#batman always workin | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

curvykittyyssmutfics · 1 year ago

Note

o.k I am a fan of bruce wayne/batman, so i would like you to write where bruce wayne has a short-size bossy assistant, reader who knew about his batman vigilante secret and he has a secret crush on him. She teased him, one day wearing a short skirt in a hot summer, made him want to bang her against the office table

The Proposal

So estastic to finally have a night off work, I enthusiastically hum while the evening news plays low in the background as I put the finishing touches on my look. Running my fingers through my long, soft, dark tresses, I twist left and right to asses my sultry outfit through the body length mirror on the wall of my bedroom. I do one spin, then another, smirking at the way my mini skirt barely covers my plump chocolate rear.

I cannot believe Bruce is actually gonna let me outta his sight for more than 2 seconds. It's a God damn miracle and I plan on shakin my ass with my girls all night while sippin the fruitiest dranks I can buy. That is till I hear my phone vibrate and beep from my vanity beside me, notifying me of an incoming text. Hmm.. Need I guess who the fuck that is? I roll my eyes as I grab my phone and see a text from Bruce Wayne tellin, not askin, me to come do his bidding.

Bruce: Hey, honey. Come by the office round 10 tonight and drop of the proposal we've been working on.

Seriously? It was my first night off in 2 weeks and here's comes the infamous Batman, swoopin in to destroy my plans. So, his sexy ass refuses to fuck me and release the tension from years of workin under him but not letting me actually be under him- yet commands I wait on him hand and foot.

My eyes almost tear up from the immediate disappointment and frustration I feel. Not being dicked down in over a year was making my need for a good fuck damn near animalistic. The concept of a fun evening with the possibility of gettin some dick, since Bruce's fine ass ignored each and every one of my filthy advances, is now completely ruined; makes me have to take a deep breath before I pick up my glitter encased cellphone.

Me: Whyyyy? This is the only night I have off for like another couple of weeks and I have plans. Can't you reschedule?

His response back is lighting fast and I can't help but give a small giggle as I imagine his sexy stern ass all frowned up, nostrils flaring at the prospect of me not givin in to his demands instantly. Bruce isn't the kinda man that likes to be told no. Plus, the proposal we'd recently been working on was imperative to the deal he was currently trying to close. Still, I wouldn't be me if I didn't turn into a full blown brat with him for impeding my plans.

Bruce: Late night meeting, no cannot reschedule. Also, thought you said you were staying home tonight..

Me: Omfg Bruce. My girls begged me to go out tonight so I changed my mind! Didn't know I had to goddamn call and let you know.

Jesus did this man have to always interrogate me on every aspect of my life? He knows everything about me- though it was fair to say I knew him almost as well as Alfred. And it was kinda exciting to secretly know about his extracurricular activities, even if that had less to do with any honesty on his part and more to do with my snoopy ass overhearing a heated conversation between him and his long time friend about hanging up the the towel.

Bruce: Well now you know, sweetheart. What time will you be here?

Condescending bastard! He really never has a doubt that he can bend me to his every whim and normally he fucking can but it's time to get a rile outta him.

Me: Well if I gotta cancel my plans to get some fuckin dick tonight then I think I'll take my sweet fuckin time!

His response isn't as quick this time but it's short enough to know I ticked him off. Serves him right, his 'I can't have you but nobody else can' attitude was tiring.

Bruce: You have 15 minutes.

I roll my eyes at his attempt to scare me as I pull up the Uber app and tap in his office's address. Before I can confirm I hear a firm knock on my apartments front door and Alfred's voice speaking loudly from the other side.

"Ms. y/l/n, Mr. Wayne has sent me to come get you. I've recently been updated that he's in no mood to be kept waiting."

Uh oh, perhaps I should've thought this through. I'm not sure how mad he is or what he'll say when he sees me and now I'm directly and knowingly heading into to the lions cage.

"Coming!" I yell back, grabbing the file from drawer and heading for the door.

30 mins later

I exit the elevator and quickly rush to the where Bruce waits for me, catching a glimpse of my reflection through the glass walls of the other conference rooms. I wish I had time to change the skimpy outfit adorning my frame, doing nothing to contain my juicy ass cheeks as I lightly jog to the room where the meetings being held.

I don't bother knocking, quickly entering the room silently. Walking up behind Bruce sitting like a king at the end of the table as he talks on his cellphone, leaning back lazily in his chair with spread legs. His hips flex in his crisp midnight blue suit as he readjusts himself in his seat. The hefty bulge between his legs draws my eyes for a hot second as he spins slowly in his chair to look at me.

It's as if in an instant he's hungry, eyes sharply roving over every inch of me as he licks his lips sensually. He openly stares at the way my mini skirt barely covers my bottom, how my sheer top does nothing to hide my puckered nipples. The loud expletive he groans out as he eyefucks me goes straight to my empty core, has my abandoned, untouched little hole fluttering as I start to get wet.

"Nah I'm good, stomache ache. Let them know who you're here for when you arrive and someone will let you up. We can go over the proposal and see if you agree to the terms."

Bruce hangs up and sets his phone on the long light brown table that stretches across the room as he looks at me slowly from head to toe; wide dark brown eyes that linger at my plump tits and curvy hips. His mouth open and closes a few times, his shoulders now tense as hell as he sits stiff in his seat and stares at my outfit.

"You really are a fuckin brat, you know that? Did I not fuckin tell you to be here in 15?" He snarls at me, quickly standing to grab the file from between my fingers and toss it next to his phone.

The aggressive action has me swiftly backing up, not being able to take more than few steps before my back hits the wall. Absolutely shocked at the way he stalks towards me, arm quickly stretching out to grip my throat. One of his thick eyebrows remain raised as he waits for me to respond.

"I'm sor- sorry, sir. Traffic-" I stutter out, voice low.

"Yeah the fuck right, dont gimme that bullshit. We both know you think you can say and do whatever the fuck you want with me and I'm not into that, sweetheart. Unless you count me enjoyin punishing your pretty ass for it." He tells me, leaning so close that the tips of our noses almost touch.

My heart pounds as his hand squeezes a bit firmer at my neck, the other smoothing down the side of my tits and torso to my hips and thick brown thighs. The bulky protrusion between his legs presses against my center, makin me weakly grasp at his suit jacket as I lewdly hump at him.

"You look so damn gorgeous rubbing against me like this. Almost distracts me from the fact that you left your house dressed like a fuckin whore."

The mean words and sharp smack to the inside of my thigh makes me yelp his name pathetically; has me spreading my legs as I try to fuck him through his clothing, already so damn close to beggin him to touch me. The sting of the slap is so welcoming, has my eyes and pussy simultaneously getting wet.

"Look at you, tiny little fuckin skirt.. Bet you woulda showed off all my fuckin curves tonight huh? Would done more than that. What didcha say earlier? You had plans to get some dick tonight?" He asks me, pressing me closer between him and the wall.

Bruce smells so fuckin good, the clean smell of a fresh shower and his Burberry cologne mixing deliciously. That plus the shock of his abrasive approach quickly culminates into wanton need. I can't care that I'm already rendered speechless, that I can only gasp for air like a fish outta water at his filthy words.

"You sure fuckin do. But now you wanna be quiet, cant even answer cause your slidin that little pussy allover my lap. Now you wanna act like your my good girl. Actin like your nothing more than my own little slut. Cant take you constantly goading me into fucking you whenever you see me. I can't goddamn take it anymore!"

He lets go of my throat to drop to his knees and lift my mini skirt up. Doesn't waste a second pulling my silky baby blue thong to the side and slurping at the opening of my pussy. I wail as he messily licks inside of me, his tongue jabbing repeatedly to get inside. Nails of both hands scratching at the wall behind me, I come unglued at the intense pleasure he suddenly forces on me.

"Plee- ahhh! P-pleeeeeea-se! Haah, uhnuhnuhnuhn Bru- ah!!" I stutter out my pleasure as I look down and meet his eyes.

The way he takes me in as he devours has me trembling even more against his mouth. As much as I need this, I'm too fucking sensitive. From the way Bruce stares as he eats me it's obvious he knows; is fucking using it to his advantage as his grips each of my ass cheeks and pulls me onto his mouth and fucks me with his tongue as deep as he can. His filthy moans about how good I taste but how bad I am are muffled against my cunt.

His right hand slides down my smooth brown skin, rubbing and groping my thick thighs. He sensually massages down my leg to my calf before slowly making his way back up to my clenched cheeks. A hard smack resonates through me and I shove upwards off his mouth from the impact. His answering growl as he pulls me backs down is clear: don't fucking pull away again.

"Toomuch! Ohohoh pleeeeeeease Bruce!"

He sends me into a blissful spiral, the intense sensation spiking in my core. I'm begging for the torture to end, for him to make me cum. But he only wiggles his tongue inside me widly as he moves his hands to my pussy lips and spreads them wider so he can get deeper.

My eyes must be at the back of my skull from the force of how they roll eye back. I wordlessly plead for reprieve, which he seems to only delight in. He chuckles heartily into the pink of me as he leers at my tits jiggling underneath my shirt.

I'm sure my souls about to rip out my body when I feel his thumb lightly swipe at my throbbing clit once. The tumultuous orgasm tumbling to the surface frightens me, has me seriously doubting my endurance to take it. So it's no fault of mine that I tug at my bosses short brown locks, ripping his swollen lips from my frantically pulsating pussy. He stares at me through narrowed eyes, his straight nose inna prominent snarl as I apologize profusely.

"Imsorryi'msorryi'msorry!" I rush out with heavy breaths and a heaving chest.

"No the fuck you're not, goddamn brat." He spits out as he stands and lifts me up against his strong chest with hands to the back of my thighs.

Walking me to the conference table, Bruce's sits me down atop it. He says nothing, towering above me as he looks down at while unbuckling his belt. His stare is lecherous while unbottoms his pants, so god damn domineering as he pulls out his twitching monster cock and presses it through the wetness between my legs.

It's not gonna fit, no way it'll fit. His dick is to thick, somehow his tip flaring out to become even wider. It's fuckin scary and thats without describing the girthy shaft. Still, I moan at the breathtaking feeling of him tappin the head at my opening. Even though my sweaty body is tense, my insides quiver rapidly hoping to catch his tip.

"I have a proposal for you too, y/n.." He leans in close to whisper against my lips, blocking me from the view of his fat cock at my entrance. "Your gonna take this dick like a good girl and I might not fuck your pretty little mouth and bust down your throat till your unconscious. You agree to the terms?"

I nod slowly, helplessly, my gaze briefly straying to his swollen mouth. Knowing how he ate me moments before and the way he damn near pins me to the table now that he's not letting me go till he's done.

"Look at you being a good girl for once." He compliments, smacking my sensitive clit with his rigid dick over and over.

My eyes roll back as I shout Bruce's name repeatedly, feeling my orgasm race back to the surface with double the intensity. My frame shakes like a leaf underneath him as my back arches and I dig my nails into the wood table beneath me. My mean ass boss only slaps his dick at my pulsing little gem quicker, drinking in my frantic reaction.

He greedily soaks in my pitiful body in the throes of the best orgasm I've ever received. The smile on his face is sinister, so damn dangerous as he replaces his dick with his thumb, sliding the head of his dick to my opening and shoving between my drenched, unprepared fluttering walls.

Time almost seems to stand still, as my lids fly open and I choke, trying and failing to pull in a gasping breaths against his pretty pink lips as he bullies his cock into my pussy while I'm still cumming. He groans like a wounded animal and I'm fucking alarmed that he actually gets in on the first push, though no explanation is needed for the unbearable pressure weighing in my gut.

My legs kick out behind him uncontrollably while I grip onto his suit jacket for dear life and stare at him with big teary eyes. Try as I might to inch off Bruce's cock by scooting backwards, I don't get very far before he's gripping me and pullin me back onto his leaking dick by my neck again.

"Keep. Fuckin. Still!"

Each word accentuated by him sliding in and out of my little hole. His other hand holds himself above me as he fucks into me roughly. My head thrashes side to side as I apologize nonstop. Hair from my two buns loosens and falls, sticking to the perspiration on my face.

"Oooooooh fuck, I can't believe I waited so loooong! Ah, ah, ah, pussyfeelssogood! Uhn, fuck y/n! Not gonna last, too damn tight.. so weeet! Haaaaah!"

His cock digs deep, finally in a bit more than half way as he pumps into me ferociously. It's so fuckin amazing, nothings ever felt so good, so intense. I light years beyond coherence as drool unknowingly seeps from the corner of my mouth as I share my pleasure into the air. All my strength is split between processing the sensations between my legs and breathing.

"Fuuuuuck, sweety.. Gonna make me nut so damn hard. You want that? Fill that pretty little pussy till I can't anymore?

Bruce's grip around my throat tightens and it's a bit hard to breath but my normal reaction of instant panic is delayed by the dizzy feeling filling my head. I'm unaware of the suffocating clenches my pussy gives the big dick invading my insides as he huffs and puffs his pleasure at my ear.

"Ooooh shit, your so perfecttome! Haaaa! Mmmm sweetheart, made for me huh? Uhn, thaaaas a good fuckin girl!"

His back hunches him over my body as he stabs in to the hilt, grinding his pelvis into mine as holds my seizing body to the table. The sudden unlimited pressure against my button sends me off; I take in as much air as I can unaware that my hips lightly hump back at him. Black and white spots dot in and out of my vision as the pressure in my tummy explodes through my battered cunt.

I squirt all over Bruce's suit, sliding my hands through his freshly cut hair down his neck to claw at his thick, muscular shoulders. His name is all I know as I desperately cry it out more times than I can count. No man has fucked to the point of tears and I'd tell him that if I could formulate sentences at the moment.

But I know he's in the same boat as his fingers loosen around my neck and he bites his lip hard, eyebrows drawn together from the way my pussy milks the cum from his cock.

"Oh heeell.. Fuuuuuuuuck, take it honey! Aaaaahhh, that's it, allforyouy/n! Take this nut like a gooooood giiiirrrrl!" He groans, eyes locked where we connect as he continuously pumps into me at his leisure.

It feels foreign but oh so fuckin welcoming as large splashes of cum gush my already soakin wet pussy. My needy insides clasp at Bruce's cock as if demanding he shoot more. He definitely fulfills his promise of stuffing my puffy cunt till she leaks.

"Mmmmm.. oh my fuckin God princess. You okay?" He asks between tiny grunts of pleasure, his hips still slowly pumping his cock into me.

I'm not sure how he expects me to answer; my lungs feel tight and my head is so fuzzy. I fight to steady my breathing, fingers remaining inna death grip around his shoulders. I finally feel the heavy trails of make up streaking down my chest and my wavy hair sticking to my sweaty temples. I know I looked fucked out to the max.

I can't even muster energy to cover myself as my head falls limply to the right and I see a group of men staring lewdly at us through the glass walls, each with a tented bulge in their business attire.

Bruce's phone beeps at that moment and he leans over slightly to read the text aloud.

"We agree to your terms of the proposal." He says with a dazzling smile.

Yeah, I fucking bet..

#bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne x black!reader #smut #black reader #all readers #dirty talk #creamp!e #rough smut #sub reader #submisive and breedable

285 notes · View notes

corrupte3d-mindz · 5 months ago

Text

Falling on deaf ears

Cillian Murphy x F! Partially Deaf Reader

Summary: Cillian talks about how life is like with his partially deaf partner during an interview.

Wordcount: 2.2k

Cillian Murphy sat down in the plush chair, the bright lights of the studio reflecting off his sharp cheekbones and piercing blue eyes. Despite the intensity of his gaze, there was a softness about him today.

The interview had taken an unexpected turn from his work on the "Dark Knight" trilogy to a more personal subject – his partner, whom he had met during the filming of "Batman Begins" in 2005. She was the partially deaf character in a certain scene and wore a hearing aid, a fact that had recently piqued the curiosity of his fans.

When the interviewer broached the subject, Cillian’s demeanor shifted slightly. He leaned forward, clasping his hands together, his Irish lilt carrying warmth and sincerity. “Aye, we met on the set of ‘Batman Begins’,” he began, a small smile playing on his lips as he recalled the memory. “It was all a bit of a whirlwind, ya know? She was just an extra in a scene with me, and there was just... somethin’ about her that caught my eye straight away.”

The interviewer leaned in, intrigued. “What was it about her that stood out to you?”

Cillian’s eyes sparkled as he spoke. “It was the way she carried herself, with such confidence and grace. And then, of course, her laugh. It was contagious.” He chuckled softly, a sound that seemed to fill the room. “But more than that, it was her resilience. She’s partially deaf, wears a hearin’ aid, and yet, she never lets it define her or hold her back. She’s one of the strongest people I know.”

As he spoke, Cillian’s face softened, and it was clear how deeply he cared for her. “Ya know, she’s taught me so much about life, about listenin’ – truly listenin’ – and about bein’ patient. Communication is key in our relationship, and we’ve found our own ways to connect and understand each other.”

The interviewer asked how her partial deafness affected their day-to-day lives. Cillian paused, choosing his words carefully.

“Well, we’ve got our routines, of course. We make sure to face each other when we’re talkin’, especially in noisy environments. I’ve learned a bit of sign language, though she can read lips quite well. It’s all about makin’ small adjustments to ensure she feels included and understood.”

“Has her condition changed your perspective on anything?” the interviewer inquired.

“Aye, absolutely,” Cillian replied, his tone thoughtful. “It’s opened my eyes to the challenges faced by those with hearin’ impairments. I’ve become much more aware of how society can often overlook the needs of the deaf and hard of hearing. It’s made me more empathetic and more vocal about the need for better accessibility and awareness.”

The conversation shifted to his fans’ reactions. “They’ve been very supportive,” Cillian noted, a hint of pride in his voice. “I think they appreciate seein’ a different side of me, one that’s not just the characters I play on screen. And they’re genuinely interested in her and our life together, which is heartenin’.”

When asked about balancing his career and personal life, Cillian sighed, running a hand through his tousled hair. “It’s not always easy, I’ll admit. The film industry is demanding, and there are times when I’m away for long periods. But we make it work. We make sure to communicate every day, and when I’m home, we cherish our time together. It’s all about findin’ that balance.”

The interviewer then touched on future plans. Cillian’s eyes lit up at the question. “We’ve got lots of plans, but the most important thing is just bein’ together and supportin’ each other. We’re passionate about advocatin’ for better hearin’ health awareness and workin’ with organizations that support the deaf community. It’s become a cause very close to our hearts.”

As the interview wrapped up, Cillian was asked to describe his partner in a few words. He smiled, a look of pure affection crossing his face. “She’s remarkable, resilient, and absolutely amazin’. I’m lucky to have her in my life.”

With that, the interview concluded, leaving the audience with a glimpse into the heart of Cillian Murphy, not just as an actor but as a devoted partner. His words, delivered with an unmistakable Irish charm, painted a vivid picture of a love story that had grown stronger with time, marked by understanding, support, and a shared commitment to making the world a better place for everyone, regardless of their abilities.

Cillian stepped out of the studio into the crisp evening air, his mind still buzzing from the intense interview. As he walked to his car, the city’s sounds faded into the background, replaced by a warm anticipation to hear her voice. He reached into his pocket, feeling the familiar contours of his phone, and pressed her contact.

“Aye, love,” he began, his voice softening with affection as soon as she answered. “I just got done with the interview, and I’ll be home in about fifteen minutes.”

He leaned against the car, the cold metal pressing through his coat, grounding him. His blue eyes softened, the sternness often seen on-screen replaced by a tenderness reserved only for her. He could almost picture her smile, the way her eyes would light up when she heard his voice. It never ceased to amaze him how her presence, even over the phone, could calm the whirlwind in his mind.

“How was yer day?” he asked, genuinely interested. He knew she had an appointment earlier to adjust her hearing aid, and he was eager to hear how it went.

As she began to respond, he listened intently, his mind painting a vivid picture of her sitting in their cozy living room, perhaps with a book or one of her beloved plants. He could hear the subtle shifts in her voice, the way she tried to downplay any discomfort. His brow furrowed slightly in concern, but he kept his tone light, not wanting to worry her.

“Did it go alright then, the appointment?” he probed gently, hoping she’d open up about it. His accent, a rich Irish lilt, wrapped around the words, carrying a comforting familiarity.

She assured him it was fine, but he knew her well enough to detect the slight hesitation. He made a mental note to talk about it more when he got home. For now, he wanted to keep the conversation light, to make her laugh.

“Ye wouldn’t believe the questions they asked me today,” he chuckled, recounting some of the more absurd ones. “One lad wanted to know if I ever wear my Peaky Blinders cap at home.”

Her laughter, though soft, was music to his ears, a soothing balm to the day’s pressures. He grinned, imagining her shaking her head in amused disbelief.

“Ah, love, I miss ye already,” he said, his voice dropping to a low murmur. The longing in his tone was palpable, the fifteen-minute drive seeming like an eternity. “I’ll be home soon, alright?”

They exchanged a few more words, their conversation peppered with the easy familiarity of long-term partners. He reassured her he’d drive safely and promised to pick up her favorite takeaway on the way home. As he ended the call and slid into the driver’s seat, he couldn’t help but think about the look in her eyes whenever he walked through the door. The way she would light up, her whole face radiating warmth. It was a look that made every grueling hour on set worth it, that made every probing interview bearable.

Starting the car, he drove through the city streets, his thoughts still lingering on her. The world outside blurred, each stoplight and street sign a mere backdrop to the vivid memories of her laughter, her touch, the way she always knew just what to say to ground him.

“Fifteen minutes,” he muttered to himself, accelerating slightly, eager to close the distance between them. “Just fifteen minutes.”

As Cillian turned the final corner and his shared home came into view, a warm, almost boyish smile crept across his face. The modest, yet elegant house stood bathed in the soft light of the late afternoon, shadows lengthening across the lawn. His eyes immediately found her, his partner, sitting serenely on the front porch, a steaming cup of coffee cradled in her hands. The sight of her, relaxed and content, seemed to ease the day’s accumulated tension from his shoulders.

He parked the car in the garage, the familiar scent of oil and metal mingling with the faint aroma of her favorite jasmine flowers, which she had planted meticulously along the driveway. As he stepped out and locked the car, the solid click of the door echoed in the quietness of the suburban street. Cillian paused for a moment, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, savoring the comforting smell of home.

The garage door groaned slightly as it shut, but the sound was barely noticeable to him. He walked towards the porch, his pace quickening with each step. The gravel crunched under his feet, and he could see her lift her head slightly, sensing his presence. Her face lit up with a smile that always felt like a beacon guiding him home.

“Hey, love,” he called out, his Irish brogue softening the words. The warmth in his voice was unmistakable, a blend of affection and relief.

She saw him and held up a finger and pointed to her missing hearing aid, then fishing in her pockets and pulling it out and putting it back on. She tanned to take hearing breaks when she wasn’t feeling her one hundred percent.

She turned to him, her eyes twinkling with the same joy. “Hey yourself,” she replied, her voice carrying a gentle melody that always soothed him.

Without missing a beat, Cillian opened his arms wide, and in a few swift strides, he was on the porch, lifting her effortlessly from her seat. She let out a surprised laugh, her coffee nearly spilling as she wrapped her arms around his neck. He held her close, inhaling the familiar scent of her hair mixed with the faint aroma of coffee. It was a scent he associated with comfort and home.

“I missed ya,” he murmured into her ear, his accent thickening with the raw emotion of the moment. There was a slight tremble in his voice, a sign of the unspoken worries and stresses that evaporated in her presence.

She pulled back slightly to look into his eyes, her smile softening. “I missed you too, Cill. How was your day?”

He sighed, the sound heavy with unspoken thoughts. “Long. But seein’ you here makes it all worth it.” His eyes, usually so guarded, were now open and vulnerable, reflecting the depth of his feelings.

As they stood there, wrapped in each other’s arms, the world around them seemed to fade away. The distant hum of a car, the chirping of birds, and even the rustling of leaves became mere background noise to their shared moment. Cillian gently set her back down on the porch, but kept his arms around her waist, reluctant to let go.

He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. “Good. Now, how about we go inside and watch a movie or somethin’..”

With a nod and a smile, she took his hand, leading him towards the door. Cillian glanced back at the porch, the place where he had found her waiting for him, a sanctuary of peace after a day of chaos. As they stepped inside, the familiar creak of the door and the warmth of their home enveloped them, and Cillian couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of gratitude. No matter how demanding the world outside could be, he knew that in her arms, he had found his true haven.

Author’s Notes:

I had this idea come to me while almost falling asleep, literally jumped out of my bed and started writing. Plus i’m also partially deaf as well.

75 notes · View notes

curtis-corner · 3 months ago

Text

STAND BY ME (Darry Curtis) - PART 6

Fic masterlist here

Holy emotions batman, this chapter has a LOT of feelings! Warnings: discussion of Curtis parent death (non graphic), grieving. As always thank you to everyone who shares and comments, I love hearing the reactions!

Taglist: @lovelylegolas2123 @amnestyliketaz

PART 6

The early January wind whips through the front of the store when the door opens and you tug your sweater tighter around your arms. You see Sodapop and Ponyboy walking towards you and you give them a big smile.

“Hi boys!” They both come up to the register and say hello, asking how your day is and giving each other not-so-subtle looks. They seem subdued and almost nervous, and you start to grow worried. “Is everything alright? Is Darry okay?”

“He’s fine, workin’ late today to help the boss with the bookkeeping.” Ponyboy says, but he still won’t quite meet your eyes.

“It’s his birthday on Sunday.” Soda leans his head to the side and bites his bottom lip. Both boys have their hands jammed in their pockets, standing in the exact same way Darry does when he is nervous about something.

“And the anniversary of your parents,” You say quietly. You had tried to give Darry space about it, knowing it was approaching but not sure how to handle it. When you asked him if he wanted to do anything special, he simply said “no.”

“Yeah,” Soda’s voice sounds like it’s breaking and Ponyboy looks down at his shoes.

“What can I do to help you boys?” You ask and Ponyboy’s head lifts.

“We were thinkin’ another lasagna.”

“Pony!” Soda knocks his shoulder into his and you almost let out a laugh. “We were supposed to work up to that.”

“I can make a lasagna.” You offer. “I can make a cake too, chocolate.” They both nod and Soda speaks again.

“He said we should go to their graves in the morning and lay down flowers.” You nod, you knew that was his plan and you had already been planning on stopping by that day. But something about Soda and Pony coming in to see you, wanting your help in making the day a little less painful for their brother made your heart swell.

“I’ll head over in the morning, start cooking.” Soda clears his throat.

“He said he doesn’t want to make a big deal, but he didn’t tell us not to get him a present, so we also came to look around.”

“We wanted to get new work boots for him, but…” Pony trails off. You understood: work boots were expensive. You had picked up two extra shifts just to get Darry a sweater that matched his eyes.

“How about something else to keep him warm while he’s laying roofs?” You suggest. “Like a pair of sturdy work gloves? We’ve got some two aisles down that he might like.” You gesture in the direction for the first time since they walked in, the brother’s expressions seemed lighter.

“Yes!” Soda smiles. “Yes, his old gloves have a hole in them. He tried to fix it, but he keeps splitting it open.” They head off toward the aisle and you watch them with a fond smile. Darry was always looking out for his brothers, but you wonder if he knew how much they looked out for him too.

The sauce is simmering away on top of the stove, filling the small house with an intoxicating scene of garlic, onion, tomato and spices. You had cooked in the Curtis kitchen a few times, so you knew exactly what you needed to bring over from your own house and what they had here. You heard the front door swing open and you frowned at the clock – you didn’t expect them home quite so soon.

“Anyone here?” You peek your head out of the kitchen and see Steve Randle in the living room.

“I’m here.” You answer and his eyebrows raise in surprise while he walks back. “They are at the cemetery.” You answer his unasked question.

“Shoulda figured.” Steve leans against the countertop and looks around. “Smells good.”

“There’ll be plenty.” You stir the sauce and glance at Steve out of the corner of your eye. You had gotten to know him more since you started spending more time at the Curtis house, but you wouldn’t say you knew him well. Even so, you could tell he had a lot on his mind, and since he was never one to sit still you decided to give him a task. “You want to help me start on the cake?”

“Sure,” he shrugs but you can see a little relief in his expression. You start taking out the ingredients from your shopping bag.

“Darry says he doesn’t want a big deal made for his birthday, so we’re just going to call this a regular old Sunday cake.” You hand Steve a fresh spatula and start adding the ingredients to the mixing bowl.

“It’s pretty shit they had to die on his birthday.” He doesn’t take his eyes off the dry ingredients that he is mixing.

“Pretty shit they had to die at all.” You add another scoop of cocoa powder to the bowl and Steve let’s out a wry laugh.

“Dally would have liked you. He always liked girls who knew the score.”

“I would have liked getting to know him. Johnny too.” You start to put the wet ingredients into another bowl. “Y’all have lost too many people in the past year.” It’s quiet for a minute, before Steve clears his throat.

“Soda cried so much when it happened. He barely could eat because he and Pony would just bawl their eyes out.” Steve still wouldn’t take his eyes off of the mixing bowl. “I sat behind them and the funeral and didn’t know what to do.” You reach your hand over and cover his on the wooden spoon.

“You were there for them. That’s what mattered.” He lets out a huff and starts mixing again.

“It wasn’t fair. They were the only good parents around. It shouldn’t have been them.”

You don’t know what to say, and you know Steve can have a temper and you don’t want to set him off when he’s already upset. So you pour the wet ingredients into the mix and tell him to mix it a little less aggressively. After it’s properly combines, you take out the floured cake pans and show him how to pour it into each one.

“You know, it’s okay to be upset. You lost someone too.” You say quietly after the two of you place the pans in the oven. Steve doesn’t say anything, he just nods but there’s an understanding between the two of you now and you know you’ll always have a little soft spot for him.

He helps you clean up the dishes and the two of you brave the winter air sit on the front porch around the time the boys are due back. The sound of Darry’s truck pulling up is always comforting, but today it’s twinged with sadness.

They get out of the car, Soda coming through the gate first, and he gives you a big hug. You hold on tight and can hear him sniffling. When he lets go of you, he goes right to Steve, mumbling something about flowers and wreaths.

Ponyboy is next, shuffling down the path and looking at the ground. You know he’s not as much of a hugger as Sodapop, so you simply reach out and put your hand on his shoulder.

“Picked up some more paper and pencils for you at the store. It’s on the table.”

“Thanks,” his voice is hoarse and he heads inside. You hear the gate close and you look up and finally see the person you were waiting for

You hate seeing anyone in pain, but seeing Darry in pain just about wrecks you. His eyes are red from holding back tears and without a word, you wrap your arms around him and hold tight.

“You’re here,” he says softly.

“Of course I’m here.” You rub your hands up and down his back and he pulls you in even closer, burying his head in your neck.

“Please stay.” He whispers and you nod.

“I will. I’m here sweetheart, I’m not going anywhere.”

Darry doesn’t leave your side the rest of the afternoon. Pony stays holed up in his room for an hour, then comes out with red-rimmed eyes and practically flops on top of where Soda sits on the sofa. Soda and Steve have the tv on, but neither are really paying attention and both are working their way through a shared pack of cigarettes.

When the sauce is done and you start to assemble the lasagna, Darry wraps his arms around your waist from behind and rests his head on your shoulder. You can hear the radio from where you are in the kitchen, and you’ve been humming along to most of the songs.

“How’d you learn how to make sauce like this?” he asks, and you smile.

“I had a neighbor who used to watch me sometimes when I was younger. She was from New York and would make sauce every Sunday and when I was six, she taught me how.” You ladle more of the meat sauce into the pan. “She was an army nurse during the war, got married to one of the soldiers she cared for and followed him back to Tulsa.” You sprinkle cheese over the dish before starting the next layer. “They moved when I was ten, but before she left she wrote down a few recipes for me.”

“She sounds nice.” He says and you nod. You finish assembling the dish and Darry offers to put it into the oven for you. It’s then he notices the chocolate cake cooling on the counter and he turns to you, raising an eyebrow.

“It can just be a regular old Sunday cake.” You whisper. His expression goes from pinched to soft and he wraps you in his arms again.

A new song starts on the radio, and you recognize the bass line of the Ben E. King song from a few years ago. Darry softly starts to sway the two of you back and forth. It isn’t quite dancing, but you don’t mind. You sway through the first verse and chorus before he brings his forehead to rest against yours.

“How do you make everything better?” He asks, his voice raspy.

“Darry…”

“I’m serious.” He reaches out and tucks a hair behind your ear. “That first night I drove you home? When Pony was on the run and I was all messed up…I never wanted you to get out of the car.”

“You asked me about seeing the good in everything.” You remembered and Darry smiles, the first one you’ve seen from him all day.

“I spent the whole ride home hoping you would see the good in me too.”

“I always do.” You run a hand over his cheek and he closes his eyes for a minute. When he opens them again, he has a look that can only be described as blazing.

“I love you.”

Your eyes fill with tears. This man, this beautiful man who had been dealt such a tough hand in life, was still so full of love to give. He saw good in the world and didn’t even realize he was doing it. And to know that he considered you something good? Something important enough to care for and fall in love with? It made your heart swell and there was no hesitation when you replied:

“I love you too. So much-” You barely got the last word out before he was crashing his lips to yours in a kiss that was far too passionate for being in the same house as other people, but you didn’t care. You needed him to know in every way that you meant what you said before: you were here, and you weren’t going anywhere.

#stand by me: darry curtis #the outsiders fanfiction #darry curtis fanfiction #darry curtis x reader

37 notes · View notes

all-seeing-ifer · 9 months ago

Text

get to know you game! answer the questions and tag 9 people you want to know better

thank u for the tag @discocaptain personally i think we should both know less about each other but whatever floats ur boat

last song listened to: wait by the river by lord huron!! love my divorce songs...

currently reading: ough many things... still workin my way through pride and prejudice as i always seem to be when i get asked this question. i've also been reading a lot of the essays in reading angel, the fun little collection of academic essays about ats i found in my uni library (they're a bit of a mixed bag imo but. interesting). also i've started reading batman the long halloween bc apparently i can never fully escape my comic fan roots rip

currently watching: mostly watching a little show called twin peaks idk if you've heard of it miles :) i see no reason why you would know i'm watching it. other than that... i mean i'm allegedly watching the bear just very very slowly and I also have both a btvs rewatch and an angel rewatch going on bc i keep dragging other ppl into watching these shows with me. but idk. i haven't really been watching tv much lately i have very much become a movies guy

currently obsessed with: still the buffyverse shows, if ya couldn't guess! i'm also going through a bit of a classic sci fi phase atm, so i've been watching a lot of like. old monster movies and kaiju movies and. a lot of planet of the apes (oh hey i guess there's another answer to what i'm watching atm)

tagginggg @faithlesbian @kiwowiwo @elsaqueenofstress @smileofacaffeinatedsaint @lonelyroommp3 @nataliecookford @captain-peroxid3 @teamtadpole @simptasia

#ifer rambles #tag game

5 notes · View notes

cherienymphe · 3 years ago

Note

I just saw the Batman last night and I’m not gonna lie already kinda in love with Barry’s joker. Like can you imagine like workin on that floor and just tryin to mind your business and get your check and those two are both always tryin to get at you and you just get way to comfortable and start talking about you day to day. Lord have mercy on the poor person who takes your shift if you get fired or switch floors for being to friendly with actual serial killers.

I think we as a society (aka Gotham) were too hard on Harley for falling for the joker because I get it

#asks

8 notes · View notes

kafka-ish · 4 years ago

Text

jealousy is a disease, get well soon | r.t.

richie gets a new girlfriend. she’s smart, popular, and pretty. but where does that leave y/n?

word count: 4,657

warnings/included: nsfw (smut, public sex), cliffhanger, kinda angsty, fem!reader

request: (from anonymous) “jealous richie tozier x reader smut?”

a/n: i feel like richie is ooc in this one but lmk what you think

Three months, eight days, and six hours. It had been three months, eight days, and six antagonizing hours since Richie Tozier started dating Vicki Horowitz.

At first, it wasn’t so bad. Richie would still make his usual appearance at the lunch table with the Losers. He’d crack his usual jokes, then be on his way. He’d still walk with y/n to the library after school and he’d still make googly eyes at the cheerleaders who frequented the young adult section and hadn’t bothered to change from their uniforms yet.

But as the days got shorter and the timeline of Richie’s relationship got longer, something changed. Richie’s mouth became less trashy. He found the way his hairline was supposed to part. And along the way, the graphic tees he wore were now button-ups in a solid shade.

“What are you thinking about?” y/n asked. The question wasn’t foreign to Richie, but his answer was new to her ears.

They were sitting in the school library, as opposed to the public one they’d usually go to. Richie’s head rested in her lap; his mess of hair strewn all over the skirt of y/n’s dress—but she didn’t mind. He was sneaking a smoke even though there were no windows and offered her one of his cigs even though he knew becoming one step closer to death wasn’t something y/n was particularly fond of.

y/n accepted the cigarette anyway. She didn’t light it but tucked it behind her ear for safekeeping—a souvenir. Because this was the first time they’d hung out in weeks. Just the two of them; skipping their lunch period in an empty library because who even reads anymore?

“Nothin’ I really wanna tell you about, kid.” Richie stopped calling y/n sweetheart and babe long ago. Icky Vicki—a name y/n came up with without Richie’s knowledge—had requested she be the only babe or sweetheart in his life. And that’s how it was so on and so forth.

The heart beating in y/n’s chest grew increasingly louder because Richie used to tell her everything. Her hand left his scalp which she was once massaging under the tangles that were somehow still soft and lush. His eyebrows furrowed when she started to pull away from him.

“You’re disgusting, Tozier.” y/n then realized she didn’t have to ask Richie what he was thinking about. He was thinking about his girlfriend and the nights they’d shared on multiple occasions.

“What did I do?” He was now sitting up and facing his friend. Could he even call her a friend anymore? When was the last time they hung out? Richie stomped out his half-smoked Marlboro on the rug of the library, not caring that it would leave a mark, with the brand-new sneakers Vicki bought for him. His hands dug around in the front pocket of his jeans, searching for the Altoids container he kept on him at all times. Cinnamon. He downed half the box, the same way you’d chug a beer at a frat party because I hate it when you smoke, Rich echoed in his ears everytime he contemplated the pack of Marlboros that burned a hole in his other pocket.

y/n didn’t say anything. She got up, smoothed out her dress where Richie had left wrinkles, and stalked off.

It wasn’t like y/n to be jealous. When Bill got his first girlfriend, she jumped for joy and asked for her contact info so they could have sleepovers and give each other makeovers. When Mike started flirting with the new girl who moved into the plot of land next to his, y/n didn’t bat an eye.

So what was different this time?

y/n didn’t waste her precious time thinking about it. As much as she wanted to, she didn’t let Richie Tozier consume her thoughts, at least not consciously, during her restless nights and grey days. She assumed it wasn’t worth it to let Richie and his icky girlfriend get the best of her. Because that would mean they won.

The two hadn’t hung out since then.

They weren’t in a fight, but they weren’t on each other’s good sides. Necessarily.

Richie opted to spend the rest of the week with Vicki and y/n managed to get by the way she usually had for the past three months.

“Maybe you’re jealous?” Beverly offered. y/n found herself spending a lot more time with Bev now that she marked out Richie’s name with a red marker from her list of friends.

y/n scoffed and handed Beverly her right hand for her to paint. Jealous? That’s absurd. She admired her newly painted left hand. The dark green color surprisingly complimented her undertones perfectly.

“Why would I be jealous?” y/n couldn’t bring herself to look at her friend. She didn’t want her eyes to give away a reality she wasn’t ready to face, and she didn’t want to find a look in Beverly’s that only confirmed what she was suggesting.

“Oh, come on.” Beverly’s head threw back—a sign that she was becoming annoyed with her friend’s stubbornness and groaned. “Put two and two together. You and Richie used to spend every day together.” Her hands left y/n’s to make a sort of sandwiching motion. “Now you don’t.” They spread apart. Beverly shrugged nonchalantly as y/n started to realize something it seemed everyone already knew.

“I can’t believe you think I’m jealous of Richie.” Was all y/n could bring herself to say. But her thoughts wandered exactly where Beverly predicted.

To Richie Tozier, who was expectedly hanging out with one Vicki Horowitz. They were walking the cement of the strip mall. It was something Vicki did often, even before she had a boyfriend, and something Richie did often now that Vicki had attached himself to her like a dog on a leash.

“What do you think about that dress?” Vicki stopped outside of a small boutique. Her feet were planted firmly on the ground and her right arm was linked with Richie’s left while her free hand pointed to a small, black dress that allowed for practically no breathing space.

“’S cool,” Richie said with no sign of interest. He’d sworn they passed that dress three times by now and the pavement under his feet felt like the entryway to Satan’s humble abode.

“Cool?” Richie didn’t notice his girlfriend’s trimmed eyebrow shoot up in disbelief at the boy whose arm she held onto. “Well, what do you think of the dress on me?” Her voice dipped an octave lower and her eyes had that knowing look they always did before she was about to take a standardized test. Or when they were about to do it. Maybe that’s how Vicki roped Richie into this relationship.

Four months ago, Richie would have never thought of dating Vicki Horowitz. Not because she was out of his league. Every girl was out of his league, according to the dopes he called friends. But Richie never thought about batting an eye in Vicki Horowtiz’s direction. She was a governor’s scholar and the school’s class president ever since 1990. She was also a member of the same student council y/n was on, but to think he could score both of them would be a page from a fairytale.

It was a fairytale the day Vicki Horowitz had come up to him and the Losers at lunch, asking if she could have a word with him, no not you, him.

“What’s cookin, good-lookin’?” And Richie scolded himself for those being the first words spoken to the Vicki Horowitz.

“You’re lucky you’re cute.” Her blazing blue eyes rolled playfully, and Richie smiled because the only other time a girl had called him anything remotely close to cute was when y/n straightened out his collar and fluffed up his hair at homecoming. Don’t you clean up nice. “I want you to go out with me.”

“What sorta charity case are you workin’ here, hot stuff?” In Richie’s mind, he had every right to be incredulous. Girls didn’t ask him out. Girls didn’t even say yes when he asked them out.

And maybe it was a charity case when, a month in, Vicki had convinced Richie to iron his jeans and wear shirts that were only one color. Maybe it was a charity case when Richie found himself eating lunch with Vicki’s group of friends instead of his—talking about scholarship programs and studying abroad instead of the new werewolf movie that somehow scared the cripes out of him and when Batman’s new comic issue would be released. Maybe it was a charity case when Richie no longer used words like fuck and shit and began popping mints like they were drugs because Vicki wouldn’t let him smoke around her.

His white lace-ups kicked mindlessly at the sidewalk he stood at. He pondered the question even though there wasn’t much to ponder about. “Then I’d say that dress just got hot,” Richie smirked, and Vicki slapped him in the side.

Of course, you would were the words he expected to hear. But as much as Richie wanted her to be, Vicki wasn’t y/n and instead said, “Did you go over the vocab packet I slipped in your locker?

“I got it.” Richie’s free hand took residence in his pocket. He felt around for the box of Marlboros there and wondered if he should light one in front of her. Three months—almost four, he’d been in this relationship, and ever since a month ago he was beginning to think it was one-sided. “I, uh, didn’t get the chance to go over it.” He coughed and looked down at her, not expecting to see her eyes burning through his.

“You smell like cinnamon,” Vicki said. Her gaze softened but Richie wasn’t impressed. What was it about her? Was it her who changed, or him? Richie’s mind couldn’t wander any further—his thoughts sliced by Vicki’s voice. “What’s up with you?” She wasn’t usually the concerned type, but Richie knew she was being genuine when her eyes started hopelessly searching his.

“I’m tired,” Richie lied. “Y’know, we’ve been walkin’ so much. Ye ole feet need a rest.” Richie laughed but Vicki didn’t. She didn’t usually find him funny. She didn’t usually find anything funny except for small dogs in purses and grammatical mistakes.

“You could’ve just said so.” It was one of the few times she let up, but she was good. She was good at a lot of things, actually.

Vicki drove him home in silence. It wasn’t a talking kind of day and the radio was left untouched since neither of them could agree on a music station.

“Call me.” Were her last words to him before he stepped out of her daddy’s Mercedes.

Richie didn’t say anything. He stepped inside his house, his back slumped against the front door as he finished his thoughts from earlier that day in the comfort of his own home.

Why, out of everyone in Derry, would Vicki Horowitz choose to date someone like Richie Tozier? Of course, he’d be an idiot—which he wasn’t (that’s debatable)—to pass up an opportunity to go out with someone as eclectic as her. His thoughts betrayed him, finding their way to Vicki’s long, blonde hair and always rosy cheeks.

Obviously, he’d miss her if he broke things off between them. But there was something else that twisted his gut, telling him to do so.

And Richie always trusted his gut. He’d trust it if it told him to pick C on his math test or if it told him to jump off the golden gate bridge.

It was Monday, in the corner behind Derry High where everyone smoked, where the breakup took place. Richie had the decency to break it off somewhere private and Vicki had the decency to not cry or beg him to stay.

“Hey.” Richie’s voice was soft. His back stabilized by the bricks behind him and Vicki didn’t need to question what this was about.

“Hi.” Her tone held the same solemnness as his. “The least you could do was invite me somewhere nicer to break up with me.” It was the only time Richie laughed at one of her jokes and the last time he would. And though he wanted to, Richie couldn’t be surprised that Vicki already knew what he called her over for. She was a smart girl with a smart mouth to match.

“You know?” He stood up straight and took a drag from his cigarette.

“If you weren’t smoking, I would’ve thought otherwise,” Vicki said truthfully. Just then, a flood of students burst through the doors of Derry High. School was out. “I’m not fond of it, but I’m not going to hold you back.”

Richie wanted to scoff. He thought of the one afternoon when Vicki spent an hour combing through his hair, so the strands laid straight and naturally began to part to the side. He thought of how she scolded his unhealthy use of recreational drugs to the point he had to live a double life. He thought of how his time was no longer spent with his friends, but with her.

I’m not going to hold you back my ass.

But this was no time to argue.

Richie put out the cigarette, barely smoked, and walked away. Away from button-up shirts. Away from vocabulary packets and the debate of the use ‘impact’ in place of ‘effect’. Away from Vicki.

His rough footsteps hit the ground under him with a thump. Richie knew exactly where he was going. And maybe it was wrong that his first instinct was to cross the path of a certain someone after he had just called things off with his girlfriend—ex-girlfriend. But maybe Richie didn’t care.

It took him approximately ten minutes to walk to the Derry Public Library and approximately two minutes for an indescribable feeling to tear through his stomach. His feet lurched forward, but Richie steadied himself by reaching for one of the wooden shelves of the bookcase he stood behind.

It was y/n. As he expected, she was sitting at one of the desks. But her nose wasn’t stuck in her chem book, cramming for tomorrow’s test. It was pointed towards Matt Brimmer, upturned, along with her crinkled eyes and dazed smile. Was Matt Brimmer really that funny?

Richie knew he could make her smile like that. He knew he could make her smile even wider. So, he didn’t know why he was having seconds thoughts right now. The other voices in his head, telling him how inferior he was to so-called Matt Brimmer. Matt Brimmer on the football team. Matt Brimmer with the golden hair. Matt Brimmer the golden boy.

Everyone knew who Matthew Brimmer was; it’d be a crime not to. Although he wasn’t the Quarterback, he was the main reason Derry High’s football team got any of the wins they had. He wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, but his prince charming smile and locks that reminded Richie of that Rapunzel story made up for it. He got by.

Richie had two options. He could go home and feel sorry for himself or he could wait for y/n and confront her after her study session. Was what they were doing even considered studying?

He opted for the second since he had already spent enough time feeling sorry for himself. And one dreadful hour later of mindlessly picking at his shoe and flipping through various pages of children’s books, Richie caught y/n alone, about to leave the already dark library.

The lights were dimmed, and the sun outside had already set. There was no sign of the librarian or her volunteers when y/n’s worn in high-tops came into his eyeline. He was sitting cross-legged, with a book in his lap. But his mind wasn’t on the pages.

Richie’s doe eyes widened under his magnifying lenses when they trailed up the skin of his friend’s bare legs that had stopped in their tracks. y/n was wearing a denim mini skirt in the middle of winter and how she hadn’t attracted goosebumps yet was a question he’d save for later.

“H-hey!” Richie bounced to his feet, standing at his full height.

“Hi.” y/n eyed him skeptically. She was holding a book in one hand. Her other hand was attached to the strap of her backpack.

“I saw you with Matt,” Richie blurted out. His own words surprised him because although he wasn’t shy—far from it—he wasn’t confrontational either. No. That was Bill. Bill would be the type to ask about the guy you had just got done cuddling with at the football game even though he was your boyfriend. But y/n and Richie weren’t dating, and Richie didn’t like her like that. Did he?

“Okay.” Was all y/n said. Her face was blank, void of any emotion. A sign. And her eyes bore into his, the way a police car’s emergency lights catch you when you’re speeding.

She was about to leave, probably to return her book, until Richie’s hand coiled around her wrist.

“What?” The irritableness in y/n’s tone became slightly more palatable. The one word struck Richie’s core and the voice in his head telling him telling him that this would be a good idea was now making its retreat.

“Matt Brimmer, eh?”

“Please.” Her expression grew more disgusted by the second; eyebrows raised; lips puckered as if she had just sucked the life out of a lemon. “You’re the last person who gets to commentate on my love life.”

Richie’s heart panged at the last words. Love life. If this were true—if y/n were dating Matt Brimmer—Richie quite literally wouldn’t know what to do with himself. His face didn’t show it, but right now, he was a guest at his funeral. Everyone was wearing black except him and Stan was giving the eulogy.

Only Richie would do what Richie did next. It was an awful act of…whatever because this newfound feeling in his chest was too much for him to take. Both of his hands cupped either side of her cheeks which were now hot, but not from embarrassment. He dove in for a kiss, both of his lips capturing her bottom one. The quietest moan rolled off her tongue, but before any more noises could be made, she pulled away.

“You have a girlfriend,” y/n said, as much as she didn’t want to. “and I’m—”

“Yeah, yeah. You’re with Wonderboy.” Richie heaved out a sigh loud enough for y/n to forget what had just happened moments ago and raise her eyebrows, only to ask what’s wrong. In fact, she did oh so conveniently forget about his actions from earlier, and her right eyebrow quirked.

“What are you thinking about?” She asked and Richie didn’t realize how much he missed that question until now. How much he missed her.

The color in his eyes seemed to darken—like they were hooded by a shadow—and she was sure it wasn’t the doing of the lack of lighting in the room.

But Richie didn’t reply. His lips trailed back to hers again. The two melded into each other like iron being welded. This time y/n didn’t pull away. She lingered long enough to taste the cigarette he’d hardly smoked earlier and mints he didn’t swallow whole this time.

It was Richie who broke the kiss, only to press one onto her neck. The tip of his pointed nose tickled as it grazed the skin of her cheekbone and his chapped lips felt new and exciting when they left kisses below her ear.

“Richie.” y/n would be ashamed to admit this was something she’d been waiting for. That this very moment was a scene from her dreams that she hadn’t got the proper amount of time to explore because she’d awoken before the climax.

“You’ll have to be quiet, doll,” Richie mumbled against her skin. y/n could’ve fainted right then and there, but she refrained; wanting to experience this moment fully conscious. His fingers found their way to her side, gripping the fabric of her white mock neck casually as if this were something they’d done hundreds of times before. There was something about the way he handled her that made y/n insecure. Just knowing he had practiced these types of moves on girls before her had sparked a light in the pit of darkness that was her stomach. Her hands flew to his cheeks. The pad of her thumbs ran across his pale skin now blossoming pink.

Richie twisted their position, backing y/n into the case of books behind her—full to the shelf. His hands ghosted their way under her top, brushing her bare midsection. It was soft but cold, even under the sweater textile. It didn’t help that his hands could substitute for ice.

y/n giggled—a sound so sweet he’d cherish ‘til the end of time. A sound he’d never heard from Vicki’s lips. Her breath, smelling of lemon lozenges, fanned his face in a hot cloud. Richie wanted more. If he had any less dignity, he’d beg for more.

It’s not like y/n wanted to giggle during this new act of intimacy between them. To be frank, she was…upset. Who was Richie Tozier to leave her hanging for a girl who wore frilly chiffon blouses on Wednesday only to wear her jeans low rise so everyone and their grandmother could see her pink lace thong peeking from them on Friday? Who was Richie Tozier to leave her hanging at all? The late nights she’d spent at the Derry Public Library alone, in hopes the certain someone she snuck glances at during their passing period and her Pre-Calculus class only left an empty feeling in her heart and a rotten aftertaste in her mind. To let Richie know he was the reason for her pleasure and the hand between her thighs at night would be letting him win.

But what’s life without a few losses?

Richie’s movements never stopped—they were quick, but enough to send sparks to the one place y/n needed attention the most. His hands traveled lower, eventually reaching the hem of her skirt that ended just four inches above the knee. Distractedly, he pinched the thick material between his thumb and index finger. The roughness of the denim somehow satisfyingly scratched the edge of his fingers—drawing him out of his trance.

He lifted her skirt—revealing y/n’s ballerina pink underwear Richie only got to see at the quarry. There was no time for them to completely undress—and if they did, it’d be far too scandalous (as if what they were doing right now wasn’t already sinful).

Richie’s head whipped away from y/n’s neck; his eyes frantically darting around the space around them, seeing if anyone was nearby. y/n’s hands once again took his face in them, directing his attention back to her. Richie smiled as soon as her features came into view: black mascara smudged on her bottom lash line and the lipstick previously on her lips found a new home on her frenulum. She was mind-blowingly good looking even in a disordered state.

His hands left her upper thigh—where he had been leaving feathery strokes. y/n presumed he was about to unbuckle his belt. But he didn’t. He stood there, silently appreciating the scene displayed before him, and also wishing they had more time or had a setup more comfortable. His hands rested at the silver clasp of his belt, daring to make a move but also frozen in time.

“What are you waiting for?” y/n sniped, and Richie’s confidence level was found through the roof; like the green health bar when you first slip a quarter into the Street Fighter machine.

Nimbly, Richie’s fingers went to undo his belt and slip off his jeans and boxers underneath. It didn’t take long for his lips to crash against hers. A bruise would be left later for memories’ sake. His tongue swiped her bottom lip, tasting birthday cake in the process.

y/n’s own hands were small, but they made an effort to run through his hair, feeling the left-over gel from yesterday and the abnormal amount of times it had been brushed through. She tugged at the roots, eliciting a groan from him that was luckily muffled by y/n’s mouth.

His hands found their original place on the curve of y/n’s hips. But first, he made quick to strip her of her undergarments. An innocent shade for a not so innocent act. Richie was fast to slip in—not giving y/n the time to adjust around him. She whimpered and he swore he could feel a tear against both of their cheeks.

“You’re dripping.” Richie didn’t address the quiet tears that rolled down the slope of her face, too concentrated on the feeling of something else rolling against him. y/n’s hips perked up, a desperate attempt to meet his; ardent and needy. He took it as a sign. His thrusts sped up, coated in her silk.

The substance shared between them was like glue holding their bodies together. Richie’s hands surprised y/n when they squeezed the back of her legs, urging her to jump up, and stabilizing her when she did. Her legs coiled around his, allowing for Richie to find a deeper spot none of her other hookups could.

“Can Matt Brimmer fuck you like this?” Despite the shivers his words sent down her spine, y/n finally knew what this was about. She had her suspicions, but his words only confirmed them.

His voice was hushed, only for her to hear, but she supposed if he screamed it no one would hear them in the seemingly vacant building.

y/n didn’t reply. She felt her eyes roll back and his hips snap in unpredictable paces against hers. It was rare—exceptional, even—that y/n found release this fast. She could blame it on the thrill of potentially getting caught. Their bodies covered yet splayed out inappropriately for anyone to walk in on. She could blame it on Richie; that she was finally attached at the hip, literally, with her lifelong best friend and not-so-guilty pleasure fuck whenever Beverly and she ran out of sleepover games. Her grip on his hair tightened as well as the walls around him. The prolonged whines she had been biting between her teeth turned into heavy pants—her breath mixing with his.

Miraculous, it was, that Richie was able to remain noiseless when he came. He stayed inside her for a second more, dwelling in the ecstasy the two had shared for as long as he could. It was only until y/n’s eyes greeted Richie’s when he pulled out and redressed his half-naked body.

She wasn’t glaring this time, but she didn’t look happy either. Usually, girls were supposed to be happy after sex. Second thoughts started to litter his mind. Richie couldn’t help but think he came short. But he was relieved when y/n spoke up.

“Can Vicki Horowitz make you feel that way?” Her skirt was now properly covering her thighs and she must’ve pulled her underwear up and Richie hadn’t noticed. y/n left him with a quick peck to the lips, smirking into it as she did. It was dominant. Possessive. The last of what Richie saw of her was the back of her now messy hair when she picked up her backpack and walked out—through the maze of books and out the glass doors.

Richie was in awe. Still in a post-orgasmic condition, his fingers ran to his neck, tracing over the newly forming blemish y/n left as a trade for the dozens he gave her. Richie stood there a few minutes more. His palm pressed against the mark only to leave so his index finger could trace his lips that a gracious residue of berry lipstick and saliva mixture tacked onto.

He’d catch her tomorrow.

707 notes · View notes

just-a-broadway-girl · 3 years ago

Text

My Favorite Parts of the Perky’s Buds/Abstinence Camp Talkback

JAY DRESSING AS KUZCO FOR HALLOWEEN I CAN’T

Joey fully willing to keep up the bird shtick for the entire talkback

Nick: “My dad’s calling.” Lauren: “PUT HIM ON”

“We gotta lotta Daddies this season.”

Mariah and Angela joining together 😭

Honestly Mariah and Angela just losing their shit together the entire time

“We hate that bird.”

CURT AND KIM IN THEIR COSTUMES OMG

“Batman directed this video??” “Yes.”

Everyone thinking Jon was a pilgrim

“Hello I’m Jon Matteson, I’m he/him, I played Boy Jerry, and I’m a little witch.”

Everyone yelling at Corey to get into the meeting

“I played Counselor number something and Camper number something else”

Everyone shut the fuck up Bryce is a Gryffindor

“Paul did you get my texts.”

MATT ALWAYS DOING THE SMOKE CLUB THING

No James I’m literally gonna cry

NERDY PRUDES MUST DIE IS STILL ON BITCHES 🙌🙌🙌

“Boy Joey??” IM LOSING MY MIND

“Let’s put it in there, let’s make it canon!” NICK PLEASE

IM LIKE 90% SURE COREY AND NICK JUST MADE BILL CANONICALLY IN LOVE WITH TED PLSSSS

(Bill and Ted... motherfucker.)

“Well, you’re welcome.”

NOT JAE SLIDING INTO NICK’S DMS JESUS CHRIST

Seriously tho that story is so cute I’m gonna cry

Joey saying “Paul, there is a right answer” and then Paul literally saying “Ted” and Joey’s face afterward

“This is such a good day for me! Thank you!”

That Lumberaxe puppet is TERRIFYING

“So foul...” “Oh my god...” “Yeah, nasty...” “Hot.”

“Lauren did you just say hot?” “He’s fucking hot.”

“Where did you get those teeth? Asking for a friend.”

“My favorite part about filming my three lines...” BRYCE LMAO IM DEAD

ANGELA BEING SO ADAMANT ABOUT CARPOOL IM CRYING

Corey and Bryce meeting for the first time ON THE MEETING😭

everyone doing the smoke club thing 😂

I’m pretty sure it’s now canon that Ziggs founded the Smoke Club

“To make me look thicc.” - Curt Mega, 2021

Everyone making fun of the contrast between Curt’s and Lauren’s music videos

“Was that the lens they used for Marriage Story?” “It was thank you so much for noticing that.”

“We actually got the cinematographer from Roma”

“Also, I had to do a headstand, and I am bad at that.” - Jon Matteson, 2021

Wait these all take place in the same reality what the fuck

Wait is that the answer it’s different realities????

Why is no one talking about this????

Mariah and Corey joking about playing Father-Daughter duos 😭🥺

NOT NICK MAKING THE “Have you always been that jacked???” JOKE

“Oh so the awesome stoner friendship wasn’t ENOUGH?!”

everyone absolutely going apeshit after Angela says she’s Italian

MARIAH AND ANGELA’S FACES AFTER SOMEONE ASKED IF GRACE AND STEPH ARE GONNA GET TOGETHER

Jeff sounding so offended when he said “I wouldn’t do that on WORK time!”

everyone fangirling over Jeff and his musical prowess

“He’s the SAX man.” (”This week’s ‘craft class’”)

all of them going “Aww...🥺🥰” while talking about Bill dating again

COREY REITERATING THAT BILL WANTS TO DATE TED OH MY GOD

new info on workin boys?? 👀

MAKE THE FANART THEY ASK FOR YOU COWARDS

Everyone plugging their favorite fan artists 🥺

“PROMO CODE MEAT-A-BALLS”

Alright who’s gonna make the Hatchetfield video game 😡

Oh they are just teasing Bryce’s big role in Killer Track and I’m LIVING for it

“Go get spooky everybody!” - Nick Lang, 2021

“Happy Hatchetween!”

“Nick can we talk about these recordings?” “NOT ON CAMERA, COREY”

Anyways stan Starkid and get your tickets for episodes 3 and 4

#nightmare time #nightmare time 2 #nightmare time 2 spoilers #nmt2 #starkid #talkback #hatchetfield

15 notes · View notes

fordarkisthesuede · 3 years ago

Text

The Tolls of Justice - Chapter 12

Happy pride month!!!!

For all of those who thought "that was good, but I would like some emotional reconciliation and character growth, please" after last chapter... Take this with all my love!!! (⌯˘̤ ॢᵌ ू˘̤)യෆ̈

Important Spoiler Tags: mentions of past acts of canon-typical violence, mention of past deaths, lots of feels, i love my boy sm

Read on Ao3 or continue below...

[Chapter 12: Ten Cheers to the World]

John could hear the wheels on the short-back office chair rolling over the raised bumps in the metal floor as he pushed it back and forth with a clunk-clack, clunk-clack, half-spinning in the seat with every move. It was better to sit there with his head on his arms thrown over the back of the chair and look over the whole cave – keeping his eyes peeled for movement by the entrance to the bathroom around the corner of the workbenches – than to sit still while his mind churned and chewed on everything.

“Watching the door won’t make him come out any quicker, you know,” Alfred said from behind.

John ignored him. And the tight feeling in his stomach that pulled at the corner of his mouth.

“He once stayed in the shower there for forty-three minutes. Then he had the audacity to tell me he’d just been meditating.”

John tried to ignore that, but his traitor of a brain was pushing the image of Bruce sitting cross-legged on the tile floor under the spray like it was a waterfall in an old movie, with a serious hurm of an expression. It was a little funny…

“I know he was just dwelling. He used to do it at the computer, on seats – and in front of his homework, back when he was younger. He won’t do it in front of people anymore, of course. Raises too many questions he doesn’t want to answer.”

Alfred had changed into pajamas and a fancy-looking robe, yet he still stood as straight and proper as all the other times John had seen him. He didn’t hold anything or seem to be milling around the cave for any real reason. At least one John could see.

John didn’t know why he was being talked to so…normally. It didn’t change anything. It didn’t sweep everything Alfred had said under the rug. It just dug the knife a little deeper into his stomach. He couldn’t stand looking at him for more than the glance. It was why he wasn’t spinning anymore and just inching the chair back and forth.

“Not that I blame him, really. I’ve always been more proficient in handling physical wounds than mental. It’s easier to mend a hole in the chest versus a broken heart, as they say…” A beat of silence; John could hear the clunk-clack of his chair a little too loudly. “Miss Avesta filled me in on the goings-on at Arkham and the Church of Mercy this evening – are you quite sure you’re alright?” Alfred asked him, “You might have skipped out on the inspection, but I can see some of those bruises a mile away.”

John felt a laugh bubble in his throat, thinking of Bruce’s hand around his throat, gripping his wrist, punching his shoulder… But looking at both arms buried under his face, he could see others had formed sometime in-between. Oh-h-h. Those. The question instantly became less ha-ha funny and more ironically funny. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” he said with a bitter chuckle, “I mean, it’s not like I’ve changed or anything - I’m too crazy to give straight answers, remember?”

Alfred was silent for a moment. John dared to peek – he seemed…regretful, maybe, as he stared at some fixed point down in the cave. Alfred breathed out slowly, and audibly, the way Bruce did sometimes when something had become too much of whatever it was. “I deserve that,” he said finally, allowing a beat of silence to follow. “I was surprised with you this evening,” he continued, “After everything that’s happened this week, The Joker carry a former Agent inside to get her proper medical treatment after escaping a kidnapping and thwarting a bomb-threat at Arkham Asylum was the last thing I expected to see during my visit. You rushing out to help Batman afterwards was one thing, but you working alongside Robin, even after the things we said...”

It seemed too awkward to finish that sentence. He seemed to be searching for the right words. “You saved both of them from a seat on my operating table tonight,” he continued instead, with real gratitude lacing his voice.

John wasn’t entirely sure where this was going. Or really, why he was laying all this out at all. The dry dancing-around-the-point thing was doing nothing for him. If anything, it was wiggling the proverbial knife in him.

“I suppose what I’ve been trying to drive at is that I misjudged you,” he added, meeting John’s probing gaze with softer eyes. “You proved that tonight. I let old memories and foolish prejudice cloud my judgement. I know I can’t undo the damage I’ve done, but… I hope you can accept my apology.”

John stared, almost wondering if he’d fallen asleep in the chair sometime after deciding to wait for Bruce. His fingers tapped on the edge of the chair – real, real, real, like everything else before then.

The tight anger in his stomach had loosened its knots into a confusing not-really-calm feeling. He wasn’t sure if he could accept the apology, let alone if he should. He might not be mad now, but he knew his brain well enough to know that the creeping thoughts of ‘he actually hates you’ and ‘he thinks you’re crazy’ were bound to come up again and reignite his rage and feelings of alienation with the memory of standing outside the Wayne Manor living room. He might never be able to go near there without thinking about it, either.

And despite how sincere Alfred seemed, who was to say it wasn’t all one big lie in an effort to get back on good footing with Bruce? Or was that just the paranoia talking already?

John breathed out slowly, hearing his lips sputter together as he let his head rest back in his arms to stare down at the dark back of the chair. He knew he shouldn’t listen to that part of him. The shreds of anger at being rejected were still there in his stomach, but what good would mending them back together at this point do? Break two people’s hearts in one go? Leave Bruce to choose between his practically-adoptive-Dad and him?

As nice as it would be to get a bit of justice for himself and reject in kind, John knew what he wanted… The same as the old John and probably the future John. And he knew what he wanted wasn’t always good for him, as the doctors would say. But the siren call of inclusion always ensnared him. It was hard to find people he actively liked, and a hundred times harder to find people he could truly relate to. And both he and Alfred loved Bruce, the one person John liked and related to the most…

John sat back up. “Fine,” he said, “But just because I accept it doesn’t mean I forgive you yet.”

Alfred’s shoulders seemed to droop, finally. “That’s understandable,” he replied, seeming like that was actually enough. “I don’t mind having to work for that.”

John rolled backward in the chair. “I might forgive you quicker if you teach me some tricks of the trade,” he added slyly, rolling the chair forward again, “I mean, skin can’t be too different from fabric, but I’d hate to be the only person who can stitch up Bruce one night without a little practice.”

Alfred blinked, genuinely surprised. “You want to learn sutures?”

“Yeah! I already know aaall about injections. And most painkillers. But Bruce told me he had to stitch himself up before while you were away, and I know Tiffany’s learned it. So I want in,” he finished, rolling the chair back and forth again.

He seemed to think it over. John couldn’t tell what was going on inside of his old head, but it looked promising. “I believe I can find some pig-skin for us to work with while I’m staying,” he said, the emotion in his voice indecipherable. “Have you eaten anything yet?”

John wasn’t going to say anything about the snacks he’d pilfered from the kitchen on his way up to get changed. “Uh, not really.”

“I’ll bring down another plate of leftovers, then; the ladies seem to have finished the one already.” He was about to move away, and suddenly got a harder look on his face like he remembered something somewhat unpleasant. “And John – do make sure Master Bruce eats some of it,” he said with all the sternness of a parent John never had, “He has a terrible habit of starving himself when he overthinks. I don’t want him passing out halfway up the stairs.”

John felt something stop his chair from moving – Iman had quietly hobbled her way over and used his shoulder to lean on with one hand. “No worries – I gotcha,” John replied with a click of his fingers and a wink, “And you,” he added to Iman craning his neck back to look at her, “You could’ve just said something, y’know. I would’ve wheeled over.”

Iman had a funny look on her face. “I’ve been sitting for too long anyway,” she waved away all friendly-like, still leaning against his chair like she was hovering over it for a reason. It wasn’t until Alfred had passed her that he realized she even looked over at the other man – her brown eyes stared at the retreating back like she was examining it under a scope.

The look didn’t last long. She shifted to prop herself up against the railing instead, opposite of where Alfred had been, holding a cane borrowed from who-knew-where. She had changed into a Gotham Knights t-shirt and very soft and loose fuzzy black pants, and unlike him, she had no problem walking around barefoot on the cold floor. “I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

“You mean physically, psychologically, or…?” It hit him why Iman had been hovering by him out of nowhere. He looked over at Alfred at the end of the cave, making his way to the elevator. Ahh-ha. “Ohh! You meant with Al’,” he added in a hush. “That’s why you came over, huh?”

“I would’ve been over here sooner if I hadn’t had to hobble,” she explained with a note of annoyance, “I figured the reason you rushed to get away when you all came back was so you wouldn’t be caught up in an awkward conversation.”

“Hah, you aren’t the psych’ expert for nothing,” John smiled, pushing the chair back and forth slowly again, “But I’m okay. Al’ and I cleared things up a bit. How are you? Catching Roman put a spring back in your step?”

Iman’s razor-thin show of white teeth seemed to gleam with the same amusement in her eyes. “At least in one of them,” she joked back.

“Good – it certainly did for me. I just wish I could’ve seen that punch up close! And I only caught a bit of the pounding he gave Hooty McShooty, too...”

Iman snorted into a short laugh. “W-who?”

“That was probably his last word, too,” John joked with a grin. “You know, the white-faced owl with the big gun! I don’t know his ‘real’ name. I don’t care, either – anyone who tries to kill me and my friends doesn’t deserve a birth certificate.”

“Hm, well,” she said, “I don’t have the barn owl’s real name, either. But you know, we did catch some footage from the drones. So Bruce’s fight might be on there.”

John screeched his chair to a halt and stood, swiveling the seat towards her. “Well what are we waiting for?! Let’s go look!”

“I think the batteries are still-”

“Less talk, more looking,” he emphasized, patting the chair back to get her to sit. She gave in with a wary sort of look, and as soon as she was down, he whirled her around and wheeled her towards the oversized computer, feeling giddy about the very idea that he would get to see Batman beat up the owls as many times as he wanted. Maybe he’d even see his and Bruce’s team-up! Eehee hee hee hee!

The display still had a myriad of things thrown up. The little map of Gotham with all the Court of Owls’ old hiding places, the FriendBook page of The Church of Written Mercy, background information on the Reverend Sebastian Overfield, the cloud storage Jackie had given him with all of Matt Chaney’s incriminating pictures, some screenshots of the crowd of Owls showing a few of them without their masks...

And the disappointing notification that large file transfers from one of the drones was still in progress, with its uploading screen still at sixty-something percent.

“Shouldn’t there be a streaming option or something?” he asked, the words barely out of his mouth as Iman dutifully pulled up the other two drones’ interfaces.

“Doesn’t look like it. The Batcomputer might be fast, but those drone’s video feeds turn out huge files. It’s never that fast.”

“Boooo,” John groaned, “Now I’m all hyped up for nothing,” he pouted, perching his bruised elbow on the back of the chair as he took in the collage of information. He knew all of it – or at least the pieces that mattered – but in Bruce’s absence it would at least pass time to poke through. But his eye caught something: facial recognition software was pulled up, half-hidden by other windows. “Ooh, what’s that?”

“It’s nothing,” Iman answered casually. “It just checked some of the live feed against social media databases we had access to.”

“Ooh, fancy! Let’s look,” he said, reaching for the mouse.

Iman’s hand got in the way. “It’s not really interesting.”

Dismissing it and yet clearly obstructing it. John knew that was code for ‘I don’t want you to see this’. Which meant it was important and secret, and therefore very interesting. He wasn’t so much upset as he was intrigued, and it was easier to get information like that out with sweet-talk. “I-maaan,” he sang quietly, “what are you hiding?” He rested his chin in his hand, propped up against the back of the chair. “You can tell me. I’m good at keeping secrets.”

“It’s…not something you need to see right now.”

“That means it’s the perfect time. I’m not doing anything else but waiting around.”

“No, I…” She sighed, and turned in the chair, forcing him to stand up straight again as she looked him in the eye. “I meant you might not want to see it now. I was waiting until I had something more concrete to show you, and after everything today… I just don’t want to upset you.”

“Upset me?” he said heatedly, “After everything I’ve been through in the past few days, you think I can’t handle a little breaking news?”

“John,” she started seriously, “what I found could trigger your memory. It’s no guarantee, but if it does, it might be overwhelming. You’ve been through a lot, and you’ve handled it reasonably well,” Iman added encouragingly, “but we both know how exhausting it all was. I’m almost ready to collapse, and I know you’re more tired than you want to be right now. At the very least you should get some sleep before riding an emotional rollercoaster.”

The warmth that had flared on the sides of his head was shifting. He shuffled, trying not to appear as embarrassed as he felt at being called out. “So… What is it, exactly?”

“Potentially, a picture of you,” Iman explained, “It’s not directly of you – ‘you’ are more in the background, but it’s what facial recognition turned up when I tried to match your face with any photos from social media databases we have. I couldn’t find a direct match in any other system I tried, with the exception of the criminal database. And Arkham,” she finished with a nod.

An odd thing to suddenly look for. He couldn’t help but ask himself why. It made sense to say it aloud, but it was smarter to ask a direct question rather than something too broadly answered. “Why would you try to do that?”

“Aren’t you curious about yourself?” she dodged, staring him down with a slight tilt of her head, “You told me before that Arkham hadn’t pulled up anything on you, but I know some of their paper records were destroyed in an accident three years after your admittance. And there’s the events around the time of your admittance nine years ago,” she said, sounding far more curious about it than he had in ages, “An accident at Ace Chemicals, an unrecoverable data loss at the Agency, the string of deaths in the Valestra mafia over the tri-city area – and there was an unusually high number of crimes in both Gotham and Bludhaven the week you were brought to Arkham from the harbor. The G.C.P.D. might not have found anything linking a missing person to any of those events at the time, but it can’t be a complete coincidence.”

It was easy to see how invested she’d gotten. “You put a loooot of thought into this, huh?”

“Don’t you want to know who you were?”

He took the captain’s chair and tapped his feet on the floor, thinking about what to say as he leaned his head back into his hand. Maybe it was his meds, or maybe it was Bruce’s essence seeping into his skin from the chair, but he found he wasn’t really mad at her for looking where he’d never asked. He didn’t care about whether or not it was really for his sake or just her own curiosity, but she’d given herself away enough to emphasize that there was a line that needed drawing. “I used to,” he emphasized, “What name I went by, what I did, any family I had; stuff like that use d to keep me up at night, get me through the long days… But who I am now is a better question! And that’s never a solid answer, either,” he ribbed, smiling over at her with a chuckle. “I’m surprised at you, Iman - didn’t you ask yourself why it took three years for someone to get match-happy near my file?”

She stared back, shifting slightly between his eyes. She didn’t lose the curious look on her tan face. “So that was you…”

“Not that it matters,” he countered, pleased that she’d understood, “You’re a sneaky snooper – I’d wondered why you asked me about the day I woke up during your last visit! Here I just thought you were making friendly, topical conversation. Were those marshmallow Peeps a subliminal bribe, too?”

Ah. There was the guilt seeping in. “A little.”

“Et tu, Peeps?!” he feigned clutching his chest in betrayal, unable to stop from giggling afterward.

“I’m sorry, John,” Iman said, looking very much like she meant it, “I’d thought you’d want to know as much as I did,” she said slowly, not quite looking at him. “But I did want you to have visitors apart from Bruce,” Iman added, meeting his gaze again, “I would’ve gone anyway.”

He knew there was no way that wasn’t true. “I know,” he said, smiling wider, “You’re nice like that.”

She flashed a smile, but the gears were clearly still turning in her head. “John, if you don’t mind me asking… Why did you stop being curious?”

John was slightly surprised. He was sure she was going to ask about what was in his old file that was missing from the new one. He tapped his heel, remembering the isolation of Arkham. The three years of hoping for anyone to really explain anything, to see him, to know him. The bitter understanding of the truth. The hilarity of the reality.

“Because things like ‘who I was’ and ‘who knew me’ doesn’t really matter,” he answered after a beat, “No one cares about whoever-I-was. If they did, they’ve forgotten. And that’s really for the better,” he shrugged, “Not knowing is fun – it’s multiple-choice! Maybe I was someone in the wrong place at the wrong time; or someone at the right place at the wrong time. Maybe I was some experiment gone wrong. Maybe I was even an Agent, like you,” he teased with a wider grin and a chuckle that wouldn’t stay down, “Wouldn’t that be a laugh and a half!”

She seemed to get it. Her eyes drifted down to her hands, guilt still softening her face. Anyway, she didn’t look confused or disturbed, or anything that rang the alarm bell in John’s head saying he said the wrong thing. “Do you want me to delete everything?” she asked, looking back at him sincerely, “It’s not much, but if you don’t want the information anyway…”

He leaned back in the chair, feeling more at ease now that the line had been scribbled down. He’d let her do what she liked, as long as she kept him out of it. And Bruce, but he was sure Bruce had already pulled out all the stops and come up with nothing, anyway. “Hey, just because I don’t care to know doesn’t mean I’ll stop you from solving a dead-end mystery,” he teased, “Though I do want to know what your fancy software pulled up…”

“You still want to see that?”

“I said I wasn’t curious about who I was, I never said I didn’t want to see the picture you found. Besides, if nine years of therapy and doctors cramming their memory exercises down my hippocampus hasn’t brought anything back, I doubt a little picture will.”

“Well…if you’re sure.”

The software had dozens of pictures saved in the file, but the one Iman brought up – just big enough to see, not take up the full screen – was of people clearly having what looked like a Great Gatsby themed party on what looked like the deck of a ship of some kind. At first, John focused on the people in front: a group of young twenty-somethings he didn’t recognize in the slightest, most of them sporting a glass or bottle of alcohol in hand, the quality of the image being the best indicator that the cell phone used for it was at least ten years old. But he spotted what the software, and Iman, must have noticed behind the group, clearly just walking by with a cigarette in hand – another young man in his early twenties sporting a cheap suit, seeming out of place against the others, half his long face in view enough to show one green eye and a few locks of dark brown hair.

“Wow, that’s…nothing,” John blinked, surprised at himself. “I got more feeling looking in the mirror with peach-tone makeup on.”

“Really? I can see why it pulled this one,” Iman said, looking between him and the picture on screen, “I’m pretty sure that guy has your nose.”

“Pfft, barely,” John rolled his eyes. “He certainly doesn’t have my fashion sense,” he gloated, thumbing his purple t-shirt.

Iman smiled, finally, glancing down at the zig-zags of blue and orange of his pajama pants. “You’ve got me there.”

“It’s a pretty bad picture, too,” John continued, “The lighting’s terrible, the angle is off… And those two -” he pointed towards the two flappers with their arms around each other’s shoulders – “are definitely faking it.”

She gave a light hah. “They certainly are. The left one’s too strained and stiff all over, and the other’s smile doesn’t reach their eyes.”

John thought to himself for a moment. He’d missed an opportunity to take a picture during their team-up at the theater, since the car was too dangerous while it was moving, and the jumpsuits didn’t flatter either of them. And she was the only one he didn’t have a picture of on his phone somewhere. “I bet we could do better,” John grinned, pulling out his phone.

Iman smiled, rolling the chair a little closer to him. “You’re on.” Her arm wrapped around his shoulder, and he mimicked the action.

“This good?”

“Maybe a little more to the left… John, it’s not a selfie if you’re not in it.”

“You said left,” he teased, moving it back, “Say... Um, how do you say ‘cheese’ in Farsi?”

“Panir.”

“Say ‘pah-nehr’!” Snap. “Ooh, that’s good! The monitor light really makes us glow.”

A text popped over the image, from Devi: Hey r u ok???...

Then another, this time a text from Jackie: Photobooth app…

“You’re popular today,” Iman nudged, “Don’t mind me, I’m going to clean some of this stuff up. Do you mind if I keep the chair? It’s easier to move around in.”

John stood. “Nah, go ahead,” he waved, selecting Devi’s text first, “I’m going to go wait for Bruce to come back out. He can’t stay in there all night.”

Hey r u ok??? Mick said he called u w info earlier and he thinks u told the bat and ofc theres probs @ Arkham. Bat sighting by Chauncey 2.

Hes pretty worried. I mean he wont SAY he is but he IS.

I m 2 after hearing about the Black Mask bust up @ Waynes!!! We didnt know until after group! Stupid phone wifi cant load news for shit :(

“Didn’t really have the time, did I?” he muttered to himself, leaning one hand against the railing to stretch himself out.

But he wasn’t going to leave her on read. Knowing Devi and Mickey cared enough to worry over him made him feel that warm, fuzzy sense of appreciation again.

Yeah I’m ok, sorry for the radio silence!!! A lot happened :o) Still kinda processing some of it, he typed, not wanting to go into too much detail. Upper floor break room always has the news on first thing at 6 if you need to eavesdrop. Dr. W still gets papers, usually tosses them at 11. ;) Oh and the Bat says thanks to Mickey btw.

Damnnn J something real went down huh???

John laughed to himself at her choice of phrase. It was real. There was no doubt left in his mind.

I’ll tell you more when I see you guys. I have remote therapy but I still have work on Tuesday as far as I know so we can talk then! ;D

Aw :( 2 much 2 text? My phones safe u kno.

Trust me, it’s easier to say in person, he typed back. Ttyl (93-)

K igy. Night J man :)

John swiped over to the other active chat. Jackie had sent him a second copy of the picture she’d taken of the two of them all dressed up in the church’s stairwell – the owl mask she’d worn sitting on the stairs behind him – with her tiny flashlight being held up at an angle with the phone so the camera flash didn’t look too terrible in the dark. She’d added a soft-light filter, little sparkling stamps around, and some bat ‘stickers’ here and there, with the caption ‘#StraightOuttaGotham’ in glittering purple bubble-letters at the bottom, all sitting above her text:

Photobooth app didn’t have enough room for “you can’t fight if you ain’t cute” :/

The cave always made his laugh bounce around no matter how loud or quiet he was, and now it was jarring the bats hiding up above. It was funny on several levels at once, but all the feelings that had built up and grown static in the wind-down of the evening’s car ride home finally had a good outlet, and he let it out until he sank to the metal floor to stop himself from doubling over the railing.

John slipped his legs through the gaps in the rails as he caught his breath. He rested the phone in his lap so he could wipe away the moisture that had built up in his left eye. “Ahh…That’s one for the album,” he said to himself, saving the image for later. He’d have to frame that for sure.

Then came footsteps. Not from the right, where he was expecting Bruce sooner or later, and not a hobbled step with a cane from behind that would mean it was Iman. He pocketed his phone, the good mood already evaporating.

Tiffany had stopped a foot away, hands at her sides like she didn’t know what to do with them, her whole face practically screaming unsure. “Hey,” she said finally, with a slight shrug, “Can…I sit with you?”

He knew things would be going this way eventually. She’d saved him back there, in the ironically-named Church of Mercy, and he wasn’t sure if it was an attempt at apologizing or if she would’ve done it for anyone, but it had broken the ice. He’d went along with being casual – and not just for Bruce’s sake – and even though he’d like nothing more than to shove all the awkwardness and pain from the past two days into a drawer for him to pointedly avoid for the rest of his life, he knew that wouldn’t happen now. It had to be laid out on the table and pointed to like a broken vase.

“Pretty sure that it’s still a free country if we’re underneath it,” he answered lightly, “Unless this place isn’t marked on a map... Then you could do anything anyway.”

Tiffany sat next to him, crossing one leg and letting the other hang over the side through the gap in the metal railing. She was quiet, and even though only a few seconds passed it felt like way too long to him. “So, are you okay? I mean, like, physically,” she rushed, “I know you’re okay…otherwise,” she finished lamely, trying to gesture slightly with her hands towards another category. “But you got shot at, and I know I saw blood on you - and Iman filled me in on Arkham while you were upstairs,” she went on, “Fighting one of those Talon guys on your own couldn’t have been easy.”

John felt a cruel giggle bubbling in this throat. She was clearly trying to avoid saying anything that could be construed as another attack on his mental health, and it was made funnier by her shirt sporting the words ‘Point B.L.A.N.K’ dramatically written above some language he couldn’t read. “Aww, are you worried?” he teased, needling her further. He wanted her to squirm a bit.

“Well… Yeah. I saw a guy punch you in the gut. Who knows what other injuries you have?”

“I didn’t think you cared,” he answered, swinging his legs over the edge and looking out at the cave. Tiffany was easy to poke. The quiet said all he needed to know of her embarrassment. “You saved me earlier, sure, but that could’ve just been payback for all I know.”

He could feel her staring. “John, why do you think I’m talking to you right now?”

Well his first guess was ‘guilt’, but-

“Look, I know I screwed up. But I didn’t save you to make up for it. Or for any of that ‘tit for tat’ garbage,” she said, dark eyes staring at him pointedly, a softness like Bruce’s there. “I saw someone pointing a gun at you, and I acted.”

Ah. Ha ha. Ha ha ha! “A real hero, huh?” He leaned his head against the railing, the laugh dying low in his throat. He slid his arms through the large gap, too, numbing himself as he loosely crossed his arms. “I know you know what it’s like getting stabbed,” he said, holding up his own scarred palm, mirroring hers, “so I know you understand when I say that little conversation you and Alfred had about me was on par with that. I mean, I knew Alfred didn’t really approve of me when I got here. It still twisted the knife in,” he mimed at his own heart, smiling but not feeling the humor of the joke, “but it wasn’t a real surprise. But you? I thought we had something. We were getting along, becoming friends, having fun chasing the crook-of-the-week… And then you pulled the rug out from under me. I just can’t figure out what I did that sent me back to square one.”

She didn’t look away, at first. Her eyes and nose scrunched slightly, her brows furrowed up, and it was all regret. Tiffany cast a look over the cave again, her hands crumpling the material of her pink sweatpants. “It wasn’t really you,” she answered, “Bruce didn’t tell me you two were...together. So when you said you knew he loved you, I thought it was a big red flag,” she said, glancing over at him briefly. “And when you showed up at the Gala… I thought maybe you were obsessing over him or something. The whole ‘Court of Owls’ theory you put forth sounded so – so wrong, that I thought you’d…”

Gone off your meds, John finished for her. She looked like she didn’t want to say that, and was struggling for anything else to replace it.

“I thought Bruce was in danger,” she lamented, “I know I should’ve just talked to him and cut out all the bullshit, but I didn’t think he’d really listen to me.” Tiffany met his eyes again, not breaking away this time. “I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have said any of it if-” she cut herself off, clearly not liking where that sentence was going – “I never meant to hurt you,” she added instead, clasping her hands together in her lap and avoiding his gaze. “That’s really what it boils down to. Can we…start over? Pretend it never happened?”

John stared back at her. She was serious about wanting that. It came through in her voice and her soft brown eyes. Tiffany and Bruce weren’t related, but they sure could be alike sometimes. That ‘I never meant to hurt you’ sounded a lot like him.

He remembered getting that Batarang stuck in his hand. The sharp edges piercing his palm and sent his nerves screaming back into reality... Forgetting the rude things they’d said about him was like trying to erase the Batarang.

It was funny, though: he wasn’t as mad about it. Either the cold metal of the walkway was doing a pretty good job of keeping him numb to the bits of angry hurt still sitting in his gut, or Dr. Song had been right when she’d said looking at things from their perspective could help. They really did all love Bruce, didn’t they? They all kept looking out for him in their own ways…

Still, he couldn’t pretend it never happened. It was impossible, even if he wanted to. It was another thing to mend and heal. She had to understand that.

John sighed, leaning back to stretch out. “Kinda hard to forget about all that, kiddo,” he said, “I know, it’s ironic – an amnesiac who can’t forget something,” he joked, chuckling at himself. “But pretending it didn’t happen won’t make the wound heal any faster.”

He could feel the muscle in his right palm twitch. If he had to face reality head-on, so did Tiffany.

“We both know that,” he continued, “My hand took several weeks to heal after surgery, but I see the scar every day. I can cover it up, but I’ll always know it’s there. It’s the same for you, right?” he asked, pointing at her own scarred hand.

Tiffany looked down at her right hand, where the faded scar made a slash over the back, in-between the knuckles and wrist. He could tell she was thinking of the knife he’d run through her hand; but there was no pain written in her face. Only understanding. “Yeah.”

“See? That’s why we can’t pretend. The scars aren’t visible, but I know they’re there.” John kicked his legs over the edge. “They’ll just take a little longer to heal.”

“I guess starting over isn’t really an option, huh…”

“And what, forget about how you literally flew down to kick that Owl in the head? Our car chase on your bike? Our little crime scene investigation on the roof? Not on your life!” he grinned over at her. “We don’t need to start over, Tiff’. You just have to learn to take my feelings a little more seriously. And stop making assumptions.”

Tiffany looked at him like she was searching for anything insincere. She seemed hopeful. Or maybe it was relieved. John settled on a mix of both. “I think I can do that,” she answered with a slight smile.

“Oh, good; fighting beside you is more fun when we get to banter.” Truthfully, he felt better knowing they were picking things up where they’d left off rather than having to start afresh again. He’d had more than enough of that. “Sooo…does this mean I can call you ‘Tiffy’ now?”

“I’ll think about it.” Tiffany shuffled her legs to put both over the platform’s edge, leaning her arms over the rail. “Are you waiting for Bruce?”

“Yup.”

“He really pushes himself too hard,” she said, swinging her legs gently. “I know it’s because he’s Batman, but I almost thought he’d collapse when we got home. The guy’s exhausted.”

“That’s why I’m waiting,” John commented, “I didn’t want to leave him to climb up all those stairs alone… You’d think with a cave this size there’d be a bed down here.”

“Yeah, you’d think…” Tiffany’s dark eyes suddenly sparked. “Why don’t we bring one down for him instead?”

Ooh. Now that was an idea... The cave was Bruce’s domain, but how many nights did Bruce come home this tired and crawl up to that giant master bed to sleep the pain and emotional lashes off, all alone? Probably more than he’d ever say…

“How many guest rooms does this place have, again? There’s me, you, Iman…” He tossed a look over at Iman behind them, seeing the chair shift around like she hadn’t been watching them the whole time. He eyed her, thinking about height and width. “What do you think, two mattresses for the four of us? Unless Alfred wants in…”

Tiffany gave a light, short laugh. “It’s been a while since I’ve had a sleepover, but I think two will work,” she answered, gripping the railing to stand. “And I don’t think Alfred would sleep down here, even if it wasn’t the Batcave; he’s got a fancy adjustable bed. Hey, Iman!”

Iman swiveled the chair all the way around. “Yes?”

“We’re moving mattresses to sleep down here tonight. You in?”

“Only if you’re using the seven-hundred-thread-count sheets,” she answered, “And if one of you could get my eye mask from my room, please?”

John pushed himself up off the floor and brushed off his pajama pants. “I gotcha, Agent. Need anything else?”

“A pillow for my ankle wouldn’t hurt.”

Tiffany was already heading towards the elevator. “Just text if you think of something else.”

John followed close behind, glancing around the corner towards the bathroom Bruce was still holed up in. The light was still on under the door. “What are the odds he’ll come out of there as soon as we’re in the elevator?”

“Preeetty good. Which is why we’ll have to go fast.” The elevator slid open, and they both stepped in at the same time. “Otherwise he’ll try and go up anyway.”

† † † † †

Bruce stepped out from the steamy tiled bathroom onto the cool metal of the Batcave floor. He didn’t quite care that his hair wasn’t completely dry or that he’d stayed a little too long in the shower. He’d become hazy under the spray, letting the hot water soak into his skin and wash away the Bat, bringing him back to his senses. His anger had faded, being worked through his body during the raid on the Court of Owls, and what had settled into a sense of satisfaction had turned into a hunger for something he couldn’t quite place.

He expected to see John as he rounded the corner, but he encountered nothing but empty space. He looked over the cave, not seeing any sign of life where he would expect to… No sign of John or Tiffany at all; he didn’t expect to see them too close together, but he still expected to see them doing something, maybe at the weapons storage or the medical bay. He didn’t hold out hope for Alfred to hang around, and he expected Iman had gone to get some proper sleep.

Bruce was used to being alone in there, and in the rest of the manor. Maybe he’d just gotten used to the hectic days of a full house and almost constant companionship, but somehow, being down there all alone at that moment felt…hollow.

The soft click of a mouse pulled his attention towards the Batcomputer, where he could see Iman’s messy brown bun poking over the top of the captain’s chair. An empty office chair sat next to it, turned oddly like she had been moving between chairs at a whim.

Bruce felt strangely relieved to know someone was still down there. He made his way towards her, checking the screens; she seemed to be working on the left-over notes and references to what they’d all found, complete with pictures.

“Where are those from?”

Iman practically jumped in her seat with a shout. He’d clearly startled her too much. “Bruce, I didn’t even hear you walking,” she stressed.

Oh. He didn’t even realize he was still using his stealth walk. “Sorry, force of habit,” he said with an apologetic shrug, “I was trained by ninjas.”

“At least tap the back of the chair next time. I’ve strained my ears and this thing’s,” she gestured to the snake-shaped hearing aid, “abilities more than enough for one evening. Anyway, you…asked something?”

He decided against telling her to go get some rest. “The pictures you took,” he said while looking back up at the monitor, “Where are they from? I don’t recognize them.”

“Those are the ones John took from the theater. He didn’t label them, so I’m going through and marking which were more relevant.”

There was more than one picture of the various bat-signal-like shapes sprayed on the walls. And one that looked like the clown-smiley-face he drew on the sticky notes still saved in Bruce’s desk drawer. “Ah, yes, graffiti art. Very relevant.”

“I think it’s interesting. I wonder how many different people went through there… You can see the different spray patterns of the bats, and some have more control over the drip of the paint. And they were scattered all over that hallway; a lot of people were brave to go in there and tag it in the first place, but to do a bat? Considering how much anti-Batman graffiti there is in the middle of Gotham, it really says something.”

Truthfully, Bruce didn’t think it was that brave to go tag the inside of an all-but-abandoned building, but he reminded himself that he had refined his breaking-and-entering skills for years, and others had grown up honing them for survival, so he kept that quiet. “I have more secret admirers than I thought.”

“As long as they don’t form a vigilante club,” Iman muttered.

Hm… He had to admit he’d thought about other John Does running around since the Agency had left. It was a small concern, considering John’s old friends – the ones Bruce could find not under arrest, in any case – had kept their noses clean of further clown-themed vigilantism. But there was Sonja, Reverend Overfield, and that unidentified Owl… “Some already did. The Court of Owls seemed to think we were on the same side.”

“You don’t believe that, do you?” she asked, swiveling to look at him. She was surprisingly annoyed, and almost disgusted. “They were prepared to kill you back there. If they had the chance, they would have.” She stared at him hard. “Throwing John and I in Arkham – that was to make us suffer before they destroyed the place. And I know that if you weren’t Batman, they were going to try and induct you, and then kill you – that Talon who found us at the theatre had a file on your public face in their pile of targeted Arkham residents.”

He’d suspected Bruce Wayne was on their hit list. None of that was a surprise, but he had refrained from thinking too much about the situation at Arkham. And now he saw her point: there was no way to know how long either of them would stay unconscious; both of them clearly had time to escape, but if they couldn’t have… Waking up in Arkham only to die in its crumbled ruins would’ve been a wide-awake nightmare.

“You’re not like them, Bruce. They don’t have any regard for human life outside of their puritanical views. I know you well enough to say you’re better than that.”

He knew he was harder than he needed to be on people sometimes. He knew that if he wasn’t exactly who he was now, he might be more like the Owls than he’d want. But hearing someone other than himself say he wasn’t like them lifted the weighted question off his mind. At least for tonight. “I don’t exactly believe we were on the same side, but… I needed to hear that,” he said sincerely. “How’s your ankle?”

Iman cast a look down at the plastic brace strapped over her foot and calf. “It could be better. Alfred assures me that it’s not broken, but I can’t drive for at least two weeks,” she huffed. “I really shouldn’t have walked on it to follow John out of the laundry room, but I wasn’t sure what that Talon would do at the time… It goes to follow, when something stops you from moving around, you suddenly appreciate being able to do so on your own. Though I’m not looking forward to eventually having to go up stairs all by myself.”

Was that why she was still awake? “I’m surprised you’re still down here. I would’ve thought someone would have helped you up,” he commented as the elevator door dinged.

“Oh, I don’t need help tonight,” she smiled up at him, “Our city’s two other heroes are bringing a bed down here.”

“Bringing a bed?” Bruce pondered aloud.

“Two beds, actually,” Alfred interjected, “I barely stopped your partners in crime from surfing down the stairs with the mattresses.”

The old butler might have been dressed in his bathrobe and slippers, but he still seemed like he was on duty; he was even carrying in a plate of miscellaneous finger-food from the gala and holding it like he was going around the ballroom. It was a sight that Bruce didn’t know he’d needed to see until right then.

“They’re under the impression you’re going to fall to pieces trying to get up the stairs tonight. I didn’t have the heart to tell them I’ve seen you manage with two fractured ribs, a wounded leg, and broken arm.”

Bruce barely noticed that Alfred had put the plate down near him. The elevator had silently retreated and was coming back down again.

“At least you don’t have any of those injuries this time,” Alfred commented gently, “This is the most whole I’ve seen you after one of these nights.”

Tiffany came out of the elevator first, backing out with one end of a queen-sized mattress in her hands, and John carrying the other – at least until John spotted him. “Bruce!” The mattress slipped out of his hands as his face lit up like it was visiting hours.

Tiffany struggled to balance the sudden shift in weight. “John! Don’t DROP it!”

“Whoops – sorry.”

Tiffany didn’t seem to mad about it. “At least we can slide it down the stairs…”

Alfred turned towards them. “You will not,” he called out to them firmly, “Both of you will either carry it down, or you will sleep up here.”

John looked over at the stairs. “Uh, we should probably switch sides, then…”

Bruce watched them for a moment. It was strange how both of them were suddenly getting along. He’d looked over it at the church, putting it down to a truce, but now it seemed like they’d made amends.

“I know I have them to thank for that,” Alfred continued, “I never expected you to have both a protégé and a very dedicated partner, much less have them both out in the field with you.”

Partner. The word stuck out like a sore thumb. There was no distaste, no disapproval, just acknowledgement. “Neither did I,” Bruce said, not wanting to call too much attention to it right away, “Two years ago I never expected I could have people I could regularly count on, other than you.”

“Yes, well… I’m glad we were both caught off guard, in that sense. I always said you needed more than my old bones to keep up your crusade.”

Bruce eyed him, looking for any sign of denial or hesitance. “I’d say John is more than a partner at this point.”

Alfred raised an eyebrow, straightening slightly. “I’m well aware of your feelings, Master Bruce; I just never thought you’d really follow through with them.” He looked out over the landing, where John was backing down the last set of stairs very carefully with the mattress end. “I suppose I hoped you wouldn’t, in a sense. Truthfully, I didn’t think he was…good enough for you, before,” he settled on, his features going soft. Bruce sometimes forgot how old Alfred really was, and his age showed more than ever in the fine lines and the softer look staring at him in the dark brown eyes sitting behind thin, wiry glasses. “I only ever want what’s best for you.”

Bruce couldn’t bring himself to tell him he could decide what was best for himself, despite the childish desire to say so. Alfred was only doing his duty as his guardian. Looking out for his ward in the best ways he knew how. “I know that, Al’.”

He turned away from Bruce, picking the plate back up. “Besides, I figured the term ‘vigilante-boyfriend’ sounded a bit too gauche. ‘Partner’ is far more versatile.”

Bruce found himself with the full plate being pushed into his hands. The smell of the cucumber and ham in the tea sandwiches on the tray hit his nose like a punch, causing his stomach to gurgle in response. The little vegetable rolls, spinach puffs, raspberry chocolate tartlets, and bite-size beef wellingtons were quite a sight for someone who hadn’t eaten anything all day.

“That’s for the both of you. I’d better find it empty when I come back down tomorrow morning.” Surprisingly, he passed Bruce, reaching into his robe pockets as he conversed with Iman. “Here you are, my dear – phone fully charged, and painkillers as requested…”

Bruce decided to let them talk alone, and made his way towards the still-open elevator, where Tiffany and John were just maneuvering the second mattress out.

“Hey, buddy! Can you, uh, toss some of those pillows on here?” John nodded his head towards the mattress center, being held flat.

“Might as well throw on the blankets, too,” Tiffany added from the elevator door, holding the mattress up with one leg to wrangle one of the blankets up.

Bruce looked at the corner of the elevator, where they’d dropped the once-neatly-folded bedclothes and pillows. “It’s a good thing Alfred is distracted,” he mumbled, using his free hand to toss the pillows on, “He’d never forgive you two for throwing these on the floor.”

“What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” Tiffany shrugged.

Bruce tossed the blanket over the pillows. He knew better than to think that anymore. “How many times did I tell that to myself?”

“Hey, at least it’s just sheets this time.”

Bruce returned her little smile, bundling the sheets under his free arm so he could walk alongside her. Despite everything that had happened earlier that day, she seemed to be doing better than he’d expected. She was right when she said she could handle herself out there. Still, he knew what it was like to lie there and process everything afterwards in an exhausted stupor rather than sleep, and she might have had that youthful spark of energy going into the Court’s lair, but... “How are you feeling?” he asked her.

Tiffany hummed in thought. “If you told me this morning that we were going to be kidnapped by the Court of Owls, escape, and then willingly go back to their lair to fight them and arrest Black Mask, I would’ve asked what planet you thought we were on.” She watched the pillows shift in the center of the mattress and slowly try to slide down with gravity as they descended the stairs. She had the same expression now as when she was working, with eyes fixed on a screen half-filled with code only she truly understood. “That was one hell of a day,” she said, the corner of her mouth lifting into another smile, “but I could do it again. That’s how I’m feeling. How about you? You seem pretty tired. Not that I blame you…”

He’d had longer days than this. He was used to the gnaws of hunger, to not getting enough rest, to the strain of almost-overworked muscle, and the muddled cornucopia of thoughts in his head.

It was strange, though, how he didn’t really feel any of it right now. At least not in the same way as before. It was there, but all like background noise, like the rush of the waterfall in the cave. The feeling of needing something unnameable was all but gone, as if drowned out. Or maybe fulfilled.

The only thing he was sure he could really feel was… “Satisfied,” he answered.

“Really?”

“Really.” He knew she had to be part of the reason for that. The day would’ve been longer and far more arduous without her help. “I was really impressed with you out there. I know Lucius would be proud.”

She smiled wider, the sparkle returning to her eyes with pride. “I think so, too.”

The mattress was dropped a foot above the floor, right next to the other in the middle of the platform. Bruce put the plate down on the floor and worked on finding the bottom sheet for one set. “Now, if you had told me I’d be doing this today, I wouldn’t have believed it.”

John grinned over at him. “Gee, Bruce, you act like making a bed to sleep on with your friends in the middle of your top-secret hideout is weird.”

He tossed him the other end of the fitted sheet. “Don’t tell me you’ve done this before.”

“Me? Hah! Nah. But a good idea is a good idea.”

Tiffany tucked the corner in with a playful huff. “You should’ve had more sleepovers as a kid,” she shot to Bruce, “You’d understand better.” (Bruce didn’t know exactly why that would help in this situation.) “My friends and I once set up a tent in the living room, moved it to the back yard in one piece, and then pretended we were all pioneer girls on the run from the law.” She straightened her side of the top sheet she’d taken from the pile. “I still remember that stew we made in the camping gear…”

“What crimes did you guys commit?” John asked, not paying attention as he was tossed the end of the blanket. He missed grabbing it.

“Uh, murdering our husbands, witchcraft, and stealing a pie.”

Bruce raised a brow while John laughed. “And how does that help make this whole night any less strange?”

Tiffany stepped around him to start on the other mattress. “Because on weird levels, this is nothing.”

He supposed so. If he compared the whole day up until this moment… “I guess getting broken out of a kidnapping via the Batmobile crashing through a wall is a lot less mundane than this.”

John sighed. “I wish I could’ve seen that,” he said wistfully, taking the other end of the second fitted sheet. “That sounds way more fun than crawling through the air vent.”

Bruce felt the year-old wound in his side twinge. He glanced down at John’s long white fingers, seeing a plaster wrapped around one. There were two more on his elbows, along with several bruises. Iman had only mentioned during their drive to the church that John had found her locked up before they got entangled with the Talon.

“Really? How did that happen?” Tiffany asked innocently, unaware of the implications of John’s situation.

He’d woken up alone in a locked cell.

And as expected, John’s demeanor changed, his eyes looking far away, beyond the top sheet he was still staring at and back to Arkham. “Not by choice,” he said darkly. He glanced over at his right forearm. The cuts from the glass at St. Dymphna were partially healed already, but Bruce wondered why he didn’t put a fresh bandage over it. “But it turned out alright,” he finished as if returned to the present. “I mean, I’m here, you’re here – right where we should be.”

Bruce heard chair wheels rolling over metal from up above. Iman had stopped the office chair near the top of the stairs. “Tiffany, can you come up? I need your help for a sec’.”

“Coming!”

Alfred called over the railings at the group, too: “Good night; I’ll be back down in the morning for you all.”

Bruce heard the three other bids of goodnight, but didn’t pay it any attention – John had taken a seat on the newly-covered makeshift bed, glancing over at him with a soft, needy sort of look, as if Bruce was too far away. Bruce took the bed opposite his, facing the staircase, leaving the plate of finger-food in the small part between them.

“Half of this is yours,” he said, pointing to the plate.

“You should probably eat some of that, then,” John said quietly, a smile picking up the corner of his pale lips. “Alfred told me to make sure you do. I’d hate to force-feed you.”

Bruce doubted that very much, but the laugh in John’s eyes wasn’t quite there. Like him, John was waiting to hear that last footstep on the stairs. Bruce padded out the time by eating two of the spinach puffs in one bite; the buttery crust and soft spinach melted in his mouth, and in one swoop he felt like he could eat the whole plate.

John gave a tiny laugh, and then the coast was clear up above. They were alone. One beat, and then two, and then it was nothing but John sitting across from him, heart bare and needy. “I don’t know how you do it,” he said quietly. “You just…deal with all of this so casually, and I’m… Ha, kinda shaken up, the more I think about it.” He looked down at his hand, where the Batarang had plunged through thirteen months ago. “I almost broke, you know. Nearly took that emergency exit.”

Bruce was unable to move. He didn’t have to ask what it meant. He knew, intrinsically.

“If it wasn’t for you, and the others, I wouldn’t be here right now. I’d be pushing up daisies with the rest of Arkham,” he continued, looking unblinkingly at Bruce despite the humorous tilt to his voice at ‘daisies’. His little smile was brief. “It was scary. I can only imagine what it was like for you, waking up all alone in ‘Owl H.Q.’…” John softened, stooping to lean his elbows on his knees. He stared at the rope burns on Bruce’s wrists. “I wish I could’ve saved you.”

Considering Arkham was still standing thanks to him, Bruce was grateful that he couldn’t. But he was clearly upset, and he needed more comfort than that. “You saved a lot of lives tonight,” Bruce soothed, “Iman, Arkham, Gotham…and mine, at least twice in that courtroom.”

“But it’s not the same,” John grumbled, “I don’t care if you’re Batman or not – you had to break yourself out of your cell, with no help, and you act like it was nothing.”

So that was it. He’d almost had a breakdown in Arkham before he escaped, and he wasn’t so much ashamed or embarrassed about it as he was guilty. And coupled with it was the envy of Bruce’s ability to keep calm, and he’d attributed it to not feeling any repercussions.

But Bruce couldn’t blame him for thinking that way. He’d been straightforward in the car when explaining his and Tiffany’s dramatic kidnap and escape, with Tiffany embellishing the story with her own little details. He’d mainly focused on getting them all home.

“It wasn’t nothing,” he admitted. It wasn’t as bad as John’s experience, but he would understand. “I could hear everything, but I couldn’t see anything. All I could think of was the time I was wasting in that chair. The people who could come back in any second. I thought of everything that could happen – to me, to Tiffany, to Gotham… Every awful scenario.” He was so used to being out on his own, it never occurred to him that John might have the opportunity to save him. He’d thought of everything but rescue… “It just seemed small in comparison to everything else tonight; and I worked out most of my feelings about that on the Owls.”

John gave a light chuckle that seemed much more genuine. “I thought some of those hits looked a little more forceful than usual. That Reverend looked pret-ty messed up – I would’ve loved to see that fight.” He picked up one of the little beef wellingtons, the excitement brewing in his voice making Bruce’s face feel warm. “I did some physical therapy, too. That Owl-man in Arkham didn’t know who he was dealing with.”

The bruises on John’s arms were more prominent next to his wild lounge pants. Some of them, and likely the light one on his cheek, had to be from the Talon. He’d gone through his worst nightmare and rolled with it all the way up until now. As impressive as it was, it squeezed something uncomfortably in Bruce’s chest. If he hadn’t gotten kidnapped himself, if he’d known earlier, if he hadn’t asked John and Iman to go to the theatre in the first place…

“I wish I could’ve saved you, too,” Bruce said softly, feeling every word.

“It’s okay. It was probably better for me that you didn’t.” John chewed on a vegetable roll. “Kinda made me wonder if Dr. Crane had point, y’know? The whole ‘facing your fears is the only way to get over them’ thing.”

“No,” Bruce said bluntly, hearing his voice dip as if by reflex at the mention of the disgraced doctor, “Not like that. Never like that.”

John leant back, giving a little hum in thought as he looked up at the stalactites and popped one of the sandwiches in his mouth.

He was quiet for a bit. Bruce could barely taste what he was eating in the silence. Thoughts were swirling behind those poisonous green eyes, and they weren’t looking at him enough. Bruce’s gaze trailed over the sharp lines of his pale face, over his lips and down to the bruises on John’s neck. It was only from yesterday, but it felt like it had been a week ago, now.

“I guess it was a pretty extreme therapy session,” John muttered, neck still craned up to look at the ceiling, “Waking up and doubting the whole past year. Thinking I was locked away again. I wouldn’t want to do it over. But I’m so much more sure of things now.” He looked back at Bruce, not quite softly, but steady. Bruce felt pinned to the spot. “I’m not doubting anything. Not anymore.”

He said it as if it was a choice he was making. “How can you be sure?”

“I’m not,” he answered with half a shrug and a smile, “but if you’re here, then I know everything happened. It’s how it’s always been.” He leaned forward with something like gratitude in the affection on display. “I would’ve liked you to burst in and save me, but you do that every day.”

Bruce felt his heart jolt. I do?

He couldn’t ask that. It felt like a natural thing for John to say, and he sort of understood the reason why without even asking. He wanted badly to say that John did the same for him, but it felt shallow to just toss the phrase back. For a moment, he wondered if John had even said it at all.

He never wanted to touch him more than now, to make sure he was real. He looked down at the thin white hands. John shifted one forward, not quite reaching out – Bruce took it without thinking. It was warm and solid, like the mattress he was sitting on.

It was like being under the faucet in the shower, letting the hot water pour over his shoulders and down his parched throat. He wanted to lay on John and just feel him there in all his messy beauty.

Before he knew it, Bruce’s forehead found itself resting on John’s shoulder. “I wouldn’t be here without you, John,” Bruce said, tasting raspberries on the roof of his mouth, “I’m Batman because I have to be. And I want to be. I’ll always be Batman.” He could smell sandalwood and cheap laundry soap as John’s right arm wrapped around his back delicately, as if Bruce would melt away. “But you make me feel like it’s a choice I can make, and I keep choosing ‘yes’ because of you.”

John didn’t breathe for a moment. Bruce felt it brush past his ear. “Oh, buddy,” John whispered, “you really know how to take a guy’s breath away. I would’ve settled for ‘you’re the moon to my sun ’ …”

Bruce’s left arm curled around John’s middle in return. His hand was warm and he didn’t want to let go. “I could say that too, if you wanted,” he muttered.

He felt John’s laugh brew before he heard it. “Hee hee hoo hee! Yeah, but wouldn’t sound like you!” John grinned into his hair. “I love you just the way you are, Bruce.”

Bruce held him tighter, not wanting to let go.

He could hear that a hundred times, and still catch himself not quite believing he really meant it.

“Uh, did we miss something?” Tiffany asked from what sounded like the stairs, freezing Bruce’s thoughts. He hadn’t heard their footsteps at all.

“Just mushy stuff,” John answered with a sly smile, letting Bruce slip away from his embrace and distract himself by pushing the plate away. “You know, two lovers against the world, that kinda thing.”

Bruce knew logically he had no reason to be embarrassed. They weren’t hiding their relationship anymore, and Bruce was used to having far more scandalous displays of affection being seen by the public. But he never felt so exposed. “John.”

“Yeah?”

Bruce picked up the tartlet left and pushed it at John’s mouth. “Finish that for me.” He seemed happy to take it with his teeth, so Bruce set on setting the pillows right and distract everyone from what they’d seen. Iman had two pillows of different sizes, Bruce had his own special side-sleeper one… “Did any of you think about how this was going to work?”

Tiffany stepped towards Bruce with Iman’s arm over her shoulder, seeming to carry her weight with ease. “I’m sleeping next to you at the end.”

“And I’m sleeping on this other end,” Iman said. “You’re in the middle with John next to me.”

John rocked to one side. “Really? I thought you two would want to sleep next to each other…”

“I’ll overheat in the middle,” Tiffany waved away, letting Iman set herself down on the makeshift bed.

“Juuust that?” John grinned knowingly over at Iman, “Or should I start charging for my piggyback rides?”

“Piggyback?” Tiffany squinted down at Iman. “You don’t think I could’ve done that?”

“Er, no, I know you’re capable-”

John looked way too smug. “I have a sturdier back.”

“The hell you do. I’ve been training with Bruce for a full year - I could pick you up if I wanted.”

“Ooh, you think so? Bring it!”

Bruce had enough. His was far too tired to let them horse around all night. His hand caught John’s shoulder before he could stand. “Save it.” (John hesitated to sit back down at first, but did so with a pout.) “It’s late, and three of us have work tomorrow.”

Tiffany trod over to Bruce’s side of the bed. The mattresses were pushed together now, to have one large double-queen. “What, am I back in grade school?” she mumbled. “It’s barely past one.”

It is? But that can’t be right… Bruce pulled out his phone to check. Sure enough, it was 1:06 A.M. But that couldn’t have been right – it took them roughly half an hour to get home, and he was sure he was in the shower for over thirty minutes… “Huh. I wouldn’t have thought that we’d get home so fast…”

John started to settle under the sheets next to Iman, who was positioning the pillow for her ankle. “What do you mean?”

“It’s only after one, but I could have sworn we left just after twelve.”

“You didn’t leave after twelve,” Iman chimed in, “you all left just after eleven-forty. I have the time-stamp on when the drone connected to the Batmobile.”

Maybe Bruce’s sense of time was just off. “Was the clock in the tower set correctly?”

Tiffany plopped next to him, hugging an extra pillow. “Yup. I remember checking it against my tablet when we were outside. Why?”

It felt strangely personal to say it aloud. But he didn’t really see any alternative. “The bell in the tower tolled before the rest of you came up.” A beat of silence. “It seemed planned; the reverend called it ‘the justice toll’. I assumed it was supposed to ring after the trial was over, to coincide with the clock – hence the twelve tolls I heard.”

John nodded with an elongated ‘oh’ as Iman checked her phone with a hum.

Tiffany pulled out her phone and swiped around. “Oh, I know what it is – there’s that hole in the roof, remember?” She turned the phone screen to show him the street-camera stream. Sure enough, there was a decent sized hole in the roof of the church’s tower, above the bell, barely visible from their angle. “The rain must have finally fried the wiring on their timer, and made the bell go off early.”

“Can you even do that?” John asked. “I thought those things worked mechanically.”

“Sure. The weights and measures needed to pull the bell works on an electrical trigger rather than traditional cog movement. They might have fixed the clock, but I’d bet they took the cheap way out and replaced the cogs with an electric clock that links with whatever they set up for the bell.”

“But the clock face is right,” John pointed out.

Bruce had noticed that, but he was more focused on the various emergency vehicles that had parked on the street around the place. It looked like the whole area was sectioned off with G.C.P.D. cars, and their flashing lights were distracting, but he could see some people on stretchers. He was honestly just glad Gordon’s people had gotten there.

“The source for that is probably separate.” Tiffany put her phone away. “That, or someone upstairs really likes irony.”

John laughed, falling back onto the pillow. “That, or Bruce!” he grinned, lightly slapping Bruce’s arm.

Iman stretched her phone over John towards Bruce – a log of time-stamps and drone connectivity. “Here, I was right: 11:43:20PM, my drone connected with the Batmobile. So the chimes went off a few minutes before then.” She pulled her phone away and stashed it under her pillow. Bruce knew the vibration on it was set high enough to wake the dead. “I’m going to take my hearing aid out, now. Goodnight, guys.”

Tiffany tucked herself under the sheets, with Bruce following and muttering goodnight at the same time.

“Oh!” John tapped Iman and moved his hand to gesture, not quite touching his mouth and moving the same hand to hover over the other in a cupping motion.

Iman gave him a thumbs-up as she put her aid on the other side of the pillow. She settled down on her back, pulling on a thick eye-mask and folding her hands over her stomach on the covers.

“Sleep does sound pretty good right now,” Tiffany mumbled, settling on her side to face Bruce with the second pillow still in her arms. “Can we do something about the lights, though?”

Bruce was still sitting up. “Computer, dim lights to five percent, disable all non-proximity alerts for the next five hours, keep repellant sonar active in all areas for the next six hours, and turn off main screens.”

As expected, the lights dimmed low as the electronic voice echoed back at him: “ENTERING SLEEP MODE.”

I can’t believe I forgot I made that setting, Bruce thought disgruntledly to himself. He blamed it on the need for sleep and the very long week.

“Thank you,” John added from the pillow. Naturally, the Batcomputer did not answer back, but he didn’t seem to expect it. “’Night, Tiff’; don’t let the bats bite.”

“’Night, guys – and they shouldn’t, John; that’s what the repellent sonar is for.”

Bruce let the sound of the waterfall in the distance take over his thoughts instead. The rush of water, the cool air, the darkness that surrounded them softly – all of it tended to relax him. It kept his head cool, even when confronted with the worst Gotham could offer. As usual, felt more comfortable there than anywhere else in the house.

In fact, he felt better than usual. Being Batman could be exhausting and dangerous, but the end results were often worth the labor and occasional scars. The satisfaction after the fight was still there, the hunger was gone, but more than that…he felt somehow complete.

Bruce felt a tug on the end of his t-shirt. John patted the mattress. “Lay down already,” he mumbled, a smile in his voice.

Bruce made to lie down on his stomach, folding his arms underneath his pillow with a sigh of goodnight. He couldn’t remember the last time – if there was any time – he’d slept with so many people around.

He felt John rolling onto his side to face him with his left hand placed between their pillows. A wordless invitation to which Bruce responded almost immediately, linking his left pinkie with John’s.

He could see the ‘I love you’ in his handsome, pale face, and wondered if John could see it in his.

The cave’s atmosphere swallowed him gently, as always, but the warmth that came from John’s quiet

‘night’

and the flutter of his lashes into a sweet calm was what finally made Bruce slip into sleep.

† † † † †

Author Notes: Did you all have fun re-reading and finding my tarot hints? (*☌ᴗ☌)｡*ﾟ Man, I didn't realize how much stuff I referenced until I went over my own notes over the past few months... Some of them are hard!! I drew up a chapter-by-chapter guide you can read here on tumblr [soon!], if you'd like to read it. I'm sure you saw "The World" clearly in the title here, but this chapter is also referencing the X of Cups! It's a celebration of our fulfilling journey finally coming to a close! We still have the epilogue left, but it's a bit sad to be finishing this story soon. It took a lot longer to finish than the other one...

But you're not thinking about that!!! You're thinking about the fact that I made A BATFAM SLEEPOVER ENDING!!!! The whole Batfam under one roof!!! Found-family bonding, baby!!! Ha ha ha, yes, back in Feb 2020, I was sorting through ideas of what to have as an ending! I knew I wanted John to have the opportunity to make his own decisions regarding relationships, and thus be able to forgive Tiffy and Al', but I wasn't sure on where to show it outside of the post-battle Batcave, and furthermore what to do with everyone after that! And then I thought "what's the most self-indulgent thing I could do?" to which I instantly replied .��☆found family sleepover☆ﾟ. and here we are!!! John is OFFICIALLY part of the Bat-family! Tiffany is recognized by Batman as a valuable team member! Iman is ALSO officially part of the Bat-family! Even Alfred got character growth! And Bruce recognizes that he needs and loves the people around him and that they are in fact an unspoken family AT LAST!!! I hope it's just as satisfying for you all to read as it was for me to write!

Speaking of, fun facts about The Sleepover Ending™: You can only get it if you have Tiffany and John on Bruce's team, and they have to be on good terms with each other (i.e. John was not actively mean to her, and agreed to give her another chance) as well as Bruce (Bruce can't be mean to Tiff and tell her not to get involved at the Court; just don't be mean enough to John, even he has limits). If you're re-romancing Selina she'll be there, but like Tiff she overheats so she'll take Iman's place at the end or else have another bed above Bruce. If you're just friends with Selina, even if she joined you at the Court she'll go home her own way.

For those of you wondering if John ever texted Jackie back after she sent him that purikura-esque picture of them, he did while he was going upstairs with Tiffany. (He texted outright he was framing it, and showed it to Tiffany.) And for those of you are like "Why didn't John and Bruce kiss?? I need my vicarious smooches :(", I know how you feel, but the answer is a little complex. I wanted to show their love to the audience without much physical contact, because it a) fits the mood of "i'm still a little overwhelmed by everything that happened" b) is a fun challenge and c) if this were a real game and the "the player" hasn't romanced John, some of the lines are changed a bit but their gentle embrace still happens, because they're still the most open with each other, love each other, and need each other.

I'd like to give a special shout-out to all of you who recently started reading. Don't think I haven't noticed my hit count jump along with my kudos notifications! I also see the nice things you tag in the public bookmarks! ;D I hope you - and my long-time readers - enjoyed this as much as At the Brink of Midnight. But the story's not truly "over" yet, even after the epilogue, so stay tuned to this Perseverance Project series for more! (｡•̀ᴗ-)✧

Next time, our epilogue will wrap up those pesky loose story ends. Did some of the Court get away? How's all that being handled? Is Jackie Lant truly off the hook? Is John in hot water for being Joker again? Is there going to be a surprisingly smutty ending where everything is just mentioned off-hand??? The only way to know will be to wait and find out - and in the meantime, stay safe out there, and please let me know what you think! (♡ᵉ̷͈ัॢωᵉ̷͈ัॢ )‧₊°♡

23 notes · View notes

carynnhalen · 4 years ago

Text

Club Olympus was one of Carynn’s favorite spots in Gotham to visit. Usually because security was lax and it was easy to sneak in without paying the cover fee. Maxie Zeus was doing another stint in Arkham, and that meant it would be easy to score free drinks. Carynn weaved her way through the crowd of dancing people and headed for the bar, shoving her way between a couple of frat boys who were trying to work up the courage to ask Deadshot for a photo.

The guy behind the bar sent her a nod in greeting. “Sup, Carynn. You workin’?” his name was Nick. She’d met him a few years ago when he worked in a hole in the wall bar Josie’s that was in Hells Kitchen. He was nice enough. He was one of the only guys Carynn knew that still had a mohawk, but he was nice enough.

Carynn scrunched her nose, shaking her head. “Taking the night off,” she shouted over the music. “Needed some peace and quiet.”

Nick laughed, setting two glasses out in front of her. “The usual?” it was a rhetorical question. Nick filled one glass to the brim with whiskey, the top shelf option tonight, and the other filled with a vodka soda. “You stay out of trouble.” he said with a wink, pushing the two glasses towards her.

“Always do! Later, Nick.” she scooped up her drinks, expertly heading back through the crowd and up to a balcony that usually served to be a little more quiet than the rest of the club. She hadn’t really had much of a plan for her night off. Mostly she just needed to blow off some steam. Between Captain America showing up to her apartment, and her phone ringing almost non stop with calls from Bruce, things were getting a little too mysterious and heavy all at once.

Carynn plopped down in a booth, her kicking up her booted feet up onto the table. Taking a generous sip of her vodka soda, she pulled her phone out of her jacket and unlocked the screen. More calls from Bruce. A text from Cel. A few notifications from Dante commenting on her Instagram.

She scrolled through her contacts; Bruce (even though she kept deleting and blocking his number it still seemed to find it’s way back onto her phone), Cel, Dante, Oliver, a few numbers of work contacts...was that it? Carynn sighed, downing the rest of her drink and picking up the glass of whiskey.

“I see you still have no manners.” a voice said in Russian just before Carynn’s feet were shoved off of the table.

Carynn’s frowned, looking up from her phone. “What the fuck do you think you’re-...oh, Christ. It’s you,” she rolled her eyes at the woman that was now sliding into the booth across from her. “Shouldn’t you be off somewhere skinning a puppy or something?”

Isabel Rochev. She was the current owner of Queen Industries and a certified nutjob. She smiled sweetly at Carynn, almost like she was happy to see her. She folded her gloved hands onto the table, leaning towards Carynn with interest. The large rock that had once belonged to Oliver’s mother was almost blinding in the flickering lights above them.

“I’ve missed you too, Carynn.” she said again in Russian, passing a glance over her shoulder quickly before looking back at the red head. “You are hard to find. Not because you’re in hiding, but because you can’t seem to sit still. I almost thought I’d have to forego my little proposition.”

“You could tell me Keanu Reeves is downstairs waiting to use me as a chew toy. I’d still tell you to fuck off, Isabel.” Carynn said, kicking her feet back up onto the table.

Isabel laughed a genuine laugh. Like they were good friends catching up. “Unfortunately, that is not the offer I have for you. My contacts have told me that Oliver is on his way back to Gotham. I was hoping you and I could come to an...agreement. I know you and Oliver are not in the best of places. And I know that for the right price you remove problems.”

Carynn had to admit, this was a first. She’d never really expected anyone to offer her cash to off Oliver. And maybe, if it had been anyone else sitting across from her, she might have considered the job. “If you want him gone you should do it yourself. Nothing says girl boss like killing your sugar daddy’s son...” she frowned, tilting her head. “Was he your sugar daddy? I’ve never really understood your relationship, at least aside from him definitely being married to someone else the entire time...”

Isabel pursed her lips. “Do not patronize me, Carynn. You and I are far more alike than you will ever admit. You know this deep down. I am offering you a solution to both of our problems.”

“I’m nothing like you,” Carynn spat. “And Oliver isn’t my problem anymore. I don’t waste time thinking about him. I have bigger shit to worry about.”

“Well, what are these problems? Perhaps I can help you. We could form a partnership. Take what belongs to us. I have come a long way since I last saw you-” Isabel looked to her right, into the crowd below them. She visibly froze, her eyes set on something.

Carynn leaned forward, trying to follow Isabel’s gaze. She couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary. The bar was a little less crowded now. Carynn could spot one of the exit doors nearby. There was someone standing next to it. She couldn’t really make him out. Long, dark hair. A leather jacket. The black mask covering his nose and mouth stood out the most, but in a place like Gotham it was definitely not the craziest thing she’d seen.

Isabel looked over her shoulder once more, nodding quickly. A tall man, who Carynn assumed had to be Isabel’s security, stepped towards them. He looked down into the crowd, surveying the area before speaking into an earpiece. Isabel turned her attention back to Carynn, her smile more nervous now than genuine.

“I must go. Something has come up...please, think of my offer,” she set her clutch on the table, fishing through it before pulling out a business card. “This is where you can reach me. The number is safe, don’t worry. I hope to hear from you soon, Carynn.”

Carynn watched Isabel walk off with her security guard before sinking down further into her seat and groaning. So much for peace and quiet. She picked up the card, rolling her eyes at the idea of taking up Isabel’s offer. Another number to put in my phone, at least, Carynn thought with a sigh.

She tossed back the rest of her drink, slipping her phone and Isabel’s card back into her pocket before sliding out of the booth. Maybe she’d go to another club, maybe she’d head home, she wasn’t sure yet.

Carynn headed downstairs, waving at Nick before slipping out of the same exit that Isabel’s mysterious friend had been standing next to just a few moments before. Carynn didn’t really care who he was to Isabel. Maybe he was some pissed off ex boyfriend, maybe he wanted to kill her. Who could really know? Carynn just didn’t want any part of whatever shit storm Isabel was no doubt stirring up.

The alleyway outside of the club was quiet tonight. Usually there were a few people milling around, someone puking into the dumpster or arguing about what club to hit up next. Maybe it was still too early for that. Or maybe Batman was out patrolling and had spooked them all.

The closer she got to the mouth of the alley, Carynn realized she could hear another heartbeat. It was slow, very quiet. Maybe someone passed out in the trash? That was definitely nothing she hadn’t seen before. She slowed down a little, pulling her phone out to pretend she was busy as she approached the dumpster.

The smell wafting from it nearly smacked her across the face. It wasn’t a bad smell. Completely the opposite. Sort of a smoky yet spicy smell that made her mouth water like in the fall when Pauli’s Diner was serving pumpkin pie. Carynn leaned forward to try and get a look at whoever it was hiding by the dumpster.

Something hit her like freight train.

Carynn had been completely caught off guard. Her back smacked against the brick wall, pain radiating down her spine. Her attacker’s hand was around her throat, the gloved hand making her gurgle as she struggled to breathe. Her vision blurred in and out, but she could just barely make out the man that Isabel had been watching just minutes ago.

“How do you know Isabel? What were you discussing?” more Russian, great. This was very, very, very not good.

His hand was like an iron clamp around her throat. She couldn’t speak even if she wanted to. Carynn reached out, swiping blindly at his face to scratch him.

Mister tall, dark and creepy let her go with an eye roll. Carynn slouched against the wall, coughing. “Talk.” he spat.

He had gotten the upper hand on her once, that much she could admit. That wasn’t something that would happen again. “I don’t know anything,” Carynn snapped back in English. “It’s not like we’re friends. She’s a pain in the ass...! Look, I don’t want any trouble, okay? I don’t really have much info-”

She pulled the knife she had clipped to her belt free and lunged forward. Her mystery man moved quickly, but not quickly enough. The blade pierced through his jacket, grazing his skin.

He grabbed her throat again, slamming Carynn back into the brick wall. She’d been expecting something like that. She grabbed her knife, getting a better grip of it and kicking her feet up against his chest and using all of her weight to shove him away.

Carynn rushed forward, Dark and Emo blocking her physical blows easily. He moved just as quickly as she did. Now that they were both fully alert, it was difficult for either of them to get a good hit in. Carynn noticed that he didn’t guard his left arm as vigorously as his right, and she saw a window of opportunity.

She tried to bury her knife into his left bicep. It ripped through his jacket, but the sound that was almost like nails on a chalkboard made Carynn flinch and jump back from him. The blade of her knife had been almost snapped in half. “What the fuck...” she muttered, tossing the dagger aside.

Her opponent leaned down, pulling a large, tactical knife that was strapped to his boots. He lunged towards her, Carynn throwing her arms up in front of her to block his swing. She kicked down hard at his shin, throwing him slightly off balance as he tossed the knife from one hand to his other, the blade stabbing through her jacket.

Carynn slipped down and around him, jumping onto his back. Her legs wrapped tightly around his wait, she put him into a headlock. Terminator man didn’t seem very panicked, regardless of his airway being cut off. He spun around, slamming Carynn into the wall a few times in an attempt of knocking her off of him.

Her grip around his throat loosened, instead she decided to try and pull his mask off to get a better look at who was trying to attack her. Unfortunately that distraction left her open, and the man sunk his knife into her thigh. Carynn screamed out in pain, her opponent tossing her off of him easily.

She landed on the ground with a thud. She had to move quickly. He was stomping towards her, his hands clenched at his sides. Carynn ripped the knife from her leg with a grunt. This would definitely slow her down. She couldn’t afford to be slow.

Carynn tossed the knife. It was better to keep him from it than having it to defend herself. The Masked Douchebag bent forward to grab her ankle. Carynn kicked at him, but he easily smacked her leg away. He lifted her up, slamming her into the wall. Carynn fell face down, groaning loudly. Get up, get up, get up, she told herself.

The sound of boots stomping towards her made her panic. She reached inside of her bra as the stranger picked her up by her jacket, pulling out the pocket knife she kept there. Before he could throw her again, she plunged the knife into his side. This time it did more damage than ruining his clothes.

He dropped her, grunting in pain and anger. Carynn used the distraction to push herself up off the ground, rushing away towards the dumpster to put distance between them. Her leg gave out from under her, and she fell into a pile of trash bags.

Her opponent pulled the knife from his side, once again tossing it aside and heading straight for Carynn. She scrambled backwards, freezing at the sound of a phone ringing. The two went still, looking at each other as the ringing filled the alley way.

The man reached into his jacket, pulling a flip phone out. “We have spotted the target. Enough of whatever it is you are doing. Get to the bottom of whatever Isabel has planned.” someone said on the other line.

“Yes sir,” the Masked Asshole said. “Send me the address. I will find her.” he closed his phone, his eyes trained on Carynn. And as quickly as the altercation had started, it was suddenly over. He turned, grabbing his knife from the ground and wiping it clean on his pants. Without looking back at her, he strolled off and out of the alley way as if nothing had happened.

Carynn let out a loud, relieved sigh and sank back into the trash bags. “Holy fuck that hurts,” she hissed out, grabbing at her thigh. Her hands were covered in warm, sticky blood. “These are my favorite pants...I’m gonna find you you goddamn bastard!” she shouted after the stranger.

She groaned, pulling out her phone. She would heal eventually, but now there was no way she’d be able to make it home on her own. And taxi drivers didn’t like it so much when you bled all over their seats. She opened up a new message, pinging her location and typing the word help to Dante.

“I fucking hate this city.” she sighed, leaning back to look up at the starry sky above her.

#plot points

23 notes · View notes

cryptocism · 5 years ago

Note

So since pretty much everyone agrees that Tim needs a name change, and I think most people dislike the first two RR costumes (I dislike the pretty much Robin one too, because it seems like he hasn’t accept losing Robin, when I feel a lot of his comics right after Bruce W died was about that?) which leads me to: What do you think Tim’s costume would look like if he got a good outfit, and what name?

o yeah i was not a fan of the cowl. and the n52 design is just… so busy and excessively accessorised (excessorised???) - i drew it a couple times for this project im workin on and the whole process was me squinting at reference panels and whispering softly but passionately “what the fuck” - and i agree on the rebirth RR design, it looks more derivative of dick and jasons retconned robin costumes than inspired by tims og 80s design (however. the unternet costume - its simple and appealing and clearly nightwing-inspired and i am a fan, also the giant scythe/halberd/mace thing was so ridiculous i loved it)

which is why i thank pat gleason for my life bc tims new outfit is such a good modernisation of his original robin design. so i mean to answer ur question i think tim has a p good design right now (although not for long i guess since they announced hed get a new look/codename soon) BUT if i were in charge of debuting a new design and name… hm……….

whatever his new name is, it’d preferably have something to do with wherever his personal storyline is headed, which i dont know, and for all my complaining abt how red robin is a shit name i dont actually have great alternatives lol. i did see somewhere the suggestion for the name “Cardinal” which i dont hate, so ill use that as a placeholder for now (although “Halcyon” is an interesting option)

tangentially, my personal preference for his robin graduation would be a miniseries featuring tim and damian both as robin, begrudgingly having to work together to fight some greater enemy and becoming true brothers along the way. ending with tim giving damian his blessing to be robin (a post-mantle blessing but still) with the first amicable passing on of the robin title literally ever

as for Look: his new design should a) accurately reflect his character b) mesh well with whatever tone his personal storyline is going for c) be a natural progression of gleasons newest iteration while still d) able to stand as its own iconic look

i always thought tim would do really well in a more grounded noir-style detective story, both using and especially subverting the tropes of the genre (for instance tim befriends every femme fatale and romances absolutely zero of them. theyre pals and have weekly movie nights or smthn) obvs using some of the mystery elements to springboard into classic comic wild times etc etc. theres also a great opportunity to include some more cyberpunk aesthetics to the look and feel ofthe story

i.e. tim is part of the waynetech r&d teams, working with them to develop new technologies, and proceeding to test out some of the prototypes while doing vigilante work (bc terry had to get his rocket boots from somewhere ok). gotham is still gotham, but its starting to see some of that neo-futuristic/blade runner flavour from batman beyond.

so. cyberpunk detective story starring cha boy tim drake. im not gonna draw it rn but lemme just gather some ref elements here in case i ever do

first off - motorcycle, obviously. redbird is back babey and this time its a two-wheeler. all his gear would be modded the hell out of, but the motorcycle itself would be an approximate balance of 70% ducati and 30% tron lightcycle situation. a speedy bike with ample room for the edgy overkill batfam aesthetic, with maybe a little akira in there who knows

same goes for helmet; 70/30 on this modern/cyberpunk situation. heres a quickly photoshopped “cardinal” helmet lol

although theres totally room for some daft-punk leds in there. serving as a heads up display AND a fun neon aesthetic. I really want to play into that John Wick neo-noir situation.

besides that… ive got a preference for street style over the superhero spandex, so… detective jacket. every detective has a good jacket. norm breyfogle made a comment on his early tim robin designs that itd be pretty either/or on jacket vs cape, merging the two looked a little silly. for robin they probably decided on cape to keep things classic, but for cardinal i can do what i want

and i want to bring back some of this popped collar.

which i basically did for that other tim design i drew, which i still like, so this one would probably be at least a lil borrowed from that.

attempting to merge cape/jacket might end up smthn like these:

which admittedly i like.

admittedly… i do also like the concept of wings introduced in tims n52 design, i just think they couldve been hidden/incorporated better

greig rapson had a sweet robin design that had a sort of flight-suit (which dove into the actual mechanics??? i love) and since id want to dive into tim testing out waynetech prototypes, its a pretty good natural progression from him to terrys glider thing

the whole ensemble would be fairly understated however - enough to semi blend in with any crowd, hero or civilian. after all the story focus would be just as much about solving the mystery as it is punching the bad guy

the various interchangeable gadgets would be both prototypes of terrys eventual batsuit, and also all the failed prototypes that never managed to get off the ground. just to add an element of tension/plot devices wherein tims gear could break or malfunction pretty much anytime.

im fixated on this rocket boot situation though so itd be a paired down version of terrys eventual seamless/invisible design. still noticable and clunky, but working with the sleek modernish style outlined by gleason

smthn almost similar to the prowler actually from spiderverse - as in: Clearly Rocketboots, and clearly diy’d the shit out of, but still working with that Aesthetic

(most of the screencaps of prowler are dark af so im taking this from jesus alonso iglesias concept art)

im debating on the addition of more overtly birdlike/cyberpunk elements, so ill add this here cause its dope as fuck (from ahmet atil akar).

and a lot of batclan capes tend to end with that concave spiked look, which works great for bats but not really for birds. a tailcoat might emulate the bird tail, but it also might evoke Penguin a lil too much idk.

also in the interest of keeping everything within the same sort of design language, i would Love to see some new villains emulating deconstructionist/architectural kawakubo fashion:

like could you imagine the supervillain potential

so uhhh yeah. budding cyberpunk detective story with a little noir and a little technological advancement progressing in fits and starts. taking from the gleason foundation with heavy black featuring brighter coloured accents and modern sleekness, made a little dorky via prototype technology, with some extra neon blade runner shit thrown in there.

depending on how much i love or hate the new codename/design reveal i might draw this via inspired motivation or spiteful motivation lol

#asks #tim drake #tim redesign ref #tim scarlet redesign

671 notes · View notes

onewfantaesy · 5 years ago

Note

Playboy Minho with a heart of gold and cool gadgets? Hell yes

The playboy thing is really just an act. It keeps up his billionare persona, and he plays it well. Keeps everyone distracted from the fact that he’s obviously the super hero with expensive gadgets and suits and cars and planes and boats that could only ever be afforded by him.

But Minho has been cold and jaded for a very long time. Much like Taemin, Minho got his super powers of super strength and flight from the incident that killed his parents. A criminal had dumped toxic waste on his parents so he could rob them. It had killed his parents, but Minho breathed in the vapor, and it messed with his insides. And the whole incident messed with his head for a very long time.

But then he found Taemin. His parents had been run off the road by a common villain just because they were the latest victims. Taemin had been in the backseat. They crashed into a toxic waste dump site, and Taemin only just barely escaped. He saw his parents die as well, breathed in vapor similar to Minho, and he was scared and hurting and ran.

Minho was still cold when he first took Taemin in, but Taemin naturally was a ray of sunshine. Once he opened up to Minho, he was all smiles and giggles. It was contagious. He easily wormed his way into minho’s heart, made him lighten up, gave him something to really care about.

And Taemin was still traumatized. Still didn’t quite understand what was happening to him, why his parents had to die, why any of this was happening. Minho helped him find closure. Trained him with his new powers and allowed him to help him find the man responsible for his parents’ deaths and bring him to justice. That’s what really helped Taemin get a bit back to himself. To see a little boy with a constant frown and to hear him have nightmares every night was breaking minho’s heart. Taemin is still sad sometimes - Minho would be more surprised if he wasn’t - and he still does have nightmares some nights, but Minho is always there to make it better.

He knows he’s really gained Taemin’s trust when he comes to Minho’s room for comfort after a nightmare. It’s about a month after he took Taemin in. It was three in the morning, Minho only got back from patrol about half an hour ago, and he was on his bed with his laptop going over work emails to prepare for the day ahead. Taemin was standing in Minho’s doorway, clutching a stuffed elephant, tears still lingering in his eyes.

“Meen-o,” Taemin whispers.

“Hi bud,” Minho says softly, sitting up straighter. “What’s wrong?”

“Had a bad dream,” Taemin says, his voice cracking.

Minho’s still not entirely confident in taking care of a child. He’s almost afraid he might break Taemin if he does something wrong. But his new ward was standing there shaking and upset and Minho couldn’t just send him back to bed.

“Do you,” Minho stutters, clearing his throat. “Do you want to stay in here for the rest of the night?”

Taemin immediately bolts towards the bed and climbs in to huddle against Minho’s side. Minho fixes the blankets so they’re tucked around Taemin’s shoulders, and he gives him a smile that he hopes is reassuring.

Minho goes back to quietly typing on his laptop, and Taemin blinks slowly while he looks at the screen. One of his hands slowly wraps around Minho’s arm, and Minho can’t help but smile again.

“Why’re you workin’ so late?” Taemin asks.

“Because I have some important emails that I need to get out before everyone comes in this morning,” Minho says.

“Are you gonna sleep?”

“In a little bit,” Minho says softly. “Will you be able to sleep?”

“Mmhmm,” Taemin hums, his eyes closed and his head burrowing into Minho’s arm.

By four in the morning, Minho puts his laptop on the night stand, turns off the lamp, and checks on Taemin. He’s sleeping soundly, cuddled against Minho’s side. Minho sinks down so he can put his head on the pillows, and Taemin stirs a bit.

“It’s okay,” Minho whispers. “You can go back to sleep.”

Taemin mumbles something, cuddles closer to Minho, but otherwise doesn’t wake up. Minho thinks it’s sweet.

“Goodnight, Taeminnie,” Minho whispers, fixing the blankets around him again.

“G’night, Batman.”

Minho is a bit startled by the mumbled whisper that left Taemin’s mouth, but he just smiles. Taemin is really turning him soft. Maybe it’s not such a bad thing.

#taemin #shinee #minho #hello anon #super bats au

7 notes · View notes

violetsmoak · 5 years ago

Text

Pieces of April [14/?]

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

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

Rating: PG-13 (rating may change later)

First Chapter

________________________________________________________________

After a chillingly silent drive back to the apartment, they find Tam waiting for them. Tim finds himself making a mental note to give her a raise for just knowing when he’s going to need her.

“I came bearing Chinese food,” she announces as they clamber through the secret door. “I wasn’t sure you’d be hungry after this or not. So, take as much or as little as you want. I bought a lot because I figure you guys are going to be hella busy the next few days, and food runs aren’t going to be a priority and—” She pauses as they draw near, and Jason places the carrier square in the center of the island in the kitchen. “Is this her?”

“No, it’s the other illegitimate child I found out about this week,” Jason mutters tiredly.

“How the heck am I supposed to know what’s normal for you?” Tam shakes her head, eyes riveted on the baby. She reaches out lightly to stroke the edge of the baby’s cap. “What’s her name?”

“Luisa.”

“She’s beautiful.”

“How can you tell?” Tim asks, considering the ruddy, squished face.

Tam smacks him in the shoulder. “Don’t be mean.”

“I’m not being mean! I seriously can’t see it. Is this a woman thing?”

That earns him another smack.

The baby, who has been silent the whole ride from the hospital, suddenly begins to cry. The sound starts as a mild bleating but quickly grows louder.

“See? You offended her,” Tam says.

“You’re so funny,” Tim grumbles.

“Is that the ‘I’m hungry cry’, or the ‘I’m wet’ cry?” Jason wonders.

The prospect of either is unpleasant in different ways.

“Could be either. One of us should change her while the other gets something to eat—you did buy formula, right?”

“Of course I did,” Tam rolls her eyes. “I didn’t think either of you was going to start spontaneously lactating.”

“Thank you for that imagery,” Tim says, having to pitch his voice a little louder over the crying. “So, who’s doing what?”

“Do either of you even know how to change a diaper?”

“Yes,” both men reply and then eye each other in surprise.

“There were a lot of families with kids in my building growin’ up,” Jason defends himself. “Babysittin’ was one of the few jobs a kid like me could get paid for under the table.” He eyes the infant. “They were all way bigger than this, though.”

“I’m sure the concept’s the same,” Tim replies. “Remind me to tell you about the time B was stuck carrying a baby around with him all night.”

“He took a baby on patrol?” Jason demands, indignant.

“There was nowhere safe to leave it. Among others, Ra’s al Ghul was looking for it.”

“Oh, him,” Tam contempts, earning a bemused glance from Jason.

“One of the most dangerous men in the world, and that’s your reaction?”

“I’ve filled my quota of gibbering panic for a lifetime,” she answers.

Jason shrugs, acknowledging the point, and then glances at Tim. Hesitant, he holds out a fist. “Loser gets diapers?”

It takes a minute.

“Best two out of three,” Tim agrees.

“Are you kidding right now,” Tam groans, like she’s considering pulling at her hair.

Two throws later and Jason is muttering darkly as he goes digging for the box of diapers, while Tim juggles a container of formula and the package of new bottles that he needs to clean first. Tam is holding Luisa (“I’m playing nursemaid exactly once,” she warns with a dangerous look in her eye. “Now get your sh—stuff together.”), gravitating back and forth between the two men and wincing as Isa’s decibel level increases impressively.

While Tim cleans unpacks and starts cleaning the bottles, following directions from an online guide, Jason sets up his supplies on the living room coffee table. After Tam carefully transfers the tiny, squalling creature into his arms, Jason takes a minute or so to study her.

“I don’t smell anything,” he says, uncertain. “She could just be wet.”

“Still means you have to change her,” Tam reminds him.

“I’m getting’ there!”

“What’s that stuff all over her? Are you supposed to bathe her?”

“No, you’re not supposed to bathe them for at least 24 hours,” Tim calls from the kitchen. “That stuff’s apparently good for the skin or something. Even then, I think we’re going to stick to sponge baths for the foreseeable future.”

“Wet baby means slippery baby,” Jason agrees. “So no.”

“Good call,” Tam says.

By the time Tim has boiled the new bottles and plastic nipples long enough to make sure they’re sterilized and prepared the formula, Jason’s managed to change the baby and get her into one of the impossibly small onesies from the baby things.

“Since she’s still crying, I’m guessing it wasn’t a diaper issue,” Tim remarks, testing to ensure neither the nipple or the formula inside is too hot, before handing over the bottle. “Make sure you keep her head higher than her stomach—”

“I have done this before, you know. Yesterday, even.”

“Well, you looked unsure.”

“I’ll remind you what you look like next time you hold her.”

But there’s less bite in Jason’s tone than might be normal, his attention clearly on keeping the infant well-positioned in the crook of his arm and trying to tempt her to latch on to the nipple. Not for the first time does Tim think Jason looks too big to be allowed to hold something so tiny—even if he knows that those hands are capable of some pretty delicate handling.

He’s seen the bombs the Red Hood has made; the skill it takes for such delicate work is nothing short of art, whatever Batman might think about it.

For some reason, everyone is quiet throughout the ordeal to feed her; it almost feels like everyone is holding their breath.

It’s a bit of a chore getting her to take the nipple, and even when she does, she keeps stopping every so often and turning away. Her eyes remain unfocused and drowsy, and despite her earlier complaints, she doesn’t seem interested in eating. In fact, she seems to nod off before she takes eve the minimum amount recommended.

“Why is she fallin’ asleep? She’s hungry, she should be eatin’,” Jason complains—frets, actually.

“Maybe she’s more tired than she is hungry,” Tim suggests.

“She did just go through birth,” Tam agrees.

“Yeah, she’ll probably be out of it for another day or two.” Tim carries the unfinished bottle over to the sink; he’ll wash it out later. “Anyway, all the forums say we need to feed her every two or three hours, so we can try again later. Maybe she’ll be hungrier.”

“Speaking of later,” Tam says, glancing at her watch. “We have a meeting at eight o’clock tomorrow. I need to go over your presentation once more and make sure all the numbers add up.”

“My numbers always add up.”

“Uh, yeah. Because I check them.” She’s wandered over to the hall closet to grab her coat by the time Tim gets up to walk her out.

“Thanks for all of this,” he says quietly. “Not just the presentation. The food, and the picking up supplies and everything.”

“Hawaii,” she replies.

“…What?”

“It’s where you’re sending me after this fiscal quarter,” she replies. “Two weeks, all-inclusive, presidential suite.”

“I’ll make the call personally,” he promises, opening the door. “See you tomorrow.”

“Take care of the baby. And Luisa too.”

Tim chokes back a laugh and just hopes Jason didn’t hear that. He watches for a few seconds as Tam gets into the back of an Uber, and then goes back into the apartment.

It sort of feels like losing an ally once she’s gone.

Jason is sitting back on the couch now, not for comfort but seemingly to prop himself up while he holds Isa, staring down at her as if she might suddenly rear up and bite him. Which is unlikely, since she’s conked out again.

Unlikely, considering she’s down for the count again.

“So what are the odds you set up somewhere for her to sleep while you were here this morning?”

“Slim to none,” Jason replies darkly.

Something passes across his face—like grief—and Tim remembers where he picked Jason up. It occurs to him he hasn’t even asked yet what he was doing there.

He’ll tell me when he’s ready. Or he won’t. It’s not really my business how he says goodbye to the mother of his child…

“Alright. Well.” Tim considers the boxes. “I don’t know about you, but I’m not in the mood to build a crib tonight. “Either she sleeps in the carrier all night, or…I don’t know, we could make something temporary for her in your room.”

“Right, because I’m not worried enough about crushin’ her just in my hands, you think I’m putting’ her in the same bed as me?” Jason huffs.

“Well, you’d think with enough pillows on all sides of her—”

“Just get me some blankets and a laundry basket—assumin’ you own a laundry basket.”

“Of course I own a laundry basket,” Tim rolls his eyes. “Contrary to popular belief, I do know how to wash my own clothes myself.”

“But foldin’ them’s still a stretch I take it.”

“Why are you complaining? No folded clothes frees up valuable basket space for accidental baby acquisition,” Tim says. “Though I never would have thought to make a crib from a laundry basket.”

“Yeah, because you grew up rich. You think workin’ moms in the Alley can spend a hundred bucks on a crib when they’ve got mouths to feed?”

“Guess not,” Tim allows, and goes to get the required supplies.

Once in the guestroom, he considers for a while where to place the makeshift crib, before shifting one of the night tables out of the way. By the time he finishes padding and folding blankets to ensure adequate padding, Jason has appeared in the room.

As he places the infant in the soft space and begins to tuck her in, Tim says, “Don’t put the blankets around her too tight.”

“I know.”

“And you should take off that cap, so she doesn’t overheat—”

“I know!” Jason hisses, although Tim doubts very much that he does. Still, he carefully removes the snug little hat the baby has worn since the hospital.

They both pause, staring.

“Why does her head look like that?” Jason asks after a beat, wary. “Did something happen? Did someone drop her, or…?” He might not be on board with this whole impromptu-parent thing, but clearly the idea of someone dropping a baby and walking away doesn’t sit well with him.

“That’s normal,” Tim tells him, trying to sound like he’s always known this and didn’t just read it on the internet yesterday. “It will go away.”

“Conehead baby is normal?”

“Exactly how do you expect a baby to fit through the birth canal? The plates in her skull will shift back into place as her brain grows, and they’ll eventually harden. But for now, they’re still not fused.”

Jason makes a face. “That’s a messed up system.”

“Well, so far in billions of years of mammals giving birth evolution hasn’t been able to come up with anything better, so…”

Jason shakes his head, looking faintly disturbed.

“I’m going to go open up the baby monitors I saw downstairs,” Tim says. “Be right back.”

Jason doesn’t reply.

As Tim leaves the room, he spies the older man hesitantly running a finger across Isa’s cheek like he’s not sure what to do. The baby turns in the direction of his finger in her sleep.

When he returns, though, Jason is sitting at the edge of his bed, several feet away from the baby, and staring off into the distance. Tim tries not to interrupt him as he sets up one monitor on the table beside the basket.

“She was going to tell me.”

Tim blinks. “What?”

“Isabel,” Jason replies, still not entirely focused. “She was planning to tell me about the baby. She wanted me in her life. If she hadn’t…”

He trails off, shaking his head.

If she hadn’t died.

Tim knows better than to offer sympathy. Instead, he asks, “How do you know?”

“She left a note. More an email. She was going to send it but…” he trails off and shrugs. “Plans change, I guess.”

“Do they?” Tim keeps a careful tone. “For you, I mean. About what you’re going to do?”

Jason doesn’t answer right away, to the point that Tim wonders if he even heard them. Then,

“I don’t know,” he says at last. “No. Maybe if she lived, it might be different.” He meets Tim’s eyes, like he’s expecting judgment, and asks, “What would you do?”

“No idea,” Tim replies in total honesty. “I’ve never even considered being a parent.”

“Really? Not once?”

“No.”

“Even when Blondie got knocked up?” Off Tim’s surprised look, he adds, “Yeah, I heard about that. Never thought about doing the ‘right’ thing? Getting married, settling down, playing dad?”

“No. Our lives were too complicated—are too complicated.”

“They weren’t always.”

Tim snorts a mirthless laugh. “My life was always complicated. My parents weren’t exactly the gold standard for raising kids, and then after—well, I never figured any of us would live long enough to have children.”

This time it’s Jason that gives a huff of almost laughter.

“There I go again,” he drawls, “breaking the mold.”

“Setting impossible standards,” Tim agrees. “Spontaneous resurrection, improbable baby—next thing you’ll singlehandedly bring about world peace.”

“Whoa, now, let’s not get crazy,” Jason says, pretending concern. “Gotta leave something for the Justice League to do in their abundant spare time.”

“Fair point.” Tim glances out the window; the sky is clear tonight, no sign of the bat signal, but he knows better than to think Gotham is quiet. He checks the time on his phone and nods to himself. “Speaking of spare time, I’m going to head out for a few hours.”

“Patrol?”

“Actually, I think I’ll see what my friend Ives is up to.” He gives Jason a quick summary of his conversation with Damian. “Plausible deniability and all. I doubt demon brat will be interested enough to check, but you never know when that Wayne paranoid will set in.”

“Right,” Jason says, a distracted note in his voice.

Tim hesitates, watching Jason fiddle awkwardly with the baby monitor. “I don’t have to, though. If you need me to, I can just stick around here. There’s still preliminary research to do for that mob case, or I can start checking into potential families…”

“No. I’m fine. Just do whatever it is you normally do.”

“Try to sound a little more convincing there, Todd.”

“Screw you.”

Tim rolls his eyes and heads for the door. “I’m off then. Probably still won’t be a late night, though, I got barely more sleep than you.”

“Even an hour is more…”

“Still. If you want, I can feed and check on her when I get back, so you don’t have to get up with her. Just promise you won’t, like, shoot me or something if I come into your room while you’re asleep.”

Jason looks almost disgusted. “You think I’m actually keeping a gun anywhere near me while there’s a baby in the room?”

The indignation on his face is almost endearing, and Tim can’t fight the temptation to tease. “Aw, look, your Bruce is showing.”

Jason brandishes the monitor. “So help me, I’ll stuff this down your throat.”

“But then you can’t hear my pearls of wisdom,” Tim shoots back, though he’s quickly backing out of the room. “And you know you’re dying to.”

“About as much as I’d like to move to Antarctica.”

“I’m sure Clark has enough space in the Fortress of Solitude.”

“Get out of here before I kill you and it wakes up the baby.”

⁂⁂⁂

Just a reminder that in this time of the pandemic, a lot of people are being laid off or facing dire health circumstances. Writing, drawing, creating podfics, etc., is a major outlet for a lot of creative people to deal with the stress of what's going on when we feel there's not much else we can contribute. Likewise, fandom content is keeping a lot of people entertained and helping them check out when stuff gets to be too much.

Your feedback goes a LONG way to help content creators feel like they're having some small impact on the world when it often feels like we're unable to do anything. So please, take thirty seconds out of your day, and leave a comment or a question, or reblog/forward our work to your friends and family to read. Whether it's me or some other author/artist in whatever fandoms you follow, spread the love.

XOXO ~ Violet

❤️️ = I love this story! 😳 = this was hot! 💐 = thank you for sharing this 🍵 = tea spilled 🍬 = so sweet and fluffy! 🚔 = you’re under arrest! the writing’s too good! 😲 = I NEED THE NEXT CHAPTER 😢 = you got me right in the feels 🤯mind blown 🤬god damn cliffhanger 😫 whyyyyyyy?!?!?

PS: For Goddess' sake, STAY HOME! It's not even about you keeping yourself safe, but not passing on a virus that could kill someone who is immunocompromised. The longer people insist on ignoring social-distancing and quarantine, the longer this whole crisis is going to last. So do the responsible thing--stay home and read fanfiction!

Next Chapter

#jaytim #timjay #babyfic #kidfic #slow build #slow burn #Jason Todd #tim drake #tamara fox #accidental baby acquisition #original character: luisa ardila #baby isa #adulting

2 notes · View notes

reallyautomaticvoid · 6 years ago

Text

Calling It: Good Intentions

Chapter 1: Calling It: The Beginning

Characters (in order of appearance): Tim Drake, Jason Todd, Dick Grayson, Damian Wayne, Conner Kent, Tam Fox, Bruce Wayne, Ra’s al Ghul

Summary:

Timothy Jackson Drake has been Red Robin for nearly three years now. Ever since he was summarily kicked out of the Batfam (no matter what anyone in the Batfamily said), he’s been taking care of himself. He has his own back and doesn’t need anybody else help, no matter what the Titans may say (and they have a lot to say on the matter). He doesn’t need a safety net when he flies.

Note:

This was inspired by @iphoenixrising beautiful piece, Fractured, which everyone should read because, frankly, it’s incredible. I would also like to thank them for all of the help they gave me when I was starting to write this piece. Seriously, they're a wonderful person who deserves all the lovely thing in their life.

Serene and Gotham do not go together. It was almost peaceful so long as you ignore the racket of car alarms and traffic. It was excellent for Gotham. Anytime there was peace (and Gotham was not on the verge of an alien invasion) was a blessing.

Something to celebrate.

A reason to be happy.

Drumming his thumbs on the concrete roof under him, Red Robin waits in the chill. There was always, always something to do in Gotham. Punching Two-Face in the face? Great. Foiling the latest Joker scheme? Fantastic. Catching Ivy before she releases the latest version of her plant toxin? All in a days work. Hell, usually there were muggers throughout Crime Alley that Red could punch.

Quiet nights, like tonight, grants a sense of false hope. Like Gotham could do this every day. That maybe Gotham could be like any other city.

It couldn’t be.

Red Robin knew that.

The worst part wasn't the boredom (which, don't get him wrong, was fucking awful. Shit, he'd almost welcome a Ra's attack, but that wasn't due until later this week), no it was the stealthy asshat sneaking his way over to Red because, clearly, Tim couldn't see him coming.

“Hood.” Red's thumbs accelerate their drumming.

“Damn, Red, and here I was tryin' ta be sneaky.” Red Hood sinks onto the roof next to Red Robin. Red could see Hood surveying him.

"Next time, leave the steel-toed boots at home then."

Jason snorts. "Ya need a hair cut."

Red ignores Jason. “You know it’s immensely stupid to sneak up on somebody in Gotham, right?”

“Whada ya going do? Shoot me? I'd love to see you try, Babybird.”

Red scoffs as his thumbs continue to play their beat, “oh yeah, I’m the one with a history of shooting people.”

“One time.”

“Three times.”

Red ignores Jason's flinch, too busy shoving his own unwelcome memories back into their black box. One of many. Hood slitting Red's (then Robin's) throat. The hot, dry Arabian desert. The cock of a pistol. Death. Gotham rooftops. Blood. Unknown basements. Pain.

Jason bumps Red, nudging Tim out of his thoughts, Hood forces a chuckle, “eh, the first time was barely a graze.”

For the first time, Tim's thumbs froze as his head swivels around to look at Hood. Tim gave Hood one of his best Red Robin glares which only appears to amuse Hood.

“How in the Hell do you figure?”

Red could tell that Hood was grinning at him under his hood, “yer still breathing.”

Tim shakes his head, suppressing a smile. It had been over a year since Red Hood had last tried to kill him. Well, really tried to kill him. Without the Pit pulling strings.

Enough time passed so Tim 'replacing' Jason wasn't a raw wound anymore. It didn't hurt that Red had also been replaced at this point too. Shoved out of the way to make room for the family. Like Jason. Like Damian. Like Dick. The real sons.

Mostly though, Tim thought Jason finds it more useful to keep Red breathing instead of trying to stab him with a Batarang.

Again.

It's moderately difficult for a person with a slit throat to track the drugs trade in Gotham.

Shaking his head, Red resumes drumming his thumbs. “You have a terrible sense of humor.”

“Are you kidding me? It’s to die for,” Hood snickers more to himself than Red.

Red closes his eyes briefly, resisting the urge to sigh (because, damn it Hood, that shouldn’t be funny, but it was, so fuck you) before asking, “how’s Roy?”

Tim internal wince when he hears Jason swoon.

He’s fucking swooning.

Like a goddamn Disney Princess.

Oh Gods, when did this become Red’s life.

“He’s fukin’ fantastic. No, really Replacement,” Hood continues loudly over Red’s groans, “he does dis thing, with his tongue, dat makes me c—”

“SO, WHAT CAN I DO FOR YOU?” Red’s voice came out harsher than he intends in order to cover Jason’s gushing.

Red’s rules for dealing with the Bats:

1. Find out what the Bats want.

2. Give it to them.

3. Get the Hell out of Dodge.

The less time Red (Tim) had to spend with the Bats, the better. It wasn’t like he was a welcome part of the Batfamily anymore.

Hell, the only Bat member Red ever communicated with (outside of the job) was Jason. Even then only on the rare occasion Tim was in Gotham. Red put up with it because if Tim starts avoiding Jason, Hood would go out of his way to find and talk to Red. Or Tim. Either would work.

The Titans were not enthusiastic about having the formerly dead Robin on their doorstep, asking after Red and what kind of beer they had. ("PVR? Shit, Replacement, I thought you had class.")

Besides, it was better this way. Everyone was happier in their designated roles. It's easier than trying to fit a square peg into a round hole. Tim is done trying to shove that peg in anymore.

And Red's perfectly fine with it.

“B wants ya ta come ta the Manner for dinner,” Red controls a flinch that Hood graciously ignores. “Alfred making pizza.”

“Can’t. I have to run a trace on a weapons shipment,” Red lies.

It's a white lie, really. The trace on the weapons cargo (a trail Red had been working for fucking weeks now) had long since run cold. Since there were not any criminals out and about, Red should call it a night.

Oblivious as ever, Hood suggests, "do it on da Batcomputer.”

Red stifles a groan. Yes, it made a lot of sense to do it on the Batcomputer. Red hates (and he really, really hates to) to admit it, but the Batcomputer is faster than any setup that he has in Gotham. Plus, it is already hooked into Gotham PD meaning Red wouldn't waste hacking in.

For some reason, the GPD was forever upgrading their systems. It woulda been annoying except for the sense of pride Red got every time he wormed his way back into the database.

Logically, Red should do it on the Batcomputer.

But, returning to the Batcave? Ugh.

For the sake of argument, Red entered the idea of going to the Batcave.

The facts:

1. Batman would be there; that would be…unavoidable.

2. Robin would defiantly be there along with his newest pet. Through the grapevine, Red heard that somehow Robin had convinced both Batman and Agent A that he should be allowed to keep a cow in the Batcave. A cow. And to think, Bats and Agent A nearly had an aneurysm when Red had bring a guinea pig back to the Manner for a science project. It had been in a cage for Heaven sakes, but it had still been a fight to get it through the front door.

Red briefly considered if Robin was keeping the cow (dubbed Batcow for some unholy reason) was being kept in his old workspace before banishing the thought. It wasn’t any of Red’s concern what was happening in the Batcave anymore.

3. Oh fucking hell, Nightwing would be there too, come to think about it. N had moved back to Gotham after the Battle of the Cowl and the ensuing chaos that followed. As far as Red knew, N hadn't gone back to Blüdhaven nor would he after 'Haven had fallen. Nightwing would be inescapable, that is, if N even noticed Red was there. Red started drumming his thumbs again, Gods, he was beginning to sound like an angsty tween. He was twenty, not twelve for fuck sakes.

As much as his stomach yearns for Alfred's pizza, Red didn't want to go through the tedious process of expulsion from the Manor.

Not my place anymore Hood, remember?

"No, I already have all the info synced on my systems. Next time.” The tone that came out of Red's mouth was nothing like his usual tone. It was smooth. Unemotional. Insincere.

If Hood noticed the change in Red's tones, he didn't comment.

* * *

“Where were you?” Dick flips off of the high training bar, landing lightly onto the mat near Jason. Jason fought a grimace at Dick’s smirk. He had never been able to achieve Dick’s level of grace and dat fuckin' acrobatic knew it. And Jason would be damn (again) if that fuckin' asshole didn’t rub it in ta Jason’s face every fuckin' chance he got. Dick strolled pass the Demon who happened to be busy practicing with his katana (and who da fuck's bright idea was it ta give that back ta the kid? Jason, really, really didn't want ta have ta get stitches again) ta invade Jason's bubble.

“Talkin’ ta Tim,” Jason slams his helmet down onto his workbench before starting ta clean his guns.

Each of the members of the Batfamily had their own work area in the cave. Jason’s area near da garage which made it great fer a quick escape. Goldie's has his workbench next ta da mats. Demon Brat's was between Bruce's (next ta da Batcomputer) and Dick's.

The only bench dat had never been touched was fer da Replacement. It stood, damn near gleaming next ta the back of the Batcomputer where the person who was supposed ta be workin' there would have easy access ta da Batcomputer if they (Tim) needs ta repairs it.

Goldie hardly took any notice of what Jason was sayin' ‘cause he was distracted by da Brat. In fairness, it did look like the Demon Brat was tryin' ta hack the practice dummy ta death.

“Oh, that’s nice. Is he coming to dinner?”

“Busy,” Jason grunts.

“Huh, he’s been busy a lot recently,” Dick replies, still starin' at da Demon. “Damian, what on Earth are you doing with that katana? I only gave it back to you because you promised not to hurt anything with it.”

Jason misses da Brat’s response as Dick went over to correct (bicker with) Damian about the katana.

Sometimes, Jason thought, Dick was a fuckin’ idiot.

Replacement—Damn it, Tim, not Replacement (Jason was working on that)— hadn’t been near the Manner for over a year. He hadn’t been near the Batcave in almost half that time.

Yet, neither Bruce nor fuckin’ Goldie seems ta have a goddamn clue about the fucking kid. Sure, they knew what fuckin' CEO: Tim Wayne was doin’. But fuckin' really though, what tabloid didn’t?

Tim though? Ickly Baby Bird though? Dork wonder? They didn’t have a fuckin’ clue. What's worse, neither of them seem ta have a clue dat they didn't have a clue. World Greatest Detective? Shit, they couldn’t see what was goin’ on two inches from their fuckin’ face.

Jason glares down at his workbench. Shit, when had the Replacement—shit Tim— wellbeing been become fuckin’ Jason’s problem?

About a year ago, Re—Tim had gotten Jason’s nuts out of the fire. Not that Jason wouldn’t have figured a way out. He had been pinned down by drug dealers before. Sure, Jason mighta gone in a little hot (and without enough bullets and he mighta been ridin' da pit a bit, but who needed to know that?). He didn’t like drug dealers who would push their crap onto kids. It rubbed 'em the wrong way.

But Tim (fuck yeah, he got his name right)—icky Timmy-wimmy—swung in like it was noth’ and kicked some major ass. He managed to knock all the fuckin’ dealer and tied ‘em up before Jason could say shit.

Then Tim did something that Jason never expected.

He fuckin’ dragged Jason’s sorry ass back ta one of Jason’s safe houses (which Jason still doesn't know how Tim knew about dat one. It wasn't one on any of B's radar) and patched him up before leaving.

“Da fuck you do that for?” Jason slurred.

Blood loss was always a bitch.

Tim shrugged. It mighta been da blood loss, but Replacement- Tim's eyes seemed empty. “Couldn’t leave you there to die, could I?”

Tim left before Jason could respond.

It wasn’t long after dat Jason gave in to Bruce and Dick and started hanging ‘round the bats again.

Jason had expected to see Tim around the cave. After a month of not seeing Tim, he finally cracked and asked the Demon about it.

“Where’s Replacement?”

Dami looked around at him. “Tt. If you’re talking about Drake ,” he sneered the name which made Jason’s eyes roll, “he doesn’t live here anymore.”

"Isn't the kid only like, eighteen?"

Damian stared blankly at Jason. "And your point, Todd?"

Dat was da last time Jason had asked any Tim question ta any of da Bats. He did, from time to time, still yanked on Timmy’s chain, ta make sure the kid was still kickin’.

Alfred's voice pulls 'em from his thoughts as the butler calls them up fer dinner.

* * *

Tim took a deep breath in as he parked his Ducati before entering his Perch.

It had been a long week. If Tim saw one more proposal to sell WE tech to Lexcorp, he was going to scream. Some of the ideas people were having…. Tim had begun to worry about the intelligence level of those who worked for him.

Tim heavily sigh before sliding off his cowl and tunic. He glances down at the rainbow of bruises that were blooming over his torso. No need for (new) stitches tonight. Yay.

Maybe Tam would let him have an easy day tomorrow...? Tim snorts at that idea as he pokes a particular large bruise that's three different shades of purple. He was the CEO of a major company who, on average, spent less than a week a month in the office. So when Tam got him in the office…well, there was lots of paperwork. Tam likes to claim that if he was here more that there’d be less paperwork. Tim disagrees with this. If Tim were in the office more, he would have more paperwork.

Tim finally gets his costume off and pulls on his sweats. Sweats were, in Tim's opinion, one of the best things ever invented. They allow him to feel a bit more like Tim rather than Mr. Wayne or Red Robin.

Tim hums to himself as he left his perch to go up to his apartment.

Unlike his perch (where everything was in prestige condition) Tim's apartment is a disaster. While in Gotham, he was also almost always too busy to clean. After the fourth (or was the fifth?) time Tam had entered his apartment to find it in shambles, she suggested (ordered) Tim get a cleaning service. She even offered to do it herself. Tim had declined the offer because of, well, Bat.

That's how Tim found himself (at three o’clock in the fucking morning) washing his coffee mug before setting up his coffee maker for the morning.

As Tim washed the cup, he debated with himself about whether he needs to sleep tonight when he heard his phone buzz. He glances down to see Conner had sent him a text.

GO TO BED.

Tim grinning types back:

How do you know that I wasn’t snug as a bug in bed and asleep until my phone went off?

Tim sent the message off. Less than ten seconds later (which, crap, that means Con means business), his phone buzzed again.

Because I know you. Go the fuck to bed or you're grounded all weekend.

Tim snorts at that. It isn’t like the metas in the Titans would (could) ground him. He had escape plans for every one of grounding. Although, Raven had threatened she’d poof in his room and take all his Red Robin uniforms. He didn’t want to test that. So Tim texts back:

Fine. Going to bed.

Tim barely gets the coffee grounds out before his phone buzzed again.

NOW or I’m flying over there.

Tim rolls his eyes at his best friend before sending back:

My God, I need to get your cameras out of here. I’m making coffee for the A.M. then straight to bed. Night, worrywart.

As Tim put the finishing touches on the coffee, his phone went off again.

Night, reason why I have an ulcer. Oh, and don’t forget to take your vitamins!

* * *

The next morning at WE was not as bad as he was expecting.

It was so, so, so much worse.

As soon as he got in, Tam grabbed him to tell him that an investor was waiting in Tim’s office. The investor wanted to discuss why his product wasn’t in production yet.

Tim's ears were still ringing as, an hour later, he heads to a board meeting. Trying to get the board to make a decision was like trying to get Bart to slow down. Frustrating and ultimately useless.

By the end of the meeting, Tim wasn’t sure what the meeting had been about or if a decision had even been made. This all happened before lunch.

“You want the usual, Tim?” Tam asks, as Tim was about to reenter his office.

“That sounds fanatics, Tam, thanks.” He gives her a grateful half smile.

Tam hums back. “Oh and Tim, Mr. Wayne requested a meeting with you. Again.”

Tim suppresses a sigh. “What’d you say?”

“That you were going back out of town tonight and I wasn’t sure when you’d be back. Which isn't a lie because I don’t know when you’re going to be back."

Tim rubs his temples ignoring Tam’s glare. A migraine had been threatening to form for the last hour and a guilt trip from Tam was the last thing that Tim needs.

“I promise Tam, when I know, you’ll know.”

She huffs. “Fine then. I’ll get your lunch for you.”

Tim smiles at her. “Thanks, Tam.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t thank me yet. Once Mr. Wayne found out that you were going out of town again he—” but the rest of her sentence was cut off by Bruce.

Bruce coming out of Tim’s office.

Great.

Tim felt his best CEO mask slip into place. He hadn’t seen Bruce since…well, Tim wasn’t sure when the last time that he’d seen Bruce. Let alone been close enough to talk to him.

“There you are, Tim!” Brucie came out in full force this morning.

Great, this is exactly what Tim’s head needs this morning.

“He decided to stop by for a bit. See you in a few, Tim.” Tam shoots him an apologetic look before leaving.

Tam may not know all of what went down between Tim and the Bats, but she did know that it was best to keep them separate if possible or, if not, to get out of the way.

“Bruce. I wasn’t expecting to see you today. How’s Selina?” Tim keeps his voice detached as he processes these new turn of events.

What he wouldn't give for a cup of coffee...

Tim strolls into his office with Brucie following him, the door squeaking shut behind them.

“She’s great! So, son,” Tim suppresses a flinch (not your kid, remember? Just the placeholder between kids. We’re all clear on that, right? Right.). “I didn’t even know that you were in town. I thought you were still in San Francisco.”

“I’m headed there tonight,” Tim begrudgingly informs Bruce. Though neither his expression nor tone changes from the CEO mask. “So, what can I do for you?”

Bruce extracted some files from his jacket (Where did those folders come from? Red did not like not knowing that.) before thrusting them at Tim.

“Can you run the data for me on this case?”

“Not a problem.” Tim flips open the top file.

“Alfred wants you to come for dinner.”

It was a statement. Not a question.

“Can’t, sorry. I’m going to the Tower right after work. Maybe next time.” Tim replies automatically without looking up.

Brucie, however, didn’t seem to notice the tone. He was already on his cellphone, checking something.

“Right then. Next time.” Bruce left before Tim gets a chance to respond. Tim drops the files next to his desk before walking around it and sinking down into his chair. He lightly raps his head against the desk for a minute.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. Tim thinks to himself. He tries to make it a point to not tell the any of Bats of his coming or goings. Really, though, it wasn’t like any of them cared.

A voice in the back of his head (that sounded suspiciously like Con) whispers that it must be the sleep deprivation, which didn’t make any sense. Tim had gotten almost two whole hours of sleep this morning. And that's like ten normal people hours of sleep.

It really isn’t Tim’s fault that the police reports that he had been waiting weeks for had finally been put on to the Gotham server last night. Of course, he had to read them last night just to make sure they were the right ones. He wasn’t going to send the Titans, his team, off on a wild goose chase. So, he had read the report and made his own before going to bed last—this morning.

Tim's pulled from these thoughts by a knock on the door. Tam was standing there, holding a carb salad with raises eyebrows.

“Here is the thing you claim is lunch.” Tam crosses the room and places the box onto Tim’s desk.

Tim sniffs, shuffling Bruce’s papers away. “There is nothing wrong with eating a salad for lunch.”

“It’s not the salad itself I object to. It's the fact that it's your only eating a salad for lunch that weird."

“Who doesn’t like salad?”

“Most sane people.”

Tim snorts. “You realize calling your boss insane isn’t a good idea?”

“Tim, if you fired me, then you’d have to do all the paperwork,” Tam smirks at Tim’s horrified expression. “Yeah, I think my job is safe. What did Mr. Wayne want?” She nonchalantly asks.

Tim stiffens at the question. “He just wanted some data.” Tim flips the lid off the salad to see a full family sized salad sitting in front of him. “I think you may have gotten too much.”

“No, I didn't. You'll need the energy. The Lexcorp officials are coming after lunch for an impromptu meeting. Don't worry,” Tam continues at Tim's groan, "I've already told Steve down at Security to run interference." Tam turns to leave. “And I expect all of that salad to be gone by the time I get back mister,” she adds in her best mock motherly voice.

“Yes, Ma’am.” And Tim took an exaggeratedly large bit at Tam’s glare.

* * *

The rest of the day at WE went by relatively smoothly. Tim's even able to get out at a reasonable hour.

Miraculous, Tim had been able to finish the whole salad. Or, maybe it wasn’t a miracle; just Tim failing at remembering to feed himself. Tam was always good at making sure Tim ate. She claims that he was just too skinny and would attempt to force-feed him every chance she got.

Tim hums to himself as he unlocks the front door to his apartment. He was supposed to be at the tower by midnight. For once, he didn’t have to rush to get there or run the risk of being late.

There were even times that Tim thought that his three-floor apartment a little…much.

When Tim had bought it, he'd never expected that all of the space would bother him. Spending most of his childhood alone at the Drake house and then at the Manner, large empty space had never been an issue.

And Tim had been fine with it until he had started to spend more time at the tower. Tim smiles at the thought of the other Titans while dumping his briefcase onto the couch and throwing his suit jacket down too (his mother, or Alfred for that matter, would have been horrified that Tim had just thrown a custom made Armani suit onto the ground, like trash? but, hey, they weren’t here so what they do?). Tim heads down the hallway towards his bedroom, taking off the pieces of Tim Wayne: CEO costume off so he could put on his Tim Drake: Red Robin uniform on instead.

The tie went on the guest bathroom’s doorknob, and the shoes get kicked down the hallway ahead (making a small crashing noise) of him into his room. By the time Tim reached his bedroom, he was just in his undershirt and pants.

Red stills.

Something wasn’t right.

Red looks around, trying to figure out what was misplaced. His eye roved over the neat mess also known as his closet. He really should get somebody in to clean it but who has the time to vet a new hire? His dresser was pulled open with clothing spilling out of it.

Tim did have a ridiculous amount of clothing.

Tim’s eyes froze on his bedside table. There was the usual clutter (empty soda cans, coffee mugs, Chinese food containers, etc.) but there, sitting neatly embedded on top of all of the disarray was a gleaming knife.

A blade used personally by the Demon’s Head.

Tim had only seen that dagger a handful of times before. None of those memories were pleasant.

A bubble of panic began to form in his chest. Shit, shit, shit. I do not have time for this today Ra’s. Tim casually reached towards his distress beacon.

He hadn’t even moved an inch before pain met him.

Tim was hurled forward before slamming down onto his bed by a force behind him.

“Now, now, Detective. We can’t have you spoiling all the fun now, can we?” Ra’s voice came from a spot a few feet in front of Tim where he'd magically appeared.

Fucking hell. I don’t have time for this.

“We wouldn’t want you to call those pesky Titans, now would we?”

“Go to Hell, Ra's.” Tim's voice was somewhat less intimidating, what with the three ninjas smashing into his back and a pillow smothering him.

“Tut, tut. Language, young Detective.” Tim feels the stab of a syringe going into his neck followed by a burning sensation. The world began to get fuzzy. “It wouldn’t do for the next Demon’s Head to insult his predecessor.”

There's a rushing noise in Tim's ears which is only drowned out by the steady beat of his heart. Lights begain to dim. Tim's arms were getting heavery as he struggled to move. Tim give a weak kick towards the person pinning him down wich barely rocks the bed. The world is quickly closing in on Tim.

Before he completely passes the fuck out, Tim manage to say, “What would you prefer Ra’s, Real Housewives of Gotham or Metropolis? Because one of those will be playing on a loop for days before I’m done.”

The last sound Tim hears before sleep overtakes him is of Ra's laughing.

Thanks for reading!

AO3 link here:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/18106355/chapters/42802829

#Tim Drake #Jason Todd #Dick Grayson #Damian Wayne #Conner Kent #Tam Fox #Bruce Wayne #Ra's al Ghul

192 notes · View notes