once Dr. Early has irrigated it, but at least the edges appear to be clean. Jon occasionally lets out a small, breathy whimper, but for the most part just clings to Martin’s hand, while Martin rubs his thumb soothingly against Jon’s skin. While Dr. Early works, he asks Martin about his scars, and Martin readily tells him about Jane Prentiss and the worms. The fear in Jon’s eyes never goes away, but it doesn’t get worse either.

“All finished,” Dr. Early says at last. “You can sit up now, Mr. Sims. Keep the area clean and try not to agitate it. You can come back here or go to your regular doctor in about a week to have the stitches removed.”

“Thank you,” Jon says softly.

“Anything for a friend of Martin’s.” Dr. Early flashes Martin a smile as he tries not to blush. “We’ll send the bill to the Institute as usual. Do take care, both of you.”

“Thanks, Doc,” Martin says. Dr. Early gives him a wink, collects his supplies, and heads out the door.

Martin helps Jon sit up, gently but firmly stopping him from touching the row of sutures punctuating his abdomen. He starts to hand him his shirt, then pauses, looking at the tear and the bloodstain. “Think this shirt might be a wash.”

“I never liked that color,” Jon whispers, but sighs and reaches for it anyway. “I—I can’t—it’s too cold to go shirtless.”

“Wait, here.” Martin takes off his sweater—he’s got another shirt on underneath it, so it’s fine—and bundles Jon into it before he can protest. He’s so used to seeing Jon Prime wearing Martin Prime’s sweaters that he expects this will be the same, but somehow it isn’t, because this is Jon and it’s his sweater, and even though he tries to remind himself it’s just for convenience’s sake, he can’t deny that it does something to his heart to see Jon, still shaking and vulnerable, huddled in the very first sweater Martin ever completed all on his own.

“Thank you.” Jon looks up at Martin, his eyes huge.

“Of course.” Martin puts an arm around Jon’s shoulders. “You ready?”

Jon nods and lets Martin lead him out of the exam room. Zig gives them a wave and a smile as they head out the door, which Martin returns.

It’s not that cold outside; it’s actually probably the warmest it’s been all day, but there’s a bit of a breeze going that keeps it cool. Martin has enough body fat that he’ll be all right, though, so he concentrates on keeping Jon from blowing away and moving in the right direction. Jon’s pretty pliable, tucked close against Martin’s side, and they’re definitely moving better than they were when they left the Institute, for which Martin is incredibly thankful, especially when the clouds thicken and it starts raining again just before they get back. Martin shields Jon with his body and takes the brunt of the wet, although it’s fortunately not too bad and they get through the Archive door with little more than a sprinkle.

Tim must have been watching the door, because he’s right there almost before they make it all the way down the steps. He grins a little when he sees Jon in Martin’s sweater, but there’s still worry in his eyes. “Hey, boss. All better?”

Jon shakes his head mutely, and Tim’s smile vanishes. Martin decides to blame the chill that runs down his spine on his slightly damp cambric shirt. “Jon, what’s wrong? Where are you hurt?”

“No, not—” Jon wraps his arms around his midsection and tucks his chin against his chest, eyes closed and looking absolutely miserable. “I-it’s my fault, I—I couldn’t—”

“Hey.” Martin pulls Jon into a hug and glances up at Tim, who instantly joins in. They’ve done this a lot lately, the three of them, a small part of his brain muses. Whenever one of them—Jon or Tim, really—has a bit of a breakdown, can’t be strong enough, the other two gently pen them in and do their best to comfort. He pushes the thought aside for the moment. “It’s not your fault. You didn’t ask to get hurt.”

“No, Helen, I—I couldn’t—I should have been able to stop her. It’s my fault,” Jon whispers, balling a hand into Martin’s shirt. “I let Michael get her and I could have saved her.”

“You couldn’t have,” Tim says, gently but firmly. “The Primes tried to warn her and she still fell for it.”

“But I-I knew, I should have known, the door was all wrong, and he’s right, there’s never been a door on that wall, I-I didn’t even notice…God, I thought Jon Prime didn’t notice because he was so—so paranoid, but I wasn’t, I was paying attention the whole time and he still got her…”

“Jon,” Martin says, half scolding and half pleading. Jon’s beginning to—there’s no other word for it—spiral and if they don’t divert it he’s going to break. “You did everything you could. We all know that. You couldn’t have saved her any more than you could have saved some of the people in these other statements. It’s not your fault. I promise. It’s not your fault any more than it’s mine, or Tim’s.”

Jon looks up at Martin. His eyes shine with unshed tears. “Y-you weren’t even here.”

“Exactly,” Tim says, obviously picking up on Martin’s thoughts, and when had they come to know each other so well? “If we’d been thinking about it, we’d have asked the Primes when Helen Richardson came, and we’d have made sure to be here all day so we could have helped. We could have all sat in with her while she made her statement, and surely one of us would have noticed the door was wrong. Or held the right door for her or something.”

Martin takes a risk and runs his hand through Jon’s hair; Jon leans slightly into the touch like a cat. “And it’s not like we would have been able to keep Michael from ever taking her. We can’t guard her all the time. How would you have felt if she’d made it out of the Institute safely, and you’d called her to follow up on the statement and found out she was gone?”

“At least the last thing she saw was a friendly face,” Tim points out softly. “At least this way she wasn’t alone.”

Jon closes his eyes and sags in their embrace. “She wasn’t,” he agrees. “But that’s worse. I-I should have walked her out.”

Martin inhales sharply, and when he looks over Jon’s head he sees the same stark fear in Tim’s eyes he feels in his own as both of them contemplate the possibility of Jon accidentally opening Michael’s door, stepping through it, getting lost in those corridors. He tries to keep his voice from shaking as he says, “And if that just meant both of you were in there? What then?”

Jon simply repeats, “I should have done more.”

And there’s really nothing either Tim or Martin can do right now to convince him otherwise, so they settle for holding him until he stops shaking so badly, then coaxing him to sit down while Tim reheats the curry for him. He claims it’s good, and Martin believes him, but it doesn’t mean they stop worrying.

Especially not when Jon refuses to let anyone else open a single door for the rest of the day.

[scandalsavagefanfic]

Ok but the worst person to cheat on Jason, even though that the cheating itself would be pretty bad, would be Dick. Like it's pretty much a given that if Jay and Dick ever got together every relationship issue that they ever had would be pinned on Jason even if it wasn't his fault so if Dick cheated pretty much everyone who saw them from the outside would be like " What did Jason do this time " or ''Damn Dick deserves much better than that guy'' and that would destroy Jay's self-esteem even more

Oh my god this so fucking true though. 

I don’t remember how I ended up with so many asks about Dick cheating (there are... at least two others waiting for me) especially since I don’t see Dick cheating. Dick is the type to love love and I don’t see him ever intentionally doing something he knows can or will hurt his partner. 

That said... I dig the angst factor of this so I wrote a little something. 

Probably For the Best

Rating: Teen (I guess)Words: 1157

_________________________________________________________

Tim stares at his mug; at the steam rising off the dark, umberliquid, and chews on his lip. It’s better if he doesn’t say anything. Certainlybetter to not ask what he’s thinking.

“At least he didn’t try to deny it,” Jason is saying, pokinghis fork at his untouched eggs. “I… just between you and me, Timbo, I probablywould have believed him if he had. I trusted him enough that I could have easilyconvinced myself I was just imagining things. Isn’t that messed up?”

He looks wrecked. Like he hasn’t been sleeping well, if atall. His hair is all untamed curls, sticking up all over the place and he has darkcircles under his bloodshot eyes. Maybe even lost a few pounds.

Tim watches him tip forward, resting his elbows on the table,dropping his head into his palms and digging his fingers into his hair. A deep,shuddering sigh wracks through his body. Like he’s trying to stop himself from gettingchocked up.

It’s been three days since Dick and Jason had a huge, blowup, fight and split. Maybe for good this time if what Jason is saying is true.

Except Tim has a feeling there’s more to it than Jason istelling him.

“Timmy?”

Tim shifts in his seat as he focuses on the heartbroken manacross from him. He loves Jason, he does, but… he loves Dick too. He wants tobe supportive and understanding but he can’t lie to Jason either. And he can’treally throw one of them under the bus for the other right?

There has to be a delicate way to say what he needs to say.To gently guide Jason to see it for himself.

“That sucks, Jay. Really. I’m sorry this is all happening. Whathappened?”

“What do you mean what happened? I just told you. Dickfucking cheated on me.”

“So there were no… signs or anything?”

“Other than the used condom I found when I took out the trashno, Tim, there weren’t any damn signs.”

Tim swallows and chews on his lip again, letting the pauselinger, trying to decide how best to continue.

“It’s just… that doesn’t really sound like Dick, you know?He’s not really the type to cheat for no reason.”

Even as the words leave his mouth he knows he’s made amistake.

The way Jason stills, lips forming a thin line, nostrilsflaring slightly, confirms his fear.

“What the hell does ‘for no reason’ mean?” He asks, voice alot softer than Tim would have expected. “Is there an acceptable reason to cheatthat I don’t know about?”

“I just mean that, sometimes, when a relationship is…complicated or on the rocks, it’s not uncommon for one or both partners to tryto find what they’ve lost with someone else.”

If Tim didn’t know any better, he’d say Jason’s eyes arestarting to look a bit glassy and wet. Even so, Jason manages to glare at himsilently for moment.

“That’s not a reason to cheat. If you’re together, there’san implicit agreement to talk about shit, work your problems out like adults. Andthen, if you can’t, you end it. You don’t… you don’t tell someone you love themand then jump into bed with someone else the moment they leave the apartment.”

“Well,” Tim starts, smiling, trying to hide his next pointin a joke, “You’re not the easiest guy to talk to, Jay.”

However Tim was expecting him to react it wasn’t like this.

Jason’s jaw drops a fraction and all the muscles in his facerelax, falling into something young and vulnerable.

Then his whole body deflates and he sinks back into hischair.

“This… this is my fault.”

Tim cocks his head and narrows his eyes. Can it really bethat easy to show Jason that Dick’s not the bad guy? Or, at least, not the onlybad guy.

“I mean, whatever happened, Dick probably played a part init, so I’m sure there’s enough blame to go around. But, hey maybe this is forthe best, you know? You guys fought all the time, you can’t have been happy.This is a chance to start over. You can find someone more your speed and Dickcan find someone—”

“Better?”

Jason is watching him so closely, face impassive, sea greeneyes locked onto even muscle twitch.

It’s hard to tamp down on the instinctive, reactionary side ofhis brain that answers Jason’s question with a resounding ‘yes’. After all,Dick is kind and funny and bright and just generally kind of perfect. Everyone whomeets him loves him and he could literally have anyone he wanted.

Jason, on the other hand, is… abrasive at best. Kind of aloner. The hermit to Dick’s social butterfly. They really were the weirdestcouple.

“That’s not what I was going to say, Jason,” Tim scolds, hopinghe sounds stern but withering a little under the way Jason’s intense gaze doesn’tbudge, keeping him pinned.

“Nah. You’d never say it. None of you would. ‘cept maybe B.But that’s what you were thinking, isn’t it?”

He could deny it. Wants to, just for Jason’s sake. He doesn’twant to hurt him. But it’s too late for that. It’d be perfunctory. Jason cansee the truth written on him. So Tim just shuts his mouth. Best to just letJason say his piece.

“This is what’s my fault,” he says, waving his hand betweenthem, “Not Dickhead cheating on me. I loved him and he… he fucked someone else.In our bed. I was gone for a single day. He didn’t even wait for my side to getcold.”

Sighing a big, shaky exhale, Jason stands, tosses way toomuch cash on the table and grabs his jacket from the seatback.

“I don’t know what I was thinking. Why I thought this wouldbe different. How could I have been so stupid? Of course this was my fault too.Probably more my fault that any of those dumb little fights, huh? Dick’s toosweet—too nice—to be a dick. Jason must’ve driven him into the arms of another.It couldn’t just be for completely selfish reasons, huh?”

Tim opens his mouth to… say something, anything. Defendhimself and the others. Jason isn’t exactly wrong, they do usually sidewith Dick but it’s… it’s because… it’s not like that. They aren’t automaticallychoosing one over the other. It’s just that Jason is… always wrong?

Even thinking it doesn’t feel right.

Fortunately, Jason doesn’t seem interested in what Tim hasto say. He just jerks his arms through his jacket, shoves his hands in the pocketsand faces Tim once more.

His expression is a façade of strength. But Tim can see thedefeat etched into every heart-broken line.

“I hope you think Slade fucking Wilson is an acceptable improvementfor your golden boy.” 

[violetsmoak]

Pieces of April [11/?]

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21099044/chapters/50202530

Summary: On the anniversary of his death, Jason’s second life takes an abrupt new turn and he’s faced with a challenge that neither Batman nor the All-Caste prepared him for.

Rating: PG-13 (rating may change later)

Warning(s): Past Jason/Isabel, kidfic, minor canon character death (pretty sure you can guess who), I’ll add more warnings/tags as I think of them.

Canon-Compliance: Takes place in between the two RHATO series, so after Roy and Kori and before Artemis and Bizarro. Jason and Isabel Ardila

First Chapter

________________________________________________________________

As expected, Jason doesn’t sleep that night.

His eyes remain trained on the ceiling of the guestroom while his subconscious drags him along a tilt-a-whirl of anxious and circular thoughts. He can barely process what they are with how fast they manifest and vanish again to be replaced with new ones. And before he’s really aware of it, the sun is streaming through the window that he forgot to pull the shades over, and he hears movement outside the room.

Figuring he might as well get up, he heaves himself out of bed and ambles down the stairs, skirting the piles of baby supplies he somehow forgot about while drowning in his night of circular thinking.

Tim is standing in his kitchen doing up his tie, nodding and humming with a frown on his face. Jason’s about to ask until he notices the hands-free earpiece in one ear. That could be either for work or to cover the Bat-issue comm; he probably has the latter plugged in permanently the same way Bruce does.

Tim notices him, and his mouth quirks upward in a not-quite smile of greeting.

“I’ll be in shortly, Lucius,” he says distantly. “We can discuss it before the meeting.” He taps the earpiece, hanging up, and then addresses Jason. “Good morning. You look like shit.”

“It’s the ‘I-didn't-sleep’ chic, which you should recognize since you invented it.”

“You’re just jealous you can’t make it look as good as I can,” Tim quips, and maybe if Jason were well-rested, he’d have a better retort for that. Instead, he narrows his eyes to study the younger man.

Tim Drake is polished and put-together, the epitome of perfect Wayne heir. Damian might throw around the words ‘blood son’ at every opportunity, and Dickie might be the first and favorite son, but Tim’s the one actually carrying on the Wayne legacy. From what Jason’s heard, he does it better than Bruce ever did.

Goddamn workaholic. And that suit probably costs more than rent for one of my legal apartments.

“I’m heading out,” Tim announces needlessly, taking a sip of what must be coffee from a travel mug. “I’ll try to get home before four o’clock, but it really depends on how much work Lucius decides to pile on while I’m still in town.”

“Because it sure as hell won’t get done if B is the only one around,” Jason agrees, earning a sharp grin in reply.

“Exactly.”

And there’s the cocky little bastard Jason’s been waiting to re-emerge after a day of being hidden by the scarily competent functioning adult façade.

“Feel free to stick around here and play the game system or raid the fridge or whatever. It’s up to you. The security system’s biometric, but I can give you an override code—” Noticing Jason’s disgusted and somewhat insulted look, he huffs, “Or not. Whatever. You’ll figure it out.”

He leaves without saying anything else, and suddenly Jason is well and truly alone for the first time since waking up on the anniversary of his death with his only thought being to get black-out drunk.

Funny how much twenty-four hours can change.

Except it’s really not.

Jason doesn’t want to spend another day thinking over all of his problems and the infinite possibilities of how the situation can become even more screwed up or confusing, so he busies himself with breaking into Tim’s hideout.

That occupies him for a little while, figuring out the security codes to the false wall and then to the locks on his computer system. He spends the morning wandering around, getting to know the frankly sweet set-up of the place, testing out the training room and looking under the hood of the cars in the garage.

Wonder if Timbers would help me outfit my bunker.

He’s been squatting in an old subbasement beneath GCPD headquarters for a few weeks now; the place was cut off from the main building during the Cataclysm a few years back and for whatever reason, everyone seems to believe it was caved in beyond repair.

Jason’s cleaned the place out and set up his own operation, but it doesn’t have the tech or necessities of an actual Cave. Which, frankly, isn’t fair, since everyone else has their own Batman-free getaway to hide in when the old man gets in one of his moods. Hell, even the new kid has a place beneath the Fox center.

As soon as the thought enters his mind, Jason scowls.

What the hell am I thinking?

None of this is even going to matter for a while anyway, now that he’s about to be benched. Might as well say goodbye to the state-of-the-art vigilante tech now and spare himself the disappointment.

He leaves the Nest (was Drake born without the ability to be original or something?) and returns to the living area, examining the place with a more critical eye this time around.

He still ignores looking at the pile of baby supplies.

Jason’s first impression the day before was of a barely lived in space, meant to show any would-be-intruders how a normal local celebrity might live. He learns he was only half-right when he spies smaller, more personal touches in the décor as he wanders through the house. There are photographs arranged along most of the walls, which on first glance he assumed were the kind you picked up at Ikea to make a place look classy, but he realizes as he studies the black-and-white images that they are shots of various locations in Gotham.

Locations a normal person can’t actually get to.

Which means Tim must have taken them himself; it’s just innocuous enough that a regular visitor would only admire the clarity of the shot. To someone like Jason, it’s impressive for completely different reasons; not least of all the danger inherent in achieving just that right angle. Two pictures he knows could only have been taken by hanging one-handed off a Gotham Trade Centre gargoyle.

The whole thing says more about Tim’s personality than any human detritus or strewn personal belongings could.

Though he does have those, too.

The shelf beside the television has a copy of what might be every video game known to man, across three different platforms. The study is filled with vintage board games and robot figurines and piles of tech magazines. Everything is scary neat—the professional, unnatural Stepford kind of neat that speaks of someone paid to clean it—with the exception of Tim’s bedroom. Jason pokes his head in there for like a second before shuddering and walking away from it.

How has Alfred not murdered you yet, kid?

Back downstairs, he studies the faux mantle above the electric fireplace where he sees artfully placed personal pictures of other recognizable personages. Tim with his Kryptonian and speedster friends, then him along with his generation of Titans. There’s one of him as a child with two people Jason assumes are his parents at a high society event of some sort, as well as a wedding photo of him much older; the man beside him is the same, but the woman in the veil is different. Stepmother, probably.

Jason pauses to smirk at the one of Tim and Dick on a beach somewhere, both ridiculously sunburned; it’s in the same folding frame as one with them both sitting beside Bruce on a beach chair. The older man is asleep, or at least pretending very well, and they’ve used sunscreen to write ‘I hate this place’ on his chest. Alfred obviously took that one.

The family butler is in the next image, standing beside the entry stairway of the manor with a thoughtful expression on his face. It’s so clearly staged to seem as distinguished as possible.

Guess Alf never did get over his dislike of having candid pictures of him taken.

Moving on, there’s a four-strip photo of Tim and Blondie stuck in the frame of a larger one with all three Batgirls past and present in what he supposes is Barbie’s apartment, with them trying to show Cass how to make a duck face. Beside it, one of Tim and the Thomas kid arguing over what looks to be a disemboweled computer; judging by the thumb shape in the corner it was taken sneakily and probably by Dick. Hell, there’s even one of the demon brat there, conked out on a couch in Bruce’s study with a black and white cat curled up on his chest.

Family’s all here, he thinks with a grim sort of humor. All except yours truly.

He’s not sure if he would have expected different, given his and Tim’s relationship. They might partner on occasion, and he works better with Tim than any of the other Bats he sometimes teams up with, but it’s not like they’re actually close. He doesn’t go out of his way to spend time with him outside of the mask, and then there’s a chasm of tense history between them.

He’d actually be surprised if—

Something catches his eye as he turns away from the fireplace, if only because next to all the gleaming frames its’ ordinariness makes it stick out. There’s a faded paper propped up against the wall behind a decorative clock, and when Jason reaches to pick it up and examine it, he finds himself staring down at his own grinning face.

Sort of.

It’s him from years ago.

The Jason Todd before Bruce stopped trusting him; before finding out his entire life had been a lie and before the Joker destroyed him. And it’s not so much a picture as a clipping from a newspaper.

Little Jason grins up at the photographer, missing his right canine and the same side of his face slightly puffy. Jason vaguely remembers the fight with Two-Face the night before, faster than he recalls sitting for this photo. He’s wearing a school uniform, can now recall the harried little man asking if he was sure he didn’t want to wait for picture retakes so they could get a picture when his face wasn’t bruised (“Bruce tried to teach me to ride a horse. They need to make those things closer to the ground!”) and him refusing because he earned these colors, thanks very much—

Jason can’t figure out how this photo ended up in a newspaper, though; the only pictures of him still extant in public are the ones they drag up on television every few years when Bruce does some bit of charity for orphans. Reminders of the poor dead orphan.

But this one—no, now he remembers.

This was the photo the press used during the custody case when Bruce was publicly battling Natalia Knight for guardianship of Jason. It’s not a copy, printed off the internet or digitally finished as a photograph. There’s yellowing around the edges and the paper quality is thin and grainy the way an actual newspaper is when it ages.

But why the hell does Tim have this?

He’s been back from the dead for years now, and with the Bat propensity for stalking and surveillance footage, if Tim wanted a photo of him, he could certainly have gotten all manner of material. Why this one? And why include it here at all, if it’s hidden away behind the others like a dirty secret?

The whole thing is vastly unsettling, and as he remembers Tim’s words from yesterday—

“We’re too complicated to be family. But we are Robins. And in a lot of ways, I think that’s stronger than us being part of the Family.”

—his chest starts to experience that vicelike pressure he’s been having on and off since learning about Isabel and the baby.

He’s struck by the very pressing need to get out of here.

Fleeing the apartment for the hidden Nest once more, Jason finds the exit protocols and manual overrides for Tim’s system, then borrows one of the bikes in the garage area. Tim did say he was free to do ‘whatever’ and though Jason doubts that includes absconding with his wheels, he doesn’t entirely care. He doesn’t even bother looking for the tracking beacons he knows are hidden on them.

He’s not running away, he’s just…clearing his head.

Or clearing it as well as anyone can while navigating the construction and traffic-infested roads of Gotham.

An open highway would be the most ideal way for him to lose himself and avoid his complicated feelings, but he supposes that option has its own dangers. Like just driving straight to California and pretending the past day has been nothing but a bad dream.

Instead, the constant roadblocks and detours Jason’s forced to take through the corners of the city jog his brain back into thinking. Back into reasoning and solving problems and improvising like he usually does.

First of all, he needs to stop letting Tim do everything for him.

Jason is capable—has survived on his own his whole life; it’s time to get his shit together. And to do that, he has to find someone who can take care of the baby.

His daughter.

He needs to get used to saying it, whether he stays in her life or not.

Jason isn’t entirely sure what he’s looking for in terms of the plans Tim suggested to him the night before. There’s merit to all the ideas, but he’s stuck between getting her out of Gotham or finding someone here who knew Isabel.

Or at least someone who knew she was expecting a kid. Any kind of connection to her mother would be better than nothing.

In theory.

Jason’s pretty sure that it’s a rare kid—himself included—who would have been better off without knowing anything about their birth mother. But Isabel is not Sheila, and the situation isn’t anything like that one.

He’s not even sure where to start looking for potential guardians.

Though Isabel’s friend Safiya said she would be looking into it, it’s once again putting Jason in the position of letting others deal with the consequences of his own actions. If only he knew more about what frame of mind Isabel was in before all this started…

Jason didn’t live with the world’s greatest detective for three years of his life without learning how to build a profile on someone. And the best starting point for that is where she spent most of her time.

He pulls over in the parking lot of a Bat Burger to unlock the fancy computer hidden within the bike’s dash (obviously one of Tim’s own design) and linking to the Bat-network’s backdoor to Gotham General’s patient records. Then it’s a simple search to bring up Isabel’s personal information, including her latest address.

Turns out she moved a lot closer to Gotham General than she was before; as he revs the motor and takes off again, Jason wonders if that was pre-emptive.

Isabel’s place is on the edge of Midtown, where the business district turns residential. The condominium itself seems well taken care of, especially in contrast to the fixer-uppers Jason’s used to in his own neighborhood, but in Gotham, that means next to nothing.

Though clearly Isabel’s been doing well if she’s able to afford a place here.

He’s not entirely sure what the average flight attendant’s salary is, but maybe she was just good with money.

Her apartment is on the highest floor of the apartment building, reachable by the fire escape. He scowls a bit at the idea that just anyone could get in here if they so choose, and if she thinks that’s a good enough deterrent than—

Jason has to stop and shake his head and remind himself that Isabel is gone. She’ll never have to worry about break-ins again.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, he jimmy’s open the window and slips through.

⁂⁂⁂

Your feedback matters! I want to know what you think of my story, so feel free to leave kudos, a comment or as many of these emojis as you want and let me know how you feel!

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________________________________________________________________

Next Chapter

[theaquarianphoenix]

Cattails on the bus

This morning, as in most mornings, the four of us stand at the end of the driveway in some puzzle-like formation and wait for the school bus. When we file on, the bus is mostly empty, so we get to choose whatever seat we want. Because we live so far out in the country, we are some of the first kids to embark. The bus scoops up more kids and fills as it gets closer to town. If you’re one of the last kids on, you don’t get much choice in where you sit.

I like to sit by the window, on the side where the bus door opens. Once I got to stand next to the bus driver and work the lever that opens and closes the door. It was absolutely thrilling, and I thought about how fun it would be to work that lever every day. But I can’t do that anymore because all the kids wanted a turn and Fred, our bus driver at that time, said it’s not safe to stand up there like that.

Anyway, the reason I like to sit in the window is to get a good view of everyone when the bus pulls up. Then I can watch them get on. Some days I talk to the other kids and make string patterns, like Jacob’s ladder and cat’s cradle, with my Chinese jump rope. But most days, I prefer to observe and watch everyone. There is an older boy who gets on near the end of the route. Whenever he gets on, he practically jumps up the steps. Then he grabs the pole at the front of the bus and swings himself into the aisle and plops himself in an open seat. It’s all one fluid motion that reminds me of letting a rope slide through your hands. Once he swung into the seat next to me and sat down. The girls behind me snickered and I turned my head toward the window so he wouldn’t see me and made a yucky face.

My friend Kristi also lives on a farm. It’s about two miles from ours. She has three older brothers and whenever the bus pulls up her brothers are combing their hair. They each have a little comb that they slide into their back pocket. I think it’s funny the boys are always combing their hair and not Kristi who is a girl. I suppose it’s to impress the older girls that ride the bus. If they asked for my opinion, which they don’t, I’d tell them that Shelli and Cleo are the prettiest.

Anyhow, back to my story.

This morning when we get on, as usual, the only other passengers are three older boys that live on the farms down the road from us. They also happen to be my cousins. My cousin Jerry is the oldest and he is quiet and gentle. Sometimes he talks to me, even though I’m just a little kid. Once he let me look at his high school yearbook. I read some of the things his classmates wrote inside. There were a few swear words and I thought that was rather delicious.

My two other cousins are Tim and Andy. I think it’s both accurate and fair to say that they are mischievous. But they are fun and friendly and they both laugh a lot. They treat me a bit like a kid sister. It makes me feel important when I get to sit next to them. They usually sit in the back of the bus and I assume this is so their shenanigans are easier to hide from the bus driver. But I am only 9 and don’t really know why. Anyway, they always have cool things in their pockets to show me, like interesting bottle caps and knives that have little forks and spoons that flip out so you could use them as utensils if you went camping in the woods.

This morning, my little sister, who is 5 years old, has brought a bundle of cattails with her for show-and-tell in her kindergarten class. There is a pond on our farm near the edge of the woods and in the springtime, hundreds of cattails grow there. All spring and summer the pond is noisy with croaking frogs and trilling red-winged black birds that perch on the cattails. The crows like to gather there too and cackle and caw. I imagine them at night, turning into witches that churn steaming caldrons of potions filled with scary objects like eyeballs and snakes. My little sister is going to tell her classmates all about the cattails and the pond and why they grow there.

I don’t know exactly how it happens. I think it’s because my older brother takes a cattail to poke at the older boys in the back of the bus. It’s nearing the end of the route and the bus is full of kids. Tim and Andy have gotten hold of a cattail and they are whacking it at each other and against the seat. If you’ve ever broken a cattail then you understand what is happening right now. With each whack, the bus is filling, rapidly, with billowy, white clouds of fluff! The white puffs are raining down everywhere, falling in our hair and eyelashes and sticking on our clothes. Kids are standing up now and jumping around in the feathery, fluff-filled air. Some are yelling and some are laughing. The entire bus is chaos!

At this time in the history of our bus riding we had a substitute bus driver. He was a substitute in that, Fred, didn’t drive the bus anymore and the substitute was filling in until a permanent driver was hired. How I knew this I have no recollection.  The substitute was a tall, thin, white-haired, quiet-spoken, elderly man. I don’t remember his name, but I recall someone telling me he was a preacher (or used to be) at the Evangelical Free Church in town. He managed, with great difficulty, to shift the gears on the bus, and had no ability to control anything unruly that occurred. He made feeble attempts to tell us to sit down or be quiet which were usually ignored or obeyed only flippantly, when we felt like doing as he asked. But, when those cattails broke open and began swirling around, I guess it broke him open too. He brought that bus to a screeching halt right in the middle of the road and raised his voice like he was calling down the thunder. He hollered out threats of punishment and told us to sit down. Which we did. The fluffs of cattail circled in the air like the last days of the dandelions on a windy summer day. And it got quiet.

I suppose this is all rather humorous. And perhaps it is. But it’s all just backdrop. It’s not the point. I don’t remember anything more about the cattails. But what I do remember, what has stayed with me most, that is what I want to share.

In the quiet that fell, my little sister started to cry. Not a slight sniff and a tear, but loud, uncontrollable sobs. I sat next to her and tried to comfort her. But I couldn’t. Because she was inconsolable. Everyone looked at us and asked me what was wrong, why was she crying like that. Someone asked, why is she such a “cry baby?”

I told them I didn’t know. But that was a lie. I knew why. I knew exactly why. I knew well the tone and timbre of that cry. So full of pain. And fear. A cry I’d heard many times before. It wasn’t about the cattails that still swirled about in the air. It was because the bus driver yelled. Because he raised his voice in anger.

And when a wolf snarls, the deer always runs.

I think sometimes we forget that we are just animals. Complicated, human animals. But animals still. And this was human animal survival. Instinct. Experience taught my sister that when someone yells in anger, something terrible inevitably follows; a fist or a slap or a kick or a punch or a look that cuts you in half. You don’t forget that. Because forgetting is dangerous. And though the preacher/substitute driver was no wolf, that was no matter to my sister. The body - and the brain - don’t distinguish. They just react. They call up all those dark experiences that are inside of you and lined in your veins like a thick, black resin. Your tail flies up, and…

You run (me).

Or cry (my sister).

Or cower (all of us).

Or stand frozen in fear (all of us).

Or piss yourself (all of us).

Or rear up and fight back, even if you know the wolf will rip you to pieces (my mom).

Ok.

I am taking a breath now. And releasing.

When I look back on many of these memories, despite the darkness, I see the divine in many ways. Did you know that cattails symbolize friendship and peace? What is more, they also symbolize cleansing. In mind, body, and spirit. They reflect an inner purging and ask you to acknowledge how far you have traveled, how much you have learned. They tell you that it is safe to move on. And in knowing that, I understand this: I guess the cattails got broken back then because we were broken. And we have traveled a long distance since then. We have grown. We have learned. And we will always be learning. Until we’re dust.

But we are safe now.

#theaquarianphoenix #domesticviolence #childabuse #tellingmystory #iamnotafraidanymore

[lordnochybaty]

mcnozzo + 8

Unexpected filling of old prompts is unexpected but this fic was stuck on my drive for a while. :) Thank you for being my enabler and giving me prompts :*

Also on A03. :)

“Wait, you’re still playing the game?” McGee suddenly asked, as always focusing on what was totally not the point of the story.

In fact, it was barely in the story at all and if it was not an absolutely crucial part of the introduction, Tony would have skipped it altogether. For the integrity of his tale, he powered through and vaguely mentioned in the beginning while skillfully and speedily making his way to the point which was: he had cool friends.

And not only the ones back from the day! Oh no! New ones. He was making new friends. Outside of the office! And they. were. cool.

Fair enough Eliot was, technically speaking, just one friend and yes, okay, so Tony did meet him via the stupid game he started playing in the first place to prank McGee, but he was still cool.

“Occasionally!” admitted Tony and McGee squinted at him. “When I’m bored!”

McGee kept giving him a suspicious look so he caved: “Okay, fine, it’s sort of fun and painfully addictive and I’ve indulged a bit more when I was stuck home with a twisted ankle, okay?”

Some people said that the way to hide a lie was to tie it up with enough of the truth. That was one way. The other was to tie it up with plenty of other lies and letting people think they caught you easily. Throw them a bone. Burry your actual lies under ten tons of other lies. No one cares to dig that deep.

Certainly not McGee who turned away with a self-satisfied smirk.

Probably because he never rejoined the game after the whole Claire fiasco. Not that Tony was checking, because he wasn’t.

“Anyway, you were telling us how you went for a date with a geeky boy you met through a game,” reminded Abbie and Ziva snorted into her coffee.

Tony glared at Abbie and her bright smile. Why was she even in the bullpen? Didn’t she have anything to do in the lab? Sure, they didn’t have a case on, but this story-telling time was planned to let everyone know Tony had a varied social circle and was doing fine. It did not account for the extra level of sass from the Queen of Darkness.

“His name is Eliot,” Ziva supplied. “And he’s not a geek, he’s a firefighter.”

Her tone suggested she was mocking Tony but he clicked his fingers, pointing at her, acknowledging her point and also the fact that at least she was listening.

“Exactly! Thank you, Ziva!”

McGee frowned. “You do realize she did not negate the fact that it was a date, right?”

“She sure didn’t!” agreed Abby fast. “So? How was your date?”

“It wasn’t a date!”

“Wait, you actually met him?” Tim suddenly jumped in.

“Yes, that’s what this story is all about. Keep up, Mcconfused. Ziva accused me of not having any friends, and I contradicted her by starting this thrilling tale that got highly derailed, about a cool new friend I recently made, whose name is Eliot and who is a firefighter. I admit the way we first spoke was pretty nerdy, but we both have pretty decent excuses of being injured and bored at the time, so I’ve decided to let it slide.”

“And when you met him he turned out to be a 13-year-old pimpled nerd?” Tim asked hopefully.

“No, McSpoilFun. He turned out to be a super cool guy and we’ve had a blast and we’re going out to watch a game at the bar this week because unlike some judgy Mossad ladies, I do have friends.”

“I do have -”

“A dead marine to see, as you all do. Grab your gear!”

They all rushed away, jumping to comply with Gibbs’ order.

The case took their minds away from Tony’s new cool friend for few days until it was a week later and Tony was bored out of his skull and decided to log into the game for a bit.

After their meeting last night he expected a message from Eliot - and he got one because he was not the one to be ignored - but he never expected his very own Elflord to chat him up the moment he logged in.

elflord: wow, you really do play this game, huh?

Tony considered not replying, letting his dignified silence be the answer enough, but decided it would only backfire in the end.

claire69: I’m bored, probie. and slightly hungover. what can I say?

elflord: Rough night?

claire69: Eliot can drink me under the table. it does make him cooler, but also more painful to hang out with. also, my team lost :(

elflord: You really met this guy? elflord: twice?

claire69: told you already, probie

elflord: It’s just hard for me to believe you would meet someone while playing an online game. You always claim how nerdy it is and how there are no redeeming qualities for people who play it and then suddenly this guy supposedly hanged all the stars as far you’re concerned!

Tony frowned. Probie sounded really pissed about that, blowing it way out of proportion. Tony felt he should probably stop the conversation or derail it entirely, but as always he just could never resist an opportunity to poke his probie. Especially not when he already somehow accidentally managed to get under Tim’s skin. It was a compulsion, really.

claire69: Well, probie, he is also a firefighter. I think that makes him cooler than the game makes him nerdier. It’s a careful balance you see.

elflord: I AM AN NCIS AGENT!

claire69: …claire69: Really, since when?

elflord: Fuck you, tony

claire69: LANGUAGE, McSweary! claire69: seriously, why you’re so mad? are you jealous or something?

A few times an icon of typing showed up but no actual words and Tony bit his lip. He probably overplayed it waaay too much. He really should have backed off quietly, cover it all with jokes so they could move on.

Or he could press the issue like the hopeful moron that he was.

claire69: Why are you so jealous, McGreen?

elflord: God you’re such a painelflord: I guess, it’s just so annoying that you only ever see me as the nerdy, uncool friend but are happy to dismiss all nerdy things about this guy for some reason.

/ claire69: He actually only played the game while stuck at home with a broken leg. His friend recommended it. He’s not nerdier than I am, Probie. / Tony deleted his answer.

/ claire69: I do not just see you as a nerd. I let you in further than any / he deleted the last word / than other friends and / he deleted it all.

Tony scratched his unshaved chin. This was getting potentially sticky. The “you might still joke your way out of here and they might pretend to buy it, but you’re not going back to easy friendship ever again” kind of sticky. Been there, done that. Usually not worth the bother.

Usually.

claire69: Well, I never went out on a date with you. ;)

He stood up suddenly, walking away from the computer. He used a smiley face! Still could be a joke! Totally a joke! Hahaha, us dating, how funny is it, McGee, huh? How funny?! Hahaha! Oh dear god, he was so screwed.

He grabbed a beer from the fridge, ignoring the fact that it was way too early to start on that. Special circumstances and all that shit.

He sat back heavily before his computer, anxiously checking the chat window.

elflord: *eyeroll* You didn’t go on a date with Eliot.

Tony took a gulp of the beer.

“Remember Red, hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things, and no good thing ever dies,” he murmured, finding some comfort in a familiar game of finding the right movie quote even as his heart pounded nervously.

claire69: Nah, he’s painfully straight.

The pause was getting a bit long and Tony’s fingers took up the role of his usually rambling mouth.

claire69: Met his wife even. Kinda killed the mood.

He breathed carefully, drinking his beer and keeping his hands away from the keyboard. Stop digging your grave, DiNozzo, he thought firmly, it’s deep enough already. Suddenly he felt sick, the beer swishing unpleasantly in his empty stomach. He stood up slowly and made his way to the kitchen, pouring the beer into the sink and putting away the empty bottle. He pressed his forehead against the fridge and then thumped it a few times against the hard surface for a good measure. He was an absolute idiot.

He vaguely wondered if this will be the reason he will end up quitting NCIS. He already worked there way longer than he was usually able to stick with one jig. He was wondering what will finally make him crack. Until now his bet was more on getting a permanent brain damage from Gibbs’ headslaps than finally more openly flirting with McGee and creeping him the fuck out. Smooth, really smooth, he mocked himself. He should’ve saved himself some worry and just pass probie a note while in the bullpen “Hey, wanna break rule 12? Circle yes or no. xoxoxo, Tony.”

He dragged his feet back to the computer. From afar he saw Tim finally did reply and it was nothing really long. He sighed, sitting back and reading the message.

elflord: … Tony, would you go on a date with me?elflord: … Tony?

Tony realized he was grinning like a loon when the next, slightly lengthier message appeared.

elflord: Tony, I swear to god, if this is one of your pranks and you’re going to mock me for this, I will kill you. Abbie will help me. No one will find your body.

Tony chuckled and finally typed out his response.

claire69: Tonight at 7? claire69: I’ll pick you up. :*

[satire-please]

Take a Sad Song and Make it Better - Part 5

Day 5 - Nightmares = The hurt/comfort drive is real.

It’s a bad night for Jason, good thing he’s not alone

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4

There’s dirt under his fingernails again.

His breathing shudders. A rattling thing too quick, his fingers shaking because it’s almost like he’s back there.

In his own grave.

With the pressed suit tailored too tight on him, strangling him. Where the wet, moldy smell of earth fills his nostrils and he screams.

And screams.

But no one comes.

Who’d come for a dead man anyway?

Jay kicks off his sheets and sweeps an arm over the nightstand, knocking every item to the floor. His water glass breaks and that’s good.

The destruction, the mess is better, better than–

Jay slaps the sides of his cheeks with his hands. Stay here you dumbfuck, you’re not there.

Yet his senses play tricks on him. The memories so heavy that phantom sensations wave in front of his eyes. He couldn’t move then, only squirm as he scratched the coffin cover. His hands bloody, half his nails gone because Bruce hadn’t scrimped. Had gotten the good stuff, the good mahogany. Jay reaches to squeeze his knees because they hurt, sting as like they did when finally, finally he found a weakness in that fucking box and rammed his legs through it. And that taste. That goddamn taste of decay and dirt every time he gasped and tore at the turf.

He doesn’t know how long it took to crawl to the surface.

But it took too long.

A choked laugh escapes him. If he looks in the mirror, will his eyes glow with Lazarus green? Jay sits up on the bed. Peers at the window, expecting to see his reflection with two pinpricks of eerie light, like a damn broken glowstick.

But it’s not the pit riding him tonight, his face in the glass remaining an obscure blur. For a half-second, he wishes it was. Madness doesn’t let fear bleed through. Just anger, and the victorious high of a smile when your gun finds the target.

When you find someone new to pay.

To blame.

Like Replace–Tim. His name is fucking Tim. It’s not his fault. Remember it’s not his fault.

And he can’t blame the pit, can’t blame Talia, can’t blame Ra’s that a creature walks among the Bats. He doesn’t know who his Frankenstein is, but when he finds them he’s got a bullet with their name all over it. ‘Cause dontcha know it’s better to let sleeping corpses lie?

Jay can’t stay here another heartbeat. Not in his old room a lifetime ago. He gets up and crosses the room to silently pull open the door. Fuck this. He ain’t sleeping no more, he’s getting a cig. So he goes to the only room he can. Fine, he could smoke anywhere but then Alfie narrows his eyes at him when he pulls a cig from his back pocket and he’s been too well trained for that, sue him.

In the hall, Jay doesn’t bother turning on the lights, what’s the point? He’s been there enough times, too many times on bad nights like this. Funny. Has that number has gotten lower? He pads through the dark, minding the floorboards that creak.

The smoke lounge is a piece of ostentatious bullshit. Reeks more of money than smoke and Jay has smeared his cigs out on the furniture, deliberately snubbing the artistic ashtray. Just ‘cause his heart pumps out more spite than blood. There’s leather armchairs in front of a cold fireplace, a pool table and three honest to god deer heads mounted on the wall. Damian ain’t allowed in this room. He’d tear it apart.

The thought makes his grimace relax a tad.  

He sinks into a chair and swings his legs over one of its arms. It’s the only way to be comfortable in the damn thing. He fumbles for the lighter in a drawer next to it and the spark illuminates his face. It also illuminates that he’s not alone.

“Do ya always have to be the dramatic fuck?”

“You should be in bed.”

“So should you. Betcha won’t tattle my ass to Alfie though.”

Bruce just stares at his son. “Why are you up, Jason?”

Jay just hums. “Yer the detective, not me. Why’s anyone up before the crack of dawn?” The room has that blush of blue. It’s an hour, maybe a little more, before dawn. Outside, a nightbird chirps its last song.

“I think I can make a guess.” Bruce says carefully, his face blank, “Can I sit here with you?”

“It’s yer house, dumbass. Can’t tell ya off even if I wanted to, minster head of the house.” But he gestures graciously to the other armchair.

“Thanks, son.”

Jay bites through his lip. Warring emotions of raw rage, want and need flooding his body as Bruce takes his seat. It’s minutes of them in the bleak light, smoke rising in curls before Jay can’t take it anymore.

“I get it now, you know.” Bruce hums under his breath, it’s a welcome mat of a noise. So Jay with his stupid remaining brain cells opens his stupid mouth to continue. “Why ya replaced me.”

The man in the chair goes still.

A sharp inhale. Exhale.

“Tim’s a good kid. Smart kid. Smarter than I was for sure. He’s everything I’m not and then some. I can see why ya made him Robin, I mean I wanted to nab him for my Robin when we fought over your cowl like dogs on a bone.”  

“Jason.” Bruce tries to cut in.

Jay won’t let him, “And he’s like you. Like a carbon copy mini-me. Thought ya ordered him from a Richie-rich catalog. Thinks like you, talks like you, obsesses over the mission like you–”

“Jason. I didn’t replace you.” Bruce pauses. “After you...died, I didn’t work with anyone. Couldn’t be around anyone. Your brother Dick stayed in Haven because he couldn’t stand me. Alfred almost...quit.”

Jay flicks the ash, wishes the shakes would quit it. Huh, that’s new for him. Alfie? The ever loyal, infallible, only stable fixture of the manor, Alfred Pennyworth calling it quits?

“You’re Jason Todd Wayne. No one could be you. The only reason Tim became Robin is because he, though I’m sure Alfred had some kind of hand in it, blackmailed me.”

“Wait what?”

“Tim legitimately knocked on my door one day to tell me I better take a Robin or else. Mind you, at the time he wasn’t referring to himself, but imagine the random neighborhood kid. Just stopping by to let you know he found out you dress like a bat at night, and lighten up mister. Get a partner before you kill someone.”

A snort escapes Jason before he can stop it. “Awkward.”

“And then he wouldn’t leave. Couldn’t stop poking his nose where it didn’t belong. I’d find bits and pieces of newspapers, of clues for my current case, tied on my doorstep with string. Then he showed up at the most rotten, most opportune time to save Dick and me from Two-Face.”

“Sounds like a little shit.”

Bruce’s lips crack a bit into a smirk. “I’m not going to repeat that. I hate to admit it, but at first, I wanted...to run him off. I wanted him to give up. I set ridiculous expectations, refused to let him take one step on a skyscraper until Alfred, until I, until Dick trained him.”    

“That doesn’t sound like his M.O. He don’t give up easy.”

“No. Tim doesn’t.” They zone out for a bit, staring at Jay’s dying cig, the last coils of smoke fading into thin air. “He stuck it out. Stubbornly dug his heels until I stopped pushing. He wasn’t you though and...I wanted you back.”

Jay rubs his face, something’s wrong with his eyes.  

“That’s not fair.” Bruce gives a rueful laugh. “I need to be better at that. You’re different people, important people, and I didn’t do right by either of you. I tried to clip your wings so you couldn’t fly away like Dick, and with Tim...I may have let him into the nest, but I didn’t let him stay in it until his father died.”  

His eyes are really messing with him so Jay abandons them to start picking under his nails to get the dirt outta them. It’s just dirt. He’ll be okay, it’s just dirt.

“I’m sorry, Jason.” Bruce looks at him then, sincerely, and something catches in Jay’s throat and sticks.

Fuck.

He doesn’t say I forgive you. That it’s fine. That they’ll get better because he doesn’t know and he can’t.

But he can’t stop his lips from moving, “Old dogs can’t learn new tricks...but maybe a shitty bat can.”

It’ll have to be enough.

In the paling dawn, Jay watches Bruce out of the corner of his eye. The Bat’s expression mild in hope and promise.

It’ll be enough.

[olivia-anderson-fanfic]

Soulmarks, Part 13

First part

Previous

~~~

She heard a knock on her balcony door and opened it. He stood outside, his hands stuffed in his pockets. She glanced him over. He was definitely more prepared than she was, he looked like he’d just walked out of a spy movie with all his equipment.

She looked it over with envy. Ah, the power of money.

Marinette waved him inside. “I’ve still got to get some stuff out.”

She dug through her room. Unsurprisingly, her parents weren’t exactly aware of this particular ‘hobby’ of hers… which meant that she’d had to hide everything pretty well. They didn’t exactly go through her room, but they still came up to talk to her often enough that having stuff out in the open was a terrible idea.

She scooped up the last piece of equipment and turned around.

He was also poking around her room, though the reason why was probably less innocent than ‘looking for spy equipment’... which already isn’t all that innocent, so take that how you will.

Her face flushed as she crossed her arms over her chest. “Find anything interesting?”

His shoulders froze and he dropped the tiny Chat Noir plush he’d found. “Your room… it’s... uh… very… pink.” He coughed into his hand awkwardly. “Yep. Got everything? Good, let’s go.”

He made to leave and she grabbed his arm.

Tim paused and looked back at her, giving her his most innocent smile. He was probably anxious that she was mad at him for snooping around her room (she wasn’t, she’d do the same thing in his room if he had actually lived there).

She hesitated slightly and let go, pulling out her yoyo to mess with. Now for the part of the night that she’d been dreading most: “We need a backup plan in case we get caught.”

“I doubt we will,” he said with a cocky grin.

Marinette shrugged. “I hope not, but in case… you’ll need to have some kind of suit so we can say it’s superhero business.”

He winced and looked at the floor. “I don’t want to get back in the Robin suit,” he admitted, his voice little more than a whisper.

She nodded slightly. She’d predicted that. He hadn’t once mentioned wanting to get back into the Robin suit, nor had the soulmark made a reappearance. She held up a finger for him to wait and then walked over to her desk, picking up a tiny box.

She’d thought for a long time about what to give him. She had wanted to give him the fox miraculous originally, it was the most in line with what they were doing; Trixx would give them extra cover and they could get closer to Lila without her detecting them. On the other hand, giving the fox miraculous to anyone besides Alya was risky. There was a risk of her becoming akumatized. They really didn’t need that right now.

And, so, she handed over the horse miraculous. It would give them a quick out when needed.

Also, she thought he’d look cute with glasses. Sue her.

He raised his eyebrows slightly and pulled them on.

She was right!

He frowned slightly and started squinting through the glasses. “Oh, crap, do I actually need glasses these are helpi -- WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?!”

“Shhhhh! My parents are going to hear us!”

He pointed at Kaalki, who crossed her arms (? hooves? legs?) over her chest.

“Who is that,” she corrected, then turned to Marinette with a sigh. “Is he at least famous?”

“Yep. Tim Drake-Wayne. Rich and famous, just how you like them.”

Kaalki beamed. “Finally, someone who actually deserves me.”

Marinette rolled her eyes and turned to Tim, who was slowly backing away from the tiny god. “She’s not going to hurt you.”

“Well, yeah, I can and will punt her.”

She rolled her eyes. “She’s literally a god, but okay.”

“A WHAT?!”

Marinette heard a knock on the bottom of her trapdoor and cursed, quickly diving onto it before her mom could come in. Her hands and knees were scraped, but it was much easier than explaining why there was a guy and a god hanging out in her room.

“Marinette? Is everything okay in there?” Her mom pushed up on the door and she threw all her weight into holding it closed. “Who’s over?”

“Yes, mom, everything’s fine! This is just…” She floundered. “A new superhero?”

“How do you know superheroes?”

“I have an amazing personality.” She caught Tim’s eyes and mouthed that he needed to take off all the equipment and then transform.

He looked reluctant, but he complied.

She waited until he was fine and then finally pushed herself off the door, giving her mother an awkward smile as the trapdoor opened.

“Hi, mom, meet…” She looked at Tim and shrugged. “Horse-guy?”

Tim raised his eyebrows. “Horse-guy? Seriously?”

She shrugged. “Do you have anything better?”

“Uh…” He looked down at himself. “Cheval Brun?”

“Should’ve gone with Horse-guy.” She smiled and waved at her mom. “Great, now that you know nothing is going on, can you… go? I love you!”

“Love you… too?” Said her mom, her eyebrows knitting together. She slowly closed the trapdoor.

Marinette breathed a sigh of relief and laid back.

“Tikki, spots on,” she mumbled.

Tim grinned and offered her a hand up. “Ready to go?”

She took it and smiled as he helped her to her feet.

“Of course.”

~

She pulled her night-vision goggles to her eyes. Lila was… on her bed, scrolling through her phone. Threatening.

“Y’know, it feels weird to stalk someone I don’t like,” she said with a pout.

“Right?” Said Tim, frowning as he set up his camera. “Stalking is for obsessions only.”

“Exactly.”

She heard her comm click. “You guys are really weird,” said Adrien, sounding exhausted. “Just… in the future, can you stick to only stalking each other?”

“Sounds romantic,” said Marinette.

“No,” said Dick. “No, it’s not.”

Tim grinned. “It could be.”

“No --.”

“I say we let them. At least it’s not us anymore,” said Barbara.

Marinette laughed. “Exactly. Be glad.”

She felt Tim lace his fingers through hers and she was lucky it was dark because her face was quickly getting warm.

“We’re turning off comms to listen. We’ll turn them back on if we need to.”

Everyone mumbled a bye (and Dick warned that they would pick up the conversation later) and the soulmates turned their comms off in sync.

They waited there for a long time, their ears pressed to the devices Tim had brought to help listen in. But… it was almost like Lila was being intentionally boring. They didn’t have to peek over the side to make sure that she was still there, because they could hear her shift around on the bed or laugh occasionally, she just seemed to be very interested in her phone.

“Christ, she’s more boring than Adrien. At least Adrien sometimes played piano,” she joked quietly, resting her head back against the wall with a tiny sigh.

Maybe they were wrong about Lila. They’d been going off of shaky evidence at best. Still, something in her told her that they were right.

The thing telling her this was definitely fuelled by spite, but she was going to pretend that it wasn’t.

So she continued to listen in. There was a lot of waiting involved in stalking someone if you’re looking for something.

Her eyes found their way to Tim, who gave her a tiny smile.

Well, she might as well kill time.

“So, we going to talk about Lila?”

~

His smile dropped and he tried not to tense up too much.

“Thought we already did?” He said.

She shrugged. “A little, but I’d like to know why you were so convinced. Yeah, Lila is like that, but you seemed pretty determined to believe her over me.”

He hesitated, looking down at their interlocked hands. He’d hoped that her history with Lila would be enough to convince her that was all, but he supposed he should have known she’d be smarter than that.

Man, why couldn’t he just lie? He wanted to lie, it should have been so easy to say ‘oh, no, she’s just really convincing, you know that’ but he couldn’t bring himself to. Not when he’d seen how hurt she’d looked at the cafe, not when she was giving him that smile that said she’d understand no matter what.

Tim sighed and closed his eyes.

“It’s just… you’re so… good, Nette.”

She raised her eyebrows.

“No, really. Like, yes, you’re probably more revenge motivated than you should be, and you can be a bit of a pushover, and you rival Bruce in the bad coping mechanism olympics, but… you’re also a heroine, you’re sweet, and it feels like you were made for me but…”

She ran her thumb over the back of his hand. She looked like she was going to argue for a second, but ultimately just prompted him to continue with a: “But…?”

“But... that’s just not how things go in my life. There’s always some kind of downside, some huge ‘oh fuck’. So you being some sort of terrible person underneath really would have just been par for the course.”

He felt tears form in the back of his eyes. Venting always feels good after the fact, even if it opens old wounds while you’re doing it. Damn. He couldn’t really afford to do this in Paris, but here he was, and now that he’d started he couldn’t bring himself to stop. If he did, he doubted he’d ever be able to bring himself to tell her, and he wasn’t fond of that, either.

“And, I’ve never really told anyone about this, but… I don’t really… talk to a lot of people.”

“I know.”

His head shot up to look at her. “Huh?”

“You’re my soulmate. It took you until fourteen to get a single person’s name. I kinda guessed.”

Oh. Right.

He sighed and closed his eyes. “Well, yeah, my parents sucked and every person who ever tried to talk to me did it because they were rich. I ended up just never talking to people. The whole ‘friends’ thing is still kinda new to me, let alone getting a possible girlfriend.”

He gave a short, somewhat bitter laugh. “Not that you want to date me. I’m a bit of a mess. So is my life. You’d be better off if we were just friends, and even better if you stopped talking to me entirely.”

He felt her head rest on his shoulder and opened his eyes to look at her. She gave him a slight smile, but her eyes were locked on a place over his shoulder.

A frown made its way across his face and he started to turn to see what she was looking at, only to feel her cup his cheek and pull his face until he was looking at her again.

She met his gaze and her smile dropped into a serious look. “Listen: I like being around you. A lot. I’m not nearly as perfect as you seem to think I am, but I still want to be something good in your life. Please, let me.”

He let himself relax, resting his hand over hers and turning his head to press a tiny kiss to her palm.

“I know you only said that because there was an akuma, but… I’d like that.”

She blushed faintly and relaxed a little bit as well. “I still meant it.”

He looked at her for a minute, expecting to see some hint of a lie, but there wasn’t one. She met his gaze and smiled, leaning up slightly to press a kiss to his cheek.

He couldn’t help it. He turned his head and his lips brushed against hers.

She blinked in surprise.

He looked at her wide eyes and paled. Shit. “Sorry! I don’t know what --!”

She kissed him again and he felt himself smile as he kissed back. It was both of their first kisses, so they were, admittedly, a little awkward, but he could definitely tell why people liked it so much. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d ever felt so energized.

But, eventually, they pulled away. His eyes fluttered open to see she was blushing like mad, and the warmth in his cheeks told him that he was likely just as red. She smiled at him and he felt his heart do a tiny flip in his chest.

Eventually, though, Lila laughed at something on her phone and he was pulled back to reality.

He blinked a few times and looked away. They were here for a reason other than kissing. They had a job. “Did you see where the akuma came from?” He asked after a few seconds.

She snapped out of it as well, pulling her hand from his cheek to point over his shoulder. “Back that way --.”

They both looked at where she was pointing, where the akuma was slowly disappearing on the horizon.

“What are the chances it’s going back to Hawkmoth?”

“Worth a shot, don’t you think?”

They followed after it.

~~~

Next part

A lot of people wait to do kisses until the end but idk I like writing people in relationships too much to

Taglist

@pawsitivelymiraculous @golden-promises @salty-fang @kitsunebell @sassakitty @octobitch @glastwime859 @miyla-lokidottir @onlyabatfan @ira-sairain @2confused-2doanything @ultimatetornshipper @ladybug-182 @laurcad123 @we-want-mini-mini @roguishredaxion @just-reblogs-by-h @futursworld @magic-miraculous @nathleigh @smolplantmum @vroomtaka  @emimar7 @toodaloo-kangaroo @charme-de-malchan @spicybelladonna @fusser90 @indecisive-mess-named-me @rosesgonerogue @celestialsiren @bluesimani @loysydark

[sassycassie-s-series]

All My Fault 9

By: SassyShoulderAngel319

Fandom/Character(s): DC, BatFam - Damian Wayne/Batman

Rating: PG-11 (minor sparring---nothing too violent)

Notes: (Masterlist) Tim’s the genius of the family for a reason...

Tag List (Open): @batboys-and-other-messes @nanna-the-batmum @probsjosh @welovegroot

Ch 1, Ch 2, Ch 3, Ch 4, Ch 5, Ch 6, Ch 7, Ch 8

^^^^^

The rest of the family—except Cass who was still out of town—found me and Damian in the parlor hours later, still going over dresses with Damian’s arm still around my shoulders. We’d narrowed down the designs to my top five and were going through color options, Damian coloring in the line-art of his designs with his tablet.

“—can’t wear a white dress!” I was saying when Bruce and Tim stuck their heads in. “It’s a gala, not my wedding! What happens if someone spills red wine on me? Plus white’s just… no. I can do cream or gray or silver but not white. Not for something like this.”

“Hey guys,” Tim greeted.

“Oh hey! How was the meeting?” I asked.

“Boring. So… Is something… going on?”

“Hmm? No. We’re just going over design and color options for my outfit for the charity ball.”

“Oh. Huh. That’s not what I meant. What’s with the arm?”

“She couldn’t see as well with my arm in the way, so I got it out of the way,” Damian said distractedly, not looking up from where he was coloring in a ballgown with a gray shade that he added some sparkle brush to, scribbling, “silver” off to the side in the same color.

“Oh. Okay. Right,” Tim said, ducking out of the room.

“Afternoon,” Bruce said before also ducking out and shutting the door behind him. Damian and I glanced at each other with lowered eyebrows. I shrugged and went back to looking at his tablet.

“Okay, I like this one, but I don’t really think a ballgown should be silver, you know? Like, wearing silver would make me look like… Cinderella or something,” I said as though Tim and Bruce hadn’t interrupted.

^^^^^

Tim pointed through the door where Damian and Cloudy were still talking. “We gonna talk about something going on between them?” he asked quietly.

Bruce turned his head to look at the door, listened to his ward say something about Cinderella to his son, and then turned to look back at his third-eldest son. He paused for a moment, putting his thoughts into words. “Nothing to talk about,” he said. “Nora wasn’t blushing at any point. She can’t lie very well. If there was something about their relationship that they were hiding from us, she’d blush when she tried to hide it.”

Tim glanced between his adoptive dad and the doorway where his little brother and now-younger sister-figure were talking about colors on evening gowns the same way most people talked about the weather.

He shrugged. “Okay. I just didn’t know if the arm-around-the-shoulder thing had any extra implications,” he remarked before strolling off for his room to change out of his suit.

Bruce went down to the Batcave.

^^^^^

“—absolutely certain? We can have all five of them made and then you can wear them to other events,” Damian said.

“And overwork some poor seamstresses before a rather short deadline? I don’t think so,” I said. “I'm fine just having one made. And I think I want them to make this one.” I tapped the one I liked the best on his screen—making the cursor flare and then vanish. “Although…” I pinched the corner of Damian’s tablet and tugged it. “May I?” I asked.

“What are you doing?”

“Color change,” I said. Damian passed me the tablet without resistance. “Thanks,” I added. I dug through the tablet, dropped something into his Photoshop, used the eye-dropper to select a color, deleted the thing I’d added, and colored in the dress. I passed the tablet back to Damian and leaned against his side again so I could still see. “Better?”

He scrunched his eyebrows. “Wwwhy did you choose that color?” he wondered.

I shrugged. “I have my reasons,” I said. “Okay. I’ve been sitting down way too long.” I patted his chest and pushed myself to my feet. “I'm gonna go box or bench or something. Wanna join?”

Damian shrugged. “Sure. Let me go change. Now that Drake’s back maybe he’ll let us spar against him and get used to the new inverted height difference.”

I smirked. “That’d be fun.” I swung around the doorframe to the parlor on one arm and went jogging for my room to put on my workout clothes.

The reason I colored the dress the one I chose? The reason I didn’t tell him?

It was the same color as his eyes.

Figured if I didn’t want to match his black tie, I might as well match his eyes.

Plus, even though my eyes were brown, when a bright light shone into them, a greenish ring around the outside edge could be seen. Wearing green sometimes made that ring easier to see.

I changed fast, pulled my hair back into a tight ponytail, and went off for the Batcave, stopping on the way at Tim’s room. “Hey Timbo,” I greeted, poking my head in.

“Hi Cloudy. What’s up?” he replied distractedly.

“Wanna come spar with me and Damian? Work off some of that meeting-boredom energy?”

“That sounds suspiciously like you have an ulterior motive,” Tim joked, spinning around in his desk chair to look at me, arms folding over his chest and raising one of his eyebrows. I sighed dramatically and leaned against his doorframe.

“Okay, you caught me,” I relented sarcastically. Tim smirked at my theatrics. “Damian and I want to get used to fighting with the inverted height difference. Last time we were really in the field together, not counting this past patrol, he was more than half-a-foot shorter than me. Now he’s just over a foot taller than me. Wanna be our opponent?”

Tim thought for a moment. “There was a time I would immediately jump at any chance I could get to beat up that brat,” he remarked. “But now… sure why not? I could blow off some steam.”

I smiled. “Thanks bro,” I said. “Meet you downstairs.”

“See you in a minute.” Tim got off his desk chair as I pulled his door shut so he could change.

I headed downstairs to the cave.

“Ready for this?” Damian asked as he picked up a wooden sword. He had on a thin black tank top and athletic shorts. It looked very attractive on him. Really accented his powerful build. I blinked and shook the thoughts out of my head. Not the time. I cracked my knuckles and stretched.

“Ready as I’ll ever be. It’s been a while since I sparred against Tim,” I said.

“What’s going on?” Bruce asked, looming out of the shadows.

“Oh we’re going to spar against Tim,” I answered.

“Two against one? That doesn’t seem fair,” Bruce said.

“We’ll go a little easy, B,” I said. “We’re mostly just doing it to get used to fighting with our new height difference. I'm used to Damian being shorter than me.”

“I see. Perhaps I should join,” he said.

Damian and I exchanged a glance. “Well we were going to ask Jay when he got back…” I began.

“Father,” Damian also began.

“Don’t you two start telling me I'm too old, now,” Bruce warned, almost jokingly. It was weirder when he used lighter tones than when Damian did. “I already get it enough from Jason and Dick.”

I scoffed. “Pfft! C’mon, B. You know Jason does it in jest,” I said. Bruce cocked an eyebrow. “Okay, okay. You can be on Tim’s team. But if you need to tap out…” I just shrugged. “We won’t blame you.”

“I'm not that old, Nora,” Bruce admonished.

“Well if you think you can handle it I'm not going to tell you otherwise,” I replied, clapping his shoulder and crossing over to the training mat where Damian was swinging his fake sword around, preparing to fight against Tim’s staff.

Tim came running down the stairs moments later. “I'm here!” he exclaimed breathlessly. He wore a T-shirt and athletic shorts, spinning his staff around in a quick warmup. He and I stretched so we wouldn’t tear anything—Damian had already stretched while I’d been changing and doing my hair, apparently. Bruce started to stretch too. “No way! Are you gonna be on my team?” Tim asked him.

“I always am,” Bruce said.

Damian liked his sword, even if Bruce rarely let him use it, Dick had his escrima sticks, Jason his guns and knives, and Tim his staff. I didn’t usually use many weapons. Not even batarangs. Tim had taught me a little staff and Dick a little bit with escrima sticks, but I still usually just used my own two hands as much as I could.

This was going to be interesting.

Damian and I faced off against Tim and Bruce on the training mat. Tim spun his staff around his hands and twirled it around his back. Damian spun his sword to loosen his wrist. “Ready kids?” Bruce asked.

“If you think you can handle it,” I replied, trash-talking with a smile.

“Oh it’s on,” Tim replied playfully. I laughed and cracked my neck.

Tim attacked first.

Damian caught Tim’s staff on his wooden sword while I ducked under a haymaker of Bruce’s, spinning around on the ground to knock one foot out from under him.

Unfortunately, Damian was standing too close with a stance too wide that I wasn’t used to and I caught his ankle too.

He fell on top of me—knocking the wind out of me. He leapt off of me almost immediately and shot to his feet, launching himself at Tim. They fought staff-on-sword, leaving me to deal with the original Batman on my own. Which, even with him being nearly a decade older than the last time I sparred against him, was really hard. I got a few good licks in but mostly took more hits than I dealt.

Until I cried out as a bruise from patrol the night before got hit.

Damian’s hand wrapped around my shoulder and forced me behind him with enough force that he nearly shoved me to the ground had I not been light on my feet and used to the motion—from Jason and Dick. It was a move we used to practice when we wanted to trade opponents.

I caught Tim’s staff in my hands as he swung it toward Damian and yanked, throwing him off balance. He recovered fast, though, and jabbed me in the gut with the end of his staff. “Oof!” I grunted, wheezing and retaliating by getting in close enough to jab him in the solar plexus with my elbow—and leaving myself vulnerable to another attack.

Which swiftly came in the form of a staff across the back. I stumbled away from Tim, coughing and trying to get my breath back.

Damian managed to fend off both Tim and Bruce at the same time for a good fifteen seconds before I reentered the sparring match.

It was easier than I thought, adjusting to his height. I hadn’t fought side-by-side with Bruce much when he was Batman and he was the closest to Damian’s height, but I had fought near Dick and Jason a lot. What was an extra three inches when you’re ducking under an attack from an opponent for your partner behind you to parry it? Adjusting to his weapon use was harder. Jason would sometimes just shoot someone when I ducked out of the way—nonlethal shots, usually, but a bullet was smaller and faster than a wooden sword.

Bruce tapped out first. “Not because he was tired,” though. He said he had “important business” to attend to. Damian, Tim, and I all exchanged a glance as Bruce left the training mat. Tim swung his staff.

Damian caught the end of the staff with one hand before it could strike my shoulder.

Damian and I went a little easy on Tim when he was alone. Not too easy though. Tim was vicious when he needed to be. If we went too easy he’d beat the snot out of both of us. But Damian and I were both also good fighters. If we both gave 100% we could seriously injure him. So we didn’t.

Technically we weren’t training. Just adjusting what we already knew. So we went only a little easy. Easy enough that we wouldn’t hurt Tim much while it was 2-on-1, but giving it enough effort that we didn’t get the snot beat out of us.

That didn’t mean I didn’t get several good whacks from his staff through. Because I did. I’d definitely end up with bruises.

I was the next to tap out. “Okay boys,” I said, panting, sweating, sore, and really tired. “I'm done. I'm gonna go shower.” I gave them a weak thumbs-up and stumbled up the stairs and out of the cave.

Next

[earthschampion]

So, I had enough time tonight to edit another one of my old stories!

Another one from five years ago, if you’re interested!

It’s taking place during Young Justice #7(April 1999).  If you haven’t read it, here is a quick synopsis:

The team(Robin/Tim Drake, Impulse/Bart Allen, Superboy/Kon-El, Wonder Girl/Cassie Sandsmark, Arrowette/Cissie King-Jones, and Secret/Greta Hayes) are having a camp out in the woods outside of their headquarters while their parents/guardians(Nightwing for Robin, Max Mercury for Impulse, Dubbilex from Cadmus for Superboy, Helena Sandsmark, and Bonnie King) are having a "parent/teacher" meeting with Red Tornado about their kids.  After Helena and Bonnie go to check on Cassie and Cissie, Superboy was talking to himself about how he can never age.

Under the Stars

Kon looked up to the sky with a sigh. "And like Peter Pan said...'To die would be adventure.'"

Cassie had woken up from hearing her mother's voice as she trailed away with Bonnie, after visiting their tent. Cassie noticed Cissie was still asleep, so she gently removed her hand from her shoulder as she sat up. Upon hearing Kon-El’s voice, she poked her head out of the tent and noticed he was still sitting by the fire.  She stepped out into the cold night air, having to hold her arms in order to warm up. "That doesn't seem like an adventure I would go on."

The voice caused him to jump, his eyes darted around as he looked for the source of the voice.  After a moment, his eyes fell onto Cassie. "Hey, Wondy." Kon gave her a gentle smile as he ran a hand through his hair, floating back down to the ground. "Startled me a bit. You just missed your Mom, by the way.  So did Cissie, actually."

"Sorry about that, Kon." She spoke softly as she walked closer. "I didn't mean to scare you, I just woke up, to be honest." The thought of her mother’s reaction to the camping trip made her shudder, she tugged on her shirt as her cheeks turned red. "Was she upset?"

He shook his head and smiled. "Nah, they were both just wonderin' where you and Cissie were. They were happy. What woke you up?" Kon asked softly as he patted the ground next to him, signaling her to sit next to him.

Cassie’s cheeks remained red as she sat down, instantly smiling from the warmth of the fire. "I guess my mom woke me up with her voice. Then I heard you talking to yourself, so I kinda came to check up on you."

"Sorry 'bout that, Wondy. I was just thinkin' out loud." He smiled as he poked at the fire.

A frown had formed on her face as she brought her knees up to her chin, her arms wrapping themselves around her legs as she absorbed the fire’s warmth.  "Kon… Why do you think dying would be an adventure?"

Taken back by the question, but doing his best to keep his “Cool” atmosphere, Kon leaned back onto his forearms. "I guess because I can't age, I can never grow old, I can never experience death..." The smile faded from his face as he stared into the fire, his voice soft.  "I'll be forever young while the rest of you go on to the Justice League, and then retirement homes."

"Sooooo you are upset that you can't age? You didn't seem that way before when everyone else was out here..." Cassie turned her head to face him, seeing how his demeanor had changed.  He seemed… Vulnerable.  This wasn’t the cool guy Superboy act, this was Kon-El.  Behind the jokes, she could see he was jealous of something so normal for everyone else.

He looked to her and locked eyes for a moment, then drew his attention again to the flames as he sat up. "I guess because I was putting on a show. Acting like nothing can phase me, or bring me down." His face raised towards the sky, and a deep breath escaping him. "I was created to be Superman… How am I ever supposed to become Superman if I can't even age?"

She noticed the frustration in him, holding back his anger.  With a simple shrug, she moved a bit closer to him. "I feel that way too sometimes… About becoming Wonder Woman." She admitted, softly. "I feel that once it's my turn to wear the armor, I wouldn't fit into, y'know?"

"Yeah… You're gonna need a much bigger chest." Not realizing what was said until it was too late, Kon’s widened eyes turned to Cassie and noticed the pout on her face. "I didn't mean that, I swear. I'm just… tired I guess. I'm so sorry, Cass."

Cassie simply shook her head. "Just don't say something like that again, or we're gonna have problems."  Moving her knees a bit closer to her chest, she continued. “As I was saying… I meant that I wouldn't fit into it on an emotional and mental scale. It’s, the same reason why I don't wear Donna's old costume, I don't feel like I'm ready for it. What if I'm never ready to wear Wonder Woman's costume either?"

His eyes widened as he scratched his head. "Cass… You'll be able to wear that outfit for sure! You're definitely in that state of mind, you’ll be able to wear it."

"You really think so, Kon?" She asked softly, her eyes locking with his yet again.

Kon felt his face heat up a bit as he stared back into Cassie’s eyes, a warm smile forming on his face.  "I don't just think it, I know it." A light laugh escaped him, because he knew it to be true.  Cassie was strong, she could be fearsome, and she was passionate.  All the things which would make her an amazing Wonder Woman, in his eyes.

With her cheeks a deep red, Cassie looked to the fire. "Thanks, Kon." She couldn’t contain her shivering any longer, it was too cold out here, and she thought it would be rude to head to her tent and grab her jacket while Kon was opening up to her. "S-S-Sorry, I was d-dumb and didn’t bring m-my jacket out here..."

"Here, take mine." He stood, taking his jacket off and placing it around her. He made sure her legs were inside the jacket as well, then closed it up so Cassie was protected from the wind. "There, all better." His voice soft, his smile gentle, with his hand on her frozen cheek.

She blushed again, his hand heating up her face. It’s like we’re together.  "You didn't have to, Kon. But thank you, that's really sweet of you."

"That's what I'm here for, Wondy.  Are you still cold?" He returned to his spot next to her on the ground, placing another stick in the fire.

"A little..." She admitted, softly. "Kon, would it be okay if… Never mind." She looked back to the fire, a frown on her face. Stupid, Cassie, you know he prefers Cissie.

Kon looked back at her, raising a brow as he leaned back. "What is it, Cass?"

"I was wonderin' if… Maybe you could put your arm around me? You don't have to if you don't want to. I know I'm not Arrowette." The end of her sentence came out a bit colder than she intended, maybe it’s from the coldness of the air, but she couldn’t hide how she felt forever.

"What does Cissie have to do with it?"

"I… I've noticed how you look at her and treat her… You like her… It's okay, I understand..." Cat’s out of the bag now, Cassie.

Without a moment to lose, Kon-El quickly wrapped both arms around Cassie, bringing her close to him. "Cass… Cissie has nothin' to do with it, ‘kay? Sure, Cissie is beautiful, but I don't like her that way, honest." He tried to reassure her with a smile, hoping it’ll get his point across.

"You mean that?" Her heart racing a bit, in that moment, she didn’t care if it was a lie. She just needed the reassurance, even if it was just for tonight.

His finger lifted her chin, their eyes met, and his voice was soft.  "I wouldn't lie to you." The flames danced in her eyes, like a moon’s reflection in the ocean.  Time seemed to slow down the longer he stared, he couldn’t look away.

His eyes were twinkling, it was like staring up into the night sky.  She was locked in, and lost control of her voice.  "How do you feel about me?"  Oh. My. God.  She realized what she said, her eyes widened as she turned away, burying her head into his jacket, hoping to hide the embarrassment from her face. "You don't have to answer that! Oh man, I didn't mean to ask that..." She lifted her head, but still couldn’t make eye contact. Her face buried into his chest, embarrassment washing over her. Cripes, I’m such a wuss.

Kon laughed as he rubbed her side. "Cassie, it’s okay.  Look at me, come on.”  He leaned back again, a hand on her face.  "For starters, you're powerful and can seriously kick butt! You've got brains, you're caring, and you're beautiful. I can be myself, and not have to put on an act for you, and I don't know why. I just… I feel great!   I feel like you won't judge me, or anything like that. I become someone else." His smile never left his face, he felt like he was rambling, but everything he said was true.

Cassie’s cheeks were as red as the flames, her smile widened with each sentence. He loves me! She giggled at his last sentence. "If you ask me, I think you act as Superman would."

"Maybe we should be together then, since I act like Superman whenever I'm with you." He laughed as he stood, unwrapping his arms from her. "I'm gonna grab a blanket and a pillow from my tent, I'll be right back. He gave her a smile as he flew inside his tent.

Cassie sat there, completely frozen, replaying Kon's words in her head. "He..He wants to be together… He doesn't like Cissie that way… He loves me… Ha! In your face, Cissie! Superboy is mine!" She quickly covered her mouth, realizing she spoke out loud. "Cripes, I really hope no one heard that."

"No one heard what?" Kon asked, returning with his pillow and blanket.

"Oh! Umm… N-Nothing. Just uhh… I just burped, is all." She couldn’t control her nervous laughter, nor could she hide the blush on her face.

"Ah, well, excuse you then." He laughed lightly as he set the pillow down and prepared the blanket. "I'm gonna hit the hay, you gonna head back to your tent?"

Cassie looked to her tent, then back to Kon. She blushed before moving closer to him. "Would it be alright if uhh… I could..."

He simply smiled and opened the blanket for her. "There's enough space for the both of us, come on in."

Cassie blushed once again before getting under the blanket, her heart pounding as she felt Kon's arms wrap around her. She nuzzled into him, her head comfortably resting on his chest. I love you.  "Thanks Kon." I love you.  Her voice softened as her eyes grew heavy.  I love you.  "Goodnight."  I love you.

Kon smiled back at her as his knuckles gently brushed up and down her back. "Goodnight, Cass, sweet dreams." He closed his eyes, feeling nothing but comfort.  For the first time, he felt as though he could take on the world. He's never felt that with Tana, he's never felt any of the things he felt when he was with Cassie. He knew he would enjoy his sleep, and hoped Cassie would too.

[comicalcats]

Volume 1: Dale and Alice

CHAPTER 5

I woke the next morning not quite sure where I was.

The room I woke up in was messy, newspapers were strewn all around the room; piled in corners, on top of the dresser, and littered in the middle of the room. I found it rather odd. How many newspapers did a person need? I swung my legs out of bed to investigate, but before I could I heard I heard a soft knock at the door.

Last night’s events came rushing back. DonDo Village, the crying boy by the river, the chase through the woods. I recalled that he had offered his bedroom as shelter as opposed to making me camp outside. That was kind of him, I thought to myself as I approached the door. I wonder why he did it.

I opened the door, and there he stood, staring at the floor. I smiled. Something about his nervous demeanor was strangely calming. Perhaps the fact that he was so anxious made me feel a little more in control of my own life. It was also oddly adorable to watch him shuffle his feet around awkwardly. “Good morning…,” the realization that I didn’t know his name yet hit me like morning sickness as I stopped in the middle of my sentence.

Thankfully, he didn’t seem to notice my stunning revelation. “Um, good morni-”

He stopped suddenly. I couldn’t figure out why until I looked down at what I was wearing. I was still in my nightgown.  

It was a bit embarrassing, really. The gown had thin straps holding it up, and the skirt stopped just above my knees. I hadn’t even realized I was in my nightgown when I had gotten up to open the door. A harrowing moment passed. Then he grabbed the doorknob and slammed the door shut with a bang. I was surprised to say the least. My bed head isn’t that bad, is it?

“I am so sorry, I didn’t realize- I mean, I should’ve asked first to check that you were dressed- oh my gosh I can’t believe I was so stupid…,” he trailed off in embarrassment. He sounded so ashamed, like he had committed a crime punishable only by death.

“It’s okay. Hey, you didn’t know. It’s not a big deal, okay,” I comforted him through the door. That last bit was a lie. I took my decency very seriously, and if anyone else had seen me like that, I would have knocked them flat on their asses. But for him, I made an exception. There was no use in beating up my ticket out of this dumb forest. Besides, he was so small and pale, and it was painfully obvious that he didn’t have very many friends, if any. I would feel terrible if I decked someone so small and helpless. “I’m gonna get dressed really quick and then I’ll be right down. You still owe me a ‘good morning’,” I added. I heard soft footsteps walking down the creaky staircase.

The house was so rundown and broken. It was easily older than him by a good decade. As I rummaged through my bags in search of clothing for the day, I heard a distant crash as well as a startled screech. His house was also falling apart, which I assume was the crash I had just heard. As I pulled on my clothes from yesterday(shush, they were still clean), I couldn’t help but think that I was doing him a favor by rescuing him from this dump. After brushing my hair in the cracked mirror leaning against the wall, I headed downstairs, narrowly avoiding the bottom step, the boards of which had splintered in half. So that’s what I heard from upstairs.

The pale boy was nowhere to be seen. I searched the entire bottom floor and didn’t find him. Just as I was considering exploring the basement in the hopes of finding him, I heard the front door open with a hair-raising shriek. I poked my head into the hallway and saw him standing with his back to me, holding the bucket he had hit his head on yesterday. I had almost forgotten that I had picked it up when I chased him through the woods. I didn’t know where to put it, so I had just left it on the porch. He turned around, freezing when he saw me standing in the doorway to the living room. He looked down at his feet and tugged at his shirt collar. I could’ve sworn he was blushing. This kid must have issues of some sort.

I pushed the thought out of my head. Specifically the word ‘kid’, since I didn’t know how old he was. But he was so tiny; five foot nothing at best. I spoke in an attempt to break the awkward silence. “Hey, don’t sweat it. It was nothing, just an honest accident. Don’t beat yourself up over it.”

I saw his tense muscles relax a bit at my words. Despite this, he continued to avoid eye contact as he shuffled into the kitchen. “So….”

He glanced up nervously. “Oh, uh, good- good morning.” Not what I wanted to hear, but it did make me glad that he had kept his word.

“So when do we leave,” I inquired. I wanted to leave as soon as possible. He looked a bit startled at how eager I was to leave. I didn’t blame him. He had probably never gotten much experience of the world outside of the forest.

“We… um, well-”

“Apologies in advance if I come off as rude, but I’m already a day behind in my voyage, and if we don’t hurry, then all the time I spent trying to get to the Kingdom for my wish will have been for nothing.” I didn’t want to be pushy of course, but we needed to get moving if we were to make it to the Kingdom in time.

He didn’t say anything for a long moment. Then, “We’ll leave as soon as I pack.” I noticed that he didn’t stutter that time.

  ONE HOUR LATER

  We had been walking for a good forty five minutes, and the atmosphere wasn’t any less awkward.

At some point, the pale boy had begun walking ahead of me, which made the silence a bit more bearable. But I had a feeling that even though it was awkward for me, it was worse for him. After all, it seemed like he didn’t get company. Like, ever.

The silence became too much for me. I tried to make conversation. “So, um, I was wondering: why do you live in such a, uh… quaint house? It doesn’t seem like the safest place to me. There’s a village really close by, but I guess you wouldn’t want to live there judging by the fact that the people there don’t seem terribly fond of you. There was even a kid in town who sounded like he had a bone to pick with you or something. I guess I just don’t understand why you stick around. Why, if it were me, I’d-”

My rambling was cut short as I noticed a couple things. First, we were almost out of the forest. The foliage above and around us had grown thinner since we had left the shack, and sunlight was streaming through. I almost jumped in the air and started celebrating right then and there. Then I noticed something else.

It had been too dark to see it before, but it was easy to spot now that there was sunlight. There, on the back of his head. It looked like he had hit his head on something. The bruise looked recent. If I had to guess, I’d say he had gotten the bruise about a day ago. As I stared at it, I couldn’t help but think: did he do that to himself? After a moment’s consideration, I decided that the answer to that was probably no. That was a weird spot for self-harm. So it had to be something else. But what? Only one way to find out.

“What’s that on the back of your head,” I asked. For once, the concern in my voice was genuine and not exaggerated. I surprised myself, if that was even possible.

He hunched his shoulders more in a fruitless attempt to hide the mark. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it,” he murmured.

I rolled my eyes. “It’s obviously not nothing if you’re trying to hide it. So for the love of the Kingdom, please don’t act like it’s nothing,” I retorted. I winced internally at how harsh that had come off. I hadn’t meant for it to come out that way, but the fact that he had tried to pass it off as ‘nothing’ irked me. Someone had done something to this kid, and I was going to find out what it was and who had done it if I had to interrogate him for twelve hours straight.

He trembled slightly in response. He looked afraid that I was going to hit him or something…. Oh.

Oh no.

I spoke again, softer this time. “Does it hurt?”

He didn’t answer. He just pointed forward. I looked in that direction and gasped. We were at a clearing, and the path was right there. Visions of the future danced across my mind’s eye. Finally, my wish was within reach. Just a bit further and happiness was mine for the taking.

I ran towards the path, excitement filling my entire body- and then I remembered that I wasn’t traveling alone anymore. I stopped in my tracks and looked back. The pale boy was still standing at the edge of the forest. He hadn’t moved. I snapped my fingers to get his attention. “Come on, we gotta go! The path is right there!”

He looked me in the eyes for the first time that day. I noticed that they were a startling shade of blue, as if angels had cried and deposited their tears into his irises. He spoke in a trembling voice, like he was about to start crying along with the angels. “I live in a broken home because it’s the only home I have and I don’t have the money to move out. The villagers hate me because I’m a freak. To them I’m some sort of alien or monster. I don’t have family in the village or anywhere else that I’m aware of. As for the bruise on my head, well…,” he took a deep breath before speaking again. “Some kid in the village threw a rock at me yesterday. To prove that I was nothing but a weirdo. I think it was the same kid you mentioned who spoke ill of me. His name is Tim, and he seems to have the biggest grudge against me out of everyone in the village.” Tears were coming thick and fast now, streaming down his face in rivers.

While sadness overtook the pale boy’s body, anger flooded mine. I couldn’t believe that someone would do something so cruel to another person, especially someone who was obviously weaker than them. I felt the urge to race back to the village and snap the pencil-necked boy in half, this time for much more than possibly giving me the wrong directions. I took a moment to collect my thought. Something told me that the poor boy standing in front of me wouldn’t react well if I went on a murder spree in the village.

I approached him slowly, trying my best not to make any sudden moves. When I was right in front of him, I put my arms around him and squeezed him gently, closing the gap. “Forget them. You have me now. I’ll help you get your wish, I promise. I’ll help you if it’s the last thing I do.”

I wasn’t sure where the sudden sentiment came from. But I felt for this kid. He had no one, no one at all. I genuinely wanted to help him get away from that crappy village and the disgusting excuses for human beings that inhabited it. He deserved a life far better than the one he led, and it seemed that I was the only one who could help him achieve it. So there was no way I could leave him behind. The guilt would have crushed me. I pulled away and looked at him. “Does that sound good,” I asked.

He sniffled and nodded, smiling slightly.

“Great,” I said cheerfully. “Hey, I have an idea!” He tilted his head to the side questioningly. “How about this: from now on, you and I will be best friends. No objections,” I added jokingly. He seemed taken aback at my sudden declaration. But after a second’s thought, he nodded, confirming our friendship. “Awesome! Now come on, let’s go,” I shouted, jogging towards the path. He caught up quicker than I expected, and began walking alongside me.  

“Dale,” he whispered. “Dale. T-That’s my name.”

I hadn’t expected such a sudden introduction, especially since he didn’t seem like the time to introduce himself first. But I was glad nonetheless. “Alice. Pleasure to be traveling with you, Dale. Cool name, by the way.”

He nodded his thanks and we continued walking. The Adventures of Dale and Alice, I thought. That has a nice ring to it.