#bruce had to cinch himself into that suit

[mild-and-hammered]

I just know some Bludhaven goons watched Bruce!Nightwing pop his back like an old man, realized it was Batman they were fighting, and ran.

Like they'd have run from Nightwing too, but they heard a dad sneeze and creaking knees and knew they were fucking in for it

[fanficsandfluff]

Acting on the Truth

Fandom: DCEU, Zack Snyder’s Justice League

Characters: Bruce Wayne, Arthur Curry, Diana Prince, Barry Allen, Clark Kent, Victor Stone

Words: 2,046

It wasn’t fair and everyone in the room knew it wasn’t. Most especially Bruce, since he was the one on the receiving end of the group’s taunts. 

“Guys,” Bruce’s own voice sounded a little too high for his liking, so he cleared his throat and resumed in a near Batman-esque growl, “Can you all just knock it off?”

“Big guy in a carbon-fiber suit. Take that away and what are you?” Arthur shot back with a horrible gleam in his eyes.

“Ticklish,” Barry mumbled in glee beside him. 

Diana smiled wide but then tried to tamp it down a bit when she saw Bruce glance her way. We don’t want to embarrass him too bad, of course. Keep it civil. 

“I still...” Bruce paused and took a breath as opposed to stuttering through his sentence, “I still don’t see why you’re all so gung-ho about this. Everyone is ticklish.”

Arthur actually chuckled this time, throwing his body into the deep noises for emphasis, “Because you’re the freaking bat, big guy! It’s so... perfect.”

“We should just get him already,” Victor chimed in finally after standing in silence, observing the scene. 

Bruce was in the center of the room, leaning against his desk. He was surrounded on all sides by superheroes, and he was far outmatched in the superpower department. He remained silent as he stood up straight and headed for the door. He made it through, only to be stopped by Clark on the other side. 

All morning. All morning they were pestering him and making comments and giggling amongst themselves all because they saw Diana accidentally tickle his neck when they were working. And he reacted. Rookie move. 

Bruce shifted his eyes upward so he wouldn’t have to tilt his whole head to get a look at Clark’s face. No weakness, come on, Bruce.

He suddenly felt a very strange, speedy tickle along both of his sides, but it was over in a flas-- oh, fucking Barry.

Bruce’s arms cinched to his alerted sides and he turned around to see Barry in exactly the same spot he was in before he left the other room. Then he had Clark smirking at him from the other side. 

“Children,” Bruce mumbled to himself in a whisper as he got past Clark, knowing full-well Clark could probably hear him what with super hearing or whatever it was. 

“Alfred,” Bruce’s voice was now louder, “Lock the Batcave. Security breach protocol. No one gets in,” and he nearly made it to the secret door to the cave, too. He would’ve. If Diana hadn’t sidled up to him and caressed his forearm with her nails.

“Bruce,” she spoke softly, “We meant no harm.”

The Bat clenched his jaw but he did look at her. Her touch sent chills up his arm. 

“I know you don’t. It’s humiliating to be tickled, even though I honestly probably wouldn’t mind if you all tickled me--Hey!” Bruce shot his whole body back as if he was shocked. Diana giggled innocently, the Lasso of Truth’s end wrapped around the hand she held Bruce’s arm with. 

Expecting his whole world to come crumbling around him from the sheer embarrassment of what he just spoke aloud for everyone to hear, it was Bruce who was stunned when he finally looked around at the group who had followed him into this new room from the study and observed their faces. What he thought would be followed by deep, mocking laughter, instead were the caring, understanding faces of the people he now cared about. His cheeks were dusted pink, and yes, they could all see it behind his stubble. 

“It--It’s not something...” he shut his eyes and exhaled through his nose, “That wasn’t an invitation.”

And then Clark laughed, and the things that happened next were in a quick blur that maybe spanned 15 seconds. 

When he stopped and really thought about what happened, this is what he came up with: Diana snuck up behind him and gave him a hug, or what he thought was a hug, but she slipped that Lasso around his wrists and cinched them. Then Arthur came forward and hoisted Bruce over his shoulder and unceremoniously dumped him on the couch only a few feet away. Barry blocked any attempts of Bruce trying to get up and run away. Diana used the Lasso and yanked his arms up over his head and Victor locked in on his now raised wrists, grip stronger than iron. And the next thing he knew, everyone was surrounding him, smiling like jerks. 15 seconds. This all happened too fast for him to even stand a chance.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t...” Arthur drawled out as he leaned against the couch, almost straddling Bruce, “... mind if I do,” and with a feral grin, he dug in. 

“Ow! You fuhucking--” Bruce clamped his lips tight. Arthur’s tickling was a little rough. Now Bruce was struggling, using all his meditative might to not break. He did growl a lot though. And curse through his teeth. 

“You’re not doing it right,” Barry admonished after a few seconds of unsuccessful no-laughter. 

“He’s a tough dude, I figured I’d also be tough.”

“Try his hips,” Clark spoke from behind the back of the couch. 

Bruce eyed the Kryptonian, wondering what in the sweet ungodly hell gave it away... the eyes. The glowing eyes of x-ray vision. He could see nerve endings??

Arthur’s thumbs were in his hip joints in an instant and Bruce bucked, unable to really do much in Victor’s steely, unmoving grip. He laughed, oh god he did laugh. It was a loud burst of something that honestly sounded more like a scream than a laugh, but then there was a forced smile on his face that he tried to hide by shoving it into his raised arm. 

“Ahaww,” Barry cooed aloud and blushed when he realized he, indeed, did it aloud. 

“He’s going to kill all of you,” Victor pointed out.

“You’re included in this, aren’t you?” Barry asked, “Or are those not your arms holding him down?”

“Shh, you’re going to miss it,” Diana quieted the bickering men as she kneeled at the side of the couch and she started skittering her nails across Bruce’s sides and belly as Arthur tried not tickling so hard that he might leave bruises if he kept going.

Bruce arched his back and now he was laughing more continuously. He tried to keep it to just huffs of air after that first screamer sound, but now with all their dumbass banter and Diana’s nails, it was a lot. 

His chest rumbly laughter started to ooze out and there wasn’t much of anything more Bruce could do to stop it. He was overpowered, over-weakened, and now over-tickled. 

“Bruce, you may need to think about breathing. You’re turning red,” Clark offered sage advice. Yeah, thanks, dickhead, really helpful right now.

He was red and he knew it was because he was still trying with all his might to hold a little something in. Just a piece. If he could prevent himself from really letting go, he could still say he kept a shred of his dignity. 

Next thing he knew, there were new appendages at his armpits. Well, fuck.

Bruce cackled some more, the metaphorical dam burst all for one log or two. Dignity, man. One piece.

Bruce hadn’t spoken for a while now. After cursing at Arthur, he became so focused on not giving fully in that he didn’t have it in him to verbally fight or protest. 

By now he had six hands on him. Arthur still at his hips (and by now he figured out if he switched between a harsh digging in to then a slightly softer massage motion of his thumbs, it got to Bruce the best), Diana’s mischievous Amazonian nails wreaking havoc across his taught but expansive belly and sides, and now Victor with his extra mini arms that sprout from his back, scratching methodically into the hollows of his armpits. 

And hey, that was honestly pretty superhuman of him. He could take six super-hands wrecking his ticklish body without fully breaking. And that thought that he was still a little powerful was the last straw in the dam of laughter that burst from him. They all knew and recognized that Bruce was strong in his own ways, he didn’t need to shoot lasers from his fingers or punch a guy into the next planet. And Bruce finally got to that thought himself, even though it took some extra time. He was ready to let go. 

Oh, I might mention that it might’ve also been the quick addition of Barry pinching his kneecap that did it, but we’ll agree to disagree.

The whole group wore identical grins when they got Bruce to laugh and succumb to his ticklishness. 

“Can I try?” Barry asked Arthur, looking over his shoulder.

“Yeah, g’head, speedy.”

And they switched positions, which gave Bruce a breather as Diana and Victor also stopped. There was the time to suck in oxygen.

Barry looked a little nervous to be doing what he was about to be doing. 

“Well?” Arthur nudged the kid’s back, “You gonna start?”

And just like that, Barry’s fingers were lightning. He took a much different approach than Arthur. While Arthur stayed in exactly the same spot and kept at it with forceful motions, Barry’s hands were everywhere. And he wasn’t even using his super speed because you could follow where his hands were going. 

Bruce’s laugh came out very surprised and slightly higher in pitch than the laughs he previously gifted them with. 

“Oho shit!” Bruce finally cursed again, as well. Why did it tickle so much? 

“I can’t believe I’m tickling Batman,” Barry quipped. He got some chuckles from the team.

There was a moment where Barry and Diana gasped simultaneously, and Arthur barked out his own laugh. Barry had zoned in on Bruce’s stomach and whatever happened and why, Bruce snorted as he took in air to make room for more laughter. Even Clark giggled when he knew he heard what he heard, raising a fist to his mouth so as to not embarrass Bruce further.

“Shuhut--Shut up! Ahall of you, fucking shut uhuhup,” Bruce was regaining some of that dignity we mentioned earlier. 

“We aren’t laughing at you,” Diana reassured. 

“That was honestly cute, Bruce,” Victor agreed. 

“Do it again,” Arthur spoke into Barry’s ear but it was not at all meant to be a whisper. Now Barry was on the hunt for more snorts. He did find one more in his search, but that’s all Bruce would allow him. 

And then the fingers stopped and Victor’s grip loosened. Bruce’s arms came crashing down and he started to hunch and curl in on himself. 

They waited until his residual breaths slowed to near normal. Diana reached her hand out towards Bruce’s face and the poor guy flinched away. 

Diana’s airy laughter floated out for a moment, “I wasn’t going to tickle,” she tried again and brushed hair that had fallen askew during the attack out of Bruce’s eyes and off his forehead. 

“You’re pr--”

“Fuck off.”

And then the team laughed. All of them. Bruce’s harsh cut-off of whatever Clark had to say even made him smile. 

That lasso may have had something to it... well, besides godly power. It was the Lasso of Truth after all, wasn’t it? Yeah, for all his show and bravado, this was all Bruce wanted. And he couldn’t have dreamed of it happening under better circumstances. 

With grumblings and mutterings of ‘I’m too old for this shit’ and the like, Bruce groaned his way into a sitting and then a standing position. They all had some real work to do, so they might as well get to it. Diana kissed him on the cheek for being a good sport, and Clark even clapped him on the shoulder. Barry couldn’t get a big dumb smile off his face, hard as he tried, and despite the others mentioning it to him multiple times. Arthur wiggled his fingers in the air at Bruce once and Bruce glared daggers at him. Victor was even smirking from time to time thinking about one of their big guns being ticklish like that. 

One big, happy family. 

[steamedtangerine]

Conan’s steamy early years at Harvard Lampoon!

The image and text that follows are from the collection of Joel Harrison on Flickr:

Conan O'Brien, the early years

Yes, there is an explanation for this very strange picture of a very young Conan O'Brien. But you'll have to read the following text to find out. This story was written in 2002 and originally appeared in Oop, the zine I used to publish. I've condensed it for this occasion.  

As I sat on the granite steps in front of an office building on Madison Avenue peeling off my overly hot winter socks and replacing them with a just purchased thinner pair, I looked up to see myself being stared at by a man in a seersucker suit with matching polka-dot handkerchief and bow tie. It seemed like a New York moment. “Are you lookin’ at me?! Are you lookin’ at me?!!”

That was hours before catching a shuttle van to Kennedy Airport following a week’s vacation. The days preceding were nearly as eventful.

One memorable afternoon my wife and I attended a taping of Conan O’Brien’s “Late Night.” After a long wait in the hallways, we were funneled into the studio. The floor inclined steeply, with the back row just beyond touch of the ceiling. It looked like a small school auditorium except for the stalactite mess of spotlights and speakers clustered over our heads.

The crowd was directed to their seats in orderly fashion, and even though Jenni and I were far from the front of the line, we were seated in the front row.

In short order, “Mike,” the warm-up comedian, came bounding into the audience. Dressed in college frumpery – baggy jeans, running shoes, T-shirt -- he did a good job, starting slowly and gathering momentum and laughs as he went.

Next, the band came out. Led by Max Weinberg, the legendary drummer for Bruce Springsteen, they played mostly jazz and R&B. Unlike the rest of the band, Max affects the demeanor of a securities trader, wearing a conservative suit with a forgettable tie cinched tightly to his windpipe.

Finally, Conan himself trotted out and outdid the warm-up guy. He’s very funny. Some bits, you think, must be old standbys, eliciting laughs night after night. But mostly he improvised on what the folks in the crowd said to him. I would have been happy to skip the show entirely if he had just entertained us like this for an hour or so.

Especially since the show was … well, it might be characterized as an off night.

Or was it? Maybe the cameras and all the ancillary folks hovering around the edge of the set distracted me from enjoying the show. It was all very interesting, but not rollicking funny like his show so often is.

I was very eager to attend a “Late Night” taping because I have a special connection to Conan. Years ago, when I lived in Boston, I picked through the trash one day outside the Harvard Lampoon castle on Mt. Auburn Street. I pulled out a bunch of photographs -- apparently illustrations for articles. Among them was a shot taken in a TV studio showing men in grass skirts competing against giant bunnies in a game of Twister.

I didn’t know it at the time (sometime in the early ’80s), but Conan was Harvard Lampoon president that year. And of course, I had no idea he was one of the grass skirt-wearing contestants in the photo.

A few months before our New York vacation, I wrote to Conan.

Dear Conan,

I used to live in Boston. One day I rummaged through the trash at the Harvard Lampoon building. I guess I was down on my luck at the time. I was hungry enough that the smallest morsel might have made the difference. I needed just the smallest scrap of humor. Just a wee laugh and I would have been on my way with a smile.

Apparently, every last bit of humor had found its way onto the pages of the Lampoon, for there was nothing in those cans to evince even the slightest chuckle. I didn’t walk away empty-handed though. I found a cache of inscrutable photos. They spoke of a world that those who live outside the walls of the Lampoon Castle could never fathom.

I send them to you for your examination. And for your verification: For, lo, isn’t that you in the grass skirt and rippling pecs (second from left)?

My thought is, that with your personalized autograph, the photo could fetch close to $10 from the generous souls at Celebrity Skin magazine. (Could be a bit of a career boost for you!)

Very best wishes,

Joey Harrison

P.S. You’re welcome to keep any you like except the “Twister game” shot, which I do hope you’ll autograph for me (assuming that’s you in the shot). I’ve enclosed a stamped envelope for its return.

By the time we left for New York, I hadn’t heard from Conan. I was mad. Apparently Mr. Bigshot TV star has no time for little people who still put their pants on one leg at a time.

So sitting in the audience at the “Late Night” taping I was torn between conflicting thoughts. Should I laugh along with everyone else or should I storm the stage and assault him with imprecations and tears. Conan would be stunned, dumbfounded. His producer, who ordinarily in a situation like this would have the security staff executing a Code Red maneuver, would spread his arms peremptorily and whisper violently: “Hold on guys; this is great TV!”

But I did no such thing, preferring to fix him with a meaningful glare whenever he looked my way. My hope was that for weeks afterward Conan would be haunted by my visage. “What did I do to upset that man in the front row?

Some weeks after returning from New York, I finally heard from Conan. He’d kept the photos, as I’d invited him to do, and returned the grass-skirt shot with this note: “To Joey – ah, youth! Conan O’Brien.”

So all is forgiven. Conan is once again my best bud; our meaningful connection is reaffirmed.

_________________________________________________________________

As a personal note: 1.) I’ve heard some bizarre stories about getting into the Harvard Lampoon by Bill Griffith.

2.) In the year and a half time I lived in the Boston/Harvard area, I was down-on-my-luck and a trash-scrounger, as well. Very good, clean, and salvageable books were a regular acquisition, and I had quite the constant flow going to and from various used bookstores (including to my old boss, another homeless person who ran an outdoor stand in front of the tobacconist shop in Harvard Sq.), phony overflowing book “charity” donation boxes (if I didn’t liberate them, the rain would destroy most of them), take-a-book/leave-a-book Free Libraries, and even some of the lending libraries in some charitable institutions (like Margaret Fuller House). Good art books were oddly common (like one oversized book about the history of animation I gave to my brother for his birthday or a really cool battered illustrated book about the ugliness of HUAC I found in a pile of boxes being dumped in front of an apartment complex where a professor had died), and I wish I had been in a better standing to have rescued three garbage bags full of Communications Arts being tossed.

Whether it was getting my weekly stash of coupons from the weekend edition inserts in one reliable recycling can behind an apartment complex near Mt. Auburn or waiting for the huge trash hauls to come from the spoiled, rich kids leaving BU, MIT, and Harvard (got a battered laptop for my GF at the time, passed up one rather impressive bong at MIT, some decent clothes from the yearly put out by Quincy House-one of the few Harvard houses to actually compile everything tossed out by students-mini-fridges and all-into the courtyard for anyone to grab, and once I found $160 in twenties discarded in a nice hygiene kit in one Harvard dumpster where a buddy of mine found scores of discarded half-drunken liquor bottles).

Ahhh-I even dressed better then as a scrounger in Boston than I do now in Detroit and even still, my fashion was just a half-step off for all the usual upscale populace to notice I was on a “lower caste tier”.

The only time it ever felt rewarding is when I would rescue bags (gym, backpack, etc.), patch em’ up, clean them, give them away at FNB, and later wonder if it was all worth it, only to see someone get on the Redline wearing the exact backpack I fixed and gave away.

anywho...

3.) I was rather surprised to find out Andy Richter supplies the voice for a beat-up fire engine in a series called Dirty and Stinky about a dump truck and a steam shovel.

[cleverbxrd]

          When Tim submitted his Patrol Report, he left out the part about his emotional compromise.

          His jaw hurt. He was probably still clenching his teeth as he typed and retyped up the note to send to his boss, his ‘dad’, for an impersonal briefing. His ears were covered by rounded, black headphones that deafened any noise of celebration outside, not that Gotham was one for much celebration. (New Years Eve, Calendar Man could be out and about)

          The music was supposed to numb his skull, or at least it was an attempt to. He’d experienced the worst of the worst on the grime-covered streets of his hometown, but his heart and his head still ached. It was a dull pain, but it flared every so often, and he wished he’d just stop overthinking. He knew that was impossible, that was his thing, his use. He was the Thinker, the smart one… so, do your thing. With a hefty sigh, his shoulders digging into his desk chair, he closed his eyes, the bass thumping against his brain goading his thoughts to puzzle themselves together as he rationalized what happened, and why he felt so strongly. Sure, he was a piss-poor counselor, but he was a pretty damn good detective.

          Check the report. At what time did this happen?

          Time was really irrelevant to the bat. You try to live life in the daylight, follow the cape-tails by night’s shadows, you forget where the days end and begin. The numerous restless nights he was prone to staying fully awake for didn’t help much with that either, neither did working on holiday. Tim didn’t mind patrolling New Years Eve, he felt he didn’t have anything better to do. It was either make his rounds or watch on a computer screen how much fun it seemed like the rest of the world was having. He opted to actually do something with his night when he didn’t have to worry about classes in the morning. 

          Mistake number one. 

          He was halfway done, circling the shared bay shoreline when he’d gotten the text. It made his heart flutter as the words stretched into his vision, the small heads up display mounted on his white lenses causing more of a distraction than he thought. He’d nearly forgotten he was free-falling, catching himself out of breath from landing hard on rooftop concrete. Conner. Cassie. They were there. He tried not to go, tried to stay away from New York, from the Brooklyn borough, from that warehouse lot decked to the 9s for the turning of the decade (which… in all technicality, it was not.)

          Mistake number two. 

          He’d sat in the shadows, perched high above, scanning the area for familiar faces, heat signatures, anything matching databases he’d had on file. He wasn’t getting anywhere, doubted why he was even there, watching the party goers with the eyes of a hawk. 

          He lied to his best friend, saying he was still on patrol, saying he’d come out if he found the time to, and of course he believed him. Lying came so easy to him, too easy. He didn’t think about it too much, might scare him. It was part of the job, he couldn’t afford to be 100% truthful. No time to worry about the morality of white lies, just keep thinking about where it started, why it started. Find the source of the feeling.

           His memory flashed forward.

           Civvies were ridiculously hard to vacuum-pack into a utility belt, but somehow he’d managed to shove a few things from his wardrobe into the small compartments of the crossed belts. It was always just in case, just in case he needed to suddenly become part of the crowd, just in case he needed a change of clothes that wasn’t shredded, just in case he needed to attend a surprise party where his friends were having fun.

          Fun, now there was a word. When was the last time he’d been fun? Sometime before the first red and black suit, muddled in there with the green tights and ninja boots. He’d tried to be a mini-Bruce, but the physically youngest, and usually shortest, member of their old team acting like the sternest leader of the League had only caused humor from his teammates. He abhorred it at the time, but thinking back he would give anything for that friendly teasing again, for him to accept it with a smile instead of the nearly trademarked scowl he still wore.

          The slightly over-sized sweater covered most of the costume almost perfectly, the cape wrapped tightly around the cinched and belted waist of his Kevlar-spandex suit. It really was the final piece of the puzzle, a disguise over a disguise. Deceit blanketing a lie. So many lies, too many to count, why did he feel like he had to lie so much? To Him? To Himself?

          He’d only go in for a moment, only stay and say hello to the people he knew and leave before people noticed one of the Wayne sons was there. That was the plan, and he wanted to stick to it. His emotions told him otherwise. He’d been brave enough to come all this way, his subconscious rationalized. He felt something bubble up in his stomach, a smile stretching his pale cheeks as he pulled the cowl off of his overgrown hair. To Hell with it all, it was New Years Eve, if he remembered correctly. They were both there, he was in there. He could confess, get it off of his chest, never have to say another word about it. If his hypothesis was correct, they’d both simply forget about it the next morning, or laugh it off like the bird himself had gotten too wasted to care.

          If they didn’t think too hard about it, it could just go away and Tim wouldn’t have to worry about losing his best friends to his infatuation, his desire.

          But it wouldn’t be that simple. Not by a long shot.

          Mistake. Number. Three.

          What a sucker, he’d been. What a fool.

          He’d forgotten to note the time, or maybe was too ignorant of it to try to check. He was already numb from sitting alone outside of the festivities, all noise was white noise. He didn’t even notice Cassie, if she was even at her position when he sheepishly wandered in. Immediately, as always, he felt out of place, uncomfortable in his own skin as the world slowed down around him. Rich boy galas were one thing to attend, nearly pinned into a tight tux with a tie that felt like it could choke you the minute you proposed some outlandish idea to the wrong funder. City-wide parties were an entirely new beast, like a Gotham bar on Saturday night with a little less violence and a little more in the population. The drinking seemed to be of the same caliber, he could smell it radiating off some people who passed him by, taking little to no notice of him. He was probably drunk off his ass too, the party boy, Casanova, tail-chaser. Observing the other attendees led him to believe that Conner wouldn’t even remember he was there, or the texts they’d sent just minutes ago. He was about to simply leave and try his Hallmark speech of love some other time when he saw-

          The sharp pang in his chest lit like a fire again. Tim nearly doubled over in his chair, clutching at his shirt and gasping for air. Don’t panic, don’t do this. You’re breathing, your heart is beating. You can feel your floor under your feet, the clothes on your back, your face, your hair, you’re still there, still here. Tim found his hands gripping at the raven mess on top of his head, slightly skewing the headphones gripping tight around his ears. He roulette-wheeled through his various breathing meditation techniques and found himself filling his chest with oxygen once more, the faded world around him coming through clearer instead of the molasses he felt like he’d just jumped into. He tried to settle himself back into the chair, slumping further down as his pulse pounded against his ribs, almost like it was trying to run away from the husk it sat inside. He was starting to believe that vital organ was more of a nuisance for rattling his core.

          Don’t focus on that, you need a distraction. Remember the night. You’re a Detective. Start asking questions.

          What happened?

          I don’t...I don’t want to talk about it.

          When did it happen?

          New Years Eve. Stroke of midnight. It’s all in the briefing, you wrote it.

          Who was there?

          Probably half of the population of New York City. And Him.

          He’s important to you.

          You don’t get to tell me what I already know. Keep digging.

          Your memory stopped at a particular moment. How did that moment make you feel?

          He slingshot himself back into the exact frame, frozen in time, zeroed in through a telescopic lens. How did he feel? It was such a simple question, but the answers sat brewing in his head before he could find the names.

          Name the first feeling. Now!

          Anger.

          At Conner? Never, not truly. He’d get annoying, but at a point it had become almost charming. At himself? Of course, he was always angry at himself in one capacity or another. Tim was far from a perfectionist, but a people pleaser he certainly was. The need for approval always egged him on, even if he didn’t want to admit it. When he’d given arm and leg without any hint of positive effect, it brought him down. He was too smart not to recognize his own faults, he couldn’t afford to look at himself as perfect. Quite the opposite actually.

          Damn. You’re good.

          I know, keep looking. Name another one.

          Remorse. 

          He didn’t say anything sooner. Maybe he’d be there earlier, snagged that picturesque moment for the few seconds he’d bore witness to it. Why did that matter? A strange tangent from his current thought process, his usual pinched thinking face further pointing into a tight squint. He thought they were looking for a feeling, a clue to this confusing panic he was putting himself in. But… why did it matter?

          Keep. Looking.

          Sadness. 

          It caked every bone in his scrawny little body, soaked into the trained muscles that he hid from his non-heroic acquaintances. He’d been sad for a long time, and he blamed no one but himself. The lingering tears that always dared to fall at a moments notice, the silent sobs he wished he could give sound to, the will seeping away as he would give into what felt like his whole core. There was a word for that, something any normal psychologist would smack him with until he exhausted his resources. Tim knew he was depressed, knew it wasn’t going to go away any time soon, and he didn’t need a therapist telling him over and over again. He just needed to talk, they’d say, about the trauma. They wouldn’t understand, couldn’t understand.  What was the fucking point? Regardless, something that rooted couldn’t have just popped up so suddenly.

          Dig deeper.  What are you feeling now?

          Things.

          Be specific, damn it. You were before, don’t shut down on me.

          Bad things.

          Bad… the word echoed as his all of his mental visuals faded away. They were replaced by a flurry of clues, piecing together strange mental ‘evidence’ that somehow was his key to cracking his head case. He sat bolt upright, his eyes wide as he stared at his glowing computer screen, his mind’s eye making a cork-board with red rope, not too dissimilar to his walls in the dark room he was sitting in. One by one, the items tacked themselves in random orders, random places.

          A question mark, a bloodstained cloak, neon signs, tights and gloves, pixie boots and scaly spandex, hair that flew away from a sickening smile as if the locks themselves were scared of its owner, an alien’s toxic rock. It hit him like a brick.

          Green. Envy. Jealousy.

          How could he not have seen it immediately?

          Jealousy. 

          The same fire that festered in the pit of his stomach when the title he used to wear like a badge of honor was given without question to the ‘true blood son’. The same stabbing coolness when blue birds were let loose to fly free and he was caged for the mishaps of the past. The same rope, choking his words when he sees what he thinks are shattered hopes of something finally good in his Roman Tragedy play of a life.

          A shocked breath comes out in a staccato heave, hands losing their grips on arm rests and hanging limp as the realization washed over him like a sign from some god out there somewhere. “Of. Fucking. Course.” The words came out of his throat slow and hoarse, and they almost surprised him. He’d nearly forgotten how to speak over the blare of noise in his ears.

          Timothy Jackson Drake, you’re a selfish, jealous bastard.

          Another groaning exhale, and he brought his limp frame back to sitting up again, an impulsive urge to throw his head through his keyboard growing stronger by the ticking seconds. Emotions running wild were bad, very bad. It jeopardized the Mission, that’s what he was told. It’s what got him into this mess, every mess, in the first place, basing things on emotions. Somehow, giving names to them all didn’t make it better, and he felt his stomach drop again.

          So, Detective, you’ve found a conclusion.

          A diagnosis / analysis .

          What do you suppose we do about this?

          Turn into a robot.

          Negatory.

          Turn someone else into a robot.

           Double negatory.

          An audible sigh, brows knitting together as he started to get annoyed with himself. One hand floated up to press under the messy locks falling at his temples, the screaming in his ears nearly matching volume with what he felt in his chest. Shutting his mind out for a moment, he carefully listened to the sounds actually coming through the headphones. He’d thrown on a shuffle, his own mind-melting playlists that bombard his senses with overblown guitar rifs and rapid drum beats. Okay, they usually numb him out. What was he even on?

          Oh. Of course.

          He nearly smacked the cold coffee mug off the desk, throwing his hands on top of his face and rocking back yet again with a muffled scream. Back again, a pendulum in a clock, he caught his reflection in the screen. Dark circles made a mask around his icy eyes, a second mask to hide the horror he had become. Catching himself staring back was shocking, but he was transfixed and couldn’t move. When was the last time he really took a look at himself? And why the hell did it have to be over something as stupid as a kiss? He found his hand tracing the almost domino-shaped outline, wondering if it was a trick of the dim light, or possibly residual gunk from under the cowl. He could hope for the best possible outcome, but hope was yet again his downfall. Permanent. Dark. Hard as he tried, his thoughts and the mask just wouldn’t go away.

          Another breath. Root. You’re solid. He’s solid. His feet planted on the ground as he pushed up and away from the desk, stumbling to the discarded costume on one of the mess piles. Specific mess piles, weakly placed where could find things in seconds regardless of the disaster it seemed (that sounded familiar…). Alfred, neat freak of a butler he was, wouldn’t dare disturb Tim’s organized chaos. This room was like a safe cell for Tim, and he was an adult damnit, he could make as much of a mess as he wanted. He dug one hand under the lazily thrown cape, finding the smooth metal of the collapsed staff just where he’d left it, and it felt surprisingly light in uncovered hands. Unlatching it from the bandoleers splayed out like spider legs, he tossed the short tube around until it landed firmly in his left palm. His knuckles stretched white as his grip tightened. A lifeline, a grounding wire.  

          Tim ripped the headphones off of his head, tossing them haphazardly on his desk. He hit delete, omitting nearly an entire 30 minutes of time in his notes he was just going to blame on travel time. Bruce would have to believe that, especially if he’d ceased radio signals the minute he’d stalked the event. He sent the page away, encrypted thrice and swinging through two secure data waves just for safe-keeping. He may be out of his goddamn mind and feeling things out his ass, but he knew better than to send anything to the big data store without preparing for any intercepting forces. He stalked out of his personal cave and wandered into the other one, the bigger one set under the manor, as deep and dark as the nearly permanent markings under his exhausted lids. It was big enough to make any super man feel small, maybe a super boy even smaller. His feet hit the training deck without him really noticing where he was, a faceless body facing him and his trustworthy staff.

          The familiar, echoing clicks with the smallest flick of his wrist was too satisfying to say. He situated himself against the motionless statue, a one sided versus match. He wasn’t going for grace, he wasn’t going for style, and he certainly wasn’t going for finesse. He was going to channel his muddled emotions into one. Build the pressure and release, the extended staff a vessel for the pain he felt clawing at him inside. A release valve, a bomb fuse.

          No faces, no names, no underlying motive.

          Make it brainless, give yourself a break, give way to the horrible things you could do and focus them on one, non-harmful target.

         Just hit shit.

[momentofmemory]

fictober - day twenty-two

Prompt #22: “We could have a chance.”

Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe (Captain America Films & Avengers Films)

Rating: T

Characters: Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanoff

Words: 1100

Author’s Note: a series of nine interconnected drabbles spanning avengers (2012) - avengers: endgame (2019), +1 double drabble to round it out. was intended platonically but can be very easily be read as romanrogers if you so desire.

>>One More Chance (and another, and another)

1. Steve’s barely two weeks out of 1945 the first time he sees it.

They don’t know each other: he only knew she existed as of this morning, and she seems like the kind of person that doesn’t really care either way.

But she’s the only person he’s spent time with in the twenty-first century that doesn’t look at him like he belongs in a museum, so he barges into her room and says, “Time to go.”

She turns and says go where, but her eyes say we could have a chance.

For the first time, Steve thinks he might, too.

2.

“You know Maria’s single these days.”

Steve sighs and pushes his uniform deeper into his locker. “Natasha…”

"I’m just saying, she’d probably appreciate your whole strong, silent type schtick.”

“I’m not interested in dating,” he says, slamming the door shut. “We’ve been over this.”

“Steeeeeve.”

There’s no universe in which Steve thought he’d hear Black Widow whining.

“Come on. You could still have a chance.”

“Maybe I wish I didn’t.”

Before he can walk away, Nat’s hand darts out and grabs his arm. “I’m glad you do.”

He blinks, genuinely shocked by her concern.

She’s gone before he can reply.

3.

“Move, Natasha.”

She doesn’t budge from her position in front of him, determined even as gunfire ricochets around them. “Don’t be stupid, Rogers. No one has a chance in hell of getting through there.”

Steve cinches his shield tighter around his still-bleeding arm. “If I take out the guard on the turret, you should be able to manage the rest.”

“Steve—”

“Nat.” He searches out her gaze and holds it until he’s sure he has her attention. “I could have a chance. Trust me.”

Natasha hesitates a second longer, then steps aside.

“Guess you’re called the Cap for a reason.”

4. 

Steve finds her, after.

After training the new recruits, after handling the PR nightmare, after a week has passed, after she bores a hole into the wall from staring at it for hours.

(Bruce doesn’t come back.)

Steve sits down beside her and says nothing, and she leans against his shoulder with a sigh.

“So this is why you turned down that girl from accounting—Lidia?”

“Lillian,” he says. “And she turned out to be a HYRDA agent, actually.”

“Goshdarn.”

Steve snorts. Then he shrugs. “You’ll have another chance.”

“That your professional opinion?”

“Experiential.”

She hums, thoughtfully. “Shared life experience.”

5.

Steve’s latest lead is another dead end.

There’s one less HYDRA base in the world, true, but its wreckage bears the marks of the Winter Soldier—not Bucky Barnes.

He doesn’t turn when Natasha joins him on the balcony.

“Long day?”

He huffs. “Long life.”

“Oh good, I caught you in your optimistic mood.” A pause. “No one would blame you if you stopped, you know.”

“If there’s even the smallest chance…” He shrugs. “I’ve got to at least try.”

“I figured.” Her fingers drum rhythmically on the bannister. “I’ll let you know if I hear anything else.”

“…Thank you.”

6.

It’s almost six months on the run before Natasha strolls into their hotel room, right in the middle of a planning session to take out a terror cell that’s been harassing the locals. She doesn’t offer an explanation or even a smile, just her opinion without preamble.

“You don’t stand a chance at taking out the entire group on your own, Rogers.”

Steve stares at her in surprise, a flash of something flickering across his face. “Agreed. …We do, though.”

Natasha tilts her head and walks forward, stopping in front of Steve.

She unholsters her Escrima rods, and Steve smiles.

7.

“I’m thinking about starting a group for people that need help moving on.”

Natasha glances up from her datapad. “You. The inventor of ‘not moving on’ himself.”

“I do have experience with something that’s at least kind of similar. Helping people find a way past that…” Steve shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s what Sam would’ve done.”

Natasha hums in agreement. “So moving on. Seems like good advice—you gonna take it yourself?”

“Nah. It’s too late for a fossil like me.” Steve steals one of Nat’s sandwiches. “But them… I don’t know. Maybe we could give them a chance.”

“…Yeah.”

8.

Natasha’s already suited up when Steve walks into the conference room. “We could have a chance, Steve,” she whispers, staring at the holographic stones with an almost reverence. “A chance.”

“I know.” Steve leans on one of the chairs around the table. “Never thought I’d be going back in time to do it, but I guess I’ve already gone forward. Might as well round out my social card.”

Natasha laughs. “Promise me one thing?”

“Anything.”

“If something happens—if it doesn’t work—we don’t stop. I don’t care what it takes. We get them back.”

Steve agrees. “Whatever it takes.”

9.

Steve flies forty feet through the air and when he crashes to the ground, for the first time in a while he thinks he definitely can’t do this all day.

Everything hurts. The cuts on his leg and forearm are bleeding badly; he knows he’s broken several ribs. His helmet’s cracked and maybe his skull, too, and there’s an uncomfortable spike of pain lancing up his spine.

But she gave us a chance.

Steve rolls over onto his stomach, arms and legs shaking as his forces himself to his feet. He stares Thanos down.

He’s not going to waste it.

10.

“This is the eternal exchange: a soul for a soul.”

The visage of one of the many ghosts from Steve’s past stares down at him, but Steve can’t bring himself to be impressed.

He’s gotten used to graves being emptied, friend or foe.

“And this counts as a soul?” He looks down at the rock in his hand, glowing orange despite the crimson blood that stains its essence.

We could have a chance.

The Red Skull regards him carefully, then hovers towards the edge of the cliff. Steve follows but doesn’t look down. He knows what lies at the bottom.

“I have seen many things during my unending vigil over this place, Steven Rogers,” Johann says. “But that is a question that has never been asked.”

Steve nods once, sharply. He’s had worse odds.

“Good enough.”

He slings the rock over the ledge, as fast and as far as he can, and it sails for miles under the combination of his superhuman strength and the planet’s lower gravity.

The stone hits the ground.

The world goes dark, and when he awakens, he finds himself in a lake of purple-tinged water, waves lapping at his shins.

Steve looks up, and smiles.

[attheportal]

“Avengers Endgame -- Crossover Clutch!”

“Uh, Cap?”

“What is it, Queens?”

Peter turned and pointed towards the onrush of Warriors -- all of which were clearly larger, better armed and surging with more rage than the last wave -- and said, “We’re ah, not gonna survive them! Are we!?”

Cinching up his shield-straps, Steve said, “Stick with me, son. We’re not going down easy.”. He stepped towards the advancing foes. “Whatever happens, just don’t-!”. Steve’s advice broke off as he watched the front line Warriors suddenly skid to a halt; every head snapping upwards to stare with shock at something in the sky.

“Cap!?” Peter’s own voice trailed off, a split second before his ‘sense’ suddenly spiked. He head whipped around in time to see a green, glowing blur rocketing down towards the Warriors from above. “Yikes!”

Steve blinked, and slid to a stop himself. “Bruce???” Just before the streaking figure hit the ground, a strident voice called out:

“Detroit-SMASH!”

The shock wave hit with the force of a bomb-pumped explosion of kinetic energy; everyone of the Warriors in front of the blast crumpled backwards like shattered glass. The ranks behind the front line also fell back, while a couple flew into the air to land broken upon the blast-wasted ground.

The attack wasn’t complete, as a few individual Warriors surged from the sides. A pair bracketed Peter, and were upon him before he or Steve could react . . . but one of them was seized by a long, pink strand that jerked them skyward, while the other was hit the breadbasket by a small, dark-clad figure, who followed up with a double-punch that shattered their helmet and jaw.

“Woah,” Peter said weakly, watching as his rescuer rebounded back to stand on a spur of calcified earth. It appeared to be a girl, clad in skin-tight green spandex, with oversized, tan gloves and boots that looked . . . like frog feet!?

She turned and stared at him with wide, white eyes with doll’s pupils. “Are you all right? Ribbit?!”

“Um, I . . . ah, yeah. I’m okay,” Peter said. “Just . . . ah, who are-?”.

“Sorry, but this fight’s not over yet!” She reached up to tap the side of the odd-looking goggles on her head. “Deku! The other’s are helping these heroes, but the fighting isn’t slowing down here,” she said. “Shouldn’t we get some of the others to help?”.

Peter heard the faint reply, clearly coming from the comm-set in her gear: “We’re okay for now-UGH!-Tsu! If we can bottle these villains here-*GRUNT!*-we can rejoin the others quickly!”.

Across the way, Steve and the other new arrival -- a short kid with green, curly hair and an armored outfit trimmed in tan, red and green -- were making short work of the remaining line of Thanos’ Warriors. Surprisingly, Steve got in a few licks, but it was the young man who was doing the most damage; punching, kicking and tossing the over-sized remnants like rag dolls.

Eventually, the last of this wave were laying broken on the ground, leaving Steve and his new ally standing alone amid the carnage.

Steve turned and peered down at the youngster. “That was . . . something else. What’s your name, kid?”.

Facing the Star-Spangled Avenger, the young man said, “My name’s Deku, sir. I’m with several other Provisional Heroes from U.A. Academy. The attack was all over the news, and, well . . . we came to offer our assistance.”

Steven nodded once, then shook his head. “Appreciate it, but this battle is no place for kids!”.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Deku said firmly, “but it’s every Hero’s obligation to offer aid when villains attack!” He stared around at the broken, defeated bodies of Thanos’ forces. “If you’ll pardon me for saying so, these strike me as being very much as being villains!”.

Steven chuckled ironically, then stepped over to grip Deku’s shoulder. “You’re right . . . on both counts, son.”.

By then, Peter and the girl in the frog-suit had joined them -- the girl going straight to Deku’s side, where she asked, “Are you all right? The fighting seemed to be extremely harsh around you!”.

Deku smiled, shaking his head, “I’m fine, though I had to hold back some. I was only at thirty-percent for the moment.”. He looked up, catching the surprised looks on Cap and Spidey’s faces. “Please, this is my fellow Hero, Froppy.”.

Froppy nodded to the two. “Are you with the Avengers?” she asked.

“We are,” Steve said. “Captain America, at your service, Miss.”

“I’m Spider Man,” Peter added. He flinched when the sound of a massive explosion went off, some dozens of yards away. “Yikes!”.

Both Deku and Froppy perked up. “Sounds like Ground-Zero’s cutting loose, Deku-kun!”.

“That’s not good!” Deku made a fist with each hand. “We need to get back to the others, before the damage gets too great!”.

“What, like this place isn’t blasted to powder already?” Peter asked.

“You don’t understand,” Froppy said candidly. “Our fellow Hero has a Quirk that generates massive explosions, and if he doesn’t watch out, it could hurt both foe and friend alike.”.

“Froppy’s right! We’d better get going,” Deku said. He started to move away, but Steve put himself in front of the young Hero.

“Not without help, son.” He reached up to touch the comm-stud on his helmet. “Avengers . . . if you haven’t seen it yet, we’ve got some unexpected help. Young . . . Heroes, offering their aid. We need to form up in front of the main thrust of Thanos’ force. Hold the line and drive him back!”.

A voice called out, “Gotcha, Cap! But what about those explosions to the west side?”

“I’m on it,” Steve replied, looking at Deku, Froppy and Peter. “With some help of my own.” He nodded to them and said, “Ready you guys?”.

“Ribbit!” ”Yes, Sir!” ”With you, Cap!”

“Then let’s move out,” Steve said, and they all turned to head towards the last location of the massive explosions . . . .

# # # #

@kaiyeti , Figured you’d like this! :D