#i didnt fucking do anything too. i hate being caught in the crossfire i hate everything i feel ill

[transgaysex]

do you guys think 2nd week is too early to be missing class already

[scaryscarecrows]

Roots and Leaves, Pt. 8

All done!

“-son. Master Jason.”

Fuck, Alfred’s dead? The end is extremely fucking nigh.

But, if he’s going to be selfish (which got him into this, you’d think he’d learn)…at least he has company in…wherever this is.

His hands still hurt, though, which he finds very unfair.

“You are no better at feigning unconsciousness than you were at fifteen, sir.”

He’s not tryin’ to…

Why does Death look like his old bedroom. Is this some sorta ‘ease into it’ area?

“There you are.”

“Alfie?”

Alfred hasn’t changed one bit. Jason will bet that his mustache hasn’t even grown, or shed a hair, or anything.

“How are you-”

Alfred.

He hugs him and he hasn’t changed, not one goddamn bit. Alfred hugs him back, one hand cupping his neck and the other moving firmly up and down his spine. Alfred’s here, everything’s gonna be okay, at least for another minute…

The hand on his spine moves and his head’s tilted up with a soft, “Oh, my boy.”

It’s over. Any dignity he had is gone. He presses his face against Alfred’s chest (fabric softener Earl Grey home) and doesn’t even try to pretend he’s not crying. He’s never been able to keep anything from Alfred anyway.

“M’sorry.”

“Oh, my boy,” Alfred says again, and those sturdy hands press against his head and neck. “There is nothing to apologise for.”

He tries to take a few deep breaths, to get himself under control for fuck’s sake, and can’t. He can’t do it anymore.

But Alfred is a literal saint, and he doesn’t try to coax him to talk or to sit up or to do anything at all, even after his jacket must be soaked through. He just sits there, marginally more slumped than he usually is, and rubs a hand in slow, steady circles over Jason’s shoulders.

At some point, he senses a presence in the doorway, but before he can straighten up it’s gone again and now, without that motivation, it’s easier to just stay here where it’s safe and warm.

He eventually runs out of tears but his face is now wet and swollen and hot. His nose feels like it’s swollen shut and he’s been reduced to careful, thought-out breaths that rattle in his throat and burn in his chest. Sitting up is too much work.

Alfred props him up anyway and rubs a cool washcloth over his face before letting him take it and hold it against his now-puffy eyelids.

“That’s it, Master Jason.” If Bruce is Sherlock Holmes, then Alfred is Watson. They don’t deserve him. “That’s it. Deep breaths, there we are.”

“M’sorry, Alfie,” he forces out, voice strangled. “M’sorry-”

“That’s enough of that.”

“But-”

“I won’t hear any more of that.” Oh, boy. That’s the ‘you’re on thin ice and should just shut up’ voice. Even now, it’s scary and he doesn’t have the courage to go against it.

A straw presses against his lips-limeade-and Alfred continues, a little gentler now, “I cannot imagine that you purposefully buried yourself for any reason, Master Jason. Am I correct?”

He laughs. He can’t help it. It sounds so nice put like that.

“No. No, I…I didn’t. I didn’t.” He is not going to start crying again. He refuses. Sheila flashes behind his eyes, blonde and blue and red, and he presses the washcloth down hard enough to hurt. “I…she s-said. She said she was out. Sh-she said she was out, Alfred, I thought…just once…”

“From the beginning, Master Jason.” Calm, but making it very clear that he doesn’t have a choice. “Who is ‘she’?”

He swallows, knows he’s imagining something squirming at the back of his throat. Alfred waits.

“Sheila Haywood,” he finally whispers. “I…Bruce’s files…she might have been my mother.”

He doesn’t have to look to know Alfred’s got that little frown between his eyebrows, the one that says he’s deeply upset. Jason presses the washcloth tighter against his eyes, sparking colors, and his wrist is tugged at until the colors die off.

“I just…she approached me, Alfie, I swear, I didn’t…I just thought…” He swallows again, forces himself to let the washcloth fall to his lap. “M’tired of bein’ second choice, Alfred.”

He doesn’t have time to brace himself before he’s pulled back down and somehow…folded…so that he’s tucked against Alfred’s chest like he’s thirteen again and still fits.

“Jason Peter Todd,” Aw, shit. “you have never been second choice, do you understand?”

But…

Look. He’s very well aware that he wouldn’t be here if Dick hadn’t had that fallout with Bruce. And oh, boy, has he ever learned the Joys of Being the Second Child-‘Dick did this’, ‘Dick did that’, and on and on and on. He’s come to terms with that fact, it’s fine, whatever.

But arguing that point (or any point) with Alfred is a Bad Idea.

And. And he’s here, now, because Bruce…Bruce came to pick him up, when he asked. So. That means something, doesn’t it?

His head hurts.

Alfred sighs at his non-answer but lets it go for the time being.

“What happened with Miss Haywood?”

He’s not moving. He’s staying right here until this is all over.

“Some moron tried to hold up the grocery store…”

* * *

Jason feigns sleep for the rest of the day, until Bruce is out on patrol. Sneaking past the Batman isn’t impossible, but it’s definitely hard and with his hands almost completely useless, well…

The last thing he wants or needs is a lecture on Trust and Rushing Into Things and Dammit, Jason, This is What Got You Captured by the Joker. He knows that, thanks, Bruce.

(And yeah, okay, he knows lectures are Bruce’s way of saying I Love You, but some people swear a punch to the face is an I Love You, so.)

Sneaking past Alfred, on the other hand…now that really is impossible.

He’s halfway down the stairs when there’s an irritated, “A-HEM,” from behind him. Crap.

“I was thirsty?”

Alfred gets this expression that Jason will swear means he’s envisioning smacking him upside the head with a rolled-up newspaper. Yeah. Okay. Game’s up.

“I just…I need some time,” he says, eyes fixed on a knot in the wooden banister. “I can’t face him, Alfred, not now.”

Not for a long time, probably. Not without a massive blow-up on both sides and it’s better if no one else is around to be caught in that crossfire.

And besides. Right now, he just…his apartment may be kinda crappy, but it’s not haunted by a stupid kid who swore up and down that

“Being Robin gives me magic!”

“This is the best day of my life.”

There’s too many ghosts in this house.

Alfred comes forward and pats his shoulder.

“At least permit me to provide you with a few easy-to-reheat meals.”

“I’m okay-”

“Humor an old man.”

That is a trap. That is a trap, it’s just better to nod and neither protest or nor agree. And he’s got time, before Bruce gets back.

“Thanks, Alfred.”

“Hm.”

He’s ushered towards the kitchen. It hasn’t changed a bit-still homey and warm and with those same comfy stools by the counter. He remembers having after-school snacks there and chattering a mile a minute about ‘so Mister Pierce set his desk on fire in chemistry and it was so cool I gotta try that y’think B’ll let me-?’

“If I hear one word about you being out before those hands have healed, there is no power on Heaven or Earth that will spare you, is that clear?”

He believes. He believes.

“Yeah.”

“Good.” An icebox appears out of nowhere. “Do you need a ride?”

“No, I, uh…I called an Uber. I didn’t think I could drive.”

“Wise choice.” Alfred sets the icebox down and grips Jason’s arms. “You will always have a home with us, Master Jason. Remember that.”

He is not going to start crying again. He is not.

“Thanks, Alfred.”

* * *

The Uber guy is more interested in his radio than in Jason and that’s just fine. It means he’s not going to pester him, which means that he can twist around to watch Wayne Manor shrink into the distance through back window.

When he gets home, he opens his e-mail. Nothing new, but Sheila’s are still there. He deletes most of them.

But.

He can’t. Even now, after everything, he can’t bring himself to hate her. Not really.

He moves the remaining few to his ‘save it’ folder, where he won’t open them by mistake, and goes outside for a cigarette. Lighting it’s a pain, and there’s a few minutes that he’s terrified that he’s going to light the bandages on his hands on fire, but he manages it, in the end, and leans on the railing to watch the cars go by below.

In another unit, he can hear Mz. Melinda May cackling and a handful elderly voices swearing and demanding she be thrown out. Maybe he’ll go over there tomorrow, make sure she hasn’t downloaded a crap-ton of computer viruses again. (And yeah, okay, he wants to know about the yelling.)

There’s a sudden movement in the shadows across the street and he goes inside, turns on the TV. He’s halfway through an episode of Chopped when a red bar pops up on the bottom saying, Batman recaptures Harley Quinn, more at eleven.

A knot in his chest he didn’t realize was there loosens up and he pulls his blanket tighter around his shoulders.

“Thanks, B.”

THE END

[shady-tailors-shack]

Therapy with an Assassin

A resounding crash echoed from the ruins of the village. Malakesh's punch shattered the concrete sending a spiderwebs pattern of disjointed cracks along the wall His Lies made much the same web didnt they? "I'm not going to so stop. Simulation over-" "The simulation is not over until your session is concluded. By my count your stress level and overall hormones have been let go of and as such have caused a-" "I know the science so shut up, ladies sake..." The clone had been forced to run a makeshift therapy session. Mal's mind was a mess and needed a bit of introspection. "So, let's touch on a few more issues, specifically your black box within the corner of your mind. We both know what's in it." "Yeah, so why the fuck are you bringing it up?" Malakesh walked to the clone, his knuckles busted yet rearranging themselves on their own. His healing resetting his bone and forcing his bleeding to halt, there was to be no evidence of his night. "Because my programming has detecting a bit of a soft spot relating to those murders." "Yeah, 2 million in 3 months. Kinda forces you to..." He couldn't finish the sentence as the shock hit him. He'd pushed those 3 months to as far back as he could. He couldn't face those memories, not yet... "Well... It's time we addressed the uh... flash drive of sorts... containing that box." "No. We're not giving it to them... They hate me as it is, they don't need to add more war crimes to add to my trials." "But haven't you thought about it?" The voice changed. Why? Glancing to the clone, it's form had grown hazy yet more feminine... it was him... an aspect of him. "Yeah. And it's a shitty idea. Don't pressure that." "Oh but you're so full of them aren't you? Let's list off some shall we?" "How about n-" "Fighting Equilibrium on your own as soon as you met her. Wow that was shitty wasn't it?" He'd had his ass handed to him, but it was also the night he'd died. After he had disappeared for a night or two to think, he tossed the thoughts to the back of his head and went after her in as awful a fight as he could've been in. "You let little Valmara plant a laser in your chest and took it. You died and thought nothing of it..." "Yeah? What of it? I accepted my death and got pulled back without so much as a hindsighted question. They wanted to keep me apparently and yet they never act it-" "Well you've given them few reasons to. You found the shady edgy persona based on your armor and demeanor and stuck to it." He didn't have much else to say against that. Yeah... He went full shit show. He tried to help, got shut out, said fuck it and cultivated the title of assassin... And everything with it. "So... what about it..." "It fits you. A mass murdering science project with a conscious? It's not poetic but I'm sure stories would paint you as tortured and humble. The enigma of the group eh?" "If I have my way poetry won't remember me..." His snarled words were reflections of his choices. "I've done enough and made enough enemies, I wont let literature remember me, just my actions." "Well that's much of the same now isn't It? By remembering your actions they're remembering you." "No. They will know what I've done, but not the name or face associated with the action." Lashing out rapidly, the clones chest held a fist sized hole in it before melting down. "You... do realize that that accomplished nothing." "It made me feel better didn't it?" "At the cost of energy and Nanites." Running the therapy sim in and of itself was a waste of energy and nanites, but it helped him as well. "Can we just move on? I need to get back to the party-" "Let's talk about them then. Why do you stay?" "-I... what?" "Why. Do you stay?" Mal turned to face the carbon copy of himself staring him down. When the Sim wanted to it could be downright scary... "I... Because they need me." "Lie. They've covered every base you cover. Stealth, precision driving. Marksmanship, assassination, diplomacy, language, cooking-" "Ok when you're done." "I am." "Fine. I stay because I feel i can help. If it's just another body for the pile then its at least another second for them to figure something out." At least a tinge of that was true. "But they never do do they? Brute force and zero tact seems to be the way of things, am i wrong?" "Yeah! You're absolutely wrong, look at Nad-" "The one time he had to prove to you why you shouldn't do something was met with pure brute force and mental strength. The aspect was it not? He tried to demonstrate how fruitless your efforts of saving the Aspect of Dreams by forcing his way into her mind and failing miserably." And it was true wasn't it. It echoed out way to vividly for him not to remember. "He did his best-" "Wrong. He simply did what he wanted. The party went along because they believed simple show of force was everything. So much so that when faced with something far stronger than them like the Arch-Angel or even the Fragment of Xil, they folded. They didn't fight until backed into a corner even though they'd faced far worse odds." So why did he stay? "Yeah... Which is why they need me then isn't it. To show them the alternative. To find the way through the situation that doesn't involve blind fighting every target." "No. They can do that on their own, they dont need you at all and have made that very clear." "Then what the hell should i do huh? Leave? The few times ive tried they hunt me down and drag me back. This group is an abusive relationship that refuses to let go!" "Try again" "Try what? Huh? Leaving? Like hell. Only way they'll leave me be is if they assume ive died and they've dealt with my fake death one too many times." Anything else for the clone to try and debunk? Psychoanalyze? Can't be much- "Final point before we conclude your session. Your relationship with the previous director and what you believe your purpose to be." I'm gonna go out on a limb and say that thjs wont end well for Malakesh. "Fine." "Go on then... We're waiting." "The Director created me to kill yet gave me skill set befitting a biological weapon. I can kill single targets, eliminate entire cities, and subvert groups and cults with impunity. Yet he also have me the mental wherewithal and skills befitting a guard with a subset allowing me to guard those same targets without being noticed." "So you're a tool in all sense of the word?" "Yeah fuck you too Mr. Therapy Bot." Though the sim had a point. What was he to begin with? "You were woken up with a singular order. Kill. And you followed it. You didn't disobey, you didn't know how. Yet here we are with you not exterminating everything in a twelve mile radius." "What of it." "The mercenaries made you soft." "They made me aware of whats right and wrong fuck you. I'm not just a killing machine, I am perfectly capable of free will-" "Yet any time you're given an order you follow. Not without incentive that is." "Survival is a wonder incentive isnt it?" How long had it been since he thought about those early days with Boss? "So then, what do we want to do with that wonderful memory?" "What?" "You saw him again, Boss? What happens when the party finds out you were the cause of one groups deaths. Same group that saved you and you killed them-" "They couldn't be allowed to talk." "So rather than explain things to them you opted to kill them." "Under the ambush yeah. I'll admit. 3 of them died by my hands and the rest caught in the crossfire." "That's a lie as well isn't it... You killed them all. Your presence alone killed them. The moment they found you they were dead." "Not true, they chose to help me-" "Without knowing they'd choose something that's being hunted. They chose to help you because of morals but I'm positive that knowing the full details they'd've slit your throat while you laid in that net unconscious." "End Simulation, code 7." Malakesh was barely holding back tears as he barked out the kill code. The clone disintegrating in seconds as he fell on his backside, sitting up with a heavy head. "I know... Im just scared..."