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heartcal · 3 years

Text

“who do you believe?”; l.h. (pt. ii)

oh my GOD it’s here, it took longer than expected but she’s finally here! after the eye strain i got a sty so that threw me in for a loop, but the good news is my eyes are better! and i’m fully vaccinated too! please get the vaccine if you are able to :^) enjoy!

a/n: (formatting again lol) there’s a part where there’s supposed to be texts (in italics) so it may be a bit weird to read (hopefully not) (sorry for these parantheses) please let me know if there’s anything off!

pairing: luke hemmings x reader

summary: having known luke for years, it was bound to happen eventually. the crush you developed happened before you could stop it, and you did your best to keep it a secret. you told no one, did your best not to show it, so what do you do when his girlfriend finds out?

warnings: swearing (as usual),

genre: angst, fluff, basically friends (to brief enemies but not really) to lovers?

wc: 5,201 (they’re getting longer, huh)

taglist: @1sosrvd1267 + @wowitsel (side note: i don’t have a current taglist, this is just for this fic!)

part one | my masterlist!

You skipped the after-party that night. You couldn’t bear standing in the same room as Luke and Rachel, so you booked a ride and left as soon as the car pulled up.

Had you stayed for the party, you would have crumbled under the looks of pity thrown at you by those who would have heard about what happened. The knowing looks that something bad had happened between two people everyone on the crew knew were best friends would have been uncomfortable.

The ride home is uncomfortably silent, but you were thankful the driver wasn’t the talkative type. The soft jazz playing on the radio wasn’t calming but it did distract you from the pain and embarrassment you felt from the argument.

Once the car had pulled up to your place, you bid a silent farewell to the driver and slid out.

You just wanted to get inside, take a shower, shut your phone for the night, and sleep until you physically can’t get any more sleep.

You’re not too surprised Luke stood up for his girlfriend. He does love her—he’s shown that with friends and with fans. But the way he glared at you, defended her without trying to find out what exactly went down…he had never looked at you like that.

You’ve seen that look before; it wasn’t something you were used to but it was the look he would give paparazzi when they would harass you, the guys, and his friends. The glare carried such strength that it would make people back off. And so when it was directed towards you, it struck you hard.

Having done what you wanted to do once you entered the house, you lay in bed with wet eyes staring at the ceiling. Your phone was face down on your nightstand, completely out of reach to the point one slight touch could knock it off.

Maybe you were the one at fault. Maybe you should’ve told the truth about your feelings to Rachel or Luke before this all happened. It could have prevented the fallout and you would be with the guys and the crew celebrating a successful show.

But what good would that have done? Had you told someone, anyone, that you liked Luke more than a best friend should, would that have caused the same problem but presented differently? Or would something come from it? Maybe nothing would have happened.

A sigh escapes your lips as you turn your back away from the nightstand, facing the empty half of the bed and before your mind drifts to more pitiful thoughts, you close your eyes.

You didn’t dream that night. It’s as if you blinked, with the night flying by faster than you had wanted and anticipated.

The sunlight beamed down on you from above your headboard. It was late morning and it was time to face the harsh reality of the day.

There is no doubt you have lost Luke as your best friend.

Wiping the sleep and crust from your eyes, you sit up and vacantly glance around the room. The box where you keep gifts from Luke is illuminated by the sunlight, and with the vacant stare you stand to walk towards it.

You hesitate to open it; it’ll bring back memories of good times and with the events of the previous night, you do not think you can handle the rush of emotions.

It’s then when you realize your phone was off, and though you don’t want to do anything social today and would rather stay home with your favorite snacks and shows, you know you have to let your friends know how you’re doing.

You stall by washing your face and brushing your teeth, albeit slower than usual. You know that once you turn your phone on, the onslaught of questions and missed calls are going to take possibly an hour to clear up.

Sure enough, as you turn your phone on, the missed messages come in, barely giving your notification tone a break and the missed calls and voicemails were coming in fast. You can feel the heat from the battery on your palm, and for the sake of the phone you switch the sound off and turn on Do Not Disturb to prevent any new calls from coming through.

The messages you saw were from the crew, asking where you went and if you were okay. Others were from the boys minus Luke, and looking through the missed calls, there was nothing from Luke.

You’re not surprised, but the pain was still simmering within and seeing no messages or missed calls from him was adding to it.

You responded to the crew’s messages first, since many of them sent one or two messages asking simple questions: “Are you okay,” “Where did you go,” and “Did you get home safe?”

Then you responded to the boys’, Michael’s first since he had the least amount of messages.

hey, you didn’t have to leave. we could’ve talked some sense into him when he calmed down (11:37pm)

did u get home okay? we know you didn’t drive here yourself. (11:58pm)

please let us know you made it home. let us know you’re okay (12:10am)

hope you made it home and that you’re safe and okay. thank u for ur work today. please text me when you see these. goodnight (12:49am)

You typed your reply to him, letting him know that you were okay and got home safe.

Calum’s messages were similar, asking the same questions but some were repeated to emphasize his worry. In response, you answered his questions like Michael’s.

But even before you can open Ashton’s messages, seeing double digits next to your conversation with him, rapid knocks on your front door grab your attention.

With a groan you stand and grab your robe from the hook on the door, wrapping it tightly around your body as you open the door and groggily walk to the front door.

It was a stupid idea, as you weren’t ready to face anyone yet Ashton stands in front of you. He’s well-rested, a stark contrast to you as you were sure your eyes were still puffy and bloodshot, along with an occasional sniffle from your nose.

His eyes travel from your face, down to your feet, and back up to your eyes. He can immediately tell you had a terrible night.

“You weren’t answering anyone last night,” he begins, tilting his head as he narrows his eyes, “we were worried about you after you left.”

“Yeah,” you sighed, “I just—I didn’t feel like talking to anyone.”

“You could’ve let one of us know that you were shutting off.”

You nodded with a frown, “I could have, yeah,” your eyes dart around behind him to avoid his worrisome eyes before asking him if he wanted to come in.

He doesn’t hesitate and steps in once you move aside, opening the door wider to give him enough room. He notes your bag in a heap on the floor a few inches away from the couch, and how your shoes were far apart, with one upside down, as if you flung them off.

“How are you holding up now?”

You shrug, still avoiding his eyes because you know if you make eye contact, you’ll break down and you won’t have control over the onslaught of emotions.

“Be honest,” his voice is soft, wanting to make you feel comfortable enough to open up.

You stare at the ground, biting the skin of your lower lip nervously. This is why you did not want to talk to anyone face-to-face. Talking to them over the phone, preferably through text, allowed you to lie to the other person (and if applicable, to yourself). But talking to someone in person, and to someone who can see through your lies, you were bound to break down and become vulnerable.

You inhale, taking careful steps to the couch and gently sitting down with a sigh. Ashton follows you, sitting next to you but giving you space to not overwhelm you.

“What happened last night—,” you lean back with your arms folded over your chest, “—was something that I feared. When I realized I liked Luke, I was so worried about him finding out and what the outcome would be. I knew from the beginning that things would never be the same if he found out, and I was afraid of the change that would come from it.”

Ashton listens intently, his eyes displaying sincerity as he listens to you list off your worries. What he saw last night bothered him to no end, and had he not exerted most of his energy during the show, he would not have slept at all and would have stayed up all night in a constant state of worry.

“So, now that Rachel knows, and no doubt Luke has caught on, I don’t know what to do. I responded to everyone’s texts before you arrived, and Luke sent nothing—not even a phone call.”

Ashton nods, swallowing before speaking, “Well, after you left, things went down that may be the reason why he hasn’t tried contacting you.”

Your head turns to face him, eyebrows furrowed as confusion embeds itself across the rest of your features.

Ashton readjusts himself, getting comfortable in his seat as he gathers the right words.

“Something happened after I left?” You ask as you shift in your seat to face him.

“Michael wanted to go after you, to at least offer you a ride back, but Calum went back to tell Luke that it was bullshit what happened. So, Michael went back to make sure they wouldn’t fight or anything. I also pointed out that he was a dick; choosing you over her when he’s known you the longest didn’t sit right with us. But he got defensive and kept wanting to leave but Rachel convinced him it was alright, so they stayed for the party. But the party was bad—the crew felt the tension and the vibes were down—,” he chuckles at the word choice, getting a small laugh out of you as well, “—it brought everyone out of the energetic and ecstatic mood we were in before the confrontation. We all kinda did our own thing during the party but we noticed things were tense between Luke and Rachel. And when the party ended, shit hit the fan.”

“What happened?”

Ashton sighs, “To make the long story short, they got into an argument when we were leaving the venue after Michael brought up your name. He said something like, ‘I hope they got home safe,’ and that you weren’t answering your phone at all. Calum and I pointed out, again, how rude Luke was to you and Luke kept defending himself. Rachel dropped an insult and something shifted. Basically, they’re done and the guys and I can finally fucking breathe.”

“Wait—,” you stand with bulging eyes, “—wait, are you saying they broke up?”

Ashton hums as he watches you mindlessly walk around your living room.

The guys have been waiting for their break-up. It’s not something they were open about, as to avoid any conflict with their best friend, but it was almost an unspoken agreement: Rachel was not liked.

As for you, it’s not like you were wishing for their break-up. You wanted Luke to be happy, and if he was happy in that relationship, then so be it. But you were not a fan of it. Yeah, you liked her in the beginning but when she started disregarding you as if you did something to offend her, you lost most of your respect for her. Now, with this news of their break-up, you don’t know what to do.

Are you happy? You don’t exactly feel happy about it, but there is some relief.

“So,” you sit back down on the couch slowly, “what am I supposed to do with this information?”

“Not sure,” Ashton shrugs, “but I recommend talking to Luke.”

You shake your head fervently, “No. I don’t feel like talking to anyone.”

“But you’re talking to me,” Ashton has a smirk, but you know there’s no malice behind his joke.

“You showed up unannounced, Ash,” you smile, “I was responding to everyone who sent messages and voicemails. I don’t feel like talking to anyone else in person.”

He holds his hands up in defense, “Fair enough, but don’t be a stranger.”

He gives you a quick hug, whispering something similar to ‘don’t shut Luke out’ before he pulls away and walks out.

Ashton’s words stuck with you for the next week. You felt comfortable enough a few days after the fact to contact the boys, eventually meeting up with Ashton and Calum for lunch and third-wheeling Michael and his fiancée. The only person out of your friend group and co-workers you have not contacted was Luke. He hasn’t contacted you either, but you do not think much about it as you’re still trying to figure things out. If he were to contact you, how do you talk about what happened?

You want to know why he was able to choose his then-girlfriend over you, but at the same time you don’t want to know the answer. You know that one day, and though it hurts, you will not be his number one. With the way he behaved that night, it felt like that dreadful moment came to earlier than expected, that he found his number one and you immediately became his second go-to person.

So it did surprise you when you were out with an old friend to receive a text from Luke.

Can we talk about what happened? (2:23pm)

You only stare blankly at the text, not even moving to type a response. You were in such a good mood, and not even this text would change it. Instead, you lock your phone and place it back in your pocket, noting to leave it alone until your day out comes to an end.

And when it does, you see that more texts from Luke had arrived, the final being sent an hour before the outing ended.

I know you’re mad, I understand that and I don’t blame you but please talk to me (2:31pm)

You’re reading these, please say something (2:33pm)

There are some things that I need to clear up with you, I want to apologize for what happened that night but I want to do it face to face. Please respond. (3:57pm)

Whenever you’re ready, I’ll be waiting. Sorry if I’m bombarding you with these texts, I just don’t want to lose you over something that I realize now should not have happened. Respond when you want to, I’ll be here. (5:49pm)

You could only let out a small chuckle at the persistent requests to talk, and you don’t deny the small—minuscule, honestly—flutter in your stomach. You don’t waste any time responding.

Sorry, I was busy. We can meet somewhere to talk. (7:08pm)

He responds about five minutes later, agreeing to meet at a small café the two of you love tomorrow afternoon.

The rest of the night for you is spent thinking of ways to carry yourself, being completely confident, and accepting the fact that you love your best friend. Pep talks in the shower and mirror to calm any arising nerves, revising the topics you want to talk about in your head so you keep the confidence.

As for Luke, he was struggling to gather all his thoughts. In the beginning, he thoroughly enjoyed the fact that you and Rachel got along. He liked seeing his best friend and girlfriend become friends like that. He didn’t notice the shift, however, and he wishes he did before things got out of hand.

When he defended Rachel, without finding out the story from all sides, he thought he was doing what was right. To him, friendships and relationships have the same base, but romantic relationships with a partner have a different structure than friendships do, and he was starting to see cracks in his friendship before he saw it in his relationship.

When he confronted Rachel after she insulted you, he started to see someone he never saw. He remembered the times Rachel ignored you, sometimes playing it off as if she never heard you. He remembered how she would make plans with everyone and exclude you, but he always played it off as an accident (even if he knew it wasn’t). He remembered all these times he noticed a change in mood when the two of you were in the same room, and he couldn’t believe he turned a blind eye to all of it.

It hurt him to break-up with Rachel—he won’t deny that because he did love her. It’s not that he saw the rest of his life with her as they weren’t at that mark in the relationship.

But, when he did picture his future, he always saw you. He always thought it was just as a friend, someone who was just joined at the hip. Yet, he was quick to throw that away for someone he rarely saw when he pictured the future.

Which is why, the next day, as he sits at a booth near the window of the café, he carefully goes over what he wants to say. He doesn’t want to ruin the chance to fix things between the two of you. If it goes awry, not only does he lose you, but his friendships with the band and the team will take a hit since they all love you.

The bell above the door rings making his head turn to watch you walk in. Your eyes danced around the café before they fell on him.

He couldn’t help the smile the formed on his lips, a small breath of relief escaping as he watches you walk towards him. The smile doesn’t stay long though, because as you sit down with a stoic expression, the reality hits him.

“I got your usual,” he’s shy and timid, pushing the mug toward you as he eyes the liquid nearly spills the edge.

You mumble a ‘thanks,’ grabbing the mug and taking a small sip. It falls silent as the two of you wonder who should start first.

Luke makes the move first. He sighs, sitting up straight and wiping his palms on his pants.

He’s nervous. When the guys started touring, visiting new cities and countries, he would always be nervous and constantly wiped his hands on his thighs, sitting up straight and even straighter if he wasn’t slouching. It’s an old habit, but something you remember fondly as he had grown out of it. Or so you thought.

“I want to start with I’m sorry,” he begins, making eye contact but fails to hold it. His eyes instead drift to his drink, “I know what I did was wrong, and I put you in a spot that hurt you and disregarded you. At the moment, I thought I was doing the right thing because she was my girlfriend, but then—” he gulps, “when she insulted you, it struck a nerve and, not to sound cliché or anything, it felt like it opened my eyes. I saw someone I didn’t see when I first met them.”

You don’t respond, just nodding your head to let him know you’re listening.

He licks his lips before continuing, “When the guys brought up how you left on your own, I was feeling nervous and they started reminding me how much of a dick I was to you. I didn’t want to admit it myself, but now, I was such an ass. I’m just—I’m so sorry for what happened.”

“Luke,” you sigh, shifting in your seat, “I’m not saying I forgive you but I accept your apology. It hurt me so much that a friend, someone I’ve known for years was just so quick to turn their back and take someone else’s side. I know she was your girlfriend, but I wish you didn’t do what you did.”

“If I could go back and fix it, I would.”

You only nod again, trying to think about other things that need to be talked about. The one topic you hope to avoid is the possibility of him knowing your feelings—something you do not want to discuss, at least not yet.

“Did she say anything to you?”

The question leaves your mouth before you register it, and the widening of your eyes catches Luke off guard.

“What?”

“Nothing,” you mutter, grabbing your mug and taking a long sip.

“She didn’t tell me what started the problems between you two, if that’s what you mean,” Luke smiles a bit, watching you nervously play with the mug’s handle after the sip. It fades when your eyes move up to meet his, “I don’t know what happened between the two of you, but it isn’t important anymore. She’s out of the picture, and I don’t want to lose you.”

The silence returns, but unlike the previous bout, it’s a calming silence. It isn’t uncomfortable, rather the air is easier to breathe and the tension isn’t unsettling.

“Where do we go from here?” Luke asks, nervously wringing his fingers.

“I don’t want to lose you as a friend, Luke,” you offer a smile, “but it’s going to take some time to ‘heal,’ if you will.”

Luke smiles again, this time a bigger grin. He nods, leaning back in his seat, “Let me know what I can do to make things better. I’ll do it if I get to keep you.”

Over the next few months, your friendship with Luke was rekindled. The guys were at ease now that Rachel was gone and you seemingly had taken her place, even though you were friends. The awkward glances they would give when Rachel was in the same room were now playful rolls of the eyes over a dumb joke or pranks. You didn’t miss out on any outings you wanted to go to, now that everyone invited would check in with each other the night before. Things went back to the way they were before Rachel.

There was a change in your friendship, however. It wasn’t something you noticed right away, but it was something you thought about at night just a few weeks ago. Luke paid more attention to you, not that he didn’t pay attention before, but this was a noticeable change where he still looks at you even after you finished talking, and would only look away from you when you caught him. He would always cover his mouth with his index and middle finger, but you saw a small smile behind them. You played it off as friendly teasing, but it tugs on your heartstrings.

Another noticeable change is the hugs. Duration-wise, they were relatively the same. However the touch lingered; if he wrapped his arms around your shoulders, an arm would stay around your shoulder, meanwhile if they were around your waist, his hand would stay on the small of your back. You played it off as a friend being protective, but yet again, it did nothing to stop your growing love.

Tonight was the first night of their tour. The boys were up to their usual pre-show antics, as well as the nervous habits; Michael fixing his hair and deciding whether to go with a beanie or a hat, or neither, Ashton was warming up with his pre-show playlist, Calum testing his bass, and Luke was relatively fine.

Sure, he was nervous because it isn’t a crowd of 500, close to 20,000, but he was calm compared to the last time he performed. He didn’t have any worries to talk about, his vocal warm-ups were smooth, and getting dressed up was a breeze. He shared chuckles with you as you both watched the others move around with tense expressions (all with no malice, of course).

“You sure you’re not on edge?” you nudge Luke with your arm as he leans forward on the couch your sitting on to fix his shoe.

“Nope,” he sits up, leaning back in his seat.

“Really?” you inquire again, doubt laced in your tone with a hint of teasing.

“Yeah,” he chuckles, “if anything I’m excited about tonight.”

You hum, crossing your arms as you watch Ashton walk over.

“Ten minutes left,” he nods at Luke before walking to Michael to tell him the same thing.

You give Luke a look, wanting to get him to admit he is nervous, but all you get is a smirk and a shrug. He stands, patting your shoulder left before walking away to put in his in-ears.

You won’t deny you still don’t have feelings for him. Throughout the past few months, you were able to pinpoint the reasons why you fell for him. The small acts, the obscure things he would remember about you—especially the ones you don’t remember yourself—with the attention he would give you. It was staring you in the face, but you chose to deny all the signals to give yourself the satisfaction of thinking it was just a phase. But now you know why you love him.

Two minutes until showtime, Ashton finishes his speech and the crew is taking their places. The band stands at the opening, waiting for their cue to head out.

As you watched them hype themselves up, you noticed Luke looking around nervously. Of course.

“Nervous?”

His head whips toward you, and you can see it in his eyes.

“A little,” he mumbles, but you don’t hear it over the crowd’s excited screams.

“You got this,” you grab his shoulders to make him look you in the eyes, “like Ash said, you guys worked your asses off for this album. The fans loved it, your shows are all sold out, and you have thousands out there waiting to see you kill it.”

He’s silent, blue eyes staring into yours as they bounce from one eye to the other.

“I love you,” he blurts, loud enough just for you to hear.

You freeze, the grip on his shoulder loosens but remain.

He notices, “She did tell me something that night, and whether or not it’s true, I-I love you.”

“Sixty seconds!” a stage recites in the earpieces.

The boys turn to look at both of you, curious eyes turn into surprise as they watch your expression.

“I don’t know how long, I don’t know when, and I don’t know what it was, but I know for sure.”

Your eyes glance at Ashton briefly, not missing the knowing smile he gives you before you look back into Luke’s eyes.

“I…love you, too,” you respond, gripping his shoulders while your eyes drop down to his shiny shoes.

He doesn’t hear you over the cheers and screams, but reading your lips he knows the answer.

Luke smiles, grabbing the back of your head and kissing your forehead.

He leans down to your ear, “I expect to hear you say it when I come back.”

With flashing lights scattering across the stage, the boys run out to the stage, big smiles gracing their faces for multiple reasons with adrenaline pumping through their veins. From backstage, you watch the show you a smile, feeling high from the brief but fulfilling confession.

It’s two hours later when the show ends. Your heart is pounding as you watch the crew celebrate the successful first show.

Luke pulls you away from the crowd, into the hallway and away from the noise.

“So it was true, what Rachel said?” Luke begins, his hand still holding yours as a shy smile forms.

“What did she say?”

He exhales air through his nose in a laugh, “She said you were in love with me, and that you were trying to break us up.”

You scoff, shaking your head as you look at your intertwined fingers. He squeezes your hand to get your attention.

“I doubt that last part, but the first part I’m hoping is true in a sense.”

Your eyes meet his, adoration swimming in them bringing a smile to your face, “There may be a strong crush I have on you,” you tease, “and it may or may not have turned into love.”

He laughs, letting go of your hand to wrap you in a hug. His head dips down, his forehead on your shoulder as he breathes in your scent. He moves slightly, whispering in your ear, “Say it.”

Your head rested against his chest, hearing his heart beat rapidly and rhythmically.

“I love you,” you whisper.

You feel him smile against your shoulder before he pulls away, his arms resting on your hips as he smiles down at you.

“If you’d like,” he begins, his tone timid now, “that place you like in Seattle has a new dish. It’s our next stop…” he drifts off, hoping you’d catch on to him asking you out.

You do, laughing at how he remembered yet another thing you seem to have forgotten. It was a themed restaurant that had some of the best food you’ve ever eaten, and for days you wouldn’t stop talking about it. But you never went back to it, even during breaks, but somehow he seemed to remember.

“Yes, Luke.”

You know the shock will hit you later that night, that finally the person you’ve fallen for, who happens to be your best friend, admitted his feelings to you. But you’re happy, Luke’s happy, and with the boys’ and crew’s reaction to the two of you walking back to the area where they’re celebrating, the happiness is infectious.

On the road in the tour bus, Ashton passes you as you respond to emails.

“Thanks for not shutting him out,” he says, drinking a small bottle of water from the fridge.

“Did you know?”

He shrugs, avoiding your eyes as he finishes the bottle and tosses it in the recycling bag. “Maybe,” he walks towards the back where the beds are, “maybe not.”

You shake your head, “You did.”

“Didn’t want to spoil it,” he gives you a quick hug before retreating to bed.

Luke walks out of the bathroom shortly after, taking his spot next to you.

“Go to bed,” you slightly shift your shoulder as he lays his head on it, “you need the rest.”

“No,” he mumbles, sleep lacing his tone, “feels like a dream. Don’t wanna wake up.”

You chuckle at his nonsense, finishing off the last email before shutting the laptop and placing it on the counter next to you. You adjust yourself on the couch to have Luke lay down with you. He readjusts himself so he doesn’t crush you, wrapping his arm around your waist and placing his head on your chest.

“I wish I had known before all the drama,” he mumbles again, eyes closed, “I want you in my life, always.”

He drifts off to sleep with that, a faint smile on his lips.

You know what made you fall in love with your best friend. You accept it now, and you’re at peace knowing the feeling is mutual.

264 notes · View notes

five-rivers · 4 years

Note

Oooh, I just saw the big about prompts!

“Blessings of rot and petrichor, my prince. May you have a home in the dark, and may the distant stars you reach for never fade.”

(Can be inspiration or an actual quote; do what ya want! :P)

The world ended on a Saturday, and it wasn’t Danny’s fault. Even if that Saturday happened to be his sixteenth birthday.

Okay, maybe that was a bit overdramatic. But, honestly, neither he nor anyone else he’d ever spoken to knew why or how things had turned out this way. Just that, one morning, reality shook, shuddered, and took a few steps to the left.

Humanity woke to green-streaked skies, a rainbow sun, and a lot more universe than they were used to. So did ghosts.

This was a problem. It might even be deemed the problem. Humans and ghosts didn’t exactly get along, and even when neither the ghosts nor the humans involved particularly wanted to fight, the new laws of nature and the few who did want to fight tended to ruin things for everyone else. (Cough, GIW, cough, Walker, cough.)

Hence the end of the world. Or, at least, most large-scale governments.

It could have been worse.

Amity Park stopped being a city that day, fragmented with Ghost Zone wilderness, landscape and spatial dimensions shattered in a spiderweb centered on Fentonworks, the portal a wellspring of wild power and unpredictable translocations. Danny had worried that the portal had been the cause of the whole thing, but Amity Park was far from the only place with similar issues (look at New York), and Danny eventually was able to accept that not every bad ghost-related thing that happened was on him.

(Probably.)

Honestly, once everything calmed down a bit, the new world was much more comfortable, physically and mentally, for Danny to live in. Which was weird, but made sense. The new world was split between human and ghost, just like him. It was everyone else who was uncomfortable, now.

Which, again, he felt guilty about, but, yeah. He couldn’t do anything about that, so feeling guilty was counterintuitive. Thank you, tiny Jazz in his head.

It was Saturday again. Time for the market fair.

“Mom and Dad are already out?” asked Danny, leaning over the banister.

“Yeah,” said Jazz, not looking up from her work transcribing an old ghost text into something more palatable to human eyes. She adjusted her green lenses to sit closer to her eyes. “An hour or two ago. Some guys from Chicago came in last night, apparently, and they wanted to get a head start.”

“Okay,” said Danny. “I’m going, too. You want anything?”

“Nope. I’d be going myself if I did,” said Jazz.

“You sure? Nothing for dinner?”

“Nope, I’m all set.”

“Cool,” said Danny, padding towards the door. He pulled his nice, dark coat, the one he’d gotten from Dora, off the hook, and shrugged into it, pulling up the hood.

“No shoes today?” asked Jazz, who had finally looked up.

“Eh,” said Danny. “I guess not. Doesn’t really feel like a shoe kind of day.” He flexed his toes.

“Well, avoid blackberries, then,” said Jazz.

“They should avoid me,” joked Danny. “Good luck with that book!”

“Thanks,” said Jazz, waving as Danny left.

Fentonworks was the same tall, brick-and-UFO building as it had always been, but now it stood alone on top of a small hill rising from a distinctly purple forest. The dark grass waved back and forth like the tentacles of a sea anemone. Bright green portal streaks, cracks in reality, stood out against the foliage, along with a few other buildings that had once belonged to the Fentons’ neighborhood. The sun was blue today, but Danny predicted it would be green by nightfall.

Danny walked down the path, the dirt on it declining to adhere to Danny’s feet. He hummed, quietly, a tune he half-remembered from before the apocalypse. He would not be walking all the way to the market fair, it was too far. His parents had taken the Speeder.

Danny, on the other hand, had a shortcut.

He reached one of the portal-fractures and passed through to a part of the forest where the trees whispered to one another. He took a moment to reorient himself, and continued to the next portal fracture.

As far as he knew, he was the only person who could reliably travel like this. He could have flown, but the market fair was busy, and he preferred to maintain his peaceful life. Phantom was still a celebrity in Amity Park. Even more so now, than before, as ghosts were no longer shot on sight.

Some ghosts even came to Amity Park’s market fair.

He walked through a wider-than-usual fracture which deposited him just outside the main fragment of Amity Park, near the erstwhile mall. The mall and its attached parking lot being the place the market fair took place.

It was busy. There were trucks stamped with the seal of Illinois parked on the edges, presumably belonging to the delegation from Chicago. There seemed to be more ghosts than usual as well, enough of them to make Danny shiver. Had they come from Chicago, or was it just a coincidence? If they had, that would be nice. Chicago had a lot of local influence, and was one of the places that was still trying to hold together something like a national government. If they accepted ghosts, others would follow more readily.

Peace between the two worlds in places other than Amity Park would be very nice.

Danny wandered down the paths of the market fair, not in any particular hurry to get to his parents’ booth. He was always more interested in the other things at the fair. Even if he rarely bought anything.

People seemed to be mostly moving in one direction. No, they were being drawn in one direction, with people tugging their companions onward. Danny, not having anything better to do, went with the flow.

Which led back to where the Chicago delegation was set up. Several people were standing in front of the trucks, arguing.

“How can you lose an entire bevy of ghosts?” demanded the man who appeared to be in charge.

The target of his ire merely shrugged.

“Can’t lose people like that, bub!” shouted someone from the crowd. There was a titter of laughter.

“Didn’t you have a big, fancy announcement, fed?”

More laughter.

“Yeah, what did you want to say?” This voice had an echo to it, and the the man looked extremely aggrieved.

Nevertheless, he took a deep breath. “We were led to believe,” he said, cheek jumping, “by certain ghosts, that there was a way to negotiate with the ghosts and... reverse this nonsense.”

Wow. So, Chicago got scammed. That could have repercussions. Danny hoped Amity Park wouldn’t see too much of the fallout.

“Wouldn’t you jump on any chance to stop this?” demanded the man in response to the jeers, gesturing at the sky and its pulsing bands of light.

“Tell us a better story!” shouted Ember, who had struck up a much more cordial relationship with Amity Park after the apocalypse. “One that we’ll remember!”

The man turned away, throwing his hands in the air. “Go find them!” he shouted, presumably to his subordinates.

The crowd broke up.

Danny was curious. It was one of his defining characteristics, both as a human and as a ghost. He followed one of the Chicagoans as they walked into the market turning this way and that.

“So,” he said, “what story was your boss fed?”

The woman jumped and looked down at him, disconcerted. (Yes, he was short. That wasn’t his fault. Except that it probably was, via the portal accident.)

The woman sighed. “Why not, it’ll be out before too long. We were told that the rightful king of ghosts was in hiding here, or something stupid like that. I don’t think they ever said he could fix the world, even. Only that he could be negotiated with.” She kicked the ground. “This is so stupid. There’s no ghost king. This is never going to get fixed.”

“It’s not so bad, is it?” asked Danny.

“How old even were you when it happened. Ten?” asked the woman.

“Excuse me, I was sixteen,” said Danny, crossing his arms.

“That’s cute,” said the woman, dragging her hand down her face. “You’re like thirteen, tops. Not nineteen. Jesus. Go bother someone else, kid.”

Danny rolled his eyes. “Well, you aren’t wrong that there’s no ghost king. Last guy who called himself that got beaten up and locked in a sarcophagus forever.”

Then, just to mess with her, because she’d been rude, Danny turned invisible and left before she turned around.

Now... He should probably try to warn people about the scam artist ghosts. Or would they know from the other people watching?

Danny flicked back into visibility and continued perusing the various stalls, making small talk with the owners, bringing up the Chicagoans when it was appropriate.

He was passing by the covered entrance of the mall, one of the most crowded spots in the market fair, when his ghost sense went off, indicating an unfamiliar ghost was nearby. He scanned the crowd for the ghost. He didn’t have to look very hard. Strange ghosts tended to draw eyes, even in Amity Park.

Especially ones that looked like this. Inhumanly tall, cloaked, and moving smoothly. Glimpses under their hoods showed faces riddled with decay- or at least the appearance of decay. The three of them held instruments. Flute, drum, and summoning bell.

Danny stood to the side to let them pass. After all, they weren’t doing anything bad as far as he could see.

They did not. Instead, they stopped in front of Danny. Typical.

Then they started playing their instruments. And kneeling.

Aaaand the crowd was getting bigger. There was the person from Chicago, too. Could he escape without turning invisible with all this attention on him?

Probably not without showcasing his ghost powers. There were people who knew him in this crowd. Like Paulina. And Star.

“Um,” said Danny. “Hi?”

The leading ghost looked up as the sun’s light turned emerald green.

“Blessings of rot and petrichor, my prince. May you have a home in the dark, and may the distant stars you reach for never fade.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Danny saw the Chicagoan’s jaw drop.

“I think you might have the wrong guy,” said Danny. “I’m not anyone’s prince.”

The ghost grinned, sharp and white. “We came to give our blessings, my prince. You do not need to accept them for them to exist. We offer, also, our service and our hope in this new world that you are so suited for.”

Yeah. This was going to be a problem.

#danny phantom #ask #answer #prompt #prompt fill

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btsslowburnfic · 4 years

Text

The Arrangement Ch. 19

Story summary: Desperately in need of money, you answered the questionable ad. AKA-Arranged marriage AU featuring Y/N and Yoongi

Chapter Summary: After the photoshoot you and Yoongi decompress

Previous Chapter here AN: SO FLUFFY UGH

You slunk back to the elevator and just stood there for a second. What a weird day. You pulled out your phone to double check your work schedule and saw a message from Yoongi.

YG: I ordered pizza.

You smiled.

YN: Oh yeah? Did you order enough to share?

YG: *Eyeroll*

YN: :D Where is this food? Apartment? Studio?

YG: Apartment. Photoshoots wear me out.

You pushed the button for the 18th floor. Other people got on and off as you made your way there; it was the end of the work day for most of the hourly staff. You finally arrived at your stop and headed left.

You opened the door and took off your shoes, immediately noticing the delicious odor of bread and hot cheese filling the air. You had been running around all day and just now realized, other than a few carrots, you hadn't eaten today.

"Oh my God thank you so much." You declared as you walked into the kitchen. You eyed the box sitting on the counter and looked around for Yoongi. “Helllooooooo?”

“Good. I’m starving.” You saw him rise up like a reanimated corpse from the couch.

“You didn’t have to wait on me.” You reprimanded, even though you thought it was incredibly thoughtful. Yoongi just shrugged and walked into the kitchen.

You opened the box and handed him a plate.

“I have no idea if you ‘ll like this.” He said as he took some pieces.

“I like food. My favorite food is the food in front of me.” You took the plate over to the table, going back for some water.

Yoongi followed suit, quieter than normal.

“You ok?” You asked.

“Yeah, just tired. Photoshoots take so much more energy.” He collapsed down into the chair.

The air was filled for silence for several minutes as the two of you stuffed your faces. Finally, you worked up the nerve to ask, “Sooooooo…...did you know Bongcha was asking you out or are you oblivious?”

Yoongi looked up, shaking the bangs out of his face. “I knew. But what should I say to her? "No I don’t want to go out with you" and ruin her day? Upset her at work? It would make things awkward for both of us. Nah. Just request another stylist for a few months.”

You pursed your lips together in thought. “Why not just date her though? She’s cute. You guys get along. Why go through this whole elaborate contract scenario?” You gestured to yourself.

Yoongi sighed. Ugh he had been dreading you asking him about the contract. Things had been going so normal. He thought, stupidly, maybe he could just never think about it again. Of course with Namjoon and BPD up his ass he knew that was unlikely. He realized he had been quiet for too long. “Look, If I actually dated someone I worked with and then it didn't work out, imagine the fallout. The scandal. The wasted time. Plus then I'd have to go on dates and stuff. I'm busy.”

You rolled your eyes "We went to a diner the other night. And the grocery store."

Yoongi blinked his eyes and stuffed more food in his mouth. “Not dates.”

You scowled. "You spent all Sunday driving a van and putting up with my family'

Yoongi chewed, taking as much time as possible to think of a response. “Yeah but I did that because I wanted to."

You rolled your eyes, “You're a weirdo "

"Says the girl who signed a contract to marry a guy she didn't know. And who doesn’t eat their pizza crust. Are you 5 years old?"

"Crust is gross. Anyways. I'm a very good judge of character, I will have you know." You pouted at having been admonished over your crust preferences.

"That's true. You could tell Namjoon was an asshole within 30 seconds I bet." He jested.

"Haha yeah. I could tell he was rich and full of himself by his demeanor and then when he opened his mouth, he confirmed the asshole part. And, I knew Alice was awesome within like 2 seconds.”

Yoongi pushed his plate over a bit and interlaced his fingers. Resting his chin on them, he asked, “OK. So what was your first impression of me?”

You laughed as you recalled sprinting in your work clothes. “That you were busy. Very busy. And a little bit short on patience, but I thought that's because you were in a hurry.”

“Sounds about right.” He took a sip of his water.

“The second time I met you, you were putting on an act for Namjoon. Still not sure why... " You eyed him suspiciously. “You guys have a fucked up dynamic "

"You are right all-around there. Cheers." He lifted his glass in your direction."You did a great job today."

You scoffed, "I literally just pointed at things and handed you stuff.”

“Hey I've been to shoots before, you haven't. Today went much smoother than usual. “

“Really?” You rocked back in your seat.

“Yep.” He stood up and extended his hand." Do you want more? "

"Yes please. Thanks again for ordering. I didn't realize how hungry I was til I got home.”

“‘Same.” He took the plates to the kitchen and returned with more food. Sitting them down on the table. He pulled his laptop over and looked over some things as you guys sat in silence for a few minutes. You scrolled through your phone, returning some texts from Jimin and your brother.

"Do you want to go watch something?" he asked, taking you by surprise.

You raised your eyebrows, “You're not going to work?"

"I told you, photoshoots wear me out. I'm done for today."

"Yeah sure," you stood up and grabbed the plates. "I'll clean up the leftovers and get changed. Pick whatever."

You travelled up to the loft area about ten minutes later, much more comfortable in your leggings and oversized sweatshirt.

Yoongi was waiting on the couch, the remote in his hand as he scrolled through the menu. You plopped down on the other end, covering your mouth as you yawned.

“Grab a pillow. You know you’re going to fall asleep.” He said without looking over.

“No I won’t,” You protested through another yawn.

He shot you a look that told you he knew you were full of shit and got up. He returned a minute later, throwing a pillow at the back of your head.

“Hey.”

“You’re welcome.” He sat back down, adjusting himself into a comfortable position.

You grumbled a thank you as you balled the pillow into a couch-compatible shape and leaned up against it. You pulled back for a second. It smelled just like Yoongi. This was his pillow. You looked over, his eyes were still scanning the screen.

“Since you’re going to fall asleep in ten minutes I’m putting on my favorite documentary.” He said matter-of factly.

“I will last more than ten minutes.” You declared. You heard a small snort come out of his mouth as he dimmed the lights and pressed play. You started to watch the movie and tried to pay attention, but your heartbeat was racing. You kept replaying earlier conversations in your head and also smelling the pillow. You felt like a pervert. The man across the couch was completely oblivious. You stared at him for a few seconds and realized that yes, you did like him. Well Shit. You didn’t have too much time to ruminate on this as your eyelids began to grow heavy. Soon you were passed out, just as Yoongi predicted.

Ten minutes into the NBA show he looked over, a knowing smile crept onto his face. You were out.

He took a deep breath. What the fuck was he doing? He tried not to think about it too much. Every time he thought about you and the contract it left him feeling weird. The thought that you were getting paid to like him and to hang out with him, didn’t sit well at all. But he knew there was so much more to it than that. He picked up his notepad and wrote a few lyrics, the movie playing for background noise at this point.

After several minutes he looked at his writing. Satisfied, he stood up and slipped the notebook into a desk. He didn’t think you would snoop, but better safe than sorry. He looked back at the couch and smirked. He thought it was hilarious you thought you would stay awake when he knew better. He went over to the stuffed animal line and pulled out a Snorlax. Appropriate, he thought as he sat it down on top of your side. He snapped a picture. Sweet revenge. Stretching, he decided to head to bed himself; only slightly lamenting that he had given you his favorite pillow and now he would have to use the flatter one. NEXT CHAPTER

@lidda @anpanman-sonyeondan @firefairy1 @cuteipat @sugaslittlekookies @janeelizabeth1216 @deeepvibes @gxldenhunny @livelyjay @niniita-ah @bobbyboops @honeysunandsoil @deathkat657 @min-yus @or-worse-expelled7

#bts fic #BTS suga #bts suga x you #bts suga x reader #bts yoongi x reader #bts yoongi #suga x you #suga x reader #suga x y/n #yoongi x reader #yoongi x you #yoongi x y/n #bts writing #bts scenarios #bts imagines

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whump-town · 4 years

Text

Moments Too Late

In honor of spending too much time on my own Universities quad because of the nice weather (which is promptly going to shit because it’s going to be cold again Monday) and because of @olivinesea college AU I give you...

The false promises of March lure them from the comforts of their dorms. Each morning now a little warmer, the sun beaming down forgiving and loving as it’s not the quiet time for it to swelter down great beams of heat that melts clothes off the skin off muscles off bones. Today it heats the ground, enough to encourage them out of their shoes to feel the still slightly chilled nature of the not yet up to pace earth beneath their toes.

Derek laughs deeply, unabashedly as he chases Spencer along the grass. Seemingly all the more pleased the louder he can get the younger boy to screech in terror as Derek pins his thin arms in contorted positions as they wrestle. The only mediation, the only warnings they get, comes when JJ looks up from her textbook. More often to tuck strands of hair behind her ears than to break from her reading. “Don’t hurt him, Derek,” she warns. Not because she’s afraid he will but to continue these halves of theirs. Where she stands to allow Spencer this idea that she will step in if need be.

“The winter,” Emily says softly. “I think the winter depresses him.” She’s laid out on the jacket Dave spread out on the ground before them. He’d given a little “hmph” of disapproval but not altogether displeasure when she laid herself out on it. Her legs break out in rashes and the shorts she’d chosen to wear leave her too exposed to rest comfortably in it.

Dave rests back on his elbows, chest lifted to take in all the rays of the sun that he can. He cracks open his left eye, scowling over at her as he processes what she’s just said. The raised eyebrow of doubt -- of further need for contemplation and clarification on the generally just vague statement she’s just made -- goes unnoticed as she watches Aaron. Dave’s eyes follow suit and while he might not understand the full complexity of what it is that she means, he might be able to gather what she sees.

“Winter depression?” he whispers. There’s no way that Aaron could be anything but… well, Aaron. By definition, that means dark and spirally with a complexity not a single soul, at least Dave suspects, knows him in his entirety. They are all bound by bits and pieces, half-truths that they have put together like children and those little cheap boxes that are covered half-hazardously in Elmer’s glue and macaroni shells.

Aaron lays out on his back, eyes closed and more relaxed than they’ve ever seen him. Shoulders sinking into the ground and limbs open. His ankles set aligned with his hips and shoulders. Palms up, a sunflower turned to face the warmth. He can feel the heat crawling up his body, nearly too warm with the sweater on his arms and the jeans that don’t quite fit the length of his legs. Softly, he clears his throat doesn’t even bother cracking an eye open as he says, “the word the two of you are looking for is seasonal and I’m not, nor have I ever been, depressed.”

Though Dave shoots Emily a look that says it all -- leave resting snakes to lie, don’t poke a bear you’re not ready to kill -- she sits up and observes him further. Letting his head thud against the dirt, Dave lets her poke that hornet’s nest knowing he’ll be the one to soothe Aaron’s buzzing anxiety and pull the stingers from Emily’s skin.

“You locked yourself in your room for two weeks,” she reminds him. As if she wasn’t the dead girl in the freshmen dormitory wrapped around a toilet and sent to the emergency room where they know her by name. Where they take turns picking her up in the lobby, waving to the doctor’s as she signs out against their advice with her arm still bleeding where she pulled too harshly, too angrily at the IV snaked under her flesh. Who is she to point fingers at his oddity? At least he can go a weekend without visiting the bottle.

The two weeks in question were from hell. He’d been with them Tuesday, present in a way that they reflected on as oddly so. They also thought he’d killed himself, a theory started by JJ too good to pass up so their application might be flawed. For two weeks, there was nothing but radio silence from him. His dorm was empty and they couldn’t even find him in the library, a place they more often than not have to drag him from. He didn’t show up until Thursday, so he was actually gone for sixteen-days, and looked like maybe he had died and dragged his corpse all the way back to them.

Not yet adults and very much the children raised by their parent’s hips, how could they not think in the extremes that they have known their entire lives? Too young to know the complexities of the life ahead of them but too damaged to ignore it. JJ knows what her sister did and Derek could feel his father’s blood hardening on his hands, could understand and see what JJ was telling them.

One. Talking about wanting to die or to kill oneself; Eyes closed and back sinking further and further into the blankets behind him. Nearly unaware of how close they all are, of the hand on his knee or the shoulder on his hip. “It would be nice… I think,” he whispers. “No stress. No obligations. Like sleeping.” He doesn’t sleep well.

Two. Talking about feeling hopeless or having no purpose; The warmth of his eyes has frozen over, the helpless desperation that he feels bubbling over. The carefully orchestrated faux look he’s spent years building burns at his feet. Leaving behind the broken child that he is at his core, searching for something that makes sense. For a father that loves him and a mother that protects him. “It doesn’t matter what I do,” he rasps. “Nothing matters because all I do is fuck everything up.”

Three. Sleeping too little or too much; He pulls from the hand that JJ gently reaches out with, flinching. “I -- I just don’t sleep well,” he defends, avoiding her eyes when she tries to look harder. To really see how pale he’s become. “It’s just -- just insomnia.” Nightmares are what he means but twenty-year-olds shouldn’t have that kind of horror built up into them so he lies. It’s easier that way.

Three strikes. You’re out but… they just couldn’t find a body. Dave had told them about how old dogs will drag themselves away from their homes to die and Spencer had cried for hours after that. Maybe that seemed a little too on the nose, Aaron being compared to an old beaten dog. They yelled at Dave out of fear but knew he was right.

Then Aaron just showed up to campus Thursday, a lump of human underneath his comforter as if he’d been there the entire time.

“We couldn’t find you for two weeks, Aaron. That’s -- That’s crazy, even for you.”

JJ looks up from her textbook, sees Dave, and looks back down. She’s certain that they’re about to have to deal with one of Emily and Aaron’s nuclear fallouts. With hindsight, she can see how that’s been festering up. Every semester they have one of these martial spats, bad enough to leave Spencer (who loves nothing more than to be one of their shadows) afraid to be left alone with either for a few days. Rightfully so, Aaron gets a little dark and Emily never pulls her punches, it’s a scary thing to witness.

“My father died.” The group freezes for a moment. Spencer and Derek’s wrestling had died down, both watching Aaron and Emily. He’s sitting up now, forcing her to look him in the eyes. “My father died and it wasn’t any of your business.” Emily opens her mouth but he’s shaking, having opened something not so easily contained. He doesn’t know how to put it all back. “Sean called, what was I to do, Emily? Would you prefer I tell a scared nine-year-old to fuck off?”

He wanted to. Despite how scared Sean had been, how small he’d sounded sucking in little sobs. Aaron lost his father ten years ago but he couldn’t tell Sean that. He’d gone out of obligation and the strange weighted sense that this might be the last time he truly sees his little brother. And he couldn’t know it yet but it’d be the last time he saw his mother too.

“I wasn’t out mixing my name up with Jack Daniels.”

Well… it was only a matter of time.

She stands first, fist clenched at her sides. “We’re your friends, we would have been there. You’re just too much of an insufferable bastard to notice!” She seethes good and properly angry. Misplaced but firm. “If you spent half as much time locking yourself away, pretending to be someone you’re not--” She pulls in a deep shuttering breathe. “Everyone knows, you know? All of us. We’ve seen the scars.” She’s not sure if it’s what she wanted but he flinches as though he’s been hit and that’s not enough to stop her. “Do you think we wouldn’t notice the flinching? That we can’t touch you? You’re not as good as you think you are, Aaron, and we’re not stupid.”

Silence.

Emily always knows what to say.

“Ex-Excuse me.”

Penelope comes up just as Aaron’s stumbling to his feet, pale as a ghost and trembling. He nearly runs into her. “What’s--” she’s brought them snacks. Little pieces of fruit she’s painstakingly cut for this little snack. “What’s wrong?”

He shakes his head and mumbles another “excuse me” and tears past her.

Penelope looks hopelessly at them, confused and hurt. She turns, watching Aaron stagger and wipe furiously at his eyes. “What… What did you do?” She looks back and forth, settling on Emily. Penelope watches tears gather in Emily’s eyes, her lower lip trembling.

“Oh God,” she whispers, hands raising to her lips. Emily looks over at Dave and to JJ, Spencer, and Derek still watching in terror. Her own words coming back to her, funneling through moments too late. “Oh God, what did I do?”

#criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #aaron hotchner #emily prentiss #derek morgan #jennifer jareau #spencer reid #david rossi #penelope garcia

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backtothestart02 · 3 years

Text

A Weekend of Firsts - 1/? | grandice fanfiction

A/N: Part 1 of my On Set Attraction series (for now). This one will be 2-3 chaps. Not sure yet. For the anon that requested an sdcc hook-up. I hope you enjoy this first part.

...

Synopsis: Grant and Candice get together.

...

Chapter 1 -

SDCC 2014.

The first real large-scale event that The Flash cast attended in preparation for the upcoming season one of their show.

San Diego Comic Con.

Candice was starry-eyed. It had been her first time attending SDCC as someone featured and not just an audience member. She’d secretly attended just for enjoyment’s sake once years earlier, but she wasn’t about to spill that. She was a little embarrassed about how nerdy she’d been, dressing up in cosplay and everything. She was putting that behind her. Now she was a real celebrity – or she was about to be.

Glancing back at Grant on the bus, she felt her cheeks grow hot and quickly turned around. She’d thought to look over to him because he, too, had never attended SDCC as part of a featured cast, but his eyes and his smile had gotten the best of her, and she hadn’t been able to maintain eye contact.

What was the matter with her? She wondered, but it was no secret to herself why her heart started racing and heat filled her cheeks whenever she caught that sexy grin of his.

She had a crush. A big one.

He was single, so it’s not like if she acted on it there would be bad fallout. But it might affect their chemistry onset, which to hear it, was some of the best the casting director had ever seen.

Electric. Show-stopping. Edge-of-your seat. Magical.

She couldn’t risk losing that by confessing her feelings. And besides, she didn’t even know if he felt the same way. His rejection of her alone might affect their chemistry if they couldn’t get past that awkward moment.

No, she was better off keeping this little crush to herself and hopefully getting over it, sooner rather than later hopefully.

She tried to find reasons not to fantasize about what the two of them together romantically might look like. She honestly did. She tried to find flaws in him. Real, honest-to-God flaws that could make her see him more as a friend than a crush.

But it was just so God damn hard.

He was such a flirt, and he focused most of his efforts of her. He’d deliberately run into things to gauge her reaction, and he’d tease her relentlessly. He was funny too, so funny that she found herself laughing long after everyone else had stopped. She’d thought he would think oddly of her for that, but when their eyes met after she’d stopped, he was only ever smiling at her, as if nothing existed for him outside of her.

They shared similar interests too – well, except for the ongoing Superman vs. Batman debate. That would probably never end. But they both loved dogs and video games. She had a few potted plants in her trailer that sometimes she’d come back to see him watering. And his two dogs, Jett and Nora, took to her right away.

They gravitated to each other easily when alone, and his first instinct was to slow dance with her in between takes. She never led him on or tried to get his attention one way or the other. He always came looking for it.

And sometimes, occasionally, she’d catch him checking out her cleavage or her ass when she knew he thought she was unaware. It made her wonder if maybe, just maybe, he had a thing for her too?

But she never brought it up and neither did he. The cast couldn’t be completely oblivious to their connection though. She hoped they never brought it up to anybody. The last thing she needed was for people to think she was getting attention simply because the leading man was giving it to her.

She was the leading lady though, so was it that hard to believe?

She kept herself in check as best as she could, however. And when the bus finally arrived and they filed out, she made herself focus on what the itinerary of the day was. Well, for the first day it was pretty low key. They just needed to check into the hotel and attend a couple low key events. The real slew of interviews and panels and photoshoots, autographs and more would take place over the next couple days.

Paparazzi lined the walkway, as did some fans who had heard about the show. If they got renewed for another season, she imagined the fans would multiply at events like this. Not that she was hoping for that or even needed it. She was just amazed – still – that she had gotten the part. Her talent and her chemistry with Grant had sealed the deal. She couldn’t be happier.

Once inside the hotel, they got their keys and made their way to their floor. Candice stopped at her door and was about to slide her key in when she heard Grant call out to her.

“Hey, we’re neighbors?”

She smiled tremulously and called back, “Yeah, cool!”

Cool?

She rolled her eyes at herself and got into her suite. She lay on the bed for a while, then peeked outside at the view she had. A busy street. Not the best, but they were in busy San Diego. What did she expect?

She stepped into her bathroom and turned on the shower. Setting out her clothes for the first event, she stripped down, went under the glorious hot water and soaked herself. After she was thoroughly wrinkled, she washed up, then shut off the water, dried herself off, and proceeded to get ready for their night of events.

Alcohol.

She hadn’t thought twice when champagne was offered to her at the first event or the second. She didn’t think she was anywhere near tipsy by the time the after party came around, but she did notice one thing.

Grant was flirting more than usual, and she was flirting back.

Her heated cheeks a faint memory, and her heart racing nothing to the sound of glasses clinking and toasts being made at their first day of SDCC being completed successfully.

Candice couldn’t stop smiling.

She didn’t know where the rest of the cast had gone. They’d all arrived together at the party. But now it was just her and Grant and other people they didn’t know who probably didn’t really know them, what with their show not having aired yet. It was nice to be somewhat anonymous and just having fun without a care.

Minutes ticked away into hours though, and when she looked around she noticed that the place was starting to empty.

She tugged on Grant’s arm and pulled him down to her to whisper into his ear.

“Think we should go?” she giggled helplessly, and he grinned, that sexy smile of his so close to her cheek.

Was it just her or she was getting more drunk and he was getting more sober?

“Yeah, good idea!” he declared, smiling brilliantly.

He leaned across the bar to ask the bartender to call them a cab, even though he had his phone in his pocket. Candice giggled at that but decided not to inform him of his slip-up.

“Do you have money?” she teased, yanking on his arm again and pulling him close.

Grant grinned shamelessly.

“Should I ask him for that too?” He turned toward the bartender. “Hey, dude!”

“No, no, no, shhhh!” She couldn’t stop laughing. “He didn’t mean it! He didn’t mean it!”

The bartender continued his call and then gestured towards the door when he was finished. Looping arms, Grant and Candice stumbled slightly on their way out and promptly informed the driver where they were headed. They couldn’t remember the address, but the guy knew his way around the city and was aware of where they were staying.

Candice decided then and there that she wasn’t the only one bordering on drunk instead of tipsy. Grant just did a better job of looking like he was sober. But she was too far from sober to care what he thought about her behavior. Her insecurities were gone.

After paying the driver – miraculously – Grant helped her out of the cab and they fumbled some more getting into the hotel lobby, the elevator, and finally falling out of it when they got to their floor.

“Want to come to my room?” he asked teasingly, raising his eyebrows suggestively. She couldn’t tell if he was joking.

“Sure!” she burst, and skipped down the hall with him, her arm still looped through his when he got his hotel room opened and they struggled to walk inside at the same time.

Finally they unlooped from each other and burst into the room.

“Ooo, this room looks nice,” she commented, taking a gigantic breath. “Looks just like my room!” She giggled profusely again.

He snickered.

“We can go to your room tomorrow!” he declared, and she nodded enthusiastically.

“Yes! Yes! Aaaand…yes!”

She fell back on the large king-sized bed in the room and stared up at the ceiling. She was shocked to find her reflection staring back at her.

“You have a mirror on your ceiling.” She pouted.

He came to lie next to her after nearly tripping out of his shoes.

“You don’t have one in yours?” he asked, turning to face her.

She turned her head to face him and shook it.

“Uh-uh,” she said, and then made the mistake of dropping her gaze to his lips for a little too long.

“Candice,” he said, and he sounded really sober then it nearly sobered her up.

“Uh-oh.” She sat up quickly. Too quickly. Her head hurt. “Need more alcohol.”

She curled up and off the bed and opened the minifridge in his room where some chilled beers were located.

“Want one?” She held one out to him.

“Okay,” he said.

She grabbed another one for her and handed both to him.

“Can’t open. Too hard.”

She plopped back down on the bed.

He definitely had to be sobering up, because he easily opened both.

“Think we’ll get alcohol poisoning?” she wondered aloud.

He held the beer out to her and hesitated to drink his own. She didn’t though and so he just shook his head and laughed.

“You are the best person I’ve ever met,” he said, setting both their beers on the table.

“Oh, wow. That is really great!” She placed her hands on either side of his head. “I’ve got a crush on you,” she informed him.

“Yeah?” He sounded breathless.

She nodded enthusiastically.

“Biggest crush ever!”

“Me too,” he said back, and it really didn’t register until he leaned in and kissed her without warning.

When he pulled back slowly after she’d responded just a little, he looked deep into her eyes.

“You’re not as drunk as I am,” she accused.

He winced. “I just hold my liquor better.”

She pouted, then got a little angry.

“Were you pretending to be drunk so I’d feel better?”

She felt her insecurities rising and wondered if this was a different kind of drunk.

“No!” he insisted. “I was just being silly, having fun. Sometimes it looks like I’m drunk when I’m just having fun.”

“Oh.”

She leaned back on the bed till her head was nestled nicely on top of two pillows.

“Do you regret coming to my room?” he asked, lightly brushing some of her locks out of her face, dipping his fingers down across her collar bone and along the column of her neck.

He slipped one strap of her dress down her arm to reveal more of her cleavage and then stopped, looking at her looking at him.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asked, his voice raspy, and she shook her head.

“No.”

She reached up for him and pulled his face down to hers. Then she kissed him passionately and arched up against him as he climbed on top of her. She allowed his tongue entrance into her mouth and wound her fingers into his spiked, messy hair. His body felt incredible on top of hers, and she wound her legs around his, letting the skirt of her dress hike itself up.

When his hand landed on her bare thigh, she moaned into his mouth, then tipped back her head to give him access to her neck.

“Fuck, Candice, you’re gorgeous.”

She moaned louder when he found the sweet spot on her neck and sucked.

“That feels so good. Keep doing that.”

She bit her bottom lip, feeling her core soak itself through her barely-there panties.

She reached around his back, sunk her fingers into his covered ass, and pressed her body up against his, seeking more.

Then, as if he’d never been there at all, Grant lifted himself off of her and got off the bed. He retrieved a water from the mini fridge and drank half of it.

Candice propped herself up on her elbows.

“What’s wrong?”

He laughed to himself, then turned around.

“You’re drunk.”

“I’m sobering up.” She hiccuped.

He came to sit on the edge of the bed.

“Yeah, but I’m not drunk at all. Not really. And I’m not going to take advantage of you.”

Her eyes widened.

“But I may not want this in the morning! I mean, I may not let myself want it.”

He wrapped a hand around the back of his neck.

“That’s just a risk I’m going to have to take.”

He got up and held out his hand to her.

“Come on, I’ll take you back to your room.”

She was annoyed, more than annoyed. She was intensely irritated.

But more than both of those things, another feeling rose up inside of her.

Bile.

“Oh, God.”

She quick ran off the bed and went into Grant’s bathroom to vomit into his toilet. When she was done, she could barely stand up.

Grant wet a washcloth and wiped her mouth before gathering her into his arms and taking her down the hall to her room. He tucked her into bed, went to leave and then stopped when he heard her sigh loudly. He turned back to look at the sad expression on her face and braced himself for the words that would follow.

“I suck.” She huffed. “Don’t I?”

“No,” he said. “You don’t suck.” He managed the tiniest smile. “Goodnight, Candice. I’ll see you in the morning.”

He shut the door behind him before she could answer, and she spoke her reply to the darkness.

“Goodnight.”

She paused.

“I suck.”

#grandice #fanfiction #grandice fanfiction #backtothestart02 fanfiction #a weekend of firsts #chapter 1 #for anon

19 notes · View notes

rosethornewrites · 3 years

Text

Fic: frost on the frozen ground

Relationships: Lán Zhàn | Lán Wàngjī/Wèi Yīng | Wèi Wúxiàn, Lán Huàn | Lán Xīchén/Mèng Yáo | Jīn Guāngyáo

Characters: Lan Zhan | Lan Wangji, Lan Huan | Lan Xichen, Lan Yuan | Lan Sizhui, Lan Qiren, Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian, Wen Qing, Fourth Uncle, Jin Zixun

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Modern AU, Corporate Espionage, Bad Uncle Lán Qǐrén, Anxiety, Confrontations, Family, References to Depression, Bunnies, Found Family, Podfic Welcome

Summary: Wei Ying and A-Zhan are still dealing with the fallout weeks after the public arrest of Meng Yao and Jin Guangshan cleared Wei Ying's name, when an uninvited visitor shows up. Second in the moonlight falls corporate spy AU series, inspired by @angstymdzsthoughts.

Notes: See end.

AO3 link

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Wei Ying was exhausted. It wasn’t even a physical sort of exhaustion, but one brought on by the absolute circus the last few weeks had been, following the very public arrest of Lan Xichen’s fiancé for the exact corporate espionage Gusu Lan Tech had accused him of and ruined his life over five years ago.

Trust Nie Huaisang to somehow convince the FBI to arrest Meng Yao during a major family dinner for the grooms that was well-attended by the media as a sort of social gala, and to also ensure they arrested Jin Guangshan at the same time. He was only the head of Jin Enterprises, so it’s not like it didn’t send that company’s stocks tanking immediately while also humiliating Gusu Lan Tech.

Nie Huaisang did petty well.

Wei Ying just wished the aftermath hadn’t meant reporters hounding him and A-Zhan almost constantly, though that wasn’t Huaisang’s fault. At least, that he knew of—his old friend hadn’t reached out, and Wei Ying didn’t know whether to expect him to.

They’d had to start screening their calls and if they did go out, it was wearing disguises and usually separately.

It had started when Jin Guangshan’s shitty nephew had attempted to ambush interview them while they were shopping for groceries with A-Yuan.

Everyone knew he was a hack. Jin Zixun had majored in history at a university his uncle was on the board of (the only reason he was even admitted) and barely got his degree. He’d been resoundingly rejected by every reputable employer despite his uncle’s best efforts, and could only get a job at some hack blog site pretending to be news and to have journalistic integrity. He was largely known for ludicrous conspiracy theories, vehement misogyny, and, weirdly, white nationalist talking points, but his articles and livestreams apparently got enough advertising revenue to merit his continued employment.

He had the nerve to imply Wei Ying had somehow framed Meng Yao and Jin Guangshan.

On the bright side, the camera had been livestreaming, and A-Zhan had verbally eviscerated him and implied that he probably had a hand in the corporate espionage, that maybe the investigation should look into him.

“I recall your name and the insulting things you said and wrote about Wei Ying. You claimed, without evidence, there was a connection with Compu-Jiang, and then they took a financial hit. Trying to take out your uncle’s competition?”

Jin Zixun’s face had turned interesting colors and he cut the camera, but the damage was done. They learned the next day he was canned from the pseudo-journalist farce and the FBI had declared him a “person of interest” and seized his electronics.

The interest in that led to more media coverage looking at the Weis, rekindling interest in the false accusation and Wei Ying’s blacklisting from the industry. Uncle Four had banned reporters from the premises, and since he owned the building that meant they at least weren’t buzzing the apartment from the lobby or, worse, somehow getting in and knocking on their door, for the most part at least. Now they were simply waiting across the street and accosting them if they spotted them, something that most often happened if they were together, and less if they were separate.

Wei Ying didn’t want to revisit the year or so following the blacklisting. Even with A-Zhan beside him, it had been like a montage of humiliation and pain. He hated that these reporters wanted to put all that on display again.

The Wens had been amazing, often bringing them groceries and cooked meals, but they couldn’t stay cooped up—they had a son, and he was fond of parks and libraries. Sometimes his aunts or uncles or Granny would take him out for them if there was a congregation of reporters, and that had at least ensured the parasites hadn’t caught on to A-Yuan’s existence connected to them yet.

As a bright spot, A-Li had contacted him. With her father-in-law in prison for the corporate espionage Wei Ying had been framed for, her husband had consented to let him meet his nephew. She was excited to meet A-Yuan. They were just waiting for some of the furor to die down.

Even though it was Saturday, Wei Ying was finishing a coding project while A-Zhan was taking A-Yuan to the library and then a different park than usual. He wished he could go with them, but it was better not to tempt fate.

He was nearly finished sorting out a coding error when the bell for the apartment building buzzer rang. Sighing in irritation, he stalked to the door and pressed the button to respond, careful not to press the one that unlocked the door.

“No comment. Please leave the premises.”

“I am not the press,” a gravelly male voice responded.

Wei Ying blinked. He knew that voice, but he couldn’t place it.

“Name?”

“You know perfectly well who I am.”

It was the haughtiness of the tone that pinged his memory. How could he forget, being lectured by Lan Qiren on his ungrateful nature and ruining of his nephew when he was being fired?

Just the memory made him nauseous. As far as he knew, Lan Qiren hadn’t reached out to A-Zhan, though Lan Xichen had, apologizing that they would be dragged into this again.

Quickly, he pulled his phone from his pocket and fired a text message off to A-Zhan.

Your uncle is here

“You’ll need to make an appointment,” he said blithely. “Have Lan Xichen set it up with A-Zhan. He has his number.”

His phone dinged as the uninvited visitor made outraged sounds that he very carefully refused to allow to register as words. Then the buzzer started up again, and he ignored it.

Not invited. Do not let him in.

In spite of the seriousness of the situation, Wei Ying had to smile over his husband’s use of proper punctuation and capitalization, ever proper even via text.

on it, he replied. will let you know when clear

The noise from the intercom/buzzer ceased, thankfully, and Wei Ying moved back toward the office, stepping over the barrier that kept Turmeric from getting to all the cords. As he did, he texted Wen Qing to let her know what had happened.

a-zhans uncle buzzed from lobby

told him to make appt

idk what he wants

He sat down with a sigh and stretched before trying to immerse himself back in the code. He’d just found his line of coding error when a knock on the door reverberated through the apartment. Before he could even contemplate getting up, his phone chimed, a text from Wen Qing.

Auntie 6 came to me

He followed her in

Uncle 4 and I are on it

Which meant, of course, that Lan Qiren had breached the building, likely not even registering that he was trespassing, or so privileged that he felt trespassing laws didn’t apply to him.

Fuck.

He could feel his anxiety rising, something he didn’t need. Now was not the time for a Xanax, no matter how much his heart was fluttering at the idea of having to deal with A-Zhan’s uncle.

lmk when i can escape, he sent back.

Then he texted A-Zhan.

breached perimeter

qing-jie & unc 4 to rescue

will come to u

where r u?

Wei Ying crept to the living room, trying to stay quiet as the intruder knocked again, more forcefully. He debated for a moment, fiddling with his phone nervously before slipping it in his pocket, then grabbed Turmeric’s carrier, leash, and harness. The bunny needed some outdoors time, and Wei Ying would probably be able to meet A-Zhan and A-Yuan at the park.

The knocking continued, and he was certain before long Lan Qiren would lose all sense of decorum and start yelling through the door.

plz hurry, he texted Wen Qing.

He donned a hat A-Yuan had gifted him for Father’s Day, an adorable white bucket hat with bunnies and carrots on it, and a pair of big sunglasses. He was wearing torn jeans and a black t-shirt with a binary code motif Wen Ning had given him for Christmas—it read “fuck off,” but wasn’t too inappropriate given that only coders could read it. He was as decent as he was going to get.

Wei Ying opened Turmeric’s hutch and scooped him gently into the carrier, hushing him even though he was completely quiet and cooperative. He felt like an intruder in his own home, and it left a sour taste in his mouth.

Finally, he could hear voices outside the door—Uncle Four’s boisterous voice asking what he could do for “the gentleman,” Wen Qing mentioning trespassing, Lan Qiren’s haughtiness slowly sputtering out, growing distant as they led him away.

His phone dinged twice, A-Zhan texting the location of the park, and Wen Qing giving the all-clear. Wei Ying grabbed his shoes, keys, and wallet, Turmeric’s crate and his sundries, and slipped out of the apartment in socked feet, easing the door shut and locking it as quietly as he could.

He practically tiptoed down the side staircase, the one that didn’t lead to the lobby but straight outside, and slipped his shoes on in the vestibule before slipping outside into the sunshine, making sure the door shut behind him without anyone getting in.

The park, thankfully, was not too far away, and he didn’t see any reporters on this side of the building. Likely they had seen Lan Qiren enter and were all crowded on the side near the lobby hoping to see something good.

Fat chance.

Wei Ying booked it the first few blocks before he felt like he’d escaped and started to calm, but he didn’t really relax until he could see A-Zhan in the distance, looking in his direction, A-Yuan beside him sipping on a boxed apple juice. His husband folded him into a hug, and he could feel the tension ease from his body with a soft sigh.

“I brought Turmeric. He could use some outside time.”

The tiny smile he got from A-Zhan finished the job of easing the worst of his anxiety, and they sat with A-Yuan on the grass to bring Turmeric out of the carrier and belt him into his little harness.

His fingers fumbled on the buckles and he sighed in frustration.

“Sit, A-Ying,” A-Zhan said. “Relax.”

There was a bit of worry in his eyes, and that told Wei Ying he must look frazzled. A-Zhan knew his anxieties, knew what Lan Qiren had said to him, something he’d opened up about long ago, when they’d learned to communicate and work as a team, and when Wei Ying was learning not to push him away.

And so Wei Ying settled back and let him finish with Turmeric, focused on the sunshine and the breeze and the soft grass beneath him. His fingers itched to pull out his phone, though he’d received no notifications, and he resisted it, instead rubbing his hand along the surface of the grass, letting the individual strands tickle his palms.

Before long, their absolutely adorable second son was contentedly exploring the grass, and curious children were starting to gather. A-Zhan explained bunnies didn’t like loud noises and sudden movements, and told them if they had permission from their parents, they could approach one at a time to pet him.

A-Yuan tumbled into Wei Ying’s lap, content to watch Turmeric from there, and he had no doubt his son had picked up on his anxiety. He was a bright boy.

Eventually, the children wandered away, a calm bunny only so interesting, and A-Yuan was half-asleep on his lap. A-Zhan’s phone dinged, and he handed the leash to Wei Ying before fishing it out. A bit of texting and a few alerts later, his mouth was downturned.

“A-Zhan?” he asked.

“I sent Xichen to retrieve Qiren, but he insists he must speak to me.”

Wei Ying fantasized briefly about Lan Qiren being led from the premises in handcuffs, yelling, but he knew that wouldn’t solve anything. It could well make things worse, so he wasn’t even able to enjoy the fantasy.

“The board voted to remove xiongzhang,” he added. “Likely he wishes to insist I take over the company.”

He felt his chest clench at that. Pity toward Xichen, who had done what he could to keep Wei Ying out of prison even if only for A-Zhan’s sake, and the grief he was facing as his life fell apart around him. But more, there was fear that A-Zhan would take it, would leave him behind—not a rational fear given everything they had weathered together, but anxiety was cruel.

“You can take it if you want it, A-Zhan,” he said after a minute.

A-Zhan made a noncommittal noise.

“I am texting Wen Qing to prepare a conference room so we need not open our home to him,” he replied after a moment. “I should hear him out.”

Wei Ying looked away, swallowing hard at the taste of bile. His vision was blurred, but he kept a handle on it, refused to cry again over this.

“I… I’ll stay with A-Yuan while you meet him.”

He startled when A-Zhan knelt in front of him and took his hands.

“We are together in this and all things. Granny will meet us and watch A-Yuan during the meeting. I need you there, A-Ying. I will say no.”

Wei Ying glanced up at him.

“He will hound us until I meet with him, but I will not go back to Gusu Lan Tech,” A-Zhan said, his voice insistent, worried. “My place is with you, at Dafan.”

“You’re sure you don’t want it?” he couldn’t help asking.

This was, after all, a chance for A-Zhan to reconcile with his family and further his career. But his husband’s expression turned stormy at the question.

“They will never admit to having wronged you, A-Ying. I cannot abide that.”

Wei Ying manages a weak smile.

“They’ll never admit they wronged you, either.”

A-Zhan nodded, the corners of his lips taut with stress.

“Wen Qing will sit in with us since this is now a Dafan Applications matter. Uncle Four, too.”

Wei Ying blinked at him blankly for a moment before he understood. Technically Gusu Lan Tech was trying to poach A-Zhan from Dafan Applications, which made it company business. Lan Qiren was trespassing on Uncle Four’s property, which made it his business. And it meant they’d have witnesses. His husband was clever, and so was Wen Qing.

“A-Die, baba, okay?”

A-Yuan looked up at them solemnly. The poor child had been with them at the grocery store when Jin Zixun had ambushed them, had seen so much these past weeks that he didn’t understand. He deserved some explanation.

“We are, baobei,” Wei Ying said firmly. “Bad things happened a few years ago. Someone made it look like a-die did something bad, and they just got caught.”

He could see the moment their son understood.

“That’s why the mean man said it was your fault?”

Wei Ying nodded, and A-Yuan squirmed out of his lap to give him a giant hug.

“Thank you. Now baba’s uncle wants to talk to us, so we need to go home. You’ll visit with popo while we find out what he wants, okay?”

A-Yuan bit his lip, looking more anxious than a child his age should.

“Baba’s uncle won’t be mean to you, will he?”

His heart broke at his son’s concern. It was clear he’d picked up on undertones they thought they’d kept away. A-Zhan wrapped A-Yuan in a hug.

“Baba won’t let shufu be mean to a-die,” A-Zhan said seriously.

“And your gugu will be with us, so she won’t let him be mean to either of us,” Wei Ying added.

A-Yuan brightened—Wen Qing had a reputation, one even her five-year-old nephew was aware of. He trusted her to protect his dads.

“Okay,” A-Yuan said. “If you bring Turmeric with you, he’ll comfort you if he’s mean!”

Wei Ying smiled at that.

“That’s why we’re leaving Turmeric with you, so he can comfort you. I know you’re worried, but baba and I will be okay. We’ll come right home when we’re done and snuggle with you and Turmeric.”

Their son seemed to accept that, and A-Zhan deftly removed Turmeric’s harness and placed him in the carrier. He pulled their disguises from a bag. Wei Ying was delighted when A-Yuan put on his brown bunny bucket hat, and he reached out to arrange the ears once the boy had it on. A-Zhan was wearing his own bucket hat, green with frog eyes, also a Father’s Day gift from A-Yuan.

Honesty, he hadn’t expected that fatherhood would make A-Zhan even sexier, but he wasn’t complaining.

The walk home was quiet. Wei Ying dreaded reaching home and hated that he felt that way. The home he had made with A-Zhan and A-Yuan was precious to him, and it felt like a sacred space had been violated.

As they drew nearer, they planned to separate, A-Zhan taking A-Yuan to one side staircase, and Wei Ying taking Turmeric to the other, the plan to meet at the apartment.

Wei Ying was actually surprised when it went off without a hitch, and he opened the stairwell door to see A-Zhan unlocking the door, Granny already hugging A-Yuan. Just a few years ago she’d have picked him up, but he was a bit big for that now.

She smiled at his approach, reaching up to pat him on the cheek.

“Aiya, you look so stressed. Popo will make dinner,” she said. “Auntie Three is making baozi for the building, too.”

Several of the aunties loved cooking different things in excess, so every few weeks they would make a huge batch of something delicious for the whole building, since everyone in the building was family. Auntie Three’s baozi were a favorite of his; she remembered his love for spicy food and always accommodated that in his.

“Extra spicy for A-Ying,” he chirped, though popo clucked softly in a way that let him know she saw through his attempt at cheer.

She headed straight for the kitchen, where she would likely catalogue the fridge to decide what to cook. Whatever she made, it would be delicious; his mouth was almost watering just thinking about it.

He focused on getting Turmeric settled in his hutch, and A-Zhan got A-Yuan situated with a coloring book and crayons.

“I should change,” Wei Ying said, remembering his torn jeans and the shirt Lan Qiren might be able to decode.

He’d probably think Wei Ying wore the shirt on purpose to send a message. Frankly, Wei Ying wouldn’t mind that interpretation, but he didn’t want to antagonize.

“What you are wearing is fine,” A-Zhan said, catching his wrist. “He interrupted our day, and he can get us as we are.”

A-Zhan was still wearing the frog bucket hat, with apparently no intent on removing it. His light blue shirt, Wei Ying noticed for the first time, was the one with a print of a rabbit wearing glasses and a bow tie, with ‘daddy’ in script underneath. Wei Ying snagged his hat with the bunnies and carrots motif from where he’d placed it atop the bunny hutch and put it back on. They’d match, to a certain extent, present a united front.

“Be good for popo,” A-Zhan directed A-Yuan, as though their son would ever be anything but good.

The boy simply nodded and discarded his crayon to run over and hug them both.

The first two floors of the building were Dafan Applications office space. Though the first floor also held a lovely coffee shop and several other stores open to the public, the core of the building was the headquarters. An elevator and staircase serviced the offices, accessible with employee IDs. Each office was accessible only by swiping employee IDs, and record was kept of who entered and when.

Since the apartments were held entirely by family, it might have seemed paranoid, but Wei Ying was glad for the security the building had—after all, the lack of it at Gusu Lan Tech had led to him being framed for corporate espionage. Poorly, but it ultimately hadn’t mattered.

He hadn’t understood why he’d been framed, only that he’d had to correct Su She’s subpar coding many times when he’d worked there, so it wasn’t very surprising that he’d fuck up installing the code to the point where it would be caught before it could do damage. Since he’d never been anything but pleasant to Su She, that he’d been targeted had surprised him.

When he had mentioned his confusion to A-Zhan, about a week after the news broke, he learned that Su She had tried to tell A-Zhan that Wei Ying was a poor choice as a romantic partner, implying he would be better.

“I told him he was not qualified to speak with me,” A-Zhan had recollected.

It made a sick sort of sense—if Wei Ying was out of the way, fired or imprisoned, Su She might think he had a shot. And given that Lan Qiren had hated him even before he and A-Zhan started dating, the frame up job was sufficient.

A-Zhan took his hand and led him into the elevator, and he realized he must have blanked out because he hadn’t even heard it arrive. His husband was watching him in concern, and he hated how much this invasion by Lan Qiren was messing with him, but he absolutely wasn’t going to abandon A-Zhan to face him alone.

“I’m okay,” Wei Ying said. “I just want to get it over with.”

Uncle Four was waiting for them by the elevators. He offered a smile.

“I’ll bring by a few bottles of my newest brew later,” he said in greeting.

“That bad, huh?” Wei Ying asked ruefully.

“I don’t wish to speak ill of A-Zhan’s family,” Uncle Four said deferentially.

‘But that man…’ was heavily implied.

A-Zhan inclined his head.

“He decided Wei Ying’s guilt on flimsy evidence,” his husband said, his tone dismissive.

Wei Ying squeezed his hand—it was as close to disparaging as A-Zhan had ever come toward his uncle. More often, they simply pretended he didn’t exist, which prior to this had been fairly easy. When they had spoken of it, when he had finally told A-Zhan in one of his darker moments what Lan Qiren had said to him when running him out of Gusu Lan Tech with security, his husband had simply folded him in his arms and told him he was wrong, over and over again, and reiterated that he had chosen Wei Ying.

A-Zhan was angry, he realized. Perhaps over Lan Qiren returning to their life with all of his customary arrogance, or perhaps in defense of his brother, who was being excised from the company. He remembered, early in their relationship, learning that both brothers had been told what to major in, prepped for what Lan Qiren thought their careers should look like at Gusu Lan, which was why A-Zhan hadn’t been able to pursue music as he had wished. It was why he had expected him to break up with him, as ordered.

He wondered what Lan Xichen had given up, what dreams he had let go to serve his family.

“Tomorrow,” he told Uncle Four. “I think we’ll need tonight for us.”

The older man offered a sympathetic smile and escorted them to the conference room.

It was the ostentatious one they used for particularly obnoxious or status-obsessed clients, with handsomely-carved panels with the Dafan Applications logo and an imposing table that looked expensive but were actually the work of a family member with a woodworking hobby. It had two doors, one on either side of the long table, which was ideal—they wouldn’t have to walk past Lan Qiren to get in or out.

When they entered, Wei Ying’s gaze was drawn to Lan Xichen first, seated at the side of the table. He looked… defeated was the first word to come to mind. He glanced at his husband, could see he too was looking at his brother, concerned lines at the corners of his eyes betraying his emotions.

“Finally,” Lan Qiren commented, drawing their attention. “I don’t have all day.”

His gaze was, as usual, disapproving, and he completely disregarded the fact that he had been the one to crash their day, not the other way around.

“My husband told you to schedule an appointment,” A-Zhan said in lieu of greeting.

He tugged Wei Ying to the head of the table, where someone had thoughtfully placed two chairs. Qing-jie was his guess, letting them present as the team they were. She was on one side of the table beside the seats, and Uncle Four sat on the other, probably as owner of the building. Wen Ning was too faint-hearted to handle this, he knew, even though he was technically the head of Dafan Applications.

“An appointment, to see my own nephew?” Lan Qiren grated, glaring at Wei Ying like it was his fault.

“You told me five years ago that I was no nephew of yours,” A-Zhan said, his voice dispassionate.

Wei Ying knew how much that had hurt A-Zhan. Part of him wanted to tell Lan Qiren that, rail at him over every emotional scar he had inflicted on the both of them, but he also knew there was no point in it—he wouldn’t listen, and he knew well enough that it wouldn’t be cathartic. It was better to let A-Zhan get this over with and be here to support him.

“You were making a mistake!”

His continued glaring at Wei Ying made it obvious what “mistake” he was referring to, and he barely managed not to flinch. It was clear this conversation was not going to be pleasant. A-Zhan took his hand, lacing their fingers together and squeezing gently.

“As I recall, the evidence that he was not making a mistake has been all over the news,” Wen Qing drawled.

“What business is it of yours?” Lan Qiren demanded. “Why are you here?”

“As witnesses,” she replied. “And A-Zhan and A-Ying are family. We’re here for them.”

Warmth spread through Wei Ying’s chest at her pronouncement—he often referred to her as Qing-jie, but hadn’t known the sentiment was returned.

“And I own the building in which you are currently trespassing,” Uncle Four added.

Where he was normally a jovial and friendly man, his expression was serious and bordering on unwelcoming. Apparently Lan Qiren had made quite the impression on him.

Lan Qiren sniffed disdainfully, but finally focused on A-Zhan.

“The board has decided Xichen’s… indiscretions make him unfit to head the company. You have been appointed in his place. You will, of course, be expected to take the Lan name again, as will the child you’ve adopted. I’ve taken the liberty of securing housing for you, and I suppose we can find a place in the company for your husband, on a provisionary basis, of course.”

Dead silence followed his pronouncement, and Wei Ying felt dizzy with the presumption of all of this—A-Zhan was being ordered back to Gusu Lan Tech as though this wasn’t the first they’d seen or heard from Lan Qiren in over five years, clearly expected to obey without question.

“Provisionary?” A-Zhan murmured, his voice icy with what Wei Ying recognized as fury.

He squeezed A-Zhan’s hand, silently asking that he not be angry on his behalf. After all, he expected nothing but this treatment from Lan Qiren, so he wasn’t surprised to receive it.

“He’ll be expected to prove himself, of course.”

“He already has,” Wen Qing cut in. “He’s been an asset to Dafan Applications since the day we hired him, paramount to our success.”

Lan Qiren sniffed dismissively.

“Yes, well, his previous stint of employment at Gusu Lan Tech left much to be desired.”

A-Zhan’s jaw clenched. Wei Ying’s stomach roiled, remembering the constant criticism he’d faced there, how ultimately he wondered why they’d even agreed to hire him.

“I will not subject my husband to further abuse at the hands of the company that attempted to ruin his career.”

To his surprise, Lan Qiren looked satisfied by that statement.

“Then we’ll arrange for your move. You’ll be expected to dress more professionally in the future, as the representative of the company.”

He eyed A-Zhan’s hat and clothing with distaste.

Wei Ying stole a glance at Xichen, who looked haggard and drained and was barely listening to the conversation, and felt empathy for his situation. Xichen had always treated him kindly, until he went no-contact after A-Zhan’s resignation, something he was likely ordered to do. Even so, he also sought to warn them of what had happened, and had informed A-Zhan of Lan Qiren’s intentions. And he had stood fast against the board’s desire to have him prosecuted.

And now the man he had been set to marry is in prison, having brought Nie Innovations to its knees and attempted the same with Gusu Lan Tech, and what happiness he’d been looking forward to was just so much smoke.

“You misunderstand,” A-Zhan said. “I do not intend to relocate, or take on the Lan name, or chair Gusu Lan Tech. I will continue to work at Dafan and live in my apartment with my husband and our son. I will remain Wei Zhan.”

Lan Qiren looked shocked, almost as though he had been physically slapped, and then the anger returned.

“You leave me no choice. It will be a simple matter to buy out Dafan,” he said.

Wen Qing laughed at the threat.

“Dafan Applications is a worker cooperative. You have no power.”

For the first time he’d known him, Lan Qiren seemed incapable of words. After all, it meant that he and A-Zhan were part owners of Dafan, as all employees were, something he would never offer at Gusu Lan. Wei Ying privately hoped he was having an internal fit over the socialism of worker cooperatives.

A-Zhan, however, had plenty to say.

“You disrupted our Saturday after five years of silence to demand I change my life to suit your whims,” A-Zhan said coldly. “You didn’t even have the grace to apologize to Wei Ying, whose life and career you tried to destroy.”

Lan Qiren’s expression turned stormy.

“You chose this ill-bred miscreant over your family, and you expect me to apologize to him?”

“No,” A-Zhan said. “I chose the truth. I chose love. A-Ying is my family.”

“You,” Lan Qiren snarled, turning his attention to Wei Ying. “This rebellion is all your influence! A-Zhan was filial until you came along!”

Wei Ying stayed silent. His anxiety spiked but was soothed by A-Zhan’s hand in his, in the feeling of his fingers entwined. Lan Qiren could do nothing to them—he’d already tried, and they’d ultimately come out stronger. They’d built a life and found new family.

There was so much he could say, but he knew better than to think Lan Qiren would listen; he was a convenient scapegoat, and nothing would convince him otherwise.

“Have you nothing to say, you ingrate?” Lan Qiren demanded.

A-Zhan tensed, but Wei Ying squeezed his hand.

“I see no point in speaking to you,” he said honestly.

“You dare!”

Lan Qiren stood, quivering with rage.

“You broke our family as completely as you broke the Jiangs, and you have the gall to sit there smirking, enjoying the mess you’ve made!”

Mention of the Jiangs hurt—it had been weeks and only A-Li had reached out, but she had never broken contact to begin with.

Wen Qing slapped the table and stood, startling them.

“I’ve heard quite enough. You can’t bully your estranged nephew into uprooting the life he built after you alienated him, so you go after A-Ying again. You act the victim, but you drove A-Zhan away with your unmerited vitriol toward A-Ying.”

Uncle Four stood as well. He was a calm man, but Wei Ying could see him tremble—in anger or nervousness, he didn’t know.

“You are not welcome here, Lan Qiren. Leave or you will be removed.”

“And given that you attempted to poach two of our best employees and threatened our company, you can tell your board that Dafan Applications will never do business with Gusu Lan Tech,” Wen Qing added.

Wei Ying knew her level of petty and wondered if their new apps would unexpectedly glitch on Gusu Lan products in the future. Probably not, since she was focused on user experience.

Maybe he was the one feeling petty, but he doubted anyone who mattered would judge him for it.

“Clearly attempting to reason with any of you is an exercise in futility,” Lan Qiren said.

It took far too much energy to suppress a nearly-hysterical giggle building in Wei Ying’s chest at his complete lack of self awareness.

“Come, Xichen. We’re done here.”

A-Zhan bristled further, glancing at Wei Ying with a question in his eyes, and he nodded. Xichen deserved to know he still had family.

“Xiongzhang may stay for dinner, if he wishes,” A-Zhan said. “Our son would love to meet his bobo.”

A tiny smile lit up Xichen’s features, and Wei Ying got the impression it was the first time he’d smiled since his fiancé’s arrest.

“I would be honored to,” he said softly.

His voice was hoarse, as though he was no longer used to speaking, or was overcome with emotion. It could easily be both.

“Thank you, didi.”

Lan Qiren scoffed, and Wen Qing pointed at the door, raising an eyebrow. When he stomped out, she and Uncle Four followed him to escort him from the premises, leaving the three of them alone.

“Were you offered another position in the company?” A-Zhan asked after a moment of uncomfortable silence.

Xichen shook his head, the fleeting smile gone.

“No. Uncle believes I need time to reflect on my mistakes.”

Wei Ying didn’t hold back a scoff, given that Lan Qiren had referred to him as A-Zhan’s mistake.

“You didn’t make any mistakes. You had no way of knowing.”

The smile Xichen offers is wrong, bitter.

“I should have done more. Instead of letting them scapegoat you, I should have insisted on a full investigation. Maybe we would have uncovered the truth and protected you. Maybe we could have prevented the damage to Nie Innovations and Mingjue’s health, too.”

He had forgotten that Xichen and Mingjue were friends somehow. Wei Ying wanted to tell him the guilt he carried was a burden that shouldn’t be his, but he also knew from struggling with his own that it was something Xichen would need to come to terms with himself.

“You should reach out to him,” A-Zhan said, looking at Wei Ying like he knew what he was thinking. “I doubt he blames you, and perhaps he could use the help.”

Xichen looked torn on the idea. Wei Ying could almost see the thoughts running through his head—that he would be unwelcome, a burden on his friend, but that it was a way to do penance for the sins he believed he’d committed.

“I’ll think about it,” he finally said.

Wei Ying walked around the table and patted his shoulder, gesturing to the other door, the one that led to the interior of the building. A-Zhan had offered an olive branch with the invitation, and this was his.

“Come on. Popo is cooking, and Auntie Three made baozi for the whole building. And A-Yuan is waiting.”

The smile returned, a little stronger this time, and Wei Ying smiled back as Xichen levered out of his seat to follow them home.

-------------

Jin Zixun’s background is maybe based on a very well-known “journalist” who just constantly looks confused and outraged. To narrow it down, John Oliver did a segment on him recently. Uh, and maybe slightly on two other conspiracy theorists who pretend at journalism, one of whom keeps getting sued.

Also, I am old enough to text in full sentences most of the time. I had some friends check over Wei Ying’s panic texts so hopefully they’re believable.

This was difficult to write because of the anxiety Wei Ying was feeling and the uncomfortable conversations.

Also, I forgot the Nie company name and had to check—I couldn’t remember if it was Nie Innovations or Nie Industries. Turns out I accidentally used both in the first fic in the series. Fixed it now.

I maybe spent too much time researching worker cooperatives and employee-owned companies. It’s not a major part of this fic, but I thought it was a cool detail to bring in.

The title is, again, from the Li Bai poem.

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desert-dyke · 4 years

Text

Pollen

Rating: Explicit Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply Category: M/M Fandom: Fallout New Vegas Relationships:

Craig Boone/Arcade Gannon

Craig Boone & Female Courier

Characters:

Arcade Gannon

Craig Boone

Female Courier

Additional Tags:

Sex Pollen

Anal Sex

Frotting

Blow Jobs

an assortment of fun sexual favors

Strangers to Lovers

bottom boone

Smut

lil fluff at the end

Arcade and Boone are sent to survey Vault 22 only to discover some plant life there has some interesting side effects...

Arcade’s eyes wandered across various equipment in the lab. Not as nice as what he had to work with while with the Followers, but a lot better than other factions could brag. Sloan was talking to one of the scientists. He sort of zoned out by now. She was far from the brightest crayon in the pack and sometimes it was better not to hear her “brilliant” takes. He could tell a deal was being made. An exchange of caps promised. Yeah that always caught Sloan’s attention. “How do you feel about going to Vault 22?” Sloan asked, giving him that smile that suggested she wasn’t really asking. Arcade blinked. He promised to follow her and give her support, but he did not like where this was going. He could have sworn he heard something about someone disappearing, and research needing to be reacquired. It was the former part that unsettled him. “It’s got plants! You like that sort of thing,” Sloan appealed.

“Why can’t you go?” Arcade asked. Sloan’s sunburnt shoulders rose and fell again.

“I’ve got other business here.”

Arcade rolled his eyes. He had noticed the way her eyes seemingly glazed over when Corporal Betsy was talking to her. It was so characteristic of Sloan to ditch him to flirt with whatever pretty lady they encountered. He remembered losing her for nearly two days in Westside, only to find her holed up in the Thorn. Apparently her and Red Lucy got pretty close during that time.

“I’m not going alone,” he asserted. He could protect himself just fine, but if already someone had disappeared, Arcade did not want to add himself to the body count.

“Take Boone with you,” Sloan suggested. He couldn’t believe his initial reaction then but he actually preferred Sloan to Boone. It wasn’t that he was unfriendly towards the rest of Sloan’s friends. She definitely had interesting tastes when it came to making friends. Cass was a bit rough and rowdy. Raul was a sarcastic pushover. Lily was sweet and doting on Sloan, but he was certain she could and would snap him in half. But Boone? He was just quiet. In all honesty, Arcade didn’t know what to think of Boone. Not knowing his deal made Arcade cautious of him.

“Why Boone?” He questioned. Sloan shrugged again, but she was a terrible bluff. He could tell by the twitching corners of her mouth. She had her reasons, but she wasn’t going to tell him them.

“I’m tired of him moping around the 38,” she made the excuse. “Take him out. Show him a good time.” Her arm wrapped around Arcade’s shoulder. She was much shorter and had to pull him down to her height in order to do so. Arcade didn’t fight against it. “There’s a nuka cola quantum in it for you…”

“I could buy myself my own,” Arcade said. He rolled his eyes and shrugged his way out of Sloan’s hold. It hurt to bend like that. “Fine.”

Getting Boone to talk was like pulling teeth. On one hand, there was some peace to that. Boone was just about the only one at the Lucky 38 who didn’t try to probe Arcade for some history. He had the inkling that Boone genuinely did not care, whereas every one else only further inspired them to pry.

The silence began to wear on him after an hour of walking in it. Boone’s sun-shaded eyes darted along the desert expanding before them, on the lookout for any sign of trouble. He accepted that silence in this case meant stealth and cover from any wasteland creature who might do them harm. Yet the sound of wind whistling across an empty desert kept making Arcade look over his shoulder, thinking he heard the sound of voices.

Boone raised a clenched fist, his arm forming a right angle. Arcade crawled to a stop, unholstering his pistol. Boone had his rifle trained on an enemy hidden from Arcade’s view. He tried to squint his eyes, shading them from the scorching sun, but all he saw were dancing waves of heat.

Arcade jumped as Boone’s rifle fired. A hand accidentally touched the sniper’s back and was quickly brushed off with a grunt.

“What was it?” Arcade asked. Silence. Was he annoyed at his touch? Arcade sucked a breath in, but before he could speak, his ears rung with the sound of the rifle discharging. Boone fired twice more before standing. Arcade remained crouched for a moment longer, trying to process what happened. Boone began walking, indifferent to whether Arcade was following or not. He hustled to catch up with Boone. Finally, he saw something in the distance, coming from between the mountains. It looked overwhelmingly green.

Something crunched beneath Arcade’s tread. He looked down with disgust at the oversized insect he stepped on, it’s insides now covering his shoes. This must have been what Boone had seen and taken out long before it would even know they were there. His finger searched for the trigger of his plasma pistol, resting just in case there were any more nearby.

“Area’s clear,” Boone said. Whether that was meant to be reassuring was lost on Arcade. He checked the crudely drawn map he had been given, aligned it with surrounding landmarks. A red x marked the spot, in a small alcove of the mountain range, confirming what Arcade already knew. The green was where they needed to go.

It was even more overwhelming the closer they got. Vegetation was sparse in the mojave and what did was hardy and prickly. Not soft with fanlike waxy leaves, something he’d expect to see in the jungle, not here in the desert.

“I’m no botanist, but that doesn’t seem entirely natural,” Arcade remarked. He looked towards Boone, still silent. He lead the way, rifle in his hands. The vegetation grew denser the further they wandered into the alcove. It’s source was covered in it, so that Arcade almost didn’t recognize the entrance to vault 22. He was afraid to brush against the plants, unsure of what effects they might have. He had an antivenom on him, which could possibly work if something was poisonous, but wasn’t definite. However, if it triggered an allergic reaction, they would be plum out of luck.

Boone sauntered ahead without the same caution. Arcade hissed in a breath watching the skin of his arm touch a plant, expecting blistering welts to rise moments later. When nothing happened and Boone continued on ahead without him, Arcade relaxed only slightly and followed him into the vault.

Despite the lack of soil, the plants had no problem growing on the metal of the vault floors, walls, ceiling, literally anywhere he looked there was growth. Arcade jumped at the sudden metallic boom. Boone was no longer in the entrance with him. He heard another gunshot and deciphered Boone must’ve headed further inside. Arcade hustled, following the sound. Gunshots meant trouble. His feet flew down the stairwell, chasing noise, any sign of life. He halted, almost rushing into a figure rising from a cluster of flora. It was human shaped, but definitely not human. Arcade discharged his pistol into the back of the creature. It shrieked and burned as it crumpled to the ground. Boone turned around, realizing the creature had gotten dangerously close to him before Arcade shot it down. Arcade expected some hint of gratitude but Boone showed none.

“We’re not alone,” He said, instead. As if that much were not already obvious. The stairwell split into two opposing sides. “I’ll take that way,” Boone said, before heading down the stairs before Arcade could oppose them splitting up.

He held tight to his pistol as he ventured the other route. Boone’s gunshots echoed the metal walls. He was relieved to see they rejoined on the same floor. Boone took the liberty of surveying one of the rooms. Arcade took to the opposite, which looked to be a lab. Promising, Arcade thought.

He took out another plant-person as it rose from another cluster of flora. He wondered, with some morbidity, if these creatures were indeed once human. Maybe even the scientists working in this vault.

A light shone on a large blossom, catching Arcade’s attention. He approached with caution, pistol pointed forward in case another creature spawned from it. The blossom opened, releasing a visible cloud of spores. Instinctively, Arcade gasped. It smelled, he was embarrassed to admit, like sex. He pressed the sleeve of his lab coat to his face, trying to avoid breathing any more of it in and promptly left the room in search of Boone.

“We need to leave,” He told the sniper, when he encountered him loitering in one of the labs. “There’s spores in the air, and who knows what harm they could be if we breath them.” He thought of the corpse they found that looked like a human body entirely encased in flora. No doubt they would soon share a similar fate. Boone did not seem particularly riveted by Arcade’s words. Arcade felt his blood warm. Frustration. He knew he wasn’t exactly the type to give orders, but he wished Boone would at least listen to him. “We need gas masks and then we can try again. I’m sure Sloan would understand,” Arcade added, considering maybe Boone was afraid of disappointing Sloan.

“There’s spores in here too,” Boone stated, pointing towards a similar looking blossom.

“Yeah, exactly why we need to get out of here,” Arcade reiterated. He never realized how dull Boone was. Abandoning all caution, he reached for Boone’s hand, giving it a tug. Surprisingly, the contact earned no response from the other man.

“Are you feeling feverish?” Boone asked. Arcade paused. He had been feeling a little warmer and

his heart was pounding in his chest. He assumed it was out of ire towards the sniper. He pressed the back of his hand to his forehead. It was warm. “You look flushed,” Boone commented.

“Yeah, well something really fucked up is going on in this vault, so excuse me for being a little worked up,” Arcade replied. His heart was really pounding, as if he had just ran a lap around Freeside. Sure he was upset at Boone, but even he acknowledged that it was a bit of an exaggerated response to the situation. Unless it was the pollen he inhaled causing him to have an accelerated heart rate.

“Worked up is right,” Boone commented. He scratched his buzzed head under his beret. Arcade noticed how low Boone was looking. He followed his line of vision, noticed a small tent had formed in his pants. He could add this to the list of awkward moments he had gotten a boner.

“I’m not going to let you die down here just because you want to be difficult,” Arcade redirected the conversation back to what was most urgent. He grabbed the collar of Boone’s shirt and pulled. Boone swatted his hand away, but it got him to start moving.

Arcade kept his plasma pistol close in case they encountered any more of those spore creatures on the way back out. Every cluster of flora that broke through the metal floor of the vault put Arcade a little bit more at unease. He jumped upon seeing a corpse of one Boone had sniped earlier, laying among all of the plants.

The further up they went, the warmer Arcade felt. He was coated in a fierce sweat, as if he were fighting a fever, his glasses fogged a bit from the heat radiating from his body. Arcade paused to catch his breath. Boone took note.

“Hey,” The concern in his voice was forreign to Arcade. “What’s up?” That was probably the closest Boone was going to come to saying ‘are you okay?’

“I’m not going to lie, I’m not feeling great,” Arcade confessed. He was having a difficult time placing what was wrong. He did not feel ill. Despite the high body temperature, he knew he didn’t have a fever. He just felt exceptionally wound up, like he had just did a warm up lap and was ready to do more.

“Something’s not right,” Boone said, in agreement. Arcade looked towards him. Boone was looking flushed as well. He didn’t mean to look, but it was hard to ignore the swell tugging against cargo pants.

Boone stepped closer, causing Arcade to take a step back. He couldn’t see behind Boone’s sniper shades, but he thought he was pissed, that he was going to hurt him. Instead, Boone clutched Arcade’s sleeve, pinching it tight inside his fist. “I need help, Doc.”

Arcade’s heart felt like it was going to burst out of his chest. He felt as rough as Boone looked, as if their bodies were going to give out from stress if relief didn’t come soon. “I don’t…” Arcade stuttered. “I-I don’t know what to do.”

“Bullshit,” Boone growled through clenched teeth.

Sweat loosened the pomade in Arcade’s hair, so that strands dangled in his face. He brushed them back, all the while leaning on a computer mainframe for support. He did have an idea of how to treat this condition. While it wasn’t an unpleasant idea, it also wasn’t something Arcade impulsively rushed into, like Sloan might. He had secrets to keep, secrets that didn’t belong with such intimate acts.

But he was also certain not doing so would kill them. Already the stress was taking a toll on Arcade’s body. He knew they wouldn’t make it far from the vault before one or both of them would suffer a stroke or cardiac arrest.

“Yes. Fine,” Arcade conceded. “Are you sure this is what you want?” Neither of them had any other choice, but Arcade needed consent before performing this sort of procedure.

Next thing Arcade knew, Boone’s hand was on the collar of his button down, pulling him down to his shorter height and mashing his lips against Arcade’s. His glasses clacked with Boone’s, knocking them askew on his face. Arcade removed his and rested it on the mainframe before returning his lips to Boone’s.

Boone’s breath was hot on his face. He kissed ravenously, like Boone had been wandering the Mojave for days and Arcade was the first drink of water. His hands grasped at Arcade with the same urgency, while constantly shifting place, as if Boone was still trying to figure out what felt right.

Arcade stifled the question in his mind of whether Boone had ever been with a man before. He was confident Boone hadn’t engaged in sexual activities since the loss of his wife. Being close to someone now must have been weird to him, regardless of anatomy.

He decided to offer Boone some assistance, and pulled his lab coat off before beginning to unbutton his shirt. It clung to his body, damp with sweat. Boone eyed him for a moment before doing the same with his t-shirt.

His stocky torso shined with sweat. His skin was battered with scars all at different stages of healing, but his shape was soft and inviting. Round pectoral muscles and a slight pudge of stomach cushioning ropes of muscles beneath. Arcade would be lying if he said he never found Boone attractive previously, he just didn’t think Boone would be interested. Even now, Boone hesitated. He realized Boone was waiting for his direction.

Arcade took his hands in his own and guided them towards his chest. Boone traced along his torso before eagerly coming in for another kiss. Their chests pressed together, he could feel the heat radiating off of Boone. Arcade was painfully erect and the slightest brush of cloth against his groin made him ache.

He reached between their bodies to free himself from his pants. Boone mirrored him before turning around and leaning against the mainframe. Arcade was taken aback, watching as Boone waited for him. Two pale mounds that were his now exposed ass facing in his direction. Now it was Arcade’s turn to be cautious.

Boone looked over his shoulder towards Arcade. “Please.” His voice was low, so that he almost missed it.

Arcade held his hips between his hands. He lined himself up and then pressed in. He couldn’t help the moan that escaped from him. Boone bit down on his own hand. At first he was worried it was bad for him, then he realized Boone was trying to stifle his own noise.

“Harder.”

Arcade obliged. Each thrust came easier than the one before and scratched at his itch. Finally the tension building inside of him felt right instead of something that wanted to kill him. Shamefully, Arcade did not last long, nor did Boone, as the latter climaxed shortly after him. Much to Arcade’s surprise, he was still hard as he pulled out.

“That’s...new,” He remarked. Boone turned around, his erection mirroring his own.

Before Arcade could question if these effects were going to be permanent, Boone was on him again. His bare cock brushed against Arcade’s. Even the slightest touch made small fires light inside of him. He watched as Boone lined them up. Boone’s hands were rough with callouses, but warm as he surrounded them both. Arcade placed his slender fingers over Boone’s, squeezing their hold tighter as together they pumped. Boone leaned his head on Arcade’s shoulder. He could hear every raspy breath that shook through Boone, mixed in with a small, whispered ‘fuck.’ Arcade gasped as Boone bit his neck. It must have done something for him, because next thing he knew, he was releasing again, this time onto Boone’s stomach. Boone’s hot fluid dripped onto his fingers.

Arcade was out of breath. Carefully, he lowered himself onto a patch of the vault’s floor that didn’t look as dirty as the rest. His chest heaves, deprived of air. His heart still thunders, but not with the same urgency as before. His member, though still firm, was beginning to wilt ever so slightly.

Boone knelt beside him. Arcade now noticed that his beret had fallen off at some point, leaving his buzzed haircut exposed. It sparkled with flecks of sweat that dripped onto his temples.

“I think...it’s working,” Arcade commented. He leaned his head against the mainframe, feeling like he was going to collapse from exhaustion.

“We’re not done yet,” Boone said. He crawled closer before he laid on his belly before Arcade, his head in the researcher’s lap. Arcade gasped as he felt Boone’s hot breath against his cock, moments before he took Arcade inside of his mouth.

At first, Arcade watched as Boone’s head bobbed, afraid to touch him, which was probably silly considering everything that had happened between them recently. He gave in and gently raked his fingers through the bristles of Boone’s cropped hair. Boone’s moan vibrated against his cock, causing Arcade’s breath to catch. This part lasted longer. Or maybe Arcade’s head was clear enough that he could finally concentrate on what was happening, rather than all his previous actions passing by in blurred emotions. Before was so desperate, like relieving pain. This...this was kind of...nice, he had to admit.

When Arcade inevitably released, he half expected Boone to pull away in disgust. Instead, he accepted the load without complaint. Arcade reached for his canteen and downed half of it, attempting to replenish all the water his body had sweated out. He wiped excess moisture from his lips as he offered the canteen to Boone. Boone accepted.

“What about you?” Arcade asked. His eyes drifted to the semi-erection that bounced between Boone’s legs as he shifted. Boone finished off the canteen before answering.

“I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

He sealed the empty canteen and handed it back to Arcade, before shirking his cargo pants back up his thighs. “Yeah.”

Arcade watched him straighten out his clothes, pushing his shades back up his nose and readjusting his beret atop his head. He didn’t seem to be changing his mind anytime soon.

“We should leave,” he said. Arcade had to agree, before they encountered more spores. He wasn’t sure how many times his body could go through something like that before it finally quit.

His vision cleared once his glasses returned to rest before his eyes. Arcade covered himself again while Boone stood watch, holding his rifle. If they had been attacked while lost in their frenzy of desire, they would have been goners. Arcade could count himself lucky that hadn’t been a problem.

“Hey,” Arcade sought his attention, touching his arm lightly. He half expected Boone to flinch away from his touch, but he didn’t. His shaded eyes turned towards Arcade. Arcade brushed his lips against Boone’s. They tasted salty of sweat and his own cum. Boone’s lips moved gently in response, feeling for the briefest of moments the wetness of a tongue before it ended as abruptly as it began.

“We can’t tell Sloan,” Boone said, after an elongated moment of silence.

“Absolutely not,” Arcade said, in agreement, before the two headed back towards the surface.

#my fics #fallout #fallout new vegas #arcade gannon #craig boone #arcade/boone #boonecade

31 notes · View notes

phantomphangphucker · 4 years

Text

DannyMay Day 17 & 18: Childhood & Horror- Why (It) Wont (It) Burn

FentonWorks is a place of horrible nightmares and two ignored children.

FentonWorks was a place no one wanted to go. No one wanted to pass by. No one wanted to be near. No one want to see it. All the houses around effectively abandoned.

Some whispered about trying to tear the place down or burn it to the ground. No one ever meant it though. Because that meant dealing with it. Dealing with what happened. Dealing with both the what’s and who’s inside.

And no one wanted that even more.

Everyone knew what had happened. Knew the what’s and who’s. Just because they knew doesn’t mean they had to deal with it. Had to even acknowledge it. Sure those two who’s, the little children, didn’t have a choice. But that wasn’t the town’s problem.

Even if no child was to be left behind. Even if children were the future. Even if children were the ones that should always be protected. Even if children were innocent. And sweet. And cute. And special. Even if children were meant to be protected.

That was supposed to be the parents' job. But theirs couldn’t manage that. Not before and certainly not now. Maybe. Everyone chooses to ignore that too. Whether or not the two parents stayed dead or not. No one knew what option would be better.

Just like no one knew how those two children -so young at eight and ten now- had survived there for four years. How they still survived. All alone. Hopefully alone. The town knew they weren’t really alone, but that was better ignored. Because it would be better if they were alone.

Everyone saw the what’s, the things, that fly past windows. Or stick to the glass. Stick their claws, tongues, or eyes under the door. The things that rattle the doorknobs or shake the walls. The echoing snarls, growls, and shrieks.

Everyone ignores when there are screams that don’t echo. Screams that are undoubted human. Undoubtedly small and tiny, from small and tiny bodies. No one talks about those screams.

No one wants to.

Why would they? It would mean acknowledging everything.

The exploded portal. The things it released. The parents it took. And the children it left behind.

The house kept the things contained. Whether the building did that all on its own or the children had a hand in it, no one wanted to know. But it was more than enough to leave the building untouched and still standing. It was enough to simply pretend the children barely existed.

No one was kind to them. No one helped them. But no one hurt them either.

They could walk, crawl, or run through the Casper High halls all they wanted. Could take whatever cafeteria food they wanted, however much they wanted. They could go to the theatre without paying. Or take groceries right out the doors without ever so much as glancing at the checkout.

The children were kept only in people’s subconscious memory and awareness as much as possible, after all. No one would want to interact with them enough to get payment or grade homework anyways.

But there’s somethings that just can’t be ignored. Jasmine, the responsible one. Always the one with groceries. Always the one patching up the twos wounds. Always the one speaking. So often comforting or encouraging or soothing the boy. An older sister, being an older sister.

She wasn’t okay.

There was a lot wrong with her now.

She repeated herself so much. Muttered more than spoke. Shook and shake more often than not. Her cheeks absolutely were permanently tear-stained; and eyes always rimmed red. Skinny where she was once lean. Crispy stringy hair, that was once smooth and hydrated. If anyone dared or considered to ask a professional, they’d say she had lost bits of her mind. Had broken under hardship and torment.

But no one wanted to think about that. No one wanted to know that. So no one asked, and no helped.

Even if the town, on a deep level, were terrified the girl would end her life.

Most terrified for selfish reasons. Maybe the children were all that held the things in the house back. Some because they still cared on principle, children should never die. Others because of the other child. Because of Daniel.

Daniel had become wrong not even months after everything. After the house became intertwined with death and caused it. The only sounds he ever made matched the snarls and growls, merely lacking the echo. He didn’t know how to smile; only how to bare his teeth like a threat. Hands and fingers always held like claws. Hair black and slick, that seemingly dripped like oil but only at a glance. Bone skinny yet with sharp angular muscles clinging to the bone and underneath taught skin. Pale white skin, that seemed to crack and split to leak green sometimes. Intense blue eyes, sharp as ice and sparkling in a way that eyes just shouldn’t.

He moved too fast. Stared too much. Stilled too often and for too long. He just wasn’t human enough.

No one wanted Daniel left all alone. No one wanted to know or have to see, what would become of him. If he’d became even more wrong.

But the thing everyone feared most was that maybe, just maybe, Daniel was more of a what now than a who. Was something that needed to be contained. Was the one thing that house somehow couldn’t contain.

Jasmine still treated him like a little brother. That was something. But considering her questionable mental state, it didn’t mean much. And half the time, the way she hugged him and clung to him, just felt creepy. Like an addict clutching to the drug destroying them. The way that Daniel seemed to not notice or care, didn’t help ease people’s clenching stomachs or grimaces.

What most of them thought was the worst feeling was the intrusive thoughts urging them to raise that house to the ground with all the what’s and both the who’s inside. Cleanse the town.

Everyone could tell when someone’s intrusive thought became something closer to an actual desire. With how that person would stand and stare at the house. Maybe with a weapon or gas or a lighter or a bottle of hard liquor.

No one ever actually tried. Never acted on it. Never fully meant it. Because...

Daniel always knew.

The wind would blow, the curtains inside the front window moving with the wind somehow.

And the child would be there. He’d be staring. He’d always lock eyes with whoever. And whoever would lose their guts.

It was like the boy was daring them to do it. To try it. Whether or not that was a plea or a threat, was another thing no one wanted to think about.

So the house was left alone. The things inside ignored as best as they could be. The two unfortunate children an avoided staple of the town. And everyone hoping it stayed that way.

The day they all had to deal with the fallout of that curs-ed place would be a truly terrible one. But maybe, just maybe, they’d never have to. Maybe those children’s childhood would be enough payment for whatever sin their parents committed at the cost of their lives.

Course nothing can stay the same. Nothing can stay unchanged. And somethings really can’t be ignored.

One of those echoing glowing things had shown up outside of the house.

Everyone had screamed and ran. It was unbridled panic. Panic that had stilled and stared when the boy had suddenly been there too.

Had stared and bared teeth at the glowing thing. Many could have sworn his eyes swirled with green, and white flames licked off his hair if you had looked at him right.

And the thing had shrieked. Had fled.

But wherever the thing went, Daniel was just somehow there. Why the green thing didn’t think to fly up, no one knows. At they certainly weren’t ever going to ask.

Regardless, Daniel had eventually grabbed the thing. And...

He tore It to shreds.

Ripped off chunks and scraps.

The town -or much of it, having been attracted by gossip or the chaos- had watched the small child devour the thing. Devoured one of the things they were all terrified of.

Shoved bits in his mouth and squished it to splatter around his mouth and face with white teeth.

Curled his tongue around smaller bits while tearing big bits apart with bare fingers.

Had left nothing but faintly glowing smears on the pavement, licking his lips all the while.

The boy was a predator.

And then he spoke with green stained teeth.

“You, good bait”.

The girl had skipped up on shoes not quite the right size. Had wiped his face off with a too-white handkerchief.

“Where’re your manners. Manners. Manners. Manners. Where? Manners where? Messy Danny. Keep you clean. Clean only to be messy again”.

The girl was a caretaker.

He had stuck out his tongue, dripping glowing neon green, at her. Had left that tongue hanging out while glancing around at the crowd and showing all his teeth in a mockery of a grin.

And they knew then. They weren’t letting that house stay standing. Weren’t letting the children live and do as they pleased. The children, Daniel, was letting them stick around him and his house.

End.

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malcyon · 4 years

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Dusk To Dawn

Summary: “Alright. You don’t need my help,” Jason says, voice significantly quieter than it was. He glances at Tim hesitantly. “But do you want it?”

*****

Tim didn't mean to meet the Waynes, it just happened.

Ch 1

Read on AO3

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Tim’s dress shoes are too small as he stands in front of his father, trying not to fidget as the man does his bowtie with sharp, efficient movements. Mrs. Drake sits by the vanity, fixing her lipstick and watching him from the corners of her eyes. He wants to say something about how the tips of his shoes are pinching his toes.

She closes her lipstick with a snap.

Tim stays quiet.

Mr. Drake finishes with the tie, taking a step back to inspect his work, and Tim’s mother raises an eyebrow in the mirror. “Are you finally ready, then?”

“Yes, I think so,” the man says, dusting off the shoulder of Tim’s brand new, too big tux. He fiddles with the long sleeves, trying to ignore the itchiness of the cloth against his skin. His father frowns. Tim stops.

He hates parties.

His mother stands, heels clicking like a metronome on the shiny hardwood floorboards as she walks towards him. Janet Drake isn’t a tall woman, but Tim still has to tilt his head up to look at her. She takes his bowtie in her slender hands, tightening it until it’s snug against his throat. Her perfume smells expensive and it fills his nose.

“It’s an important night, Timothy.” She smiles a perfect smile. “Make us proud.”

Tim nods and smiles back.

They go downstairs and get into the waiting car without saying another word to each other.

He knows it isn’t normal to have parents that come and go out of his life the way his do. That show up for a couple of days every few months before taking off on another plane to another city. That don’t know his shoe size. That weren’t home for his birthday for the past four years in a row.

But it doesn’t bother him. It doesn’t.

And it isn’t hard to play the life Tim’s parents have created for him. His classes are relatively easy, and even though he doesn’t have any close friends, he sits at a lunch table with a few of the other kids. He keeps his grades high, just enough to make the teachers like him. He never gets in trouble and never breaks the rules.

And when his parents pluck him up and shoo him to one of their many parties, he smiles and goes without complaint. He charms the old women, makes the men in their stuffy suits chuckle and remember him as a future networker. Plays the room until his head is dizzy from the champagne in the air and his parents whisk him back to bed, leaving in the morning before he can even wake up.

Timothy Jackson Drake is a perfect student, a perfect son.

But Tim isn’t.

He isn’t exactly sure when he started paying attention to Batman. It began innocently enough; noticing the headlines and the news stories, ears perking up when the masked man was mentioned on the radio. And the information just . . . stuck.

He started to track the known locations of criminal organizations on a map in his closet, signed up for computer programming classes at school to learn how to code (and, on his own, how to hack), and started to listen to kids who he knew had familial connections to gangs. But it isn’t anything serious, just something to do when he got bored. Or, it was.

Tim was two when his parents had taken him to the circus. He still has the picture from that evening on a shelf in his room, him sitting on the lap of an older boy wearing a colorful costume. That same boy would go on to perform the Quadruple Flip of Doom as the rest of the Graysons flew through the air around him, all their tricks done without a net.

They should have had a net.

He had nightmares about it for weeks. Gave the nanny a heart attack every night when he woke up screaming. The tragedy was seared into his soul, branded into his brain.

And maybe that’s why it was so easy to put the pieces together. To figure out Robin.

Richard John Grayson. Formerly an acrobat prodigy at Haly’s Circus, currently operating as Nightwing at the Teen Titans base in New York City. Adopted at eight years old by billionaire Bruce Wayne after the tragic performance that left his entire family dead.

Adopted by Batman.

The realization was like a slap to the face.

It was hard to believe at first, that the man Tim had seen fall into his own fountain could be the same man that punched criminals through windows and dressed up like a giant bat. But the longer he thought about it, the more it made sense.

There was more to Bruce Wayne than he initially thought, and Tim had to know more.

So he watched. Started sneaking out of the house at night and catching the late bus, not like there was anybody that could stop him, a backpack slung over his shoulder and a camera clutched in his hands. And by now, Tim is sure he knows the city better than most people who live in it.

He isn’t an idiot, stays well away from the East End and Crime Alley. He even keeps pepper spray in his bag and a small pocket knife within reach, even if he hasn’t had to use them yet. Most people don’t even notice him as he slips in and out of the subway and bus stops, a tiny ghost among the city’s dim lights. Despite that, Tim keeps to the shadows, has figured out how to blend in with the darkness that appears at street corners.

That particular talent has kept him out of trouble more than once.

It isn’t like he’s seen anything horrible, just glimpses of gang brawls here and there, the Bats attacking one of their Rogues. Not that he sticks around long enough to learn what happens in any of those situations, Tim prefers to not end up as another smear on the sidewalk, thanks.

But still, he can’t help but wish that he could do something. Fight back, somehow—the way Batman does.

He’s never gotten close enough to really watch the vigilante work; it’s hard enough to guess where the man’s going to pop up. But still, hours of monitoring social media sites, searching the depths of the GCPD’s public records, and simply listening to street talk has gotten him pretty far. Sure he doesn’t see Batman and Robin a lot, but he’s seen them far more than anybody else in Gotham.

There’s a pointed cough in front of him, and Tim straightens from his slouch, thrust back into the bitter reality that he isn’t going to be on Gotham’s streets tonight. His mother leans over from where she’s sitting next to his father, plucking a microscopic piece of lint off his shoulder. He tries not to flinch.

Four and a half hours. He just has to make it through the next four and a half hours.

His father says, without looking up from where he’s tapping on his phone, “There are going to be several people I want you to meet tonight, Tim. Future connections. So smile, be polite,—” his dark eyes flick to Tim, once—“and do not be an embarrassment.”

The words are cold and Tim wants to say something in return, but his voice sticks in his throat. Instead, he swallows, nods, and goes back to staring out the limousine window.

It’s not often that Wayne Manor itself is used to hold the city’s annual charity gala, and his parents had pounced on their invitation, ready to primp and preen under the spotlight. They had flown in from his father’s digsite only yesterday, barely spared him a glance as they chattered about who was going to be there and was worth talking too.

He doesn’t know how they do it, this act they put on. Parading him around, telling the other rich socialites how, “Oh, yes, Timmy’s at the top of his class; he’s just so clever for a boy his age,” as if they even bother to check his report cards. Still, he goes along, beaming with every lie that comes out of his mouth about his wonderful, perfect family.

It makes something curl up and wither in Tim’s ribs, playing this game. Rotting him from the inside and making his smiles more brittle with every gala.

He wonders if this should be how most kids feel when their parents come home, like their chest is about to shatter as if made of glass. Like they’re going to snap. Tim stares at his reflection in the car window.

Only four and a half hours.

*****

Dick is already regretting this decision, and he hasn’t even entered the house yet.

The glittering lights and press blend together as he strides through the Manor’s front doors, offering the photographers a bright grin as he goes past. Their cameras light up like fireworks in response.

He ignores the questions yelled out to him (“Mr. Grayson, what brings you back to Gotham?”, “What’s your relationship with the model, Kory Anders?” and the favorite, “What caused the fallout between you and Bruce Wayne?”). Just keeps walking despite the stares burning into his back. The attention is almost tangible as it weighs down on him, and while Dick doesn’t mind being in the limelight now and then, the scrutiny makes him feel like an insect under a microscope. He suppresses a grimace as one particular older woman leers as he goes by.

There’s a reason he’s never liked these things.

Dick doesn’t stand in the front parlor to soak up his old home’s warmth, forcing himself to keep moving with the other guests down the roped-off path that leads to the ballroom. He doesn’t look at the walls, either, doesn’t want to see if Bruce has kept any of his pictures up.

His steps are fast on the old floors, whispers following in his wake as he enters the gala. He ignores them.

The party isn’t anything special, just another one of Bruce’s charity fundraisers. Dick can already feel himself growing bored with the backdrop of expensive velvet dresses and smooth jazz playing in the corner. He scans the people around him as he strolls through the crowd, looking for Jason or at least a familiar face.

Hell, he’d even take Bruce.

He keeps his head down as he passes millionaires and models alike, praying that nobody will recognize him for several more minutes. It doesn’t work.

The first woman seems nice enough, with long, dark hair and a blush covering her cheeks. She reaches up and straightens the bowtie around his neck, a blue that Kory had picked out. She’d told him it ‘matched his eyes.’

But the woman in front of him only says, “Your father really shouldn’t have let you out without fixing this first.” He smiles on reflex, but his stomach turns cold, and her words ring in his ears as several other party-goers quickly approach. Your father.

Their compliments and questions overlap and their faces meld together as Dick stares over their heads at the far wall.

Your father.

The first woman tugs lightly at his arm and he blinks, grinning to let her know everything is perfectly fine. She doesn’t look convinced.

He almost jumps when he feels a hand clasp his shoulder. Dick glances backward, relaxing as he realizes it’s only Alfred. The butler frowns, pulling him away from the small crowd that had gathered.

“I wasn’t aware that you would be making an appearance tonight, Master Richard.”

He shrugs and avoids the older man’s gaze. “It was a last-minute decision; Jason persuaded me.”

Begged was more like it. Alfred raises an eyebrow. “And Master Bruce’s invitation had nothing to do with it?”

Dick shrugs again. The expensive paper had stared at him from his nightstand the past week, a hesitant peace offering he’d received in the mail, one that he wasn’t sure he wanted to accept. At least, until Roy had practically kicked him out of the Tower, telling him to go sort out his daddy issues.

Dick had nearly pointed out how hypocritical that statement was but decided that being petty wasn’t worth getting shot with an arrow.

Alfred says nothing in response and only gives him a quiet smile. Dick returns it and lets the butler guide him in the direction of the desserts. No matter the problems he and Bruce have, Dick won’t bring Alfred into them. After all he’s done, trying to keep their broken family together, the man doesn’t deserve it.

As they pass tables laden with food, Alfred subtly nudges him in the direction of one of the columns in the room’s corner. Jason stands behind it, furiously tapping something out on his phone, and carefully hiding from prying eyes. Dick flashes the butler a grateful look and hurries over, trying not to grab anyone’s attention as he takes cover behind the pillar.

Jason glances up at his sudden entrance and his face splits into a blinding grin. “Holy fuck, you actually came.” Dick beams back and wraps his little brother up in a one-armed hug before ruffling his hair.

Jason grumbles and ducks out of the embrace, face scrunched in embarrassment, and Dick’s smile becomes a bit more real. Settling next to Jason, he says. “Course I came, wasn’t going to miss out on a chance for free food.” He gestures to the phone in Jason’s grip. “What’s that all about?”

Shoving his phone into his pocket, Jason mutters under his breath, “Just some bullshit.” Dick nods, words swirling around his mouth as he tries to figure out how to respond to that. He takes a stab in the dark.

“Girls?” Jason gives him a glare, and Dick flounders, tries again. “. . . Boys?”

Jason chokes, turning an interesting shade of red, “Jesus, no, no, I . . . Rena’s trying to get back together.”

“That girl in your social studies class? I thought you were still dating,” Dick says, tilting his head in question. A small part of him withers with his lapse in knowledge; when was the last time he had talked to Jason? Actually talked to him.

He knows that some of the other Titans worry about his little brother: Donna mothers him constantly, and Gar always tries to coax him out of his shell. And it’s helped, sure, but a small voice in Dick’s head whispers that Jason will look over his shoulder for the rest of his life. That no matter how much he trusts them, he’ll always be waiting to get stabbed in the back.

And that . . . that makes something deep inside Dick curl up and hurt. And the worst part is that some of Jason’s struggle is because of him.

Dick isn’t blind; he knows the comparisons people make between him and his adopted brother. He sees the wince Jason hides behind his smiles when they talk about ‘the new Robin.’ Forget the fact that Jason has held the title for years now; he’s always the one being dissected with every move, always in Dick’s shadow.

Not that he was always there for Jason either; Dick can own up to the fact that he was a petty asshole the first few months Jason had been taken in. A mixture of hurt, jealousy, and anger made it hard to even look the kid in the eye, knowing that whatever Dick had been as Robin, he hadn’t been good enough for Bruce. That his adopted father had decided to try again with someone new.

It took him too long to pull his head out of his ass. To personally give the kid his blessing and officially hand down the costume. Why the hell Jason even talks to Dick is beyond him considering how much of a jerk he’d been. He’s been trying to own up to it, stealing time for his brother when he could. Maybe that was why he came to the party and—God, he doesn’t want to think about that. That coming here tonight was just out of some messed up guilt for Jason’s sake.

He focuses back on Jason’s sour expression. Girl problems, he can do that. Maybe even give some advice. Isn’t that what older brothers are supposed to do? Give advice?

Dick raises an eyebrow and Jason shrugs, scuffing the floor with a polished shoe. He tries a grin, “Well, if you need any help, I’m only a phone call away.” Jason snorts.

“I think I’ll go to Barbara first, thanks,” he says, then freezes as the words catch up to him.

The air around them chills. Dick looks down.

Jason is the first to break the silence. “How . . . is she?”

He shrugs, ignoring the tight fists his hands have become. “ . . . Adjusting.” Jason nods, eyes flicking through the area around them, and Dick can suddenly see Robin doing the same thing on Gotham’s streets.

“Wanna talk someplace quieter?”

Dick forces a smile that he knows is too sharp. “Lead the way.”

Jason stares at him for a second, and Dick catches something fleeting and sad in his eyes before he turns away. They stay silent as they weave through the room, ducking and avoiding the attempts at conversation thrown at them.

Dick runs a hand through his hair, tries to focus on the back of Jason’s suit as they enter the areas of the house that were off-limits to guests. Distantly he realizes that Jason is leading him to the library, the one right next to Bruce’s study. He glances up at a picture frame as he passes by and openly winces at seeing his own, younger grin behind the glass.

He should have stayed home.

As soon as they enter the room, Jason shuts the door behind them before leaning against it to take a breath. Dick can’t blame him; parties were one of the worst parts about getting involved with Bruce Wayne.

Silence settles between them, and Dick bitterly watches the dust that floats through the air. Jason glances at him. “Seriously. How’s Barbie?”

Dick laughs, harsh and quiet. “Well, she’s lost all feeling in half of her body, so I’m pretty sure she’s not that great, Jason.” The other boy flinches, and Dick screws his eyes shut, rubbing his temples. Fuck, he’s not good at this. “Sorry, I’m . . . that was a shitty thing to say.”

He lets his head fall back against a bookshelf behind him, and Jason shrugs, but Dick can still see the hurt in his eyes. “It’s fine. I know you get tense when you’re around here.”

“Shouldn’t have said it, though.” Jason shrugs again. Dick takes a breath. “Babs is . . . upset.”

“No fucking shit.”

Dick actually snorts at that, stares at the ceiling. “God, it feels like everything is falling apart, you know? Including the Titans, I mean, Garth won’t talk to anybody about Tula, Roy is spending less and less time with the team, and he won’t fucking say why. Wally is literally running himself to death trying to live Barry’s life and–”

He stops, looks at Jason’s bewildered face, then presses the heels of his hands against his eyes. Makes a note to not unload this bullshit on the kid. Jason has his own problems, he doesn’t need Dick’s too. “Shit, I’m rambling, sorry. It’s just that I usually talk to Kory about this stuff, but we’ve been arguing lately.”

“I thought you guys were cool?”

“We are, this is the first time we’ve fought like this and—” He shakes his head—“Come on, aren’t I supposed to be giving you relationship advice?” The younger boy rubs his foot against the ground again.

“Maybe you should talk to her anyway,” Jason says carefully. Dick raises an eyebrow and he quickly continues, “I mean. . . Kory will always be there to listen and she probably wants to listen even if you’re fighting. You just gotta talk.”

Dick looks away and closes his eyes. “Yeah, maybe.” He frowns, forces his thoughts away from Kory and their differences and a million other things. “Speaking of talking, how are you holding up with B?”

Jason hesitates and opens his mouth like he wants to say something else, but a thump followed by laughter echoes from behind one of the walls, makes him pause.

The door connecting Bruce’s study and the library suddenly swings open, and Bruce stumbles out, a giggling blonde latched onto his arm. Jason curses under his breath and Dick straightens up, jaw tensing.

Bruce freezes in the doorway with the woman still laughing into his neck. His gaze darts between them, the shock on his face snapping into a drunk smile. “Delphine, I believe we may have some company.”

The lady blinks up, looking over at Dick and Jason in surprise then back to Bruce with a bemused expression. “You need to talk with your children, yes?” she asks in a heavy French accent. Dick’s stomach lurches in a slow roll, and he forces himself not to look away from where Bruce’s gaze narrows at him.

He knows she doesn’t see the tightening of Bruce’s smile when he answers, “Yes, I’ll meet you in the ballroom. Save me a dance?”

She presses a red kiss to his cheek. “Of course, mon chéri.” The woman turns from Bruce, and Dick opens the door for her as she whisks past with a playful, “Merci.”

He nods his head and locks the door behind her, the metal knob chilling against his palm. Steeling himself, he turns back around.

Anything left of Brucie’s drunken facade is gone, and the man in front of him appraises Dick with familiar calculation. Dick can see Jason resting against the book-covered wall next to him from the corner of his eye, trying to appear relaxed but not quite pulling it off. Several tense seconds pass, marked only by the ticking clock above the dark fireplace.

Bruce looks him over. “Dick. I wasn’t expecting you.”

Dick stiffens, the words he wasn’t even going to say stilling on his tongue. “Wasn’t expecting me? You . . . You sent me an invitation, Bruce.”

The man blinks, looks between him and Jason slowly.

“I didn’t send you an invitation,” Bruce says, confusion barely marking his voice.

Something inside Dick goes very, very cold. Of course, he didn’t. Stupid, stupid, stupid, it must have been Alfred, or maybe his name had gotten mixed in with the invites somehow. It doesn’t matter. It really doesn’t fucking matter.

He glances over at Jason, who seems just as taken back, eye flicking between him and their adopted father like he’s watching a flaming tennis match. Dick bites his lip and tries not to squirm under Bruce’s stare as he scrambles for words.

“Oh. Well, I . . . I guess there’s no reason for me to stay, then. I can be gone in ten minutes.” He reaches back to open the door, and the handle jiggles in place. Fuck, he’d locked it, right. He fumbles, manages to get it open even though his hand is stiff and clumsy. “Just got to call a cab. Tell Lucius and Leslie I said hello.”

Shit, shit, shit, he needs to run. Has to get out of this house. Heat is crawling up the back of his neck, horrible and burning and he needs to leave.

Jason starts desperately, “Dick, you don’t have to—”

But he’s already gone.

His steps are clipped and fast on the wood floor, heart thumping in his ears. He feels sick; hot and cold all at once, and, God, he never should have left New York. Fuck.

He doesn’t know why he thought it’d be different this time. Doesn’t know what he even expected by coming here tonight. An apology, maybe? But Bruce doesn’t do apologies, never has, probably never will. He should have known better.

Dick doesn’t even register the footsteps behind him until a large hand is on his shoulder and turning him around.

It’s Bruce. Face pinched and awkward and looking like he would rather be anywhere else, but it’s Bruce.

“I—No, no, don’t leave. I didn’t mean it like that, Dick.” His voice is cautious, gaze less intense than it was several seconds ago. “Stay, Alfred can make some tea. He’s missed you, I’ve— . . . We all have.”

Dick stares at him, brain scratching like a broken record. He can make out Jason peeking at them from behind the library door, expression hopeful. The younger boy locks eyes with him and nods meaningfully.

He shifts uneasily, looking back at his former mentor and noticing the red stains on Bruce’s cheek. “Don’t you have a dance with Delphine? And a party to attend?”

Bruce almost snorts but not quite. “I’m sure she’ll understand. And I host several parties every year that raise millions of dollars to keep this city running. Who gives a flying shit if I miss this one?”

Dick laughs, choked and a bit wet, and Jason makes an admonished noise from where he’d quietly joined them. “Why do you get to curse and I don’t? That’s total bullshit.”

Bruce deadpans, “And that’s a quarter in the swear jar. At this point, I might as well just put your allowance in there instead of giving it to the middleman.” Jason grumbles and lightly shoves at Bruce’s side. The man smiles at that and gives Dick’s shoulder an awkward squeeze. “You two can wait in the library while I hunt down Alfred for tea. I’ll be back.”

Dick manages a nod, head swimming with twenty different things he wants to say and not knowing how to begin. In the end, he doesn’t say anything at all and just watches as Bruce’s form retreats down the hallway. He looks back at Jason, who’s grinning from ear to ear.

Carefully, Dick lets himself smile back.

*****

It’s not even eleven yet, and Tim is already exhausted. As soon as they arrived, his parents were practically shoving him into the laps of old, rich ladies and men alike. The kind of people who would humor a small boy who gushes about his father, saying ‘how he wants to be just like him when he grows up.’ And when Jack Drake eventually comes up behind him, smiling cheerfully as he talks his way into these peoples’ money and minds, Tim looks away.

He’s used to feeling like a means to an end, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it.

Still, he goes when his father prods him in his mother’s direction. She’s talking to a group of younger women who are wearing jewels as big as his fist. He quietly moves to her side, knowing the game by heart at this point.

On cue, right after Janet Drake makes a particularly witty comment that sends the other women into laughter, she lays a hand on Tim’s shoulder and pulls him to the front. It’s a matter of minutes before he has the ladies wrapped around his finger while his mother watches like a hawk right behind him. There’s no room for mistakes tonight.

Eventually, she nudges him back to his father. And Tim goes.

This is how these nights always play out, moving from group to group. Gathering possible investors and shyly introducing them to his parents. It’s not difficult, if anything it’s mind-numbing, repeating the same conversations over and over like they’re an everyday routine.

So Tim can forgive himself for zoning out for the first couple of hours. It’s not until he’s standing near the refreshments table, after sneaking away to grab some water, that he actually starts paying attention again.

To be fair, that could be because he’d just turned around and walked face-first into a wall of something hard.

Tim yelps, stumbling back, thankfully not into another person, and looks up at the man wearing a now soaked suit. The floor underneath Tim falls away as Bruce Wayne stares back.

Batman. Tim just ran into and spilled his drink all over Batman.

He can practically see the Bat in the seams of Wayne’s dripping, black tux. In the sharp cut of his jaw and brow. His hair is pushed back from his face, which is clean-shaven and a bit tired around the eyes. Tim clambers for an apology, refusing to let the words get stuck in his throat. But all he can think about is how he watched Batman take a bullet to the chest five nights ago during a gang shootout. He does his best not to stammer.

“Mr. Wayne! I’m so sorry, I didn’t see—” Wayne holds up a palm. Tim’s mouth goes dry, and he has to tuck his hands behind his back so the man won’t see how they’re shaking. The handle from his empty water glass is cold against his fingers. Bruce Wayne considers him, then shrugs.

“It’s fine. This is why I have a butler. And please don’t call me Mr. Wayne; it makes me sound old. Just Bruce will do.”

Tim blinks.

“You have a specific butler for when people spill stuff on you?”

The corner of Bruce’s mouth twitches. “No, just one butler that does general butler things. Actually, I’m looking for him at the moment, have you seen him?”

“I—uh, no?”

Bruce sighs, “Damn. I was hoping he could keep my CEO off of my back for the night. Or help me make tea. I’m not sure which one is more important.”

Tim scratches the back of his neck. He hadn’t mentally prepared to talk to Batman tonight. This wasn’t a great first impression. “What’s he look like?”

“Who? My butler or my CEO?” Bruce has to tilt his head down to make eye contact with him.

“Your butler, not your CEO. Though you probably shouldn’t avoid your CEO, that sounds like business mismanagement.” Tim says and then nearly claps a hand over his mouth. Questioning the host at their own party is probably terrible etiquette; his mother would be mortified.

The corner of Bruce’s mouth twitches again. “Not business mismanagement. Lucius just likes to criticize my life choices. You’re the Drakes’ son, aren’t you?”

“Timothy.” He instinctively holds out his hand for a shake. Bruce looks at him for a second before engulfing Tim’s hand with his own. The calluses on his palm are hard to miss, and Tim can’t help but wonder how Bruce explains them.

“Timothy Drake, huh?” Their hands drop, and both corners of Bruce’s mouth are pointed up now. Tim quickly backtracks.

“Yeah, but you can call me Tim. You know. If you want.” Bruce considers him again.

“Alright, Tim. What do you know about tea?”

*****

“Are you sure that’s the right amount?”

“That’s what the box says.”

“The box is wrong.”

“I’m starting to understand why your CEO criticizes your life choices.”

“You’re twelve; you’re not supposed to understand life choices yet.”

“I’m thirteen.”

“You sure?”

“ . . . Yes?”

Bruce squints down at him and looks back at the teapot on the stove. “To be honest, all children under the age of twenty-one look the same to me.”

Tim frowns from where he’s sitting on the kitchen island’s countertop. He ignores the pounding in his brain that keeps reminding him that he’s sitting in Batman’s kitchen because if he focuses on that, he might start hyperventilating. It’s a very nice kitchen, to be fair. It’s warm with yellow walls and a wooden floor. Not very Batman-like, though.

Tim starts to swing his legs back and forth. “I thought you’re an adult when you turn eighteen.”

Bruce doesn’t look away from the teapot. “Legally, yes. Ethically, no.”

“So . . . when do you ethically become an adult?”

“Thirty-five.”

Tim stares hard at the back of Bruce’s neck. He can’t tell if the man is making fun of him at this point or not. “How old are you?” Tim already knows the answer, but he waits patiently.

Bruce thinks for several seconds too long. “Thirty-three.”

“And you consider yourself to be an adult? That’s kind of hypocritical.”

“I never said I considered myself to be an adult. Lucius and Alfred would find it hilarious if I called myself an adult.”

“Alfred?” Tim asks innocently.

“My butler I told you about earlier. The one who was supposed to be helping me with this.”

“Oh . . . Why aren’t you looking for him right now, then?” Why ask me to help instead? Tim doesn’t know the answer to this question. He tries not to scoot to the edge of his seat.

Bruce shrugs and looks over a shoulder at him. “I asked if you knew how to make tea, and you said yes. Also, you’re probably the best conversationalist I’ve talked to all night. Is there any way to make this heat up faster?”

Tim struggles to hide his beaming smile from the compliment. “It’s already turned up as high as it can go.”

“Don’t know why you didn’t let me microwave it.”

“That’s not the right way to make tea.”

“There are only so many ways to boil water. It would have been faster.”

“You had a spoon stuck in there with it. It could have caught on fire.”

“Well, then I could call the fire department and get rid of all the drunk people in my house.”

“It’s a good thing you have a butler. I don’t think you can take care of yourself all alone.”

Bruce looks offended. “I am an adult, Tim. ” Tim stops kicking his feet and grins. Bruce closes his eyes. “And now I’m a hypocrite.”

“Really good thing you have a butler.”

The water starts to boil, and the tea kettle squeals. Tim slips down from the counter and straightens up the teacups waiting on the prepared tray. Bruce carefully pours the water into the teapot before adding the tea. Tim tries not to compare the movement to Batman combining chemicals.

Bruce glances at him. “Your parents, they’re not looking for you, are they?”

Tim stills. “They’re not. They’re . . . busy.”

Last he’d seen, before ducking out of the ballroom with Bruce, was his mother engrossed in a business conversation and his father drinking from a nearly overflowing champagne glass. Bruce stills and studies him for a second. In turn, Tim picks up a teacup and meticulously stares at the delicate flower painting on its side.

Bruce looks away. “Well, then. I suppose you wouldn’t mind joining my family and me for tea, would you?”

Tim nearly drops the cup. “Me? ”

“You. Grab the sugar off the counter, please.”

Tim does as he’s told automatically and sets it on the tray. Bruce picks it up. “Um, you sure? I don’t want to intrude or anything.” Or embarrass himself, Tim kind of feels like passing out right now.

“They’ll like you, don’t worry. Besides, my eldest is visiting, and I need someone to fill in the awkward silence.”

Tim’s stomach swoops. Dick Grayson. He’s going to talk to Dick Grayson. Nightwing. And Robin. Jason will be there too, won’t he? He leans heavily against the counter when Bruce turns and starts to walk out of the room.

Tim takes a slow breath and follows him.

He tries not to openly gawk as Bruce leads him through the halls, especially now that he’s already walked through them once. But it’s hard not to; Tim’s wanted to explore Wayne Manor since he figured out the Bat’s identity ages ago.

One of the paintings on the wall catches his eye. “Is that a Renoir?”

Bruce glances back at him, both brows raised. “It is. You’re a fan?”

“My parents have me read Art World Today. They like to keep me up to date for conversations and stuff,” Tim mutters as he stares up at the artwork. He pretends he doesn’t see the look that enters Bruce’s eyes.

“Your parents seem like they—”

“Brucie!” They both turn around to find an extremely drunk woman teetering down the hallway towards them. Bruce curses too low for Tim to hear.

“Can you take this?” He asks in a voice Tim hasn’t heard before, something cheerful and almost fake, before quickly handing the tray to Tim. Bruce barely manages to catch the woman when she stumbles heavily into his arms. “Delphine, you seem to be having much more fun than when I last saw you.”

She giggles into his shoulder, and Tim pointedly examines an Erte statue across the hall while Bruce tries to straighten her up. “I met the most charming man, Bruce. Jack Drake? We had a contest to see who could drink the most champagne.” She smiles wide and dazed. “I won. Évidemment. Oh! But then he told me all about his business and—”

Bruce must say something in return, but Tim can’t hear it over the rush of blood in his ears; the pounding in his brain as his grip on the platter turns white. Getting women drunk to turn them into investors.

It doesn’t even surprise him.

His eyes burn into the painting in front of them, because he can’t look at Bruce. Can’t see his face when the man realizes he has a Drake by his side. Tim’s head feels hot and dizzy; he trembles a little bit.

So maybe that’s why when Bruce touches his shoulder, Tim nearly jumps out of his skin. The teacups clatter, but nothing spills. The result of honing his reflexes on Gotham’s streets, Tim’s sure. He swallows and forces himself to meet Bruce’s gaze.

Whatever he’s expecting isn’t there. Bruce just looks troubled, with something sad at the corners of his eyes. Tim looks away first. The awkwardness is broken only by Delphine’s mutterings in French as she continues to cling to Bruce’s side.

Bruce clears his throat.

“I think . . .” Tim winces, and he stares down at his too-tight shoes, cheeks burning. Bruce pauses and almost seems to reconsider something. “I think you’ll have to meet the rest of my family alone. I’m so sorry, Tim, but—” the lady sways again, nearly falling face-first onto the carpet— “Delphine needs to lie down somewhere. You can find the boys in the library; just keep going down this hall until you get to my study, the last door on the right. It leads to where they are.”

He carefully leans forward, pulling from one pocket a small key. Placing it on the tray and giving Tim a cheerful grin that’s more Brucie than Bruce, but still kind in a way, he says, “Here, this should let you in. And if either one of them gets too annoying: feel free to pour tea on them.” He gives Tim a wink and tucks Delphine under his arm before whisking her down the hall and quickly out of sight.

Tim blinks down at the tray and then up at the painting across from him. He allows himself five full seconds to freak out.

Feeling slightly ill, he finally forces his feet to move through the hallway, his small steps echoing in the empty space. He tries not to notice the clinking of the teacups as the tray in his hands shakes. Meeting the Waynes was not supposed to happen tonight.

Last door on the right, last door on the right, last door on the right . . .

He hesitates when he gets there, cautiously takes the key Bruce gave him, and places it into the lock. The hinges swing without a sound, showing a polished study and a Persian rug. He takes a breath and enters. The door clicks shut slowly behind him.

The library entrance is at the back of the room and it’s far more intimidating than it has any right to be. As he walks towards it, something catches the corner of his eye.

A grandfather clock. Old, tall, and quietly ticking away as Tim pauses in front of it. He stares, something deep inside him saying that he should take a closer look. He’s barely moved forward when raised voices suddenly come from behind the library door, startling him. Tim steps back.

Shooting the clock a final glance, Tim focuses back on the task at hand and reluctantly turns away. Cautiously, he nears the closed entrance that muffles unintelligible yelling. He inhales shakily and raises his fist, knocking softly on the wood.

He almost drops the tray when the door is slammed open.

“Bruce! Tell Dick his argument against Hamlet is completely wrong and—Oh.”

A boy stands in the doorway.

Fifteen years old, expensive tux, black hair, and eyes with too much green to be a true blue. Eyes that scan Tim up and down like he’s figuring out every single secret Tim’s hidden away in the back of his mind and examining them one by one. And all Tim can think about is how he once saw Robin take down five crooks before leaping out of a sixty-fourth-floor window, how Robin could end him in the blink of an eye.

Jason Todd raises a brow.

“You lost, kid?” Tim opens his mouth, but nothing comes out, so he shakes his head instead. Jason looks down at the tray in his hands. “ . . . Did Bruce kidnap you and have you make tea or something like that?”

“Something like that,” Tim says, managing to not trip over his words.

Jason blinks, glances him over once again. A horrified, blank expression crosses his face before he half turns and says, “We left B alone for five minutes, and he already got a new kid!”

There’s a strangled yell of, “What?” then the sound of stumbling footsteps as another boy appears in the door. Tim’s knees go weak.

Eighteen with a messy blue bowtie that’s the same shade as his wide eyes. The same shade as the Nightwing suit, too. Tim remembers the first and last time he went to the circus, remembers the photograph he still has.

Dick Grayson stares at him in shock.

“Oh my God. He did.”

Jason looks up at the ceiling in exasperation. “Do you think he just wanders around and collects the first lonely dark-haired child he sees? Is it just a thing he does?”

Dick shrugs, his gaze still locked on Tim. “Once is a mistake. Twice is a pattern.” He points a finger at the youngest boy. “Three times is a habit.” He glances at Jason with a frown. “Think we should stage an intervention?”

“Maybe,” Jason mutters, eyes narrowing. Dick hums and notices the tray in Tim’s hands with delight.

“Hey, he brought tea!” Dick bends forward, gently taking the platter out of Tim’s nearly quivering hands. He smiles down at him. “What’s your name?”

Tim swallows past his dry throat and channels years of socialite skills into not seeming like a complete idiot. “Tim Drake. Mr. Way—Bruce told me to come here? He got caught up with some lady, though. Delphine, I think?”

The two older boys share a look. Dick rolls his eyes. “Yeah, that’s not surprising.” He nudges Jason out of the doorway and beckons Tim inside. “Come on; you can help me remind Jason that Romeo and Juliet is way better than some play about a depressed prince.”

“Romeo and Juliet is nowhere near Hamlet, and you know it,” Jason mutters, but shoots Tim a friendly grin as Dick sets the tea tray down on a coffee table.

“If you read the whole thing as a satire about teenage stupidity and dumb love, then it’s hilarious,” Dick fires back and glances over at where Tim has barely entered through the doorway. “Right, Timmy?”

Tim shuffles his feet, not used to this kind of attention. “Um, I’ve only read Macbeth, and that was for school so . . . sure? I don’t know; Shakespeare always seemed kind of overrated to me.”

Both boys freeze.

Jason makes some sort of offended sound. “Oh my God, don’t ever let Alfred hear you say that.”

Flushing, Tim hurriedly continues, “I just prefer novels over plays, you know? Arthur Conan Doyle and Agatha Christie, that kind of stuff.”

“Mysteries? Jesus, no wonder Bruce kidnapped you. He used to read Sherlock Holmes to me before bed when I was a kid.” Dick mutters with a shake of his head.

“Huh, I got Jane Austen,” Jason off-handedly adds as he moves to grab a teacup, not putting anything in the drink. Dick takes two spoonfuls of sugar in his. He looks up and sees that Tim still hasn’t moved away from the door. He smiles gently.

“Hey, we don’t bite.” Dick sets another cup down on the table before sitting back on the plush couch. Tim hesitates, his mind screaming out useless facts his mother had told him about etiquette and manners that he’s quickly learning won’t apply to the Waynes at all, and gingerly moves into the room.

He picks up the teacup and carefully takes a place in the chair next to the sofa. Dick beams at him like he’d just found the solution to world peace, and Jason shoots him another half-smirk-half-grin while he moves over to the empty fireplace.

“So, Tim,” Dick starts while Jason tosses several pieces of wood into the grate, “the Drakes, huh? Don’t you live down the road?”

He nods, relaxing his fingers’ grip on the cup’s handle. “Yeah, about fifteen minutes away, I think.”

Jason glances back at him from where he’d successfully lit a fire, gaze curious. The light flickers warmly over the floor and Tim lets himself sink into the chair just a bit. “Really? Don’t hear from you guys that much; most of our neighbors are always asking about the next party and whatnot.”

“Oh, well, my parents aren’t usually in the country for most of the year,” Tim says, taking a sip of his tea before wrinkling his nose. Too bitter.

Dick pauses from where he’s lifting the cup to his lips, and Jason stops adding logs to the growing flames. They share a glance over Tim’s head. “Really?” Dick asks, continuing with his sip of tea. “I’m guessing they’re pretty busy, then. With running a company and all.”

Jason stands and moves back towards them, taking a seat in the chair opposite of Tim. “Yeah, isn’t your dad some kind of archaeologist, too? He sponsors a lot of stuff at the Natural History Museum downtown.” Dick pauses, both brows raised at his younger brother, and Jason shrugs defensively. “What? I paid attention during a school trip.”

Tim distractedly adds several spoonfuls of sugar to his tea. “Yeah, he’s usually flying from digsite to digsite most of the year. And my mom spends her summertime in London or Paris, and winter in the Caribbean, so he’s always visiting her. Plus, they have to travel for business all the time, and every month they go—” He freezes upon looking up from where he’d been stirring his drink. Jason and Dick are staring at him, looking as if they’d just been forced to swallow a very bitter pill. Tim hurriedly adds, “It’s okay! I’m—I’m busy with school anyway, so it’s fine.”

Dick sets his cup down with a gentle clink that makes Tim wince. “It doesn’t really seem . . . awesome, Tim.”

It takes everything within him to maintain eye contact and not stare down at the rug underneath his feet. “It’s fine.”

Jason leans forward, elbows on his knees, his eyebrows furrowed together to make a little crease between them. “You’re not . . . alone, right? You seem pretty responsible, but it’s not just you—”

“We have a housekeeper,” Tim tells him, voice clipped. He tries not to think about how he doesn't even remember the last time he saw her. “And I’m at school most of the day.”

“Boarding?” Dick asks.

“Usually, it would be. But it’s only a few minutes away by bike, so why pay to stay there when I could just come home?” Tim keeps his tone even. His grip on the teacup is tightening.

“It just . . . sounds a little lonely, that’s all. I got bored all the time when I was your age, and that was with Bruce and Alfred around to keep me company,” Dick quickly adds, soothing Tim’s raising defenses. The last thing he needs is the Bats getting nosy about his home life. Or rather, absence of one.

Tim shrugs. “I’m used to it.”

The brothers share another look, too fast for him to know what it means, and Jason tilts his head in a way that strangely reminds Tim of when his father would strike a business deal. “Hey, I know we just met, but, uh. . . You could come over here sometimes, if you want.”

Tim’s eyes widen, and his brain almost shuts down as he tries to make sense of what Jason just said. After several confused seconds, he manages to choke out, “What?”

“You know, if you ever need anything,” Dick swiftly continues, gaze steady and far too kind. “Like help with homework, stuff with school, or uh . . .” He glances at his brother. “Advice for girl problems?”

“You need advice for girl problems,” Jason mutters back. Dick kicks at him but looks over at Tim meaningfully.

“I’m living in New York right now, but I know you’d be welcomed here anytime.”

Jason nods in agreement. “Seriously, feel free to drop by. Bruce has already kinda adopted you, and I need Alfred to change your opinion on Shakespeare, so come over sometime, yeah?”

Tim stares at them, throat strangely tight. He hesitates. “I—”

The library door swings open, and Bruce walks in. Tim straightens up immediately, and from his peripheral vision, he can see Dick and Jason do the same. They all stare at each other for a moment. Bruce speaks first. “I’m not interrupting, am I?”

Jason shrugs. “Nothing we can’t continue later, B. How’s Delphine?”

“Sent her home with her friends just a few moments ago. She’ll be fine except for one hell of a hangover in the morning.”

Jason hmms and takes a sip of his tea. “You still have lipstick on your collar, by the way.”

Bruce glances down and curses, rubbing at the stain with his thumb. Dick snickers and Tim doesn’t even try to hide his shaky smile. With a sigh of defeat, Bruce glances over and meets Tim’s gaze with an amused expression. “Try not to embarrass me in front of our guest, if you can help it, Jay.”

“Sorry to break it to you, Dad, but you’re capable of doing that all by yourself,” Jason shoots back, amused.

Tim nearly misses the bitter look that crosses Dick’s face, and it’s gone before he can figure it out. His eyes flick to Bruce, who almost seems frozen in the firelight, a warm expression melting over his features as he stares at his youngest son. Jason takes another sip of his tea, his gaze resting on the fireplace and not focused on the two older men.

Tim glances between them and shifts in the strange atmosphere. The sound of the ticking clock is the only thing breaking the quiet.

He looks at his drink.

A different voice ends the silence. “Master Bruce, young Mr. Drake’s mother is asking for him. I believe he will be leaving for the night.” Tim glimpses at the open door. A tall, thin man stands there; his arms folded neatly behind his back. Tim doesn’t think he’s ever seen someone so British before in his life.

Alfred Pennyworth. Tim subconsciously straightens his suit, hoping the man won’t notice its wrinkles.

His eyes rest on Tim for a second, brows raising for half a second before his expression reverts into unreadable neutrality. Still, Alfred offers him a small smile that Tim quietly returns. Then another figure enters the doorway and Tim’s stomach freezes.

His mother stares down at him. Her lips curl upwards, all picture-perfect and white teeth. “Mr. Wayne, I’m terribly sorry for any distraction my son has caused tonight.” She holds out a polished hand. “Come along, Timothy, it’s late.” He makes himself look at her face.

Her blue eyes are ice cold. Furious.

His feet feel like lead when he stands, but his hands are still as Tim places his now-cool tea on the coffee table. He meets Jason’s gaze as he moves away from them. There’s something quiet and worried in his eyes, and Tim turns his back on both the older boy and the warmth of the firelight.

He isn’t expecting it when Dick moves with him, though, smoothly walking over and coming close enough to put a firm hand on his shoulder.

“He wasn’t a bother at all, Mrs. Drake,” Dick says, and apparently Tim isn’t the only one who’s learned how to play the smiling socialite. The man even shoots his mother a playful wink as he continues, “If anything, we should be apologizing for keeping him, just lost track of time.”

His mother narrows her eyes at Dick, glares down at Tim, and then settles back on Bruce. “It’s no matter; actually, I’ll have to thank you for making sure my son stayed out of trouble.” Tim slips out of Dick’s comforting grasp and moves silently to stand by her side. She reaches over and takes him by the arm, polished, red nails digging into his skin. Dick’s smile fades. “He tends to find it quite easily.”

Dick doesn’t even blink, only looks her up and down in a way that’s too cold to be mistaken for flattery. “Some might call that curiosity.”

“And polite company would call it meddlesome,” she clips back, words barbed. Dick stiffens, and his hands clenching, and Tim can see the tension in his jaw even from where he’s standing. He grinds his teeth and looks away from his mother.

He isn’t deaf and is well aware of what plenty of people really think of Wayne’s adopted sons. Two charity cases drudged up from the bottom of Gotham’s classes: street rats. He didn’t think his mother would sink to that level, though. Tim risks a glance at where Jason is still sitting.

The other boy is frozen in his chair, tea forgotten. His teal eyes glare daggers into Mrs. Drake, and Tim knows Jason must be biting his tongue to keep his insults to himself. Dick opens his mouth to reply, probably with something just as scathing, but Bruce steps in front of him with a tight smile.“Mrs. Drake, as you said, it’s getting late. Would you let me escort you to your car?”

Dick steps away, gaze bitterly burning into the back of his adopted father’s head, but he whips around to face Jason, and Tim can no longer see his expression. His mother exhales pointedly.

“No need, Mr. Wayne. You seem to have your hands plenty full here, and I’m perfectly capable of finding the way back myself, thank you.”

She tugs sharply on Tim’s arm, and he desperately looks at them, not sure what to say. Dick and Jason both stare back, brows furrowed, and he sees Bruce take a step forwards only to hesitate. He can feel Alfred watching him from the side. Tim swallows past his dry mouth, his mother pulls again at his sleeve, and he quickly gets out, “Thanks for the tea.”

“Oh, come along, Timothy,” she snaps.

And then Tim’s being marched down the hallway, trying to keep pace with Janet Drake’s long strides but not quite managing it. Moments later, he’s ushered into the car, and they’re driving away. But he can’t tear his eyes away from the Manor as it’s left behind, a spot of shining light in the surrounding darkness.

The taste of tea fills his mouth the entire ride home.

*****

“You could have let me say something,” Dick snaps as soon as the two Drakes are gone, and Alfred’s closed the door behind them. He sort of wishes the butler stayed.

Bruce exhales, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “It would have only made things worse; you shouldn’t have gotten involved in the conversation, to begin with.”

“You saw his face when she came into the room, Bruce,” Dick mutters back, fuming. Next to him, Jason watches them silently, and Dick forces himself to take a breath. “What kid looks at their own mother like that?”

“ . . . I don’t know either Janet or Jack Drake personally, but they have a reputation for being ruthless,” Bruce says, still staring at the door. He turns around and looks between his sons measuredly. “I wouldn’t be surprised if that behavior carries into their family life as well.”

Dick seethes, ears still burning from Mrs. Drake’s comments. ‘Polite company.’ It could have meant nothing but combined with her curled lip and icy gaze; it didn’t.

He rests a hand on Jason’s shoulder, either to comfort the kid or himself, Dick isn’t sure, and Jason doesn’t lean back from it. He wonders if what she said got to his brother, too. Probably not. Jason has always been better at letting shit like this roll off his back. Still, he doesn’t move his hand away just in case.

“I told Tim he was welcome here anytime,” Dick says pointedly, Bruce stiffens. “And he better be.”

“Dick, you can’t just—”

“It was my idea, actually,” Jason interrupts, and both of them turn to stare at him. Jason glares back, unflinchingly. “And don’t pretend that you couldn’t care less, B. You were the one who invited him in here, not Dick. Besides,” Jason takes a smooth sip of his tea, “I think he’s lonely. Could use someone to talk to. If he comes over, I’ll handle it.”

Bruce looks at him for a long moment, several unnameable emotions warring across his face. He seems to settle on blankness.

“Very well,” his gaze slides to Dick, still unknowable. “I’m going to have to turn in for the night. Alfred’s been wanting to redo several stitches and is threatening to drug me again if I don’t let him. Tea will have to wait for another day.”

“Oh,” is Dick’s only response. The disappointment isn’t anything new as it settles in his stomach, but it still hurts. He glances at the door, trying to figure out the least awkward way to leave, then Bruce clears his throat hesitantly.

“However, Jason and I are planning a bust on one of Penguin’s shipping operations later this week. Feel free to join us, if you’d like.”

Whatever frustration Dick has left in him drains away as he and his brother gawk at the other man. Bruce waits for several seconds but is only met with silence as his adopted son blinks at the hanging invitation. Dick starts. “I . . . Okay, I can do that. Uh. Does Saturday work?”

Bruce nods. “Come by the Manor around nine, that’ll let you have some time with Alfred. He’s been wanting to catch up.”

“Right,” Dick says numbly, and as Bruce turns to leave, he and Jason share a glance. The younger boy raises his brows, and Dick can only shake his head in response, mind whirling.

“And Jason,” Bruce adds, both of his sons snapping to attention. Bruce opens the door, smoothing his collar in such a way that the lipstick on it somehow becomes less noticeable. Dick tries not to be impressed with that. “If you’re going to have Tim over here, give him something to eat. Lord knows he needs it.”

They stare as he leaves, the library door not quite swinging all the way shut behind him.

Jason speaks first, “That was . . . unexpected.”

Dick looks at him. “What? That he invited me, because yeah—”

“No,” The other boy interrupts, voice purposefully monotone. “Of course he was going to invite you, he’s been trying to figure out how to do that for months, now.” Dick’s eyes widen, and he glances back at the door. Jason doesn’t seem to notice. “I just didn’t expect him to invite me.”

Looking back at him, Dick frowns. “Why wouldn’t he? You’re Robin. ”

It says something about time healing all wounds because it doesn’t hurt to say that out loud anymore. But Jason stills, his gaze moving to Dick before resting on the flames within the fireplace. “Yeah, and Robin’s benched.”

Shit.

Just add that to the list of things he can feel guilty not knowing about.

Dick is frozen, looking over Jason’s form and frantically trying to figure out what happened. “You got hurt? Where? How bad?”

“I didn’t get hurt.”

Jason still won’t look at him. Slowly, Dick shuts his eyes. “Little Wing, what did you do? ”

That wasn’t the right thing to say. Jason spins around to face him, expression twisted into something painful and hurt and Dick did that. “Are you serious, right now?”

“Jay—”

“Look, I know you’re a fucking Golden Boy up on Bruce’s goddamn pedestal, but at the very least you could try to—”

“Jason.” Jason stiffens with his brother’s raised voice because Dick doesn’t yell. Not at him. Dick rubs a hand over his face. “Jay, just tell me what happened, okay? I won’t judge you for it, I promise.”

The younger boy’s glare hardens for a second before molding into something unbearably tired. “I didn’t . . . Look, I need you to get that I didn’t push the guy, okay?”

Fuck, this wasn’t going to be good. Dick breathes out, “Okay.”

Jason searches his face for a second, eyes falling back to the fire. “We were working a case, there was . . . Our perp was this asshole, Felipe Garzonas, and his father was some kind of ambassador, and he had diplomatic immunity because of fucking course he did. And he . . .” Jason takes a breath. “He raped a girl, Gloria, and was responsible for her death.”

Dick swallows. “So, he got away with murder?”

Jason shakes his head, continuing, “No, she . . . she killed herself. But he was behind it, threatened to keep hurting her and she . . . He got recalled, too, you know that? We busted him on drugs, and he was leaving the fucking country and wouldn’t have been able to touch her ever again. But she didn’t know, and he called her before we did and . . .”

For a long moment, Dick only stares, the pieces coming together to make a grim picture. “You were the one to find her, weren’t you?”

Jason shivers, jaw clenching. “She was already gone by the time we got to her apartment. Hung herself. She was only . . . a couple of years older than me. Younger than you.”

Dick winces and closes his eyes. “God, Jay that’s . . .”

“I’m just tired of seeing it, you know? Shit like this happened all the time back in Crime Alley, yeah, but now I finally have a chance to stop it, and I fucking couldn’t. I couldn’t save her.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

Jason snorts bitterly, gaze not wavering from the fireplace. Dick sighs and sits back down on the sofa to rest his head in his hands. It’s a shitty lesson, learning that you can’t rescue everyone. They both wait in the library stillness for several minutes, watching the light from the flames flicker across the floor. Dick looks up.

“Okay, then what?”

Jason exhales. “I went back to his apartment and he was up on this fucking balcony drinking and I . . .” Dick waits quietly as the boy finds the right words. “I dropped down too quick, spooked him. And he stumbled, slipped over the railing, and it . . . Fuck, Dick, it happened so fast.”

Dick nods but frowns. “And Bruce benched you because . . .”

“He thinks I pushed him.”

Shit.

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

Dick runs a hand through his hair, the strands falling back into his face. Advice. That’s what he’s supposed to do. Older brothers give advice. Fuck. “Okay, look, Bruce is a—” His phone rings, the emergency tone for the Titans echoing throughout the library, and Dick jumps—“Son of a bitch,” he finishes instead, grabbing his cell.

Jason raises his brows, a weak grin etching across his face. “Don’t think Martha would appreciate that.”

A distracted chuckle leaves Dick’s throat as he stares at the message on the screen in annoyance. Deathstroke. Of all the people who hate the Titans, it couldn’t have been someone the team could handle without him?

He glances at his brother but Jason is already waving him away. “Yeah, I get it. It’s fine.”

“It’s not.”

“Just go, asshole. We can deal with this another day.”

“I don’t ‘deal with you’, Little Wing. I like talking to you, come on, and we are gonna finish this conversation.” Probably. When he can figure out what to fucking say. Dick stands as the alarm on his phone goes off again. “Just not today because I need to go kick Deathstroke’s ass.”

Jason follows as his brother jogs into the study and both of them stop at the clock. Dick opens the case, moving the hands as Jason watches silently. Seconds later, the wall is sliding open and Dick is praying that Bruce has the Tower’s location already set up in the zeta-tube. The sound of feet hitting stone echoes as they run down, and Dick doesn’t even stop as they reach the cave, doesn’t look to see if anything’s changed.

The zeta doesn’t have the Tower’s coordinates pulled up and Dick spends too much time pressing buttons for his liking. As the damn thing finally starts, he gives Jason a half-hearted grin and ruffles his hair. “I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

Jason smiles tiredly as Dick steps into the tube. “Punch Wilson in the face for me.”

And Dick doesn’t have enough time to respond because the world dissolves into blue and then he’s in the Tower, Roy yelling at him to ‘fucking move his ass.’

In the end, he does manage to punch Slade in the face, which is awesome. And they also save New York for the third time this month which is doubly awesome. But when they’re finally out of costume, and Garth’s calling up their favorite pizza place and Donna is laughing into Roy’s shoulder at some joke Vic made, Dick’s stomach is still in knots. He’s still staring at Jason’s name in his phone with no idea of what to do.

And looking around their rec-room, at the bright grins of his teammates, he can’t dampen the mood with his own ridiculous feelings. It’s stupid. He knows it’s stupid, because it’s just Jason. Still, he only pokes at his huge pizza slice that Raven’s dropped in front of him, the argument between Vic and Gar about meat and tofu fading into the background.

Hesitantly, he glances over at where Kory is sitting across the room. Too quickly she meets his gaze and they both look away. He’d thrown the tie she gave him somewhere on the floor of his bedroom while suiting up. Can’t be sentimental when assassins want to kill the mayor.

He’s not sure if he’s relieved or not when Wally drops down next to him, nudging Dick’s arm with his own and forcing a soda can into his hand. He doesn’t say anything either, only gives his friend a smart grin and lays back on the sofa, draping his legs over Dick’s thighs.

Dick rolls his eyes but pops the tab of his soda anyway.

The team trails off one by one, either to train or sleep. Kory doesn’t look at him when she leaves and Dick doesn’t call out either. Eventually, the only ones left are the founders, but then Garth has to take his nightly swim and Donna wants to finish editing her photos and Roy needs to fix a faulty sonic arrow and Wally . . . stays.

They’re quiet for a long time, which is weird for the speedster, but he knows when to let Dick think. Doesn’t stop him from eventually kicking the other’s leg and pointing at his untouched pizza, though. “You gonna eat that?”

Dick grumbles and hands it to him, and Wally laughs. And that’s . . . at least he knows he can do something right.

Wally takes a bite and the pizza is gone. “So. It was that bad?”

“How can you tell?”

“Because you’re doing that thing—” Wally does a scrunched serious face that makes him look slightly constipated—“that you do when you’re having an internal crisis.”

Dick’s scrunched serious face becomes scrunchier. “I’m not . . . crisis-ing. I’m fine.”

“Wow. Are you really trying to bullshit me, right now?”

Dick pinches his thigh and Wally yelps, kicking in retaliation. They grapple, and Dick pushes the other boy off the couch only for Wally to grab his arm at the last second. He lands on the floor with an oomph and a speedster crushing him. But one of them was trained by Batman and that one isn’t Wally, and Dick’s got him pinned in seconds.

“You suck,” Wally moans into the rug dramatically.

Dick grins. “Your hand-to-hand has gotten better.”

“Fuck you.”

Dick’s smile widens and he lets up, Wally kicking at him again for good measure. They sit across from each other, legs tangled together, Dick against the sofa and Wally with his head tipped back onto the coffee table. Dick chews his lip for a moment.

“It wasn’t bad. Just . . . a lot of stuff happened.”

Wally glances at him, but doesn’t move his head. The angle kinda makes him look stupid. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Dick sorts through the night for a moment. “Bruce didn’t even invite me.”

“Wait, seriously?” Wally actually lifts his head up, brows raised towards the ceiling.

Dick nods. “Figures. It was Alfred, probably, or my name got thrown in or . . . I don’t know, doesn’t matter because it was still awkward as fuck. Almost left, but then he kind of apologized? And asked me to stay for tea? It was weird.”

“The guy who dresses up as a bat to fight clowns is weird? Who would’ve guessed,” the speedster deadpans.

A laugh bubbles out of his chest and Wally knocks their feet together. “Yeah, but then he disappeared for a bit and instead of coming back with tea he sent a kid? Like? One second I’m arguing with Jason about something dumb and then there’s this tiny child with a tea tray in the doorway? He looked confused.”

Wally grins. “Can’t blame him.”

Dick shakes his head. “His name’s Tim Drake. His parents own some big medical company and his mom is kind of a bitch.”

“What’d she do?” Wally asks, blinking in surprise. Dick never talks like that.

“Rude as shit when she came to pick him up and . . . God, the look on that kid’s face when he saw her . . . There’s something wrong going on in that house. I don’t like it. But Jay told him he could come to the Manor if he ever needs anything.”

“You think it’s that bad?”

“She grabbed him, too,” Dick mutters, turning away to glare at the floor. “Jason said he’d handle it and I trust him. And I think B’s worried, he caved on letting the kid come over pretty quick. Then he invited me on a bust on Saturday.”

Wally blinks. “Like . . . to bond?”

Dick shrugs hopelessly because he honestly has no idea how Bruce’s brain works anymore. “I guess? Apparently, he’s been wanting to ask for a few weeks, according to Jay and—” Dick pauses, eyes widening—“Dude, Jason got benched.”

“Benched as in hurt?” Wally asks and sits up straighter. Dick shakes his head, thoughts whirling.

“Benched as in Bruce thought he pushed a perp off a balcony.”

Wally’s mouth drops. “Holy shit. Did he actually—”

“Jason said the guy had been drinking, was startled when he dropped down, and slipped over.”

“You believe him?”

Dick hesitates too long at that. He remembers the look on Jason’s face, the crack in his voice as he talked. He also remembers the sound of bone breaking under Robin’s fist. He tugs at a loose string on the edge of his shirt.

“Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

Wally shrugs. “I don’t know him as well as you, but . . . I don’t think Jason would go that far. Kid’s too good for that.”

Dick smiles, but it quickly fades away. “He’s got issues, though. Not that I blame him, we all do—” Wally snorts—“but I don’t know how to help him. I don’t know what to say.”

“He’s just your brother. It’s not like you have to write a speech or something.”

“ . . . That’s actually not a bad ide—”

“That was a joke. Please don’t do that. You talk like Bruce when you lecture, and it’ll just freak him out.”

“Shit,” Dick mutters, slumping back into the sofa behind him. The fabric is kind of itchy, and he shifts, thinking. “What if I mess up?”

“Then you apologize and try again.”

“How do you know that’ll work?”

“It’s what Barry did whenever he messed up with me,” Wally says quietly and something inside of Dick wilts. The speedster looks away, fiddling with the ring on his hand. Barry’s ring. The ring with a costume that wasn’t supposed to be Wally’s. Not ever.

“ . . . He’d be proud of you.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Join the club.”

“No thanks, there’s a major dick in there.”

“You want me to pin you again?”

“No,” Wally answers, but he’s smiling, so Dick takes it.

“Seriously, he’d be proud.”

Wally closes his eyes, looking too old for someone who’s only eighteen. His freckles have been fading away, adulthood coming on faster than either of them would like to admit. Dick doesn’t know how he hadn’t noticed that before. “And I seriously don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Then we’ll not know what we’re doing together. And we’ll make a club. Roy can join.”

“Ew.” Dick laughs, really laughs, at that, and Wally’s expression lightens. He bumps their legs again. “You should talk to Jason soon, though. He’ll probably get anxious if you don’t.”

Dick nods. “Yeah.”

They fall silent again, and Dick lets himself drift for several seconds, listening to the distant city outside. Wally hums in thought, the tune vaguely familiar but Dick can’t quite place it. Maybe something from when they were kids. He stares for a moment.

“Hey.” Wally glances at him, green eyes quiet. “Thanks.”

He gets a grin in return, one that’s too teasing to be truly genuine. “And if we’re talking about emotions . . .”

“No.”

“Dude, you were staring at her all night.”

“Was not!”

“Were too!”

“Was—No, we’re not doing this.”

Wally sticks his tongue out at him. “You have feelings, she has feelings, you’re making it complicated.”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“Would Kory?”

Dick opens his mouth, then shuts it with a click. Wally points a finger at him in triumph and Dick glowers with resignation. He still tries. “She’s—I’m—we’re both just so—”

“Different isn’t always a bad thing, bro. Haven’t you heard of opposites attracting? You’re just scared of getting hurt, which is ridiculous because she’s head over heels for you.”

Dick sighs. “Can we go back to talking about my Bruce issues?”

“No. Just have a conversation with her.”

“What if I—”

“Mess up? Didn’t we just finish that discussion?” Wally asks, voice flat. “I’m not above locking you two in a closet, don’t push me. You’re both pining and it’s gross.” Dick opens his mouth again. Wally sighs. “What if I tell you it’s upsetting the team dynamic.” Dick’s mouth closes, and the other man groans, head falling into his hands. “Oh my god.”

“Is it? Because that’s really important—”

“It’s not; it’s just fucking awkward, Jesus Christ.”

Dick exhales, steels himself. “Fine. I’ll talk to Kory. And Bruce. And Jason. Happy?”

“Yeah, actually. Jerk.” Wally sticks his tongue out at him, and Dick returns the action.

“Now tell me about your love life so I can make fun of you.”

Wally perks up, starts talking about some hot girl in his Advanced Chemistry lecture, and Dick settles back against the couch. It isn’t too itchy if he doesn’t think about it. Besides, Wally’s leg is warm against his, and, for now, that’s enough.

*****

Tim is picking at his cereal when his parents enter the dining room. Jack still in slippers with the morning paper tucked under his arm, and Janet wearing a silk robe. Last night certainly hadn’t helped with the tension between them, with his mother’s angry mutters and his father’s chilled gaze filling the car ride home. Tim had rushed up to his room, not bothering with a ‘goodnight.’ He doubts they’d even noticed.

Still, it’s a new day. He tries to smile at them but he knows it comes out wrong. His parents pause in the doorway for a second, staring at him like they’re not sure what to say.

Jack breaks the quiet, “Morning, Tim.”

“Good morning,” he answers back hesitantly. The words are strange in his mouth. Unfamiliar.

His mother sits across from him as his father takes the head of the long table. Neither looks particularly comfortable, but Tim isn’t either, so he won’t judge.

Most of his breakfasts take place by the kitchen counter or on his way to school. Rarely in the dining room, with its empty chairs and arching windows. It’s always been too cold for Tim’s liking and he can count on one hand the number of times he’s had a meal in here.

So he shifts in his seat, Janet catching it out of the corner of her eye. “Posture.”

His father opens his newspaper, sips his dark coffee. Tim can’t decide whether or not he likes the overpowering smell of it. “Dear, it’s first thing in the morning. Let the boy relax for God’s sake.”

“He was plenty relaxed last night,” she snaps and Tim stills, his spoon halfway to his mouth. She isn’t looking at him as she adds strawberries to her plate, but her movements are sharp. “I don’t know what you were thinking, Tim. Bothering Bruce Wayne of all people and disappearing to Lord knows where halfway through the night to talk to those children of his. Left us having to brush off questions about your whereabouts, and you certainly lost us several investors—”

“He asked for my help.”

Both of his parents freeze. Tim, too, after he realizes his interruption, his eyes quickly moving down to stare at his bowl. Janet slowly places the spoon in her grip back into its dish. The harsh clink of metal against china echoes in the silence, Tim’s teeth gritting at the sound. Her hands fold neatly on top of the table.

“What was that, Timothy?” Her voice is frigid. Tim hesitates, eyes darting to his father to gauge his reaction. He’s met with blankness.

Tim takes a breath and continues, “Bru—Mr. Wayne was looking for his butler to make tea, but then I told him I could do it. And then he thought that I’d get along with his sons so I just . . .” He gestures helplessly and his mother sighs, rubbing at her temple.

“We’ll try again Friday. I have a presentation with the board, but your father is going to the annual GCPD charity luncheon at Wayne Enterprises. You’ll go with him and pay attention to the other businessmen this time, don’t be completely useless and run off somewhere.” She stands, her chair scraping against the floor.

Both Tim and his father open their mouths to protest, but are met with a harsh look, the kind that Janet Drake gives people during meetings when somebody dares to challenge her. Tim slumps into his seat, but Jack does not. “He’d be missing school, might not send the best message.”

“If he goes with you he’ll be learning more important things anyway. And besides,” she stares down at her son pointedly, “he’ll make sure to stay out of trouble. Won’t you, Tim?”

His head is heavy when he nods, but Tim manages it. “Yes, ma’am.”

“You see? It’s fine, Jack. Besides, don’t you have more important things to worry about anyway with that damn exhibition coming up?” she snaps at her husband. Jack’s lip curls, but he doesn’t respond as she swirls out of the room, silk robe flowing behind her. She leaves her untouched plate of strawberries behind.

Tim hesitates. His father turns back to the newspaper. Several more minutes pass by.

“What’s the exhibition for?”

Jack glances up at him for a second before returning to his article. “Just uncovered a few things for the museum downtown. Nothing exciting for your mother to host a celebration party for, so she’s bitter over it.”

“Oh,” Tim says, awkwardly poking at his bowl. There’s more to it than that but he knows when to hold his tongue.

He counts the seconds as they tick by, waiting for an appropriate amount of time to pass before escaping the room. His father flips to the next page of the paper. Tim leaves without a sound.

When he bikes to school, he goes as fast as he can, legs and lungs burning. He relishes the feeling. At least, out here, he can finally breathe.

*****

Friday comes both too soon and too slow.

His parents will be gone this afternoon and while the house is still quiet with them there (apart from the ever-louder arguments that Tim can hear echoing through the halls), it’s nevertheless nice knowing that he isn’t alone anymore.

But he’d be lying if he said he didn’t miss sneaking out at night. Based on what he’d last heard when he was out on the streets, Penguin is going to bring in a huge shipment tomorrow, and Tim’s dying to get a few decent shots of it. If he gets an especially good one, he might even mail it to Gordon. Anonymously, of course.

He knows they use his photos as evidence sometimes. Had heard the Commissioner mention it to Batman, once on a slower patrol. That the resolution of his camera picks up details that security footage can’t make out.

Tim hadn’t stopped grinning the rest of the night, and Gordon had gotten seven extra photos that weekend.

The elevator pings open, and Jack Drake’s shoes squeak on the polished marble floor. Tim’s never been in Wayne Tower before, and he stares as they walk by gleaming offices and busy people. It’s a beautiful place, with tasteful decor and huge windows lining the halls. Everyone around them moves like clockwork and Tim would be lying if he said that he wasn’t impressed. He’d always thought that running a business would be boring, his parents never seem to enjoy it. But . . . Tim wouldn’t mind working here.

He almost runs into his father when the man stops in front of a pair of glass doors. Looking through them, Tim can see a long room with balconies and official-looking men and women standing around.

A few are in uniforms, members of the GCPD. Tim pretends not to notice, pretends that he doesn’t know exactly who each of them is. His father looks down at him.

“Don’t embarrass yourself or me. And don’t bother the Waynes, understand?”

Tim nods, and his father exhales, pushing the doors open. Several businessmen come up to Mr. Drake at once, and Tim knows he’s not supposed to get left behind, but they’re all moving and chattering and suddenly he’s alone in a room full of people. He glances around frantically, but he only sees the same dull suits and stiff dresses no matter where he turns.

Hesitantly, he moves to the lunch table. Pretends that he has everything under control. And it’s almost funny that he’s more comfortable on the dark streets of Gotham instead of this crowded place. He pours himself a cup of water and carefully makes sure nobody is behind him when he turns around. Especially Bruce Wayne.

His drink spills anyway.

The man who just ran into him blinks down in surprise, like he wasn’t expecting someone so short to be there. “Excuse me, Mr. . . . ?”

“Uh, Tim,” Tim answers, trying to straighten his wet suit. The man curses under his breath and reaches up to his chest, handing Tim a handkerchief. He looks up at the man again. Brown eyes behind smart glasses and greying at the temples. Well-cut suit, looks far more comfortable here than Tim does, and Tim knows he’s seen this guy before somewhere and oh . . . Oh.

“I’m Lucius Fox. Are you lost, son?”

“I—uh, no? No, I’m fine, thank you. My dad’s just . . .” Tim looks around desperately, but the universe doesn’t seem to be on his side today.

Lucius studies him for a long moment and something clicks behind his gaze. “You’re Drake’s son, aren’t you?”

Tim blinks. “Yeah, yeah, how did you . . . ?”

“You look like your mother. And she is . . . “ Fox furrows his brow and hesitates, “Hard to forget.”

“That sounds about right,” Tim mutters, carefully folding the handkerchief back into a neat square. It’s silk and a crisp white and Lucius places it back in its pocket despite the fact that it’s still wet.

“Mr. Wayne mentioned you this morning when I told him your father was invited to the luncheon.”

Tim blinks again. “He did?”

“Said you and Jason got along. And that you make better tea than our new Keurig.”

Tim’s brain melts.

“When he mentioned you to me he said that all you do is judge his life choices,” he says without thinking, then freezes horrified. Fox stares at him. Tim starts, “Sorry! I didn’t mean—��

Lucius laughs, true and deep enough to make several people nearby glance at them. Tim doesn’t move, unsure whether to keep apologizing or join in. He goes for a nervous chuckle instead. After a few more moments, Fox settles and smiles at him. “I do judge his life choices, believe me, he deserves it.” He straightens up, looking around for Tim’s father. “Apologies, but I have to check up on a few things. Not sure where your father went, but Jason and Ms. Gordon are back there if you’d like to talk to them.”

Tim’s eyes follow the direction Lucius subtly points at. “Ms. Gordon?”

“The Commissioner’s daughter, Barbara.” Yeah, Tim knows who she is. “I think you two will get along, trust me.” He shakes Tim’s hand, grip strong but not unkind. As if they were equals. Tim likes him. “It was nice to meet you, Tim.”

“You too, thanks,” he manages, watching as Lucius blends into the crowd. Then he turns and tries not to walk too fast to where the man had steered him. At least now he has somewhere to go.

It isn’t hard to spot them in the tucked-away corner, Barbara’s hair is bright in the sunlight, and Tim remembers how it looked when she flew through the air. A shock of red against the dark sky. Batgirl. The Batgirl.

He almost forgets until he sees the wheelchair.

The papers had blown up with the news, every other story focusing on the Gordons or the Joker or Batman. Looking back on it, it’s amazing that no one made the connection between her and her vigilante identity. Amazing no one still has.

Neither of them seems to notice as he quietly approaches, engrossed in their conversation. Barbara’s hands are folded very tightly on her lap and Jason’s shoulders are tense. Tim stills, tries to blend in with the background like he does on the streets. Even from this short distance, he can barely make out what they’re saying.

“—looked at the hospital’s records. Her name wasn’t on file, and they listed Catherine and your father as your guardians, no one else. I’m sorry, Jason.”

Jason slumps. “That doesn’t make any sense, the certificate’s damaged, yeah, but my mom didn’t have an ‘S’ in her name anywhere.”

“B said you were narrowing down a list of women? Based on your date of birth and your father’s associates?”

“Yeah, I’ve got three names. Gonna try and locate them, and then reach out, I guess.”

Barbara reaches out and touches his arm. “Hey, take it from someone who knows; it’s okay not to have . . . I just don’t want you to think you’re worth anything less than you are. There’s nothing wrong with you, and you don’t have to prove yourself to anyone. Especially not to her.”

Jason stares at her, swallows. “I know that, I do, and I already have a mom. Catherine was my mom. This lady, whoever she is, I just . . . I just have some questions I’d like her to answer, you know?”

Barbara hesitates and then nods. From this angle, Tim can’t see the expression on her face. “Okay, but be careful. I don’t want you to get hurt by whatever you find.”

A grin spreads across his face. “Aw, Barbie, you do care.”

“Shut it, brat.”

“That’s not a very nice thing to—” Jason looks up, eyes landing on Tim and then widening. He hides it quickly, but Barbara sees and she spins around, already an expert with her chair. Jason walks over, and Tim stiffens, wonders if they know he’s heard everything; but the older boy only throws an arm around his shoulder. “Tim! Didn’t expect to see you here.”

Tim tries not to stumble as Jason leads him back over to Barbara, who watches them with arched brows. Tim scrambles to come up with anything. “Sorry, you guys looked like you were talking about something, and I didn’t want to interrupt.”

Both of them relax a touch. Tim does too.

Jason lets the weight of his arm drop. “It wasn’t anything important, don’t worry about it.” He gestures to Barbara, moving to her side. “Barbie, Tim Drake. Tim, Barbara Gordon. All you gotta know about her is that she’s smarter than everybody else in this room combined.”

Barbara scoffs. “Stop trying to be charming, it’s weird.”

“Not charming anyone, just telling the truth,” Jason responds primly. She swats at him, and he grins widely in return. Her clever gaze moves to Tim.

Tim decides that Barbara Gordon is very pretty and very, very scary. There’s a high chance that even while wearing her expensive silk dress and sitting in a wheelchair, she could beat him up and not let a hair get out of place. But she also reminds him of Lucius, with the way her eyes sparkle behind her glasses. They shake hands.

Strong grip, but not unkind. Equals. Tim decides he likes her, too.

“So,” she starts, a smirk at the corners of her mouth. “You skipping, or did school let out on a half-day like the nerd over here?”

“Hey!” Jason protests, scowling as Tim’s face breaks into a grin.

Barbara scoffs. “Please, like you would ever skip school. Remember when you tried to sneak out when you were sick so you wouldn’t miss a test?”

Jason’s ears turn pink and he rolls his eyes. This only seems to bemuse Barbara more. “That was only one time. Besides, now I know better than to try and get past Alfred.” She cackles, so he lightly pinches her shoulder.

Tim glances between them for a moment before finally answering, “Skipping.”

Barbara looks delighted. Jason sighs.

There’s the sound of speakers turning on followed by the muffled tapping of a microphone. Everyone turns to stare at the front of the room where Commissioner Gordon seems ready to begin a speech, though he doesn’t appear too excited about it. Bruce is standing next to him, smiling broadly like he’s having the time of his life. He must be bored out of his mind.

Tim hears Jason groan behind him. He also hears the stifled oomph when Barbara elbows him.

Both of them come up to his side, Jason grinning in a way that Tim is pretty sure means trouble. Jason nudges him. “Come on.”

Tim blinks once, glances between him and the Commissioner. “What?”

“Come on,” the older boy says again, pointedly tilting his head to one of the balconies, just out of sight. Tim smiles. Barbara shakes her head.

“I hate this habit,” she mutters at Jason. “Cutting your life expectancy in half, I swear.”

Jason shrugs. “It’s Gotham, plenty of things can cut my life expectancy in half. And relax, Barb, it’s not like I’m going anywhere anytime soon. Just cover us, yeah?”

She grumbles and waves them away with a calloused hand. “You owe me, kid.”

“I’ll buy you a chilidog,” Jason tells her, steering Tim to the balcony and away from Commissioner Gordon’s resigned droning. They slip through the doors and into the sunlight, the cool air refreshing compared to the room’s heat.

Tim breathes it in and side-eyes Jason curiously. “What habit?”

The older boy shrugs, leaning against the wall in a way so that no one could see him from inside. He pulls out a pack of cigarettes and gives Tim a look that clearly says that he better keep his mouth shut about this.

Tim only raises his brow and rests against the balcony railing. Jason sparks a lighter, the flame standing brightly out against the dull blues and greys surrounding them. He takes a slow drag and relaxes further into the concrete beneath his shoulders. Closing his eyes, he exhales, and the wind blows the smoke away before it has a chance to curl through the air.

He cracks his eyelids just a touch to meet Tim’s gaze. “Sorry, but I’m not sharing, kid. These things will kill you, you know.”

Tim huffs a laugh and looks out over the view of the city.

Gotham’s almost pretty like this, windows shining in the sun with a clear sky above. It’s weird. He prefers it at night when only neon signs and streetlights keep the city from falling into darkness. The lighting is more interesting anyway; and his best pictures are taken when the sun goes down. To be fair, that also may be because his best pictures are of Batman. And Robin.

Jason breathes out another lungful of smoke. The wind blows it away again.

“You never answered.”

“Huh?” Tim asks eloquently, looking back at the boy.

Jason tilts his head. “When I asked if you wanted to come over to the Manor sometime, you never answered.”

“Oh, I . . .” Tim tries, but the words won’t come. He isn’t sure what to make of this; nobody’s ever wanted to hang out with him before. He pulls at the ends of his sleeves. Jason only watches him, still quiet.

The cigarette end burns. Inhale. Exhale. Smoke. Wind. Tim looks away, out over the gleaming city, and gathers the confused pieces of his mind into one word.

“Why?”

Jason cocks his head and frowns. “Why what?”

“Why . . .” Tim shifts uncomfortably under the other boy’s unmoving stare. “Why do you want to be around me?”

“Because I like you,” Jason says, as if it’s that uncomplicated. Tim grimaces because there’s always something more than that. People always want more.

“No, you don’t; you hardly even know me. What do you actually want?” He snaps back, eyes turning cold. Jason looks taken aback, and for a second, Tim almost regrets what he said, but then the boy straightens up, and Tim suddenly realizes that Jason probably knows a lot more about him than he originally thought. And that this conversation is not going to be a pleasant one.

Jason glances back at the closed doors in calm consideration. “When was the last time your parents were home before this week, Tim?”

Tim’s jaw clenches, his hands tightening into fists. “I told you before, I’m fine.”

Jason nods like this is all the confirmation he needed, and Tim wants to backtrack and answer that. But the truth is that his parents were last home three months ago and that fact would only make things worse right now. The back of his tongue is sour.

“Why do you care?” He mutters, and Jason actually hesitates at that. They watch each other for a few tense moments, then Jason sighs and leans back against the concrete. Tim has the sudden urge to tell him that he’s wrinkling his suit. He has a distinct feeling Jason wouldn’t appreciate it.

The other boy taps the end of his cigarette, Tim watching the ash fall through the air. Jason takes a drag and examines him with narrowed eyes. “I care, because I know what it’s like not to have anybody give a damn about you.”

And it’s as if everything’s been punched out of Tim’s lungs. He can only stare as Jason exhales more smoke.

He snaps.

“My parents love me. At least that’s more than what you could say for yours.”

They both freeze as soon as the words leave Tim’s mouth, the city’s sounds filling the silence between them. Stiffly, Jason drops his cigarette, crushing it beneath a polished shoe. Tim suddenly has to fight the urge to step backward. Not that it would help, he's already pressed against the railing with nowhere to run.

Jason meets his eyes levelly. He doesn’t need the mask to be terrifying. “I wasn’t lying when I said I liked you, Tim. But I’m not above punching you, either. Your choice.”

Tim glares down at the flattened cigarette, wishes he could rewind the past few minutes.

“ . . . I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that.” He unflinchingly looks back at the other’s gaze. “But my family life is . . . okay. I don’t need your help.”

Jason lifts his head and rests back against the wall, evaluating him. In turn, Tim’s shoulders relax with the knowledge that his face isn’t about to be broken. In the distance, a police siren wails. The older boy jerks his chin at the balcony doors.

“Alright. You don’t need my help,” Jason says, voice significantly quieter than it was. He glances at Tim hesitantly. “But do you want it?”

The sincerity of the question is enough to make Tim's chest hurt. Enough to make him suddenly want to cry. He swallows, and the words ‘I’m fine’ are stuck in his throat, and he has to look back out at Gotham. Look at the glass skyscrapers reflecting the blue sky and imagine the darkness and neon he can hide away in at night. Where he doesn’t have to worry about things like his parents or Batman or his nosy, righteous, far-too-caring neighbors who keep reaching out and just want to help, and Tim doesn’t know what to do.

“Hey, kid,” Jason starts softly, and he must have moved at some point because he’s setting a hand on Tim’s shoulder. Tim hadn’t even heard him. “I’m not saying that I’m gonna report this shit or anything if you don’t want that. I know how that can fuck up somebody’s life. I’m just . . . If you want a place to stay or someone to talk to, you can drop by, okay?”

Tim turns away from the shining skyscrapers and looks up at Jason’s too-gentle expression. He’s made up his mind before he can even think it through. Maybe he didn’t need to think about it at all.

“Okay.”

Jason grins, and it’s too bright for the city around them. “Alright, that’s . . . alright. Though, just to let you know, B and I will be gone for the next few days. Visiting a friend in the Middle East, shouldn’t take too long.”

Tim’s memory flashes back to what he heard between Jason and Barbara a few minutes ago. He keeps his face carefully blank.

Jason continues, “But when we get back, I’ve got to show you all the books the library has, you wouldn’t believe—”

The balcony doors open, and they whip around to see Jack Drake glaring down at both of them. Tim’s mouth goes dry and he stiffens, smoothing out his suit even though there aren’t any wrinkles on it. Jason doesn’t bother with his own rumpled jacket and only gives Mr. Drake a cool look.

Tim glances between them, attempting to ignore the tension in the air. He gestures to his father, weakly. “Jason, this is my dad, Jack Drake. I don’t think you’ve met.”

“No,” Mr. Drake says, just a tad bit too sharp, “we haven’t.”

They watch each other for another beat, then Jason rolls his shoulders, smoothly reaching his hand forward with too much grace to be natural. “Jason Todd, nice to finally meet you.” Jack hesitantly shakes it, eyeing Jason as if the boy was something particularly nasty lying on the side of the road. Jason grins dangerously, and Tim wonders if Bruce taught his Robins how to act or if Dick and Jason learned it from this. From the ruthless people who wear sparkling jewels and fake smiles.

Mr. Drake takes a step back. He’s intimidated, Tim realizes. He’s never seen his dad intimidated by somebody before. He rests a hand on Tim’s shoulder, his grip close to painful, and Tim does his best not to let that show on his face. But Jason must see it because his eyes get impossibly colder.

“It’s time for us to go, Tim. Your mother finished her meeting early, and she wants to go over several things.”

He doesn’t know where the words come from, but Tim is moving away, not quite out of his father’s grip but it’s close, and asks, “Now?”

It probably means something when Jack’s fingers dig even tighter into Tim’s skin. He tries to ignore it, focusing on the way his father’s mouth becomes a very pale, thin line. Even from behind him Tim can still feel Jason’s stare.

“Now.”

His father lets go suddenly, and Tim nearly stumbles back from the sudden release, the man stalking back into the room and leaving both boys to stare after him. Tim automatically rubs his shoulder, wincing, but drops his hand when he realizes that Jason is watching him.

He swallows and glances at the open door. “Look, I have to . . .”

Jason waves a hand in understanding, but Tim can still see the disappointment in his eyes. Weirdly, it almost makes him feel good; knowing that someone can be upset that he’s leaving. That someone cares. He wonders if his parents ever feel like that and immediately his stomach lurches in disgust.

“It’s fine, I’ll, uh . . .” Jason considers him cautiously, hopefully. “I’ll see you soon, yeah? Show you the library?”

Despite everything, Tim grins slightly. “Yeah.”

Something bright enters the older boy’s eyes when he smiles in return, and Tim’s mind flashes back to Dick telling him how he got lonely growing up in the Manor with just Bruce and Alfred to talk to.

Maybe Jason needs someone just as much as Tim does.

A kinder sensation settles in his stomach: the knowledge that someone wants to hang out. Wants to be friends. Tim does his best to not notice the giddiness that sweeps through him. He looks back through the door and sees his father waiting for him, jaw set. He points his thumb over his shoulder, manages not to walk into the glass window behind him. “Um, bye?”

Jason snorts and rolls his eyes. It reminds Tim of Dick doing the exact same thing to Jason himself. “Later, kid.”

Tim turns and takes approximately two steps forward before looking back. Jason has already lit a new cigarette, the flame of his lighter going out before the thing is tucked into his wrinkled suit jacket. Tim hesitates.

“Jason?” The teenager glances at him, brows raised. “Thanks.”

Jason grins and exhales. Tim’s back is turned and he’s walking into the warmth of the room by the time the wind blows the smoke away.

*****

He shouldn’t have agreed to it.

That’s the first thing Dick thinks when he rolls back into the cave, parking his bike, and striding up to the computer. He glares at the files of the assholes who almost got the best of them tonight. At the incriminating photos given to them by Gordon that showed Penguin’s drop-off territory in the middle of a shipment, a big enough order that it would have been enough to put the crime lord behind bars for longer than usual. Useful photos, too, better quality than the usual security cameras. Gordon only said they were mailed in without a return address, a detail which Bruce had been agonizing over up to the second they went out.

Not that it matters now. He glares at the pictures and resists the urge to sweep them off the desk and onto the floor. The sound of the Batmobile ruins the quiet and Dick curses, reaching up to peel off his mask.

He lets it fall onto the keyboard. He’ll have to replace it: one of the lenses is cracked from when a crook got a lucky shot in.

Tonight hadn’t been a disaster, but it’d been too close.

Dick doesn’t look up when the slam of a car door echoes off the cave walls, Batman’s harsh footsteps followed by Robin’s lighter ones the only thing breaking the silence. He glares into the light of the Batcomputer. The inside of his mouth tastes like iron and he wonders if there’s still some blood between his teeth.

Bruce halts right behind him, and Dick’s shoulders manage to become even tenser. He can feel a cut high on his cheekbone drip blood down his face. Shit, that one will probably need stitches.

“What the hell were you thinking?” It’s the Bat’s voice that asks. Somehow that infuriates Dick even more and he turns to see that Bruce hasn’t even bothered to fucking take his cowl off. He has no idea what’s going on in Batman’s head, can only look at the angry line of Bruce’s mouth.

Some part of him knows that some part of Bruce wants Dick to blow up, to prove that the older man is in the right.

Fuck that.

Dick takes a breath. “You were busy so I went after the perp with the kid.”

“You left our backs completely open, we were surrounded in seconds.”

“A civilian was in danger, the guy had a knife, B!”

“You didn’t even call out, Nightwing.” And, yeah, Dick’s chest gets boiling-hot with the way Bruce says his name. Like Dick could have done better than that. Because Dick’s always supposed to do better. “You went against protocol.”

“I was sort of focused on not letting a kid get gutted. Sorry, for letting that be my priority at the time.” He can feel Bruce’s glare through the eyes of the cowl. Dick continues sarcastically, “He’s fine by the way, ran off the site as soon as the asshole lost his grip on him. Didn’t even lose his camera. And we took down the operation, why can’t you just take this as a win?”

Bruce stills. “Camera? Why did he have a camera?”

“Jesus, I don’t know, Bruce! Probably to take pictures of us or something; civilians tend to do that when we’re fighting in front of them,” Dick snaps.

“What did he look like?”

Dick throws his hands into the air. “Small, grey hoodie, didn’t see his face because he was already gone and then I was focused on getting back to cover you.”

“You should have at least attempted to—”

“So now you’re angry because I was trying to watch your back instead of leaving you open? Make up your fucking mind—”

“I’m angry,” Bruce hisses back, “that you didn’t wait for my orders.”

Dick practically snarls, “If I had waited for your orders there wouldn’t have been a kid left to save.” He steps closer, but Bruce doesn’t move back, so he jabs a finger into the center of the symbol on Batman’s chest. “And I don’t follow your orders anymore. I thought we made that pretty damn clear when you fired me, right, B?”

Bruce goes very still, and for a second, Dick thinks he might have actually rendered him speechless, but then—

“You left.”

And there’s so much to unpack with the way Bruce says that. Too much. And Dick ignores it in favor of curling his lip. “Yeah, after you benched me, permanently.” Bruce looks like he wants to say something else so Dick continues quickly, “Either way, I’m not your partner anymore, and I’m sure as hell not your sidekick. So stop treating me like one.”

“As soon as you start acting like an adult, I will.”

“Could you actually be any more condescending? Is it that hard for you to just respect the people you work with?” Dick says frigidly, moving past his adopted father with controlled ease. Bruce turns after him.

“I’m going to get my stitches redone. By the time I’m back, I want you gone.”

Dick’s heart stumbles and stops, and he whirls around, gaze wide. “What—”

“We don't work together—we're not partners, just as you said." Bruce pushes back the cowl and looks at him with steady, sharp eyes. "Come back when you’re capable of not acting like the child I took in. Then we’ll talk about respect,” Batman finishes. He breezes by Dick and up the stairs, as if he hadn’t just turned his son’s insides to ice and fire.

Dick stares at nothing, his thoughts buzzing around his head, drowning out the sounds of the chittering bats above.

He doesn’t know why the words hit harder than he expected. It’s nothing they haven’t said before, but it just hurts this time. Maybe it’s because he and Bruce never operate together anymore. Maybe it’s because no matter how much Dick pretends to not care about what Bruce thinks of him, he always will.

Still, nothing they haven’t said before. They’ll probably just avoid each other for the next few months, more than they already were. So much for progress.

I want you gone.

He feels a light tap on his arm. “Dick?” He blinks and looks at where Jason is standing next to him.

Fuck, he’d forgotten the kid was even there. Dick’s stomach withers with shame.

Jason blinks up at him, hesitation and concern in his teal eyes. “You okay?”

No.

“I’m always okay, Little Wing,” he manages. Jason winces and looks over at the stairs Bruce had walked up, shifting on his feet.

“Um, you don’t have to do that with me. That whole . . .” He gestures at Dick helplessly. “That ‘I’m always fine’ thing you do. You know that, right?”

Dick’s chest becomes way too tight. His voice catches when he says, “ . . . Yeah.”

Jason’s face relaxes and he grins. “Cool, uh . . . I actually wanted to talk to you about something. I found this stuff on my mom, my biological mom, and I wanted your opinion on what I should—”

“Jason,” Dick interrupts, eyes squeezing tightly shut. He knows he shouldn’t be doing this but he’s tired and bloody and he really needs to either curl up in bed or punch something. “Look, I . . . I care, I do, but I need to . . .” He motions at the zeta tube. The damn thing probably still doesn’t have the Tower’s coordinates up either because Bruce is an asshole.

The younger boy stills, catching Dick’s meaning and probably remembering Bruce’s words.

I want you gone.

Nothing they haven’t said before. It’s fine. It’ll be fine.

Jerkily, Jason nods and takes an awkward step back, looking at anything other than his adopted brother. Dick somehow manages to feel even worse. “Right, I—Yeah, sorry, I’ll just . . . Another time?”

Dick nods, moves to the zeta and starts to type in the numbers. He glances over his shoulder and remembers his motorcycle. The blood in his mouth makes up his mind about driving back to New York. “Hey, Jay?”

Jason looks up hopefully. “Yeah?”

“Watch my bike for me?” Dick points at it as the zeta-tube begins to glow, and Jason’s expression falls.

“Oh, yeah I can do that.” He suddenly perks up. “Can I ride—”

“Don’t even think about it.”

Jason huffs and flips him off, and Dick smiles as he returns the gesture. “I’ll call you, I just . . . gotta clear my head for a few days, alright?”

“Yeah, yeah, see you later, Dick.” They both grin.

“Later, Little Wing.”

There’s blue light and he’s back in the Tower.

I want you gone.

The cut on his cheek stings. With Jason no longer around, now he really, really wants to punch something. He walks through the halls, noting how they’re actually quiet for once. Seems like everybody is out somewhere.

Not that he can blame them, that’s what teenagers are supposed to do on a Saturday night.

Even though he should head to the med bay, Dick goes to the kitchen instead. Maybe there’s some pizza left from the other night. But considering that Wally exists, probably not. He half expects the kitchen to be empty, too, but Roy’s in there fiddling with the toaster. The redhead looks up when Dick enters and his eyebrows rise to his hairline.

“Wow, you look like shit.”

Dick throws him a half-hearted glare as he moves towards the pantry. “Could say the same about you.” Roy stills.

Not like he didn’t say anything other than the truth. During the past couple of weeks, the bags under Roy’s eyes have seemed to be darkening and he’s taken to wearing long-sleeves instead of his usual tank-tops. It’s an issue everyone��s been politely ignoring, even Donna, and Dick knows he’s going to have to step in soon.

He doesn’t know what kind of shit Roy’s going through, but he isn’t going to let it drag his friend under and drown him. The problem, though, is getting Roy to even talk about it.

And with the way Roy levels his gaze, Dick knows that’s not going to happen tonight.

“Well, aren’t you peppy.” Roy lays his tools on the table, and Dick stares forlornly at the disemboweled toaster. He’d just bought that one. The other boy follows his gaze and rolls his eyes. “Relax, I’ll put it back together.”

Dick grabs a protein bar and settles across from his friend. “That’s what you said about the blender.”

“You’re only upset about that because you got burned by the lasers.”

“Why the fuck does a blender need lasers? Who even likes the lasers?”

Roy smirks. “Kory likes the lasers.” Dick kicks his shin and doesn’t even feel bad when Roy yelps. “Damn, you’re testy. What? Did Bruce—”

“Spar with me,” Dick interrupts, and Roy shuts up and stares at him for so long that Dick shifts in his seat.

But this is something that they both tend to do when they can’t find the right words, and Roy nods. Dick relaxes, stands, and he doesn’t have to look behind him to know that Roy is following him to the training room. He doesn’t bother taking off his suit and Roy keeps his shirt on.

They make their way to the mats, stopping near the center. Turning, Dick examines the other boy, Roy watching him right back.

It's easy to forget, sometimes, how much the archer sees. How much he notices. Roy lowers himself into a basic stance, tilting his head in question. “Basic hand-to-hand? First one pinned for three seconds loses?”

Dick nods.

“Okay.”

They circle each other, and even though Dick usually waits for his opponent to strike first, he finds himself lunging forward. Roy avoids him easily, but this isn’t about skill; it’s about moving until they can’t think anymore.

Out of all the Titans, Roy’s the one who fights the dirtiest. Sparring with him feels like brawling on the street, all bloody grins and bruised knuckles. Dick kinda likes that about him; no bullshitting or honor in the ways he moves; Dinah’s doing, no doubt. He’s direct and effective and never fucking misses, which Dick is sorely reminded of when Roy lands a punch.

He went into this expecting he was going to lose. He’s half-assing this fight, they both know it, and he thinks Roy finally pins him out of exasperation more than anything else.

Dick grunts into the mat, not even trying to wriggle away from where Roy’s got his elbow buried between Dick’s shoulder blades. Above him, he hears Roy huff, “What the fuck was that, Grayson?”

He kicks at where the ball of Roy’s foot is resting on the floor, taking satisfaction in how Roy rolls off of him with a curse. Dick flops onto his back. “What the fuck was what, Harper?”

Roy sits up, crossing his legs, and shoves Dick’s side. “Why’d you let me beat your scrawny ass?”

“Fuck you, my ass is not scrawny.”

“I can't believe I bother with you,” Roy says to the ceiling.

“You have a scrawny ass . . . “ Dick mutters back, and Roy’s gaze drops back down to him, mouth quirked at the corner. His eyes narrow in on Dick’s cheek. Distantly, Dick realizes that his cut must have split open during their fight, and that blood is running down the side of his face and into his hair.

It’s gross, but he doesn’t care enough to get up and clean it. Roy considers him.

“So. What did Batman—”

I want you gone.

“Fuck, Batman,” Dick snaps, the venom coming from everywhere and nowhere, surging through his body.

Roy blinks.

“Guess the mission didn’t go as planned.”

“He’s such an asshole. He won’t fucking listen to me because he always has to be in the right, can’t even be bothered to compromise. I think he wants me to stop trying and just let our whole fucked up family go our separate ways.”

“He say something like that?”

Dick glares at the lights far above. “Said he wanted me gone. To come back when I could act like an adult, when he really just wants me to stop questioning him and to follow his orders like I’m some mindless soldier. And just . . . Just fuck that! And fuck him, too, for saying it in front of Jason when the kid does not need our drama on top of what he’s—”

“Jay was there?” Roy asks, sitting up straighter, and Dick glowers at him for interrupting his dramatic tirade.

“Jason’s Robin, Roy. Of course, he was there, why wouldn’t he be?”

Roy’s brow furrows. “Yeah, but he’s benched.”

“It was his first operation since—” Dick pauses, frowns, and cranes his neck to look over at the other boy. “How’d you know that?”

“Know what?” The redhead asks, going still as Dick’s eyes pin him to place.

“I didn’t tell you Jay was benched, did Wally?”

Something like realization crosses Roy’s face, and he stares with an expression Dick can’t place.

“ . . . Jason told me.”

Dick sits up too fast, and the world spins for a few seconds. He ignores it. “What? When?”

Roy watches him for a beat, then sighs with the resignation of someone who wishes they’d kept their mouth shut. “Remember when we broke into Bruce’s liquor cabinet and shared our fucking feelings a few weeks ago? And you were late as shit showing up and left me alone until Alfred took pity on me? Well, Jason was there and we . . .” Roy hesitates, searching for the right words, “We had some kind of heart-to-heart session.”

“You,” Dick says, pointing at Roy in disbelief, “talked about your emotions willingly and without the aid of alcohol?”

“Shut the fuck up, I’m not always an unfeeling asshole, you know,” Roy replies. He’s grinning, though, and Dick gestures for him to go on. The smile fades from his face. “Did, uh, Jason tell you about Garzonas?”

Dick stiffens. “You knew about the Garzonas thing? This whole time?”

“Hey, don’t start with me, Jason wanted to tell you himself and I wasn’t gonna get in the middle of that,” Roy says, bristling.

“Yeah, but I just learned about it, and you’ve known—”

“Well, maybe if you hung out with the kid more you could’ve found out sooner,” Roy snaps, and Dick reals back as if he’d been slapped. He turns away to look over at a far wall, guilt churning around in his stomach. Roy takes a glance at his face and sighs. “I know it’s hard for you, and Bruce is an asshole, but . . . he needs someone to talk to, Dick. That someone could be you.”

“Seems like he’s already found that someone,” Dick mutters sullenly.

He knows it’s stupid and petty, and that he should just be grateful that Jason found anybody to talk to about this stuff, but he can’t help the jealousy swirling inside him. Or the shame.

“No, he doesn’t need me,” Roy says too quickly. Dick frowns and looks at him. Roy is staring at Donna’s weight set across the room, pointedly avoiding Dick’s gaze. The tips of his ears are pinker than they were a few seconds ago. Probably just embarrassed that Jason looks up to him or something.

“Why not? I thought you got along, and he clearly likes you or he wouldn’t have talked to you in the first place—”

“Well, it’s not like I can just walk up to the Manor while Bruce is there. Should I remind you that he thinks I’m a bad influence?” Roy mutters.

“Nah,” Dick tells him. “He’s just not over that time you messed with his microwave and gave it robot arms.”

Roy looks wistful. “Fuck, that was awesome. Absolutely worth the lecture.” He shakes his head and gets back on topic. “But now he can hardly stand me. Maybe you could get Donna into the Manor to kidnap the kid so he can help when we have missions or something? She could totally get by Bruce, he’s always liked her the most.”

“That’s because he thinks Donna is responsible.”

“God, I wish he knew how many times she’s helped me hijack Ollie’s cars. Responsible, my ass.”

Dick snorts and then gets quiet. Hesitantly, he asks, “Jay say anything else?”

Roy glances at him, not uncomfortable but uneasy. “Besides the standard Bruce and self-esteem issues that all you Robins have, not really. You showed up and he kinda . . . disappeared. Had to think, I guess.”

“Really?” Dick asks, pursing his lips.

Roy looks away. “Really.” His ears are even pinker, and Dick is pretty sure he’s leaving something out, but he won’t push.

“Well, thanks for talking to him, I . . .” Dick swallows and turns away from Roy. “I haven’t really been there for him as much as I should have.”

Roy glances at him, and something in Dick’s face makes his shoulders droop. “What happened?”

Dick looks down and notices that some of the blood from his cut had dried on the mat. He scratches at it. “He wanted to tell me something about his mom, but Bruce had just told me to leave and I kind of . . .”

“You blew him off, didn’t you?” Roy says bluntly. Dick’s back hunches and he nods miserably. The other boy blows out a long breath, cheeks puffing up from the action. “Not much you can do about it until we get back, I guess.”

“Get back?”

Roy blinks in realization. “Shit, you weren’t here for that, were you? Donna has some space mission she wants us to go on, something about gods or whatever. She didn’t go into the details, wanted to talk to you about it. We’ll be off-world for a week and a half? Maybe two? It’d be a chance to get your mind off of this Bruce bullshit and figure out what you’re gonna do about Jaybird.”

Dick raises a brow. “Jaybird?”

Roy freezes. “Uh.”

“Jesus, you nicknamed him, Roy?”

“I didn’t—”

“For a guy who says he doesn’t care, you’re pretty shit at acting that way,” Dick teases. The pink is back, and Roy rubs at his ears self-consciously. Dick watches him, clearly amused.

Roy scowls. “Whatever.”

“You’re a good person,” Dick chirps annoyingly. Roy shoves him and Dick falls back onto the mat, snickering.

“If you want me to clean your cuts and stitch you back together, you better shut it, Dickface.”

Dick jumps up, still grinning. “Didn’t peg you as a softy, Speedy.”

“Are you asking me to shoot you later?”

He laughs, nudging Roy’s shoulder as they walk to the med bay. Roy doesn’t laugh back, but his eyes are lighter than they’ve been in a while and the corners of his mouth are twitching despite his best efforts.

And even though his cheek still hurts and his mouth still tastes like blood and Bruce’s words are still echoing in his head, Dick smiles.

*****

Tim scrambles through his unlocked window, camera clutched close to his pounding chest. He falls to the floor and just lies there for a moment, panting. The fan in his room goes around and around lazily and he tries to focus on it. Tries to calm the jack-rabbit pulse in his throat.

Tonight had not gone as planned. At all.

As in, he almost got himself killed.

Staring up at his ceiling, still attempting to calm his racing heart, he attempts to organize his brain.

His parents had left early in the morning, he’d even woken up before they’d gone. His mother had kissed him on the cheek and his father had ruffled his hair. It was the most affection Tim had gotten from them in months. But his mother had apparently gotten an amazing deal across during her meeting, so that was probably the cause. Still, it was nice.

He’d lazed around the house, even considered going to the Waynes a few times, but couldn’t bring himself to. Besides, Jason might have already left for the Middle East by then so what was the point?

At nightfall, he’d caught the late bus, hiked until he made it to the docks where Penguin’s shipping operation was supposed to happen. He waited for hours and had thought about calling it quits more than once, but something convinced him to stay.

He honestly still can’t decide if it was worth it or not.

The Bats had come out of nowhere, all three of them, and Tim was so relieved that they apparently made up, that he’d started taking shots of the beginning fight without thinking twice. Didn’t even look around before he started, either.

Stupid.

Incredibly, ridiculously stupid.

The guy had been so quiet and Tim hadn’t even noticed he was there until the back of his hoodie was grabbed by a meaty hand. In his defense, how was he supposed to know that Penguin’s goons had somehow become semi-good at their jobs? And it’s not like Tim didn’t fight back. He’d scratched and kicked and struggled until there was a knife at his throat and the crook started hissing threats at him to give up his camera.

That’s when Nightwing showed up.

One second Tim was sure he was about to be ripped apart, then the man that’d been holding him was getting slammed into the ground by a blur of blue and gold.

And Tim had turned away and ran.

Because he doesn’t even want to know what might have happened if Dick had seen him.

Or . . . maybe Dick had seen him. Tim sits up as if he’d been electrocuted, all attempts of trying to calm himself forgotten.

But, no. No, there’s no way Dick would have let him go if he’d glimpsed at Tim’s face. He’d have chased Tim down instead of letting him make it all the way back home. He forces his muscles to relax. It’s fine.

Shakily, he looks down at the camera still held tight in his grip. The pictures had turned out great, and he still wants to send a few to Gordon, but now there’s a chance that the Bats could trace those photos back to the skinny kid Nightwing had saved.

It’s not worth the risk.

He still kinda wants to, though.

Tim flops back onto the ground, exhausted. With all the Waynes out of town, there won’t be much activity at night anymore. All he’ll have to fill his time is school.

Man, the next couple of weeks are going to suck.

At least he has Bruce and Jason coming back to look forward to. Biting his lip, Tim stares at nothing, debating silently.

He’ll go, he decides. He’ll let Jason show him the library. He’ll let them help.

He’ll show up after they return home, ride his bike down to the Manor. Alfred will remember him and let him inside. Maybe he could help make tea again? He wants to do something useful, not just stand around until Jason appears and starts talking about books.

He could bring his camera with him and show them the pictures he takes. Not of the Bats, obviously. But the ones from when he stays out late enough that dawn comes and the city begins to wake up, the streets filled with mist from the rivers and windows glinting with morning sunlight. He thinks Bruce would like those.

Yeah. Yeah, he’ll go.

And for the first time in a long time, Tim falls asleep without loneliness clawing at his chest.

*****

Everything hurts.

His ribs feel like they’re on fire, and there’s blood in his lungs that he keeps choking on with every breath. Several of his fingers are bent in the wrong direction and he stares at them in sick fascination. Well, he tries to stare. The left side of his face is really swollen.

Distantly, he can hear Sheila screaming and hitting the door. She’s crying and looking at him with huge, teary eyes.

Bruce said he has her eyes.

She yells for help again and he kinda wants her to shut up. She’s making the pounding in his head almost unbearable. Besides, the door is too close to the bomb. He tries to tell her they should move, but his tongue is thick and bloody in his mouth and it won’t work right.

He struggles to stand in front of her instead. He’s dying anyway. Might as well die for someone.

Sheila seems to understand what he’s doing and she shakes her head, takes his face in her cool hands. He wants to hate her. He really wants to hate her. He only shuts his eyes instead.

After a precious second, he realizes that she’s saying something and his eyelids flutter open because his hearing is kind of messed up after getting hit so many times to the head. He stares at her lips and tries to get the words to form.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Oh. He supposes she should be sorry. She left him. She pulled a gun on him. Only smoked a cigarette while the Joker took his time with the crowbar. Maybe he got the smoking thing from her? Her eyes and a preference for cigarettes.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs it into his hair, and he doesn’t know why she’d want to do that because he’s still soaked in blood. Shit, he probably messed up her white shirt, didn’t he?

“I’m sorry.”

He tries to tell her it’s okay, but his throat feels like he’s been swallowing glass and gravel and the words won’t come.

I’m sorry.

He can’t tell if she’s still saying it or if it’s him now.

The numbers on the countdown are getting smaller and smaller. It suddenly hits him that Bruce won’t make it, not this time.

I’m sorry.

He’d promised to buy Barbara a chilidog. Told Tim he was gonna show him the library. Swore to help Alfred with the garden next Sunday.

I’m sorry.

What was the last thing he’d said to Rena? He thinks they ended on good terms, but the memory is fuzzy. He’s fairly sure she smiled at him after class. Oh. He isn't going to be able to finish his part of their group project, is he? Hopefully she'll still get a good grade.

I’m sorry.

His last interaction with Roy hadn’t ended nearly as well. Wish he could redo that. Dick is going to call him soon and his phone will only ring and ring and ring.

“I’m so sorry, Jason.”

Sheila is still talking into his hair. At some point, she’d wrapped her arms around him, but his good eye can still see the countdown. After another second, he relaxes and lets his eyes close. He understands her in a way.

He’s sorry for a lot of things, too.

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