#how to get to Brussels

[tennessoui]

I'm begging on my hands and knees for more Twilight au, and those are words I never thought I'd say! Anakin being able to resist compulsion, and Obi-Wan seeming instantly obsessed, and poor Shmi! Pretty please 🥺🙏

hey!! sure! here's some more!

(2.5k)

Having a sheriff for a mom sucked a lot when he was a kid growing up in a small town. There was probably nothing Anakin was rebelling against more at eleven, at thirteen, at seventeen than the rule of law his mother represented. 

All things considered, she was pretty good at separating her home life from her worklife. It was Anakin who was bad at respecting the separation, Anakin who couldn’t keep son out of delinquent.  There’s only so many times he could be pulled out of wreckage and bars and buildings with Keep Out No Trespassing signs on them before he got The Sheriff at home and out in public.

He’d hated it growing up and had come to grudgingly respect it later and in fits and starts. His dad dying had, terribly and ironically, helped a lot. His mother had had a stroke just before and then Anakin had been faced with the possibility of being an orphan, and the terror of that had mellowed him out.

Sorta.

He still hates a lot of things about his mother’s job. Especially the fact that she’s the sheriff of a very small town.

And when people talk, she listens.

The thing about small towns is that everyone’s always fucking talking. And other people are always fucking lsitening so they can talk later. One big fucking community, which means when Anakin comes home from his weird doctor’s appointment with Dr. Kenobi, a few hours later because he took a detour biking along the edge of the seaside cliffs just to spit in the good doctor’s metaphorical face, Shmi Skywalker already knows more than Anakin ever planned to tell her.

Like, for instance, “Sheila says that Dr. Kenobi thought it would behoove you to spend some time at the local library volunteering.”

Anakin pauses, backpack half-slung off his shoulders. He hangs his stuff up slowly, careful to keep his tone very light. “Did Sheila say what I told him after he said that?” 

His mom’s silence is very loud.

“I don’t want to do i—”

“I asked the new librarian about it on my way home from the station. She thinks it’s a wonderful idea. Apparently we used to have a program like that in the forties but it died out during the war.”

“Mom, come on—”

“It’ll look good on resumes, saying you created and supported a local reading program.”

“Yeah, but I’m a bit too old to be applying for babysitting positio—”

“It’ll look good for me as well,” Shmi says in her sheriff voice. “Elections are coming up soon. It’ll be good, if my kid was involved in the community.”

Anakin’s glad that his back is still turned to the living room, where his mom is sitting. “Are you gonna run again?” he asks, paying special attention to his tone this time.

“Why wouldn’t I?” his mom replies. “I’ve been sheriff for a decade and a half.”

Anakin lets his eyes fall closed for a second, knowing that his face can’t be seen. This is how they end up half the time: Shmi’s ardent belief that she is invincible, going up against Anakin’s desperate desire for her to be so.

And they just don’t talk about it. As if they’re actually in agreement.

He knows how this is going to shake out.

“Do you have any plans tomorrow?” His mother asks.

Anakin’s eyes remain closed. “I guess so,” he says.

—--------

Mrs. Kenobi—call me Satine—is sort of scary up close. She’s tall. She glides between bookshelves. Anakin’s never met someone who glides before. And she’s so intensely, incredibly, blindingly perfect that Anakin would rather be anywhere but in her vicinity. There’s something incredibly unnerving about the symmetry of her face, the sharpness of her cheekbones. She’s obviously an absolute knock-out, just drop-dead gorgeous, but it makes Anakin’s skin crawl and his heart beat fast, but not in a good way or a normal teenage boy way.

Anakin tries to keep the unease off his face as Satine leads him through a tour of the library, a gentle hand on his forearm. That’s another thing Anakin doesn’t really like. She’s wearing satin gloves. He doesn’t know anyone who wears gloves anymore.

It’s just all a bit…unsettling.

“I put in a few words around the school yesterday afternoon,” Satine tells him. They pass by the mystery section, the fantasy section, and take a hard right into the young adult section. The shelves are smaller here, and Anakin feels rather stupidly gigantic as he and Satine walk through them. “To some parents picking their children up after school. They agreed it would be good exposure to bring them to the library for an hour or so of reading before supper.”

Anakin highly doubts it will be, but Satine hasn’t really asked him.

She sweeps past his figure and pushes open a pair of double doors with a flourish better suited for a Russian tsarina hosting an elaborate ball than a small town librarian showing off a small, cramped, and dusty room filled with padded seats and threadbare rugs.

And then, as if she has been waiting to put the last nail in the proverbial coffin, Satine adds, “A few students from the local high school will be here as well.”

“Sorry,” Anakin says, “are you saying I’m going to be reading to high school students? Can’t they do that themselves?”

After all, Anakin went to high school here. Academics hadn’t been too rigorously challenging, but they’d taught the fucking basics.

Satine raises one perfectly plucked eyebrow in his direction. “They’ll be volunteering as well.”

Oh. Right.

“It looks good on their college applications,” Satine waves a hand through the air and the words linger there. Anakin looks out the rather dirty window, jaw clenching. “I’ve already chosen a handful of books I think the young ones will enjoy.”

Anakin, committed to his fate, pads over to the titles placed carefully ontop of a short, stout side table. 

“Peter the Rabbit,” he reads off the top. “Peter Pan. Alice in Wonderland. Treasure Island. The Prince and the Pauper—look, you’re the librarian here, but don’t you have anything written this century maybe? Harry Potter, even.”

“These are classics,” Satine tells him, her nose raised into the air as if she has encountered something particularly foul-smelling. She turns away, presumably to return to the front desk so she can welcome half the fucking town inside the library so Anakin can read them fucking Anne of Green Gables and become a better person.

“These are fucking boring,” he mutters to himself, flicking the cover of the first book, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz open. Publication date: 1900. “I’d rather be in Kenobi’s office getting lectured at.”

There’s a sharp noise of disapproval from the doorway, and Anakin’s head snaps up to see the tail end of a very heated look from the librarian before the door closes behind her.

He shivers, alone in the emply room, and it takes several long minutes for his heart to settle back into its normal pace. 

—----------

After the fourth kid sneezes, Anakin closes his book with a snap and stands from the very small chair they’ve got him sitting on. “Come on,” he tells the cluster of children he’s been assigned to. “We’re getting out of here.”

“Are you kidnapping us?” One of them, a snot-nosed kid who’d started the sneezing says, rubbing at her cheek beneath her glasses. “Cause mommy says that’s not allowed.”

“I’m not kidnapping you,” Anakin snaps back, barely holding in his natural follow-up to the sentence which is of course, I don’t want to be around any of you in the first place. “Also, just for future reference, you shouldn’t ask if someone’s kidnapping you after you already start following them.”

The girl scowls and reaches up her hand to hold onto Anakin’s. 

For the love of Christ.

“We’re just going to go into the main part of the library,” Anakin tells his children, all six of them. “They have windows out there.”

They have windows out there and they also have parents. Parents who absolutely should be doing other things with their lives and precious hour of extra freetime.

Parents who are clustered instead around the library’s front desk as the town’s newest librarian holds court.

“Is reading time over?” one of the kids asks him, turning his head to look up at Anakin.

Anakin thinks about it. “Do you want reading time to be over?”

The kid thinks about it back. “Yeah,” he decides. “You don’t do the voices good.”

“It’s a boring book,” Anakin tells the kid. “Voices aren’t going to make it better.”

“Voices always make it better,” another kid says. “They make everything better.”

“Oh look,” Anakin says. “Is that your father?”

He gestures vaguely towards the cluster of drooling middle-aged somethings focused on Satine.

The kid peeks around his thigh and then shakes his head. “No,” he says. “That’s Dr. Obi.”

“Dr. Obi!” The kid holding Anakin’s hand says, and she lets go.

Anakin gets a bad feeling about this, a feeling that only doubles when he turns around to see Dr. Kenobi sauntering towards him, hands tucked into the pockets of a long dark jacket that makes him look even more pale than he already is.

He scowls automatically as the man gets closer. “Dr. Obi.”

Dr. Kenobi spares him a look that’s far too amused for Anakin’s pleasure before he crouches down to the level of the kids. “Hello there, young ones,” he says, opening his arms to accept a hug from the traitor of a girl Anakin’s just spent thirty minutes reading to. “Are you eating all your vegetables? Even the brussel sprouts?”

“I like brussel sprouts,” one of the kids reports sounding proud, and that starts a cacophony of opinions about brussel sprouts from all around Anakin.

“Wow! One of mine just absolutely hates them,” Dr. Kenobi says. “She refuses to eat them, so you’re very brave, Michele.” He lets go of the girl and turns his golden-brown gaze up to Anakin. “And what does Mr. Skywalker think?” he asks, raising a hand for Anakin to take. It’s very obvious he’s asking for a hand up and Anakin is obeying before he thinks about it. He snatches his hand free almost too soon, but Dr. Kenobi doesn’t even have the grace to lose his balance and fall over. 

His hand is like ice in Anakin’s, and Anakin stuffs his fingers into the pocket of his jacket automatically a second later.

“Do brussel sprouts help with circulation?” he’s biting out before he can stop himself. “Cause you may need some then.”

Kenobi’s head tilts very slightly to the side as his eyes catch and hold onto Anakin’s. “Oh?” he asks lightly. 

“You’re cold,” is all Anakin mutters in return. He swipes his other hand against the back of his neck. “”S poor circlutation, isn’t it? Something in your diet maybe?” Dr. Kenobi blinks at him and then breaks into a wide smile. “I can assure my diet is very…circulation-mindful,” he says. “Blood health positive.”

Anakin’s mouth thins into a line. He guesses that’s what he gets for trying to give health advice to a doctor, especially a doctor like Kenobi who just so happens to be devastatingly attractive and also smart.

And also an asshole. And also married.

Speaking of which. “Are you here to fend off your wife’s admirers with a scalpel?” Kenobi’s eyebrows raise. “Young ones,” he turns his head away from Anakin, down to the children.

The strangest feeling breaks of Anakin the second Kenobi looks away, almost as if a strange pressure he hadn’t even realized had been building was suddenly dissolved.

The very small beginnings of a headache begin to thrum in his temples.

“Young ones, it’s time to find your parents, isn’t it?” Kenobi says, and like fucking magic, the crowd of six children around Anakin disperse, children swarming away from him towards the group of adults surrounding the front desk.

“Can you teach me how to do that?” Anakin blurts out, even though he’d meant to ignore Kenobi now that he doesn’t have to make nice in front of small kids. Not that he was really making nice in the first place. But now he definitely doesn’t have to.

Kenobi gives him a half-smile, eyes heavy-lidded. “It’s a special sort of skill that takes, above all else, much practice.”

Anakin scowls. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Does Kenobi think he can’t commit himself to something even as mundane as a fucking commanding persona? Does he think he doesn’t have it in him to be–-

Kenobi’s eyebrows go up again. “Has anyone ever told you that you are exceedingly defensive?” 

“You’re extremely nosey,” Anakin snaps back, crossing his arms over his chest. “Don’t you have better things to focus on right now anyway?”

He gestures loosely towards Satine, who has started playing with one of the mother’s bracelets as the other woman stands and looks at her rather dumbfounded.

Kenobi follows his gaze and then lets out a huff of laughter. “Satine can take care of herself,” he says, even though it hadn’t really been Satine that Anakin was worried about.

He’s about to open his mouth to say so when Kenobi turns back to him. His eyes are piercing, a dark, captivating sort of gold. 

“Do you find my wife beautiful, Anakin?” he asks.

Anakin blinks. His headache is getting worse, which is probably down to what can only be a trick-question fashioned to look like a grenade lobbed at his feet. “I don’t think there’s a good answer to that,” he mutters, rubbing absently at his forehead. “What the fuck.”

“An honest answer is a good one,” Kenobi says lightly. “Tell me honestly.”

The words feel pulled from Anakin’s stomach, and he’s opening his mouth before he realizes it. “No,” he says. 

Kenobi’s eyebrows crinkle together. “No?”

Anakin curses his stupid impulse control. “She’s beautiful,” he adds quickly. “Really. But…it makes me uncomfortable.”

Kenobi’s lips purse, and then there’s something like disappointment in his eyes as he examines Anakin. “Ah yes,” he murmurs. “I’ve been told my wife can make countless young men feel rather uncomfortable. It’s normal in men your age, Anakin. Sexual ar—”

“Uncanny,” Anakin blurts out. He doesn’t mean to, but he also doesn’t want to listen to  Kenobi trying to lecture him on fucking arousal in the public library. When it’s not even relevant. “She’s so beautiful, it’s uncanny.”

“Uncanny.”

“Yeah, like. Monstrous.”

Kenobi’s mouth falls open, pink lips parted in what looks like honest surprise.

Anakin’s own eyes widen as it hits him that he’s just called Kenobi’s wife a monster to Kenobi’s face.

“Shit,” he says. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that. I’m going to go.” 

He throws a look at Kenobi, whose eyes are lit with something a lot like interest and then across the library to where Satine’s head is turned, cocked, and eyebrows up high on her forehead, as if she’s just heard everything he’s said.

He decides rather immediately that he’s going to take the backdoor exit.

[nicoscheer]

This great new young Northen band have been supporting us on tour, great to have Tom up from the Royston Club last night help us out with Come Closer x

Via Miles’ TikTok

Babygirl 🥹🥰

[tardis--dreams]

It's been over a week but here's my obligatory concert photo dump ♡

[hwanswerland]

the ateez Europe tickets are really fucking overpriced wow

[knaveofmogadore]

Pretty much all of my advice from years of tutoring, working with foster kids, and helping raise half a dozen toddlers is two questions and an answer:

1) Is there a developmental or medical reason the kid is doing [behavior], or is it a control thing?

2) If it is a control thing, what will I gain from tackling it head on that I wouldn't gain from alternate solutions or by giving up entirely?

And the answer is almost ALWAYS "No one wins when you initiate combat with a toddler, because you're an adult with a million responsibilities, and that kid ain't got nothing else to do. You might get what you wanted, but you'll both still lose"

[atricksterproblem]

.

[deetherusalka]

Not seeing the person I broke up with and just cutting all contact is one thing but loosing the whole friend group and loosing all contact in school cuz I don't have classes anymore and others either graduating or leaving uni and just being almost alone with my thesis is really sending me into downward spiral

[girlitfeelsgood]

I really hate the world

[whorecedes18]

my stomach is KILLING me rn whos spiked my brussel sprouts

side note but Brussel sprouts are AMAZING (#controversial) and i forget that until the next time i have them

[rayatii]

should NOT have opened Twitter just now.

[supersaiyajopping]

my mom is a taemin stan now

[riverpiracy]

god brussel sprouts are so goated. how the hell did they get known as the nasty vegetable

[7thbutterflyofspring]

Round 3+ ideally, hopefully zucchini has been already eliminated as well

[visenyaism]

European recipes make me feel like Walter white

American recipes: [3 page story about how their mamaw used to make this for them during the depression] so you’re gonna smack a stick of butter in there and then put a cup or two of flour until you feel like it’s dry enough. Be generous with the sugar. You’ll know when. Get a healthy amount of molasses and an egg in there and then mix up with your hands until it’s nice and crumbly. If you’re feeling fruity you can add vanilla extract here if you’re tough like they are where I come from cornmeal will do. Add water to taste and texture. If you’ve struck big it can be milk. Put in cast iron skillet blow it a kiss and bake until golden brown. Let cool until you get tired of smacking a bunch of little hands away from having a taste.

European recipe for essentially the same thing: You. Worm. Get out your little scale. You need 147 grams of flour. no more no less. 133 milliliters of fresh milk. 27 grams of white granulated sugar. If an extra granule ends up in the mixing bowl someone from Brussels will be by to administer the proper regulatory fee in 48 hours. Whisk together for 139 seconds exactly and titrate 3ml extrait de vanille into the bowl using an eye dropper before baking at 231 Celsius for 26 minutes. If you deviate from this in any way the food will be inedible and your fine will double. 

[uniquexusposts]

Your private plane is not a magic wand | M. Verstappen

Summary: When plans go sideways, patience is put to the test. A weekend getaway turns into a waiting game; can they overcome the unexpected and still make it count?

The low hum of his gaming PC filled the living room, broken only by the soft clicking of the buttons of his controller and the occasional muttered curse in Dutch and English. Max leaned forward, eyes locked on the TV, expression a mix of calm focus and quiet intensity. The apartment was dim except for the glow of his monitors and the half-empty bowl of paprika chips forgotten at his side.

Outside, Monaco was golden and loud, gearing up for another wedding weekend full of people he didn’t really care to impress. Inside, it was just him, barefoot in sweats, headset around his neck, waiting for one small plane icon on Flightradar to move.

He flicked his eyes over to the iPad. Still nothing.

Flight KL1479 from Amsterdam to Nice. Scheduled departure: 16:45. Estimated: delayed.

He exhaled through his nose, not quite a sigh, not quite annoyed; just that tight-lipped, silent reaction.

Y/n, his girlfriend, was supposed to land tonight. She had just wrapped a five-day rotation, flying across Europe, and had barely enough time to swap her flight uniform to her passenger outfit: her casual chill outfit. They would go to the wedding of one of their friends tomorrow, it would start with a group breakfast. 

He picked up his phone. No message. No update.

Max clicked out of the game, letting the loading screen fade into silence. The apartment suddenly felt too quiet.

He stared at the screen once more. The little yellow plane hadn’t budged from Schiphol.

And then his phone lit up, Y/n was calling. Max put off his headset and answered it. 

“Dear passengers…” A smirk covered his face. 

“…your flight has been delayed,” Y/n finished his sentence. 

“Jesus,” he breathed. “And now what?” 

“I might hijack a plane and fly myself to Nice. Or I kidnap some crew to fly me to Nice,” she sarcastically said. “No, that’s not even possible. There’s a technical problem in the traffic tower.”

“Dat is kut (that sucks),” he replied, shifting on the couch, rubbing the heel of his hand over his face. “So… how bad is it?”

“We boarded the plane already, we are not back at the gate and nobody knows anything. The control room and HQ also have no idea about it. So take a wild guess.”

Max let his head fall back against the cushion. “So, like... bad-bad.” He could hear the background noise now; indistinct chatter, the occasional beep of airport announcements, someone’s child crying two seats over. Y/n sighed, and it came through the speaker like static, tired, annoyed, but not angry. Just done. Then she started to talk to someone, guessing it was someone from the crew. 

“Uh, I will keep you up-to-date,” Y/n then said. “I might go into that tower myself to fix this shit.”

Max chuckled. “I’d pay to see that.”

“I wouldn’t even charge you. Front row seat.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “You sure you don’t want me to send the plane?” He knew she wouldn’t like that option. 

“I knew you were gonna say that.”

“Well?”

“Max. The whole country’s traffic towers are messed up. Your private plane is not a magic wand.”

“Not with that attitude.”

She snorted softly. “Don’t start. I’m already sweating in the airport air and I swear my deodorant gave up an hour ago.”

“You’re still the hottest stranded person at Schiphol,” he said.

“That’s not a high bar.”

“Still counts.”

Y/n went quiet for a moment, then let out another tired breath. “I’ll look into trains. Maybe Brussels, Düsseldorf, or Paris has outbound flights. But it’s probably chaos there too.”

—

17:59 - Y/n Everything is still stuck. They are starting to cancel some flight

18:00 - Max Shit man 18:00 - Max And taking a flight from another airport? 18:00 - Y/n Fully booked

18:01 - Max Send me your location I’ll come get you on a bike

18:01 - Y/n Great, should only take you what, 3 days? Bring snacks

18:02 - Max I’ll tape paprika chips to my chest like a human vending machine

18:02 - Y/n You’re disgusting

18:03 - Max Romantic, actually

18:04 - Y/n Guess what? They just announced another set of cancellations. Schiphol is a graveyard.

18:04 - Y/n People are crying. There’s a guy singing like he is a Gerard Joling wannabe

18:05 - Max Not Gerard Joling

18:05 - Max Tell me what you need. Train? Helicopter? Submarine? Teleportation?

18:06 - Y/n Wat we nu gaan doen, kost heel veel geld (what we will do now, will cost a lot of money)

18:06 - Max Whatever it takes to not walk into that wedding without you

—

20:03 - Y/n Flight got officially cancelled 

20:05 - Max Kutzooi (shit)

20:05 - Y/n Live, love, cry

20:05 - Y/n Trying to fix something. Keep you posted xx —

21:40 - Y/n Bonjour, we’re boarding. I (my beloved colleagues) fixed a ticket. Also managed to sit in the cockpit during landing (my cousin is flying)

21:40 - Y/n Don’t start cheering too loud 21:41 - Max Fucking finally 

21:42 - Y/n Also, rumour is that we are the first flight allowed to take off 

A photo appeared in the chat; a selfie from Y/n. She sat in her favourite chill outfit, her hair still in work mode, a faint smudge of exhaustion under her eyes and a messy makeup look that had been through a look. But the half-smile she wore was unmistakable: equal parts mischief and quiet triumph. It was the look she always got when she’d taken a chaotic situation and somehow wrestled it into her favour.

A small, reluctant smile tugged at the corner of Max’ mouth. Of all the people he knew, Y/n had this uncanny ability to find the sliver of calm or humor in the middle of the mess. He imagined her sitting there at the gate, tapping her foot impatiently, half-ready to storm the control tower herself if needed.

But despite the grin, a flutter of nervousness crept into his chest. He set his phone down and leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, fingers tapping a restless rhythm against his skin.

Please, he thought. Just get going.

His eyes flicked back to the flight tracker on his iPad. The tiny yellow plane, the symbol of Y/n’s flight, hovered motionless on the virtual runway. Time ticked by slowly, the silence in his apartment suddenly heavy, punctuated only by the low hum of his gaming PC and the distant sound of the city beyond his windows.

Then, almost imperceptibly at first, the icon began to move; just a few meters, rolling forward. It gained momentum, inching steadily down the runway, its progress measured but sure.

There she goes.

He sank back into his chair, the familiar weight of his headset forgotten, his attention entirely captured by that tiny moving plane. The plane now flew above Aalsmeer, she was up into the air, on her way to Nice, leaving behind the chaos of cancelled flights and stranded passengers.

A quiet calm settled over Max’s apartment, the tension draining away with every passing second. In that moment, watching the glow of the screen illuminate his face, Max felt a warmth that had nothing to do with the game or the city lights outside. Against all the frustration, the delays, the uncertainty.

She was on her way. Safe - hopefully. Flying.

Taglist: @itsjustkhaos @crashingwavesofeuphoria @maryvibess @ironmaiden1313 @sltwins @heart-trees @npcmia @llando4norris @freyathehuntress

[siri-ike]

Clone Danny long post

The footprints lead Alfred out of the room and to the right but quickly dried up on the short hair carpet.

Alfred checked every room to the right of Danny's. He had to have left the family wing. 40 minutes of searching later, Alfred was about to go down yet another hallway when he heard faint music and metal clanging. He walked closer to the sound until he could make out some words.

🎶I- can hear the sound of violins🎶

🎶long before- it begins🎶

The gym. Someone is at the gym. He told Dick to relax. This is the opposite of relaxing. He stops for a moment outside the door to gather himself. People listen to empathy more than anger. When Alfred pushed the door open and looked down at the workout area, he didn't see a disobedient clown. No. Instead, he was forcibly dragged back to 1989, staring at a 13 year old Bruce doing chest presses. He always looked the most at ease when he was at the gym. The rest of the time, he would be looking for his parents' killer or discovering seacret organizations. Alfred used to cherish the time Bruce spent at the gym because he knew it was the closest he could get to calm. Shortly, Danny put down his 3 kg weights and addressed Alfred.

"Morning, Alfred. Breakfast already? Thought I had more time." He sounded like Bruce, more than just his voice. Danny had his own way of talking, but this was all Bruce.

"Young Master," best not to object to his perceived reality, whatever that may be. "It's almost seven in the afternoon, not morning." The sun would have spoiled that for him anyway. "And dinner will be ready in two hours."

"Oh, ok. I'll be there at nine then." Danny simply went over to the next station in his routine. Right as he sat down on the floor, something seemed to dawn on him. "Alfred? Did something happen to me?" He asked innocently.

Alfred remained frozen, staring at the young boy. "What would give you that idea?"

"I woke up in a different room than usual, I had to switch down all my weights, and the files in my father's office have been moved. And then you came in looking like you've seen a ghost." Ever the detective.

"Nothing gets past you. I'm afraid you had a rather bad fever and spent a few days in bed. I would like to examine your health, but it can wait. Let's say, eight-thirty? Before dinner?"

"Kitchen at eight-thirty, got it."

Alfred left the room and braced himself on the door. He thinks he's Bruce. He probably thinks it's the 80s or 90s, too. It's a good thing most everyone is out hunting down clues and/or committing extreme acts of violence.

Danny had changed into an all black suit (bowtie and kerchief included) before coming to the kitchen at 8:27. Hmm, he does like to be punctual. His temperature and heart rate were normal, for once he didn't have bags under his eyes, which responded in time to light. But, he was definitely younger than he was when he arrived. Dick wasn't imagining that.

"Can you tell me your name, age, and today's date?"

"Bruce Thomas Wayne, 12, almost 13, today is November, uh," He struggled a bit. "17th? Maybe a bit later, 1988." He avoided eye contact. "Just so we're clear, I wouldn't have known today's date even if I hadn't been sick."

Alfred smiled a little, remembering how much he used to care about getting good scores on everything. "I'll be sure to include that in the report." He retorted sarcastically, earning a small grin back. "Now go wash up, dinners almost ready."

As per routine, Alfred started by bringing out the helthiest dishes. They all knew it was a trick to get them to eat vegetables, but no one was ever willing to wait. Danny was so hungry, even the brussel sprouts were appetizing. Now if Alfred could just stop staring at him and actually put the container on the table.

"Alfred?"

"W, what?"

"Are you OK?"

Danny had combed his hair when he'd asked him to wash up. This was Bruce. This was the boy Alfred raised. The one who had fallen asleep in his arms every night for months because he refused to be alone in the dark. The one who used to "forget" to tell Alfred about the handfuls of peanut butter in his pockets, ruining thousand dollars dress pants on six different occasions. The one who wanted to keep street cats knowing full well he was allergic.

"Do you need a day off? Or maybe a week?"

"What? No. I'm alright master Bruce. Just, uhm, glad to see you have your appetite back. That's all." Keep it together now. He set down a steaming glass dish full of baked carrots, sweet potatoes, bell peppers, onions, brussel sprouts, broccoli, cauliflower, and mushrooms.

Danny took as big a serving as he could fit (vegetables can only go in the top right on his plate), making sure not to let the butter run too much. The next dish was steamed turnip. Crap. Another vegetable. Can't mix them. Can't put it somewhere else. The only option is to finish the baked vegetables fast.

By the time he finished his quarter of a turnip, six more dishes had already shown up. How many people does Alfred think live here?

At 21:11 Dick walked into the dining room. Dressed in a plain shirt and pants. The two boys looked like they were going to entirely different events.

"Hello." Danny invited. "I'm sorry, have we met?"

"This gentleman is detective Richard Grayson." Alfred interjected. "Master Dick, would you care to join us for dinner?"

"Oh, where are my manners? Here, have a seat. There's plenty of food."

The dinner after that was awkward, but nice. It's good to have some company once in a while. Ever since his parents died, it's just been him and Alfred.

He did wake up late in the afternoon, so it shouldn't be such a surprise that he got to stay up and watch his gray ghost VHS tapes way later than his usual bedtime. Only interrupted occasionally by Alfred, making sure he's keeping all that food down. He had to have been really sick. He doesn't even remember throwing up recently.

He must have dosed off at some point because he was awoken abruptly at some horrid hour of the night by an ear pierceing scream. He hurried to its sorce in the family wing where he saw what looked like another Bruce, except this one had white hair and wore a black onesie. He appeared to be melting into a glowing green sludge. Bruce knelt down and grabbed the boy, who stopped screaming. Opting to bury his face in Bruce's chest instead.

Alfred came just as the gruesome scene was over. 4:50 am, same place, same time, every night. Alfred had hoped something had improved when the screaming stopped early. But rather than the typical gorey mess, there was Danny, inconsolable and covered in slime.

"Wh, wh, ah?" Who was that? What was that?? Why was that???

"Master da- Bruce." At lightning speed, Alfred was on his knees and holding Danny. "Come on, you don't have to be here." He tried to lift him up, but Danny resisted.

"...Why do you have the carpet cleaner?" He accused. "Did you know this would happen?"