#a lot of Mask's details are kind of alarming if you squint

[changeling-rin]

The more he uses his masks, the more he accumulates traits from the souls inside them. They're all currently hidden in his hair, or under his clothes, or just simply in a really weird spot. For example, he's got a leaf in his hair, tucked under his right ear, from the Deku mask; he has a small patch of hardened yellow skin on his left ankle from the Goron mask; and just underneath his right elbow is a tiny amount of pale blue, barely-there scales from the Zora mask. None of this is noticeable to the outside observer yet

If he continues to host Oni, he'll develop a white shock in his bangs

He was borderline vegan for the first nine years of his 'Kokiri' life, and had something of a culture shock when Malon introduced him to milk and eggs

His favorite color was purple... and then Majora happened. His favorite color is now white

He's actually uniquely suited for the soul-magic subset of the Spirit Magic Branch. Given that soul magic is highly taboo, this is a bit unfortunate, since it means that he'll probably never figure out his specialty. But the perk is that he'll never fall prey to the typical problem with soul magic, which is that one loses track of their own identity and individuality altogether after enough exposure and/or merging. Using one soul mask is usually enough to send the wearer off the deep end after a dozen uses or so - for example, the Skull Kid getting taken over by soul-mask-Majora. But Mask is running around with three on a normal day, and f o u r once he picks up Oni. If soul magic wasn't primarily used by psychopaths, he'd be a legend in the community

He... may or may not be in a 'love triangle' with Malon and Zelda? He honestly has no idea. At this point he's just waiting for them to tell him what's going on, because he has no clue what's going on. Last he heard, the girls were in 'negotiations', whatever that means?

He has a love-hate relationship with sleep. On one hand, his sleep schedule is probably irreparably screwed over by the Termina time loops, and he's kinda tired... all the time. But, on the other hand, he gets so much more done now that his body just goes until it passes out. He has been reliably informed that this is not healthy, but... eh, hasn't killed him yet

If anything happened to Ocarina, he would - quite literally - kill everyone in the room, and then himself. Exceptions would be made for fellow Links, but then all bets are off. He has not said this out loud to Ocarina, because he thinks it's obvious. (It is not obvious.)

If he ever picks up another instrument, he'd be good at it. He actually is very musically talented

[monsoonblooms12]

Bittersweet (Ethan Ramsey x f!MC)

Summary: OH Book 1 Chapter 4 written from Dolores Hudson's POV

A/N: I really wanted to do this because Dolores is such an amazing person and this chapter is one of my favourites in the entire OH series. This picks up from the office fire and ends at Dolores's death.

A/N 2: The flashback portions are indented

If you enjoyed the story, please like it, leave a comment or reblog. Your feedback keeps me going🤍

Characters: Dolores Hudson, Ethan Ramsey, f!MC (Pooja Sharma)

Pairing: Ethan Ramsey x Pooja Sharma (f!MC)

Word Count: around 2.8 K

Rating: General

Category: Fluff then Angst

Disclaimer: PB owns most of the characters and some of the dialogues. I only own my MC.

Triggers: Complications in pregnancy, Few Curse Words, Character Death

Prompts: @choicesaprilchallenge2021 Day 23: Classic/Classical

Other Works

Clickety-clack!

Dolores's fingers danced on the keyboards in a swift motion as she strived to complete this last email and get home and have a sleep that she missed yesterday due to late-night cravings.

Around her, a chaos of whispers spread as her colleagues engaged in mindless chitter-chatter of the last hour before the end of the office day.

A few nudges of Hey, Dolores! and its variants reached her, but she steered past them, focusing completely on her work.

Just one more line anndd,

Done!

She hit the send and the ping of the 'sent' notification calmed her overworked nerves.

Come on, Lil tadpole, let's file these papers, get ice cream and go home.

She fondly rubbed her belly. 26 weeks in and yet the fact that she was going to become Mamma Froggy was overwhelming and exciting.

She got the prints and in a hurry, nearly got a paper cut.

Careful there! She cajoled herself and started filing those messy sheets of her hard work of the day.

She was almost done just as-

Waaahhh!

The blazing sound, very much like a siren's, reached all of them, leading to the eruption of panicked commotion between all of them.

They had been run through the fire drill so many times that they didn't need to be told that it was a fire alarm.

Dolores left all her possessions, carrying only her bag with the stuffed froggy she had bought for her baby and tried to run.

But being pregnant doesn't make it very easy. Even more, if there was a fucking fire at the place.

People went haywire. Very few cared about the fact that she was carrying a baby, and they should have the minimum decency to help. Most would selfishly try to save themselves, not giving a damn about anyone.

Dolores tried to pave a way for reaching the elevator. It was nearly impossible for her to get down the stairwell in time to save herself from the hazardous situation. She could see that most of the people had already evacuated.

Why was the fire department not here yet?

The fire was ablaze, surroundings hot, and amidst all, Dolores walked slowly, worried only about her little tadpole and not herself.

She pressed the buttons of the elevator. Waited. But nothing budged.

Fuck it!

Smoke engulfed her and she felt suffocated. All through the light-headedness, she could faintly hear, the siren of the ambulance. She hoped someone would save her from this fiery hell.

But there was no one to help her. No one around. The building burnt and if she did not think of something quickly, she would burn with it as well.

Not viewing any other options, she screamed with as much strength she could garner. Once, Twice, Thrice.

The next actions happened quicker than the blink of an eye. She saw a handsome EMT rush towards her. Even though she was already in a blazing environment, she couldn't stop the he's hot reflex of her brain cells. He came to her and reassured her that he would be able to save her and her baby, picked her up, and slowly, yet swiftly, got out of there.

Just like a superhero.

She thought of telling this story of Super-Man coming to save him and his Mama to her baby and the thought made her giggle.

Her head was light, and she felt choked, but her mind would keep going to the little angel of her womb, worrying only for him.

The last she remembers was reaching the ambulance and coughing vigorously. She couldn't breathe normally. She tried and failed miserably. A slow sensation of blacking out and after that, everything blank.

After who knows how long, Dolores feels the glare of white lights around her giving her eyes a painful competition to open up. She squints, tiredness spreading through her body. From office work or the life-threatening experience? She does not know.

She slowly, very slowly, tries to sit up, her hand on her belly, tenderly stroking it, as if to let the child know that his Mamma would not let any harm come to him. Nurses check in on her, one of them replacing the oxygen mask with a nose tube, and she felt a bit more relaxed.

As she was taking in the surroundings, she realized,

Edenbrook!

Coming back here after so many years brought back many memories. The first time she came here. Oh, how panicked she was! She was getting jitters but that calm and brilliant doctor took care of her, not only inside the hospital but also outside it.

Dr Ethan Ramsey.

He still worked here, he had told her in his last email. I need to meet him! She thought.

When was the last time they had met? In that coffee shop last year, right? It had been long.

She traced the name she had thought for her tadpole over and over again on her belly as if to make him memorize it before coming here to her, and looked around.

There was a minimum difference between the room she had been kept in the first time and the one in which she was now, but the time gap made her feel everything was new.

All of a sudden the door swayed, letting in a young doctor and,

Ethan!

She was genuinely excited about seeing him. Of all the possibilities, she hadn't really considered the fact that he would be coming to treat her. He has important cases to take care of than petty smoke inhalation, right?

A frown appears on his forehead. "What did you get yourself into this time, Dolores?"

His stern tone is the tough layer of a walnut, which hid his soft corner, the concerned heart. She smiled at the realization.

She quickly filled him in with all the details. The fire. The hot superman. The baby. Everything.

She finds the young doctor's surprise about Ethan having friends amusing. The look of surprise she had on her face was priceless.

But when the doctor asked her,

"Was Dr Ramsey always so mean?" she guards her mouth using her hand, "And so handsome?"

It was Dolores's turn to be shocked. She knew just how much Ethan hated interns. He used to whine about how stupid they were all the time to her, online & offline. And here was this intern, having enough courage to ask her such a question in front of him.

Impressive!

"This man's definitely got grouchier than before, but even then he had an edge"

"And as for handsome, I think he has aged like a fine wine" Dolores winked and Ethan fumbled for words.

When he got his tone back, it was strict.

No matter what anyone else thought, Dolores knew the real Ethan. The one without his rough and tough exterior and mean demeanour.

And that Ethan, if he ever came out, would make everyone fall in love with him.

As the doctors mumbled between themselves, she looked around, searching for something.

Umm Hmm. She couldn't see it.

"Excuse me Doctor Sharma" Both of them turned to look at her. "I remember having my bad when the hunk brought me out. Did they bring it here?" She asks, anxiety on its borderline, ready to burst out.

She needed it. Very Much.

Dr Sharma looks around for a bit, carefully conscious eyes trained to spot abnormalities. Her eyes, soon enough, fall on the side table of the bed and she picks the purse up and hands it over to Dolores.

Another frantic search follows. She turns all the contents up and down, her happy demeanour replaced with a visible frown.

It's not here, she says, evidently panicked.

A sadness spreads on her face.

"I must have dropped it in the office" She is on the verge of crying.

Dr Sharma places a kind hand on her shoulder. What Happened? Her questioning eyes wordlessly ask.

Dolores sighs, "It probably sounds stupid but I saw this adorable little frog on my lunch break and had to get it for my little tadpole."

"My parents are gone and the father's not in the picture." She adoringly places a hand on her swollen belly, "I just want everything to be perfect for him."

Dr Sharma gives her shoulder a gentle push of reassurance, and adds, "It's not stupid Dolores, absolutely not. I feel like you're going to be a great mom."

Her words make Dolores smile despite the upsetting circumstances, "Thank You. I- I just wished I hadn't lost it."

She stays lost in the thoughts and daydreams of her little tadpole playing with his first gift, growing ever more upset with every passing second.

"I and Dr Ramsey will find it for you!" Dr Sharma's excited tone jolts her out of her thoughts.

She is surprised first and slowly a smile appears, "Really Ethan? You would do that for me?"

He hesitates.

"Erm- Yes, sure." He fumbles.

"Dr Sharma, let's get this urine sample to the lab first. I will meet you in the lot in ten minutes."

Relieved and Happy, Dolores exclaims, "I am 26 weeks pregnant, Ethan. Not gonna take 10 minutes to make me pee!"

And in 15 minutes, they take her urine sample away and bid adieu with a promise of bringing her token of love for her tadpole back.

She was extremely grateful for Dr Sharma. She doubted if Ethan had given in the first time if it had not been her taking initiative.

Wait a Minute.

Ethan Ramsey listened to an intern? That too, in the first time itself? The observation blew her mind.

She recounted the time he had called her to his home to give a dinner treat. Lovely memories of a different face of the man came to her mind like the waves reaching the shore, one after the other.

"Mmm... Ethan, this is delicious!" Dolores found herself falling deeply in love with this masterpiece of Georgian stuffed chicken.

"Thank You, but it wouldn't have got done without your help" Ethan was never the type to take credit. Boast, Huh? What's that?

That's what she liked the most about him. A fine, handsome man, talented without bounds, a successful doctor having shitloads of money and a chef. He was a complete package and yet seemed to be subtly unaware of it.

They chatted about everything from opera to music to their first meet. It was a jolly time.

That is, until, the conversation landed on romance.

"So, seeing anyone?"

"No, not currently." He blushes a bit.

"Imagine" Dolores leans back on her chair, stretching her legs, "if, I said if, you fell in love with," she pauses to look at his curious face, "an intern?"

"Impossible."

It came even before she had finished the word. Dolores was amused.

"Just imagine!"

"I don't want to waste time imagining something as implausible as that. Can we talk about something else please?"

And here he was today, listening to an intern, a different demeanour than usual. Not that it was love, yet, but there was something.

Was he impressed by her?

He talked differently, listened patiently to the young doctor. That Ethan Ramsey who would not stand with an intern for 5 minutes, listened to one?

Anyone who knew him would laugh off the fact and say it was a joke.

Dolores made sure that if it happens, the falling in love with an intern, she will not let Ethan see the end of it. Teasing him to annoyance, yes that's what she would do.

She turned on some soft classical music on her phone, spreading an instant calm and dozed off for a while...

She gets up with a start on the sound of the door opening. She rubs her eyes to get a better view of the people in front of her.

It was Ethan and Dr Sharma!

She looked at them and yes! there it was, her tadpole's froggy.

She was overjoyed.

"You got it!" Dolores breaks into a grin as the sterilized frog is given to her.

"Happy now?" Ethan asks, the faintest glimmer of happiness in his eyes.

"Yes, very, very, much! Thank you so much, Ethan."

She pulls Dr Sharma into a small hug, "You too Dr Sharma, thank you!"

"Of course, Dolores." The young woman's beautiful face gleams at her, "and you can call me Pooja."

After few minutes of chit chat, Pooja leaves to get Dolores's reports.

"Switch on the TV Ethan, it's boring to sit here and do nothing."

"You know you can do better things than watching stupid TV shows?"

"I am doing it because I want to. The least who can do is help me." She shrugs.

"Fine, fine."

After going on a roundabout tour of the various broadcasted shows, they settled to watch a comedy.

Soon Ethan's stoicism got lost in the wilds and he started laughing along with her.

All the while Dolores held the Froggy affectionately to her tummy, to her little tadpole, as if to show it to him and ask if he likes it.

Amidst all the laughs, the medical reports are completely forgotten until there's a soft knock on the door and Ethan looks at someone from the corner of his eye and go out to meet them.

Still, she remains blissfully unaware of her health conditions and basks in the moments of delight she gets alone with her tadpole.

Her eyes remain glued to the TV screen until the doctors come in and from the morbid faces they wore, she knew that the reports were anything but good.

She switches off the TV.

"What is it? Ethan?"

Pooja steps forward, "I want you not to worry, Dolores."

She feels a mild panic attack bursting inside her, "T-That's what people say when there is something to be worried about. Is my tadpole okay?"

Pooja sighs, "Have you heard of preeclampsia? It's a disease affecting one out of ten pregnant women. In most cases, it is manageable, if monitored properly. But in your case-"

She pauses. And Dolores knows that whatever's coming will not be hopeful.

"It's serious."

Dolores quickly asks, "How serious?"

Not too much. Not too much. Please, god, not too much. She crosses her fingers.

"The blood flow to the placenta is slowing. It could deprive your baby of vital nutrients and oxygen."

With his morbid mask matching his melancholy tone, Ethan says, "Your baby is at risk."

Shit.

"B-But I can still feel the baby kicking!" She urges them to come and feel for themselves.

"Dolores it just means the delivery needs to be done early."

"Impossible." Dolores remarks with a deadly determination. "It's too soon."

"Babies delivered at 26 weeks have a good chance of survival." Dr Sharma tries to convince her.

"A-A chance?"

She is not going to play a game of chances with her beloved tadpole, her little jewel.

They keep convincing her.

"Yes he'll have to spend some time in the N.I.C.U and there are chances of post-birth complications-"

"And some don't make it at all. Is my baby is in danger now?" She asks with a motherly force.

"No, not immediately. But-" Ethan is on his tracks to convince her again.

"Then my little tadpole is staying put."

"Dolores—"

"No, Ethan! Just...give me some time! As long as you can give me. Please" It is a request from her heart, and she is on the verge of tears.

"I give you tonight. To come back to your senses."

When they leave, Dolores cries, caressing her belly, her little tadpole in there. She cannot take a risk with his goddamn life, never ever.

Tears roll down her cheeks and she holds the stuffed frog even tighter to herself, praying to god for his magical abilities and to save her baby.

Please.

She fell asleep while crying. When she wakes up, she finds a few unknown nurses and doctors standing there.

She tries to speak but cannot form words. Her head feels light, just like it did in the office building. She could not sense anything, swallowing was trouble.

She makes random sounds and the people come rushing to her, just as her body breaks into violent convulsions.

"We need to take her to the surgery, QUICK!"

They call for a code blue and everything that happens following that is a haze to her.

They are rushing her to the surgery. Her body shakes vigorously, and she can feel that she doesn't have much time left.

She holds the doctor's hand who was rushing her to the O.R.

"N-nam-me him-m E-Ethan."

And with that, she slowly spirals down the realm of unconsciousness, the last thought to ever strike her mind was,

Little tadpole, mamma loves you. You will be okay. Mamma will always be there with you, for you.

And with that her breath leaves her body, the last tear dropping on the O.R. bed.

As Ethan Hudson sees the light of his new life, Dolores passes away into the darkness.

I love you little tadpole.

PS: Thank you so much for reading and I hope you have a great day ahead! Love, Manamee🤍.

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[durrzerker]

Taskmaster: The Line. Chapter 4! Escort Mission.

"Thith was supposed to be an eathy day, Tathmather."

Slowly filing through the alleyways of Bagalia, Taskmaster, Wolverine, and Black Ant weren't making great time with their young charges. Laura had taken it upon herself to carry the injured boy, who Tony had learned was named Sven, across her back; she had the greatest stamina of the trio and was the least injured. Despite his slight limp, Taskmaster had taken point, bow in hand; he was the best shot and had the greatest chance of picking off oncoming threats silently from afar. Black Ant, meanwhile, was bringing up the rear; following behind the children, the size-shifting mercenary had another honey bun in hand, taking bites between each sentence.

Stopping briefly when he heard a cry of pain, Tony opened a pouch and back a syringe of morphine from his pouch to Laura to give to Sven. The kid had been whining from the jostling of their quick pace for awhile and Tony had ignored it, but now he was starting to sound legitimately distressed. Tony usually kept the meds on hand in case he got hurt -real- bad on a job, but he had other ways of managing his pain -- and something in him, a feeling that was as surprising as it was unfamiliar, welled up at the sight of the boy trying his best to look stoic while a bone was sticking out of his limb. Was it pity? He couldn't remember.

"...How many of those damn honey buns were you smuggling, anyways?" Taskmaster grumbled to Eric.

"I dunno. Six?"

He was too tired to even care; he had greater worries on his mind. He'd tried calling The Hub twice now, once fifteen minutes ago, and once just now -- nothing.

"She was supposed to send somebody," he complained to Wolverine, raising a hand before the ragtag caravan exited the alleyway. "Don't know why she ain't called back yet."

"Maybe she's just maintaining radio silence," Laura suggested. "Trying to keep quiet while she waits at Zemo's old place." Tony appreciated her solution-oriented mindset; it didn't necessarily put him at ease, but her matter-of-fact demeanor was a lot more confident than he felt right now. "--What's that sound?" Her head cocked like that of a canine, her enhanced senses picking up what was coming long before Taskmaster noticed.

"Oh shit, what day is it? Maybe...hold up. Oh no. I know what this is."

Damn it, he thought to himself. This is exactly what I was worried about. Not enemy mercs, not a supervillain...this. Bagalia just being fuckin' Bagalia.

It was a perverted parody of Mardi Gras: the Bagalia Freedom Festival. Dozens, maybe hundreds of bonafide supervillains, alongside all of their henchmen that were brave enough to venture into the borders of the most lawless city on earth, were marching through the streets. Those that weren't drinking were most definitely on something stronger, and all of them, from the Z-listers to the major leagues like the Wrecking Crew, were going to be doing this all night.

Peeking out from an alleyway between a strip club for Skrulls and The Bar With Fourteen Names, Tony held his bow at the ready and watched the goings-on. He only needed a glimpse to see the supervillain Piledriver turn and kick an offending car out of the way that was trying to get across the street before he made up his mind. "This is gonna take too long. We're gonna be pursued soon if we ain't already, and by the time this little 'traffic jam' goes by, it'll be nearly sun up. Look at that. Stretches all the way back to the damn docks...How did I forget this was today?"

"Is that a serious question?" Eric chimed in.

"Shut up. In fact, how did YOU forget this was today?"

"I didn't." Lifting his mask, Black Ant took another bite of his honey bun. For the first time, Wolverine and Taskmaster seemed to truly be on the same wavelength; in perfect unison, they both turned and shoved him onto his ass.

"So what's the plan?" Laura asked, glancing back at Taskmaster as Black Ant rubbed his back, rising to his feet. "You know Bagalia better than anyone...when your memory's working. Do you have an idea?"

Ignoring the crack about his memory - he'd have to file that under 'How's she know about that?' for later - Tony regarded the gathered party. "If it were just me, or maybe the three of us? This would be easy. With the little troublemakers, though..." He clicked his tongue thoughtfully behind his mask. "We'll need a distraction; the kind that doesn't draw ANY of us away. Eric...yer best-suited to this."

Tony could almost feel the lenses of his partner's mask trying to squint at that. "Why me? You know, Tony, I'm starting to feel a little over-employed. Maybe you value my skills a lot! Maybe it's time to talk rais--"

"We're...we're partners, Eric. You already get half from every job we do together." He grit his teeth in exasperation; he knew where this was going.

"Yeah! I'm thinking, I dunno...maybe I'm contributing a little more than half this mission. I'm thinking maybe this is a 70/30 cut kind of job."

"Wait. What...what do you think is going to happen here, Eric? No one's paying us for this. This is --" God, it hurt to say -- "...Pro bono."

"Yeah, but -something- is going to happen. We're gonna make a lot of money off this one, Tony. I can feel it." The smaller of the two mercenaries was bouncing in place, leaving Laura regarding him with something akin to disgust.

Taskmaster liked to think he was an open-minded guy. He liked to think that when he took a job, even if it was an informal one like saving these children, he didn't let anything get in the way of focusing on the task at hand. But 70-30? "...Okay, hypothetically, if -somehow- we make a profit off this? 60-40. That's my final offer."

"...Okay, but if I'm wrong, I still keep that cut for our -next- job," Eric insisted.

"God, you two are pathetic," Laura chimed in.

"You really are!" Akeja had caught up after scouting the back end of the alley that they were coming out of, and she looked extremely annoyed. "I thought we were the kids here."

"Hilarious," Tony commented. "It's a deal. Eric, gonna need you to go big for this one. -Real- big."

"Ooh. I never get to go big." Rubbing his hands together, Black Ant already started out of the alleyway, calling back to them.

"On my signal, you all head off towards Zemo's old place. Can't believe we're messing with the Bagalia Freedom Festival! Feels downright unpatriotic, Tony."

"I know, Eric. We all gotta make sacrifices sometimes."

"Oh my god." Laura buried her face, now fully healed, into both hands. "There are children's lives at stake here."

"Yes," Eric replied. "But they're kind of mean children, so I'm not going to be guilt-tripped. Let's do this, boys!" Breaking into a run, Black Ant hit his belt. The Pym Particles that surged through his suit came to life, his form growing with every step. By the time he was intruding upon the parade, he was easily over twenty feet tall - and still growing.

"What the fuck?!" Came a cry of alarm.

"It's that shitty Ant-Man!"

"Which one?!"

Turning his attention back to the children, Taskmaster nodded. "Best shot we're gonna get. Let's go."

"He had a point about you taking advantage of him," Laura conceded when she slipped out of the alleyway, the injured Sven still on her back. Despite his added weight, she still nimbly managed to suddenly fling herself up towards a fire escape on their side of the street, using it as leverage to swing like a gymnast back and forth until she was able to hurl herself up onto the roof of the pharmacy next door. "Come on; if we stick to the rooftops until we're behind the parade, they're less likely to see us."

"Yeah, easy for you to say," Tony murmured. "Kids, you think you can manage that mo--" He shut up as they filed past; Mara, Akeja, and the other three children whose names he hadn't caught yet methodically started to file past, perfectly executing the same swing and jump that Laura herself had done.

Too perfectly, to Taskmaster's trained eye. "...What the hell?" They weren't doing something similar - they were mimicking Laura's moves perfectly. The way -he- was about to do. Keeping this detail to himself for now, he completed the little routine and landed on the roof with the others.

By now, Black Ant fully had the attention of the parade; some were laughing raucously, pointing and cheering him on. Others were attacking, small-time D-listers trying to make their name by taking down one of the bigger - literally - criminals of the massive underworld. As always, Bagalia was diverse in both its reactions and its populace. "He going to need help?" One of the children asked, a boy with a shock of blonde hair that nearly covered his whole head.

"Not our concern, Malakai," Adeja replied. "The idiot wants to do something good for once in his life? Let him. You know what he's done for money; he owes this to the world."

"Ungrateful brats," Taskmaster snapped to Laura as he caught up to her. "You hearing this crap? Never did anything to them, but they're acting like Eric and I personally spat on their faces." He glanced sidelong at the child with the broken leg that she was carrying; he'd passed out awhile ago, thanks to the medicine that he'd been given most likely.

"We aren't friends, Taskmaster. I'm here to help you with this one mission - and then we'll go right back to me arresting you for your many, many crimes." She cast him a casually cool look that he had to admit was rather terrifying, even as he fell into step beside her. "The only reason that I didn't last time is because I had more urgent matters to attend to helping my sisters."

"Yeah, we'll burn that bridge when we come to it," Tony replied, brushing off her promise of another fight. "Point is, those kids have a -grudge- against Eric and I; but we've never done a damn thing to them. Ain't that suspicious?"

"Maybe," Laura replied thoughtfully, stopping to look back at the gathered Scions, who were milling in a circle and speaking once more in their personal language. "I'm giving you this advice for the sake of the mission: keep it professional. Don't provoke them about it. If they -do- have reason to be upset with you, trying to pry it out of them is only going to make them resent you even more." Crouching down at the edge of the pharmacy roof, she looked out over the street below. It was total pandemonium; those who weren't focused on Black Ant were fighting amongst themselves, all too eager to take any opportunity to throw their weight about or attempt to kill an old rival.

"So much for the sanctity of 'Bagalia Freedom Day', or whatever," Laura remarked wryly.

"Huh?" Tony stopped beside her, holding up a hand for the children to halt. "What do ya mean? This is exactly the spirit of the holiday. They're embracing what makes this nation-state great!" As far as he was concerned, it was beautiful. A bunch of dumbasses killing each other without an Avenger in sight to mess it up.

Shaking her head in obvious disapproval, Laura peered over the side of the building. "Dumpsters here; we can use the trash to quiet our fall. Come on." And with that, she hopped off. Covering the rear, Tony waved the kids off the building, ignoring the glares from Akeja and Mara as they passed.

Well, 'ignoring' was a strong term for the fact he casually flipped them off in response. Warranted, as far as he saw it. Still, he was starting to see the exhaustion evident in the way they moved; they might have somehow been copying Laura, but they weren't in the kind of shape that she was. They were still tired, starved, and losing motivation by the second.

"Gotta wrap this up soon," he murmured to himself, following the last of the kids off of the edge of the roof."These kids ain't gonna last."

Though they had to wait and waste some valuable time - time that Taskmaster could rather literally feel bleeding out of him - the chaos of the now-forgotten parade eventually allowed them to approach from behind. The tail end of the massive line of supervillains had exploded into a supernova of violence; by giving it a wide berth, the group was able to avoid it. At one point, it almost seemed like a group of costumed mooks that Taskmaster didn't recognize - all dressed like the individual parts of an American flag - were going to look their way...but Black Ant, catching sight of what was happening, came crashing through boot-first, kicking them out of way and scattering them like an exploding Fourth of July firework. "Hahaha! Look at me, I'm anti-colonialism!"

"That was the weirdest thing I've ever seen," Laura proclaimed when they finally managed to cross the avenue, disappearing into an old plaza that had stopped being used when a fallen statue of Baron Zemo had crushed the fountain in the center. "And I'm an X-Man."

"There's nothing more interesting than henchmen off the leash," Tony agreed. "Come on; Eric's not gonna be able to keep them distracted for much longer."

As they fled from the plaza towards the former headquarters of the Masters of Evil, a masked woman watched them from the rooftop. She'd completely ignored the chaos of the 'festival' below, her gaze never leaving the cloaked silhouette of the wounded Taskmaster.

[unfortunate-stranger-losers]

Six Baudelaires AU, Part Three {AO3} {Masterlist} {Part One} {Part Two}

Chapter Thirty-Six → in which we go surprisingly more off-book

The island was quiet at night, as Friday led them down the path she’d been forbidden to go on, the one that the sheep took to the arboretum. They were silent, firstly because they feared a lot of noise would mean they were discovered, and secondly because they weren’t sure what to say. Friday gripped tight onto Lilac’s hand, a distant look in her eyes. For a while, nobody knew what they could tell her. Today had definitely been quite the ordeal for her. 

Finally, when they’d been walking for quite a while, Lilac said, “We found out our parents were murderers the day we left for the island.” 

The Baudelaires stiffened, and Solitude paused to stare at Lilac, though she was about halfway through helping Sunny step over a rock. Friday’s eyes went wide as her head shot up to look at the eldest. Lilac was glancing down at her, a sad look in her eyes. 

“We’ve found out a lot of things about our parents.” she said. “They were in a cult. They stole things, and hid things from us, and…” she bit her lip. “They weren’t who we thought they were.” She shut her eyes. “I… I don’t know where I was going with this, Friday, but…” 

“I think what Lilac’s trying to say,” Klaus came forwards, giving the girl a kind smile, “Is that you’re… you shouldn’t feel alone.” 

Friday glanced at the ground. “I guess…” she shook her head. “Nevermind. We’ve been walking a while, we should be almost there.” 

The sun was rising slowly as they parted some trees and hanging leaves, and as they did, Friday gasped, and Klaus said, “Oh, holy shit.” 

Up ahead was all the items that had washed up over the shores of the island, over the years that Ishmael had been in charge. As far as they could see, there were piles of objects, towers of evidence, heaps of items, bales of materials, clusters of details, galaxies of stuff, universes of things, a register of seemingly everything on earth. Automobiles and alarm clocks, bandages and beads, cables and chimneys, and so on, and so forth. Cardboard boxes, chalkboards, a motorcycle, snowshoes, calculators, ceiling fans, menorahs, soccer balls, outhouses, coffins, cradles, and everything anyone could ever need. There were things that were hopelessly destroyed, somewhat damaged, in slight repair, and brand new. 

“I know this.” Nick was the first one to move, stepping towards a tall fish statue, the red paint slightly peeling. He shook quite a bit as he ran a hand over it, and Klaus rushed over to put an arm around him. “We were trapped in here. How… how did we fit in here? Klaus, how did we fit?” 

“Nick, just keep going.” 

Nick turned to Klaus, eyes wide. “We did fit? We were in here? I didn’t make that up?” 

Klaus bit his lip and nodded, and as the girls slowly stepped into the arboretum, he pulled Nick away. “Yes. Yes, you were in there. We didn’t know until it was too late. We’re sorry.” 

“We… we were in there.” 

“Yes. Yes, come on.” Klaus put his arm around him again, taking him towards Lilac, who was holding up a sparkly opera mask, as Solitude watched the Incredibly Deadly Viper lift and squeeze a soccer ball. 

“Words fail me.” Sunny whispered, looking at a stack of items, where she had no idea why they were put together. 

“Me, too.” Volet said, running her hand over a pink ribbon that blew towards her in the light breeze. “Li, think of the things we could invent here.” 

“We could make so much here…” Lilac trailed off, looking down at Friday, who was still gripping tight to her hand. “Are you okay?” 

“There’s so much here.” Friday whispered, looking ahead at everything before her. “I could… we could have used so much of this. We could have learned…” She leaned onto Lilac, shaking slightly. “There’s so much.” 

“I know.” Lilac put an arm around her. Quickly, hoping to distract Friday, she said, “Violet, I bet we could build splints for Kit’s feet.” 

“There are several boats here we could use, with only a little repairwork.” Violet said. “Wouldn’t be hard to make a water filtration system. We could invent anything and everything.” 

“There’s so much we could learn here.” Klaus said, taking Nick’s hand and leading him towards a pile of wood. 

“Cook.” Sunny said, looking over a huge collection of pots and pans. “I could make any kind of food we wanted.” 

“Where do we even start?” Solitude asked, watching Babbitt and Ink wander away into the collection. 

Klaus sighed. “Guess we start with weapons.” 

“Should we really be supplying arms to them?” Lilac asked. 

“Sure. They’re overthrowing a corrupt dictator.” Violet said. “I’ll give them a machine gun if we can.” 

“I just…” Lilac began. 

“Ink!” Solitude pointed, and they realized she was starting to run after the snake, who was flicking its tongue into the air and pushing forwards with a clear sense of purpose. 

“Looks like Ink’s found something.” Klaus said, squeezing Nick’s hand. “Wanna go see?” 

Nick nodded, and after a second, they all followed the snake, climbing over materials and discarded items. 

“It seems to know where it’s going.” Lilac said. “Maybe it’s been here before.” 

Before long, the viper sped up, and the Baudelaires and Friday started to run. Eventually, they found themselves on a path that must have been traveled before, as the ground was covered in footprints. Even after they lost the snake, they followed the prints, which were dusted around the edges in white powder. It was dried clay, of course, and in moments the children reached the end of the path, and they arrived at the base of the apple tree just in time to see the tail of the snake disappear into a gap in the tree’s roots. 

Friday slid to a stop first, causing Lilac to almost run into her. She was staring up at the towering apple tree before her, and she whispered, “Whoa.” 

“Come on, we can fit in, too.” Solitude said, waving her hand and rushing in after the snake. Nick quickly raced after her, not wanting to lose sight of her, and he dragged Klaus along with him. Violet followed, picking up Sunny in case there was a drop inside, and then Lilac and Friday brought up the rear. 

Underneath the roots of the tree was a large, dark space, and it took everyone a moment to adjust to the dim light. Violet noticed some kind of switch beside her, and she messed with it a moment, until a few small fairy lights lit up along the walls of the tree’s inside, and everyone gasped to see everything that was surrounding them. 

The space was much bigger than they’d thought, and much better furnished. Along one wall, a stone bench was almost covered in clean tools, beside which was an enormous bookcase, stuffed with all kinds of books and rolled and stapled documents; some books spilled onto the floor, making a neat little pile, and the bookcase lined almost the entire wall. Opposite the bookcase was an elaborate kitchen with a huge stove, several sinks, a large refrigerator, and a square table covered with appliances, and hanging over them were several utensils, pots, and dried herbs, fish and meats, as well as tall cupboards. The Incredibly Deadly Viper wrapped itself around the bottom of a device made of brass, that looked like a large tube with a pair of binoculars at the bottom, rising through the roots of the tree that formed a complete ceiling. 

“Holy shit.” Klaus said. 

“Wow.” Friday slowly released Lilac’s hand, wandering over to the books and running her hands across the spines, entranced. Klaus and Nick soon joined her, picking up books on the floor to look over, as Solitude ran to one that was emblazoned with a sketch of a serpent. 

Violet maneuvered her way to the binoculars. “It’s a periscope.” she said. “You can see the whole ocean from here.” 

Lilac moved to the tool bench. “There’s a lot here. We could fix anything.” She reached for her ribbon, only to remember she couldn’t use it anymore. Carefully, she instead picked up one of the tools. “These could be used to repair books. Fix the bindings and dry the pages.” 

“Cinnamon.” Sunny said, climbing up to the counter and sniffing a spoon. 

“There’s so much here.” Friday whispered. “Why… why would Ishmael hide this from everyone?” 

“Maybe this will help.” Nick said, and they turned to see that he was kneeling by a dresser, picking up a very thick, patched book, with a very thick title written into the cover. 

A Series of Unfortunate Events. 

“Wh-what is that?” Lilac asked, as they all walked over to see. 

Nick stood up as they all stood around him, and he flipped through the pages. “It’s a History of the Island, I think.” he stopped at a bookmarked page, and read, ‘Yet another figure from the shadowy past has washed ashore- Kit Snicket (see page 667). The Baudelaires caused enough ruckus that the islanders will leave them alone to drown, though we may have lost one in the process. Also managed to have Count Olaf locked in a cage.” 

“Lost one?” Lilac looked aghast, putting an arm around their Friday. 

“Turn to page 667.” Klaus said. 

Nick did, squinting at the page. “Inky has learned to lasso sheep, and last night’s storm washed a postcard from Kit…” he trailed off, and stared hard at the page.

“What?” Solitude asked, hugging his leg. 

“What’s wrong? Is it something bad?” Violet asked. 

After a moment, Nick shook his head. “This isn’t Ishmael’s handwriting.” 

Klaus peered over his shoulder, and then tears sprang to his eyes. “Oh.” 

The Bauelaires all looked, and all fell silent. 

So they all heard the voice at the far end of the room say, “Yes, Baudelaires. That’s your mother’s handwriting.” 

They all whipped around, to see Ishmael walking out of the darkness, running a hand along the shelves of the bookcase. 

Instantly, Lilac pushed Friday behind her and threw her arms in front of her and her other siblings. Nick grabbed one of her arms and pulled it down, slamming the book shut and throwing it in front of himself as a shield. Solitude let out a feral hiss, while Violet picked up Sunny and held her, as if intending to use her as a projectile weapon if necessary, while Sunny looked very much like she wanted that outcome. 

Ishmael didn’t even look off-put. He just walked forwards and said, “I knew you’d come here. It’s in your blood. I’ve never known a Baudelaire who didn’t rock the boat.” 

“Don’t come near us.” Lilac said. 

“You.” Friday shook, and Lilac pushed her back more. “You, you’ve lied. To all of us. Kept this all from us!” 

“Oh, settle down, Friday.” Ishmael said. “This would’ve just caused more trouble.” 

Friday took several deep breaths, gripping tight to Lilac. “We- we-” 

“The Baudelaire family has always wanted to cause trouble.” Ishmael scoffed. “When I washed up on the island, your parents were the facilitators. Your father suggested that they install the periscope to search for storms, and your mother suggested that they make the water filtration system, making this library and kitchen, and…” he narrowed his eyes. “They wanted to dig a passageway that would lead to a marine research center and rhetorical advice service some miles away. But it was never finished, and it was a good thing, too. That research center was destroyed in a fire, which could have spread here. And they wanted to carry all of these documents that had washed up here to Anwhistle Aquatics to give to some sub-sub-librarian. But others wanted to keep the island safe from the treachery of the world. By the time I arrived, some islanders wanted to mutiny and abandon your parents on the coastal shelf.” 

“You-” Klaus began. 

“I walked into the middle of this story,” Ishmael said, “As you walked into the middle of mine. Some of the islanders had found weapons in the detrius, and the situation might have become violent if I hadn’t convinced the colony to simply abandon your parents. We allowed them to pack a few books into a fishing boat your father had built, and in the morning they left with a few comrades as the coastal shelf flooded.” 

“You drove them away?” Violet asked. 

“They were very sad to go.” Ishmael said. “Your mother was pregnant at the time, and after all of their years with VFD, your parents weren’t sure they wanted their children exposed to the world’s treachery. But if the passageway had been completed, you would have been exposed in any case. Sooner or later, everyone’s story has an unfortunate event or two- a schism or death, a fire or a mutiny, the loss of a home or the destruction of a tea set. The only solution, of course, is to stay as far away from the world as possible and lead a simple, safe life. So we follow these customs to all be the same, so there’s no more schism.” 

The Baudelaires contemplated this for maybe half a second before Nick said, “No.” 

“No, that’s dumb.” Lilac said. 

“Bitchass.” Sunny said. 

“Suppressing free will in order to force conformity that will inevitably be ripped apart by whatever washes up the shores that vaguely challenges you, as well as lying to everyone so you could avoid the consequences of your decisions and drugging them so they stop arguing with you, is a dishonourable and immoral way of hiding from your problems.” Klaus said.

“Translation, you’re a bitchass.” Nick said. 

“And you threw a pregnant woman and people who wanted to advance this island to the waves where they could have died.” Violet said. 

“And, yeah, they shouldn’t have connected the island to VFD’s bullshit,” Solitude said, crossing her arms, “But that’s, you know, something you discuss, or at least wait to abandon them until after she’s given birth, you piece of shit.” 

“And then you don’t drug people!” Sunny said. 

“You kept us from the good things of the world,” Friday spat, tears forming at the edge of her eyes, “And you kept choices from us. But gave everything to yourself. You… you’re a jackass!” 

She grabbed tighter onto Lilac’s arm, as Ishmael watched them. His gaze was unreadable. 

“Hello? React, asswipe!” Nick said. “You’re a dick and we’re going to tell everyone exactly what’s here!” 

“Why would you do that?” Ishmael said. “They’ll all just leave. I know your story Baudelaires- from all the newspaper articles, police reports, financial newsletters, telegrams, private correspondence and fortune cookies that have washed up here. You’ve been wandering this treacherous world since your story began, and you’ve never found a place as safe as this one. Give up your repairs and inventions and exploring and reading and snakes and cooking. Forget Count Olaf and VFD. Leave your things here and lead a simple life.” 

“Never.” Nick said. 

“We’re not sacrificing our individuality so you can remain in control.” Violet said. 

“And once the islanders know you’ve been lying to them, they’ll never follow you again!” Klaus said, and he started to push his way forwards, so he could get a running head start to the island. 

But then Ishmael said, “Before you go, I have something to tell you. I know what you’ve brought to these shores.” 

“Yes.” Lilac rolled her eyes. “Treachery, trouble, boat-rocking, whatever you fucking wanna call it. We’re going.” 

“You didn’t just bring that, my dear Lilac.” Ishmael said, in a voice so cold that Lilac felt a familiar chill wash over her. “You brought Count Olaf, and a harpoon gun, and… the Medusoid Mycelium.” 

The Baudelaires completely froze, and Friday’s eyes widened. “Nobody can get to that.” 

“The helmet’s-” Klaus began, before Nick elbowed him hard in the ribs. 

However, Ishmael said, “Oh, you believe it’s with your Count Olaf.” they froze again. “Well, funny thing. Nick, you told us to watch out for that helmet. Thank you for that; it gave me something to look for. So, naturally, when I went walking to the arboretum and found a helmet on the coastal shelf…” 

“No.” Nick said, his eyes going wide. 

“Well, we just happened to have one just like it in our piles and piles of things. Several ones just like it. So if I… dropped one on the sand, where you or the Count could think it was where nobody would touch it…” 

“No.” Solitude shrunk back. 

Ishmael sighed and reached behind the tool shelf, and pulled out a thick diving helmet. 

“Now,” he said, “You’re not going anywhere.” 

“No!” Lilac screeched, throwing her siblings back. 

“It will be a shame to abandon the arboretum for a few days,” Ishmael said, “But as I’m sure you’ve read, children, the human body can only survive for a little while without water, and it’s quite easy to block the filtration system from outside.” 

“You…” shocked, Violet stumbled backwards, clutching Sunny tightly. 

“Piece of shit!” Nick’s eyes widened. “Don’t you-” 

“I think you’ll find that I have no reason to fear this mushroom,” Ishmael said, “So I’ll have no problem releasing it in here and only leaving you for an hour. I’m sure nobody will notice if you disappear a little before decision day. And if you’re found among the waves, that’s just a cautionary tale. I will keep my islanders safe here, Baudelaires, no matter what it takes.” 

“You can’t release that mushroom, please!” Lilac said. 

“Lilac,” Friday grabbed her arm so tight Lilac feared it might break. “Li, I don’t wanna die…” 

“Then I suggest the Baudelaires stand right there.” Ishmael said. Then he turned and walked towards the exit roots. He smiled and said, “Now, we have Decision Day to get over with, and a Snicket and a Count to watch drown. Goodbye, Friday. I’m sorry that you were led so astray. And goodbye, Baudelaires.” 

And then he left, and after a second, they heard something slam in front of the exit. Something wooden was shoved in, blocking their way out. 

“What...” Violet shut her eyes and took a deep breath. “The... fuck?” 

[iphoenixrising]

I said I was kind of going on a hiatus. Too many things in my brain pan, but I connected with such a wonderful person, @careamorran, and had to write a thing based on a spectacular piece of art :D The post is here, and I really just wanted a little fun and maybe a little angst ;)

**

The blast of sunlight in his eyes is the conscious train rolling down the track. You know, right at his face.

After his syrupy thoughts evaluated the stabbing to his eyes as something non-lethal, the need to throw something sharp and vaguely bat-shaped at the defenseless windows fades enough that he can squint at the alarm clock on the bedside table.

Dammit.

He and Jay have plans for the day. Partially because it’s been two years today, and since Jason Todd is actually a sentimental cinnamon roll underneath the intense murder you vibe, Tim had managed to wrangle his reluctant significant other into finally getting the new ident set-up. It’s been a long time coming, and they’ve been arguing on and off about seeing to the details for weeks.

(“Things like a driver’s license, Jay.”)

(A careless shrug with a mouth full of meatball sub, “I drive, Timmers. I drive all the time.”)

(“Legally. The key here is legally.”)

His boyfriend had finally caved for their anniversary, and Tim would be damned if they missed the opportunity because of a long night in Gotham’s seedy underworld.

(Black Mask? Totally an ass hat, and no, he gives no shits about ruining the guy’s night. Seriously, fuck him. Mask literally hit on the Red Hood, right in front of him.)

With a soft groan of the newly conscious, Tim sits up, still wavery, and in desperate need of caffeine.

Desperate. Need.

The yawn is jaw-cracking, and he’s already reaching over for the lump of still-snoozing, just a tuft of dark hair peeking out from under their fluffy comforter in Jay’s room at the Manor.

If he grins a little, thinking someone as bad ass as the Red Hood is incredibly cute, well, no one else would ever have to know.

“Jay,” his voice still husky is bordering on fond, “we should get up, it’s late.”

He’s expected the inevitable, “where’s m’ good morning kiss, Timmy?” and to be pulled back down because Jay is really just as bad as Dick when it comes to pre-consciousness cuddling.

The hand moving fast to grab his wrist, to stop him from making contact isn’t necessarily unexpected because of reasons like ingrained instincts and Robin training. The occasional accidental injuries aren’t anything new. At times, it might be things like terrible nightmares or remnants of the Lazarus Pit. On the flip side, it might be residual panic because instead of Kon or Bart or Steph or Bruce, it’s Jason spitting out a mouth full of blood and gripping his harness with wide eyes and stuttering heart.

“Hey, calm down, it’s just--”

And whatever he’d been about to say in the usual soothing way dies in his throat when Jay turns, still in the t-shirt he’d thrown in before they’d fallen into bed last night, and--

Tim’s eyes go wide in shock and surprise.

Who the fuck is in bed with me!?

The set of jawline and ensuing frown is so painfully familiar--

From that time when Tim was a kid with a camera and Robin dove in out of the night to save him from a thug.

A Robin in his prime.

A Robin that’s fifteen instead of twenty-five.

Holy shit, Batman.

“Oh…” is about all his half-wired brain can muster.

Those eyes, the same ones from the painting in the main hall that used to be one of his safe places, the eyes without the green flecks, take stock, roving over Tim’s sleep-mussed hair, his face, his bare throat and chest, his too-big boxers.

And something seems to click.

“WHAAT THE FUUUCK?!!”

Is about as horrified as you can imagine.

The ensuing fight is really anticlimactic. Jason has aged-down equivalently, so while he can still duck, dodge, and fight better than any average person, he doesn’t have memories further than now meanwhile Tim hasn’t lost an ounce of his edge.

“You need to calm it down, Robin,” he tries while blocking a punch that is decidedly lower than what he’s used to. Yeah, throwing out that little bombshell is really a 50/50, but nothing else he can possibly say would help either:

*I’m your boyfriend, and you will be seriously pissed at yourself if you hurt me.

*I was the Robin after you, promise.  I only got pants because those green panties were a hard ‘no.’

*You haven’t tried killing me in a whole year. Can we stop trying to break the record?

As it turns out, maybe he should have because those eyes go wide and the fight takes on a more desperate turn.

Well, fuck.

He catches the knee before it takes out his jaw, his suddenly longer reach catching the much smaller fist in the palm of his hand. “That’s enough, Jay. You’re going to--” get yourself hurt.

But the younger is panting and red-face, gritting his teeth with narrowed eyes, and an obvious plan in the works when he realizes he’s not going to beat Tim.

“Who,” and the tone isn’t as low and growling as the Red Hood, but it still jars Tim right in all the places where he’s still mesmerized by the second Robin, “the fuck are you and how didja find out?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you, so I’m going to let Bruce and Dick fill you in,” he replies, easing back slowly.

The teenager’s eyes narrow in suspicion.

“How about this then: you hide books all over the Manor. Alfred found A Separate Peace, The Outsiders, 1984, To Kill a Mockingbird, and The Once and Future King just to name a few.” He leaves the ones he’s found off the list just because the memories of his post-Robin life are apparently gone, and Tim is in no hurry to fill him in on the horrific events starting with the trip to Ethiopia.

Jason’s mouth falls open in a little ‘o’ of shock.

“One more just so you feel better about this: the first time B got hurt, seriously hurt, defending you, you called Dick at Titan’s Tower in New York.” His hands up in that not dangerous pose, he eases just slightly closer, tilting his head to actually look down. “It was that time with Killer Croc and you were freaked out.”

“How--” the teenager struggles, blinking at him with those blue, blue eyes, all of it without the Pit’s influence riding him.

With that realization, a horrible kind of plan hits Tim right in the brain pan.

“I know you’re Robin, so there’s some evidence, Mister Junior Detective.”

Jay gives him a huffing sneer, “real wise ass, ain’t cha?”

“Learned from the best,” he deadpans with a sad half-smile and fond eyes, “So, I vote we go downstairs, find Alfred so I can have some coffee, and then Bruce so he can have a holy shit moment of his own.”

Still staring at him, still calculating the risks and possible nefarious plots afoot, Jason only follows because he’s planning the best way to take this guy he’d woken up with down (and maybe staring down at his ass) while they went down the grand staircase.

Luckily, as it happens to go in Wayne Manor, at least someone has the patience to deal with things like utter fuckery.

That person will always be Alfred Pennyworth.

“Good morning Master--”

If Tim wasn’t as light and fast on his feet, there would be a whole lot of smashed ceramic all over the floor.

“My-my word, Master...Master Jason?”

“Mornin’ Alf,” the teenager waves a little, grinning sheepishly. “Found Slick here runnin’ the halls, so’s I thought maybe ya know who he is.”

(Slick? Tim arches a brow at that because really)

Alfred blatantly looks over, immediately getting back his usual calm, cool, and collected. “I do hope the scuffle I heard upstairs did not result in any bloodshed on the Turkish carpets, Master Tim.”

“I’m hurt at your complete lack of faith in my kick-ass skills, Alfred,” he waves a hand on his way to the sideboard where wonderful things (like coffee, please, please, please give him coffee to be able to deal with this and what he should very much not tell Jason) waited. He pauses to get his thoughts together, makes a mental Venn Diagram of the potential backlash of both scenarios, and adds cream with a little sugar so he doesn’t down the first mug liked boiling lava.

“I’m Tim Drake. Nice to meet you, by the way. It’s much nicer when we’re not trying to kill each other,” and yeah, that’s Alfred clearing his throat just a little. “I’m also a vigilante, so of course I’ve heard of Robin,” luckily, the way to trip up Jason’s radar is to tell the lie with just enough truth mixed in, “and I do work with Batman sometimes on out-of-town cases. I also do data collection and reconnaissance for the Titans, who I’m sure you’ve at least met at this juncture.” First few desperate sips accomplished, he moves to take a spot at the table and wait until Jason warily joins him, scrappy and scrawny, eyes that take in everything.

And he moves lighter on his feet, without a hell of a lot of burdens and probably a mass of missing scars from things like crowbars and insane psychopaths that deal in megalomaniacal delusions of grandeur. It’s a Jason Tim’s only known with a mask, and it’s a rough moment to stop himself from reaching out across the table to grip those twitchy fingers, but all he can do is swallow his heart back down in the vicinity of his chest, glance at Alfred with a little Batanese using just his eyebrows.

Without giving the his younger boyfriend an opportunity to ask, he cuts in with, “occasionally, B lets me stay over when a case gets...rough. It was last night anyway. I’m sorry I surprised you, but I’d been awake for about seventy-odd hours by then, so I was pretty compromised.”

Pretty much all true.

During the distraction, Alfred turns to busy himself at the sideboard. A glow in Tim’s peripheral is probably the butler texting the fam. B, Come downstairs immediately; Damian, please do not yet come downstairs. I shall bring breakfast up straight away. Dick, your presence would be appreciated at the Manor. It seems we have a situation. To make it a little more obvious he’s being serious, Alfred completely takes advantage of a displaced Jason, too busy staring Tim down from across the table, to snap a discreet picture to follow-up all those texts.

A fresh glass of juice and a side cup of coffee makes some of the tension ease from Jay’s shoulders, “sounds pretty stupid, you feel me? First rule of being a cape: take care a’ yerself. What we got against these crazy assholes? At the end of the day, it’s yer fists and yer brains, so ya gotta make sure ya got enough in ya ta take the beating.”

And it’s a fifteen-year-old Jason pointing a finger at him around his juice and all mock-serious, which it totally why he starts laughing without snorting coffee up his nose. Points for him.

“You are terrible at mocking B in lecture-mode. Terrible,” he shakes his head a little once he’s sure he isn’t going to choke, “more practice, okay? You’ll totally get there, but don’t think you’re ever beating out Dick. He is the official runner-up in the Best Dad Lecture category.”

A heartbeat and Jason starts to crack a grin, laughing out loud in that younger voice, the blue of his eyes without the Pit lingering, without the grim realizations of the day he’s going to die (again). He’s so heartbreakingly innocent of it all (and Tim just wonders how Bruce is going to take this because things like tears and BatDad are going to go down soon--he can feel it).

So by the time Alfred emerges from the kitchen with warm eggs and fluffy waffles, the tension has eased down between the former Robins by the way they throw stories back and forth.

“Yer kiddin’ me,” Jason deadpans back.

“All true, I swear. Freeze and Ivy watched him bust his bat ass--”

“Y’know, there was one time he fell through a crappy roof right inta a ladies’ shower, right?”

“I’m sorry what now?”

“That ain’t what she was thinking, Timmy. Just takin’ a shower and boom, there’s the Bat admiring the decor an’ shit.”

The mental image is enough to get him started all over again, laughing while huddled over his precious, beautiful coffee and lost staring at the fucking beautiful sight of his younger, unburdened significant other. Even better, more evidence in favor of the formulating plan clicks into place with Jason’s easy laugh and wild gestures. But it all comes down to basic facts: fifteen or twenty-five, this is the crazy idiot he loves. And if this is a golden opportunity to give the guy a second chance, one without the Joker and ticking bombs, without being buried alive, and thrown in the Lazarus Pit, it might well be worth the effort.

[someonesingingalong]

taxi (II)

maybe we could go back, do you wanna?

-

Kelley squints with one eye open at the glare coming through the window. She knows Becky likes to get up at the crack of dawn every day, but she didn’t have to wake up the whole world with her. The least she could do was close the blinds. Kelley groans, grabbing the nearest pillow to shield her eyes. She tries to fall back asleep until there’s pounding at the door.

“Kelley, get your ass out of bed!”

“Come on, dude, it’s almost ten! I’m hungry!”

Kelley’s head perks up in the midst of her sheets. If she didn’t already have a migraine, she definitely has one now. She makes out the time on the bedside alarm clock and curses. The pounding continues, courtesy of none other than Pinoe. She yells, raspy voice and all, “I’ll meet you down there!”

Kelley swings her legs over the bed and stands up, or at least tries to. The ground in front of her doubles and she has to blink her vision steady before toppling over. She somehow manages to make it to the bathroom, only to take one look in the mirror and realize her t-shirt was inside out and backwards, like it was haphazardly thrown on. She tries to twist it around, but upon smelling a slightly funky odor (good god, was it dirty?), she decides to change into something entirely new.

Leaving the bathroom, she’s blinded by the sun once again and hit with the sound of her teammate’s footsteps trudging back and forth down the hall. Everything’s so bright. Everything’s so loud. She takes a step forward, feeling the straps of her bra or underwear or probably both tangled between her toes. She must’ve been tired last night. She bends down to pick up her clothes, stuffing them in her duffel, but when she looks up, her sight hones in on the two precariously placed items on her nightstand: a glass of water and a bottle of aspirin.

Kelley corrects herself. She must’ve been drunk last night.

She silently thanks Becky for her small act of kindness and walks over, pops a few pills in her mouth and downs the glass in one go. She grabs her card key and heads down to the conference room where breakfast was held. She only trips once.

As soon as she opens the door, her ears ring with all sorts of noises- more footsteps, chatter, and forks clinking plates. She manages to spot an open seat at the nearest table and pulls out the chair, immediately laying her head on the table in defeat.

“Good morning, sunshine!” Pinoe’s eyes shine with mischief as she greet her in a sing-song tone.  

“I hate you.” Kelley mumbles into the table cloth.

“How much did you have?”

Kelley finally lifts her head, looking incredulously across the table. She responds to Becky. “How am I supposed to know?”

Alex snorts, recalling the first hour of their night out. “Three beers and two tequila shots, for starters.”

“For starters?! No way!” Pinoe’s eyes almost pop out of their sockets. “You’re my hero, O’Hara!” She dramatically bows down to her.

Kelley shoots her teammate a glare, “Okay, Pinoe, if you don’t want a pancake shoved in your face, I suggest you take it down a notch in volume…like to this level.” Her voice ends in a whisper. Turning to the rest of the group, she asks, “Why would you let me do this to myself?”

Allie takes her fork, pointing it back at her, “You know, in our defense, you’re the worse to keep track of. You’re like lightning fast! I don’t know, but it’s like you gain superpowers when you’re drunk.”

“Yeah, all three of us were on Kelley duty last night!” Alex gestures at herself, Allie, and Pinoe.

Emily chews with her mouth full, adding, “You lost her in like ten minutes.”

“Exactly.” Alex smirks.  

“Well, it’s not like you two were any help.” Pinoe speaks towards Becky and Emily. “If it weren’t for your whole karaoke debacle with Carli, we wouldn’t have needed to search for another bar. Honestly, that second place was poppin’!”

“Okay, first of all, stop trying to make poppin’ a thing. It hasn’t been a thing since, I don’t know, forever!” Becky argues loudly, and then continues, “And second of all, it was Carli’s fault!”

Before anyone else could get a word in, Carli interrupts from a few tables over. “It was not my fault!”

Everyone rolls their eyes and Kelley can’t help but laugh. She’s not surprised. She vaguely remembers Carli going one-on-one with the DJ. She shakes her head, “Damn, I haven’t been this hungover since college.” She watches as everyone’s brows raise in unison. She sighs, “Okay, fine, since the World Cup.”

“There you go, kid.” Becky pats her on the back.

Kelley glares in return as she gets up to get a plate of food. Nothing sounds appetizing, so she ends up with half a bowl of cheerios. She sits back down, taking a handful and throwing them in her mouth.

Emily breaks the silence, “So it’s been killing me, what did you two do last night?!” She earns a shove from Becky.

Kelley swallows, but her mouth is half full still. She turns around to make sure no one was behind her. “Two?”

“Yeah, you know, you and Hope.” Emily fills in the blank.

“Hope?!” Kelley exclaims, almost knocking over her bowl.

“Jesus, Kelley, shhh!” Becky hushes her, only to receive a blank stare from her fellow defender.

Pinoe smirks, “Well it’s not a secret they went back to the hotel alone last night. We all saw it.”

“Plus, she’s been staring over here all breakfast.” Allie adds. Alex nods beside her in agreement.

Kelley sneaks a quick look at the goalkeeper, who’s in mid conversation with Carli. She whispers, “So what happened?”

“That’s what we’re asking you!” Emily reminds her.

“I don’t remember!”

Becky sighs, the truth unfolding once she opens her mouth. “Look, you were too drunk to come with us to the second bar, and Hope was heading back to the hotel early, so we thought- well we might’ve convinced her- to take you back too. She said she’d take care of you- really, it’s Hope. She didn’t mind, and if she did, she would’ve said something. Seriously, you don’t remember anything?”

Kelley’s clearly lost. She tells them, “I think the operative word here is drunk. So no, of course I don’t remember every detail!”

“Damn, the details are the best part.” Emily whines. It takes everything in Kelley not to lunge across the table.

Kelley picks her brain, thinking really hard about the night before. “I left the hotel with Alex and Allie. I got a drink at the bar, there were some girls on the dance floor, I had another drink, uhm, oh you guys were playing pool, and then Carli started fighting with that DJ, and then it got really hot, so I left to…oh, go outside, and I saw Hope, and then she was getting into a taxi and….” Kelley’s voice trails into silence, memories flooding back (oh my god, the taxi).

She stands up suddenly, this time knocking over her bowl of cereal. There’s no time to think or make a decision other than to speak to Hope. There’s still large gaps in her memories, and she’s the only one who could remedy that. She knows she’ll regret it later, but she’s already hungover and might as well get this conversation out of the way.

Kelley sits down next to Hope, instantly harassing her with questions. “What happened?”

“Good morning to you, too.” Hope continues to pick at the last bit of food on her plate.

“What happened?” Kelley repeats. She needs to know.

“Is the aspirin helping?”

“That was you?” Kelley’s eyes widen, “You were in my room?”

“Aw, thanks Hope for taking such good care of me last night.” Hope shrugs. “What are you going to do, tell Jill?”

“Is this funny to you?” Kelley is appalled at Hope’s nonchalant behavior. “What did we do, Hope? I know you know what happened. You’re too old to get drunk.”

“No thank you and now an insult? You’re bold this morning.” Hope masks her hesitation. She realizes she’s being a lot harsher than necessary, and unfair, so she sighs, “Kelley, you’re still drunk.”

“No, I’m hungover, which means I’m one step closer to being sober.” Kelley corrects, and adds, “It also means I don’t have time for this bullshit.”

Hope explains, her tone softening, “Look, I just think we should save this for another time…maybe when we’re both fully coherent, not in the middle of breakfast, and surrounded by the entire team.” Hope likes her privacy, and she knows Kelley does too.

“We slept together, didn’t we?” Kelley bluntly concludes. Carli nearly chokes and Hope feels pairs of eyes turn on them from all over the room. It’s like they were being studied under a microscope.

Hope huffs loudly in annoyance, murmuring, “Well I was basically done with breakfast, anyways.” Before her cheeks can redden anymore, she stands up, grabs Kelley’s arm, and guides her out of the nearest exit. They stand face to face in the nook of a hallway. Hope remains quiet. Kelley had started the conversation, so it was only fitting for her to continue it.

“Tell me everything.”

Hope’s stupid to think that Kelley would let her go easily. She thought she’d have more time to wrap her head around things before this. She truly doesn’t regret anything, but Kelley doesn’t need to know that. If they truly valued their friendship, then the best thing they could do was forget about what happened. But still, Kelley deserved the truth. Hope begins to recount the night before.

“I was heading back early because I was tired. I was waiting outside for my ride when you showed up. We talked for a bit, you reeked of alcohol, and I was dumb enough to get persuaded to take you back. But whatever, I’m your teammate and friend, and that’s what friends do, they take care of each other. It wasn’t that big of a deal until we got into the taxi and well…I don’t know, you just…” Hope pauses, trying to hint to Kelley what followed after. The younger woman stands her ground, leaving Hope no choice to finish. “You were halfway outside the window at one point and then you kept touching things, mostly me, and saying things…and well, we got back to the hotel…” Hope sighs, “You really don’t remember?”

“I need to hear it from you.” Kelley replies bravely. Deep down, she already knew how the night ended.

“I was trying to undress you- you managed to get your arms stuck in your shirt- and well, I couldn’t find a clean shirt for you to wear…I don’t know, I really was just trying to help you and get you into bed- well you know what I mean…” Hope’s not sure why this is so hard for her. It just happened. She looks Kelley straight into the eye, admitting, “It wasn’t like that…until it became exactly that.”

“Fuck, Hope…just stop talking.” Kelley interrupts, not wanting to hear another word. She doesn’t need further explanation. She closes her eyes for a moment and takes a deep breath. “I remember.”

Hope waits. She waits for Kelley to acknowledge her, to say anything that would remotely give her an idea of what was running through her mind. It’s not long before Kelley’s eyes lock her in.

“I was drunk!”

“I know, I know. I’m sorry.” Hope begins to apologize profusely, even if she really isn’t sorry about what they had done. “I shouldn’t have gone in the room with you, or take you home for that matter. We shouldn’t have been alone.”

“I…I didn’t know what I was doing!” Kelley stresses in disbelief.

Panic flashes across Hope’s face. She didn’t want Kelley thinking the wrong idea. She reaffirms, “Hey, I would never take advantage of you-”

“I know.” Kelley immediately cuts her off, repeating quietly. “I know you wouldn’t. I’m not saying that you ever would…it’s okay.” A weak smile forms on her lips. “I’m sure I didn’t make it easy for you.”

Hope matches Kelley’s expression, a soft chuckle escaping her. “No, you definitely did not.”

Both of them look like they’d rather talk about absolutely anything else, but the remaining conversation is inevitable. Kelley’s brave enough to speak first. She speaks so softly, she’s not sure that Hope can even catch what she asks. “Where does this leave us?”

“It never happened.” Hope won’t sugarcoat her answer. She can’t lead Kelley, or herself, into believing that this was a good thing. At the end of the day, it was a mistake.

A part of Kelley wishes that Hope’s response was different. She knows their split had been amicable, but she always liked to think that maybe they were just on a break. Even with Hope married now, Kelley can’t help but wonder if the older woman still felt anything- anything at all- for her (the answer lies in the bed sheets from the night before). She had hoped, years ago, that they’d get the chance to talk about things more, that she herself could tell Hope that she was so done being on a break. Now is her only chance.

“What if I don’t want to forget?” Kelley asks. She takes a step closer, purposely invading Hope’s personal space. She tells her honestly, “I’m not like you, Hope. I don’t do this. I don’t do one night stands.”

“I care about you, Kelley. I wouldn’t treat you like dirt, like you meant nothing to me. What happened last night was not a one night stand!” Hope pleads.

“Well it sure looked like one when I woke up this morning!”

“It wasn’t, okay? We both know it wasn’t…because there’s something between us.” Hope finally admits, taking Kelley by surprise. She never expected Hope to be so open. Things had changed. “There always has been, always will be. But we already agreed, Kell. We’re not meant to take this any further than it already has gone. We already tried years ago.”

“We didn’t try hard enough.” Kelley’s tone is full of frustration. It isn’t fair. She moves even closer, persuading Hope by the touch of her hand upon hers.

Hope immediately takes a step back, her head hung low. Her voice lowers in warning. “Don’t make me do this again, please.”

“I just want to go back, Hope.” Kelley is desperate. “If I could, I would it all over again. I would do it right.”

“I care so much about you…you don’t even know.” Hope’s voice cracks with a kind of love that pervades everywhere and everything. “But look at where we are now. It’s better this way. I’m happy- and don’t tell me I’m not because I am, okay? I’m…content.” Hope is more than aware that word has an entirely different meaning, but she doesn’t have the energy to correct it. It is what it is.

“I’m happy…that you’re happy.” Kelley slowly begins to cave. She never intended for them to fight. They were done with all that; they had grown. Yet, she’s not very convinced.

“Just let us go, alright?” Hope places her hands on Kelley’s shoulders, rubbing up and down her arms in a poor attempt to comfort her (it really just makes it worse). A lone tear escapes Kelley’s eyes, but no matter how fast she wipes it away, the trail that it leaves behind forever etches itself in Hope’s memory. Hope immediately removes her hands. “Last night was a mistake- my mistake. I won’t ever put us in this position again. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have agreed to take you home. This is on me.”

Kelley finally sees regret fill Hope’s eyes. It pains her even more, but she remembers that she’s done this once before, and she could do it again. She tells her, “Stop taking responsibility for me. This is on me, too.”

Hope nods slowly in agreement. “So we’re okay now?” She sticks her hand out, and it hangs awkwardly. Kelley looks down at her gesture and she opens her mouth to reply, but nothing comes out. She can’t believe this; this isn’t how they do things (a handshake, really?). But Hope reads her mind as usual and before she can make another move, she hears a heavy sigh and feels strong arms wrap around her tightly.

Hope whispers into her hair, “Never mind, just come here.” Kelley buries herself in the comfort of Hope’s chest because that’s all she’s ever known and how dare Hope ask her that question when she already knows what she’ll say.  

 (No, we aren’t okay)

[jewishclarkkent]

Bruce/Clark; PG-13; grief and loss

Summary: Despite the fractured bones he’d scanned countless times, the contusions and scars carefully hidden by armour, part of Clark believed the Bat would outlive them all. For fifteen years, night after night, Bruce survived the streets of Gotham. Until he didn’t.

Note: This fic references Bruce’s canonical death in Final Crisis and relies heavily on the Superman: New Krypton storyline. To those unfamiliar, here is a brief synopsis of the events and timeline relevant for the purpose of this fic: Clark liberates the bottled city of Kandor from Brainiac, freeing thousands of Kryptonians, including his aunt and uncle, to live on earth; Jonathan Kent dies from a heart attack while Clark is off-world dealing with Brainiac; shortly after that, Bruce seemingly dies after being hit by Darkseid’s omega beams; humans and Kryptonians don’t get along, Clark’s uncle gets assassinated, and Clark’s aunt eventually relocates their people to another planet to serve as New Krypton.

Thank you to @superhero-justice and @superbatfleck for cleaning this up for me. Any remaining mistakes are my own. Constructive criticism welcome.

Reporters rush in and out of the Daily Planet offices in pursuit of the latest scoop, shoes squeaking and clicking on the floor. Others are hunched over their computers, racing to meet the print deadline, each keystroke as loud as a bullet. One floor down, the refrigerator in the break room emits a low hum. Ten blocks away, a car alarm is blaring on the street and a dog starts barking. There are other indistinct sounds he can’t isolate, nor can he manage to block them out. He hears all of it, and he hears none of it.

He startles when he feels a hand on his shoulder, swivelling his chair to find Jimmy leaning against his cubicle. Judging by the worried expression contorting his face, he must’ve been trying to gain Clark’s attention for some time. Clark watches his mouth move, the thunderous tick tick tick of his wristwatch making it impossible to concentrate on the individual sounds that make up the words. Bruce had not been wrong to insist lip-reading would be a useful skill to pick up.

“—ark? You okay, buddy?”

The smell of freshly-brewed coffee wafts into the room from the shop across the street, so overpowering that Clark can taste it in the back of his throat. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he says in a rush, fighting the urge to gag. He reaches under his glasses to rub at his aching eyes, squinting against the too-bright fluorescent lighting and the glare from his computer screen. It takes a full five seconds to realize what a colossal mistake like that could cost him, and he lets the frames slide back onto his nose, hoping the slip-up went unnoticed.

Stupid, the voice in his head berates. It sounds remarkably like Bruce. Stupid and reckless.

Jimmy frowns and bites his lip. “You’ve been staring at that article for, like, forty minutes.”

Clark turns back to glance at his computer. He’d been searching the Gotham Gazette archive when he stumbled upon an article about the charitable work of the Wayne Foundation. A picture of Bruce accompanies the headline, looking handsome and respectable in a tailored suit. It was taken at a recent fundraiser, where he had given a speech about building a brighter future for Gotham, about believing in the city and its people. The small, private smile on his face is what makes the photo remarkable—not the patented smirk Bruce Wayne would wear in public, but a warm, genuine twitch of his lips. Cassandra had been in attendance that evening, and Bruce kept his focus on her as he spoke, his smile that of a proud father.

Clark’s heart lurches at the memory. Will details like that eventually begin to fade? Given time, will he forget the rhythm of Bruce’s heartbeat, like an old song whose tune can be recognized but never recalled? Will he forget the sound of his voice? Not the low growl of the Bat or the charming lilt of his public persona, but the deep, rich cadence that belonged to Bruce, with its notes of grief and sorrow. Batman and Bruce Wayne each leave behind a legacy, but they were a mask and a performance. The man underneath was known to so few, and the realization he’s the one who doesn’t get to live on leaves Clark hollow.

As far as the public is concerned, both Bruce Wayne and Batman are alive and well. It required impeccable planning and execution, of course, but that was Bruce down to his core: always ten steps ahead of everyone else, always a contingency plan for even the most inconceivable scenario. His own death was hardly that, of course, but Clark never imagined it would go completely unacknowledged.

“I just…. have a lot on my mind,” he says, fighting to keep his voice from breaking.

I lost my dad and best friend within weeks of each other, is what he doesn’t get to say, what he aches to cry out. They’re dead. The words crawl up his throat like bile, leaving an acrid taste on his tongue as he bites his lip to trap them, nothing but a thought for him to choke on.

“You know, Chief’s in a good mood today,” says Jimmy, gesturing toward Perry’s office with his thumb. Clark tries and fails to hide a flinch as Perry’s assistant begins stapling stacks of documents. “I bet he’d let you take off early, if you ask.”

There is truth to that. Despite his gruff exterior, Perry is a kind man; he has been taking it easy on Clark since his return from bereavement leave, assigning fluff pieces that required little time and effort. Just as Superman was powerless where it mattered most, Clark Kent could offer nothing of substance.

“No,” Clark says, even as a splitting headache assaults his temples and his X-ray vision flickers on and off. He hadn’t lost control over his senses like this since his abilities first started developing. The buzzing in his ears gets worse and he barely resists the instinct to cover them. Maybe, he thinks, his eardrums will finally give out and rupture.  “I need the distraction.”

“Well, all right, if you say so,” Jimmy concedes, though he doesn’t seem convinced. “If there’s anything you need, pal… just say the word.”

Though he means the gesture to be genuine, the smile that stretches Clark’s mouth is strained, pulling on muscles he thought had atrophied over the last few weeks. “Thanks, Jimmy,” he says. “You’re a good friend.”

After Jimmy disappears down the hall, Clark turns towards Lois’ empty cubicle with a sigh, craving the comfort of her company. Her investigation in Washington pertains specifically to New Krypton, and he’s beyond grateful for the work she’s putting in.

He pulls out his phone, intending to return Diana’s message from a couple days ago. Scrolling through his recent calls, he tenses when he reaches Pa’s number. He hasn’t been able to bring himself to delete it, and he stares at it for a long time.

He doesn’t make a single call.

***

They always believe they can outrun him, Clark notes with exasperation, wondering if Flash often encounters the same issue. He wraps a metal pole around the three robbers he captured before turning to deal with the two who’d taken off by foot. As they run, the robbers turn to shoot at him, the bullets ricocheting off of Clark’s chest. Really, will they ever learn?

Busy as they are emptying their ammo on Clark’s chest, they don’t notice the dark figure that descends from above. Clark hardly needs the assist, but he stops and watches as the first robber is knocked down with a swift kick to his back. Wide-eyed, the second robber turns his attention to the figure, aiming the gun in his direction. Batman avoids it with ease, performing a flip right over the robber, kicking his legs as soon as he lands behind him. There’s fluidity to the way he moves, like poetry in motion. If Clark didn’t know better, he’d swear the man was flying.

The man aims his gun at Batman’s head a second time, but his reflexes are no match to the vigilante’s. Batman grabs his arm and twists, the sound of bone breaking almost as loud as the man’s scream. The gun scatters out of his grip, sliding on the ground until it lands at Clark’s feet.

“Was that really necessary?” Clark says, folding his arms over his chest. He steps on the barrel of the gun, assuring it cannot be fired but still admissible as evidence.

Batman makes quick work of tying up the two robbers, police sirens wailing in the distance. “It’s a clean break,” he responds. Clark’s X-Ray vision confirms as much. “We need to talk.”

They land on a secluded, dark rooftop of a skyscraper, city lights twinkling below them. A quick scan confirms there are no cameras that could compromise them and no aircrafts with a vantage point to capture the exchange.

Back turned to Clark, Batman observes Metropolis from the landing. He’s as still and silent as a statue, cape billowing in the wind.

You wanted to talk, so talk, Clark wants to snap, but bites his tongue. He knows better than to press the issue, but even after all these years, he’s irked at the way Batman monopolizes his time with so little regard. Instead, he puts his hands on his hips, tapping his foot as he waits.

Finally, Batman turns his head to address him. “We’ve got a situation.”

“If this is about New Krypton,” Clark begins, heart hammering in his ribcage, “I’m handling the situation.”

“I’m sorry about Zor-El,” says Batman, the modulator masking any emotion in his voice. He turns fully until they’re facing one another. “I understand your aunt seeks retribution for the attack that took his life.”

Clark clenches his fists. “As I said,” he speaks through gritted teeth, “I’m dealing with it.”

“Given how personal this situation is for you,” continues Batman, “some in the League are concerned about where your loyalties may lie. If you bothered turning up for a meeting, perhaps you could put those fears to rest.”

Clark feels a muscle in his jaw jump, heat rushing to the surface of his skin. “And what do you think, World’s Greatest Detective?”

“Given your aunt’s actions up to this point, I’m concerned about escalating conflict between Earth and New Krypton,” Batman says. “You, of course, will be caught in the crossfire. Your loyalty to the people of Earth, however, has never been in question. I only worry about the psychological effect having to make that kind of decision would have on you.”

The sentiment would mean more, Clark thinks, if he weren't staring at the impassive white lenses of a mask.

“I also think,” continues Batman, reaching for his cowl, “it’s a necessary discussion we will table for a later time. I’m here on a personal matter, not League business.”

Clark’s heartbeat speeds up and pulsates in his ears, chest growing tight as he holds his breath. Of course, he knows exactly who he’s been talking to, who inherited the mantle. The distinct way he moves alone would have given it away. Still, in that split second before the mask is removed, there’s the possibility of seeing his friend again.

A familiar pair of blue eyes meet his gaze, framed by a shock of black hair. The similarity is remarkable.

“Dick,” says Clark, trying to hide his disappointment. “What can I do for you?”

“It’s about Tim.” Dick takes a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. “He thinks Bruce is alive.”

A chill goes down Clark’s spine, body going rigid. “What?”

Dick sighs, running a hand through his hair. There are heavy bags under his eyes. “He… doesn’t believe Bruce is really gone. He’s insisting we have to find him.”

Furrowing his brow, Clark opens and closes his mouth before settling on a response. “But… I don’t understand. He knows what happened. You both saw the body, read the report—”

“I’m aware,” Dick cuts in, an edge of impatience creeping into his tone. After a moment, he relaxes his jaw. “I’m worried about him. I think… maybe he’s reaching his limit. He’s lost so much this year alone and now that Bruce is gone… I’m scared of what it might do to him.”

Tim lost a father for the second time, Clark realizes with an aching heart. That on top of the other tragedies that have mired his life.

“Maybe I don’t have any business asking this of you,” Dick continues, “But I don’t know what else to do. He won’t listen to anything Alfred and I have to say on the matter. He refuses to let go. I was hoping that… maybe you could talk to him.”

“Dick,” Clark starts as gently as he can. “There is nothing I wouldn’t do for your family. You know that. But if Tim won’t listen to you, what makes you think he’ll want to hear anything I have to say?”

“You were there,” is the curt explanation Dick provides. “You found his body. You… you were there.” Guilt flickers across his face. “Besides, I’m not exactly his favourite person these days. I took away the one thing he had left that meant something to him.” He’s trying so desperately to fill the void Bruce left in everyone’s life, to keep his family from crumbling under the grief.

Clark thinks of the ten-year-old who’s lost a father he’d hardly gotten to know, hiding his grief behind a Robin costume. “How is Damian?”

“Angry,” Dick says with a sigh, his eyes glazed over and far away. “Lost. Confused. Impulsive.”

Throughout the years, Clark had seen that same expression on Bruce’s face whenever he thought of Jason, all that he couldn’t do for him. Clark imagines Dick is thinking much the same.

“He’s a good kid,” says Clark. “If anyone can get through to him, it’s you.” He places a hand on Dick’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “Tim will come around, too. He loved being Robin, but he loves you more.”

“Please,” Dick says, bowing his head. For a moment, he looks exactly like the little kid Clark first met fifteen years ago. “He’s my brother, and I can’t help him. I don’t know what else to do.”

“All right,” Clark agrees. “I can’t promise it’ll accomplish much, but I’ll talk to him.”

Dick abandons his military stance, rounding his back as some of the tension leaves his body. “Thank you.”

They stand shoulder-to-shoulder, watching the traffic below them, the blinding glow of headlights giving Clark a headache.

“I was thinking,” Clark starts, “About the day you came to see me at the Planet, after Bruce fired you.”

Dick snorts, lips quirking at the memory. “Not his finest moment.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Clark smiles. “God, I don’t think I’ve ever yelled at anyone like that. We didn’t speak for three weeks.”

A flash of surprise crosses Dick’s face. “He never told me that.”

“Of course he didn’t. He knew I was right.” Bruce never liked hearing truths he wasn’t ready to acknowledge. “You were cultivating an identity of your own, building an independent life, and he feared there might not be any room in it for him.  He was terrified of losing you, so he pushed you away.”

“For all his brilliance, he was a goddamn idiot sometimes.”

The laugh that rolls off of Clark catches him by surprise, the sound of it foreign to his own ears. For the first time in their conversation, Dick sounds like himself, rather than an imitation of his father.

It had been so important to Dick to carve a path for himself, to create an identity that was his alone. When he had taken up the mantle of Nightwing, inspired by the Kryptonian myth Clark shared with him, Clark’s chest swelled with pride. Now, the same age Bruce had been when he first donned the cowl, Dick is giving all of that up, relinquishing the life he’s built to preserve a legacy. It’s not the kind of sacrifice someone so young should feel compelled to make.

“Dick,” Clark tries, biting his lip.  The pressure in his chest intensifies, grief squeezing his heart. “You don’t have to do this. There are other ways to honour him.”

It’s the wrong thing to say.

Dick steels his jaw. “You’ve made your feelings on the matter perfectly clear,” he says, “And I’ve done the same.”

Clark bows his head, shame flushing his cheeks. The first time he had seen him as Batman, Clark lost it. The words he hurled at Dick were cruel and fuelled by anger, accusing him of parading around in Bruce’s skin. Rao, he had nearly lost control of his heat vision, ready to strip Dick of the costume by any means.

When he finds his voice again, his mouth tastes like cotton. “It’s not what he would’ve wanted.”

That much, Clark knows unequivocally.

Dick puts on the cowl, turning away and walking towards the edge of the roof. “It’s what Gotham needs.”

“What about what you need?”

Dick turns his head. “Don’t worry about me, Superman,” is his curt reply before firing his grapple gun. “I’m Batman.”

***

It takes two tries to enter the right security code into the hidden panel, his shaking hands causing him to hit the wrong buttons. Another attempt would have triggered extensive and unpleasant safety measures. Once the fingerprint and retinal scans confirm his identity, the gate swings open with a small creak.

Clark stands frozen in front of the picturesque property, inspecting its perfectly manicured lawns and impressive architecture. The grounds of the Manor are completely unchanged from the last time he’d visited; nothing to reflect the devastating loss it sustained, the absence of its very soul. It seems impossible, when Clark feels it with every beat of his own heart, every breath drawn from his lungs.

Leaves crunch under his boots as he begins walking, his legs feeling heavier with every step. The lone figure sitting in front of the unmarked grave doesn’t react to his arrival. Tim has his arms wrapped around his legs, knees drawn to his chest with his chin resting on top of them. The thin t-shirt he’s wearing hangs loosely on his wiry frame, offering little protection from the cold October breeze. His hair is a little longer, falling messily across his forehead.

Clark settles next to him in silence. He’d done the same for Bruce, a few times, as he knelt by his parents’ graves, and later Jason’s, placing fresh flowers on the polished stones. Clark had kept a hand on his shoulder and said nothing as Bruce wept. The only comfort he could offer was his presence; all he could do was bear witness to his friend’s pain, so Bruce wouldn’t have to confront it alone.

He hasn’t been able to offer the same to Bruce’s family, these past few weeks.

“Wondered if you were going to come by,” Tim says after a time, voice rough with disuse. How long has he been sitting here, cold and immobilized with grief?

The words aren’t accusatory, but guilt still slices Clark like a shard of kryptonite. He shrugs out of his jacket, wrapping it around Tim’s shoulders. Tim doesn’t slide his arms through the sleeves, but doesn’t take it off, allowing it to engulf his smaller frame.

“Sometimes,” Clark starts, throat going dry as he pushes the words out, “most times, even—” he pauses to wet his lips, staring at his shaking hands. He can feel Tim’s eyes on him as he struggles to speak. “It was so easy to think of him as invincible.”

Bruce may have been one of few non-powered individuals on a team of metahumans, but there never seemed to be anything he couldn’t do. So much strength, brilliance, and competence that defied all odds. Despite the fractured bones he’d scanned countless times, the contusions and scars carefully hidden by armour, part of Clark believed the Bat would outlive them all. For fifteen years, night after night, Bruce survived the streets of Gotham. Until he didn’t.

“He’s out there, Clark,” says Tim. “He’s alive.”

Nothing could have prepared Clark for how excruciatingly painful those words were. He squeezes his eyes shut, a violent lurch unfolding in his chest. Is this how Dick felt, listening to his brother insist Bruce is alive while grappling with his own grief?

“Tim,” he starts, swallowing past the lump in his throat. “I know you want that to be true. I know you miss him. We all do, but—”

“Don’t give me that crap!” Tim snaps, startling Clark into opening his eyes. “I know how it sounds. This isn’t denial, this isn’t grief. Why won’t any of you listen? He’s alive.” He takes a deep breath to regain composure, nostrils flaring. Gradually, he schools his features into calm apathy that betrays nothing.

It reminds Clark so much of Bruce that he has to look away. Outbursts were a rare thing to witness; anger always crackled underneath the surface, but it was always so carefully-controlled, channelled to where it could be used as an advantage.

I don’t want him to end up like me, Bruce had confessed to Clark only months ago, as Tim grieved his family, forever branded with the loss. On that dark Gotham rooftop, for the very first time, Clark heard fear in his friend’s voice. I can see too much of myself in him.

“I carried his body in my arms.” Even now, Clark bares its weight; like Atlas, eternally condemned to hold up the sky. “You saw it, too. You heard Dr. Mid-Nite’s analysis. It’s Bruce.”

“You were dead once, too,” says Tim, digging his fingers into the dirt. “It’s practically part of the job description.”

“You know that’s different.” Clark bows his head in shame, staring at his hands. Bruce was only human. Yet, even with all his abilities, Clark had been completely powerless to save him. Just as he’d been too late to save his father. What use were they if he could do nothing to save those he loved?

“Is it?”

There’s a moment of silence. “I can’t hear his heartbeat,” Clark finally says. “If he were—I’d be able to…” he pauses to wet his lips. “I thought that maybe, maybe it was just out of my reach. But I… I looked everywhere. Even went back to Apokolips. I can’t… I couldn’t hear it anywhere, Tim. It’s gone.”

Tim whimpers. When Clark turns to look at him, he has a hand over his eyes. Clark is suddenly reminded of just how painfully young he is. Too young to have lost so much, to shoulder so much of the world.

He reaches to place a comforting hand on Tim’s shoulder, only to have it knocked away. “There’s an explanation for it. There has to be. We don’t know much about the Omega sanction,” Tim lifts his chin, the knot of muscle at the side of his jaw pulsating.

Clark hangs his head. “I told myself that, too,” he admits. He had used every piece of technology at his disposal to assess different possibilities. Had made Hal replay the scene of Bruce’s death with his ring over and over again, a dozen times, until Hal placed a gentle hand on his back and said, Enough.

“He wouldn’t have given up on us,” Tim says, voice breaking. “Any of us. You all may have given up on him, but I won’t. I can’t. Bruce needs me.”

“There’s a difference between giving up and letting go, Tim.” Even as he says them, the words feel out of place on his tongue. The truth of the matter is, Clark has no idea how to let go.

“Not in this case,” Tim says. “I owe him too much.”

Something heavy settles in Clark’s stomach at that. “That’s not… he would never want you to think that,” he urges, furrowing his brow. “After Jason…” Clark tries, unable to complete the thought. “You were the one that saved him, Tim. Bruce thought of you as a son long before he signed the dotted line that made it official.”

Tim says nothing to that. “Did you ever tell him?” he asks instead, staring ahead at the unmarked grave. Clark’s expression must reflect his confusion, because Tim elaborates before he can ask. “How you feel about him.”

Loving Bruce had come as naturally as breathing, the feeling festering in his chest for years before he recognized it. Tim’s use of the present tense is accurate, too. Nothing, not even something as finite as death, holds the ability to eradicate all that he feels for Bruce.

He was fairly certain Bruce felt the same about him. Though they never spoke of it, the tension between them had always been too thick, the air too charged, for it not to be the case. The truth was, Bruce not reciprocating his feelings was not the worst case scenario. Clark knew exactly what would come to pass if he confessed his feelings, and it’s what he dreaded most. Bruce would admit to sharing those feelings, but refuse to allow himself to act on them. Because the mission came first. Because there was no room for something so frivolous and self-indulgent in their lives. Because it was too dangerous. Because of a million reasons Clark couldn’t bear to hear Bruce list.

“I didn’t think he’d wanna hear it,” is what he settles on saying, his voice so small he hardly recognizes it. He’ll never get the chance to now.

“I’m going to find him,” says Tim, hugging his knees closer to his chest and curling into them. Tears streak down his cheeks, but his voice is determined. “Whatever it takes, I’m gonna find him.”

Clark shuts his eyes, a tremor passing through his body. “There’s something you should know,” he starts. Speaking the words feels like swallowing stones. “I’m going away for a bit. Maybe… maybe more than a bit. There’s something I have to take care of.”

Tim nods. “New Krypton,” he concludes. Always the detective. “Your family needs you. And mine needs me.” He gets up and dusts the dirt off his clothes before beginning the walk back to the Mansion.

“Tim,” Clark calls after him. Tim stops but keeps his back turned. “You’re family to me, too. All of you.”

Tim’s entire body droops, as if finally collapsing from the weight chained to it. “For what it’s worth,” he says, “I think he would’ve wanted to hear it.”

The words hit like a jolt of electricity, crackling down Clark’s spine as he watches Tim walk away. He sits in silence for a long time, pulling at the wet blades of grass beneath his hands, the gravity of his failure slamming square into his chest.

Even when he finds the strength to stand, his legs are wobbly, making for a painful trek back to the Mansion. He stands at the front door for ten minutes, staring at the expanse of wood before gathering the courage to ring the doorbell.

When Alfred opens the door, Clark’s breath catches in his throat at the sight of him. “Master Clark,” he greets, tone polite. His attire is immaculate as ever, suit crisp and freshly-pressed. It’s his haggard face, however, that belies the change in him, as if he’d aged years in the span of weeks. There are dark circles rimming his eyes, deep lines etched on his skin like battle scars. My son has died, he said when Clark and Diana had come to deliver the news, holding Bruce’s ruined uniform like an offering.

“Alfred,” Clark says, his own voice strained. He takes a step forward into the house, only making it through the threshold before he collapses onto his knees. Alfred catches him, his arms infinitely strong, accustomed to handling more weight than he should be able to carry. They don’t waver even when Clark’s entire body convulses with the force of his sobs.

“I’m sorry.” Clark presses the words into Alfred’s jacket, barely more than a whisper. Sorry for not having been around in the last few weeks, leaving Alfred to pick up the pieces of grieving children. Sorry for not being there to save Bruce in time. Sorry for having all these abilities, yet being so powerless, so utterly useless when it mattered most. “I’m so sorry.”

Alfred’s arms tighten around his shaking back, voice wet when he speaks. “It’s all right, son. It’s all right.”

[entomancy]

(Fic) Diolain: Part 3

Right. Trying to knock the rust off my writing abilities after Thesis Hell. So, some more of Samie-does-his-best-under-Escalating-Circumstances. I’ve also polished the previous parts somewhat.

Part 1. Part 2.  Wattpad.

Title: International relations Setting: The State history: end- ‘Golden Age’ (about 40 years ago). Warnings: Blood. Summary: . Characters: Samúiel Daly; Fergal Callaghan; Najwa Farouk. Words: 3544

-

No alarms.  That was fuckin’ telling.  Samie took the stairs two at a time with Fergal slung bodily over his shoulder, either resigned to the action or too stunned to complain about it.  The faint ringing in his ears was fading already, replaced by a strangely-empty chaos.  He could hear the sound of bits of upstairs collapsing, half-muffled cries and screams from elsewhere in the building, and vehicles outside.  No alarms, though, and he’d seen sensors.

So either no one was watchin’, or...

Samie’s ears twitched - rising slightly underneath the hat and staying there, accompanied by the odd crackle-pop of cartilage shifting beneath his skin - as a door opened somewhere below.  Soft boot-treads pattered against the stairs; too quiet, too deliberate than anything should be in this chaos, and he gritted his teeth.  The feckers were fast; he’d give ‘em that.

The door on the next landing was locked.  Nice try, lads.  He dropped Fergal and swivelled, driving a newly-plated elbow into the pale woodwork.  The crunch ran up his arm, the door buckling under enhanced impact, and he shouldered it open past the now-bent lock.  New danger flared in his blended senses and he jerked back again, a heartbeat before a rattle of small arms fire punctured the wall by the broken frame.

“We’re Abhani, ye trigger-happy bastards!” he barked before stepping back through, arms raised this time.  The air was sharp, threaded with a peppery variation on gunsmoke, and another shot skimmed past his shoulder as he emerged - but no more followed it.  Samie caught a brief image of raised weapons and golden cloth, before he hauled Fergal in and slammed the damaged door them, searching around for anything to block it off again.  Damn Statey decoration was a sparse as it was boring, but there was a long metal display case full of framed (boring) paperwork a little further down, bolted to the floor.

Not bolted enough.  The screech of rending metal seemed shockingly loud, and Samie ignored the commenting mutters that followed as he hefted the case on-end and wedged it across the door.  Not a moment too soon: there was a crash from the other side and the injured woodwork shook violently.  Samie bared his teeth in a humourless grin and threw an obscene gesture towards the door, before grabbing the bags and hurrying back to where Fergal had vanished after the already-retreating group.  He vaguely remembered seeing them at the soiree, which seemed like a fuckin’ lifetime ago.  A fancily-dressed bunch with hair in loops, heraldin’ from someplace he’d never heard of.

They sure weren’t State though, and that’d do for now.

He followed into their room and came up short against the array of elegant weapons he’d seen earlier.  Their wielders were clad in gold-and-bronze, the kind of efficiently simple body armour that tended to lie hidden under much more elaborate detailing, right up until it needed not to.  Samie rolled his eyes.

“Ah, c’mon! We ain’t got bigger problems?”

“Samúiel is with me,” Fergal said quickly, from somewhere off to one side. His tone was steadier now, more business-like.  Got an audience. “My bodyguard, and my brother.”

Samie could feel the wash of suspicious attention, back and forth between them.  Comparing Fergal’s slim, dark figure, and Samie’s own ginger-topped bulk.  He grinned again.

“I take after ma.”

There was another stretched moment of wariness and then the weapons tilted down.  It was just in time for another sound of impact to rattle down the corridor, so Samie stopped paying attention to people who weren’t his concern.  One of the armed figures had moved first, and something in their stance suggested leadership, so he focused there.

“Said no t’the wine then?” he asked, more to fill the silence than anything else, adding: “Mostly, anyhow.”

Across the room, Fergal was stooped over in front of a slumped woman - unarmoured and still dressed in her party frock.  She was blinking rapidly, eyes half-focused, and an attendant fidgeted with a sleek-looking syringe as they ran assessing fingers down her arm, checking and re-checking vitals.  

Good to know they weren’t the only ones who’d brought along In Case Of Fuckery emergency kits.

“You have an exit?” The probable-leader stepped in front of Samie, pulling up the headgear’s eyepiece to reveal a strip of deep copper skin and black-brown eyes, narrowed towards him in suspicion.  He shrugged.

“Couple, though they involve not bein’ stuck in this feckin’ rat-trap.  Other’n that, it’s kinda at ‘not via the stairs we came down, because they either exploded or are full of bastards’.”

The commander snorted and flipped her mask closed again.  He was guessing at ‘her’, mostly from the lashes and the height.

“Try not to die. Do not get in our way, or you will be shot through.”

Samie swung one enlarged hand upward in as sarcastic a salute as he could manage.

“Aye, I’m well aware that ‘bullet sponge’ is in my job description.”

“Samie,” Fergal didn’t look up from where he was muttering softly to the other presumed-Ambassador, and the commander had already turned away, motioning at the rest of her squad, so Samie’s replying shrug was mostly for his own benefit.

“Well it is,” he muttered.  He dropped back as the golden guards began to move out again, staying near Fergal and eying their new friends.  They were, he’d admit, very slick about all this.  Each gilt figure moved like liquid, smoothly taking positions and covering each other as they started back out into the corridors.  Hardly ever a step outa place - and Samie couldn’t help feeling a little bit lumbering in comparison.  Being a good head taller than everyone around you, and at least twice as broad, would do that to a body.

His makeshift barricade was shaking noisily as the mismatched group made their way along the main corridor of this floor.  There was another similar door at the far end, which seemed to have a gold-weave scarf nailed across it, and Samie glanced back at Fergal.  He saw his brother find the incongruity, squint a little in that way he had when he was Looking with his less-standard senses, and nod towards Samie in silent confirmation.

UnGated Diolain were still Abhani, after all, and the mageblood ran as thick in them as anyone else.  Samie was about as magically-inclined as a dishcloth - barring the huge otherworldy-technicality that mingled through the fabric of him - but Ferg had always been good at seeing what was really there.  Couldn’t actually do much active, but he’d got Sight on him enough to make professionals take note - and what he was notin’ now, was that there was something altogether thaumic going on with that “scarf”.

“Someone else lied on their border forms,” Samie muttered, and Fergal grinned back.

The elevator on these floors sat off the middle of the corridor, flanked by panels of metal inset with stern State geometry.  It was disabled - because of course it was - but two of the golden guards had already forced the doors, and were aiming small torches up and down the shaft.  When they seemed satisfied, the commander turned back towards Samie.

“You can climb also?”

“Well, yeah - ” Samie followed her gesture, towards where another guard was gently wrapping a fine fabric webbing around the drugged Ambassador.  The cradle was attached to what looked like a lacework harness, and he started to object as realisation kicked in. “Hey now, I got Ferg t’ - ”

“I’m fine,” Fergal interjected, tapping the smears of drying blood still clinging to his chest. “Shaky, but I’m set.  I can climb; she can’t.”

“...right,” Samie sighed as he turned around to present his back.  Path of least resistance.  He was very aware of the feel of unfamiliar fingers deftly hooking straps around his chest, around his shoulders, and tried not to react when the pressure halted - just for a second - on an unexpected outcrop of solid tissue along his spine.

“It ain’t tender,” he said gruffly, and was relieved when the hands continued without voiced question.  There were a few extra grazes across some of the other manifestations hidden beneath his shirt, but no more reaction, and the weight of the barely-conscious woman was soon nestled in against his back.  The commander scooted in, tugging on a few parts of the harness - which was a hell of a lot sturdier than something that looked like it was made of lingerie had any right to be - then stepped back, giving a curt order in her own tongue as the group began to move into the open lift shaft.  There was a narrow maintenance ladder set back into a groove in the wall, flanked by cable bundles, and the guards began to climb down it.

The actual elevator carriage was in there as well.  Above them, in fact, and Samie eyed the base of it warily as bobbing torchlight patterns wove in and out of the gears beneath.  This’d be the third time he’d climbed an elevator shaft in the line of one duty or other, but generally the big metal box of potential-crushing had been below him.  He was suddenly very aware of how thin the ladder rungs - only big enough for three of his current fingers - seemed to be, and of the translated shiver of movement running back up towards him.

He’d survive a fall, of course.  It would hurt like a motherfucker (appropriately enough) but if there was one thing that’d bring Scout through all-guns it was that horrible moment of plunging when you became so suddenly aware of all your internal organs.  Still, he doubted he’d make a good crash-mat; and just because something wouldn’t kill you, didn’t make for good reason to let it happen.

So when the witchlight came rolling up the walls, Samie managed to restrain his shock to nearly biting through his tongue, rather than yanking any rungs out of their sockets.

“ - th-uck!”

Traceries of blue-white crackled as they rose, sharply-angular fractals that made your brain ache if you tried to focus on the patterns too hard, and Samie could feel a shiver in his skin as the waves passed over him.  Like static, with a bizarre sense of upended vertigo trailing behind it, but it was gone as fast as it had come, and the eerie wisp glow swept past.  An awful moment later the bottom of the elevator jerked violently, something above it going ping, and the cage began to move.

Upwards.

Samie swallowed hard, trying to get his heartrate back where it was meant to be.  He leaned over and looked down, to where Fergal’s upturned face was dimly visible below his feet.

“The hell was that?”  From the muttering that was happening from their new friends, he wasn’t the only one wondering, even as the group began to climb again.  A little faster this time.  After all, what went up…

“Isuanai mechis-pulse,” Fergal said, loudly enough that his voice bounced echoes from the walls. “Broad spectrum with visual bleed - someone’s hacked something together real fast.  My guess is ‘up’, for anything that can.”

Isuanai.  Now, that one Samie did know; he’d even been there a few times.  Nice country.  Lot of plastic.  Full of people who’d start waxing lyrical about ‘techno-thaumic integration’ at the drop of a hat.  Yeah, he couldn’t see any of them being all that keen on toeing a ‘no magic’ line either.

It seemed to take an excruciatingly long time before there was a new sound from below, a shifting hiss followed by the screech of forced metal, and new light burst into the shaft.  Craning around, Samie saw the lead guards dart out of the newly-opened door, quick as you like.  A tense few moments followed, his ears pricking at the sound of rapid footfalls in whatever space lay beyond, before a gold-masked face appeared at the doorway again and beckoned them to continue.

They came out into… some sort of service area?  Sure wasn’t another corridor of fancy rooms, and Samie looked around while the drugged Ambassador was detached from his back.  There were a lot of shelves, stacked with piles of towels, bottles of presumably-cleaning stuff, and other general maintenance paraphernalia.  

There was something almost offensively mundane about the space, considering what was happening mere floors above them, and Samie’s teeth gritted together.

“Where now, Najwa?” Fergal asked quietly as he brushed himself down, making an attempt to tidy up his bloodied shirt.  The commander’s head snapped around, surprise running through her body language for a second, and Samie pushed away a grin.  Of course Ferg had picked up her name from somewhere.  He wasn’t sure if it was a subtle ‘I can understand you, you know’ dig - since he didn’t put it past his brother to have managed to have a bit of fluency in whatever they were chattering in, on the off-chance - or just emphasising situational-camaraderie.

“...sewers,” she replied, finally. “Lead under walls.  After that; our business.”

“Oh good,” Samie muttered, even though his attention was only half-on what was going on inside the room.  His extended senses were twanging again - up, up, rapid feet with a panic in their urgency - quick quick - and he tilted his head, frowning. “This day just gets better, doesn’t it?”

The commander - Najwa - rounded on him.

“What do you do, Abhain?” she snapped. “Walk out door?  How many bullets do you sponge?”

Samie grinned.  It wasn’t a diplomatic expression.

“Plenty enough, love.  I - ”

“Samie - ” Fergal’s warning was cut off by a curt bark from one of the other guards, and Najwa dropped her interest, falling into instant formation with the rest of her squad.  Samie knew why, could hear the sound of approaching bootfall, and he shoved Ferg firmly back towards the other Ambassador, behind a metal cart that was the closest the room had to cover.  He hunched down beside it, tensing, and drew a slow breath.

Focus, Samúiel.

He was staring so hard at the door that he missed the start of it, as Najwa’s team began to shimmer.  The harsh white lights overhead seemed to lose their grip, illumination and shadow alike going grainy across each figure; breaking apart like falling sand to leave a shape in the world that blurred and slid away from clear vision.  It wasn’t invisibility, not exactly, but it was going to be interesting to see how the Statey fuckers handled it.

The answer turned out to be ‘badly’.

Clearly, the squad that entered hadn’t been expecting much resistance; or likely, anyone at all.  The sight of Samie’s hulking figure brought them up short, rifles rising - and then Najwa’s group struck hard.  It wasn’t perfect: a few rounds loosed, skimming through the air whistle-close to Samie’s right ear, and the guttural crack of gunfire bounced violently around the tiled space, but soon the three intruders figures were face-down on the floor.  One was deathly still, the second with some residual twitching, and the third wriggling furiously under two restraining feet.

The Abhani exchanged an impressed look.

Najwa hunched down on her heels in front of the surviving State solider and reached out, wrenching his mirror-sheen helmet away.  She stood up again quickly, nodding as the restraining guards yanked the man onto his knees.

Well, ‘man’.  Boy, really, and Samie felt a different twinge in his gut as he stared at the State-kid.  He was pale, without even the burnt-in scatter of freckles that seasoned Samie’s own natural pallor, and his mousey blond hair was buzzed into near-transparency, but the most obvious thing about him was the stark tattoos stamped harshly across his face.  Samie didn’t recognise many of the symbols - they were mostly geometric, sharp black angles that didn’t follow the line of his bones - but there was something particularly unsettling about the silvered, stylised eye that took up about half his forehead.

That, and the look of disgusted rage distorting his features.

“Sonofafuck,” Fergal muttered, peering around Samie’s shoulder. “We’re being hunted by guys who don’t even shave yet.”  There was a shake to his voice, a tightness in his expression that reminded Samie that, worldly that his brother might be in some ways, he didn’t get shot at very much.

“That’s diplomatic-speak, is it?” he muttered back, as Najwa brought her own weapon up, resting it against the boy’s clavicle.

“How many are you?” she asked, and the pale figure bared his teeth in reply.  It would have looked comical if it wasn’t for the pure hate in his eyes.

“Aberrant scum,” he hissed. “You are poison.”

There was a soft sound, metal on metal, from somewhere within Najwa’s weapon as she raised it higher, hovering over the bobbing bulge of the boy’s adam’s apple.

“Wait - ” Fergal ducked out around from behind Samie, slipping past the wary hand he swung to halt him, and took a few careful steps forward.  He held his own hands out, placatingly, and looked between Najwa and the captive. “Please.  Let me talk to him.”

“You waste your breath, Abhain,” Najwa replied, not even looking back. “They do not know mercy.”

“But we do.” Fergal came a bit closer again, edging himself into her vision. “Please.” He followed with something that Samie didn’t understand, a few words with surprisingly-smooth similarity to the guards’ earlier chatter, and Najwa’s shoulders tightened.

“Talk swift,” she said, finally, and moved her gun back.  The State boy didn’t relax, still near-vibrating with anger and poorly-hidden nerves, but his washed-out gaze did flick between her and Fergal a few times.  His lips moved, silently; breathed words that didn’t catch in his throat, as Fergal turned to the boy and smiled, opening his hands carefully.

“I don’t know what you’ve been told about us,” he said gently, and it was probably only Samie’s practised ears that caught the slight shiver under his voice. “But we - ”

“...binds... the Chain…” The boy was looking at Fergal, but didn’t seem to be focusing on him as he kept muttering.  Frankly, it was creepy, and Samie shifted uncomfortably as he watched his brother try and make contact.  These Statey bastards had always been a weird lot, but they seemed damn-near alien now - the irony of which wasn’t lost on him.  Fergal tried again.

“I didn’t catch that,” he encouraged, leaning in a little further.  The boy’s shoulders had slumped, some of the shivering tension dropping out of his stance, and his eyelids fluttered half-closed.

“The Chain,” he mumbled, “the Chain is - only as strong as it’s - weakest link.”

He said it like a mantra.  Fergal blinked.

“Er… I suppose?”

The boy looked up, and all of Samie’s senses went off at once.

“I am not weak!”

He lunged forward violently, tearing himself free from the restraining grips of the guards behind him, who had relaxed a little when Najwa moved out of range.  Metal flashed, Fergal jerking back fast enough to avoid the blade that cut air a hairsbreadth from his face, but the Stateboy didn’t stop, taking both their balances as the first shot from Najwa’s guards swished past above the falling pair.  Metal came again, a wide, wild arc that just missed Samie as he dived towards Fergal, who was struggling arms-locked with the shaking youth - then the second round of fire hit home and the Stateboy crumpled forwards, the curved knife clattering away across the floor.  Samie grabbed him, feeling bone creak under his grip and yanked upwards, blood and spittle and worse raining from the bullet-torn mess of the boy’s neck.  Shock and anger sent strength into Samie’s movement, as he swivelled and hurled the body into the wall with a heavy, wet crack - then dropped down, swinging himself over Fergal in a guarding crouch.

Blood was pumping in his ears - his blood, and then some - and he could feel the plates along his back pressing up, spreading out over each other as he tried to hold them back.

“Enough!”

Samie hadn’t shouted, but the booming growl that broke his lips went bouncing from the walls anyway.  The golden guns raised again - wary, again - but as Samie blinked himself back to focus, he realise Najwa’s wasn’t among them.  It wasn’t possible see her expression under her mask, but she was clearly looking at him, nonetheless.

“...what are you, Abhain?” she asked, after a few moments of tension, and Samie forced his lips to slide back down, over the jutting angles of tooth that she couldn’t have failed to see.  His muscles were twitching, his clothes were too fucking tight, and the sharp-iron scent of blood and spicy gunsmoke seemed to be swirling like a hurricane through his head.

The blood didn’t smell like Fergal’s, though.  The knife had missed.  The bullets had missed him.  If the boy had been just a fraction closer…

Too close.  That was too fucking close.

Samie rolled his shoulders as he stood up - a few inches further up than before - and met Najwa’s hidden gaze.

“I’m getting the fuck outa here.”

-

[lesbenoits]

*gasp* superhero cressder au with cinder as this amazing superhero who cress falls madly in love with!!!!!

aight so this should probably be a lot longer so i could fit these plot points in but i wanted to finish it so i’ll just list them here

the man is glamoured as peony, who was killed by levana, the woman in the last scene

cinder was an engineer at nasa and she got caught in an experiment and got prosthetic limbs & her lunar powers got triggered. she was part of a secret society working to take down levana but was moved to the front lines instead of just gathering intel because of her gifts

cress is still immune to glamour, which is why she managed to get to close

also i have no idea how reporters or being a reporter works whoops

ignore any plot holes

it’s lowkey really shitty hngnjhjjj

Lunar X was an enigma.

Like the moon, she was only seen running the streets after hours, flashes of orange-ish light from streetlights reflecting off her slick, black suit. Rarely seen and even more rarely photographed, she blended in with the shadows themselves, disappearing before she could be praised – or arrested. Even if the mysterious superhero wasn’t spotted at the scene, she always left a trail of incapacitated criminals in her wake. She was called a revolutionary, a vigilante, a hero, and a villain, but hell if she wasn’t an icon.

Cress was a little bit in love, and when an opportunity came she jumped at her chance.

“I’ll do it!” The words were out of her mouth before she could stop and rethink.

“Ms. Darnel?”

Oh god, what had she blurted out. “Yes?”

“You want to take the Lunar X story?” Her boss, an older man with a permanent scowl and a body shaped like a dumpling, looked incredulous.

“Um, yes! I can do it.” Cress bobbed her head up and down. “Yep. Lunar X.”

Her boss rubbed his temples, shooting her another skeptical glance. “Well, It’s your career. Crash and burn if you want to.” He thrust a file had her and shooed her out of his office. “Go! Chop, chop, you don’t have any time to waste with a story like that.”

“Yes, sir,” Cress mumbled under her breath, clutching the file to her chest and all but sprinting out of his office.

Nobody wanted the Lunar X story. In the beginner, seasoned reporters had clambered to take on their first superhero, fighting for the coveted piece of new, hot news. It didn’t take long for the excitement to dwindle, as it was impossible to get more than a blurry photograph and quick quip on the newest criminal behind bars. Readers wanted more. A clear picture, an interview, a tantalizing scandal.

And if Lunar X was nothing else, she was elusive.

                                                …

When people don’t know the face behind the mask, they get scared. Is Lunar X really on our side? We don’t know anything about her. Is she even human? She could be a robot, or an alien.

“Or a Russian spy,” Cress had heard her co-worker whisper.

She had rolled her eyes. “Really, Ed?”

“You never know,” he insisted. Eyes flickering from side-to-side, he lowered his voice. “For all we know, we could be Russian spies.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

He raised an eyebrow. “They’re very secretive.”

“I doubt it, but I’ll be careful.”

Cress might not know Lunar X, but she knew what kind of person the masked hero was. Running on caffeine and crazed energy, she spent many nights with her computer hooked up to dubiously legal equipment to help her do definitely not legal things. Like hacking into Lunar X’s government file. Sipping jet black coffee, grimacing at the brightness of the screen, she squinted at the miniscule file. There was only basic information and wild speculation. Nothing Cress didn’t already know. She clicked the attached photos with mild interest. All blurry and unfocused shots of a dark figure on top of buildings and hiding in dark alleys. The occasional frame showed her mid-fight, but these pictures were just as cryptid as the others, shedding no light on Lunar X’s identity or motives.

She pulled together detailed profiles of all Lunar X’s targets, drawing information from anywhere and everywhere she could get access to: private Facebook profiles, police records, newspaper articles, friends and family’s accounts. They were of all different backgrounds, races, and ages and no obvious correlation could be drawn. Cress even ran them through fancy (stolen) software in an attempt to draw conclusions from the extensive profiles, revealing nothing she hadn’t already known.

For weeks, her research came to a stand still. Maybe Lunar X was just another frustrated citizen taking things into her own hands. Cress didn’t believe it, even as she told herself to let it go. There had to be something more. Lunar X didn’t seem like a rogue vigilante, her movements were too orchestrated.

“A terrorist?” Cress shrieked in disbelief. “She’s not a terrorist!”

“Of course you think that. You have a picture of her as your phone lockscreen.”

Cress squeaked. “I do not!” She blushed, covering her phone. “How do you know that?”

“People are sick of hearing only praise for her,” another co-worker explained. “I guess they decided to look at it from another angle.”

“But she catches criminals! She’s helping!” Cress’s eyes scanned the paper, words popping out at her. Violent. Deranged. Uncontrollable. “And she doesn’t kill anybody. Terrorist? Really?”

Her co-worker shrugged, taking a bite of his bagel. “It’s not like anyone knows what she’s doing,” he said, walking away.

Cress unclenched her fists. After spending so much time looking in Lunar X, she felt close to the masked superhero, despite never having met face to face. She wasn’t a bad person, and Cress would prove it.

“Russian spy, I’m telling you.” Ed spun around in his wheely chair. “They’re everywhere.”

“Ed, shu–” Cress froze. “Wait. Say that again?”

“They’re everywhere?”

“No, the other part.” Cress’s fingers itched for her laptop.

“Uh, Russian spies?”

“Spies! Ed, you’re a genius!” Cress swooped him up in a hug. “Um, sorry.”

He was still shell-shocked. “I am?”

“I can’t believe I didn’t see it before,” Cress muttered to herself. “Lunar X? The targets? God, I’m an idiot.” She stopped, jumping to her feet, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “I have to go!”

“But– why? Where are you going? Did I do something?”

“I’ve, um, got a story! I won’t be back!” Cress dashed towards the door, knocking over someone’s coffee. “So sorry, but I have to go!”

She slammed the door to her apartment, cracking open her laptop on the middle of the floor. How could she have missed it? Cress had been thinking of Lunar X as a lone entity, working on her own. Lunar X was just a piece of the puzzle. Five hours later, she stretched, her back screaming from being hunched over for the last five hours, but it was all worth it. Lunar X was no longer a conundrum.

                                                   …

Cress shivered in the cold, tapping her frozen feet. Her bag held her laptop, a notepad, loose lip gloss, and an assortment of pens. She gripped her phone tighter, the camera poised to take pictures. A shiver ran through her that wasn’t from the chilly air. This was the closest she had ever been to Lunar X. That is, if she was right –

Her thoughts were immediately cut off by the shattering of a glass window and an alarm piercing the night air. She swore under her breath, running towards the disruption. This had to be it, she couldn’t be wrong. A gunshot went off and Cress almost stopped in her tracks. She wasn’t meant to be in the thick of things; she liked being safe at home, preferably with a strong wifi connection.

“You are a daring reporter,” she whispered to herself, “dashing towards a crime scene, determined to get your story. You are not afraid.”

A slight figure bolted out from behind a neighbouring building, vaulting gracefully over a pile of shattered glass, darting inside the crumbling structure.

Cress started breathing just in time to snap a few photos.

“Okay,” she told herself. “You’re Lois Lane, and you’re going to get to a safe vantage point, and you’re going to meet your Superman. And get your story,” Cress added as an afterthought.

She peered in the door, glancing hesitantly around the doorframe. Grunts and the sickening sound of flesh against concrete could be heard. Cress grimaced, inching away from the opening to the building. Her heart beat faster than she thought was possible. She wasn’t sure if it was from the exertion or the terror or the fact that she was about twenty fucking yards from Lunar X.

Another sickening crack followed by a feminine yelp came from inside the building. And then the scream.

It was a tortured scream, lasting a horrible ten seconds before cutting off with a sob. Without thinking, Cress ran inside, adrenaline pumping through her.

She burst into a room full of shattered glass and dents, breathing heavily. Lunar X knelt on the concrete floor, staring in horror at the man lying before her. Cress didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, except a jagged scar running down one cheek and his state of unconsciousness, but Lunar X looked at him like he was a recurring nightmare. Maybe he was.

“You’re okay?”

Lunar X snapped out of her horrified trance, eyes snapping to Cress. “What are you doing? How can you see–” she broke off. “You need to leave, right now.”

Cress blinked. “Um. Why?”

“They’re coming,” she hissed cryptically.

An explosion from behind the building answered Cress’s question. “Shit,” the superhero whispered, straightening up. “Trust me, okay?”

“Why do I need to– oh my god!” Lunar X had scooped her up and they were going inhumanly fast. Cress clung to her, squeezing her eyes shut. She could hear the air whistling beneath her skirt and she decided she didn’t want to know what Lunar X was doing. A few jolts went through Cress as Lunar X landed hard on some sort of surface. They came to an abrupt halt, Lunar X setting Cress down in an alleyway close to her office building.

“Why were you even there?” Lunar X demanded, bent over, out of breath.

“I’m, um, a reporter.” Cress brushed her windblown hair out of her face. She could still feel strong arms wrapped around her when she glanced at Lunar X. She was smaller in person, and Cress could see her chest rising and falling, her ponytail messy and – was that a grease splotch on her forehead? All this grounded Cress to the moment, because, holy shit, she had just been carried from building to building by her superhero idol.

“Lois Lane, huh?” A smile quirked at her lips as and her eyes flashed to Cress, sending heat coursing through her.

“Something like that.” Cress shuffled her feet, giving Cinder a small smile, feeling subdued now that she was finally in her hero’s presence. “So– does that mean you’re Superman?”

“If you say so.”

Cress blinked. Was she flirting? Had Cress been transported to another universe in which things like this actually happened?

A small gadget on Lunar X’s silver arm blinked and she swore under her breath. “I have to go.” She straightened up, wincing a little. “My time is up.” Before Cress could get another word out, she was hoisting herself up a ladder hanging off the side of the building.

“Wait – Cinder!” The name slipped out before Cress could stop herself.

Lunar X turned around, shock glinting in her eyes. “How do you know my name?”

“I know the rest too,” Cress bluffed. It wasn’t completely untrue, she had a pretty good idea of what was going on. Deep in the depths of the dark web, she had learned about a secret organization and a hierarchy, arching over all of history. At least a few hundred year back, anyway. For a moment, when Lunar X hesitated, Cress seized up with panic. “And your glamour doesn’t work on me. I don’t know why.”

Lunar X sucked in a breath. “Shit.”

Cress held back the urge to pump her fists. She was right! “Suck it, Ed.”

“What?”

“Nothing! Um, one question, though. You’re not a Russian spy, right?”

Lunar X raised an eyebrow. At least, Cress thought she did. It was too dark to really tell. “I’m from India, not Russia.”

“Right! I thought so. Um, okay. You have to go now.”

“Yeah,” Lunar X breathed. “I do.” She continued up the ladder like she was weightless, unaware of the concrete so many feet below her. She glanced back only once, her expression hidden by the shadows, before disappearing into the night.

Cress let out a sigh, a helpless smile spread across her cheeks. She didn’t have the answers she had come for, but she had a sense that this wasn’t the end of her story. That their paths would cross again in the tangled web of life. A giddy giggle escaped her and she spun around a little, clutching her bag to her chest. The alley was cold and damp and water dripped down the back of her neck, but Cress felt warm.

                                      …

Really, the second time ran into each other, no pun intended, it was an honest to god accident, despite what some Cinder might say in the future. Cress had turned in her article earlier, complete with the photos she had snapped and a fictionalized version of how the night had ended, excluding the ride in Lunar X’s arms. She sipped her coffee, warming her hands against the cup and contemplating life and the feeling of Cinder’s biceps. It was a tad warmer, and more people were about and about, looking at their phones and holding hands as they walked the streets of the city. The feeling was quite surreal. Cress had almost forgotten her previous near death experience.

She almost wished Lunar X would appear out of nowhere, as she always did, swoop in and save Cress from the clutches of a supervillain. But Lunar X never showed up in the daylight.

                                         …

Be careful what you wish for, Cress realized as havoc reigned in city’s narrow streets, people screaming and stampeding to get out of the way of the fight taking place a few blocks away. Bits of concrete rained down and the ground itself seemed to shake. While everyone else ran away, Cress ran towards the chaos.

The fight was spectacular, albeit terrifying. Lunar X seemed to have shrunk in size next to the gigantic feminine figure advancing towards the slight superhero. She cackled, flickering in and out of focus. The villain was dressed in a stunning suit, but looked very plain. Despite her size, she didn’t seem worthy of the terror she elicited from the fallen hero. Glamours, Cress realized. She was glamoured too. The entire scene was disorientating and stunning, but Cress only had eyes for Cinder, slowly rising to her feet from her crumpled state. Get up, Cress begged silently. Get up!

The woman’s stringy brown hair fell, covering her scarred face as she advanced towards Cinder, still struggling to her feet. There was chaos all around, but Cress realized a streetlight had come loose and had begun to wobble. She screamed a warning, but with the chaotic symphony of panic around them, Cinder didn’t hear. It began to fall, and without thinking Cress dropped her bag, slammed into Cinder’s fallen form, pushing her out of harm’s way. The post landed with a sickening crack on the gigantic woman.

Cress realized she was lying on top Cinder, whom was looking up at her with awe and gratitude in her eyes. She blushed. “Who’s Superman now?”

“Definitely you.” She let out a shuddering sigh of relief. “How did you find me?”

“I didn’t,” Cress breathed. “You found me.”

“Suure.”

“You did!”

“Uhuh.”

There was a moment of tension, and Cinder leaned in, kissing Cress gently and tenderly, her hands soft of on Cress’s waist. They stayed like that for several long moments, the world ceasing to exist as they kissed, soft and slow. They broke apart, their foreheads together and Cress smiled against Cinder’s lips.

“Hey.”

“Yeah?”

“Um, what’s your real name? Seeing as you know mine.”

“Cress,” she said. “Cress Darnel.”

“Cress Darnel,” Cinder said, rolling the words around. “Pretty. Like you.” Then she blushed a little, ducking her head.

Cress was a little bit in love with the way Cinder said her name, like she was tasting it, running in over and over her tongue. Maybe she was more than a little in love.