#debating if its worth it to move to another garage just to get away from it all hhhhhhh but anyway

[foreverxdaydreaming]

did not think i would regret listening to an old taylor album omw to uni and here i am chilling in the garage bc i refuse to show up to class with puffy eyes thanks to crying all day + also crying over some song about not wanting to grow up and regret shit bc someday you'll lose it all and miss what you had and all that... whelp that's life innit.... ah jeez 🙃

[galkyrie]

A Pearl

JayTim Week 2022:

Day1: Mermaid / Roadtrip

Ao3 Link

Jason stepped through the threshold to Tim's apartment, casting an appraising eye around the space. He'd never been there before. Usually their joint casework was conducted on dark rooftops or easily-abandoned safe-houses, with all the comforts of professional distance and easily accessed points of egress. 

Their less professional rendezvous- moments snatched in between cases and fights, fueled by adrenaline and the burning need to feel a body moving against your own- were similarly arranged. Tim was usually gone, slipped from his grasp before the hazy afterglow lifted enough for him to tell him to go- or stay, only to repeat the cycle once the bruises left on one another's skin faded to memory. Tim, in all ways but physical, maintained his distance. Never took his eye off his exit. 

He had, apparently, decided this case was worth the risk of letting him in.

The rumors- and it always starts with rumors, shit like this- reached his corner of Gotham a month ago. Some of the girls in his territory went missing- Eloise, whose gossamer wings were the showstopper at the joint she danced on weekends, was the first. Katrina- known among the other corner girls to make and sell minor luck charms and ward them against those with ill intent- was next. 

By the third person- Giselle, a forked-tongue fortune-teller with what he was sure were literally hypnotic eyes, he reached out to the other Bats to see if their territories were similarly affected. Tim had taken one look at his casefile and told him to come over. 

"Thanks for coming," Tim shot him a small grin as he led him to the sparsely decorated living room. Jason couldn't help but feel disappointed. It wasn't that the place was empty- sleek, expensive furniture was dotted throughout the place and the walls were hardly bare- but it was so… curated. A place for everything and each thing in its place- it made his teeth itch. It was weird to be let into Tim's home and find so little of him inside. Figures that even his home would offer so little risk of being known.  

"You said you had intel." He eyed a framed photograph of a bridge with a frown, debating on asking if he’d taken the thing just to extract something out of the space that was for himself and not for the face he chose to show the world. 

“Yeah, hold on-” Tim glanced his way before reaching into his aquarium with his bare arm, “everything I have for this case is in the Nest.” Jason watched as he opened the treasure chest resting at the bottom of the tank, pressing his thumb to a hidden sensor hidden among the fake treasure. 

On second thought- it was probably good that the upper floors were bereft of much of Tim’s personality, considering this was the alternative. 

"The grandfather clock was a nice touch in the Manor- this is fucking ridiculous.” He said as the adjoining wall slid away to reveal a hidden elevator. 

"You wouldn't have thought to check here." Tim shrugged, shooting him another sharp grin. 

"Yeah, I definitely wouldn't have thought you'd make a habit out of pissing off your fish.” 

"They get fed every time I do it- they're fine with it." Tim replied airily, looking down at the little fish darting between his fingers. His free hand flicked open a container and he shook the contents into the aquarium as if to prove a point. He withdrew his hand, wiping the water onto his jeans before leading him to the elevator and into the Nest. 

Partially finished projects were scattered about the space, likely abandoned and left to wait until inspiration struck again. The computer rig- a massive, impressive beast of a machine whirred quietly against the far wall. The open concept floors clearly displayed each area and its designated purpose- he could see past the workshop down to the laboratory and further down to the underground garage. This was closer to the Tim he got to see- Red Robin, spinning plates with such efficiency and brilliance that he made it look effortless. Though the backstage pass was illuminating, every inch of the place was covered in just how much effort he was putting into everything under that cool exterior. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he took it all in.

Tim didn’t give him the tour, moving instead towards the computer with his usual grace. He’s already talking about the case by the time Jason pulls up a chair beside him. 

"-three from your territory and one from mine brings Gotham’s total up to eighteen, twenty two if we include Bludhaven.” Tim brought up pictures of each missing person, continuing to share all he’d learned. “Four people taken in as many weeks- their schedule isn't escalating but taking the Naga-" he paused, corrected himself "-Giselle, is a clear escalation in their capabilities. She's the first person taken who had a fighting chance. Everyone else, so far-" 

Jason watched as the screen populated with images, "-their appearances are far from being able to pass as human, but their abilities don't give them any advantages in a fight." 

"Plus they're all known for bein' pretty ." Jason murmured, mouth set into a grimace. "Those two things combined don't fill me with a lot of confidence on how they're bein' treated." Tim nodded, expression briefly stormy. 

“How long have you been working on this?” When Tim had said he'd been looking into this- he'd expected something from his territory and a theory, maybe some surveillance footage of an abduction. What he got instead was the distinct impression he’s stepped in on Tim’s case- was being let in on it for some reason he couldn’t parse.

"Long enough to know the first person taken by whoever is doing this was taken six months ago.” And just like that, Tim’s attention is back on the screen, pulling up the list of suspected victims and splitting the screen to show a map of the city. “Some of them were last seen in areas I know O has covered, and she recovered no footage of any of them being forcibly abducted.” 

“So they’re organized and good at what they do.” 

“I think they’re using magic, too. To find who they’re targeting and to take them. It’s not like there’s a census they can consult to find who they’re looking for, and the schedule- it's usually weekly that a disappearance occurs. From what I've been able to gather from other cities- there seems to be a type taken each week, and it's never repeated." 

"You think someone is putting out requests for whatever strikes their fancy?" 

"I think someone very powerful has decided to start a collection." For a brief moment Tim looked as angry as those words made Jason feel.  

"Fuck. Got any leads?” Tim sighed, running a hand through his hair as he glanced away from the screen. 

"Best chance- we interrupt an abduction in progress. They've been targeting Gotham heavily, likely because it takes longer on average for anyone to be investigated for going missing- not to mention how most people targeted will be on the fringes by necessity-” 

“So- what, find someone they’ll target and stake ‘em out?” 

“It shouldn't be too hard. I need to adjust the profile to account for Giselle, but there aren't that many people from Gotham they could target next." Tim's focus returned to the screen, swiping away the pictures of the abductees and pulling up a map. On it, the last known locations of all victims were dotted in red, intersecting with shaded zones indicating areas Oracle had covered. 

There were far more dots scattered about the city, a rainbow of colors indicating their meaning. 

"So- the blue dots are the most likely next targets' and the places they'll most likely be taken-" a list, complete with descriptions and images, populated a screen to the side of the map as Tim spoke. It took a moment to really parse out exactly what he was looking at. His blood ran cold when he did. 

"Tim-" he interrupted, eyes scanning the dots of blue in his territory, "-why do you have a list of every known meta in Gotham?" 

"Well- it's not every meta or magic person-" 

"-that is very much not my point. Where did you get this?" Tim had a pretty different definition of 'too far' than him when it came to certain things like privacy- seeing it displayed so starkly was jarring. 

"It's mine," Tim, apparently having sensed the shift in mood, eyed him warily, "I gathered this myself- nobody else has it." 

Well at least there was that . Didn't change the fact that it shouldn't exist in the first place. 

"You assembled a list of some of the most vulnerable people in Gotham, including their appearances, place of work, home addresses and what they are- and you don't see the issue?" 

"I-" Tim started, expression shifting into a defensive frown, “I can’t help the community if I don't know where they are and what they might need-” 

"Maybe- but what happens if this list falls into the wrong hands? This is everything the people doing this would need-” 

“-They’re not going to get this. Nobody but you has even seen it-” 

“What about B, huh? Or Oracle?”

“It’s not connected to any network- the computer this case is on is a closed system. I’m not an idiot , Jason. I have contingencies in place to protect this information.”

“You can’t even trust your closest allies with this, Tim- doesn’t that tell you something about how dangerous this list is?” 

“I’m well aware of the danger,” Tim bit back, “but it’s important-” 

“-And what gives you the right to decide it’s important enough to take that risk for them?” He waved his hand at the screen, his anger reaching a boiling point. “Tell me something, Tim- has all this information you’ve gathered prevented even one of these people from being abducted?” Tim returned his glare with a cold expression of his own.

“I know you like to think the rest of us do what we do as a thought exercise so you can feel good about being the one who truly cares, ” Tim’s voice was measured, as thoroughly controlled as it was cutting, “but if you can’t do me the courtesy of extending me the slightest benefit of the doubt- you can go.” 

“Fuck you,” Jason hissed, going to stand. “This-” he pointed at the screen again, “is too fuckin’ risky to exist- you’re gonna get someone hurt.” 

Tim stood as well, hitting a series of buttons that had the screens going dark. "Only if someone gets it. Which they won't. You have no idea how long I've been protecting this information and this community-" 

"You're not infallible, Tim. All it takes is one mistake. Who's gonna pay the price for your arrogance?" 

Tim stared up at him for a moment, expression unreadable. “I’m keeping it, Jason. If you don’t want to work together because of it, fine.”

“Fine,” Jason should’ve known better than to try and convince Tim he was doing the wrong thing- he was worse than Bruce was once he’d decided he was making the right decision. He shouldn't have gotten his hopes up- about working with him- about the possibility of doing so meaning he’d get to know the man better- 

Tim showed him out, broadcasting no more than mild irritation with the outcome of their meeting. Jason’s never been let in enough to know if it’s anything more.

  He got a message that night. Three short profiles and a single line of text- “Keep an eye on them.” 

Jason may be stubborn, but he’s not an idiot. He used the information- not that he let Tim know he was doing so. The hypocrisy smarts when he really stopped to think about it, but- what was he gonna do? Look the family of a missing person in the eye and say that him ignoring the intel was a matter of principle? 

So. 

He’s a hypocrite- whatever. The idea bothered him less every time he looped around one of the three’s usual locations during his rounds and found them safe. In addition to that extra measure, he put out feelers for info on Tim’s hypothesis among his circles. Trafficking, smuggling- unless the little bird had some persona Jason had yet to meet- was really more his area of expertise. He hit the pavement and kept the three names in mind, reassured when a week passes and they’ve come through without incident. 

The second week came quickly. 

Thanks to Tim's list, he was the first on the scene for the next disappearance.

Between one loop of his rounds and another- Niamh went missing. The second name on the list Tim sent, vanished without a trace, without a struggle- from the convenience store she worked nights in. The security footage held no answers, just Niamh taking the same quick cigarette break he’d observed her taking the week before- then never coming back inside. 

When his personal security equipment he’d placed in the alley the week prior also yielded no answers, he decided to call it in. 

Tim probably already knew he’d fucked up and lost her, was probably changing her profile to have the proper color on his damn map-

He took a deep breath and shoved his pride in the corner where it wouldn’t get in the way of what he was about to do and pulled out his phone. 

  Tim was ignoring him. Someone had gone missing in his territory on a case he knew Tim was also looking into- 

And the bastard was ignoring him. He let that shit simmer for a night before he was too angry about it to do anything but force a meeting. Jason was mad enough that it took him a moment to really register what he was seeing by the time he’d managed to break into Tim’s apartment and find the damn lightswitch in his modern minimalist nightmare of a cover- 

Formerly minimalist was probably more accurate. The place was trashed. Feeling distinctly like the floor had fallen out from under him, he activated his line for the Bats.

“Hey, O.” Jason pinged her immediately as he took slow steps through what he was fairly certain was a crime scene, “when was the last time you heard from Red Robin?” There was blood on the sitting room floor. At least the aquarium and secret passage were undisturbed, but- 

“Hmm, last check in was five days ago.” Jason hummed at the response, crouching down to inspect the blood. Long-dried and brown from oxidation- five days looked about right. 

“Can you check with his teams to make sure he’s not with them?” 

“Hood, why? What’s going on?” 

“You have surveillance access to his place, right?” 

“Yeah,” the modulated tone carried her dread through his comm well enough, “why?” 

“Look now- do you see me waving?” 

A pause, then a “no,” so dark it was practically growled. Keys tapped with a ferocity he could hear on her end of the line. 

“His place looks like it always does at this time-” 

“-Well, he was right about magic being involved. Shit .” Jason slipped the hood off just to be able to run a hand down his face. “Get someone here, Babs. He’s gone- there’s blood . It’s days old and I gotta know if it’s his-” 

“Has the Nest been compromised?” 

“Seriously, that’s what you’re gonna ask me?” He bit back, fighting down a snarl. It wasn’t her fault he was so- If he hadn’t just fucked off the second he saw something he didn’t like about the way Tim was handling this case, maybe this fight would’ve had some more even odds- 

“Hood, was Tim in a fight or was Red Robin ?” He stopped, took a deep breath. 

“The Nest is still locked down. Not even the fish look upset-” Though, probably hungry if Tim’s been gone for days. He went and shook the little flakes onto the surface of the water on autopilot. "-whatever happened looks like it happened to Tim." 

  He returned to the scene of his disappearance once everything relevant had been carefully cataloged by the Bats- he fed the fish, if only to give himself a justification. The brown patch on the floor- now thoroughly scrubbed clean- was confirmed to be Tim’s blood, and he found himself stepping around where it’d been each time he came. 

The Nest was still secured, locked up tight enough that none of them could access it. Oracle had suggested he'd triggered a killswitch for the place during the altercation, which- 

Jason visualized the map with little colored dots scattered about the city. Hopefully Tim had gotten the chance.

Thirty hours into the discovery of Tim’s disappearance, he got a lead on the case. A contact reached out to one of his covers, a mid-level lieutenant of his own operation known to be able to get access to the boss. Apparently the traffickers had heard that the Red Hood traveled in the same circles as a certain princess, both known for her beauty and ferocity. They were gettin’ cocky. 

Jason was gonna show them exactly how underprepared they truly were for such an acquisition. 

His cover let it slip that Hood had developed a contingency for her goin’ rogue- just in case, of course, and that he happened to know how to enact said plan. Half the money was wired into the account he set up for the deal that afternoon. He called Kory and Roy that night. 

It’d been easy to talk his way into the compound nestled in the pacific northwest after that. A prize- and he hated himself a little bit for even thinking of her like that- like Kory was not something the man in charge was gonna pass up. 

She was doing a great job at the helpless, captured goddess act. The cuffs Roy had rigged up to look impressive enough to actually manage to dampen her powers to anyone who wouldn't look too closely- and she was doing a pretty good job discouraging that. He personally was sporting a mild bruise on his face from a shoulder she’d thrown his way- way softer than she could but enough to really sell the idea that she was as desperate in her viciousness as her actions were useless. 

He had to remind himself she’d volunteered when it was time to hand her off- stepping back from the two as the man got closer to her. 

“These cuffs got a key?” 

“You’re gonna wanna keep her in those- they’re the only reason she ain’t reduced this place to rubble.” 

“-Once I get free, you will consider rubble a kindness.” Kory snarled, green eyes glowing briefly before flickering out. Jason had to hand it to her- she really was selling it.

“I’ve got the key right here,” He held up a shiny silver remote with a series of buttons on it, “which stays with me ‘til I get my money.” He made a show of tucking into a jacket pocket, making it clear it wasn’t open for debate. It didn’t matter- neither the cuffs nor the remote did much of anything, but they’d find that out soon enough. “Take me to ‘im, it’s time for the grownups to talk business.” 

They led him through the sprawling compound- a strange amalgam of billionaire’s dream home and paramilitary headquarters- quickly. He took in as much as he could, mapping out the place for points of ingress and escapes just in case. They had to be taking Kory to the other abductees- wherever that may be. They were gonna get them out of there. And if Tim was taken for sticking his nose where it didn’t belong- he was gonna find him, too. 

He was checked for weapons for the third time before being escorted through a series of interconnected buildings, each more opulent than the last.  

The actual meeting took place in a dark, modern lounge, illuminated by the glistening bar at one end of the wall and an enormous circular aquarium at the center of the room. The entire place seemed designed to draw the eye to the tank. Walls curved in around it and the floor gently sloped down to a sunken lounge where the tank was surrounded by plush furniture on all sides.

Jason could see why. 

In the sparse tank was a single being laid out across the top of a rock arch. Their face was mostly obscured, inky black hair providing cover for what the pale arm their face was buried in couldn’t fully block. Their tail- a massive, dazzling spectacle under the careful lighting in and around the aquarium- wound itself around the rock formation, anchoring its owner to their place in repose. The lighting ensured they were on display even in what appeared to be sleep- sparkling scales and billowy, shifting fins catching in the light for the enjoyment of the man who’d stolen them. 

Jason was going to enjoy wiping this place off the map. He schooled his expression to one of mild interest as he quietly worked out how to access the damn tank to get the person out of there- once the man seated at the lounge in front of him was bleeding out on the floor, that is. 

“Well that ain’t somethin’ you see every day.” He commented as he was led down the steps to meet said soon-to-be-dead man. They lifted their head as the group drew closer, raising a webbed hand to brush the inkly black strands obstructing the men from view. Jason almost missed the last step-

He’d recognize those eyes anywhere. Tim recognized him, too, unwound his tail from around the rock in a flash color and stretched to reveal his full form. 

Jason was sure, before now, that something being breathtaking was a myth- that there wasn’t anything in this world that was so pretty it made something like breathing seem impossible. 

But there Tim was. And Jason felt like the one underwater. 

Tim’s hair was a floating black halo around his face, jostled by the occasional flutter or twitch of the fins protecting his ears. His pale skin was dotted with glistening, iridescent red scales that flashed blue when the light caught them just right and his tail practically erupted in plumes of gossamer fins colored in streaks of red and blue- the riot of color fading to a soft cream at the ends.

He was stunning, swimming towards him and reflecting brilliant little flashes of light into the room with the motion. The relative darkness of the room surrounding him made more sense in the face of the spectacle. And it was a spectacle- one that made Jason a little sick to even consider Tim being subjected to- one he was going to put to an end. 

“Beautiful thing, isn’t it?” His thoughts- his gawking- was interrupted by the self-congratulatory tone of a man who didn’t know he’d signed his own death warrant. Jason managed to pull himself back together, a disaffected smirk spreading across his lips. 

“No kiddin’. Not half as impressive as what I’ve got for ya- if you’re good for it.” Tim’s- Jason was just gonna call them ear fins until he was corrected. He had not in any way expected to have to learn the proper terminology for mermaid anatomy for this rescue mission, but here he was- his ear fins flicked as the same sharp blue eyes he was used to darted between the two. 

“It’s a sullen beast, unfortunately. This is the most interest it’s shown in anything but sulking in days,” the sneer on his lips was hard not to punch out, but Jason- he was nothing if not a model of restraint in that moment. 

“Of course he is,” Jason’s eyes didn’t leave Tim, drinking in the way his fins fanned out in the water in a riotous plume of color as he stared, “you gotta get some plants or some shit in there- even zoo animals get enrichment. Maybe one of those treasure chests that blows bubbles or somethin'." 

Tim bared his teeth- though they might be more properly categorized as fangs in his current form- at him for that. So he could read lips in this form. Good to know. The man beside him laughed, clapping an overly-familiar hand on his shoulder.

“Would you be interested? I’m open to offers- I must warn you though, it’s not above getting its teeth bloody.” It took more self control than should probably be necessary for Jason to hold back the pleased smirk at the admission. 

“Well after that sales pitch, who wouldn’t be interested?” He tore his eyes away from the agitated motion of fins- Tim was apparently equally good expressing annoyance in every form he could take- “maybe I'll knock off a couple hundred thousand on my asking price for the princess.”

The tension in Tim’s frame eased at the little hint as to who he’d come with, even taking a moment to swim the perimeter of his enclosure- a short trip when his tail was so fuckin’ long - this was the asshole-billionaire’s equivalent to keeping a goldfish in a fuckin bag at a carnival- 

He forced his focus to shift from getting mad on Tim’s behalf- which was probably only something he was doing to keep himself from freaking out over the fact that Tim was a fucking mermaid-  

“Ten million was the asking price, yes?” It was an insult to Kory, in his opinion, to ask such a low amount, but nobody said his cover was an especially bright man. He grinned, easing into the seat across from the man and pulling out his phone.

“Yep, I’ve got the info for the wire transfer right here, then she’s all yours.” The man had apparently long since decided it didn’t matter if Tim was eavesdropping- because he was obviously and openly doing so and the man hardly glanced his way. 

“I would like to see her for myself, of course- before any transfer should occur. I’m sure you understand- help yourself to the bar in my absence.” The man went to stand, looking disgustingly overeager. Jason sent him a conspiratorial grin, lacing his fingers behind his head.

“Be my guest- she’s the real deal.” He’d know that soon enough, as well. “I’d recommend takin’ security with ya- she may not have her powers but that don’t mean the fight’s outta her.” He waved to his bruised cheek airily for emphasis, watching the man nod to the security detail behind them. 

He was moving by the time the doors shut behind the group, not giving a single fuck about any cameras that might be trained on him in the moment and approaching the tank. 

Tim swam up, pressing his webbed palms to the glass and staring at him in such naked relief that he couldn’t help but smile. “I’m gettin’ ya outta here, Babybird.” He vowed in a whisper.

Tim smiled, revealing a row of pearly, sharp little fangs behind those pretty lips. 

“Though,” he added, eyes drifting from his smile to trail down the impressive length of that tail, “I guess Baby bird ain’t that accurate, is it?” Tim pushed back from the glass, shooting him a withering look as he did so. He was trying to fingerspell something- but was moving too rapidly and inhibited just enough by the webbing to muddle the message. Jason might just be distracted by the claws, though- gleaming sharp little things cutting through the water with the motion of his hands. 

It was either an insult or a question about the mission, if Jason knew Tim at all. “Sorry, your accent’s a bit thick there,” he murmured on the off-chance that he was being listened to. 

Tim scowled briefly before he was in motion again, positioning his body so the narrowest point of his tail- and the heavy looking manacle clamped firmly around it- were in clear view. 

Jason bit back a few colorful phrases, switching to sign-language altogether. 

Can you change back? 

A quick shake of the head let him know whatever escape plan he’d been working on just got way more complicated. 

Is there a lock? 

Tim twisted to give him a view of the whole piece. The latch didn’t look terribly complicated, not if one had the tools. Which Tim didn’t currently have, but- 

How do I get to you?

Tim pointed up, then to an unassuming doorway tucked to the side of the bar. 

The foundation shook with a distant burst of energy. Jason took it as his cue and bolted for the door, both working to reactivate his comm and slip his lockpicking kit from the seam of his coat on his way. He ran up the stairwell and made quick work of the two employees loitering in the back room, making a beeline for the edge of the water. 

“I’ve located the little bird- have you found the others?” There was exactly zero time to explain just how quickly he’d done so, or what was going on with that- not that he’d be able to until he’d gotten the chance to really process and actually talk to Tim about what he’d seen. 

“Evacuating them now.” Roy answered immediately, another explosion cracking through the air on his end. “Red is secured?” 

“Not yet-” The picking tools sank quickly and Jason held his breath, bracing himself against a wall under the force of another impact. “Starfire- report?” 

“Targets have been eliminated,” her response was quick, tone entirely lacking regret. “We’re evacuating the survivors now-” another tremor wracked the building. He kept his eyes on the water line and waited.

“-but the bastard was sitting on an armory that would put Deathstroke to shame,” Roy cut in, “this place is coming down, Hood. Fast.” He heard the sharp sound of glass cracking and hoped it was just the bottles of liquor on the floor below. 

Tim surfaced at the center of the pool with a gasp, body sluggish and slightly twitchy as he zeroed in on him and swam over. He made it to the edge, flinging his arms over the side before collapsing. His unconscious form was still twitching slightly, vivid violet arcs of energy dancing across his skin. It was stupid, monumentally so, but- Jason didn’t have time to worry about it. 

“Securing Red now,” He looped his arms around his shoulders and pulled. The energy- whatever it was- passed through him harmlessly from Tim’s body. 

“Hurry, man-” Roys insistent urging was drowned out by another boom, the shaking almost pitching Jason into the water right behind Tim. 

“On it,” He grit out as he finally, finally dragged the man from the tank. “You’re fucking heavy like this, Babybird.” Tim didn’t answer- understandable, considering getting himself to the edge of the water seemed to have taken the last bit of energy he had left. 

He had to move. Tim needed to get out of here long before the press arrived. There was no telling- certainly nothing good - what would come out of Tim Drake being publicly connected with this. Panting, he gathered him into his arms- draping as much of his tail as he could over his shoulders.

“Star- if you can, I’m gonna need you to rendezvous to my location ASAP.” He wasn’t gonna make it far with Tim like this. “Red is…compromised.” 

“On it.” She confirmed. Jason made his way down the stairs as carefully as possible- the combination of having an armload of passed-out mermaid and the occasional trembling of an arms dealer’s cache of illegal explosives not helping. 

Kory touched down in front of him when he made it to the ground level, eyebrows clearly signaling her surprise at what she saw before her. “I shall carry him.” She eased Tim from his arms, apparently also deciding this whole thing was an issue for later.  

Jason could understand- he was well overdue for at least one crisis over this turn of events. “Thanks, Star.” She simply nodded before lifting off the ground. 

It was easier to escape than it was to get in- another thing to be grateful to Kory for- and before he knew it she was gently placing Tim into the back of his not-quite-legally acquired truck. “Does he need to be in water?” She asked, sounding concerned. 

Jason had no fuckin’ clue. “Uh,” he looked down at the gentle rise and fall of Tim’s chest, brushed the dark tendrils of hair from his face. “He’s breathing fine but it’ll probably dry him out if…he’s out of it for too long. I’ll take care of it-” He was wasting time, needed to put miles between Tim and this place and he needed to do it yesterday. “I gotta get him outta here- you guys gonna be okay?”

“Yes. See to his safety. Arsenal and I will be able to handle things from here.” She placed a comforting hand on his shoulder for just a moment before she was flying off. He got in the truck and tore out of the compound.

First things first- get Tim in some goddamn water. Everything else- he’d figure out when he had the chance.

[mistymark]

VIGILANTE/S VIII

part eight // 4.8k words // superpowered!au // series masterlist

summary; in which you consider yourself somewhat of a vigilante.

warnings; swearing, they talk about death, lots of swearing, y/n plays therapist way too much in this chapter but its fine, swearing

“Do you think we’re going to be able to pull this off?”

You roll over onto your side so you can look in the direction of Donghyuck’s bed. It’s dark, but you can still make out his figure, lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling.

“Jaehyun has been working at this forever, you know? But what if we can’t pull it off?”

You clear your throat. You’re exhausted – you feel more tired now than you did after a day of training. “It’s going to work,” you say, softly, though it sounds less like you’re trying to convince him and more like you’re trying to convince yourself. You have to believe it will work.

Donghyuck turns his head to you, and you don’t need the light to see how nervous he is.

“I thought we didn’t worry about ‘what if’s,” you whisper, hoping the slight teasing would ease his nerves a little. It was something he’d said to you on one of your first days here.

It seems to work. He lets out a quiet laugh, “I am a ‘what if’. What if I don’t die? What if I never die?” It didn’t work. His tone is bitter, his voice louder. Then, you hear the panic in his voice, “What if I’m forced to live forever and watch everyone I care about die before me?”

There’s silence. You can hear him breathing in deep breaths, trying to calm himself down.

Sitting up, you settle on the edge of your bed to face him, “Donghyuck.” He looks up at you, “We’re not going to die.”

“Someday you will.”

You ignore his comment. “Jaehyun wouldn’t let us go through with this plan if he knew we were going to die.” He doesn’t answer. “This is what we’ve been training for,” you say, your voice as soft as you can manage. You’ve watched the team become stronger, become closer, become a family. You doubt there’s anything that could stop you now.

He’s staring at the ceiling again. “You can’t die. None of you can.” His voice is barely a whisper. It’s like he’s breathing the words. The way he pauses between the sentences gives the impression that he’s thinking about you specifically.

“Like you said: I’m going to die sometime, Hyuck,” you smile, and move to his bed, perching on the side. “Dying for you or the team would be the best way to go, I think.”

His eyes snap to yours and he quickly moves to sit up, his hand reaching across the gap between your beds and grabbing your arm, “Promise me that won’t happen. Promise me you won’t die for me.” You can’t see in the darkness of the room, but you’re almost sure he’s holding back tears.

You freeze for a moment, unsure what to do or say. So you whisper, “What is this about?”

Something about what you’ve said makes him remove his hand from your arm, “Sorry. Nothing.” His voice has returned to normal now, and he turns away from you, pulling his blanket up over his shoulder. “Goodnight.”

Maybe you were wrong, maybe you weren’t as close as you’d thought.

Confused by what just happened, you stay for a second, before moving back to your own bed, “Okay.” You want to sleep. You really do. “Goodnight, Donghyuck.” But you don’t.

It must be 4am. It has to have been hours. And you’re still awake.

Arrive with Jaemin. Mingle until the toasts are being made. Make your way to the garage. Leave. Find Jaehyun. Go home. Arrive with Jaemin. Mingle until the-

You can only think about the plan. Each detail was meticulously mapped out. Where you would be standing, what you would be doing, each possible path to the garage engrained in your brain.

West corridor, past the bathrooms. Take a right. Otherwise, go left. Find the central hallway. Go behind the main staircase. If there’s security there, go through the old dining room. From there-

You can’t take it anymore. You gently slide out of your bed, trying not to disturb Donghyuck, who finally fell asleep a couple hours ago. He doesn’t stir, but you still move swiftly across the hard floors, listening for a change in his breathing pattern.

The door squeaks most of the time, but you know how much you can open it without creating noise, so you slip out of the room without waking him.

The warehouse is quiet, but you can see light coming from Mark and Chenle’s room, a flickering orange that makes you think Chenle’s playing with fire. You can hear Mark’s soft snoring even through the door, and wonder if that’s why Chenle’s awake. From what you knew, he was a light sleeper already.

Jeno and Jaemin’s room is dark from what you can see, and you can hear someone snoring from inside. The others are dark, too, even Johnny’s, though you’re forced to wonder whether it’s dark because he’s sleeping or dark because he’s just not there.

Doyoung’s light is on, a warm yellow colour streaming out from under the door and into the hallway, and despite no lights being turned on in his room, there’s white light coming from Renjun’s room, probably from a computer screen. There was always light in Renjun’s room, and you knew he often slept without turning off the screens that took up most of his room. When you’d first noticed them – before you even met him – you’d wondered if he was afraid of the dark.

You’re thankful for the lights, able to make your way down the hallway without knocking into something, but you’re surprised to find there is no light coming from Jaehyun’s office when you make it to the main body of the warehouse.

You know he has to sleep sometime but your first thought is that he’s out.

“What are you doing?” You jump at the sound of the voice, and find yourself whirring around to find the source. Doyoung makes his way toward you, “I could hear you thinking.” He puts his hands up in defence when you open your mouth to protest, “I know, I promised not to invade, but I wasn’t prying. You were just thinking really loudly.”

“Why are you even awake?” You don’t mean to sound so exasperated, and he raises an eyebrow at you.

“Same reason you are,” he shoves his hands into the pockets of his pyjama pants, which you can see are made from bright blue flannel. It was odd, to see him wearing something typically childish. “Thinking about the ball.”

“Donghyuck was freaking out about it before… I think it rubbed off on me.”

A grim look passes over his face, “About dying, right?”

“About the team dying, yeah.” You frown, “How do you know that?” Surely, he hasn’t been listening the whole night.

“I wasn’t listening. I just know Donghyuck – it’s the only thing that does freak him out.” He pauses, then shrugs, “Other than lizards.” He frowns, “And birds, actually.” He shakes his head as if to force himself to stop thinking about Donghyuck’s phobias.

You smile, “I was going to make some tea. Do you-?”

“No, thank you. I just came to see if you were alright.” It’s only then that you can see just how tired he looks. Your eyes have adjusted to the lack of light in the room, and even in the dark you can see the deep-set circles under his eyes.

Nodding, you rock back and forth on the balls of your feet, “Yeah, I’m fine. Thank you.”

He nods and turns to head back to his room, which you can see is spilling light into the hallway through the open door. Bruce is standing at attention in the doorway, staring into the empty room with unwavering focus. You let your gaze drift back to Doyoung, who is looking at you again with a furrowed brow, though your mind is still on the dog for some reason.

He opens his mouth to say something but doesn’t, and turns around, his figure retreating into the brightly lit hallway.

The door closes softly, and you watch as the light under the door disappears, the hallway now dark again. You’re debating whether it was still worth getting some tea before going back to your room, but you make your way to the kitchen, anyway. Even if you didn’t make tea, you could always steal one of Jaemin’s snacks.

There’s a pot of tea already on the counter, though you assume it’s old because it’s cold now. It’s the early hours of the morning, and you brain is repeating, I’m tired, I’m lazy, this will do over and over again.

You reach for a mug, despite the liquid no longer requiring its insulating properties, and pour the cold tea into it. You notice Jaehyun’s ‘World’s Greatest Boss’ mug is missing from the shelf, and you’re sure if you looked into his office, you’d see it on his desk.

Taking a sip, you almost spit it out from how bitter it is, how terrible the tea is. You’ve never known tea to taste like that. Maybe because it was cold. You tip the drink down the sink and leave your mug in the sink. Someone probably forgot to empty the pot before they went to bed, you assume.

Grabbing the pot, you pour the foul liquid – because there was no way that was fresh tea – down the sink. With a bad taste in your mouth, you pull the fridge door open and scan the shelves for anything good. There’s a fruit yoghurt cup left – Mark’s favourite flavour – and you almost feel bad about taking the last one, until you remember they’re Jaemin’s.

Peeling the lid off, you settle on the counter, digging through the clean cutlery for a spoon.

“You’re awake.”

You jump a little at the sound. “God, doesn’t anyone here sleep?” You groan and look in the direction of the voice, recognising Jaehyun’s suit-clad figure standing by the dinner table. You’re annoyed that he managed to frighten you, but he only smiles at you.

“Too much to do,” his voice is deeper than normal, and you wonder if he’s tired.

Spooning another mouthful of yoghurt into your mouth, you squint at him, “This is going to work, isn’t it?” He nods, but there’s uncertainty in the way he holds himself. His eyes don’t meet yours. “Jaehyun.”

He looks at you, and the determination in his eyes surprises you, “If everything goes to plan, then it’ll definitely work.” He sighs, and his gaze falls, “I could see it. I could see it working perfectly.”

“But?” You prompt.

“But…” he trails off. Then his eyes meet yours, and he subconsciously adjusts his stance. “I always feel terrible when I endanger them.”

You know that’s not what worries him, but you don’t push it. Clearly, everyone around here has their secrets, and you’re not about to be the one to pry. You let your hand fall to his forearm, and his eyes widen at the contact, though he does his best to appear indifferent, “You’re a good leader, Jaehyun. And I trust you. They trust you.”

He sucks in a breath, but he doesn’t say anything. He’s not sad or emotional in any way, but you can’t look away from his face. He needs to see your sincerity, even if he thinks he doesn’t need it.

But he doesn’t look away from you, either.

Until he does. “Tea,” he says, turning to look away from you. He clears his throat, and his voice changes, though you can’t exactly describe how. “Is there any tea left?”

“Uh, no,” your voice sounds small, so unlike your natural voice. It makes him look back at you for a moment, before going back to trying to find the teapot. “It was cold – and disgusting – so I poured it out. I was just about to make a fresh pot.”

“You poured out the tea?”

You pause. “Yeah. I just said-”

He sighs, and you can almost see him physically deflate, “It’s supposed to taste terrible. It’s not normal tea. An elixir, if anything, to help with-” He stops. “Doesn’t matter.”

Suddenly, you feel awful. “I’m sorry.” And for the first time since you’ve arrived here, you truly mean it.

“It’s alright. You should get some rest.” No ‘goodnight’, no ‘goodbye’, just ‘you should get some rest’ and the same distracted look on his face you usually see at this hour.

“Careful, there. I might actually think you care about me,” you say lightly, a snort accompanying your words. Gracefully, you manage to slide off the counter and toss your empty yoghurt cup into the bin at the kitchen’s entrance, dodging him as you pass him.

He doesn’t acknowledge your comment, but he does turn around to see you walking toward the hallway. He doesn’t raise his voice, instead lowering it, “Goodnight, Y/n.”

You turn and give him a small nod, your words coming out short, “Night. Jaehyun.”

“Is anyone else bored?” Donghyuck asks for the fifteenth time today, and you roll your eyes, ignoring him. You’re all crowded into one of the few casual living spaces in the warehouse, a room with a bunch of cool leather couches and bookshelves. You’d never been down here, never even knew the basement had a living room, but from the look of it, you decided it was rarely used.

It was much unlike Jaehyun’s sitting room, which you’d decided was your favourite room in the whole place. It had so much warmth in it, especially compared to the sitting room you were in now. The couches here were red and white, unmatching, but tied together nicely with the cool white walls and a singular red wall painting that you felt you’d seen before. The plush carpet beneath your feet was the only thing that added warmth to the room, but it was split along the diagonal by an invisible line, separating a bleached white section and a firetruck red section. With each half of the carpet situated under the couch of the opposite colour, you wondered if Jaehyun had paid someone to fit out the room or he’d done it himself. Quite the interior designer.

You felt a little bad for brushing Donghyuck and his boredom off, until you noticed the responses from the other boys around you. You’re sitting on the floor in front of the red couch, the plush white carpet beneath you far more inviting than the new leather. Jaemin is sitting on the flat arm rest behind you, and Jeno’s in a small white armchair nearby, the two talking animatedly. Donghyuck is lounging on the white couch, despite Renjun claiming he’d make it dirty – which immediately prompted Donghyuck’s response of ‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’ followed by a terrible wink. Renjun sits on the floor beside you, earphones in, watching something on his phone, and Chenle on the couch at the opposite end, glaring at Donghyuck. You’re beginning to wonder if his face just naturally looks pissed off.

Donghyuck shrieks as the corner of his t-shirt alights and frantically tries to put it out, patting at his shirt. Each time his hand comes down on the flame, it moves to a different location. Chenle raises an eyebrow, “Are you bored now?”

Donghyuck gives him a level look, “You’re dead.”

This seems to bring Chenle a lot of joy, “I thought that was your thing.” You ignore them as soon as Donghyuck lunges at the younger boy, instead tuning into Jeno and Jaemin’s conversation.

“- give him? What can we offer that he doesn’t already have?” Jaemin is saying. Then he adds, “Prick.”

You look up and pat his leg to get his attention, “Who are you talking about?”

He looks down at you, and the look of annoyance on his face eases a little as he explains. “The guy Jaehyun’s meeting up with today,” he says, but halfway through the sentence, his attention is already back on Jeno. You’ve never seen him look so annoyed – not at Chenle, not during a team meeting, never. You’re about to ask what this guy had done to earn such a response, but before you can, Jeno gestures to the door and they both stand up to leave.

Renjun tugs out his earphones when he watches them leave, “Where’d they head off to?”

“I don’t know,” you frown, but then you catch sight of his phone. “What are you watching?”

Renjun’s face immediately lights up as he excitedly fills you in on the Super fight semifinals. “There’s a newcomer this year – some young kid, eighteen maybe? – doesn’t even belong to a club, yet.” You cringe when he says ‘club’, knowing full well that these sport ‘clubs’ were just fronts for small gangs. “He just walked in and put his name on the roster! Can you believe that?”

You try to match his excitement, try to look impressed, “Damn, what does he do?”

“He can summon lightning. And manipulate it.” Renjun suddenly looks so young – so innocent and eager. You knew he’d never been on assignment, stayed in the warehouse almost always and had probably never even step foot in a place like The Den. He’d seen so much yet so little while working here.

Whilst Renjun grins happily at the screen, offering you an earbud so you could watch, too, you feel a shiver run down your back. Lightning. Now there’s a man you remember. He’d seemed so much older when you’d first met him, despite being drunk off his ass. Eighteen. And it wouldn’t be long before he was recruited, enticed by the sheer amounts of money the ‘clubs’ could offer him.

“He’s about to come out, hold on… There!” Renjun points at a figure emerging from a crowd, dressed in the standard durable yet decorated combo all the fighters wore. His was white, with streaks of jagged purple lines running down the sides of his top to mimic the lightning.

Immediately, you recognise his face, but you keep your expression neutral, interested. Definitely the guy from The Den. A sudden thought crosses your mind, and you fight the urge to throw up. He’d probably just won a fight when we met. Probably his first one, too.

This guy didn’t help your preconceived belief that all fighters were assholes.

You watched as the camera panned to his opponent, a small woman in her mid twenties, you’d say. She was tiny, made apparent when she moved to stand beside the boy, their hands interlocking, raising and lowering in an extravagant bow. As if this was all a show. He had to have been at least six feet tall, and she stood with her head level to his lower chest.

But you knew better than to underestimate her, because despite her size – and her ridiculously long fake nails – she had made it this far. People often made the same mistake with you.

People like her opponent, who merely smiled at her smugly as soon as they stepped away from each other in the ring. This may be a fight you actually wanted to watch.

“Watch,” Renjun whispers to you, as the protective glass walls surrounding the ring begin to rise. There’s a countdown, and you watch the two fighters ready themselves. It appears they both have the same tactic – appear casual and indifferent to unnerve the other. You watch as the woman focuses on her nails, uninterested, and the boy stands with a lop-sided smirk on his face, one hand already raised, ready to summon coils of lightning as soon as the countdown reaches zero.

In the audience, people are chanting, excitedly waiting for the fight to begin.

“What’s her ability?” You ask. But he doesn’t have time to answer, because the speaker lets out an unnerving beep, and both fighters begin to move. As soon as the sound rings out, where there was once a woman, there is now a robot – or what looks to be a robot. But then it moves. It moves in a way that no robot, no matter how dynamic, would be able to move. “She can make herself metal?”

Renjun laughs at your bewilderment, “You’ve never heard of Titan?”

“She calls herself Titan?”

“Sure,” he shrugs. “They all have fighter names. He’s Thunder. Uh, Impact was on before. She’s pretty epic. She fought Migraine.” He realises you have no clue who he’s talking about. “Impact has these really strong forcefield things. Migraine… well, he’s pretty self-explanatory.”

“You know what?” Donghyuck pipes up from the couch. You notice Chenle has disappeared, having previously been too absorbed in the fight to notice him leave. Donghyuck is laying with his head dangling off the couch and his legs over the couch’s back. Renjun doesn’t respond. Dismissing the fact that no one responded to his question, Donghyuck continues, “We should have fight names.” He swings his legs down so he can sit up, “I can’t believe we’ve never thought of that.”

“Oh, yeah? What would you be called?” You ask.

“I don’t know…” he thinks about it for a second before bellowing in deep voice, “ETERNAL!”

“Eternal pain in my ass,” Renjun mumbles to you, a smile crossing his face when you laugh. The fight is already over when you look back down at the phone. The lightning boy, unconscious, lays on the floor, whereas the woman, now back in her normal body, holds her hands over her head triumphantly. You can hear the loud eruptions of applause even after Renjun turns down the volume.

“Huh?” Donghyuck looks confusedly between the two of you.

“Renjun could be Spiritwalker,” you say, raising an eyebrow at him. He makes a disgusted expression, but when Donghyuck continues talking, you can tell he’s thinking about it.

“You could be… Mime?”

“Or,” a new voice offers from behind you. “Y/n could be Mine.” He says it in a teasing way – he knows it’ll make you squirm in disgust.

You instantly roll your eyes at Jaemin as soon as he meets your eyes, lowering into the small armchair Jeno was previously sitting in. He lets out a loud laugh. “That was a cheap shot,” you drawl.

And he shrugs, but he can’t help the smile that’s crossed his face at your judgment of his terrible flirting. “What can I say? I’m a dedicated guy. I take every opportunity to-,” but he’s cut off.

“Oh! I know!” You exclaim to Donghyuck in a fake perky voice, clapping your hands together excitedly, “Jaemin can be Douchebag!” You turn to him and the faux smile you’d been donning a second earlier drops from your face as you look at Jaemin pointedly.

One side of his mouth lifts into a half-smile and lets out a fake laugh, glaring at you in an exaggerated manner that says he’s not the least bit bothered by your joke.

“There are too many good names for someone with superspeed. It’s unfair,” Donghyuck notes.

“Like?” Jaemin looks to him, intrigued.

“Dick, trashbag, assface, asshole. If we’re getting creative, cockalorum, ninnyhammer-” You begin counting off the insults on your fingers. Renjun lets out a loud laugh and falls to his side on the floor, and Donghyuck erupts into laughter after him.

Jaemin rolls his eyes but his smile is genuine, laughing along with the others.

“What even is a cockalorum?” Donghyuck asks, though this only makes Renjun laugh again, and he never gets an answer.

That night, you manage to sleep soundly for the first time in a few days, though you don’t know how you’re so exhausted. Dinner had been a riot – Doyoung suggested that Donghyuck cook if he was so bored, and Jaemin ended up getting roped into helping him. You’d wondered if Doyoung’s ‘suggestion’ had been laced with any of his power, urging them slightly to agree.

Jaemin had prepared everything faster than it should’ve been possible, then got annoyed with how slow the actual cooking part was. He ended up lying across the kitchen counter in duress, reducing Donghyuck’s cooking space to a tiny bench beside the stove. Everyone ate together and pretended it was the worst thing they’d ever tasted, making Donghyuck pout throughout most of dinner. But everyone made sure to thank him when they had finished, which you’d thought was very sweet. It had tasted pretty good, though, you had to admit.

In the morning, everyone’s mood seems to have shifted. You couldn’t pin it at first, especially since the morning started the same way it usually does; with you having to wake up a complaining Donghyuck.

It was at breakfast that you’d noticed something was up. Jaemin was wearing an usually sour expression on his face, and even Chenle didn’t comment on it. There was none of the expected fire at the table. Renjun, who normally didn’t wake up until everyone had already eaten, was already sitting at the table when you arrived. Jeno wasn’t there, and neither was Johnny, and you wondered where they’d gone. Jaehyun wasn’t in his office, and emerged from the basement stairs as you sat down, stealing a piece of toast from the table with a half-hearted smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“What is-?” You turn to Mark, and notice that even he seems glum. “What’s going on?”

“Hmm?” Jaemin responds, though his attention is still on his uneaten breakfast. He’s holding a piece of toast in his hand, and it looks as though he’s been nibbling on one corner for the past fifteen minutes.

“Everyone’s so…” you shrug, “gloomy.” Except for Chenle, you want to add. He’s exactly the same. But you don’t. Because you know it’s not true.

“Yeah, well,” Renjun snorts. “That happens when you’re about to risk your life tomorrow.”

Jaemin casts him a sidelong glance and then stands, the sheer speed of his movement causing his chair to topple over loudly. He doesn’t bother to pick it up, or maybe he doesn’t notice what he’s done, but he walks back down the hallway. You hear a door slam and there’s a pause as everyone stops eating for a second, all glancing between each other. Renjun gulps, looking guilty.

Chenle’s the first to continue eating, and everyone follows. You grab a piece of fruit from a plate and stand, “Should I-?”

“God, yes,” Donghyuck responds, immediately. “I don’t want to deal with that.” There’s a few mumbles of agreement and you nod, taking a bite of the fruit as you walk down the hall.

You bump into Doyoung as he’s emerging from the bathroom, his hair wet. The dark circles beneath his eyes haven’t disappeared yet, and you can’t help yourself from noticing how different he looks with the small blemishes. His normally perfect skin looks harrowed and thin now, the dark circles a deep contrast to his light skin.

“Geez, I just haven’t been sleeping well,” he tries to laugh, but it sounds empty.

Your eyebrows raise as you realise he can tell what you’re thinking, “Sorry. I’m just worried about you.”

This makes him smile, and this time its sincere. “Don’t be. Once this is all over,” he gestures around him, “I’ll be fine.”

You nod. But then you remember why you came down here in the first place, “Is Jaemin okay?”

Doyoung stops for a moment, sucking in a breath, “No.” You don’t know why you expected to hear something different. You’d hoped to hear something different. “Wait a second.” You stop from where you’d been reaching for the handle that led to his room. There’s a thump against the door and the sound of something smashing on the floor. “Now, go.”

You nod to him in appreciation before twisting the handle, poking your head in the room. “Jaemin?”

He’s sitting on the floor by Jeno’s bed, his head on his knees. He looks up when you walk in, but his head hangs again. You can’t tell whether he’s angry or sad or a combination of both, but you could see the pained expression on his face as soon as you walked inside. “What h-?” You stop and sit down beside him. “Are you okay?”

He doesn’t answer. You notice him fidgeting, as if he’s got too much energy he needs to get rid of, “Jaemin.”

There’s silence, until, “Can you go?” You recoil from him like you’ve just been burned, and you suddenly hate yourself for it. “Please.” You nod, then mumble a ‘okay’ as you stand up. The door closes noiselessly as you leave, and you let out a breath. Renjun is the one that runs up to you, the one that explains what’s going on. His voice sounds slightly strangled, but he rushes the words out in a long string in a way that tells you he had just been given this information, “Jaehyun’s contact won’t trade his services for money. He wants Jeno. He has Jeno.”

And suddenly you have the urge to throw something at a door, too.

[coeurdastronaute]

The Story, Ch. 2

Previously on The Story

June was hot, thick with stagnant heat that refused to rustle or move the tiniest branch of a tree nor leaf on a stem. Hotter than any other summer that she could remember, Jamie toiled daily on her garden and the grounds, lugging water to and fro, nurturing the seedlings in the greenhouse, fretting over the last bits of her bountiful spring bloom and hoping to survive until the first cooling summer storm. It was tough work, all-encompassing work, and she’d learned a little late in her life, how important it was to keep busy. 

Never one to understand or listen to the story beneath the sound, Jamie missed the subtle changes that had undertaken the manor. Too preoccupied and exhausted from her battle with the sun and the dirt and the grounds itself, she hadn’t given another thought to how often her glances looked back toward the house, nor did she think twice about how she migrated around her duties, following the laughter of the children closer than ever before. Unaware of so much of her movements, her head stuck in the dirt and her hands tangled in the safety of the roots, Jamie was somewhat aware of the fact that she had not spoken, at least not directly or alone, with the au pair since their very first conversation. That was done with such purpose that she spent a large portion of the day willing it to both happen and un-happen. 

But things changed in their sullen existence. Homemade decorations littered the stairs and railings while entire science experiments meant trousers rolled up to ankles and wading in the fountain. The curriculum changed with the feeling of the day, and when school was over, the children were happy to take to learning the finer points of housework, turned into games by the crafty au pair who understood how important such things were. Slowly, the gravity fo the grounds shifted from the chaotic mess left behind with such glaring absences. 

Like all features at Bly, Jamie knew that the au pair was a novelty and would soon become not unlike the furniture or the statues. She would become innate to the property, just as Owen and Hannah and herself had, she would be usual and familiar and it would pass, Jamie promised herself, unpracticed in physics as she was.  

But the addition of the au pair had changed the manor, and in part, had changed many of those left within its universe. Where before there was cold and silence in the absence of the parents of the orphaned children, now nights brimmed with laughter and games, where plays were acted out by the entire cast, and learning was hands on, often out of the classroom and with the help of the rest of the staff. There was this community that popped up, a kinship among those who remained, all loosely tied together by the newest addition. 

It was all so sorely needed after the last au pair and the exceeding tragedy that plagued the beautiful land. 

It was hard not to want to be part of the liveliness of the manor now. Jamie found herself peaking over hedges to find the au pair reading books as the children drifted and lazed in the grass, and she too, listened to the words and gentle voice, her trimming slowing as a result. And clearly the children were taken with Dani, with Flora becoming much like a shadow, following her about, weaving her dolls and flowers for her hair. Miles became less despondent, though not enough for the au pair’s opinion. Still prone to their bouts of melancholy, it felt as if they returned to being children again sometimes. 

Unlike before, Jamie didn’t leave without stopping into the house to see if she might get accidently pulled into an adventure. Before, she would leave without much more than a honk or a wave. But the heat made her shoes stick to the grounds that much more despite the growing exhaustion. 

There was something about staying that made Jamie uneasy. It wasn’t in her composition to remain and attach. 

“It has to break soon,” Jamie sighed to herself as she pressed a sweating glass against her neck. The chill lasted a moment and that was all, gone in an instant. 

“I’ve got ever window open in the house and there hasn’t been so much as a breeze in a week,” Hannah shook her head and continued the slow, gentle fanning of herself. 

The ice adjusted, breaking apart and clinking in a glass. 

“There’s not much more I can do to save the lawn on the south side. It’s getting burnt. It’ll take ages for it to bounce back if we that rain doesn’t hurry.” 

“But the produce has been otherworldly,” Owen offered happily. “What you’ve been harvesting has blown my mind. I haven’t seen such bounty. At least I could never manage it.” 

“I don’t know if it’s saying much then if that’s the comparison.” 

“Laugh at my expense, but it’s true. I’ll gladly trade the lawn for those carrots.” 

“What about you, Hannah, eh? An afternoon of rain or larger heads of cauliflower?” 

“I get more than enough veg, thank you. Owen, you’re looney if you think a breeze isn’t worth every pea in her garden.” 

“I never claimed to be any different,” he grinned before taking a sip of his drink. 

The patio hummed with the crickets and heat so that even their words were too much hot air, and perhaps unwelcomed in the perfect summer evening. It was late, well after sundown, and yet the employees earned a certain run of the place as their own home after dark, when the semblance of adults could be disbanded. 

The two prattled back and forth, much to Jamie’s amusement. The absurdity of how blind they both were, or perhaps Hannah’s staunch refusal for no reason at all didn’t much make sense to the gardener. It wouldn’t be right for someone like Hannah to refuse happiness-- someone who deserved it so completely. Jamie couldn’t understand that choice. 

“There she is, welcome, welcome,” Owen greeted the au pair as she made her way onto the patio. 

The light from inside glowed against her, and Jamie could see the sweat on her neck and the wet ends of her hair that escaped an incredibly high and incredibly tight pony tail. She smiled into her drink at just the thought of it. 

“Still having trouble getting to sleep are they?” Hannah asked as Dani took a seat at the small table of friends. “The heat isn’t kind to them.” 

“Thank you,” she nodded and took a heavy gulp before she winced at the alcohol content she hadn’t been expecting. “They are just so uncomfortable. I don’t even know what to do.” 

“Put them outside,” Jamie offered before three faced turned towards hers. “What? You’ve never slept outside before?” 

Two of the three shook their heads, while Owen perked up excitedly.

“We’ll sort them out tomorrow, don’t worry, Poppins.” 

“I’m willing to try anything at this point. You should have seen Miles’ face when I told him to just sleep in his underwear.”

There was laughter among the group, and across the table, Jamie watched the au pair more curiously than she ever had before. In the faint glow of the evening, she shamelessly stared, observing the interactions, slunk back in her chair and disinterested with much else. 

There’s always been a distance to them that the few feet that separated them now seemed too little, and such an easy stretch to cross. The gardener had seen the au pair in the yard with the children, running and climbing and playing in the sun, her blonde hair whipping around in a swirl as she moved quickly. The gardener had seen the au pair on the terrace, reading in the shade in those damned shorts and her pale skin practically glowing. They shared meals together, but always at polar ends, directly missing each other.

But never had the gardener so unabashedly stared at the newest addition to the trio, or rather the finishing piece of their quartet. She chalked it up to curiosity, because never before had she been so close to an American with a smile like that, or rather, never before had she been close to a smile like that or an American. 

Even when Dani met her glance, Jamie didn’t look away, but rather wondered more about the stranger before her. 

“I thought I was escaping the heat,” Dani shook her head as the company drew toward the end of their drinks. “This is worse than I could have imagined.” 

“It’ll break soon,” Jamie repeated with a bit more assurance. 

“You can’t listen to Jamie’s superstitions,” Hannah shook her head. “She thinks her flowers whisper to her.” 

“That sounds a bit mental. I’d never say that. But it is going to break. You can feel it.” 

“I never would have thought to accuse you of reckless hope,” Owen teased. 

“And you never should,” Jamie said as she stood, finishing her drink. “But the trees are dry and the creeks are hard. It’ll break because it always does.” 

“Got a timeline on that?” Dani asked, looking up at the body in the dark. 

“Sadly, I don’t,” she sighed. “But I believe in the rain.” 

As Hannah and Owen debated the weather and belief, the gardener smiled at Dani and nodded her good night. 

“I’ll see you lot tomorrow. I reckon it might be time for a camp out.” 

Dani smiled, cradling the glass to her neck and cheek. Jamie didn’t look away. The worst of it was, she hadn’t seemed to decide on anything at all. Her mouth just moved and now she was stuck. 

XXXXXXXXXX

“It doesn’t seem safe,” Miles complained as he helped lug an armful of bedding. 

“It’s perfectly safe. It’s not like you have to worry about anyone walking around the property,” Dani promised. “It’s just like being at a campground or in the middle of the woods, except much closer to the bathroom.” 

“We’ve never been properly camping before,” Flora announced. “We did sleep in the living room a few times, and tell stories, and drank cocoa.” 

“Well camping is supposed to be fun.” 

“Supposed to be?” 

“I’ve never gone either,” she shrugged, wiping the sweat from her brow. “But I’ll do anything to avoid the heat.” 

“It’s the same temperature outside as inside,” the little boy reminded the group as he tossed his pillow down on one of the carefully placed bedrolls, foraged from the deepest recesses of the garage attic. 

“It’ll chill come evening,” the au pair promised. “I never thought you’d be afraid of a little adventure.” 

“I don’t mind adventure, but I mind the mosquitos.” 

“We’ll take care of that, don’t worry.”

“It’s absolutely splendid, isn’t it, Ms. Clayton?” Flora brimmed as she spun around the camp on the back lawn.

With a surprising show inf ingenuity, it was true that the gardener with help from the chef, had transformed a spot beneath the hornbeam trees into a safari. The fire was already crackling to life as the children finished their last load of blankets, the beds were pallets and the chairs were from the patio, but the true gift was the open-faced tent, hung between a few branches of the wide tree so that the open wall faced the fire and the house. 

“It’s better than I could have imagined,” Dani agreed, smiling as she surveyed the set up until she found the person responsible and softened. “It looks amazing.” 

When Jamie made the suggestion, the au pair hadn’t really considered it happening, but when she showed up the following day ready to do it, enlisting Owen and even Hannah in some ways, Dani didn’t think twice about joining the event. 

“Just a bit of ingenuity and fierce, god-like strength,” Jamie winked, flexing a bit before grinning. “And Owen.” 

“It’s nothing,” the chef promised as he checked the sturdiness of his work. “I was a Scout Explorer. Fifteen years worth of survival and outdoor training with a healthy dose of community service.”

“And what was your reason for being so outdoorsy?” Dani turned to Jamie as she teased Miles’ shoulder, making him look. 

“Oh, I was raised by wolves,” Jamie explained, quite seriously, earning a look from the smallest of the party. “True story. Walked on all fours until I was older than you, Flora. Used to be able to talk to them, but it’s been so long.” 

“That didn’t happen,” Miles shook his head. 

“If you ever run into a pack of wolves, just say you know me.” 

He rolled his eyes but thought it over to himself as Dani accepted a drink from Hannah and took a seat, the hard work of setting up complete and the night working its way to them. 

It might have been psychological, or it might have been the fire, but the evening did seem to get cooler. It wasn’t a blustery winter by any means, but it felt tenable for the first time in too many days. 

For Dani, the best kind of moments were when the children were just that, giggly and smiling, living loudly and with exteriority. When Miles would flash a smile, absolutely smitten with everything Owen was telling him about knots and pocket knives and his own adventures in the woods as a boy. When Flora would lean against the side of the au pair’s leg and pat her knee excitedly as she had to get close to speak so quickly about how important it was to not burn the marshmallows. She could love them better, she believed. It didn’t seem an impossible task sometimes. 

For a second, she also lost herself in the magic of the evening. As Flora and Miles chased lightning bugs through the field, exhausting themselves after dinner, and Dani found herself in the company of who were quickly becoming what she might refer to as friends. The three caretakers of the manor and its inhabitants, slightly more willing to stay later for a moment like this as well. 

Three s’mores and four stories later, the late hour did it’s best to win out over the young campers. Huddled around the fire, they covered up and listened attentively as the gardener wove a wild story. Dani sat across, her legs stretched out and feet near the fire while Hannah held a bottle tightly beside her before carefully re-filling their cups. 

“I almost hate to admit what a good idea this is,” Hannah chuckled before re-corking their bottle as she sat it on the ground. “But they certainly are enjoying themselves.”

“It means a lot to them, for you all to be here and so interested. They don’t know it yet, but they will one day,” Dani nodded, looking over the flickering flames as Miles adjusted, pulling up the blanket, completely engrossed in the story. 

“I couldn’t be anywhere else. I’ve been with this family for… goodness, it’s been my whole life it seems.” 

“Still, you chose to stay. That means something.” 

“I’m not sure what, exactly,” the housekeeper sighed. 

“Love. Loyalty.” 

Dani watched a small smile creep into Hannah’s cheeks as she stared at the gardener, but didn’t hear a thing, so deep in thought was the housekeeper suddenly that she disappeared, or so it seemed. 

Jamie kept talking though, her story winding its way this way and that, hoping to be long enough to tire out the children. Her voice was growing lower to persuade them, and in just a few minutes, Flora fell asleep, her cheek pressed against the gardener’s chest, a blanket wrapped over them both. Dani wasn’t sure when she began to smile at the scene, only that she was and Hannah watched her take a drink to hide it. 

“The night we found out about the Wingraves, she spent the entire evening playing with them. When I got the call, I didn’t know how to say it, so we waited for their uncle to come tell them, and I remember Jamie watching them run up and down the stairs, playing some made up game that we couldn’t understand. And she was the one who made us wait. Let them be kids who have parents for just another hour, she told me. Another hour.”

Miles stretched slightly, his arm dipping until his head was on the pillow. 

“I’m sorry for the loss,” Dani offered as Hannah looked away from a sleeping Flora. 

“They’re adapting. Somehow.” 

“You all are helping, you know that, don’t you?” 

“Sometimes I’m not sure, but then I look at that,” Hannah nudged her chin at the sleeping children, at Jamie not bothering to move Flora, but holding her tight. “And I know that even in the most inopportune environment, even something kind and loyal and loving can emerge, whether they know it or not.” 

“What happened?” 

“She ended up here somehow,” she sighed and took another drink before standing. “Let me help you, dear. Don’t want to wake her after finally getting her to sleep.” 

Dani didn’t move as she watched the careful task of detaching Flora and tucking her in safely, all in hopes of not having to tell another story to put her back to sleep. The au pair watched Jamie’s movements with a keener eye. She traced the outline of her jaw and cheeks, saw neck and clavicle when the flannel she’d brought slipped down a shoulder with the movements, as if something, some tick, could explain everything that seemed to be an impenetrable fort. 

“And with that, I’ve had enough nature,” Hannah decided. “I’m going inside to my bed.”

“Booooo,” the other adults teased. 

“I’m too old for sleeping in the dirt, and so are you lot. We’ll see who is in better shape in the morning.” 

“I’ll, uh,” Owen stood, patting off his pants. “I’ll walk  you in. Grab some more water for us.” 

“I know the way.” 

“Good, you can help me find the kitchen.” 

With a wave, they moved back toward the house, their lanterns swinging as they reached the door. Across from her, Jamie took to a chair, electing to stretch after sitting on the hard ground and beneath another human, tiny as she was, for so long. 

“I swear my arse went flat sitting there all night,” she mumbled, picking up the bottle Hannah had left behind. “Gardener by day, lawn chair by night.”

“I don’t think I’m as good with flowers as you are with them.” 

“No worries about me pilfering your job, Poppins. I find them exhausting and they are quite taken with you.” 

There was a fondness hidden beneath the feigned annoyance as Jamie surveyed their sleeping forms, resting comfortably with the fire flickering light into the tent. 

“They like you.” 

“What’s not to like? I’m quite a stirring specimen. And I make a damn fine s’more.” 

Dani couldn’t help but roll her eyes as she stood and meandered toward a chair, the stiffness that Hannah warned about nestling into her joints until she was certain she’d be locked in the seated position forever. 

“You’re not going to abandon me out here with them are you?” 

To her credit, Jamie considered it before tossing a lopsided smile toward the au pair who joined her. 

“It was my idea to sleep outside, wasn’t it? Can’t miss this. Plus,” she paused to finish her glass of whiskey. “I’ve been drinking. Not too safe to drive.” 

“I feel like I should thank you again for all of this. It’s… it’s amazing.” 

The stars were bright, unburdened with any rules of order, scattered throughout to the horizon and tree tops. The fire glowed but did not dim them at all, merely enhanced by attempting to add its own embers into the heavens, offering the sacrifice for permanent consideration, though none made it that far. 

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t doing anything else. I’ve had worse nights than a campfire and half-decent company.” 

“I’ll take half-decent.” 

“Oh, yeah… uh, I was talking about them,” Jame furrowed as she looked toward the sleeping children. “Juries still out on you.” 

“I’ve been known to be a good time,” Dani promised. 

Despite the teasing, Jame tilted her chin to appraise the au pair in the firelight, as if trying to discern if the statement was actually true. She cocked her head to the side as Dani readjusted, becoming oddly self-conscious of the look. A little nervous, she sipped her drink and winced against the burn. 

“I might be inclined to believe you, except you ended up here, same as us, and I’m not sure anyone here knows how to be a good time.” 

“I don’t know. You put all of this together.”

“A rare flash of brilliance,” Jamie shrugged. “We’ve been dying to know what brought you here, you know?”

“I’m that interesting?” 

“New, maybe. Interesting is to be determined.” 

Dani smiled into her cup, her body constricting tightly into itself as she was forced to think about things she’d hoped to forget. 

“But you don’t have to share,” Jamie added quickly, feeling the shift in the mood of the night. It was far too lovely out and the au pair was far too pretty sitting there, politely looking for a way out. “Doesn’t matter how, just that you got here. In my experience, it’s a bit of ill-fate that brings anyone here. Hannah and the cheating husband. Owen and the sick mother.”

“You, and the love of plants?” 

“Yeah,” she grunted. “Me and my curse for growing things.”

Jame ran her thumb along her cup before turning back to the au pair beside her. She wasn’t fond, suddenly, of upsetting her, and she didn’t want the conversation to end because unlike most others, she was incredibly invested in simply hearing Dani’s voice.  

“And me,” Dani decided, stiffening her spine a little with a deep breath, “Running away from everything back home because I just…” she looked at Jamie, willing her to understand how cowardly and weak she felt. “Couldn’t handle the pain anymore.” 

Her glance was strong, was inquisitive and kind, and Dani looked away from the warmth it offered. 

“You don’t have to run anymore. And you don’t have to have anymore pain.” 

It was an oddly comforting option and perhaps promise, Dani realized, one that she knew Jamie was in no place to give, but still she did, and for the first time, despite all of the people at the funeral and the hospital and in her life who let her off the hook, or at least thought they did, she felt as if she might be able to finally do it. 

Jamie’s hand was warm in her knee where it gave a squeeze, but did not let go, resting there as the gardener moved her head, twisting to be in the au pair’s view. Dani looked at her and couldn’t help but smile slightly. 

“I know you’re not alright. That’s okay, too. You don’t have to be yet.” 

Simultaneously, the weight grew and shrunk on her chest, but Dani relaxed at the feeling of it all. 

“I’m around, you know? Not really the best at talking, but I’ve got ears that occasionally work.” Dani couldn’t help but chuckle. “There it is, Poppins. No sense in having a pretty girl upset. It’s probably the greatest sin around.” 

“The greatest?” she scoffed, clearing her throat as the hand on her knee was retracted. 

“I haven’t been to church in a while,” Jamie confessed. 

“I couldn’t tell.”

“That’s what happens when you’re raised by wolves.” 

Once again, she filled up the cups, and Dani felt the gardener relax slightly beside her. She found herself envious of the apparent ease with which she moved through life. 

“I almost believe you.” 

There was another grin, lopsided and knowing. It was oddly frustrating, to feel so bare and understood by someone who was unreadable, but Dani challenged her before taking a drink. 

“Wolves don’t have to howl in the night and live in the forests or have fangs and claws.” Jamie paused and swirled around her drink. She looked up to see the lantern of their third returning. “Sometimes they wear suits and work at the bank or a department store, and they find a weakling and they do what wolves do. Suit or fangs, there isn’t much difference. I was raised by wolves.”

Dani didn’t register Owen’s return. She looked at Jamie who refused to look at her, but rather smiled as the chef sat down, prepared to tease him incredibly for his display with the housekeeper. But the au pair was struck with the first thickly veiled, but honest moment she might have ever had with the stranger beside her. She wanted more. She wanted to press and learn what it all meant, not the story, not the tale of it, the fiction and flowers and metaphors. But she found it was enough for the moment. 

“I found out why Poppins is at the Manor,” Jamie announced proudly as she tossed Owen the bottle. “She robbed a bunch of banks.” 

“I think she might be pulling your leg,” he shook his head. “Doesn’t seem the type to care about money.” 

“She did it for the thrill. She’s mad. Hide the silver.” 

“Don’t tell people that,” Dani scolded, hitting Jamie’s arm. “I’m just a teacher.” 

“A notoriously underpaid lot. She definitely did it for the money. Owed huge gambling debts. I don’t know what to tell you, Owen,” Jamie shrugged. “That’s the truth.” 

“Please don’t believe her.” 

“I hardly ever do,” he promised. 

NEXT

[itsthestutterforme]

Time Travel (Supernatural)

Characters: Sam x reader, Dean x reader, Lucifer x reader

Summary: Dean has been having nightmares about Y/N dying at the hands of Lucifer. His nightmares were actually visions. Lucifer kills Y/N and zaps her to the bunker where the Winchester could see her mutilated corpse. Dean travels back in time to retrieve something he needs to defeat the Amara and he runs into Y/N.

Y/N and Dean were sleeping while Sam had been searching for a case since 11 pm the night before. Dean has been having this nightmares about Y/N dying in many different ways.

Each way worse than the previous and he always ends up in tears when he wakes. Y/N wakes when she feels Dean's chest starting to convulse.

She looks at him and sees his eyes pressed shut as sweat dampens his shirt. "Dean," she says as she sit up. She rubs his chest and he wakes up with a gasp. He pushes himself so he is sitting upright against the headboard.

"Hey, it's okay," Y/N comforts when she sees tears rolling down his face. "Dean, I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."

She wipes the tears from his cheeks and he leans into her touch. She pulls him in for a hug and he squeezes her body tightly. He buries his face into her neck as he cries and she ran her hand over the back of his head. "You b-bled out. S-someone shot you and-"

"It's alright, Dean. It's not real," "What if it is and it hasn't happened yet?" "We don't know that for sure to be worried about it. We already have enough on our plate to worry about this." "Of course I'm worried, Y/N. I'm not going to lose you."

"Exactly, you're not going to lose me. It's just nightmares." "Nightmares stem from something that either has happened or will happen," "Dean," Y/N says as she holds his face in her hands.

She presses a warm, loving kiss on his lips before pecking his forehead. "Come on, let's take a shower to ease our nerves, okay?" He nods slowly and Y/N pull him out of bed to head for the showers.

Things have been getting worse with Lucifer roaming the Earth. All the leads they found ran cold within days. Y/N got a call from her family saying that Grandma was in the hospital.

She packed five days worth of clothes in her bag and Dean was worried about her leaving on her own. "I'll be fine, Dean. If it makes it easier for you, I'll call you every hour on the hour. Sounds good?"

"Yeah, alright," he says skeptically. "Baby, I'll be okay. I promise," she states before pecking his lips. He pulls her back by her hips and presses her back against his chest. She looks straight up at him because of the 10 inch difference in height.

He presses a series of kisses on her lips and cups her hips with his large hands. "There's nothing to be worried about." Skepticsm laced his eyes and he hesitantly lets go of her. She takes off her necklace with her mother's ring around it and placed it in Dean's hand.

"No, I can't accept this." "It's a sign of good faith," she says as she closed his hand around the necklace. She takes her bag to the garage and takes one of the cars to drive back to her hometown. "What was that about?" Sam asks Dean.

"Nothing, I just have a bad feeling about her going on her own," "Dean, the first time we met, she put both of us on our ass. She is more than capable of taking care of herself."

"I've been having nightmares about Lucifer killing her, and it feels so real like its.." "And you feel like its going to happen in real life." Sam finishes and Dean nods as he stares down at her necklace in his hands.

Days have passed and Y/N was picking up some snacks in Cleveland, Ohio when she heard people screaming. She drops her snacks and rushes out the store. She runs straight into Lucifer snapping a poor man's neck.

"Lucifier!" Y/N calls as she takes out her angel blade. "Ah, well look who it is. Dean's best girl." Lucifier taunts. "You're far from home, honey." "So are you," she snaps. "Ooo, I've always liked you and that pretty little mouth of yours."

"Bite me," she threatens as she tightens her grip on the blade. "That can be arranged." With a flick of a wrist, the blade is yanked out of her hand and she is pressed against the wall.

He picks of the blade and trails it along her clavicle. She says a small incantation that causes her tattoo on her side to glow. The tattoo had the ability to blast anyone away, but Lucifier wasn't just anyone.

"That tickles," he states and Y/N closed her eyes. She knew what was coming. She was just sorry that she couldn't say goodbye to Dean. Lucifier reached in and tore Y/N's heart from her chest. Within seconds she was dead and fell to the floor.

He stares down at her corpse and debated whether he should leave her there or send her to the Winchesters. He throughly enjoys watching the Winchesters suffer so he zaps her to the bunker.

She lands right on their studying table but they were out going to a grocery run. They came back and walked down the stairs to see her laying motionless on the table.

"Baby?" Dean says as he runs over to her. His eyes frantically dart all over her body, unsure of where to focus. But they finally focus on the gaping hole in her chest where her heart used to be.

"Oh my God, no," he lifts her upper body into his arms and rest her head on his shoulder. "Damn it!" He screams into her neck. Sam slowly sits in the chair and holds his face in his hands as tried to hold in his sobs.

Months later and the wounds are still fresh for them. The Darkness was released and in search for Chuck. Chuck finally resurfaced and Sam and Dean took him back to their bunker.

They needed Joseph's staff to harness it's power and use it against Amara. Sam figured out that Joseph's staff was in the bunker in before the Rowena took it. They needed to back to 2012 to retrieve it.

They prepared themselves before Chuck zapped his Dean to 2012. The bunker was quiet except for it's normal creaks. "Damn it, Dean. What did tell about leaving your shoes in the hallway! I almost broke my neck!" Y/N snaps and Dean's heart sunk.

He followed the sound of her voice to his room. She threw his shoes in the corner with a huff. She turns around and sends Dean a glare. "If I would have died from tripping over those shoes, I would come back to haunt y- are you okay?" She asks as she sees Dean's puffy eyes.

"Alright, it's not that big of a deal. It's just shoes." Dean rushes into her arms and nearly knocked her over. "I miss you," he whimpers. "I missed you too. You were gone for almost a week on that hunting trip," "No, that's not what I mean," he says as he pulls away from her.

"Y/N, I'm from the future and i--" Y/N claps a hand over his mouth and pushes him on to the bed. She straddles his waist and drapes her body over his. "Do not say another word." A soft sigh leaves her lips before she drops her hand from his mouth.

"I die in the future, don't I?" She asks. He nods and holds the side of her face. "Well at least I know what I'll die for," she says with a soft chuckle. She holds Dean's hand and presses a kiss on his palm. He sits up and takes her in his arms. He inhales the faint scent of vanilla bean from her lotion and perfume.

"I love you," Dean says. "And I love you." Y/N says as she runs her hands through his gelled hair. "What are you here for, Dean?" "Doesn't matter. I'm not leaving this bed." His voice is muffled from her chest.

"I'm so sorry baby," he croaks and Y/N rubs his back. "There's nothing to be sorry about," "Lucifer, he--" "Ah, ah, ah, don't say anything that will change the future, Dean." Y/N scolds.

"I'm sorry. I just miss talking to you about things and you being mad at me and.. damn it," "Alright, how about this. For the next minute or so, we lay here together." "Okay,"

She readjusts herself to lay on his chest and he caressed the back of her neck and they didn't move from that spot until an hour later. She helps him find the staff and she kissed him goodbye before he left.

Chuck zaps Dean back to his time and Dean felt worse after he saw Y/N. It only reminded him how much he missed her. Chuck went off to take a shower and Sam put the staff in the vault. "You okay, Dean?" "I saw her. Y/N, I saw her." "H-how is she doing?"

"She yelled at me because I left my shoes in the hallway and she tripped over them," Dean says with a small smile. "Yeah, she was always fiesty. There's a high chance she was cussing people out in the womb." Sam says, making them both chuckle.

"I miss her, man." Dean says as he links his hands behind his neck. He could still smell her on his shirt. "I miss her too," Sam says. "Wait, do you think he could..?" Sam adds. "Do what? Bring her back?" "Yeah, I mean, he's God right? He can bring anyone back." "Well, there's only one way to find out."

[dothwrites]

161 please??

---

google doth always taking prompts

161--Where did that cat come from?

---

The rainstorm starts when Dean pulls into the space outside the bunker’s door. It’ll be a pain in the ass to reverse and pull into the garage, plus he and Sam have a trunk full of groceries, so Dean just curses and puts the Impala into park before he gets out of the car. Water droplets start to pelt against the top of his head and the back of his neck as he loads as many bags on his wrists and arms as humanly possible. 

From there, it’s a quick trip down the bunker stairs. Sam follows behind, with a more modest amount of bags swinging from his hands. Dean walks quickly, cognizant of his struggling circulation, not to mention the unpleasant wind of a single bead of water down his spine. Their steps echo down the bunker stairs, which would alert Cas to their presence, even if the “Cas, we’re home!” didn’t. 

“Shut up,” Dean automatically says when he hears Sam’s poorly repressed snigger. 

“Needy much?” Sam does a faulty reproduction of Dean’s voice, making sure to give him a falsetto. “Cas, we’re home!” He continues to snicker as they make their way to the kitchen. “You’re about one step away from Lucy.” 

“Ok, first of all, it was Ricky Ricardo who said those lines and secondly--shut up.” Ok, so not the best comeback. Blame the rain and his screaming wrists and arms. Dean flushes and turns away from Sam as he lifts the groceries onto the counter with a quiet grunt. 

“Nice job, He-Man. Maybe next time you could try multiple trips?” 

“Go out? More than once? For groceries? Sam, it’s like you don’t even know me.” Dean starts unpacking the bags, pausing when he reaches a certain jar. “Cas! We’re in the kitchen!” 

On the opposite side of the kitchen, Sam starts to hum something that sounds like needy baby needy baby. Dean debates throwing a can of green beans at the back of his shaggy moose head. He settles for lobbing a poisonous glare at Sam’s head and not letting up until his brother turns around. 

“Hey, he dipped out on grocery shopping. The least he could do is come and help put the stuff away.” Plus Dean bought a jar of the good stuff for Cas, organic, comb in honey. It cost him an arm and a leg, but it’ll be worth it once he sees the pleased, shy smile spread across Cas’ face, which he can’t see until his boyfriend makes his way to the kitchen. 

Sam must catch sight of the honey because he lets out a very unflattering snort. Dean defensively scoops the honey out of sight. “It’s good for the environment,” he defends, despite the fact that he’s never recycled a day in his life. 

“Sure.” Sam really shouldn’t sound so smug, Mr. I Drink Kale Smoothies and Poop Compost. “Look, all I’m saying is that if my boyfriend had me that whipped, then I would at least own it.” 

“Your boyfriend would run away from your ugly face,” Dean snidely digs. Far from dissolving into a snotty mess, Sam just makes a very rude gesture involving use of a singular finger, and turns around to continue stocking the freezer with pizza rolls. 

The first sign of trouble is a singular sneeze. Dean shakes it off--it was raining outside, pollen is in the air, and the bunker that they live in was made by a bunch of old, dead guys, so there’s bound to be some dust. 

The second, third, and fourth sneezes come as more of a puzzle. 

Sam, ever the solicitous brother, raises an eyebrow. “You dying or what?” he asks. 

“Or what,” Dean wheezes, though his eyes are watery and itchy. A rattle starts in his throat as another sneeze rocks through his body. This is not normal. In fact, he only gets like this when...

Cas walks into the kitchen, wearing jeans and one of Dean’s hoodies that’s just a bit too big for him in the arms (though it stretches delightfully across his chest and shoulders). As soon as he crosses the threshold of the kitchen, as if on command, Dean sneezes. 

Through watery eyes, Dean squints at the suspicious bulge in the front of the hoodie pocket. Castiel casually shifts to the side to hide it, but it’s too late. Dean just saw something move. Cas might be happy to see him, but he’s nowhere near that happy. 

“Whatcha got there Cas?” He tries to make it clear from his tone that his question is not a polite request. 

It’s not every day that Dean gets to see a former angel of the Lord acting shifty, but that’s exactly what he gets to see as Cas tries to sidle his way out of the kitchen. “Cas,” Dean barks. Cas shuffles his feet as he plasters a very unconvincing look of innocence on his face. “What’s in your pocket?”

His facade of hardass suffers from the sneeze that rockets through his body, but it’s enough. Cas walks into the kitchen. Sam, intrigued by the drama, draws closer, but Dean’s eyes are focused on Cas’ hand as it dips into the hoodie pocket. 

Castiel withdraws his hand, holding his burden out for inspection. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean sees Sam’s mouth drop open in a paroxysm of delight (fucking softie). For his part, Dean greets the reveal with three consecutive sneezes, each one more violent than the last. 

“Cas,” Dean finally says, sniffling around his words, “where did that cat come from?” 

The cat in question can’t be much more than a kitten. It sits easily in Cas’ large hand. Luminous green eyes blink up slowly at him through a haze of black fur. As Dean watches, the kitten opens its mouth, revealing tiny sharp teeth and a pink tongue. A soft mew fills the space. 

Dean answers it with a sniffle. 

“I was out in the garden earlier today,” Cas begins. He doesn’t even have the good grace to look guilty as he pulls the kitten in close to his chest. Dean winces (that’s a hell of a lot of dander and fur that’s winding up on an article of clothing that still technically belongs to him) before he outright flinches as the kitten digs its claws into the fabric. Say goodbye to that particular hoodie. 

“It was just starting to rain and I found her.” Cas looks at him, all huge blue eyes and plaintive voice. “She was cold and shivering. I don’t think that she’d eaten for several days.” 

Great. Just great. Dean can already see where this is going and exactly what parts they’re all going to fall into. Cas, the crusader for justice and kindness, Sam, the well-intentioned supporter, and Dean, the cruel hand of logic. 

“Well, feed her, and then after the rain finishes we can take her to the shelter.” 

Next to him, Sam gasps. Cas’ mouth turns down in a stubborn frown. 

“Dean, the shelter is a kill shelter.” Sam’s voice sounds as scandalized as though Dean had suggested that they carpet bomb the whole town. 

“It’s a kitten. It’s cute. It’ll get adopted in like three seconds. I mean, it’s already got the two of you wrapped around its little dagger claws.” 

There’s something embarrassing about the soppy eyes that both Sam and Cas shoot towards the kitten. No angel should look that sickly sweet. 

“Dean, cats are fairly low maintenance,” Cas begins, which is exactly where Dean thought this talk was headed. 

“I have allergies!” Dean protests, to be met with unsympathetic looks from both his brother and his boyfriend. Traitors. “Plus, who’s going to take care of it when we go on hunts? We going to pay the neighbors to come over into our super secret bunker filled with satanic stuff?” 

Cas’ mouth flattens. “There are several establishments in town which cater to the boarding of pets.” Great. He’s already done research. “Also, many stores offer over the counter products designed to alleviate the symptoms of allergies.” 

Between Sam’s puppy eyes and Cas’ jutting lower lip, Dean feels his defenses wavering. “You’d better keep it away from my room. And if it starts pissing on the floors or tearing up the furniture, it’s out of here. And you’re,” he points to both Sam and Cas, “going to pay for my allergy meds. And you’re going to feed it and pay for all its stuff.” He’s never felt more like a dad than in that moment, lecturing his brother and boyfriend on the proper care of the cat. “This is your pet; I’m not going to take care of it!” 

Cas nods earnestly before he walks across the kitchen and kisses the bolt of his jaw, right in the sweet spot that always turns Dean weak in the knees. Bastard knows exactly how to play him. Dean turns his head to kiss Cas properly, ignoring Sam’s gagging noises in the background. Cas hums into the kiss, his teeth ghosting over Dean’s lower lip in a hint of a tease. 

Dean’s just ready to make it a proper kiss, Sam be damned, when he’s stabbed. Yelping in pain, he jumps backward, glaring at the tiny, cockblocking, ball of fluff still held in Cas’ hands. The kitten retracts the minuscule knives attached to its paws as it blinks innocently up at him.

“Oh, I think you must have squashed her,” Cas says, rubbing a finger underneath the kitten’s chin.

For its part, the kitten yawns at Dean before falling asleep. 

“Yeah,” Dean mutters, massaging at his wound (seriously, he’s bleeding and Sam is just laughing at him like an asshole). “Yeah, this is going to turn out swell.

(It comes to no one’s surprise, least of all Dean’s, when he goes to bed and finds not only Castiel, but the kitten curled up on his mattress. I said she’s not allowed on the bed, Dean tries, but the protest is weak at best, especially when Cas has decided to play dirty and is lying bare-chested with the sheet artfully draped over his waist. 

Well, I could take her back to my room, Cas murmurs, scooping up the kitten, and Dean’s going hellishly soft in his old age because he just says Over my dead body, before crawling over the mattress to where Cas waits. The kitten finds her way to the floor. 

In the morning, Dean wakes up with his nose running and his eyes gummy, due to the fucking cat who has decided to sleep less than a foot away from his face. The heated kiss that Cas gives him when he wakes up only partially helps to stop his bitching.)

[keelywolfe]

Drabble: All You Knead is Love (baon)

Summary: Saturdays are baking days and Stretch kneads to dough Edge a favor without a breach of crust.

Tags:  Spicyhoney, Established Relationship, Domestic Fluff

Part of the ‘by any other name’ series.

~~*~~

Read it on AO3

or

Read it here!

~~*~~

When Stretch was still living in the Underground, time seemed to go a little differently. There wasn’t a neat divide of weekends and weekdays, not really, what would be the point. Before things got bad, days were spent on sentry duty, hopping from one post to the next and napping between, heading home to choke down his bro’s latest attempt at tacos while NTT played on the boob tube, and evenings spent drinking too much at Muffet’s before heading home to do the same thing again. After a while, it all blurred together and when things started to—

(reset)

-get bad, well, it wasn’t like Stretch cared much about the day of the week.

Things were a little different on the surface when it came to a schedule and Stretch knew before he even opened his sockets that morning that it was Saturday. The delectably yeasty aroma wafting its way all the way up to their bedroom was like the siren call of lovely carbohydrates, beckoning to all innocent travelers to meet their starchy doom.

Okay, maybe that was a little on the dire side, but Saturday was baking day and since Stretch wasn’t exactly tied to a ship’s mast, he was about to wander on down and see what was on the menu.

He took long enough to wash up and toss on some clothes, the better to head off any conditions Edge might have about him swiping a muffin or three for his brunch, and it wasn’t noon yet, not for fifteen minutes yet, totally still brunchtime.

As predicted, Edge was standing at the kitchen island with a mound of pale dough in front of him, be-aproned and ready to get it on with his inner Paul Hollywood. Despite numerous gifts of ‘Kiss the Cook’ and ‘I cook as good as I look’ aprons, Edge still wore the plain black one he always did, only barely smudged with flour.

(The frilly apron didn’t bear mention, since Stretch was the one who wore it that one time, that and nothing else, and it did not survive the event. Worth it.)

The Stretch blinked as he got a better look at the largess on their kitchen counters. Dozens of muffins sat grouped together, their domed tops seeded with berries or nuts or chocolate chips. There were trays of cookies in high piles, sugar cookies with colored sugar sparkling and the cross-hatched peanut butter ones. Small, round cookies with a thumbful of glistening jam pressed into their middles.

Then there were loaves of crusty bread alongside knotted rolls scattered with sesame seeds and herbs. The countertop was heaped with enough gluten goodness to start a bakery and Edge was busily kneading even more. It all looked delicious, sure, and soft fluid magic was already filling Stretch’s mouth, begging for him to try his hand at a little tasty thievery.

Except if Edge made all this today, then he’d been up before dawn and he’d already been standing a lot longer than he was supposed to. Even if he was kneeling on his scooter, the cartilage in his leg was gonna start swelling after a while. Doctor’s orders said sit every two hours and the certain tightness of Edge’s mouth, the narrowness of his sockets, stated pretty clearly that Edge needed to park his carcass.

“babe,” Stretch said, cautiously. He crept closer, making sure to keep his hands nice and visible. The chances were low, but no reason to set off any nasty old triggers and make this into an event. “don’t you think you’ve made enough? even i won’t be able to eat all of that before it goes stale.”

“I’m taking most of this into the Embassy,” Edge said. His fingers moved expertly as he divided the dough, weaving it into a wide braid. “If you’d like something, you can help yourself.”

Normally, an invitation of free reign over Mount Delicious would have Stretch doing to the happy carb dance, but today? Not so much. Time for take two.

“so, after you’re done with that one, can you come out and watch a movie with me?” Stretch turned the wheedling up to max, “i could use a lap to lie on.”

Edge didn’t even look up, his slim hands working another ball of dough until it was smooth and elastic. “I need to finish this.”

“yep, you do,” Stretch agreed. He drew on his knowledge of many seasons of view the Great British Baking Show to ask, “but doesn’t it have to rise again?”

“It does, and while it is, I have three more loaves proofing.”

“uh huh.” Yeah, okay, time for the direct approach. Stretch reached out to gently lay his hands on top of Edge’s, stilling him. “babe, please. how long have you been standing? huh?”

The expression on Edge’s face told a long, convoluted story, a tale that went from indignance to faltering honesty, to dismay, to guilt. He glanced towards the corner where Stretch could see three more bowls of rising dough.

“Too long. But I need to finish this or else it’ll all go in the trash,” Edge admitted. Yeah, and Stretch knew exactly how Edge felt about wasting food.

“okay,” Stretch considered the options. There was really only one. “then let me help.”

That was a plan that worked on a few levels. It’d get Edge to sit down and Edge couldn’t exactly refuse without implying Stretch couldn’t do it. Considering all the times that Edge tried to encourage him with his attempts at cooking, any insinuations otherwise were gonna bring the wide, hurt eye sockets into play.

A long, fraught moment of hesitation and Stretch was about to get his wounded look warmed up when at last Edge said, “All right.”

Their dining room set was currently a card table hawked from Papyrus’s garage and the remaining chairs from their last set. Edge sat in the chair and propped his leg up on the one across from it. Didn’t quite hide his grimace well enough and yeah, Stretch didn’t have a single regret about making him take a seat.

That was, until it was his chance to turn on his inner chef.

Kneading dough wasn’t hard, exactly, but how the hell did Edge keep it from gunking up all his finger joints? Had to be about the technique and that wasn’t something Stretch was going to pick up in an afternoon. By the time he got it mostly looking like Edge’s and split into three lumpy balls, he got to learned something new about himself. Namely that he couldn’t braid and that might’ve been more frustrating if it weren’t for the fact Edge couldn’t keep a straight face as he watched. That normal stoic expression of his was cracking around the (heh) edges and trying to smother it under a hand was about as useful as Stretch’s braid.

“No, no,” Edge sputtered into a chuckle, “you bring the strip on the outside in…the other strip, you just did that side…”

When Stretch was done, his dough braid sort of looked as if it’d taken a sad anime walk through the rain after senpai didn’t notice it at the volleyball game.

He gave it a forlorn poke with one finger, asking meekly, “can i knead it back together and try again?”

“No need, it’ll be fine, love,” and then Edge proved he was as cruel as the interns’ rumors said by adding, “Two more to go.”

Stretch set the sheet with the almost-a-braid on the counter and covered it with a light towel before grabbing another bowl, dumping it onto the floury counter. “sorry, babe, i’m never going to be much of a cook.”

“That would be why you have me. Here.” Edge stood up and came around behind him, sliding his arms around Stretch to add his own hands into the kneading. “Like this, slow and even.”

Their height difference meant Edge couldn’t even see what he was doing and he still did better than Stretch. Didn’t help that warm press of Edge’s body against his own was distracting and Stretch exhaled weakly, trying to match Edge’s rhythm as they worked the dough together. “you’re supposed to be sitting.”

“I was sitting.” The deep vibration of his voice shivered through Stretch. Between his shoulder blades he could feel the light pressure of Edge’s skull resting against him. “I’m fine, love.”

That concerned voice in the back of Stretch’s skull was getting further away. Between both their hands, Edge’s deft and his own clumsy ones, they got the dough evenly divided, and Stretch tried his hands at braiding again. This time with Edge’s fingers resting lightly against his own, nudging when he nearly went the wrong way, guiding him better blind than Stretch did with both eye lights watching.

As if their thoughts about watching were mirrored, Edge chose that moment to speak up, “Do you know, I like watching you cook.”

Stretch snorted, looking down at his second braided loaf, still a little sloppy despite Edge’s help. “you like watching me fuck up?”

Those guiding fingers took a second to flick against his in light punishment, “First of all, you aren’t fucking up. And I do like watching you. As I’ve told you before, there’s a satisfaction to providing food. Giving nourishment to those you care about,” Edge shifted behind him, his breath warm against Stretch’s cervical vertebra, “Those you love.”

Stretch let his sockets droop briefly closed, sighing out, “oh, butter that toast, babe.”

The question of whether or not his braiding skills constituted a fuck up was up for debate, but he wasn’t about to argue about the satisfaction that came with baking, especially when it came with Edge wrapped around him like croissant. In a minute, he was gonna drag Edge out to the living room and make him take a better rest, maybe snag a few of those muffins with them to share.

For now, Stretch was gonna knead up that last bowl of dough with his husband’s help. Then he could enjoy his just desserts.

-finis-

[sergeant-donny-donowitz]

The Intern (CliffxReader Pt. 2)

Pt. 1 :)

Requested by @perawuat​

@tealaquinn​

Let me know if you wanna be added to either the basterds or OUATIH taglist :)

You grinned widely as you reached for your diploma. You looked out into the crowd, your radiant smile reminiscent of a sunflower as you looked to the cameras and did a peace sign with your left hand as you raised your diploma with your right.

You finally graduated.

You had a big job in a hotshot Hollywood production to show for all your hard work.

Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid...

You looked out at the crowd, spotting dozens of familiar faces.

You found your family among the sea of pride.

And by them, two empty seats.

Rick and Cliff couldn't make it. They were in Italy...

You sighed softly. It as a bittersweet moment. They were doing the best they could, you couldn’t be mad at them.

The next few days your family kept you fairly busy. They’d flown in from out of state. You didn’t mind the company. Especially since the summer felt a little empty without Rick and Cliff to deal with.

But as the summer wound down, so did your work.

You moved out of your old apartment, leaving Ziggy, Rowan, and Odie...

You moved into a high-rise apartment in west Hollywood.

It was your first time ever living completely alone. You had a place all to yourself, no brothers barging in or bathroom hogging sisters. No roomates.

And still...

....no Cliff and Rick...

Nothing....

You sighed, and muttered a despondent, “Groovy...” As you looked up at your new building.

You took a breath, and took the elevator to the fifteenth floor, and walked down the long hall to your apartment.

You stopped, seeing a bouquet of red roses at the doorstep. You wondered if it was from the apartments landlady... She seemed like an old fashioned person.

You picked up a card that came with it, expecting it to be complimentary.

But...you knew that writing.

You smiled a little, and sighed a little more cheerfully, "oh Cliff..."

You sighed, flopping onto the second hand couch from a garage sale that you’d hastily strewn in the middle of the empty living room.

Your living room.

You read the card.

Cliff apologized for missing your graduation and not being there to help with the boxes. He also added a million little things to make you blush.

You held the letter against your chest as you presided over the rows of brown boxes scattered around the room.

You smiled a little as you looked through the first box. The first thing you picked out was a framed picture of you and Cliff.

You smiled, knowing you'd finally made a life of your own, and that he was part of it.

And you knew you really had it together a few months later, when you were invited to a party. A big Hollywood party.

The movie you'd worked on had been nominated for a few Academy Awards, including for best cinematography...which you'd had a big hand in.

You met a few big names at the party, and a few familiar faces. The night was young, and you danced there with the stars and the writers that gave Hollywood it's lights. After a while you stepped aside to grab a drink. You looked at the scene, your new friends, and future.

Rick had been rigth all along... You were going to make it big.

As you took a sip of your drink, you overheard something behind a nearby table.

There were a few older and frankly snobby producers talking, and avoiding the younger crowd. They'd been talking about some projects they had been looking into.

The name Rick Dalton came up, and you raised your eyebrow in curiosity.

"Rick Dalton is an old, washed up chain smoking alcoholic has-been who's still waiting to happen!" The group of producers broke out laughing as he went on, "Won't be long till he drinks himself into a grave!"

Your blood boiled...

You'd been trying to get Rick to get help. You'd been making progress, until he had to go to Italy.

The producer went on, "Or worse. Lets himself go, gets a beer belly, and lets those pothead hippies melt his brain! And that pal of his, Cliff Boot."

One of the other producers corrected him. "Booth."

He nodded, "Booth. Killed his woman, didn't he? What's he still doing on sets? Bad luck. Don't want Dalton or that scumbag anywhere near me."

Another man stood between you and the circle of snobs. He smiled, "Say, aren't you that talented young lady what worked on that western?"

You nodded, "Yes, sir."

He smiled, "Say, O'Mara, this is the young lady that worked on Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid!"

The producer that had been ripping on Rick and Cliff turned around, with a wide, yellow, broken grin, reached his hand out to shake yours, but you stepped away in disgust, maybe hurting your relatively young and vulnerable career. 

But to you  it was worth every second seeing those snob's blood boiling.

"Don't get too cocky, O'Mara. You wrote Rick Dalton's first check, and then ripped him off when he got too big for you. Of course he's having a rough time, you all turned your backs on someone that made every single one of you a pretty goddamn penny, while he and Cliff are scratching and barely surviving. You should all be ashamed of yourselves, listening to that fucking rumor like a bunch of teenagers listening to Paul Anka. The man's a war hero, for crying out loud, and you're a fucking draft dodger. So no. Don't ask me to shake the hand of a man who turned his back on people he owes everything to."

Before things escalated, the man that had attemtped to introduce you to the producers stepped in, spoke fast, made them laugh, and ordererd drinks all around.

As the producers picked up gossip about other 'has beens,' the mystery man took you aside, "I like your work, and I like your spunk, you're a good kid."

You smiled a little, and he went on, "How about I let you in on a little secret, kid? All those old boys back there? Tearing apart actors because they’re jealous. And when they’re not with each other, they tear each other apart, because they all want this." He raised up a briefcase.

"What's that?" You laughed a little, seeing the quirky, odd character gripping the case as if it were worth the world..

He smiled, "Well, kid, this here's the next big thing in Hollywood what's gon' get somebody an Oscar, or an Academy Award round this time next year."

"So you're a writer?"

He nodded with glee, "Writer, director, as of now sole producer. But I still need my crew, and my stars. And kid, I seen the wonders you've done down at NBC and for that picture. So, once I get this show on the road, are you willing to get in on it?"

You could not have felt happier, "Absolutely!"

He smiled, "Well then, I need some stars, don't I? How about I talk to your friends about this, huh?"

"M-my friends?"

He nodded, "Mr. Dalton, and his stuntman, I hear they're a damn good team!"

You nodded, proud that some people still knew them as what they were, "That's right, sir."

He smiled, "I pictured Rick in this role. It's not exactly his regular western character, but, it's new, its fresh! It'll give him a new face, a new chance! I see him as...." He grinned, looking into the distance as he waved his hands, as if the name was appearing in front of you on a screen, "Hudson Murdock! International spy!" He sighed in satisfaction, "We’ll knock Bond out  of the water! And probably knock that guy, Cliff into the water!"

You both chuckled, and he asked, "Think they'll be interested?"

"I think so, sir."

He smiled, "Please, kid, call me Rudy!" He handed you a business card, and then a pen and a paper so you could write your number, Rick, and Cliff's down for him.

He took the paper after you were done, and hid it away safely with the script he guarded with his life, "Be in touch soon, will ya kid? They'll be home from Italy, soon I'll bet."

You nodded, "Yes, sir."

He titled his head, "Come on, kid."

You sighed and smiled a little, "Rudy."

He smiled, "Alright, that's better, kid." He gestured to the growing crowd of young party goers, "Go on, have fun before the real work starts!"

Despite the rocky moments with producers, and the inevitable burning of a bridge or two, you couldn't get over the fact that you'd just gotten Rick and Cliff a new big shot in Hollywood...

Still, the adrenaline and fun started to wash down the more the night went on. By the time you were home that night, you were a little more than just uneasy.

Cliff was supposed to call you and let you know he'd made it home safe with Rick.

You were sure they wre going to get blind drunk together, 'one last time,' thinking it was the end of the line...

Of course, they didnt' know about your development...and you'd let them have their fun for the night.

You could wait a million years for Cliff.

Or...you thought...

It just wasn't like him

Even in Italy, he called you every single night. Now that he was home, there was no excuse.

You spent the next half hours or so debating and reasoning with yourself....

Maybe they knocked out because of jet lag? Maybe they were drunk because they drank on the plane? Maybe the phones weren't working? Maybe he went straight to get Brandy? Maybe he wasn on his way to yours?

The possibilities were endless....

Still, there was that constant, nagging, feeling wringing your heart...

Ringing...

The phone was rining.

On the third ring, you picked up.

It was Rick.

You glanced up at the clock.

12:55 AM...

Your eyes went wide as Rick quickly and calmly tried to explain every thing that happened in the last half hour without giving you a panic attack.

12:56 AM...

"HE WHAT?!"

Rick replied, "H-he's o-k, don't w-worry! He-"

"He got stabbed! And-"

"He-He'll be ok, Y/n, everything's fine!"

"And you? Are you ok?!"

He chuckled a little out of tension, but mostly because he just missed hearing from a friend like you, "I'm uh...I'm actually at the neighbor's right now. Everything's ok, Y/n, don’t worry."

"The Polanski's?" You felt a little ease in your shoulders, knowing Rick finally got what he'd been wishing for for months.

"Yeah..." You could practically hear the smile, "But I'll meet you and Cliff bright and early tomorrow. We're ok, honey, don't worry. Get some sleep, he's ok."

"Ok..."

Rick sighed, knowing you better than you gave him credit for, "Oh, and Y/n?"

"Yeah, Rick?" You held the phone between your shoulder and your cheek as you reached between the couch cushions for your car keys.

Rick chuckled, "Drive safe."

You smiled a little and shook your head once.

You practically raced to the hospital, giving Cliff and every other stunt  double in Hollywood a run for their moeny.

Your heart skipped a beat, stopped, and broke al at once when you saw Cliff again... After six months...t felt like a lifetime,

And it felt like even longer seeing him like that.

You knew he was going to be alright. Rick told you so. The doctors told you. The nurses told you...

But you didn't believe it until you saw him for yourself.

"Cliff..."

He looked up at you, clearly tired. Of course, the acid, the fight, the stabbing, and the morphine were behind that. Still, he shifted trying to get up to get to you.

"No, no, stay down, it's ok..." You sat by him, rested your hands in his and smiled softly.

To him you were nothing less than an angel...

Especially with the drugs (legal and illegal) and the bright white hospital lights behind you. "Y/n....you...you came? Told Rick to tell ya to get some sleep I-"

"That's crazy talk."

He took your hand and pulled it up slowly to his lips, and kissed your hand softly. He looked up with soft eyes, "I'm sorry, baby...I should've gone home, should've gone to see ya..."

You shook your head, "If you had, there's no telling what would've happened...Best not to think of that, not now."

"I'm sorry I missed it."

You shook your head, and rested your hadn against hisncheek, "Best is yet to come, Cliff." You smiled cheekily.... you'd tell him about the party the next day.

Until then... You gave him  a kiss, and said, "Get some rest, Cliff."

"Only if you do, baby..."

You nodded, "I will, I will."

He chuckled a little, through the meds and drugs, and mumbled and hummed "Dream a little dream of me..." as he fell asleep, holding onto you desparately.

Somewhere deep in his mind, he was scared you were a hallucination...He wanted to hold you enar and dear. He wished Italy and that night never happened. He wanted nothing more than to be by your side.

When you woke  up, it was nearly noon, and the sunlight was streaming through the blinds. You'd fallen asleep on the chair by Cliff's bed, with your head against his chest. His arm was around you still. And you could hear the warm hum of his voice through his chest as you woke up slowly.

You could hear Rick too.

"Goddamn, Y/n and Francesca are gonna get along, they sleep like logs."

You smiled a little as you stood up to hug Rick.

He smiled at you, and shook his head, "You wanna tell me how the hell you managed to save me and Cliff's careers in one night?"

You shrugged, and playfully "Hey, when you got it, you got it."

Cliff guffawed, but then immediately held his wound, "Shit, Y/n, you oughta be the one carryin' Rick's load then!"

You rolled you reyes with a cheaky smile and sighed, "Anyone would've done the same."

Rick sighed, "Oh, honey, you don't know Hollywood just yet."

Cliff said, "What we're tryna say baby is thank you."

"Ah, it's nothing." "You got us some work!" Cliff looked at Rick, and they were both relieved, knowing it wasn't quite the end of the line. "We knew you'd make it far..." Rick saw the way Cliff smiled and looked at you. It was all clearer now that Cliff wasn't wearing sunglasses. Rick smirked a little, as he chuckled, "I'll go ahead an' leave you two alone for a while." You covered your face as your rubbed your eyes, "Oh, come on Rick!" Cliff chuckled, "I wIsH!" You looked to Cliff, "Cliff!" He laughed a little as he reached out for you. You heard Rick closing the door as he left. You sat by Cliff again, and he kissed you. "Told you everything would be ok, kid." "Yeah?" "Yeah..." He nodded. "Rick was right. You made it. You're not just an intern anymore...and me and Rick are gonna be ok, and you n me are more than ok." You smirked a little, looking down a tthe ground for a moment, then back at Cliff, "Yeah, we are..." He rested his hands on the sides of your face, his thumbs pressed against your cheek. It wasn't something he did often, but you weren't complaining. Because in that moment, everything mattered. The past six months had been hell, and the past night was a nightmarish trip. His blue eyes were wide open then. Everything realy was ok... And you could see that in his eyes: The hope and love the 'washed up' stuntman hadn't felt in a decade or two. And he owed it all to you, the intern.

[arthuronfleck]

Will the Real Joker Please Stand Up? Part II: Imitation Game

((followup to this.))

warning(s): this chapter contains violence, so please don’t read if you’re sensitive to that! 

“Arthur,” The man’s voice held no room for pleasantries. “What kind of person were you before the world taught you it was worth fearing?”

A walking thesis; that’s what he became since stepping foot into Arkham. Arthur had long lost any desire to remember the names of the white coats that came through one after the other, asking the same questions with the same incomprehensible words. Almost as if they’d forgotten how to speak to a person; or maybe it was Arthur who’d fallen out of personhood. All of them felt the same. Not this one. 

The lanky man was so bold as to not fashion a coat. His black jumper was nothing to excite Arthur’s memory, and his dark hair, dark eyed appearance paired with bland features in just such a way that the only thing that stood out were weaknesses. Had it been only a few months prior, the man’s nose would’ve already been broken and Arthur would’ve been lunging for the nearest window if he hadn’t decided on an unguarded door. These sessions never ended well, but running made them worse. Arthur’s fingers dug into his white trousers while the other held tightly onto the only reason he hadn’t been dragged into this, bashing his head on any surface he could: nicotine. This one let him puff like a chimney. 

Arthur’s lips curved into a sweet smile as he studied the metal table. He brought the cigarette to his lips once more, taking a lengthy drag before exhaling a smooth breath of smoke. His expression flickered to disappointment when he flicked the ashes to reveal the cigarette neared its butt, and he had no more left. 

“Fear.” Arthur let out a deflated laugh once more releasing himself from his predicament. It felt like dreaming. He couldn’t conjure anything fantastical, and nothing pretty ever made it past the cinderblock, but he could find a crevice in his mind to hide from the noise. 

“You disagree with my conclusion, Arthur?”

“What do you fear, doc?” Arthur snapped back, rising from his self-imposed cage so quickly it seemed voluntary. He tossed the cigarette butt onto the dirtied tile. “I know. You’re thinking,” He let out a small, stifled laugh. “I’m going to get up and you’ll learn why none of you want to be anywhere near me.” 

“I didn’t take you for a tough guy.” The doctor retorted, unflinching.

“I’m not,” Green eyes met the dark pair looking back, defeat swelling in his tone. “I just have nothing to lose.” 

“Everyone fears something, Arthur, regardless of their predicament. It can begin small. Anxieties, really. Things like sex, swimming, flying- everyone encounters these things and statistically they’re bound to fear at least one.”

“Can’t fear what I never tried.”

“That’s the crux of fear, isn’t it? The unknown?” 

Arthur stomped on the fallen cigarette, smearing ash across the tile. He didn’t answer, nor did he move to assault the man- the most magnanimous course of action he was capable of. 

“However, I don’t believe your case is as simple as not knowing. Your fear metastasized beyond mundane anxiety, or even a complex phobia. It transcended any physical process- I’ve always believed the power of the mind is far greater than that of the body.” The doctor pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose, taking a collective breath. “Whether it was because of what happened in your childhood, or something rooted in your day-to-day living, your mind couldn’t reconcile that fear. It splintered you into two separate entities. The Arthur Fleck I see now,” He cast a shamelessly judgement glare. “Is one-half. The half that learned to be afraid. Like one of Pavlov’s dogs, any confrontation in your life set off a fear response.”

Arthur cocked a brow. 

“You felt powerless in your own life. To some extent, you were no different than any other loser struggling to make something of himself with no prospects to build from. There was no fight in you. Your flight had failed and every day you were in freefall; however, you did something miraculous. You fought midair. Halfway down it seemed that your body’s fight-or-flight response switched course. To some extent the death of your mother might’ve hastened your downfall-”

“Downfall.” Arthur repeated with a half-laugh. 

“-you’re here, Arthur. That you’ve fallen isn’t up for debate. What’s remarkable is how many you managed to pull down with you, all because your mind couldn’t cope with its own fear. How many Arthur Flecks are there in the world? How many others are consumed by fear exactly the way you were?” 

“That brings me back to my original question,” The doctor began to flip through a stained manila folder. “What kind of person were you before the world taught you it was worth fearing?”

Arthur shrugged. “Nobody.” 

***

“-as one of Gotham’s most violent years comes to a close, citizens are embracing slow news days this holiday season. But officials are saying to stay frosty as the anniversary-”

The radio cut off abruptly as the van came to a screeching halt. Arthur had gotten into the habit of not knowing where he was and not asking questions, if only because the answer never made any sense. This new world was simultaneously dreary and overwhelming. He closed his eyes and saw white cinderblock, as if his mind scrambled in vain to retreat itself. Despite it all, he couldn’t tell if this would be a dream or a nightmare. He moved himself with moderate freedom, and before departing what appeared to be a condemned warehouse, his captors freed him from the white jumpsuit; he now fashioned a less menacing albeit less clean navy colored hoodie beneath a beige coat, paired with worn trousers and dress shoes a few walks away from developing holes. When he took a hesitant move to wipe them, something dusty rubbed off on his finger to reveal faded leather beneath.  

Arthur’s attention turned to the figure sat directly adjacent to him. Undoubtedly they dressed better, in a well-tailored suit that clashed with the cartoonish colors of the clown mask concealing their features. Arthur didn’t care for it; its mouth contorted into a toothy grimace while the eyes comprised of two large burgundy rectangles. Two puffs of stupid looking blue hair protruded from both sides directly above the ear, setting something off inside of Arthur. Something about it seemed like nails on a chalkboard to his eyes. It took itself too seriously, in a way that inspired nervous laughter. The figure noticed his stare, tilting their head as if to draw attention to the gun placed across their lap. 

He looked away. 

The figures to either side were no comfort, one a burly beast of a clown while the other was smaller than Arthur that more than made up for their lack of height with one of the biggest guns Arthur encountered yet, and something shiny resting in a holster by their side. His hands were freed from cuffs, and though the raw imprints served as a reminder, the clowns packing heat seemed like a better incentive to behave than anything. 

Arthur’s attention shifted to the front of the van where he could see two silhouettes. One was more recognizable than anything since Arkham, with his hunched posture and grotesque features. His eyes traveled from the smooth purple velvet of the so-called Joker’s suit to the figure sitting beside him, another masked figure Arthur assumed to be a clown as only the red tip of the nose was clearly visible. A loud knock against the partition marked the end of Arthur’s exploration, as the figure adjacent to him sprung up and swung the van doors open. 

When the hulking clown to the right of Arthur nudged him with the business end of his gun, he stood and stumbled into a covered garage. The area seemed dimly lit- like the rest of the city to this point- however he could see countless clusters of light in the distance. Part of him wanted to run, to throw himself over the concrete wall where he could see the lively lights up close. He knew he wouldn’t make it far enough, but he didn’t mind that either. 

“You ready to go shopping, Arthur?” The largest goon laughed as the smaller one shoved him in the back with the barrel of his gun. 

“Can’t believe he clipped a guy on TV,” The smaller one spat, his voice somewhat muffled by the mask. “He’s such a pussy.”

Arthur’s breath first gathered in something like fear, until it turned bitter. Something stirred inside him; he felt sick, but kept it to himself. Their references were lost on him, and whatever he could recognize felt more like a dream than a memory. It was just far enough so that he knew that it happened, but not how it felt or how it looked. Even his memories lost color. His brows furrowed as his feet stayed planted on the ground until he was shoved once more. 

He turned his head to watch the driver’s side as they passed, seeing the Joker stick something into the inner pocket of his coat. Before he could look away the two shared a glance, and the toothy smile that came Arthur’s way did less to put him at ease than the ugliest look ever could. The passenger seat door closed on the other side, but Arthur’s gaze couldn’t be averted. 

The Joker approached him in what seemed to be his usual grotesquely confident stance, and despite the very public arena he seemed to have no problem standing around with a host of weapons on full display. Arthur did the worrying for him, until a cold glove collided with his cheek. 

“Your first night out of the cuckoo’s nest, old boy. It’s time to celebrate! I picked the best spot in Gotham.” The Joker’s laugh sounded more like a snarl, something that would’ve been an unthinkably kind gesture turned sinister with only a smile. They shared a stare until the Joker yanked his hand away, looking at one of the goons behind Arthur. “Which one are you?”

“I’m Cooper.” The small one’s tone softened when he spoke to his employer. 

“Right. Escort our friend Arthur here and make sure he finds exactly what we’re looking for. Make sure it’s,” He inhaled sharply. “Red.” 

“Sure thing, boss.”

“And you, Rocky-”

“It’s Rocco.” The large one interjected. 

“Rocky.” The Joker corrected venomously. “Go help, ah,” He gestured at the large glass doors, glistening yellow from its contents. “Secure capital.” 

As the Joker moved to make his way the direction opposite the store, he stopped and turned on his heels. “One more thing. If our boy tries to run, break his legs. If he tries to fight, shoot him. Oh, but if you do kill him,” The Joker gave a reassuring smile. “Then I kill you.” 

“Yessir.” Cooper tried to stifle a laugh before he shoved Arthur once more. “Alright, let’s go shopping.” 

***

Arthur walked into stillness. He digested the scene as long as he could, feeling like he’d stepped into a television rather than another segment of his unending nightmare. It was a splendor unlike anything Arthur had ever known, evident despite the haze of his memories. He looked up to the huge chandelier, watching every tear-shaped piece of glass catch the light. When he inhaled, he could smell cinnamon and pine. Everything was made of marble, from the garland-wrapped pillars that seemed as tall as Arkham itself to the seemingly unending staircase, to the counter top that held countless trinkets and jewelry in glass casing beneath. The glistening finery caught his eye at first, if only because he’d just never seen anything like it. He nearly gravitated towards it, until another step forward revealed a slowly swelling pool of crimson and a dark figure crouched over it, eagerly removing heaps of jewelry from the display. 

Then he noticed the eyes. Countless pairs staring at him from makeshift hiding places, shooting looks worse than disgust. His chest tightened as he began to look more carefully and the horrific reality of the stillness took hold. Above all else, anger rose to the surface as their wordless stares evoked something he couldn’t recall. He felt it countless times, but he strained himself to remember when. With the cold barrell pressed against his back, he didn’t have much time to think about anything. They walked to total silence, with ambient music playing in the distance. As they neared the men’s section, Arthur saw a middle aged man duck behind a clothing rack while an older woman crawled behind a register. 

“What’s your name?” Cooper shouted at woman, gun still pointed to Arthur’s back. 

Silence answered him.

“I said,” Moving the gun towards the woman as she froze on all fours, Cooper tilted his head. “What the fuck is your name?” 

“Mary. My name is Mary!” She cried, unable to raise her head. 

“Okay, Mary. My friend here needs to get cleaned up. He needs a nice suit, red, in a size- ah, tall. Our budget- well,” He shook his gun at her. “Won’t be an issue.” 

“I-I don’t know if we have any-” 

“No fuckin’ red suits? It’s almost Christmas.” He gestured the gun towards a white door by the corner. “Check in there. There’s gotta be-”

Arthur flinched at the loud bang, the silence that followed, and the sensation of something wet splattering against his face. He froze, as if all at once confronted with something heavier than the world. It thrust him back into a colored crevice of his mind, albeit one that didn’t feel like his own. 

”I’ll tell you what you get,” A painted man screamed, his voice trembling with resentment and despair. 

Arthur blinked and found himself back in reality. He couldn’t escape into his imagination, or memory- whatever that was. A silent tear trickled down his cheek and collided with the blood spattered below his eye. His hand went to his ear as a terrible ringing took over until he finally had the sense to fall back. He fell beside a cluster of racks, his gaze not falling far to meet with- Cooper, was it? With a gaping bloody hole where the mask didn’t cover. The sight of it all would’ve turned Arthur’s stomach if the fear that took hold wasn’t so quick.

He couldn’t see the shooter beyond a navy blue pair of pants, but he could hear their voice. They sounded afraid too. 

“Fuck!” The security guard trembled, clutching to his handgun as his huge eyes surveyed the space. “All of you stay down! If any of you thugs try anything I’ll shoot you, I swear. I fucking swear!” His voice broke as he turned in every which direction. “Stay right the fuck where you are and find out why Gotham isn’t afraid of you shitbags anymore. Don’t-” 

Before the guard could struggle to keep himself together for another agonizing moment, the glass doors gave way. Thousands of shards flew every which way, sending another ringing through Arthur’s ears that kept him from seeing the large plumes of smoke crawling towards the ceiling. Alarms sounded to no response beyond more noise by way of screaming. Arthur didn’t scream. Slowly, he extended one arm past the curtain of clothes, then another. It felt like forever until he found his way above the lifeless body, yanking the gun with all the clumsiness of a child shoplifting from a candy store. He looked up to see the woman’s eyes frozen on his face, and without saying another word he fell back and listened. 

The Joker strolled in, unburdened as his means of entry was handheld. Effective, too; the place looked as if it’d been showered by glass with the beginnings of an inferno at the base of the Christmas tree. Pristine shoes trampled over shards coating the marble floor, drawing a chorus of hushed gasps as he made his way further inside. A bullet whizzed past his shoulder and he contorted himself instinctively. Reaching into his coat, he fired a shot back. His landed into a security guard’s shoulder, the portly man falling back on himself as he clutched his shoulder. His gun skidded away, however he made no attempt to grab it as one hand went to the wound in his chest. Blood smeared against the pristine ground as he let out a string of hushed curses. 

Before the Joker made another move towards him, he looked to the side. The dipshit Cooper got a hole in his head, from a mall cop no less- he got what he paid for, he supposed. A cowering woman hid feet away from Cooper’s body, but nothing else. He turned his attention back to his assailant. The would-be hero of the evening. Cocking his head, he merely watched as he stood with one leg on either side of the guard. The man let out strained gasps as he found his strength. 

Faced with the gun in his attacker’s hand as the clown hunched over him, the security guard only glared as a forceful cough brought forth blood. 

“Act tough all you want,” The guard coughed. “All of you are the same. You all think you control the world because you know how to scare people-” Another cough, the spasm it induced bringing tears to the man’s eyes. What looked back at him couldn’t be entirely considered a man, but a fascinated listener nonetheless. “-but you don’t. Not anymore. We have a hero now, one who isn’t afraid of nobodies like you.” 

The Joker stood silently, black eyes peeking through black warpaint. He slid the revolver back into the pocket of his coat. His expression remained frozen in neutrality.

Arthur’s free hand went to his mouth when he heard an agonized scream, fearing it was his own. The broken glass that dug into his knees didn’t help. He crawled towards the gaping hole in the building’s entrance, trying to think beyond incomprehensible sounds of panic inside of his head and out. When another shot rang out, Arthur and anyone else with a semblance of a similar plan to his own dove into hiding. His spot of choice happened to be a kiosk by the jewelry counter, one that peddled the same product with a bullet hole between the eyes of its advertisement. It wasn’t until he neared its corner that he realized he wasn’t alone. Keeping balance on heels, a dark figure crouched as they sifted through what seemed to be a wallet with a handgun on the floor beside a sack. Arthur could make out a mask from behind, at once realizing it to be the unaccounted for passenger. He hoisted the gun nervously as if it was a long stick, slowly pushing it forward until the barrel met a mess of tied blonde curls. 

“Put your hands up.” Arthur whispered, expecting to instantly learn why it was a terrible idea to do anything but run. He wanted that to be the case. 

Instead, painted fingers slowly raised until both hands were in the air, still not a word passing between them. 

Until they turned their head.

As they peered over their shoulder, Arthur could make out the details of their mask. Red at the nose and overdrawn smile and blue at the eyes, it sent a tightness through Arthur’s chest. Why exactly he couldn’t tell, but he reacted to it like a child retrieving their blanket. 

“Take off the mask, now.” 

Their hands went carefully to the bottom of the mask, palms open all the while. Arthur looked around as he waited, seeing no sign of the Joker or anyone who seemed remotely interested in holding him back. When the mask was gone, extended casually towards Arthur, initially it was all he could pay any mind to. He almost wanted to smile, and he would’ve had he been alone. Looking up, he saw a goon of a different stock than Cooper. Her skin was pale, although quite clearly untouched by the trendy white paint, while her face was round with an upturned nose and thin albeit shapely lips. He looked into her blue eyes and the arched brows that framed them, feeling something stir inside of him. Whatever it was, it wasn’t the time. 

“Give it to me-”

Whatever he wanted to say was cut off by the abrupt distant appearance of lights shifting rapidly from red to blue. Arthur recognized those more than easily enough, preparing to risk everything and run towards the way he came. Then the ground shook, and however close the cars might’ve been, any moves towards the store would’ve happened in pieces. Another was quick to collide with the wreckage, only adding to the fiery display. Arthur’s eyes grew huge as any plan he might’ve had went up in flames alongside the cars blocking the garage. There would be easier ways of seeking death than running through fire, if he craved it so badly. 

He cradled the mask in one hand but made no moves to put it on. 

With the explosion came another round of panicked screaming, admittedly only agitating Arthur instead of making him fear for them- or himself. 

“So,” A voice rose above the pandemonium, shaken only by the tremors of laughter. “Let’s raise the stakes. For every minute the Batman doesn’t show, I kill one of you. If he’s not here in ten minutes, I kill all of you.” 

Arthur’s face contorted. He couldn’t follow what he meant, but who was to say the Joker meant anything at all? The more Arthur thought, the angrier he became. The more his expression sank, the less he cowered. He wouldn’t play hero for this asshole’s amusement. Holding the mask, seeing the blank expression so ready to reflect his own, he felt different. He felt enough to know any move he made in this place would be in vain. He remembered enough to know-

Another deafening crack sent a hale of glass shards flying from the wall. The flurry outside wasted no time spilling in, although that seemed to be the least of anyone’s worries. Nobody screamed this time. Whatever broke the window, Arthur only noticed in his peripheral. 

“Oh fuck.” Seemingly without regard to the gun aimed in her direction or really any of the pandemonium going on around her, the woman scanned the room in a moment of clarity Arthur had yet to reach. Her eyes settled on a white door across the way, the same one his former captor discovered shortly before having his brains blown out. Before Arthur could raise his concerns, she sprinted through the scene and disappeared past the door nearly as quickly as he’d found her. 

“You might want to be more careful,” A shaky voice spoke to no one in particular. “One wrong step and I send this entire place sky high.” 

When he heard a loud crash from the wall far opposite of the wall, he decided that would be his chance. Looking where the woman once joined him, he noticed the bag was gone but the gun remained. He looked at his own, bulky and heavy, and decided to switch. This one made his hand tremble, but he held onto his wrist until he could get another look at the door, 

Seemingly clear as it ever would be, Arthur weaved awkwardly between rows of clothing racks all the while grimacing at the pain in his knees and cradling the mask to his side. Rather than slam the door in the midst of a sprint, Arthur paid no mind to closing it. After a short run through a darkened room, the sharp, frozen air of night greeted him. He coughed. 

He looked around, and as much as he knew he shouldn’t, he looked around for her. 

But there was nobody else. 

Looking both ways once more, Arthur tried to get himself together. He stumbled, paying no mind to his hands until he heard the unmistakable pop aimed towards the pavement. He jumped. This was Gotham, he’d heard it countless times; yet nothing was familiar. He had enough sense to get as far away as he could, but how far could he run? Fatigue already wore heavily on him, and despite the chill that immediately greeted him, beads of sweat stuck dark strands to his forehead right to the brow. He felt more exhausted with every breath, and it was only then that he remembered the blood still on his face. 

Only one place came somewhat close enough to a home for Arthur, and he remembered it now in cripplingly perfect clarity. As bitter tears found their way down his cheeks, he picked the emptiest route and kept walking. And walking. The ground shook and he kept walking. 

None of it made sense. 

***

((a bit more arthur-centric this chapter, but if you stan the joker i think you’ll really enjoy the next one ;) anything y’all wanna see in the future?))

[fullstop-official]

A Hellish Freak Disaster with Burning Rubble and No Survivors

AKA: Chapter One - July 18

In three days, everything will change.

But right now, Travis Longfield is swatting his free hand at my shoulder as punishment for having my feet up on the space above the glovebox in the Gator – his Wrangler nicknamed aptly for its military-appropriate paint job. I have to laugh a little at his feeble attempt to keep straight on the road and hit me at the same time, more to mock him than anything else. But I finally give in and give up my recline before he takes his chance at the next stop sign to go for the ankles.

“You care about this thing too much, dude,” I tease, “I’m not allowed to sit comfortably – Jesus, I can’t even eat in here!”

“Do you want her to end up like Cole’s car?” The Gator, of course, has always been a her. “He wrecked that Cherokee. It can’t be saved. They should write it off for internal damage.”

“Yeah, okay. Sorry I upset your girlfriend here. I won’t dirty her up.”

“I’m not really worried about that,” he says with a smirk. “You’re not even the one dirtying up your own girlfriend.”

His comment makes my mood immediately plummet, and, as we pull into the Mechis’ driveway behind a sleek, black Lexus, my mood suddenly becomes a satellite that drops from the stratosphere, falling down, down, down toward the earth at thousands of miles per hour and on fire. Travis parks the Gator and we both climb out. He takes a moment to pull his guitar case from the back seat before we go about picking our way around the aforementioned Lexus and Cole’s hopelessly-stained, wrapper-littered Grand Cherokee to reach the side door to the garage.

We enter, and we’re the last two to arrive. Cole is sprawled out on the duct-taped loveseat by the wall that’s way too tiny to fit all of him. He looks over and his shaggy and badly-highlighted hair flips naturally as his head turns. Still, our appearance isn’t enough to steal his attention away from loudly strumming a progression of power chords on his guitar in order to mess with Matt. Matt is attempting to tune his bass on the other side of the room in spite of the noise, but probably isn’t having an easy time without anything that resembles quiet. Bryson is on the beat-up couch opposite of Cole, scribbling in a binder that’s full of schedules, sets, general to-do lists, and other notes that he says are necessary and need to be kept – though the entire thing is so crammed with papers that it will explode one day.

My satellite mood fails to brace for impact and crashes against the ground, colliding in a hellish, freak disaster with burning rubble and no survivors when I see the Lexus’ owner practicing the screeches that she calls “vocal warmups” by her mic stand, front and center. Saying she’s my mortal enemy undoubtedly makes me sound like some sort of comic book supervillain, but I’ve never come up with anything more accurate and less theatrical and childish to describe what we have. Our rivalry would probably take an entire war map with battalions and flags to comprehend.

I met Selena Walton when we were in seventh grade – briefly – but truly got to know and dislike her the following year when our feud officially ignited. It was just shortly after that, during the same year, that the rest of us really jumped on the idea of forming the band and, by the end of eighth grade, we’d seen it through.

There was just one problem. I play the drums. Travis is lead guitar, and Cole is on second. Matt plays bass. Bryson covers keyboard when we need it for certain songs, but otherwise acts as our manager. We were good on our own, just the five of us, but when things started getting more and more serious, we had a debate about lyrics.

Cole is an incredible singer – when he’s singing unclean vocals (the screamo parts). When it comes to singing regularly, he may as well just strangle a bird on stage; the sound it would make is more or less the same. Our preferred genre of punk and its “close-enough” offshoots (we’ve found that a healthy mixture brings in a bigger audience) are starting to blur the lines a little, but we all agreed that we wouldn’t be a full-fledged screamo band. We resolved to use his talent conservatively. The rest of the guys couldn’t carry a tune to save their lives.

I can sing, but drummers stay at the back of the stage, and squishing the two roles together makes the show lose a certain kind of energy. The audience generally likes to see the singer while they’re singing. I can sing backup, but there needs to be someone up front. A hype man.

Enter Selena Walton. Unwelcomely welcomed to the band after our first five months of minimal lyrics with a three-to-two vote.

And whom I hate more than anyone else in the universe.

And maybe it would be slightly better if she didn’t front our band. I have nothing against female punk singers, or really just female singers in general. Many of them are good, even pretty great. Selena, however, is an exception. She hates the vast majority of the music that we perform. And, though what she does is technically considered singing, she is an alto who thinks she’s a soprano, which is the worst kind of alto and does not make for a spectacular – or even subpar – show. Her signature style is going up a few too many notes at the end of nearly every line, regardless of whether or not she can hit them, and it is such a pain to listen to that I’m surprised my head hasn’t shattered like glass, or exploded like Bryson’s band binder is going to do. This is all in addition to her entitled, annoying, spoiled brat attitude which is all wrapped up into one short, oblivious, bitchy, brunette package.

I wish that was the end of it, but, devastatingly, having Selena as our lead singer isn’t even the terrible part. I can deal with that. But about a year ago, band practice went from being the few hours a week that I had to tolerate the fact she exists to my own, personal hell.

Bryson’s managerial skills are sharp, but PR-wise he tends to run things like a scripted reality TV show in order to make us stand out from other local acts so people can invest in our “personal” lives. I don’t know what celebrity dating scandal gave him the idea, but a fake inter-band relationship was proposed and, by some weird misfortune, not immediately vetoed. After a ton of arguing, I literally drew the short straw.

Selena Walton is my fake girlfriend.

And I hate her.

At the very least, after a year of playing pretend (and having her hang off of me during shows after spitting in my face behind the scenes), I haven’t actually been forced to kiss her or anything yet. I think I’d have to tear off my lips and cauterize the wounds if that happened.

Bryson still sticks to his delusional claim that having us fake date is a good thing for the band, even though it causes more drama when we’re alone together than it ever does when we’re out in the public eye. I’m not sure how much longer we’ll be able to keep it up because Selena only acts like she’s staying faithful to me when, in reality, she’s probably slept with every guy who’s ever looked at her for more than five seconds. Pretending that I tolerate her is a tough challenge, but I deserve an Oscar for acting like I love her.

And so, when Travis and I walk in, she pretends to ignore me, but I watch her in my peripheral when she thinks I’m not paying attention. She gives me a look; it’s a spiteful, almost disgusted scowl. For what it’s worth, I’m glad she can just barely endure my mere presence. It’s the one thing about this entire situation that makes me feel all happy and light inside.

Travis sets his case down to take out his guitar, and I go sit on the arm of the couch next to Bryson. Since we cleared out his garage to act as our rehearsal space, my setup has lived here permanently and I’m the only one who ever touches my drums. They only move for gigs, and I don’t have much to prepare before practice.

Cole gives me a subtle nod, but doesn’t stop strumming one of our originals. “S��up, Scott,” he greets me. He uses my last name instead of my first. Bryson, Matt, and Cole have all done that as long as I’ve known them – apparently, the single syllable of my surname is easier than having to waste energy saying the two in Morgan.

I glance over Bryson’s shoulder after nodding back. The paper he’s mentally wrestling with has July twentieth – Friday’s date – and the time of our show at the top. The rest is the final setlist he’s been compiling that has only just been finished. It takes us a long time to decide which songs we’ll be playing, and in what order. (I blame Selena.) The one thing that Bryson has left blank is the space after encore:.

We always do an encore. And it’s always a Paramore song because they’re the only non-objectionable option Selena likes. Paramore is an amazing group, and I do like their music, but if she doesn’t learn to like literally anyone else, I’ll start to lose my goddamn mind.

Bryson taps his pen against the paper for another minute, and then grabs the list and, leaving the space empty, shuts the binder. Our logo is on the front of it, slipped into the plastic cover. It’s just a black circle with our band name, Full Stop., inside of it in an all-caps, blocky, white font. We let Cole design it – we’d said we wanted something simple, and, though it looks like something that was created in Microsoft Paint (and it probably was), he’d delivered. Selena thinks it’s too plain, which is why I think it’s the most wonderful graphic in the world. I wear one of our T-shirts as much as possible and I’m met with her judgy glare each time.

I watch Bryson set the binder aside and look over the setlist another time before rising. “I guess we can start,” he announces. Cole’s instrument abruptly stops. The garage, however, is not entirely silent. Matt and Travis use the absence of guitar riffs to actually tune their instruments. At the very least, Selena shuts up.

I proceed over to my kit, and purposefully bump Selena’s shoulder with my arm as I pass. She’s about five-foot-four – about a head shorter than me – and it irritates her when I “accidentally” run into her. It makes my whole day. I sit on the stool and the others slowly start to claim their positions. Cole drags his amp over from the loveseat, and Travis pulls the elastic from his hair so it falls just to his shoulders. He claims having it loose helps him rock harder. I fail to see the correlation, but he’s a damn good guitarist, so I try not to question his methods.

As Matt takes his place, and Selena taps her microphone to make sure no one (me) has muted it behind her back again, I put my earplugs in and grab my sticks. They feel like an extension of my body when I hold them – like having just a little bit more to my arms. My nerves begin to hum with anticipation. I saw the first song and I’m pumped to play it.

Bryson gets started and reads the set from the paper like always: song title, and then the artist for Selena’s music-illiterate benefit. He only skips the artist if it’s one of our originals – at least she knows the titles of those. And she seems to tolerate singing them. Sometimes.

“Okay, open with This Could Be Anywhere in the World – Alexisonfire. Selena will take a sec to introduce everything, then Silver Bullet – Hawthorne Heights, right into Bring Me To The Light. Selena can improvise something after that. Green Day’s Holiday smoothly into Boulevard of Broken Dreams, then You’re Gonna Go Far, Kid – The Offspring, and this is the working title for the story of two crazy kids.”

“We never really found a title for that, did we?” Travis says teasingly. He throws a small smirk my way.

“No,” I agree in a similar manner, “We really didn’t.”

If he’s going to make fun of me, I’m taking it in stride. I wrote that particular number, and a fair chunk of our other originals. I think that sometimes my titles are pretty good, even when they’re just chorus lyrics. But sometimes – well, they’re that.

“Selena improvises something, and then we go to the Red Block,” Bryson continues without missing another heartbeat. I’m pretty sure I hear his voice raise a little to grab our focus again. “Red Flag – Billy Talent, Red Sam – Flyleaf, and Something Different – Red As Dusk. Selena says stuff. Changing – Saosin. Pressure – Paramore. Selena talks. Be Like The Zeros. Kiss Me, Kill Me – Mest, and Selena introduces the final song. Strong finish with Postcards – Amber Pacific. Got it?”

Four of us nod, or make our brief sounds of agreement. Selena ruins the unanimous confirmation.

“And my encore?”

“If I keep thinking about that, I’ll have a fucking aneurysm,” Bryson says with a straight face. He passes her the setlist. He knows if we start having that discussion now, this won’t be a rehearsal, it’ll be a homicide. “Just run through what we’ve got. We can look at that when I know this set is okay.”

She mutters, “Well, for once I’d like to know what we’re doing before the night of the gig.”

“Yeah, then maybe we could do something other than Misery Business, or Still Into You, or Rose-Colored Boy, or – no, wait. That’s about it, huh?”

She doesn’t turn, but she does stick her middle finger up at me. I hear Travis try to softly suppress amused laughter; a small, entertained huff escapes him. She hates me. It’s so great.

“Please just practice the damn set.” Bryson’s voice has shifted to something like exhausted pleading. He’s not in the mood to break up a fight today. I mean, he’s going to have to anyway – there’s not a single doubt in my mind there – but he doesn’t want to. He always gets this way so close to a show. The stick doesn’t come out of his ass until the stage lights go off.

To ease his stress a little, we do as he says.

This Could Be Anywhere in the World is one of Cole’s favourites to perform because nearly half of it is unclean vocals. This means that it’s one of my favourites to perform because Selena’s unstable wailing only has to pierce my auricular space half as much.

And it’s a ton of fun to play on drums.

Once she’s butchered her way through Silver Bullet and one of our originals, I’m introduced as the representative from California by one of Travis’ very few spoken contributions during Holiday. Even though its absolutely necessary, Selena hates the fact that I’m the best she’s got for clean backup vocals that won’t make our audience’s ears bleed. She especially despises this brief part Matt and I share – my voice and drumming and his iconic bass line – simply because it takes the attention off of her for nearly a full bridge. I sing the rebellious lyrics with a smirk shot her way. She flips me off.

Selena hates singing You’re Gonna Go Far, Kid, and sings this is the working title for the story of two crazy kids terribly in an attempt to annoy me. She makes it painfully obvious that she’s suffering through the Red Block, and gets a smidge better during Changing because a Paramore song follows. She always complains that I use too much cymbal during Pressure. I wonder if she’s actually listened to the song, or if she’s just deaf.

I watch her reach for the list again as it comes to a close and beat her to it.

“I Love How You Say We Can Be Anything But Treat Us Like Shit.”

“That’s not what it’s called!” she snaps.

“Sorry. Be Like The Zeros, parentheses: I Love How You Say We Can Be Anything But Treat Us Like Shit.”

She turns a bit just so I have the luxury of seeing her roll her eyes.

“What? Do I need to say it backwards too?”

I can visibly see the rage manifest inside of her head and, with another smirk that I can’t help at this point, and that I can’t say is innocent, I launch into a hidden talent that frustrates her to no end. I don’t know exactly how I came across it, I just know that I’m able to do it and she’s not. Travis can do it as well, and he watches me with amusement as I drive Selena up the wall. I picture the smoke coming out of her ears as she glares at me.

“Tihs ekil su taert tub gnihtyna eb nac ew yas uoy woh evol I,” I recite. “Bryson knows the title – he wrote it!”

“Just start the damn song, Scott,” Bryson sighs rather than taking a side, even though I’m right.

I don’t give Selena the chance to have the final word. The crash cymbal screams beneath my stick in the intro. Thankfully, Bryson purposefully wrote this song in the right key for her alto voice, so I don’t have to hear her try and fail to sing outside of her vocal range.

 “My mind is clouded like a smokehouse / I think I need a light to find what I was gonna say / My body’s numb and feeling funny / Lost here in a strange place / Just another average day.”

 I’m sure Bryson is relieved when we finally make it to the end of Postcards without another interruption. The first hour of practice ends with our finalized setlist played in full and no unstoppable brawls.

“Can we talk about my encore now, Bryson?” Selena demands at the final note, ever the princess.

Bryson starts to look as if he would rather eat his own hand than discuss the encore and incite her wrath, but also that he knows if we don’t talk about it beforehand, we’ll have to pick ten minutes before the show and we’ll end up doing Let The Flames Begin again.

“Okay, fine,” he relents. “Band meeting.”

I set down my sticks and pull out my earplugs as the guys put their guitars on the assorted stands. Selena leaves her mic and goes to take a seat. She hates sitting on the furniture because everything in here is a relic too shitty for a thrift store; it’s all either tearing, patched with duct tape, or just too stained or dusty to be used by anyone other than a semi-successful garage band in LA. Selena’s in one, but she doesn’t act like it.

We make it a habit to sit as far away from each other as possible. Matt and Bryson take the loveseat where Selena’s perched herself on the one not-duct-taped arm that’s probably going to need a layer of the stuff in about a month. Travis, Cole, and I take the couch.

“Thoughts?” Bryson asks. I can tell he’s bracing himself.

I am too, but I keep my mouth shut and wait for Selena to get her terrible idea out of the way first.

“We should do Ain’t It Fun,” she pitches. “It’s always a crowd-pleaser.”

“It would be if our regular crowd hadn’t already heard you sing it a hundred thousand times.”

“What’s fucking wrong with that?” Her angled eyebrows raise, and I can already see her pupils filling up with fire. If anyone else had said it, she wouldn’t be as pissed off, and that simple fact alone is why I argue in the first place.

“Should I say it forwards or backwards?” I demand. She scowls. “They’re getting bored! If we lose the audience at Underground, we won’t get gigs, and Full Stop. is just fucked! Back me up here, Bryce.”

Selena whips her head around to glare at Bryson so fast that I expect her to break her neck, and I’m almost disappointed when she doesn’t. Bryson’s biting into his cheek, not wanting to say that I’m right in order to avoid her fury, but not denying it either. The others show their agreement plainly – Matt’s mouth takes on an uncertain slant, eyes bright, and Cole can’t stop himself from nodding subtly. Travis wears a smirk. He always takes my side in this war.

“Oh, fuck you guys!” she spits. Her defeat is a delicate sound. It’s like music to my ears.

“What do you want to do, Scott?” Bryson asks. His voice is calm, a mediator.

“We already have a Paramore song in the set. We can’t do another. We need to try something new this time. An original, or–” I rifle through my mental music library. I know which songs we’ve done, and all of the options we haven’t ever tried because Selena is a brat with bad taste. “Maybe actually try some My Chemical Romance for once? They’re a fucking staple to the punk-pop genre.”

“Ew, no,” Selena interrupts. “Veto.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Where do I start? They’re terrible.”

“First of all, how dare you.”

“Here we go,” Bryson sighs. He goes unheard.

“Second, do you have a better idea?”

“Yeah, like fifty! We should do something by The Chainsmokers.”

“You’re fucking kidding me.”

“What? They’re good!”

“No, they’re overplayed! The crowd will be asleep before we even start. They’re not even punk!”

“You’re such a fucking snob!”

“Wow! Look, everyone! The pot is calling the kettle black!”

“Guys! Holy fuck – calm down!” Bryson’s voice cuts through us both. He’s rubbing his temples to curb the migraine Selena’s clearly bringing upon him. “Can we all remember that music is subjective?”

For a moment, the silence rests. Travis is clearly entertained and firmly stuck on my side. Bryson’s trying to fight off that brain aneurysm he promised himself. Cole and Matt are somewhere between rolling their eyes and coming up with an excuse to leave.

Selena is on the brink of completely detonating. Her jaw is set, posture disturbed and rigid. She doesn’t remove her beady, flaming eyes from me, and looks like she’s trying to murder me with her sheer force of will. In her imagination, she’s probably stabbing me with one of my drumsticks. Her tiny fists are clenched.

“Marianas Trench,” she says through her teeth.

“Are you joking? You’d need a church choir just to sing half their crap,” I say. “Dead Kennedys.”

“Veto. Ed Sheeran.”

“Worse than The Chainsmokers. Jimmy Eat World.”

“What? With their one fucking song? Vance Joy.”

“Who?”

That one really makes her mad, so I grin as I say it. She knows I know who Vance Joy is – if only because she’s mentioned him four million times and butchered one of his stupid indie songs over and over again with her shrieking.

“Good Charlotte,” I suggest.

She rolls her eyes. “Twenty One Pilots.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Really?” For a brief moment, I watch her little, round face light up.

“Yeah, as soon as you can rap, feel free to buy us all synths and ukuleles. I’m sure your Daddy can afford it.”

She’s so angry that I can nearly see her brain boiling. There are a few Twenty One Pilots songs I would willingly relent to adding to a Full Stop. setlist, but at the moment I know she’s too pissed off to even name one. I almost want to laugh.

“Taylor. Swift,” she hisses, enunciating every single syllable with a seething staccato. She knows I would never agree to it and that’s the only reason why she suggests it. Everything she ever does or says is designed to make me mad. In this way, we’re one and the same.

So, I mimic her tone. “Fuck. No.” And I’m just about to throw out The Gits – not that Selena could ever dream to live up to Mia Zapata’s legacy – when–

“Wait!”

The single word from Cole breaks our staring contest. I still feel my blood thundering from the rush of adrenaline that comes with pushing Selena to her breaking point, but I turn my attention on him. Cole’s straightened up from his lax slouch and, even though he’s sitting, he’s still a human tower – it’s no wonder the football coach spent nearly two years trying to recruit him. His eyes are stretched wide with an idea.

“What?” Travis asks.

He takes the question, but turns to me. His massive hand is slapped against his forehead, an indication of an epiphany. “Punk Goes Pop.”

“Excuse me?” Selena demands. Her teeth are clenched, and her brows are high.

Cole doesn’t need to explain it to me – I’ve caught onto his idea the second my mental music library dredges up the collection. He elaborates for everyone else.

“Yeah, okay, so Fearless Records has this series where they have punk bands cover pop songs, and, like, they’ve done some Taylor Swift stuff. Uh, You Belong With Me, Trouble – oh!” – he claps abruptly as the next idea enters his head and, again, his eyes turn on me, full of excitement and what appears to be an ego boost due to his own perceived genius. He’s gesticulating with the approximate energy of a German Shepherd – “Blank Space from the volume six rerelease! Dude, I Prevail goes so fucking hard on it! I had it on repeat for a month, and I can do Eric Vanlerberghe’s parts no problem!” He’s practically already playing air guitar.

“There. See? It’s a compromise,” Matt agrees.

And maybe it seems too good to be true…

Because it is.

“Yeah, too bad we can’t do it,” I object. Bryson sighs audibly and mutters under his breath. “If we let her sing the clean vocals, it won’t sound anything like a punk song! She’ll just try to sing it exactly like the original and fuck it up!”

“Fuck you!” Selena fires at me.

“Then you sing it, Morgan.”

I give myself whiplash turning to look at Travis, and the energy of the garage turns palpable – a thick, stunned tension that I could slice through with a razor blade and a ton of effort. Arms crossed over his chest, Travis shrugs, completely relaxed and completely, unbelievably serious.

In an instant, the initial surprise melts away, and I’m more confused by his proposal than I am shocked – or maybe it’s just an intense mixture of both. But the point is that I can’t sing it! I’m a drummer! That’s the only reason she’s even here in the first place!

“What?! No!”

“Yeah! ‘What?! No!’” Selena parrots me. For once, we’re actually in agreement on something.

“Why not? You’ve got a good voice, and I know you know the song.”

“Who’s going to play the drums?!” I reason. “That’s why she’s here!”

“I suggested Taylor Swift! I don’t want him singing it!” Selena protests.

“Exactly! Then she can’t hog the stage and be an attention whore and has to settle for being a regular–”

“Morgan,” Travis interjects (scolds), still calm despite presenting me with an insane idea just a moment ago. Selena flips me off with a look of pure hatred. I generally don’t like to push it that far, but I stand by what I was about to say. Her name is synonymous with it.

“I’ll find someone to drum for you,” Bryson says.

I scoff. “What? Am I that easily replaceable?! You’re all fucking ridiculous!”

“Scott,” Bryson starts in his middleman voice. I look at our manager and lift a brow. He seems to wait until everyone has copied me and all eyes are on him.

And then he supports Travis’ idea.

Using some of the most glorious words I have ever heard in my life.

“If we can just get this over with – pick the cover of Blank Space with you on clean vocals so this discussion will fucking stop – you can dump Selena.”

I have no idea what to say.

So it comes out unfiltered.

“Oh, screw you, Bryson.”

Not meant to be hurtful. Just… I can’t even explain it – just some sort of instinctual, astonished reaction.

I would be free of Selena Walton. And I would get to steal her encore.

But I would have to sing front-and-center. Even though it’s a cover, it’s still a Taylor Swift song. I wouldn’t have to sing all of it – about half the vocals in I Prevail’s version are unclean, so Cole would take them. But it’s still a tough debate.

I can’t really feel my body. I guess the shock is still settling in. Or it has settled in pretty deep and fried my nerves or something. But, while I’m internally wrestling against my own opinions, I dare to steal a look at Selena that ends up lasting longer than just a glance. Her eyes are narrowed, her jaw is tight, and her back is rod straight. She’s still inconsolably pissed at the idea that she could end up without an encore even though she’s had plenty already, but I see something else underneath that.

She wants me to take it. She doesn’t want to have to pretend to be shackled to me any longer. The feeling is mutual.

They’re all staring at me as I weigh the pros and cons a few more times.

In the end, I look Bryson dead in the eyes using what I can only describe as a defeated, cold glare.

“I want it in writing.”

Chapter: 2

[abstractingwords-blog]

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[transcendence-au]

The Manor of Alcor (4/?)

Also on ff.net

Orrie grinned at the completed sketch. Ignoring how some things weren’t drawn to scale, he was admittedly impressed by how much he remembered of the rooms, the hallways they passed through, and the relative lengths and distances between each of them. Maybe he should be a mapmaker when he grew up.

Silly as the thought was it didn’t entertain Orrie for long, and he was soon wondering what was taking the twins. The two had gone to get something to eat about half an hour ago, which (he had to remind himself) was a reasonable amount of time. But being alone in the manor was greatly raising his anxiety. Even without the clue on him Orrie did not fancy having another run-in with Siegfried. And then there was the staff, any one of whom could be the culprit behind Dug’s death. And that was assuming it was only one of them and not more, or even some unknown third party.

Orrie made an indecipherable noise in his throat. Now was not the time to be worrying about that– they had a mission. Solve the mystery and escape. But he wasn’t going to be doing any solving by just standing in place. Maybe…maybe I can explore the grounds? Anything to give himself something to do. Calm his nerves and mind. He packed his sketchbook back into his bag and made for the mansion’s front door. The nagging sensation he’d been feeling since Belle and Dipper left grew as he walked. But he soothed it somewhat by promising himself he wouldn’t be gone long; he’d be back inside by the time they were done eating.

Stepping though the front doors the midday sun greeted him brightly. A warm breeze teasingly ruffled his hair as it blew past, and for the briefest of moments Orrie could just forget his worries. Robins chirping from the distant hedge maze, dazzling light glittering off the pool water’s surface, the faint smell of roses and tulips that lined the trimmed bushes– how could anyone suspect a greater evil here?

Orrie hurried himself down the cobblestone path, wishing to check something. He knew the others had dismissed the idea and for good reason too, but he just wanted to make certain…

“Well now we know for sure…” he muttered to himself. The gates were indeed locked as he could clearly see. Orrie paused, leaning in a bit closer. Was that—? Listening carefully he could hear a faint, steady thrum coming from the bars. Brow furrowing, Orrie bent over and picked up a tiny stone, tossing it at the gate. A loud pop followed by agitated sizzling rang out upon contact, and the charred pebble fell with a dull thud. Magic-powered fences? he thought. Okay…this was going a bit far. Surely the owners would have turned this security feature off while visitors were here. Despite wanting to see just how far the fence stretched, Orrie knew he needed to get back inside. Even if it wasn’t much information he had to let Flynn, Dipper, and Belle know about the gate.

Footsteps grabbed his attention. He took an unwitting step back, twisting fully to face the hedges. Nothing moved. Only the sound of chirps continued to ring out clearly from the maze. “I-is there someone there?” Orrie called out nervously, still refusing to budge. When no words answered back he hesitated a step towards it. When still he saw nothing emerge he reasoned he’d probably misheard the noise and it’d been a deer or something. Orrie approached the neatly-trimmed maze from the side and peeked around its corner. It was empty as far as he could see.

Orrie briefly debated the chances of the murderer simply jumping out and killing him once he entered, then he reasoned the person would’ve already done so by now. He entered the maze only to find it an overly simplistic labyrinth. Two turns right, one left, and he quickly found himself at a dead end. Slightly put off that there wasn’t anything of worth here he made to leave.

But it was right when he reached the entrance again he paused, listening. It was incredibly easy to disregard but now that he thought about it he never did see any birds while in the maze, and yet not once did it let up on its song. Surely it would have gone quiet or flown away as he approached it. Berating himself for going back on his self-made promise, Orrie reentered the hedge maze, now seeking the strange bird. He scoured every inch of the bushes, slowly nearing the source of the tweets. It was roughly halfway through he noticed something brown hidden deep within the compact branches– extremely easy to overlook if you weren’t searching for it.

Sticking his hand through the maze wall, Orrie could feel it was a handcrafted nest, and inside it were a tiny device and something flimsy. The device had to be a speaker of sorts; the chirping was momentarily muffled when Orrie ran his fingers over it. As for the flimsy material—

“You have got to be kidding me.” Did fortune actually favor him? The boy hastily pulled out the hint, eagerly unscrolling it to read:

“How many of these go round all day long?”

Orrie snorted to himself; now this nursery rhyme he could figure out. Still, where exactly was he going to find a bus? The hint couldn’t be referring to the one they rode on yesterday as it was likely long gone by now. Maybe there was another bus they needed to find, one in a garage hidden somewhere behind the manor. So…wait, no; that couldn’t be right. The song was ‘Wheels on the Bus’. So was the hint referring to the wheels themselves? Orrie frowned, wordlessly rolling the paper back up and stuffing it into his backpack.

Another light breeze fluttered through, and Orrie took the moment to appreciate it before the answer suddenly thrust itself to the forefront of his brain. Pinwheels! He made haste to the greenhouse, spotting with happiness the rainbow pinwheel spinning lazily above the glass building. It took a few seconds to find the door that was nearly identical to the thick glass windows, but it wasn’t long before Orrie was inside. Almost instantly he was hit by the overwhelming stench of damp earth carried by hot air; the greenhouse was a lot muggier inside than he expected. So he left the door open in hopes of dispelling some of the heat.

Getting a better look of his surroundings, Orrie made a noise of slight annoyance. This place was more a maze than the actual maze outside– tables of varying lengths were arrayed in such an unorganized fashion that there was no easy way to walk down the rows and columns without having to turn corners every few steps. And some pathways led to obvious dead ends. Yet covering every table were brown pots holding various plants: some with flowers, some with growing trees, and some with strange foliage that were likely of magical origin. These pots had sets of colorful shapes painted on them, none of which were arranged in any particular pattern. Orrie approached the nearest pot, the one with three red squares and contained a bamboo shoot. To its right was a pot with foxgloves and painted with ten blue hexagons, and beside that was a pot with some sort of fern and dotted with four white diamonds.

So what should I do with these? He lifted the pot. Nothing underneath. He turned it around. Nothing on its backside. He scooped out some of the packed soil. Nothing noticeably odd inside, but now he knew at least all the plants on the tables were fake after he pulled out the plastic bamboo stick. “They have to be fake for a reason,” he muttered quietly; the real plants had probably been put away for the event. He wandered around the greenhouse for several minutes, simply looking and pondering what he should be doing. There didn’t seem to be much else in here to browse at. It was when he somehow managed to maneuver himself to the back of the building he found ten trowels lined up neatly on the wall. Ten trowels– one for each of the guests.

Ah, so they did have to dig through the pots. After climbing onto the table (and taking care not to knock over any of the bowls containing water and real lotus plants growing) Orrie snatched one of the trowels. Now to figure out which pot to dig through. The boy grinned, remembering the hint. Of course– a bus has four wheels that go round, so he needed to find the pot with the four circles.

With excitement and a bit of pride in how much of the hint he solved by himself, Orrie hurried through the table maze once more, scanning each pot for the correct pattern arrangement. It wasn’t too long before he found the one he was looking for. He removed the fake bonsai tree and started digging. When he scooped out all the hard dirt he saw a thin indent at the bottom of the pot, just wide enough to fit the tip of his trowel in it. Orrie put the tool in and twisted, the bottom lifting to reveal a tiny but empty compartment beneath.

What? The frown appeared as quickly as his excitement vanished. Was this not the correct pot? Orrie checked underneath it and even the two pots beside it, but there wasn’t anything. Am I missing something? He walked slowly down the paths again looking for another pot with four circles. That one had seven squares…four rectangles…eight pentagons…five triangles. He eventually looked at each and every pot, but he couldn’t find any other with four circles.

He stopped and contemplated. The rhyme wasn’t complex so the answer had to be simple; he was just overlooking something. He thought some more before realizing his mistake. He had been missing something– four wasn’t the right number. A bus may have four tires, but it had five wheels; he forgot to take into account the steering wheel. Spinning around, he dashed back where he’d been, realizing he’d passed a pot with five purple circles a couple tables down. He quickly found the pot, shoveled out the soil and fake tulip, connected the trowel to the slot, and twisted. The door opened, and this time there was something inside. Orrie dumped the items out—another key and scroll—and read the piece of paper:

“Non amo thee, Sabidi.”

What does this—?

The door to the greenhouse slammed shut before he could finish his thought. Faltering for only a second, Orrie took quick steps toward the exit but could already hear a mechanism click as he grabbed the handle. He turned it; the door was locked. Orrie banged against the reinforced glass. “Hey! Can somebody hear me? Open the door!” He paused when he heard something begin to buzz. Looking up, he saw the lights flicker and shift from a warm yellow to neon pink, and almost instantly the temperature in the building began to rise to a sweltering level. Orrie gasped, seeing that the greenhouse used strong magic to make its plants grow. “Help!” But he knew there was no one around to save him.

Droplets of sweat already beginning to coat him, Orrie forewent pounding the door with fists and tried flinging a pot at it instead. It bounced back with nothing more than a dull thud. He tried again and again, both door and windows, but all he succeeded in doing was drastically wearing himself out in the rising heat. Orrie was panting as he looked around for some other route of escape. The walls? A back door? He groaned, his thoughts slipping into sluggishness. He fell to the ground and crawled beneath a table in a useless attempt to find shade. Orrie pressed himself against the ground, taking in what little coolness was left in the concrete floor.

“Hel…he…” His mouth was too hot and dry. Sweat drenched his body yet couldn’t cool him. His eyelids felt heavy, and he so very much desired closing them and falling asleep. Orrie glanced one last time toward the sealed exit. What’s…that…? From this position, head flat against the ground, he could make out a small raised something on the floor nestled by the door hinge. It was only a shade darker than the rest of the cement but clearly not part of it. Orrie forced himself to believe that was some sort of emergency switch as he half-crawled, half-dragged himself toward it. He thought his heart did a tiny flutter when he saw it was indeed a button. He pressed it.

The floor rumbled, a grinding screech nearly too much for Orrie to handle. A couple feet to his left a part of the floor fell and slid away. Orrie crawled over to it, peeking over and noticing at least a ten foot drop into an underground tunnel. What little reasoning his brain had left could not stop him from pushing himself forward; the boy tumbled through the hole and landed painfully on his shoulder and side. He rolled onto his back, dimly aware he should be in more pain than he was but honestly too tired to care.

Something clattered beside him. It took Orrie a moment to realize he’d dropped the key and even longer to realize he’d been holding it and the hint the whole time. He moaned and closed his eyes, falling asleep to rest in the cool, quiet tunnel.

When he woke up after what felt like hours later, Orrie felt somewhat rejuvenated though still a bit woozy. His eyes stared upward. The hole was still open, the pink light flooding through but not nearly as scorching. He had seriously just been this close to—

No…

He…he didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t want to. It had to have been part of the act…it had to…

Orrie wordlessly grabbed the items and climbed to his feet, slowly trudging down the spacious tunnel before him. It wasn’t long before he couldn’t see and had to feel out in front of himself to not crash into anything. He didn’t dare think of where the tunnel led and forced his thoughts to remain optimistic and hopeful. That’s why Orrie relaxed a bit when the tunnel ended with a vertical turn upward. Metal rungs were embedded in the wall, and he climbed them to find a wooden plank above him.

Orrie pushed once, twice, three times with all his might, finally able to get the heavy trapdoor to open. Is…am I back in the manor? He seemed to be in a supply closet of sorts, artificial and non-magical light pouring in from beneath the closet door to reveal old brooms, buckets, and mops scattered messily about. He climbed out and, after closing the trapdoor, exited the tiny room. He found himself in an unfamiliar wing of the mansion.

Orrie walked down the halls, taking in the silence, the lack of magical heat, and the absence of people. He was safe…for now. So his thoughts drifted to the newest hint and what it could mean. Taking a second to pull it out and read it again, he noted that while the language was unfamiliar it looked an awful lot like Latin. “No…love…thee, Sabadi,” he roughly translated. “Oh! Don’t love thee, Sabadi. I don’t love thee, Sabadi.” He could recall no nursery rhymes that had that line.

He racked his memory for anything that could possibly be related. The only thing he could connect with was a song his doctor used to sing to him as a little kid. The memory was faint, though, because she only sang it to calm him down long enough to give him his shots, joking afterwards the song had to have been made just for her. “But how did it go?” he muttered to himself. He knew the melody and rhythm, and he was certain the words did relate to the hint. “I do not something, something…uh…” He bit his lip. “I do not…oh! I do not like thee, Dr. Fell.” Orrie smiled softly, remembering how much he actually liked Dr. Fell; she must’ve sang that song to all her patients.

He stuffed the paper back in his bag and picked up his pace. Now he had a destination in mind: an infirmary. There was no way this manor didn’t have one. Orrie was both relieved and unnerved that he didn’t come across anybody in his search for the room. He really should consider putting all this on hold and finding Dipper and Belle first, but it was right then he just so happened to stumble upon a door with the word “Clinic” printed on its window. Orie sighed, reasoning he was already this far along so why stop now, and entered the small room.

Inside had a bit more than one would expect to see in a clinic: a doctor’s desk and chair, a cushioned bench, a single cot, a full-length mirror, and a doctor’s scale. There was a bookshelf cramped into the corner behind the desk and a counter and cabinet full of medical supplies, but otherwise that was it. Orrie quickly went to work scouring through the drawers and cabinets, finding only a wireless (and broken) keyboard in the top drawer of the desk. At the bookshelf he tried to remove one of the books from the shelf, but they might as well have been nailed down because they wouldn’t budge.

Orrie stepped to the doctor’s chair and flopped down in it. He mumbled to himself, “I don’t love thee, Sabadi,” a few times, trying to find some secret meaning in it. Growling in frustration, he took out the hint once more. “Non amo thee, Sabadi. Non amo thee—”

Wait! This whole time he’d been translating the probably-Latin into English when he should’ve also been focusing on the actual English in the hint. ‘Thee’ meant ‘you’, he was mostly confident. He glanced up at the mirror, his reflection staring right back. It seemed perfectly normal, so he got up and inspected it. Sadly, it didn’t open up or have any backwards messages on it. Orrie returned to the seat, spinning himself slowly around in it as he brainstormed again. He was close to solving this, he could feel it. With little conscious thought he opened the top drawer again, eyeing the wireless keyboard.

It wouldn’t be in here for no reason, right? There was, after all, nothing else inside the other drawers and no monitor or computer on top of the desk. But it was broken, with several of the keys missing and bits of plastic chipped off to reveal exposed circuitry. Orrie half-heartedly started pressing some of the remaining letters. He really needed to figure out what he was overlooking. Which, he admitted, would be so much easier to do if he had the twins helping—

It was when he pressed the ‘U’ key that a book from the bookshelf suddenly popped out of its place with a loud shoonk!, startling the boy and nearly causing him to tip out of the seat. He really wasn’t expecting anything to happen just now. He bent over and grabbed the displaced object, and his eyes widened when he recognized the book as actually a clue. Orrie snatched the key from his backpack and hurriedly unlocked the booklet. He at last read the clue he’d spent so long seeking:

“I just got the news from Pierce: The construction of our manor will begin Tuesday morning. I…I can’t believe this is actually happening. Joining a cult, constructing a home, capturing and commandeering a demon of unimaginable power. I suppose it’s a miracle that they knew how to contact me at all. And while I’m happy to no longer be seen as an outlaw to at least a few, it’s still so strange to me. Those six seem like the closest of friends; why drag an exiled nobody like me into their plans of grandeur? Is it only because of my knowledge of rare and blacklisted flora? Or is it also because of my understanding of the terrain, the likely routes and direction authorities would take to find us, the back-paths of escape?

Pierce assures me it’s nothing to concern myself over, but I don’t know; I don’t think they treat me like I’m an equal to them. Still, being far from my birthland and with no allies of my own, I’ll stick close to these people I’ll hesitantly call friends.”

Orrie took a moment to reread the first page, understanding that this writer was the least connected to the other cultists. Was he perhaps—no, he couldn’t jump to conclusions yet. Orrie turned to the other page:

“Four years to complete the manor, even with Jans and Sarkozy’s extensive knowledge in magic and their unrivaled proficiency in handcrafted spells. But I’m not complaining. It’s wonderful! A home. At last. I want to explore every inch of it like a young child…except for the attic. Sarkozy may be a bit overdramatic (or maybe her arachniphobia is legit), but she has a point, and so I’m keeping my distance from there until the infestation problem is resolved.”

Orrie’s heart raced. The names– these were the same names that were on their bedroom doors. He quickly went through the rooms and their occupants: he was in ‘Keller’, the Sterlings were in ‘Pierce’, Flynn was in ‘Jans’, the Lionharts were in ‘Gogh’, the Tosettis were in ‘Lemaire’, Siegfried was in ‘Sarkozy’, and Dug was…had been in ‘Kohl’.

Comprehension then dawned on him. “So those abbreviations must be for their first names since none of the rooms start with ‘M’ or ‘H’,” he said aloud as he took out his sketchbook and wrote down all the important takeaways from the clue. But when he finished he faltered in putting the clue back in its place.  Yes, Siegfried would be problematic if he found Orrie carrying it but…what if Flynn had been right? What if he couldn’t depend on the other guests? Sure, he felt mostly safe with the Sterling twins, but they wouldn’t always be here– right now being a great case in point. The killer wanted them all to solve the mystery; and the more clues he had, the likelier his chances of staying alive to do that.

Was that why Dipper had asked to hold on to it earlier? Had he already realized their importance and wanted a safeguard? Orrie’s hold on the clue tightened. He trusted them, he really did; he told himself such. But…but it wouldn’t hurt to keep this one little secret. His own safeguard. Besides, if it turned out to be something crucial later on, he’d tell them about it immediately.

Orrie removed the two diary pages from the booklet’s flaps and laid them in his sketchbook. Then he put the booklet back on the bookshelf and left the small room.

Mr. Goodman stared dolefully at the stone floor, still unable to bear looking at the security feeds. How in the world could this have all happened under his watch? How had—he had trusted his staff. He had trusted Terry. He’s known the young man for four years; not once had he done anything remotely this…horrendous. Then again did he really know Terry if he was currently tied up and gagged in the inner chamber’s spare room? There was commotion by the monitors for some reason, and Mr. Goodman looked up. At least someone had been “kind” enough to leave the door cracked open, enough so that Mr. Goodman could see the screens and several staff members crowding around them.

From his limited view he could tell they were switching through the feeds quickly, looking for something. Or was it someone? Earlier it had been Mr. Fairfern as he talked to the children and convinced them to move Mr. Segal’s body. Then it had been on Mr. Connolly as he wandered the manor for clues. For a long while the staff kept watch on the twins as they ate; for some reason the cameras’ mics only picked up interference when they spoke. He did spot briefly the young boy Orrie heading outside, but that had been well over an hour ago and shortly after Terry had left the chamber for who knew why. At least the Tosettis were currently out of danger; the staff quickly turned feeds from them when they noticed all the elderly couple doing was reading and looking out their bedroom window.

Mr. Goodman returned his subdued gaze to the floor again. He was absolutely useless, unable to protect his own guests, so many of them so young. It was relatively quiet for several minutes until a scream tore through the speakers. Mr. Goodman’s head snapped up, his terror-filled eyes dreading to see what was before him.

The feed was from the foyer, not far from the staircase. Zahia Lionhart was leaning over something on the ground, wails escaping her as she did something with fervor. He couldn’t tell what exactly was going on—with her back to the camera and the staff pushing to get better views and blocking his sight—but based on her location he could make an educated guess.

Someone else had been killed—Cliff Lionhart no doubt. Mr. Goodman struggled to think what specifically could have done it; there were just too many possibilities. His blood chilled when he realized Zahia’s screams would act like a beacon to the other guests. With Terry in control and clearly having reactivated the mansion’s traps, the foyer in particular was nothing more than a death room waiting to claim its victims.

Shadows bobbed down one of the connecting hallways, and soon enough the Sterling twins ran into the picture, stopping short by the stairs. Dipper, face carefully blank, said something to Mrs. Lionhart, but again the mics had difficulty picking up sound; it was mostly garbled static with words occasionally breaching though. Whatever the boy said Mrs. Lionhart refused to answer, still hunched over and crying heavily.

“…eed to…could…atching ri…” Dipper made a step forward. That’s when Mrs. Lionhart rounded on him, shouting something indiscernible to the twins. Belle said something back, she too trying to keep herself collected, and Mrs. Lionhart broke down into tears again. The staff members started murmuring amongst themselves, making it even harder to hear what was going on.

Flynn arrived from out the same hall the twins came through. Mr. Goodman could tell he was a man seasoned to handle crises because almost immediately he was taking long strides toward Mrs. Lionhart and gently pulling her away from the spot she rooted herself to. Zahia struggled against him, but the elf was far stronger and held her tight to his chest. His glare hardened toward the twins, and Mr. Goodman could barely read his lips as he ordered them to go upstairs. Dipper retorted, his expression darkening as he took a defiant step forward and crossed his arms.

“…ot a game! We…nger…perty.”

“How d…eave? In…e’ve no…no…un awa…”

Belle joined in with something, but Mr. Fairfern shook his head at the two. “…en barrac…rooms. I’m ta…rol of the…” He paused. “And…rrie?” All eyes turned to Mrs. Lionhart then; she must have been muttering something. Whatever she said caused Dipper to look away with…anger? Frustration? Mr. Goodman couldn’t quite place the emotion. Likewise, Belle and Mr. Fairfern seemed quite uneasy. It was only then Mr. Goodman took notice of the thin puddle of blood pooling on the floor by Zahia and Flynn’s feet.

A door slam made all the guests jump: Siegfried had entered the scene. There was a brief moment of no one moving while Mr. Connolly and Flynn exchanged words, the twins speaking up every once in a while. Then Flynn, Dipper, and Belle were all staring incredulously at the large man. Both teens glanced at Flynn when the elf suddenly started shouting at Siegfried, looking downright furious. Even Zahia momentarily looked up at him.

“…will not allo…ou…ndanger the lives…people, Siegfried!”

Siegfried yelled harshly, “I didn…ared off by…came for…oney! Your…no concer…me!” He faced Belle when the girl uttered something evidently scathing to him. He scowled, curtly turning his attention to Zahia. He nodded toward her (again, likely talking to her) before turning on his heel and leaving the foyer. Flynn watched him go with the darkest glare Mr. Goodman had ever seen on a man’s face. His anger was almost palpable.

His head snapped to the side. Mr. Goodman had missed him coming in during Flynn’s outburst at Siegfried, but there was Orrie standing just at the edge of the screen, frozen in place as he stared with terrified and unwavering eyes at the scene before him.

“No…ve now! Orr…go!” But the boy couldn’t move, his form visibly shaking, all ability to otherwise respond gone. Flynn half-carried, half-dragged Zahia away and towards Orrie, her resuming her struggle to break free from him. “Zahia!” Finally she escaped, but she had been carried far enough away for Mr. Goodman to at last get a good look at Cliff.

The man’s death was hopefully quick. Long, needle-like blowgun darts were embedded deep into his chest and upper body, several piercing clean through his heart and base of his throat. A look of surprised pain was forever frozen on his face that stared blankly into the distance, his own blood soaking through his shirt and staining everything it touched. Beside him, half smeared by blood and half crushed when Zahia knelt beside him, was a note. It went unnoticed as Zahia screamed her husband’s name over and over. It went unnoticed as Flynn changed priorities and hurried to guide Orrie up the stairs, desperate to block the child’s view and demanding Belle and Dipper to help him. But Mr. Goodman saw it. And he read it. And he knew Terry was far from done with toying with his unwitting prisoners:

“Needles and pins, you married on whims; let’s end all your grins with dastardly sins.”

[miraimaina-blog]

Introducing my newest project! This one’s been in the works for several months, and I’m finally at the point of getting it uploaded! Those squid doodles? They lead up to this. The story begins under the cut. 

     The call to adventure can take many forms – the cries of a damsel in distress, the roaring of a wicked monster, the sobs of someone miles from home. For a young Inkling, it’s the sound of the B train to Inkopolis speeding on the tracks as she leaves home for the first time. The three-hour ride from Ikayaki County was nearing its end. The buildings flying by increased in number and size every few minutes, and with them, her excitement. A sunbeam struck her in the eye as the train turned a corner and she put a hand to the window to shield her vision.

     “Hope, you’re gonna leave a handprint,” said her brother, not even looking up from the travel guide on his phone.

     “Then I’ll just squin—oh, wait, nope, I’m good now.” Hope removed her hand from the glass. “Y’know, you ought to be looking out here instead of on your phone. This is a lot more interesting.” She squeaked with a grin as they passed a huge warehouse with its roof adorned by colorful flags bearing SquidForce logos.

     He glanced up at her. “I’m reviewing Mom’s instructions. Inkopolis is huge and it’s just the two of us against it. The last thing I want to do is get lost.”

     “Mom and Dad wouldn’t have let us go alone if they didn’t have faith in us. Come on, Drake.”

     Drake sighed and put his phone down, straightening his glasses. He knew what his sister said was true, but it was still unnerving to be so far from home. He’d been out of town before, sure, though that was to debate camp. His week-long, one-hour-away experiences were nothing compared to now. Even more daunting was the notion that he wasn’t ever really going back. It felt dreamlike, and the motion-blurred landscape out the window wasn’t helping him convince himself that this was happening. He didn’t want to believe that their dad hadn’t gotten the job at Ancho-V Games, however. A shiver shot down his back.

     “Let’s go over it again,” he started. Hope rolled her eyes, smirking. “We’ll be arriving in the southwest station where Aunt Lucille should be waiting. If she’s not on our platform, we go down two. Failing that, we head into downtown and go to… hold on.” He drew his phone again.

     Hope turned to the window while he checked, but they went into a tunnel. She huffed softly and leaned back into her seat. Her brother’s phone locked with a click, signaling her to resume eye contact, but not without adjusting her tentacles. She loved their emerald color, though she had a love-hate relationship with their length.

     “Café Cardamari. If we end up going there, we call Aunt Lucille when we leave and when we arrive.”

     “Go to some café downtown? I’m down for that, but,” she paused to stifle a laugh, “aren’t you afraid of getting lost?” She barely finished her sentence before he rebutted.

     “It’s in Inkopolis Plaza, near the Tower. I doubt we can miss it.” He continued, trying to talk himself out of his nervousness, but there was nothing he could do to hold Hope’s attention now as she spied the light at the end of the tunnel. The light grew and grew. Her heart raced as they reached the exit, the world briefly bathed in white. When the color returned, Hope smiled a big, toothy smile and held in her happy screams, putting both her hands on the glass with total abandon.

     “Drake!” But he kept talking. She called for him once more with feeling, unwilling to turn around and miss a moment of the ride. Getting no response, she blindly grabbed at his collar and pulled him to the rectangular portal displaying their future. “Shut up and look!” His struggle was but momentary as the horizon struck him with awe.

     Downtown Inkopolis stood before them, skyscrapers and winding roads and ramps as far as they could see. Panes of one-way glass glittered like stars. Signs affixed every which way were festive and busy, promising a neon light show after sundown. As the train drew closer, smaller structures and storefronts of every imaginable hue came into view; bright banners and awnings dotted the scene as well as scattered graffiti. The City of Color lived up to its name. Once the train descended to near-ground level, they could see anemones and urchins and many, many Inklings – not to mention all the jellyfish, half of which were probably tourists. The streets were bustling more with people than vehicles by a long shot. In that way, it reminded them of home. They couldn’t tell if people were carrying umbrellas like most people back home did at these speeds, though.

     Cruising into another bend, the PA sounded. “Attention, passengers. We will be arriving in Downtown Inkopolis Square shortly.”

     Hope and Drake bolted upright and looked each other in the eye. “That’s our stop,” he muttered.

     “That’s our stop!” she echoed, jumping in her seat. “We’re gonna be fresh, turf-warrin’ squids before we even know it!”

     “Then what are you waiting for? Get your stuff together; I can see the station from here!”

     They scrambled for their bags and suitcases. Since they were going to be living with their aunt for a couple months, they had to bring more than a week’s worth of clothes, their electronics, and etcetera. It wasn’t everything, of course, but enough to make their temporary quarters feel like their own. Four bags apiece: a backpack, a shoulder satchel, a rolling suitcase, and a regular suitcase. Drake’s looked like anybody else’s, but Hope’s were decorated with stickers. They were a real hassle to get together what with the narrow isle, and especially with Hope’s long tentacles getting in the way. She whined in pain as Drake accidentally squished one between her seat and one of his suitcases.

     “For once, I envy your super-short tentacles…” she admitted as she pulled away from her brother’s luggage.

     By the time they’d gotten themselves together, the train had well and done reached its destination. Inklings were filing off the train nonchalantly all stuck in a line at the back two doors. Hope, too excited to be proper, made a mad dash for the door next to the driver. She asked him if they could go out the front, to which Drake tried to restrain her and apologize, but the driver was an older man with kind eyes who simply chuckled and said he could let it slide just this once. The door opened with a whir and a hiss, and light and sound flooded in.

     From the ground, Inkopolis’s grandeur was overwhelming. Sun flared off glass, bouncing to and fro as though competing with waves from the many speakers pumping out the latest pop songs. Large monitors played lively ads with voices indistinguishable amongst those of the mingling population surrounding the station. And the people, they were nothing like the folks back in Ikayaki. They all wore brands a town without Turf Wars would never see, and no, no one carried umbrellas, not that they would need them – there was plenty of shelter from heat and rain.

     The siblings stepped away from the train, out into the crowded platform. Hope waved goodbye to the driver as the door slid closed.

     “Would you just look at this place!” She twirled, laughing giddily. Drake reprimanded her for a) letting go of her luggage for even a second, and b) hitting him with her tentacles. He forced her things back into her hands and steadied her.

     “We’re looking for Aunt Lucille now.” With that, he nudged Hope in the direction he was walking.

     They didn’t get two steps, though. A voice called behind them, masked somewhat by quick, pronounced footfall. “Then you’re looking the wrong way!”

     Hope pivoted on her heel (hitting her brother again), met with the sight of an Inkling woman with bobbed yellow tentacles wearing a dull cardigan and a patterned neon skirt; she’d recognize that look anywhere. The woman ran towards them, dodging and sidestepping passersby, an arm raised high.

     “Auntie Luce!”

     Hope and Drake turned and made a dash for her, all three of them coming together in a tackle-hug. They nearly went down, but Drake managed to prop them up with his rolling suitcase long enough to stand. Lucille put her hands to their shoulders, getting a good look at the niece and nephew she hadn’t seen in person for two years.

     “My stars; Hope, Drake, you’ve really grown!” She noticed Hope’s tentacles brushing her leg. “…really.”

     Drake turned a proper smile for the first time since they left. “It’s like she has neon kelp on her head. You wouldn’t even think she was related to us spear squids.”

     “Well, she’s her own special kind of squid. Remind me what that was again?” Lucille knew and knew well already, but she always got a kick out of how proudly she declared it.

     Hope put her hands on her hips, straightened up, and straightened again after giggling. “I’m a hope squid!”

     “That’s right you are! And don’t you listen to your brother, he has no right to say you look like kelp when he’s rose pink.” He let out a cry of fake-offended protest. The girls poked and prodded him until he laughed, having to adjust his glasses after shaking their hands off. “Alright, alright, let’s get a move on. You two have a lot ahead of you and I don’t think anyone here wants to wait.”

     And so they began the trek to the parking garage, talking and telling stories, unaware of what the universe had planned.

NEXT: Coming soon!

FIRST: You’re here!

[thewordlikeisalanguagecondom]

I replay the moment in my mind. Over. Over. Over. What am I missing? I am not just tempted, but possessed it seems with the urge to find humor in anything and everything, even visually. Like how he now rests the base of his skull on a pillow just as unyielding as himself. I poke fun as he grasps it’s twin and clutches it close, in the nook where his left arm and his chest meet and pulls my mocking thorax close to his. “It’s a poor substitute and will take far longer to warm up.” He could mimic an entire contemplation and body shrug in just his face. Even now with his eyes closed. Brow down. Chin up. Lips curled down ward narrowing eyes. I used to love this expression. As if I could actively watch him interpret, disgest, and debate with himself. Confusion, Disgust, Anger, and then contempt. All in one. Absurdity. As if whatever had been said was an insult to his intelligence or personal beliefs and that a counter-arguement had already occurred to him and he was debating whether or not it was worth sharing, if he answered it, or if it was too absurd to warrant any response at all and he was chuckling to himself. In seconds. He had perfected it. He knew he had, which is why he never made an attempt to disguise it. But rather loved putting it on. If it released and his brows came up. He had recognized something notable of what was said, and regarded it and released. But more often than not, if it lasted a few seconds longer than usual, Or if he quickly repeated it shortly after… I knew he had already won within his mind before he spoke. I watch him calculate it now. Released and readjusted the pillow. Feigning sleep. And there it is, the quick second quick brow down, chin up, lip slightly protruded. Contemplation to arrogant. and there it is finishing side smirk, we have a winner: contempt. He was about to say something fucking brilliant, arrogant and ass-like: “As opposed to never warming at all?“ “Bullshit—I’ve been lighthearted and relatively stoic.” “I didn’t mean you.” “Aha. Right.” *Chuckles* “What.” he says, without any inflection to warrant that it’s a  question at all. As if he knew what I was thinking or merely wished to challenge whether I’d share it aloud. "Your words, your actions. They’re all encompassing of the name I gave you, and I wonder if I cursed myself the moment I did it. You are, without a doubt, a living Paradox.” “Mhm” “Did you ever see that YouTube video of Romney vs. Romney? The split-screen of him debating himself? ‘Move in with me, I want to wake up to your face every day’ / ‘it’s not realistic, I’m not willing to change how I live my life, nope, never thought you would’ 'I have no desire to capture you or change your nature or even call you mine I just want to run with you’/ 'You are mine and I yours, I carry your heart in my heart’ 'I am not interested in soft voices or living upon the surface with a halfwit’/ 'Yet you break it off for meaningless empty fucking and play with pawns’ Even last week and now. 'I will always choose you’ but here I am and you’re still not. The acute posturing of his body. How I ached so empathetically upon viewing his neck that I wrapped my right hand around my own. With his gaze fixed upon the fan, his voice just as cheap and hard as the whiskey on his breath, "I will…I will always choose you…” And then I see it. I play it again. What I couldn’t see before through the smoke of my anger. The words that finished his sentence. The words that clarify my perception of not only their meaning, but his chosen retreat to solitude. They never left his lips, but I watched them cascade over his face, and I heard them in his mind. Saw his eyelids close and tighten, his lips frown, begging to wish them away. And the cold apparition of me that laid in his bed taunting him. My own are clutched tightly now, my brow aches a deep furrow and I hear them now as he did then: “I will. I will always choose you…even over myself.” I open my eyes and feel the dam I had hurriedly thrown together six weeks ago illustrate its obvious shoddy construction. When the first two leaks reach my neck, I bite my cheeks hard to silence myself from screaming and I lock them there. My jaw aches and my temples pound. I’m sure I’ll soon taste the metallic of blood. The loud screech of a horn shakes me free of the paralyzation of guilt. And I realize I’ve sat through an entire advanced green. He shouts out the window “Hey cunt! Wake the fuck up!” I wipe my eyes, and begin to chuckle to myself as wave out my sunroof. "I just did.” And like that the haze of the puzzle dissipates and I recall his specificity in his choice of words. “I am removing myself because I think it’s become unhealthy.” I am removing myself. Removing. “You think I don’t speak to you out of indifference?! I don’t speak to you so I don’t run from here.” “I couldn’t be responsible for you uprooting your family it’s too much to ask.” "I fucking love you. It fucking tears me apart every time my consciousness drifts to you.” And I remember his first vow: "I won’t ever let myself be a detriment to you.” I pull a u-turn at the light, and the bastards real pissed now. Steady hand on horn.  I head back east on Tampa Road. I run now as I ran alongside him then, curiosity on ablaze, the wolves. “Did you open it? Like there was a bloody rabbit inside.” I don’t even bother to shut the garage. I stride into my bedroom lift my strap over my head, and throw it on the ground. I twist my laptop around and open it   and force myself to type the word letters. D-E-T-R-E “no files on this computer contain: detre” oh shit let’s try proper fucking spelling… I search within our correspondence the only word that nauseated him: “Detriment” Feb 22nd. March 21.23. April 10. 16. Until I find it. April 28th: “I feel guilty taking from you.” “I feel like a burden that you indulge because you like it but it just makes everything else worse.” “But that is my choi–Wait. Because I LIKE IT?” “Because you love me and talking with me and being around me like I do with you but my attention doesn’t come at a price to myself like yours does.” “I  feel like I make your life harder with my attention…” “Have you heard all the ways I’ve described how I feel for you?” “…Then I feel guilty for wanting yours.” “Well I feel rejected for you not wanting it” “I know that.” “I fucking want it to the core of me.” “I hear you so stressed with everything going on and I fucking love you and feel like I’m making it so much worse.” “You never make it worse” “So I keep thinking I shouldn’t text you and call and tell you exactly the things I want to do to you all the time” “You make it melt away” “When you are preoccupied trying to be a CEO, mother, run two households..” “Can we–I’m not trying to do that right now” “I know I’m doing it again.” And I realize he was right then as he was this summer. I hadn’t even unpacked or gained a routine yet and I allowed it to continue to build. And I read my reply the following day after the haze of unwarranted anger at his selflessness. And I realize I feel the exact way I did when I wrote it then on a larger scale. This. All of it. It was just the same fear that lapsed again yet grew in profundity, distance, time, factuity, and emotion. “I won’t ask what you’re doing up and I’ll gloss over that you refused what I wanted to give and take last night and say have a great day Pedialyte and allow the large distance and rift begins to form and spread…miss you too” “I’m sorry. And you’re right. And I love you for it. I’m just fucking mad at myself lol you are absolutely right. And I need more days like last Thursday so I can get shit running like a well oiled machine again. I am just in serious withdrawal of the personified coke that is you. I love you. Fiercely. 'Even in my haze’ of stress and chaos it is important that you understand to what extent I love you. I really do. And you’re right. I just need to stop letting my fear control my actions. How you described how you feel in regards to me (and vulnerability) I too feel that way so perhaps I just am afraid thus I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. I fear you romanticize me sometimes and as if I am waiting for you to see it all and run. Or I feel like I don’t deserve you so I picture someone who is less complicated, intelligent, young and has time to drop everything or even more time to pamper themselves lol and run with you, because I want everything for you. And if I can’t do it than I want someone else to be able to. And I don’t want to take away from you or your experiences I only want to add-but our problem is it is not logical or rational. If we are additional we are additional to all. We cannot categorize each other thus we cannot merely categorize our feelings nor what aspects of our lives are impacted by those feelings for one another. But perhaps if we could see what we know all other people see in us, and stop allowing our feelings for one another to drive our fear that we don’t deserve the other, our fear of losing each other could cease/the acting unbecoming of ourselves with one another, or this cyclic pattern of pushing and validating. The problem is we haven’t sustained a decent amount of time together in the same location and then we’ve been separated. We’ve always been. Compounded by the intensity of yearning to be with the other/learn the other and the impending reality that once school is over for you– the dynamics we’ve barely adapted to as is, will alter drastically all over again and it is 'the unknown’ right now. And how that impacts our view of what we want and when and how to attain it. When we’re still in the midst of learning one another and how to sustain the current through trial and error. It’s particularly difficult for me because I wouldn’t concern myself with it as much if I were only responsible for myself, but I have Lilly. And aside from my responsibility in raising her, her extra circulars, camps, birthday parties etc. I’ve really been absorbed into my phone. It’s one thing if you were over and we were all hanging out before she goes to bed etc. but I need to be WITH her when I am. And that’s on me. I just need to take the time I need to organize her schedule and mine and our routine again–but have been running and now I suppose just absorbed in you. And if you want, then you’ll too make time to be available. Maybe it’s not always before bed, maybe it’s a few minutes before returning to the drinking games and such. Or prior to going out. My feelings for you, let alone this early, are profound. They are not stabilizing lol well for one, because we haven’t. I don’t feel anything lightly with you. Extreme Polarity. In all things it is extreme. Profound happiness, profound misery, there is no lackluster there is no mundane. And while I’m sure if we had sustained for a longer period of time it would be easier for us both to relax–we’ll just have to feign it. Because with this altitude…. uhh essentially undesired reactions produce an explosive unstable product. …I love our unpredictability and the danger we both present YET together I don’t wish to fucking combust. I want it to sustain. So the way I see it we’ll have to fucking use a strong base, trust. In ourselves, and our ability and history of being comfortable sustaining and succeeding at being alone. And trust in how we feel for the other and let it go. I’ll have to quelsh my fear annnnd I’ll start to wean myself off the addictive dopamine drip of texting all day long hah. I mean I studied it I know better, but it was the easiest way in the beginning to carry on. I need to get back to working my ass off and when I’m done with work, and feeding, walking, bathing, reading, putting her to bed etc I’ll call or while I’m prepping dinner for the following day give you a call before I work out I mean how I feel sexually, romantically, intellectually, emotionally and otherwise for you will not change. Only deepen in growth AND STABILITY perhaps then my emotions/fear won’t be uprooted weekly. Haha and how I show you those things will not change, just perhaps strengthen in size but at less intervals. And if anything lol visiting shouldn’t be a problem in the future since I highly doubt your roommates will be be opposed to spending time with/watching Lilly every once in a while…and one of our streaming services head up in CO so airfare COULD potentially be an allowable company expense. Business and pleasure. And my sexual addictions are mine to own and not attributed to you nor your fault. When I am stressed it is my go to and I just need to learn how to channel it into work or working out etc (except working out just seems to serve to turn me on more these days lol) or perhaps I’ll just have to get that shower installed at the office so I can take a 'lunchbreak’ when necessary & don’t spend what feels like half the day getting off and filming it for you at home haha I fucking love you and I miss you greatly. I used to kiss Lilly’s hands before preschool and tell her to put them in her pockets to take out when she missed me and tap her chest to remind her where I was. So I suppose I could just lick and suck your fingers and kiss and nip your palms and you just can recall them or my gifs whenever you desire. As for your heart, you can easily access my words and how I feel for you through our transcripts, written or audibly recall moments whenever you wish to ignite it. And IDGAF how corny ANY of it sounds. The first night we didn’t FT I reread the day/night transcripts between us when I left Boston, and I fell asleep content, assured, grateful and smiling. I fucking love you. Very, very much. And 'if any two people were ever capable’…” “1. I was awake simply because I set an alarm because you said you had to be up at 530 and I wanted to say good morning before you went off for the day 2. I feel absolutely no rift 3. And this haplessly subconscious despair I don’t share with you because I feel everything you wrote intuitively. I need to let you write before I start asking and prying clearly lol I probably push you too hard when I feel like you’re upset and I’m sorry for that. And when I push you when your stressed I sound clinical and you get even more pissed because you are being vulnerable ad instead of listening I’m just trying to fix you like you’re an solvable problem … But that’s the thing with anomalies, which you are. I know your fear. I understand them and I want you to fucking know how stunningly beautiful you are, how I lust after you like I never have before, I don’t need someone else to run with because you’re the only fucking person who could keep pace, and I really mean that. You are so fucking special and every second you spend thinking about me is a gift that someone that has had this wealth of experience and hardship and just fucking had to fight through so much shit at a young age that I have so much respect for, loves me and could question for a second that I wouldn’t want to be with you is ludicrous. I fucking love you, so fucking much and furthermore, I really do want to be your friend as well because I think it’s important and because of the aforementioned reasons above, you are the most complete individual I have ever met and even writing this I feel so fucking genuinely lucky that you want me. I’m not going to run from you only to you. I know the plane of our relationship will change as I finish here and move to and start in at Merrill and join the goddamn lemmings, at least for a few years. This doesn’t scare me because having access to income and no debt expenses or otherwise basically means that all I need to worry about is coming to you. And I will. (And do, 4x yesterday). But seriously. You’re damn fucking right if anyone can deal with this it’s us. And I’m glad you reread the transcripts and feel better, but I hear you all the time, things you have whispered through to me. I feel you and it lights me up, you say things I’ve never heard said to me and I can’t forget them, perhaps that is why I call it intuition but really it’s just me feeling you wrapped around my arm and hearing you whisper in my ear and I can feel it so vividly I can live in that moment and I feel clear and hopeful and powerful. 'I love you.’ she whispered, her grasp tightened. She knew he hadn’t said it and couldn’t say. She took him terrified and stated him down. He couldn’t breathe, only short halted exhales, followed by a quick turn towards her grinning face because she knew, but his eyes were glassy and he got it out. 'I love you too, so fucking much’”   And I know it’s all still true. And it’s what it has always been, choice and I know now that he doesn’t speak to me for the same reason I cannot bring myself to unblock him. It’s agonizing. Nothing has changed and yet everything has. It wasn’t healthy. I wasn’t healthy. And I would’ve followed him straight to hell to keep getting my fix. He couldn’t bear it. Watching me waste away. He couldn’t be the one who continued to deteriorate me and plague my mind and bring me down. And he couldn’t stand by and watch either. And he’d lose his goddamn job if he did. And all of that was despairing. I needed to choose what is best for Lilly and I without him. Which I always knew but lost sight of. And I need to choose to do that without knowing or depending or expecting him in return. And I had to learn to continue to love him the all of him I know and trust that deep down he was still there. And we were still us. And happiness isn’t a place which induces good writing either. Tragedy does. And I couldn’t fucking see anything clear. And frankly, neither could he because of it. You cannot choose what is done to you. But you can choose how you respond to it.

Mine (obvi)

[keelywolfe]

FIC: One Hand Behind Your Back (baon)

Summary: Playing stupid games, winning stupid prizes.

Tags: Spicyhoney, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, References to Illness, Kustard

part of the ‘by any other name’ series.

Read it on AO3

or

Read it here!

~~*~~

Stretch didn’t have much in the way of an internal clock, but all it took was a quick glance at his phone confirm it was early enough that Edge probably hadn’t gone to work yet.

He rolled over in the bed to debate internally about that, trying to decide if it was worth waiting to get up to play at avoidance, but it didn’t really matter, did it? Edge would come up to kiss him goodbye before he left and besides, the siren smell of fresh brewed coffee was wafting into their bedroom.

In the end, he got up and pulled on his robe. Whatever would be, would be, and at least he’d have caffeine.

As suspected, Edge was sitting at the kitchen table, newspaper spread out in front of him as he sipped what was probably the third cup into his second pot of coffee. Honestly, Stretch loved him a cuppa, too, but Edge’s magic should be flowing in a dark roast by now.

“What are you doing up?” Edge asked, looking up with a frown. His pen, which had been in the process of circling any information in the paper that was worth passing on, hesitated, the tip trailing against the newsprint.

“don’t sound so happy to see me,” Stretch yawned, making his way to the coffee pot. “people’ll think we’re in love.”

Edge rolled his eye lights and went back to the paper. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, but seeing you this early throws me off.”

Stretch poured a healthy, or well, probably not healthy at all measure of sugar into his cup, topping it with cream and then taking a deep, contented drink of the muddy results. That finished the pot, but he flicked the burner off instead of making a fresh one. If Edge wanted to up his daily jitter ratio, he could make another.

He leaned against the counter, taking a moment to admire the view. Edge was in one of his ‘I mean business’ work suits and there was something about seeing him all classy, in a dark crimson shirt and a black tie that had some seizure-inducing swirly pattern on it. Except he had his sleeves rolled up, jacket tossed over the back of a chair and Stretch would bet his lesser-used femur that no one at the Embassy got to see him like that. Classy, yeah, but ever so slightly taken apart, almost an invitation to disassemble him a little more.

It was like a sexy disguise, really, only much better than anything Batman had.

Any other day, Stretch would probably straddle Edge’s lap and make a good attempt at pushing his luck. Today he only wandered close enough to drape himself over the back of Edge’s chair.

“sorry i wrecked your groove. hmmm, you ever notice you call me sweetheart when you’re being a dick?” He grinned to take the sting out of it, nuzzling a smacking, wet kiss against the top of Edge’s skull.

Edge didn’t quite jerk away, but he did twitch and gave Stretch a look.

Actually, it was more like a Look, but that was okay. Stretch only smiled sweetly and leaned down, giving him a real kiss because those tended to soothe all looks and Looks when it came to his honey.

As per, Edge hummed appreciatively, kissing back for a long, toe-curling moment before pulling away and going back to his paper. “I’ll take your word on that, considering you’re the runner-up for the championship.”

“runner-up!”

Exchanging a Look for a smirk, oh, his baby was in fine form this morning. “Apologies, sweetheart, but my brother will always be better at being a dick than you.”

“eh, yeah, there’s an argument i can’t win.” But Stretch couldn’t help smiling because damn, he loved this asshole. He loved him so, so much…and he kinda needed him to leave. He plunked down into one of the chairs, picking at one of the half-eaten muffins Edge had on his plate. Long moments ticked by of Edge picking his dinosaur way through the paper, and yeah, he was going to have to move this along.

Nonchalantly, Stretch pulled out his phone and made a show of absently scrolling through it. “ooh, babe, you’re gonna be late.”

It worked. Edge looked at his own phone and made a disgruntled sound, folding up the newspaper and tossing it into his briefcase. He was only halfway into his jacket when he leaned down to steal another kiss and Stretch sighed into it, wishing he could share his affections as easily as he could his mouth, wishing he could damn well beam his love into Edge like Star Trek, one of the good episodes.

Meh, it wasn’t like Edge didn’t know. He hoped.

He waited until the front door closed and he heard the car start, pulling out of the garage and then down the road. Then he dropped his head down to rest it on his folded arms, breathing in slowly, letting it out.

Five minutes was all he allowed himself and then Stretch stood up. Time to get this over with.

Outside, there was a thin, fresh layer of snow on the ground, putting a lie to the idea that spring had sprung. It suited his mood and Stretch only zipped his jacket and burrowed deeper into his coat. It wasn’t like he was walking far anyway, not when a couple shortcuts would do.

~~*~~

All the windows were dark, and the glaring light on the front porch was less invitation than it was warning. Stretch ignored that, shortcutting up to the stairs.

Deliberately, he stepped on the pressure plate that he knew was concealed beneath the welcome mat. It set off a buzzer inside the house and he may as well annoy while he had the chance.

The front door remained closed, which meant either no one was home or no one cared he was here, and Stretch had pretty good odds on the latter. He knocked firmly. And again. Again, finally pounding on the door.

It swung open mid-pound and Stretch nearly fell forward on top of Red. Probably good that he didn’t; from the glare Red was sending up at him, he probably would have gotten shivved before they hit the ground.

“stretch, this better be good,” he growled. One of his eye lights was flickering, on the verge of going out.

Oooh, scary, especially with the way his shirt was on backwards.

“don’t even start with me, captain cockblock.” Stretch didn’t bother trying to shove Red aside to get in, sparing himself a possible stabbing by shortcutting into the front room. The strain of so many cuts in a brief time was starting to ache a little in his chest so he was either walking most of the way home or hanging out with the strangler here for a while. “i can’t even count how many times you’ve kept me from getting laid and i can recite pi for an hour. i need to talk to sans.”

From the shifty look Red was giving him, he was working up an excuse. Stretch deliberately toed at one of the shoes laying on its side on the mat, a shoe that decidedly did not belong to a Red and unless someone else in New New home was working lazyass chic, he knew who they belonged to.

Fuck it, they all knew who those shoes belonged to; these two could be dicks about it all they wanted, but no one except them was that stupid. Even Papyrus had more or less started discreetly leaving the cushion on the sofa next to Sans empty on movie nights, on the strict, unspoken understanding that whenever Red bothered to show up, if he showed up, that was where his ass belonged.

“for fuck’s sake, he knows i’m here,” came floating down the stairs. Proof that Sans at least had his head on in the general direction of straight. He appeared with a pop of teleportation directly on the sofa, still pulling a shirt over his head. “i’m not crouching in the closet with my pants halfway up waiting for you to get rid of him. hey, stretch, what’s up?”

Red was sputtering next to him like a cat in a swimming pool, but Stretch couldn’t pay attention to that. Now that he was in front of Sans, fear was choking him again, rising up thick and tight, clenching his soul. “check me.”

Uncomfortable prickles skittering over his bones, too much for one check, but he didn’t bother glaring at Red. Wasn’t like he didn’t know, or he wouldn’t very quickly find out. From their expressions, they were discovering the same thing he had the night before when he'd absently checked himself before bed.

Yeah, that had sucked a little.

Standing there in the bathroom, his toothbrush still in hand and foam dripping from his mouth. He hadn’t even really thought much about it for couple days, until he’d Checked. Not a minute later Edge walked in to go through his nighttime routine and all he could do was rinse his mouth and go to bed. Laying there in the darkness in Edge’s arms, listening to his even breathing, and waiting until morning when he could come here.

“the infusion didn’t work?” Sans said. His face reflected his dismay, and he was already on his feet, moving faster than most would give him credit for. “i thought-“

“no, it did work, it worked for most of the week.” Sans tugged demandingly on his sweatshirt and Stretch obediently crouched, shivering as another Check washed over him. “i noticed it dropped again last night.”

“is it still dropping?” Red asked sharply. Any irritation or sardonic humor vanished, he was all business in a blink, hovering back while Sans inspected him like a prospector in search of gold.

“don’t think so. it’s been holding steady all night. seems like my base hp just dropped to 4.”

“okay,” Red nodded slowly. He turned away and Stretch couldn’t see his face when he added, “you think if you use more of that infusion, it’ll help?”

“woah, wait a sec,” Sans straightened, letting go of Stretch’s sweatshirt so abruptly that he wobbled on his heels and fell back on his coccyx. “we’re scientists, and phd’s aside, we ain’t doctors. even if we were, we’re out of infused oil.”

“but you can make more, can’t you?” Not really a question. Red’s fingers tapped a rhythm against his femur, a thoughtful little tic.

Sans hesitated, then shook his head. “…yeah, we can, but. look, edge needs to know about this. i don’t play keep-away with this shit.”

“yeah?” Red turned back and favored them with a sharp-toothed smile. “and how’s he gonna react?”

Sans looked away. They both looked tired, Stretch realized, dark shadows under their sockets that didn’t look like they came from fun times. But Sans had very kindly invited him to stay out of it, so he wasn’t gonna ask. Not today, anyway.

Red only nodded as if Sans’s silence spoke a wiki's worth of confirmation. “fucking exactly. he’ll freak his shit and we just got him back on an even keel. fucked up shit at the embassy, fucked up shit with his…” Red bit off whatever he was going to say. “plus, we get the added bonus of paps and blue freaking their shit, and suddenly we got a shitshow on pay-per-view. is it really worth all that? say we tell him and it goes away in a week or two?”

“say we don’t tell him,” Sans countered, “and in a week or two his hp drops to three, only we didn’t tell him and he sees it on his own!”

Yeah, Stretch was about done watching these two arguing about his life. “i’ve had lower hp before, we all have. he could see it now, if he checked me. i’m not trying to hide it.”

“see?” Red wasn’t even bothering to hide his triumph. “not even a lie, only a little discreet ‘not sayin anything’.”

Years of dealing with his own crap had probably made Sans immune to anyone else’s. “yeah, it’s not me you’d have to convince of that, and you’ve got zero guesses on whether or not edge would buy stock in that line of bullshit.”

Not that he was wrong, but still—

“sans. two weeks. please,” Stretch pleaded. “i’ll go to the therapist, i’ll even see alphys if you want but…please.”

That was a carrot on a stick, a pretty fucking tasty one, and he knew it. They all hated doctors, but Stretch was usually the worst about it. Sans was visibly wavering, looking from Red to Stretch. Then he sank back with a shrug, tucking his hands into his pockets.

“you’ll go see alphys?” Sans asked, low.

“i promise.” Stretch made an ‘x’ over his soul and for good measure, held out a pinkie.

Sans hooked it with his own and sighed loudly. “okay. okay. you two are fucking me over a barrel, here, you know that.”

“that’s a new one,” Red leered. “better mark it down on our list. your magic-sucking machine still in the lab?”

Just the mention of the lab made Stretch swallow hard and that was on top of the nausea that watching Red flirting induced, “yeah, but—“

Sans must’ve still been feeling a little kindly towards him, because he didn’t force Stretch to finish. “don’t even worry about that, kiddo, the jack-off here can babysit me.”

“nah, i don’t think so,” Red said, “not my style. you can take the magic from me. specially if you’re gonna jack me off.”

“great, so stretch can grease himself up with your juicy jizz?” Sans’s grin was less forced even as Stretch made a gagging sound.

Red gave them a broad wink. “why should you have all the fun?”

“dunno if the ‘coconut cabana’ scent is gonna be enough to cover that up,” Sans said thoughtfully. “might have to take it all the way up to ‘moonlight lovebeam’ or whatever it’s called.”

“enough, i’m begging you both, stop before i barf on everyone’s shoes.” Stretch covered his mouth with one hand and crossed his eye lights in puke-pantomime. ”can we go back to pretending that i don’t know you two are screwing? it was a simpler, happier time for me.”

“you came into my house.” Red grinned. “play stupid games, win fucked up prizes. welp, i could eat right about now, not anything either of you can cook, and since we’re trying to keep pretty boy here alive, we probably shouldn’t risk mine.”

“edge made a strawberry cheese danish last night.” The least Stretch could do was offer them food, especially since he hadn’t made it.

“that’s what i like to hear!” Red slapped Stretch on the back as high as he could reach, which was still uncomfortably close to his tailbone. “let’s head back to your place, honey bun, and kill some of my bro's cooking, make some plans, yeah? get this done before himself gets home.”

“yeah, okay. can one of you…?” A faint sense of unreality washed over him, a push through the void that he never felt when he shortcutted himself. When it eased, they were standing in front of his house on the porch.”

“couldn’t put us in the living room?” Sans said disapprovingly. He grimaced as he trudged through the thin snow in his slippers.

“trust me, my bro would notice if we leave a smudge on the carpet. kick your shoes off at the door, sansy-sweet, and let’s try to be discreet?”

“you sure you wanna start playing pet names with me?” Sans asked. His tone was lazy, his eye lights anything but, “‘cause between shakespeare and the urban dictionary, think i can play to win.”

“that a promise? inquiring minds wanna know.”

Stretch trailed behind them, ignoring their squabbling. The fear that was making a home in his soul was muted, eased, a little. Not gone, no, but there was a plan now, and that was more than he usually managed.

Besides, Red knew Edge better than anyone, even him. He knew exactly how his brother would react to all this. It had to be better to try and figure it out before worrying him, see if it was an easy problem to solve, and it wasn’t like it was only the three of them, he was going to see Alphys, too.

It was a work in progress, was all, and not worth worrying him yet.

He couldn’t help playing with his wedding band while the three of them razed through the remains of the strawberry danish. The smooth metal was body-warm against his fingertips and the promises embedded into it were not ones he planned on breaking.

He’d talk to Edge if he had to, he would, tell him everything no matter how upset it would make him.

Just not yet.

-finis-

[unlikelydreamlandcreation-blog]

Car accident without insurance? Not at fault and no police report.?

"Car accident without insurance? Not at fault and no police report.?

This happened in California.     I am an excluded driver on my dad's policy and do not have insurance myself. I was moving the car out of the garage to a parking spot in our complex. I came to a stop at a stop sign within the complex and was hit by another car who was reversing. The other driver admitted fault and I have an email where they essentially admit fault. Since I am an excluded driver and have no insurance, am I able to file a claim with their insurance company? If so, can their insurance deny the claim on the basis that I am an excluded driver and have no insurance?

BEST ANSWER:  Try this site where you can compare quotes: : http://salecarinsurance.xyz/index.html?src=tumblr 

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My car is soon going into repossesion. they gave me a dead line 23rd , and i am desperately looking for a job . anyway , i have 200 dollars in my acct. I was thinking of paying the 200 dollars for my insurance. which i was lever late for paying . and then hope that i get a job and pay the 425 dollars which i am 30 days past due , payment on the 23rd.. do you think I should just not pay the insurance this month , and let them bill me for a fine , than let my car go into repossesment ? if i dn't pay for it , i will have atleast 200 in my bank and then I could hopefully ask my mom ( which i dn't wanna do ) for the rest ( another 225 , total 425 for the CAR ) till i get a paycheck .""

Will my Speeding ticket increase State farm insurance?

I was recently caught speeding in MN, going 87 in a 60 (I know that;s bad). Is there anything I can do to reduce the cost/penalty such as Traffic school ? Or am I screwed?""

""In Las Vegas, do you have to have car insurance in order to drive? Is it required.?

Do you have to have car insurance to have a license?

Car Insurance??

Does anyone know of any car insurers who will insure me on a car that I do not own? Basically it will be a lease car through a car hire company and I am required to arrange my own insurance

How much does driving test cost in the uk and insurance for a 17 year old?

how much does driving test cost in the uk and insurance for a 17 year old and how many driving lessons should i take ?

What company has the best health insurance at an affordable cost? and which companies should I stay away from?

What company has the best health insurance at an affordable cost? and which companies should I stay away from?

Car Insurance...????

How much would it be for a 16 Year old boy to be added on his parents insurance policy... Completed Drivers Ed Lives in Baltimore, MD Has really good grades It would be liberty mutual if that helps... thanks!""

Which is the cheaper car insurance in uk.?

i m 29 new driver looking for cheap car insurance can any one helps me for it please

Mazda Miata insurance is wacked?

I got a quote from Geico, which is the best I could find, on a car that I'm thinking about purchasing and financing. The car is a 1996 Mazda Miata with 80,000 miles on it. Geico gave me a quote for $882 for six months, thats $147 a month and $1764 a year. What the heck?! I'm 18 and don't understand why insurance is that expensive. I've never had a ticket or an accident. It also says that I need to get a deductible when the car is selling for $3995. Any advice?""

What is the best health insurance in california?

sould i go with the one that has deductible, and what it turns out that i have a cancer , m'i gonna be covered. i've been having this buzzing ear ( left) for few months and now i get dizzy when i look up and i started to feel oressure in my head and light headache. my emplyer's insurance start in 2 months and i need to be checked now, and i don't qualifie for medi cal any suggestion , advice?? thanks""

Changing jobs - how do you estimate the value of medical and dental insurance?

Changing jobs - how do you estimate the value of medical and dental insurance?

Would health insurance be valid in all states or just in the one you bought it in?

I am currently in Houston Texas and I wish to receive health insurance. I will be moving back and forth between Texas and Utah. I wish to know if health insurance here in Texas will be valid in Utah. I think this is a pretty uninformed question but that is why I am asking and I am only 18 so I do not have to much experience in this matter. If you know of a website I could look into to be informed then that would be very well.

What is the number of health insurance companies in the world?

What is the number of health insurance companies in the world?

Where can i buy cheap but good health insurance under $120 dollars?

I am young and very healthy, and rarely have to be seen by a doctor. So besides not being wealthy, i want to find a cheap, but good health insurance...""

The insurance cost of a year 2012 Audi Q5 2.0?

The insurance cost of a year 2012 Audi Q5 2.0?

Insurance on bentley?

I got a bentley continental already and I want to know were Is the best place for bentley insurance before/soon as I turn 18 next year jan.

Car accident without insurance? Not at fault and no police report.?

This happened in California.     I am an excluded driver on my dad's policy and do not have insurance myself. I was moving the car out of the garage to a parking spot in our complex. I came to a stop at a stop sign within the complex and was hit by another car who was reversing. The other driver admitted fault and I have an email where they essentially admit fault. Since I am an excluded driver and have no insurance, am I able to file a claim with their insurance company? If so, can their insurance deny the claim on the basis that I am an excluded driver and have no insurance?

https://www.linkedin.com/pulse/washington-earthquake-insurance-luis-hunt/"