#i can't afford to go to the doctor so if it doesn't clear up soon then uh

[dawnthefluffyduck]

Hand is still hurting, so here's some doodles from work when they gave me the wrong start time for that night's shift the other week

[devilfic]

❝right place, right time❞

VII. twenty-one questions.

parts: previously / next plot: everything comes to a head. pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x gn!reader. cw: surgeon!reader, secret identities, slow burn, reader's a little stupid, descriptions of surgical stitching, blood, surgical needles, knives, violence, mentions of drugs and underage substance abuse (alcohol), minor character death(s). words: 11.4k.

a/n: it has been yet another hot minute and this chapter has given me a lot of grief in terms of all the ideas I had for it and what it ended up being. as you can tell by the word count, I could Not shut up

Alfred calls you bright and early to watch Bruce spar.

The billionaire had mentioned it before, and while you didn't doubt you would meet an untimely fate were you to challenge Mr. Pennyworth one-on-one, it was a whole other thing seeing them both on the mat.

Alfred is slow but thoughtful; when Bruce attacks, he goes for several hits at once. Alfred anticipates each one. He's more defense than offense, but when he strikes Bruce in the chest even you can feel it.

Bruce is lean, quick. He ducks and rolls and uses every part of his body, not just his fists. He looks a little sloppy when he wraps his legs around Alfred's—out of practice, maybe?—but it doesn't keep him from succeeding. Alfred fights like a soldier. Bruce fights like a martial artist.

Bruce makes a noise when Alfred falls to the mat and you spring up with attention, "Everything okay?"

You hear "his leg" and "I'm fine" overlap one another.

The real reason Alfred had called you was because he wanted you to watch Bruce hurt himself. The vestiges of a sprain, he guessed, that Bruce was too stubborn to rest. When he couldn't convince Bruce to pass on sparring, he resorted to you: "an objective spectator." Alfred had sounded pleased. Bruce had looked about ready to suplex him.

You head over anyway, ignoring the protests of the injured so you could kneel and survey the damage. "Can you walk?"

Bruce doesn't meet your eyes. He forces his body to stand, but you can easily tell he's favoring a side. You reach a hand up and pinch his injured calf, hearing him hiss through his teeth. "Of course it's going to hurt when you do that." He sounds childishly annoyed. Alfred is fighting a smile from his spot next to you.

"I don't understand. You're head of the company, you can afford to take a few days off. Even chair rest is still rest."

"Ah, but there lies the conundrum," Alfred pushes himself up to his feet, "he cannot sit still."

Bruce extends his hand to you, still avoiding eye contact. You hesitate but take it anyway, and the ease with which he hoists you to your feet is a bit disorienting.

Since your agreement with Batman, you were forced to be patient. After all, there were more pressing matters in Gotham besides your own ticking time bomb. He'd promised that he'd get back to you soon about Bruce and, until then, you would have to grin and bear it.

Alfred excuses himself to get busy with lunch the minute Dory enters with the groceries, leaving the two of you alone in the middle of the living room. "As your doctor," you begin, "I can't in good conscience let you keep pushing your body past its limit."

"It barely hurts anymore."

You bend as if you're about to grab at his leg again and he takes a step back, annoyed—if not offended, "You have no record of chronic pain. No record of serious past injuries at all. Yet you strain yourself doing... what, exactly? Sparring all day? You may be young, Bruce, but your body isn't indestructible."

You get the feeling he's heard this before, bristling like a scolded cat as you stare him down, "I'm fine," he brushes past you toward the table he and Alfred moved to the far end of the room, grabbing a sweating glass of water, "Alfred's just being... Alfred. He worries too much."

"I worry," Bruce raises a brow as he takes a swig and you clear your throat, "you said you need to be reminded to care of yourself. Well, that's my job now. Not that the hospital couldn't use more of your money but it's not worth the pain you'll be in." Bruce leans against the table, one leg crossed over the other. You approach, briefly taking note of the water that dribbles down his chin. "I'm starting to think you're just a masochist."

"Yeah? How do you figure?" His lip twitches up into a smile.

You open your mouth but the thought stops you cold. You were going to say, "Because I know someone just like you," but then you're transported back to that fateful morning where you first met. Bruce and all his... familiarity. The wild speculation of your exhausted mind. All of which, at the time, overlapped perfectly. Yet now that you knew them both better, they were worlds apart to you. Except for that one thing.

What was it that set them apart, again?

Your eyes drift up to Bruce's. "I get your type at General sometimes," you divert, "real pains in the ass."

Bruce steps closer to you with his glass abandoned on the table, "And your type can't seem to leave well enough alone."

You prickle. If it weren't for the fact that he was so clearly teasing you, you'd have lingered on the almost double meaning, "The fact you think this," you raise your foot and tap the side of Bruce's injured leg; his eyes narrow, "is well enough further proves my point. You need rest."

Bruce rolls his shoulders back; his compression tee clings to every muscle as he does, drawing your attention for a brief moment. "I'll think about it."

Your jaw drops. Bruce smiles. You feel a white hot flash of irritation that's wiped away when Alfred reenters the room, dishtowel thrown over his shoulder, eyes fixed on you, "Will you be staying for lunch?"

Before you can say no, Bruce interjects for you, "Yes. Thank you, Alfred." Then he turns to you, pats your arm like a friend, and pushes you in the direction of the kitchen, "I'm gonna shower. Make yourself at home."

You stumble over yourself, regaining balance just as Bruce's head disappears over the top floor banister. How quickly he could retreat when leaving you to the lions.

But Alfred is in a good mood today. Better than usual, actually. The hair on your neck stands on end as you follow him to the kitchen, preparing for the good mood to sour now that it wasjust the two of you, but it doesn't come. You watch him hum a little tune as he fixes up some vegetables to sauté.

You even find yourself getting comfortable at the island when he breaks the silence, "I appreciate what you're doing for Bruce... regardless of its efficacy. It's nice to know someone else has common sense in this house." Alfred sets down four empty plates at the breakfast table.

You take note of his tone, an improvement from his barely concealed dislike from weeks before. You take that as a small victory for today, "It's like arguing with a brick wall. How have you managed it all these years?"

"Like a soldier." Without asking, he fills a glass to the brim with water and hands it to you.

"Right. You're a veteran." Your observation gives him pause, the food he tends to at the stove crackling away. "I can tell. I've treated a lot of veterans so I can spot them from a mile away now."

Alfred snorts, straightening his shoulders. "I served as a young lad. Eventually retired and came here, took on the job as the Waynes' butler and bodyguard. I've been with them for quite some time. Since before Bruce was even born."

"You practically raised him."

"Rather... clumsily, might I add," Alfred glances at you and you're surprised to see him bashful, genuinely, "protecting him, I could handle. Raising him... well, that was another matter entirely."

"But you did a pretty good job. I mean, he's accomplished a lot. Especially with the mayor. I imagine that's why he's working so hard: really seems like he's dedicated to restoring his father's legacy."

You can't help the little hook you throw out.

Right before the Mayor was elected, when a bomb shook the penthouse of 1939 Kane St., Edward Nashton had taken to the airwaves to out Thomas Wayne as a cold-blooded killer. Not long after, the man who'd pulled the trigger was shot dead in the street before he could be brought to justice. That would bring anyone out of hiding.

Wayne Enterprises inevitably challenged the claims, Bruce Wayne had taken to his father's defense in an impassioned press conference that even you tuned into, and Gotham General made the decision to keep his father's statue in the courtyard.

It was never ruled out, though. After all, all of the Riddler's other exposés were true. But there was no paper trail. Nothing but he said, he said, and with everyone involved dead, it was Bruce Wayne's word over a zealot who'd flooded the city.

You take a sip from your glass to let Alfred ruminate on his reply. He doesn't raise his eyes to you again, "Precisely."

"I've been keeping a close eye on him in the news. His philanthropy this past year has been really remarkable." That was a bold-faced lie. You'd been keeping an eye on him for the past few weeks. Everything else you knew about Bruce Wayne's newfound appreciation for the poor and needy came from Em. "Some of the people at the party, however..."

"Councilman Roberts, was it? He was awfully spirited from what Master Bruce relayed to me."

The very mention of his name makes your blood pressure spike, "The guest list was very diverse."

Alfred transfers the cutting board to the sink, "Master Bruce has his reasons. He's become rather fixated on the state of political affairs. First behind the scenes, and now..."

"Now center stage." You finish for him, swirling your glass. "Think he'll run for office one day?"

Alfred looks somewhere between amused and horrified.

It would be natural. Thomas Wayne had almost done it. Why not Bruce? It'd be a comeback story for the ages if someone didn't try to kill him again.

"I'd rather he keep out of it. Being in a position like that has never been his true calling."

"Yeah? And what is?"

Alfred doesn't look like he wants to say. He scrubs at the surface of the wooden board, absentmindedly brushing the same spot clean over and over. His eyes catch yours for a split second, just as quick as the smile that he flashes when the answer finally spills out of him, "Altruism."

You and Alfred don't talk much more until Bruce comes down. Dory joins you all at the table soon after and, rather awkwardly, you find yourself having a quiet lunch with the Waynes. Hooks abandoned. Fish not caught.

You wait for what feels like hours, but eventually he arrives.

His car is an absolute monster. It growls as it pulls up beside you in the withering glow of street lights, and if it weren't for said lights, it would blend into the shadows almost completely. The raindrops that dot the hood help catch the light on the deep black paint job.

You look for the door handle but it opens for you. Inside, you see Batman with one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the gear shift. You swallow. This is new territory.

You throw your bag in first, then climb into the passenger seat, very aware of the pocket knife stuffed in the pocket of your scrubs. You go to close the door and it closes for you all on its own. Behind you is an intimidating engine that vibrates through your every bone and muscle, and when you look to the driver, he is staring straight ahead. A few beats pass as you try to keep your teeth from chattering, "Do the seat belts move on their own, too?"

Batman looks at you from his peripheral. Then—twisting in his seat—he reaches across you to retrieve the seat belt, dragging it across the front of your body until it clicks at your side, "'Fraid not."

Despite all the rumbling of the car engine, it's a smooth ride through the city. Even the littering of pot holes and uneven pavement doesn't ruin it. Still, it does nothing to quell your nerves.

You feel small, sinking into the passenger seat built for people wearing a lot more armor than you. You also note that there's nowhere for your legs to go underneath the seat. You bump the solid obstruction with the backs of your sneakers but can't make out what it is.

There are other weird things you notice when you start looking. Starting where your shoulders rest are six holes going down the seat, three on each side, all a foot apart from the last. You press your finger into one of the holes and feel hard metal on either side of the gap. Upon further inspection, Batman's seat has it too, "What are these for?" You ask.

Batman doesn't need to look at you to know what you're messing with, "Restraints."

You recoil, "I beg your pardon?"

"I could show you."

"I'm- sorry, what..." You bend at the waist to feel the metal plate beneath the seat and recognize that there are holes along the sides there too.

"In case I need to bring someone along who's less than willing. Metal bars are installed in the seats. Only I know how to activate them."

"Why your seat too?"

"In case someone tries to steal the car," he makes a turn into one of the boroughs and you realize you're getting close to your destination, "but I've considered putting a trunk in the back for... passengers."

"And where do you get the money for such... modest mods?"

At that, Batman does not answer you. You figured he wouldn't. There were a hundred answers he could give you that would surely, most definitely give his identity away. It doesn't stop your brain from beginning to wander.

It doesn't get very far before you're pulling up into the alley between two houses, shrouding the car in the shadow of Joey Russo's home.

It's not as nicely kept as the other houses on the street, and its age doesn't do it any favors. A lot of the off-white paint has been chipped off or discolored over the years. There's a piece-of-junk car in the driveway that looks like it works, but just barely. The lawn has outgrown the neighbors', kept at bay by patches of dead grass where you can tell someone had gone to town with weedkiller. There are old, faded garden decorations around the front porch. Some gnomes with their ceramic hats caved in, a wind chime missing most of its chimes.

You're wandering out of the alley and into the harsh, orange beam of the streetlight when you feel Batman's hand roughly drag you back into the dark. You're about to ask what the problem is when your eyes catch the side of the house.

There's a little window with its grey curtains shut, a dead flower limp on the sill. Next to the window is a backdoor cracked open.

You do not protest when Batman presses up against the side of the house and moves you behind him. There are dogs barking, cars driving by, faint sirens in the distance, but you can't hear anything from inside.

You watch as he presses his hand to the door and slowly pushes it open, peeking in from a safe distance into the dark. Most of the windows are blocked out by sheer curtains, and no light in the house is on from what you can tell.

Batman is a hulking thing, always, but every step is feather-light on the weathered floorboards as you both enter. There's no sign of Russo, even though the house feels warm. Like it'd been lived in recently. Your heart picks up as you swear you see a shadow move in the corner of your eye, but it's just the wind picking up one of the curtains.

You so desperately want to ask him what he's thinking but your voice is stuck in your throat, the thought crashing down upon you that you are here, that somewhere in this house is the man who had ensured you'd be here today (in nearly all the ways that that could apply), and that it was not so far behind you as you might've hoped.

And were you to get an answer—any answer—from Russo tonight, it would not change the fact that your name was still on Bruce Wayne's payroll.

You feel sick to your stomach all over again.

When the living room is clear, you're simultaneously relieved and terrified when Batman leaves you to scope out the adjoining dining room. The house is silent aside from your breathing.

It's a few moments alone that does it; you start to feel another wave of anxiety. It had been a few minutes, hadn't it? Maybe. A minute at least. You're not confident enough to go looking for Batman, and you fear calling out to him would just detrimentally unsettle the atmosphere. You listen for where he might be, any creaks in the floors boards, but there's nothing.

Just as you're about to step into the dining room yourself, something moves out of your peripheral again. Only this time, you realize too late that it's not the curtain.

You barely register the pain at first—the skin of your upper arm splitting in half—but then it's white-hot and you're choking on a cry before you can stop yourself. Something had rushed at you, a person. You shakily touch where they'd cut you.

Was it a knife? It had to be, with how cleanly it tore your skin. Your brain jumps to the next question: was it covered in anything? Would you get infected?

You stumble back and reach into your pocket for your own knife with a little more urgency. The person rushes at you again with something akin to a battle cry and you narrowly dodge their raised weapon, only the sound of it ripping through the curtains tells you it wasn't just another delayed reaction.

You slash at their back while they're still turned and manage to actually make a cut before jumping back. It's not enough, though. Your attacker spins and even though the light has now turned them into nothing but a silhouette, you can feel their crazed gaze on you.

It feels boiling. It feels personal.

Their breathing is ragged, panting from more than just the fight. It sounds like they're foaming at the mouth, rabid and wild, as they spit at you, "You should've died with your little bitch of a friend when you had the chance."

The anger in their voice stuns you before the words do.

They come at you again and you sidestep them once more but it's staggered, allowing the tip of their weapon to slice your cheek open. When you cry out this time, you yell for Batman.

You don't have any concept of time right now, but as you fall to the floor, you swing at your attacker's ankle, hoping to cut a vein, when you feel Batman rush past you and directly into your attacker.

They both crash into the coffee table, glass and wood shattering in a cacophony. You watch through burning eyes as the two wrestle each other, keeping your hand pressed to your arm to still the bleeding even as it slips against the skin. Batman has them pinned when your attacker starts wildly kicking, and one of his feet hits Batman hard in the leg. You don't expect it to be the leverage he needs, but it's enough to daze Batman—he looks suddenly awash with pain—and that's all the attacker needs to slip out from beneath him and head out the back door.

Your heart stutters. How hard did he have to hit him through the suit for it to cripple him so easily?

Batman tries to recover, tries to deploy the grapple gun in his gauntlet to trip him, but he slips into the alleyway just narrowly. Batman is after him in an instant.

You force yourself up from the floor to follow after him, when you realize that within all that commotion, no one else in the house made themselves known.

You stumble up the staircase, haphazardly swiping at the wall for light switches that might help clear the spots in your vision. "Russo!" You call out, and your voice is shaky. You realize you're trembling.

There are too many doors on the upper floor but there is one that is cracked open. You rush toward it first, shoving it open with your good shoulder.

And there, to confirm your worst suspicion, is proof.

You've had enough training in your field not to immediately vomit at the sight even as the smell overpowers you. He's lost weight and he looks smaller than he had been when you were just sixteen. Laying on the floor, drenched in his own blood, Detective Joey Russo isn't the crystal clear picture you'd preserved in your head these past 17 years.

You make it only a few steps before falling to your knees beside him. It's clear he'd passed from the stab wounds not long before you'd arrived and there's just so many. His chest, his stomach, his arms and legs and skull—his face had taken the worst of it. Whoever had done this had been furious.

You can barely bring yourself to stare into his eyes but when you do, you sob. You try to look anywhere else but your eyes just catch on pictures of him on the wall, happy, smiling, with a wife and a kid who leave no traces of themselves in this room.

It's just him. All alone here.

You sway a bit as you reach a hand up to shut his eyes but the blood on your fingers stops you. You realize that you've left a trail on the way up here, and as your eyes retrace back to the bedroom door, you see Batman standing there looking down at you.

He doesn't ask, just walks over to you and hoists you up to stand, forcing you to lean into him for support.

The time between him finding you and the walk downstairs passes in a muddy amount of time and you're stumbling into the hood of his car as your head swims.

You must be losing a bit of blood.

Batman presses a hand to your arm. His other hand goes to your cheek and you flinch away at the sting.

You watch him dizzily. He reaches down to the bottom of his cape and rips a strip off to tie around your bicep. "GCPD is on the way. We have to get you stitched up."

"If only there were a surgeon around." Batman doesn't find your joke funny. Neither do you, all things considered.

The doors open on their own again and he sits you in the passenger seat, leaning it back as far as it'll go before buckling you in. You think you feel his hand linger on yours before he abandons you for the driver's side. The thrum of the engine is the least of your concerns now.

You're halfway down the street when you mumble, "He said... I should've died."

"Stop talking." He doesn't say it with menace, or at least not the kind where you actually mean it. It's all bark and... worry, you think.

You hate the smell of your own blood, which is funny because it smells about the same as everyone else's and usually that's just fine for you. Or maybe you're still smelling Russo's.

You think of your attacker. About what they said. That you should've died with your "little bitch of a friend". It's too convenient to not be—one of the street lights you pass is far too bright and you have to shut your eyes to keep the thought going—be about her. And why her? Why Russo? Why now?

17 years of nothing. And now everything at once.

"Russo," your voice is weaker, "we gotta go back for him."

"Stop talking! I'm trying- shit." This is the most panic you've ever heard in Batman's voice before. The most fear. He hadn't been this worried when he was dying on your living room floor. "Please." He begs.

You're of sound mind enough to know what he's really asking. You should know, even as you sway in and out of consciousness.

You conserve what little energy you have left to focus on the side of his face. His jaw forever clenched. Eyelashes long enough to catch the city light on. And although it's not entirely clear from the angle you're laying at, you search out the blue of his eyes as his face turns to look at you. It's the last thing you see before you give in.

When you come to, you are laying in a hospital bed with a throbbing arm and an equally throbbing cheek. Your scrubs are still in tact, even with the bloodstains down the front and sides. The knees of your pants are stained too, and you are harshly reminded that this blood doesn't belong to you.

The next thing you notice is Em sitting in the chair beside your bed, head thrown back in a peaceful nap. She must've heard—or seen, you don't recall getting from the car to here—and came to keep you company. You'd reach over to tap her knee if it were your good arm's side. The next thing you notice after that is that there is someone else in the room with you two.

It takes a second, but you remember him: a kindly face even with the cloud of disturb that hangs over him. When he sees you're awake, he gets up from his position against the wall and approaches the other side of the bed, "Detective James Gordon," he introduces himself, nodding to you, "we met at the precinct before."

Your voice comes out scraggly, "I remember you."

He flashes you a quick smile, "Well, I'm happy to see you're alright. You lost a bit of blood, but your friend—" A pen materializes in his hand and he points it at Em, still dead to the world, "—said it was just a few stitches."

"Are you here to arrest me?"

He's trained well enough not to look shocked, but you see his expression shift, "Why would I arrest you?"

You swallow, looking down at your scrubs once more, "I assume you're not here to talk about our mutual friend."

James nods. "We examined Joey Russo's home. We found, among other things, your DNA on the scene. Blood in the living room and... upstairs bedroom."

You pinch your pants leg, trying to get at the skin so you could keep the churning of your stomach at bay. Anything to distract yourself from the very vivid image of Russo's lifeless eyes.

James clicks his pen and you focus back on him. He's got a small notepad in his other hand with a few words already written down. You wonder what he's written about, what he's thinking about you right now. "From what I understand, you dropped by the precinct recently asking for the whereabouts of Russo and were denied given his retirement. You mentioned that you were inquiring about an old case involving yourself, is that correct?" James continues after your nod, "You brought this up to the Batman too."

"Yes," your voice wobbles, "I asked if... he could help me."

"And?"

"He said no."

"But you were both there tonight. So, what happened? Why were you looking for Joey Russo?"

You lean up on your good arm, allowing your legs to swing from the bed so you could sit upright in front of James. One glance over your shoulder tells you Em is still asleep, "I told him it was urgent. I had reason to believe confidential information about the case had been leaked to someone. I wanted to confront him, find out if he... was the one that leaked it."

"The case being part of your sealed juvenile records, correct?" James casts a look over you, somewhere between pitying and skeptical, "given your involvement in this situation, I was given access to this record. Detective Russo worked your case 17 years ago, and was, in fact, the person to get your records sealed in the first place. Along with... three others, I believe. And you believed someone had unauthorized access to it?"

"I know- I know. I know they did."

"Can you tell me the name of this person?"

Detective Gordon seems trustworthy. Batman trusts him, you can tell that much. It's just the saying it out loud part that trips you up, "My, um... my employer. Not Rudy, but Bruce Wayne. I'm his personal doctor. I became aware he had this information and wanted to check with Russo myself before I said anything."

James doesn't bother hiding his intrigue this time. His eyebrows shoot up a bit when you say Bruce's name, "Right. And... do you have proof that he has this information? A picture or a recorded conversation, a witness even?"

Of course not. You'd been happy enough to get out of that penthouse without being caught. Your silence is answer enough. James writes something down on his notepad and nods at you, "Well, a single person—especially not a civilian employer—should be able to access something that's not public record. Even Russo couldn't, having been retired. I can't imagine Russo was the one to give him that information unless he just had a file lying around, and I doubt he did. He never revisited that case before he retired in any capacity."

"Is there any way Bruce could have accessed it?"

"There's plenty of ways if you have an in somewhere and the leverage to do so, but this is all speculation. I can look into it, though. See if anyone's accessed the file recently, sniff around. If you come across anything solid, let me know."

You doubted you would. After that night, those files had probably gone into a room with lock and key.

"There was something else that I wanted to talk about, though," James shifts closer to you, "Our mutual friend assured me that you've never been to Russo's house before tonight, and that he had been with you the entire time you were there. From what I understand, there was someone else in the house with the two of you. Do you have any idea who he might've been?"

"No, I... I didn't really get a good look at him."

"What about his voice? Could you describe it?"

"Uh, young. Sounded about my age." Your fingers grip the bedsheets tightly, "He said something. He said that... I should have died. Along with my friend."

James' eyes narrow on you, "Your friend?"

"Alex," you choke out, feeling a tear spill out of your eye, "I know he was talking about Alex."

"Hm. You think that's why he attacked you? He knows you?"

"But I don't know him."

James flips his notepad back a few pages, "There were eight people there the night Alex Villanueva was murdered, including herself and you: your three friends, none of whom have stepped foot in Gotham since 2019. The shooter, Natalie Young. Her younger brother, Dimitri Young. And a fellow member of their gang, Lucien Goulding. Natalie was killed in a shootout 17 years ago, Goulding is currently in prison, and Dimitri... he should be serving life in prison right now."

Your brows furrow, "Should?"

"He and several other inmates were reported missing from Arkham five days ago."

Your mouth goes dry. You squirm in bed with a sudden urge to take off running and never look back. Maybe you'd aim for your mom and dad's in New Jersey, or maybe the Atlantic.

You remember when Dimitri was a head shorter than you, had yet to sprout up so young. You remember what it was like looking at this kid not much younger than you, green eyes watering, curled up on the concrete as Alex kicked and punched and bled him until he could barely limp home.

And how he looked when Natalie came for you. Still a kid.

"Bat said he was about 5'11, 210 pounds, green eyes, shaved head and tattoos. A bit different from what he was when you last saw him. It makes sense you don't remember."

"He wanted to kill me." You whisper.

James—he's an angel, really—gives you a moment to let it sink in. "We want to put a security detail on you. We have strong reason to believe Dimitri was the one to kill Russo, and it's very possible you were next on his list, but I don't think he anticipated you being there tonight... which might've saved your life."

You shake your head, "Batman saved my life."

The detective smiles, "Twice in a row might make him your guardian angel." The both of you turn when you hear Em stir awake from behind, and James goes to dismiss himself, "Well, thank you for your time. You should probably be heading home to get some rest soon, but if you think of anything else, please don't hesitate to let me know." James hands you a business card, "And I'll look into Bruce Wayne for ya. Could be something there. Our mutual friend might know. Take it easy."

"Wait," you call, before he can get out the door, "Russo. He had a- a kid. A son. And a wife, I think. They weren't at the house. Are they okay?"

James looks a little pained as he answers you, "No... uh, his son was murdered a while back. His ex-wife's been living back home in Boston ever since. She's been notified."

There isn't much else to say after that, so he ducks his head as a final goodbye and exits the room, raincoat swaying behind him.

You're awoken by an incessant ringing about 24 hours later.

Popping one eye open, your brain takes in the shadowy lighting of your living room, blinds still halfway up from when you'd first returned home early that morning. Judith had caught you slumped outside of your apartment door and flanked by two officers—roused by the sound of you coming home late—and had helped you to your couch, poured you a glass of water, and stayed with you until the painkillers put you to sleep.

Frankly, you gave yourself permission to lie and rot today. But the ringing would not stop.

You grab your phone, uncaring of the caller, and accidentally press it to your cut cheek with a hiss, "Yes?"

You expect it to be Em, checking in to see if you were still alive. You also expect it to be your mother, checking in to make sure you still planned on staying in Gotham. You even expect it to be Rudy (who had been just about on the verge of tears when he saw you with a busted cheek).

It's none of them. "Can I see you?"

You place the voice instantly, actually going breathless. "I'm- what's... what's wrong?"

Sitting up hurts like a bitch and you realize that you're about two hours past your scheduled Tylenol. You inhale through your teeth and try to gather your bearings.

"I got... stabbed," Bruce sounds guarded, but it shockingly doesn't come across like that's because of the stabbing, "I need your help."

"Jesus! You need to call 911. Or- or get one of your ten million drivers to take you to the ER, or call a fucking helicopter to-"

"The tower, can you come? Now?"

You weren't supposed to be driving. The cops had brought you home, and you very much did not want to ask for that favor. You drop your forehead into your palm, massaging your temple with your thumb, "How deep is it? Did you stop the bleeding?"

"I've got something on it. I just need you to stitch me up."

You glance around the room, hazy, and reach for your water, "I'll need a ride. Can't drive right now."

"He's waiting outside." The line goes dead.

You don't believe him until you go to open your apartment door and see a suited man leaned against the opposite wall, nodding politely at you. You must look like you've sprung from the dead after last night, but no one makes a comment about it. The two officers on either side of the door nod to you, "Says he's a driver for Bruce Wayne and that you'd know what he was here for. His ID checks out, but we're gonna have to tail him if you go with him."

You shut the door and look through the peephole, but the driver looks comfortable waiting.

You'd wonder how Bruce knew you'd need a ride before you said as much, but it was clear by this point that he knew everything about you.

You probably shouldn't go. Not until Gordon looked into him, or Batman. Right?

You root around in your coat pocket for the phone Batman had given you and send a quick text to his number.

Going to Wayne's. Tell Gordon to hurry up with a warrant.

You pop two pills and pull on your coat.

When the elevator doors part, you drag yourself down the hallway, up the stairs, and into the main room. Alfred nor Dory is anywhere to be seen, but with it being past 10 at night, you can only imagine they're off to bed by now. There is just a single light coming from the kitchen, and when you turn to the breakfast table, there is Bruce. Waiting.

He doesn't look at you when you approach, however. One of his hands is holding stained gauze under the neck of his shirt, and the other is gripping the table with white knuckles. You wash your hands at the kitchen sink, then round up on his left side where he's pressing against the back of his shoulder, just out of reach for him to stitch himself. You fear he would've tried had you not answered the phone.

Or, God forbid, come to you.

He looks up when you're right in front of him, scanning you quickly, "Are you okay?" He doesn't sound all that surprised to see you like this. It raises the hairs on the back of your neck.

You pull the neck of his shirt down to survey the damage, for lack of a good explanation, "I'm certain I've got a better excuse than you." Bruce shifts when you move his hand away, exposing the bloody flesh that makes you wince. You set your things on the table and command him to lift his shirt. He hesitates. "What is your excuse?"

"Got caught off guard."

"Where?"

Slowly, Bruce slips his shirt off, allowing you to see the full expanse of his back. There was the angry red stab wound, but there were other things too: moles and beauty marks scattered across his skin that paled in comparison to the several jagged lines across his shoulders and lower back—pink raised skin where it looked like he'd been cut before. Cuts that had healed years ago. You hover your fingers above one and realize they're shaking. "You never told me you and Alfred fight with knives."

"We don't," he glances at you over his shoulder but looks away just as quickly, "some of those scars are from martial artists I trained with in Thailand."

"Some?" You see so many, and those are only the ones that leave visible scars.

"Others are from the Russians."

You begin to lightly clean around his wound and ready the anesthesia but, despite the fact that he cannot see it in your hand, he waves it off completely, "Are they... the people who gave you this?"

He goes silent again. You feel like you should stop asking questions at this point, but they itch at your throat.

He wouldn't call you here to fix this unless he had nowhere else to go.

When you make the first stitch and he doesn't flinch, your eyes flit to his other scars. Martial arts training, he said. The second stitch and still no response. On the third stitch, you press your thumb against the edge of the wound and push down. He actually swears at you as blood dribbles out of the wound, and the hand that had been gripping the table reaches back to grab your lower thigh, effectively bringing the operation to a halt.

You shove his hand off, "What the hell happened? Your hands, your leg—that was easy to explain. But this?"

He has the audacity to glare at you over his shoulder, "I don't pay you to ask questions."

"No, you don't. And yet you could've hired anyone but you hired me. Even though..." You trail off, eyes blazing, because you're not feeling that confident, "the least you can do is tell me what happened."

Bruce holds your gaze until you feel your knees begin to wobble in place. For once, he doesn't look like a wide-eyed, nervous animal in front of you. He looks angry.

Then it's gone. Bruce rolls his shoulders back and you watch the needle, still hanging by its thread, roll against his muscles. More blood seeps from the wound as your hands itch to get back to work. "One question," he starts, looking away from you, "the night of the party, upstairs. You told Alfred no one got on the elevator. But you did, didn't you?"

You swallow. "He said it was broken."

"Be honest with me and I'll be honest with you."

"About anything?"

From behind, you can see Bruce's jaw twitch just so, "Everything."

You step closer. Taking your needle, you resume the suture, "A question for a question, then. To keep it fair."

"Alright."

"Tell me what happened."

"I was looking for someone."

"Who were you looking for?"

"That's another question."

"Fine," you try not to take your frustration out on his skin, "I did. Who were you-"

"Dimitri Young." You still in your stitching. It feels like your heart is inside your head, thumping against your skull with every beat. "What did you see down there?"

You have to rake your petrified brain for context, having nearly forgotten everything that had come before... before... "I- I was... nothing." Bruce hisses through his teeth and you realize that you're just pressing the needlepoint into his skin mindlessly. "Files. A computer. A car underneath a sheet, some tools, a motorbike. A TV playing the news." You don't bother with hiding it now, "How do you know about Dimitri?"

"Because I know about you. Why did you go down there? Not knowing what you might find?"

It takes all that you have to keep the burning tears at bay, "Because I don't trust you. Because everything about this has felt off. I needed to know what you were hiding. What are you gonna do with what you know?"

Bruce takes a moment as if he's thinking about it, but when he answers you, you're for once certain of his honesty, "Nothing. I might set it on fire, if that's what you want."

"You could have another copy lying around. Or a way to access it again."

"I could. But I don't. And I wouldn't want to." He turns his head over his shoulder and you are frozen under his stare, "I'm being honest with you."

"How did you get it?"

"That's another question."

You complete the next few stitches with a little more force than needed, "Then ask me something."

"Why did you take the job if you didn't trust me?"

You laugh humorlessly, "Because I knew the pay would be fucking ridiculous. How did you get my file?"

"You wouldn't have turned me down the first time if that were true."

"Answer me."

"Be honest with me, I'll be honest with you. Why'd you take the job?"

"Because-" You choke, "you... sent me those ridiculous flowers and a handwritten note." Bruce's head tilts, you choke out more, "And when I asked you why you offered me the job, you said that it was because I noticed you were hurt when no one else did. And I said it felt like more than that. I think- I have been trying to get an answer."

Bruce studies you. He must believe you because he finally answers your question, "Russo had nothing to do with it."

"Who did you pay to get it for you, then?"

"That's-"

"Just ask me, God damn it." You finish off the suture and bite off the thread.

"Why did you turn your life around?"

You'd thought about that a lot after that night. The simplest answer was right there, but if you were being honest with yourself (and you were being more honest than you would've liked tonight), you really didn't want to die. "I wanted to live. That's what I'd always wanted. Even though I... really didn't act like it. I never wanted to live more until that moment." This time when you lock eyes with Bruce, you don't want him to look away. Maybe it's because he's defeated you, broken your pride, whatever. Right now, you want to see him.

You don't have to ask again. You watch him rise from the table, flexing his back again, and though you want to scold him for irritating his stitches mere seconds after you've finished them, you just... don't have it in you.

And then he's standing face-to-face with you.

You think the lights and painkillers are deceiving you at first, but this close, you are certain: he is littered with scars and wounds color-picked from late twilight skies. His back doesn't even look this bad. It's always been more than bruised knuckles and leg sprains.

And it's familiar. All of it. Bruises and cuts new and old, the shape of him, the color. The stab wound is new but all of this is months (years) in the making.

The closer you get, the more it knocks the wind out of you. Your eyes follow the length of his torso and then—your fingers press against his side, up against a healed gunshot wound. You brush your thumb against it. It makes you feel nauseous.

You look up and he's looking at you. Defeated. Relieved. You can feel the denial creeping in but it all clicks into place, doesn't it?

The bullet wound, the limp, the job offer, the sprained leg. You couldn't see it because, frankly, they couldn't be any more different from each other. And yet...

Bruce's hand covers yours and keeps it there.

That damned bullet brought you together. It had brought Batman to you, it had brought you to Bruce, and it had solidified in no small way that whatever had led you to this moment in time was years in the making. All because you wanted to live.

"Come with me." And Bruce leads you upstairs.

17 years ago.

"I think it could be good," Alex holds up the bottle to you, "if you're down."

You hate the taste of whatever she's giving you but it does make you tingly. You take a big swig and set it between you on the concrete, "You know I'll go wherever you go."

Alex grins, "That's the spirit!"

On Tuesdays, you and Alex like to watch the cars go by from the alley. It's between a Thai restaurant and a laundromat so it always smells good; if it's not the fabric softener, then it's the pho. It's where you always find her. After a few heart-to-hearts spent curled up on the ground with her here, it became "your" territory.

Claiming it didn't stop people from holing up inside and standing around a barrel fire, nor did it stop the laundromat owner nor the line cooks from coming out to smoke and take out the trash. But it did mean that you both liked it here. For lack of other places to go.

"You know that piece of shit from the Vipers won't take no for an answer?" Alex kicks at a rat that scuttles past, making sure it wouldn't take a bite out of her ankle.

"You're very popular, it's not a surprise."

"Shit, it's just cause they know my parents don't give a shit where I go. They're all like, 'Come join us! You could be one of our best! We'll pay you more in a day than you'd make stealing in a week!' but they don't talk about all the kids floating in the river when they try to do better for themselves."

"Like you'd let someone boss you around." You giggle, and Alex beams.

"No way in hell! I love my independence. See, I can take whatever I want whenever I want. Those sad fucks in the Vipers have to answer to some... some random guy they rarely ever see. Why would I want that?"

You'd seen the kids the Vipers recruited. There was no age limit, some as young as nine were happily making deliveries. It used to be a joke in your school that any kid with a front door would end up in the Vipers eventually.

You wondered if you would've ended up there too, had you not been with Alex.

Your makeshift gang of two which had grown by three in the last few months was less organized than the Vipers. It didn't pay unless you pulled your weight, and most of it was at Alex's discretion. For the most part, none of you moved without her. She was the head, the leader, and the only reason you could afford your new winter boots this month.

And you would truly follow her wherever she went.

You watch a few more cars pass. You press your head to the brick and let the sounds of the city light your nerves. That is until you feel a breeze where Alex had once been. You open an eye and find her inching further into the alley. "Hey," you call, but she turns and shushes you so your next words come out in a whisper, "where you going?"

She frantically waves you over.

You don't see what she's looking at until you get about halfway down the alley, but the voices are crystal clear at this point. There's a woman and a young boy standing off behind a dumpster, but when the woman catches sight of you and Alex, she shoves something into the boy's hands and dips around the corner. The boy, flustered, is just barely able to put it away before Alex is grabbing him by the arm and dragging him into the light.

It becomes clear that he's not a young boy. He's about your age, maybe off by a year or two, but so thin and lanky that his puffer jacket engulfs him completely. Alex yanks his sleeve down to reveal a poorly done tattoo of a snake going up his upper arm, jagged and unfinished like he'd run off in the middle of getting it done. It didn't seem too far-fetched an idea: the guy looked 92 pounds soaking wet.

"You're on the wrong turf, kid." Alex warns, but you know her tone of voice is too final to be a warning.

The guy yanks his arm back, "Fuck off."

You realize what he was fumbling with when the woman had run. A small bag of something white, and a wad of cash sticking out of his pocket. You snort, "Dealing for the Vipers a little far from home, aren't you? You must be new."

The guy tries to escape but Alex grabs the hood of his jacket and drags him back, "We'll overlook the trespassing if you give us a cut."

"Leave me alone. This place doesn't belong to anyone." But as soon as he says it, Alex takes a hold of his dirty blond hair and yanks his face up to look at her. You go to grab his money while he's distracted but you don't expect him to brandish a knife until he slashes at you. He misses, but it sets Alex off.

She uses his hair to throw him into the side of the dumpster and you can see the thoughts rattling around his head upon impact.

"Right, everything belongs to the Vipers. Is that why your boss is still Falcone's little bitch?"

The guy is indignant against the taunts. He tries to slash at her but Alex is faster, always has been, and she has his wrist in a death grip before he can even get close. You watch her twist it back until he lets out a cry of pain, the knife clattering to the floor at your feet. You take it and hold it up to his neck, watching his eyes go wild between you and Alex.

"Give us the money and we'll pretend this never happened-" you start, but jump back when you feel something wet hit your cheek. You almost don't believe it, but the guy has some spittle dribbling down his bottom lip and a satisfied smile when you lock eyes with him again.

Alex wasn't just fast. You remember her standing up to your childhood bullies between classes and giving them shiners that she still bragged up to this day. It took a few years before you both stopped ending up with twice as many injuries, and a few more years after that before you stopped having bullies at all.

And this guy— maybe he didn't know what he'd gotten himself into and that extended to more than just this moment in time—was half the size of the guys Alex had beaten to tears in the past.

It does not surprise you that he crumbles to the ground with the very first punch to his gut. Alex hits hard first to make the fights quick, and so when her next punch lands on his nose, you know that something has been broken. With each kick to his gut, the tears free flow as if surely, the next hit will kill him.

You watch silently. Alex is unforgiving.

After a minute or two goes by, he is so beaten down that he wheezes every time he breezes. You're certain Alex has gone overboard but something in your heart swells at the thought that it was for you.

When all is said and done, you snatch the money from his jacket and he doesn't bother to stop you, head leaning against the ground as tears and blood and snot trickle into a puddle. For good measure, Alex snatches the drugs too, "Don't show your face in this alley again or you won't leave alive."

And you know this is a lie. A trick to make her bigger and badder. A threat that she would never follow through on. Because Alex always made herself look bigger, badder, scarier, deadlier. It's what protected you both on the streets. It's what made you follow her, what made your friends follow her.

Alex was everything, and you would follow her anywhere.

You ride in silence together down to the terminus. You feel much the same as you did the first time. Bruce pulls back the gate and you spill out into the dark, but much like before, the lights and TV kick on. The News 7 jingle plays, Bruce pads over to mute it.

You watch him stand a few feet away from you, avoiding your eyes as they sweep the floor. There are those same tools scattered about, hubcaps stacked on top of tires, wires going from one side of the room to the other. It looks just like you'd last seen it, only the car that had once been covered by tarp is now on full display. It gleams in the overhead lights, as much of a monster in clear view as it was in shadow.

He really wasn't shitting you.

When you still don't say anything, Bruce walks over to his desk. Underneath it is a crate full of folders, and you realize he's getting yours when he turns and holds one out to you. You take it, inching closer. Without a word shared, Bruce pulls up something on his computer and you nearly flinch when your mugshot is reflected back at you on one of the screens.

"Your record isn't accessible unless I use a workaround which isn't... legal, but it's how I found your file without Russo. The GCPD doesn't know." You peer at him from the corner of your eye, urging him to explain, "I taught myself how to get in."

Your eyes are welling up with tears the longer you stare at the younger version of yourself. Bruce continues, "I know what the record says. That they traced back a few robberies to you and your friends over the years, and that you'd had a run in with a Viper the night you met Russo. You helped track them down, took out a portion of the gang's operation, and your record was sealed. That's all."

"They didn't trace all of them back to us," you start, not really wanting to talk, "just some. There were more."

Bruce seems to sense that as he closes the record, "It's your turn. To ask, I mean."

You look at Bruce in the face and hate the softness there. You can't be angry, or numb like you wish you could be. Your chest is all twisted up with emotion with no one feeling staying for long, even if it would flare up again every once in a while. "Did you know about me before or after you asked me to work for you?"

"Before. After that morning, I couldn't stop... thinking about you. Truth be told, me and Alfred have been doing this alone ever since I started. Before you, he was the one that would stitch me up, kept me out of doctor's offices where someone might talk. But he was also running the company for me, and taking care of me, and worrying about me. I knew if I was going to commit to this, I would need to try and stay alive, and I always meant to find someone but it wasn't an easy decision to make. Until I met you."

You know it's his turn now, but you can't help asking, "And you didn't think... maybe the kid with a record would be a bad idea?"

Bruce cracks a smile, "I mean, the stitches never got infected." You would've laughed at that if you were in a better mood. "I wasn't always so understanding. But I imagine someone who's dedicated the better part of their life to saving lives has more than made up for it."

Your head automatically shakes, "I can never make up for what I did."

"You don't have to tell me everything," he begins delicately, "but I need to know what Dimitri is after. I need to know what he's thinking. You're the only one who can help me."

You blink away a few tears and plop into a stool by his desk, dropping your head in your hands. The memories suffocate you, rushing at you like a flash flood. You don't know where to start, let alone what you want to tell him. An hour ago, you were certain he was caught up in a Gotham mob, planning to use your history as blackmail for... something.

You can't quite reconcile the feelings you have for Batman with the face of Bruce Wayne. Or who you thought was Bruce Wayne.

But he was right. You were the best chance at catching Dimitri. You were the only one who could make it up to Russo.

You swallow at the memory of Russo's mutilated body, but then... you remember him in that police station. When you were 16 and wishing you were dead. You suck in a sharp breath, "I met Alex when I was a baby. I mean, we've known each other for a long time- knew each other. She and I used to be attached at the hip. She protected me from bullies and I would sneak out at night to listen to her vent about her parents, about Gotham. She fucking hated it here. I did too.

"Alex and I learned that if you want to survive, you have to be powerful. So we became powerful. You might not think a pair of 14 year olds are all that powerful in the grand scheme of things but when it was just us against the world, it was addicting. When we wanted something, we just... took it. We started off pickpocket-ting on the streets, usually assholes who could afford to lose a hundred or two. And then we started robbing places, small-time stuff, you know. Run down houses, apartments, swiping out of registers when no one was looking. If anyone gave us shit, we just turned tail and ran. It was hard enough trying to make ends meet for our parents, and we liked the thrill of it. We rarely ever got caught.

"Eventually, some of our friends from school joined us and we become a little piece-of-shit gang. God. We were like... fucking 15, running around the city like we were so big and bad. My parents had no clue what I was really up to but they knew something was wrong. I didn't care. I was with Alex and I would follow Alex anywhere. We had this little alleyway, right? Between a Thai place and a laundromat. That's where I could always find her. And one day, we were fucking around and caught some guy dealing back there. Alex got pissed. We tried to take his money but he defended himself. I said something... he spit at me. And Alex just lost it.

"She beat him into the concrete and I just... watched. This guy, couldn't even throw a punch if his life depended on it, and she just wailed on him. And I watched. And I liked it. I felt powerful. We felt powerful. I know, a pair of jackass teenagers hurting people for fun? We were pathetic. But it didn't feel that way, being with Alex. She was my best friend."

The tears are free-falling now and you don't even bother to wipe them away. It would feel cowardly. You couldn't hide from Bruce now, not anymore. Not if he wanted to believe in you. "We didn't know who this kid was, other than the fact he was a Viper. A young one, a weak one. We didn't think he'd even last a week. Most kids like him end up getting disposed of by the boss anyway. And then all five of us were fucking around in that alley again when they showed up: the guy, Dimitri, and his sister Nat and this other kid. All of 'em Vipers.

"Nat wanted the money and the drugs back. Kid had a black eye so I guess he'd gotten shit from his boss about it. Alex was... indignant. Refused. For once, I begged her to give in but she just wouldn't fucking listen. Of course she wouldn't, do you know how much I enabled her? We were on top of the world, why would she give in? And she really pissed Nat off with that, but then she started mouthing off and then... Nat shot her. Right in front of me. It was instant."

Bruce remains incredibly still. His lips part to say something but nothing really comes out. You keep on going, "I was so shocked that I didn't even move when Nat turned the gun on me. It was like... I don't know, it was like I couldn't quite believe she was dead. But I understood what happened. Logically. I saw it happen. I saw the bullet in her brain. And when Nat turned on me, I think a part of me just... didn't want to have to think about it. Like a coward. If it wasn't for our friends pulling me out of the way, I wouldn't... be here. Next thing I knew, I was at the GCPD getting investigated for murder."

"They thought one of you did it?"

"The cops that brought us in, yeah. They just so happened to be around the corner when we ran into them. By that time, Nat and Dimitri had run off. The cops thought it was some fight between the five of us and that one of us pulled the trigger, but they couldn't find the gun. That's when Detective Russo showed up."

"And he offered to get you a plea deal."

You nod, sniffling, "He told me... he said that he could tell I'd never seen something like that before. There was no way I could've done it. And when I couldn't even finish the whole story without choking up, he said... he said that in exchange for our help catching Natalie, he would make sure all the crimes they tied back to us were sealed and expunged."

"What about Natalie? How did they find her?"

"The GCPD had been looking into the Vipers for months. Vipers almost exclusively recruit minors because they're more loyal, but there wasn't a way to get in without putting some innocent kid in danger. So they had us look into it. We found one of their hideouts by the docks. GCPD wanted to get the kids out and into the foster system since a lot of them were orphans, like Natalie and Dimitri. But the ambush didn't take. They got a couple kids out but... a few died, including Nat. Last I heard of Dimitri, he got tried as an adult for killing a cop during the shootout. That was life in Arkham."

Bruce shifts closer, "Until he got out. And he came looking for Russo."

"He was just a kid, Bruce," your voice cracks, "he was just a kid. He couldn't even defend himself. And because we were assholes we got his sister killed and we got him put away. He was just a kid."

"So were you."

Something about the tender way Bruce says that makes you sob. For years, you've looked back on that moment with so much guilt, knowing how lucky you were to make it out of that situation alive and unscathed. How lucky you were to be taken seriously, to be cared for, for a detective like Joey Russo to show you a picture of his kid in his wallet and tell you that he would hate to see them in your position.

You were lucky that you got to fix your grades and go to college, study medicine, save lives, be here. Natalie didn't get that. Dimitri didn't get that. Alex didn't get that.

"You said... you said you hated Gotham. Why did you stay?"

You wipe at your cheeks, "I- I honestly... I wanted to. My parents made a deal with me that we would leave for New Jersey after I graduated but I didn't want to leave. I couldn't. I couldn't leave Alex. I couldn't leave the city, after all I'd done to it. In it. I wanted to leave like my friends because the guilt was so much but I felt obligated to fix it. I wanted to help people. Not hurt them. And I've worked hard to do better. I just can't leave. I don't want to leave."

What surprises you is the hand on your face afterwards. Bruce cups his your cheek. His thumb brushes away some tears, and it feels so unlike Bruce even though it's him, even though he's the one who cradled and comforted you after being held hostage, even though he was the one that stood on your fire escape and confessed that he trusted you, liked you even. Your brain just sort of stops there. You melt like putty in his hand. You realize you've been craving a gentle touch like this for a while.

"Then you won't have to," Bruce casts his eyes to the side, looking at where you laid your file on the desk. You can see the cogs turning beneath his furrowed brow, "I'll make sure of it."

"How?"

"...You won't like it."

[sugarleigh02]

All I See Are Red Lights

As soon as he opens the door, Seungmin’s nearly bowled over by a tallish man with shoulder length blonde hair who’s hall carrying, half dragging a smaller man into his apartment.

“You two post up on the door. No one comes in. You two, go sit in the car. Let Changbin know what’s going on.” The tall man barks at the entourage in the hallway. Seungmin wonders how they know who he’s referring to when they immediately spring into motion. Studying the two men in front of him, all Seungmin can see on the smaller man is pale skin and way too much red. 

“What happened?“

“None of your concern. You just need to fix him.” Seungmin bites back his first and second response and scoffs. 

“In order to do that, I need to know what happened.” The tall guy pauses before lifting his hand off of the injured man’s side. It reveals a protruding knife handle.

“He was stabbed.” Thankfully, they had enough sense to leave the knife be and not pull it out. 

“How?”

“Someone had a knife and a bone to pick; does it fucking matter?” The tall man snarls. Seungmin doesn’t say anything, doesn’t make a move. The man growls and pulls a gun out of his waistband, putting it to Seungmin’s forehead. “Let me make this impossibly clear: you fix him, I pay you enough that you can afford rent in this shithole for the next three months. You don’t, you die. Your choice.” 

``

Seungmin is a broke medical student who makes ends meet by playing doctor for other, equally as broke, university students. His driving force to complete his education is to make enough money to be able to move him and his childhood best friend, Jeongin, to a city that's not overrun by gangs.

Unfortunately, gangs can't be avoided when the SKZ turn up on Seungmin's doorstep seeking his professional expertise. One can't say no when a gun is pointed to his head, so Seungmin agrees to help. After that, avoidance is no longer an option, but that doesn't mean Seungmin has to be happy about it.

Or make it easy for them.

Especially when the gang member to break into Seungmin's peaceful life, Hyunjin, manages to push every one of Seungmin's buttons. It's only a matter of time until Seungmin becomes more entangled in SKZ than he ever wanted or anticipated.

(x)(WIP, Updates every other Friday)

[littlewalken]

Sep 9

Go to bed an hour later than usual, wake up an hour earlier unable to go back to sleep. Am I needing less sleep during the night? What's with all the naps during the day? Is it my anemia, menopause, or both?

I have made the decision not to go to the doctor until we move unless I need to. Because I'll have to switch doctors soon again because of that aside the last two were someone committing fraud, I don't even know if she was a PA or what, and one who should have retired because of age related complications with an incompetent office who decided everything was the problem of my weight including everything related to my brain injury from 30 years ago. The assholes who did an allergy test for everything but what I had told them I'm probably allergic to. And the fuck tards couldn't give me referrals or anything he told them.

So I think I've earned the right to not be that keen on going to the doctor.

Still no clear direction on a name for the sleepy head Unoa. Got to look up how to string her. I'm going to start with tightening but if that doesn't help her slumping and wonky knee she'll need new strings. I'll have to buy some because I don't know if I have any in MSD size, and if I do they're from when I got Xavier and Jibriel.

Do need to get or figure something for the teeny weeny Eve Studio guy. His microscopic elastic has worn out.

No, I don't know how to restring dolls, I don't take commissions, if you have to ask you can't afford it, anything worth doing is worth doing for money. It's one of those things I could guide you on if we were in the same place at the same time.

Going to try sewing today to at least finish Xavier's coat. Then I need to think thru what I'm cutting out of the red fabric. Crowley's coat is longer than the one I cut for X but he likes his coats about knee length.

[unicorn-and-bluebells]

I'm going nuts thinking about Deep Space 9 season 4 episode 25 "Body Parts" yet again, lads

Like. I really dig the whole "Uhhh so we had to transplant the baby. Kira now has the baby" b plot, but honestly it feels (to me at least) like it happened in a different episode, I'm going nuts about the a plot rn

Btw, content warning for brief discussion of fictional suicidal ideation. I won't go in detail but if thinking about a fictional character considering killing himself is not good for you, please don't read this post. Now, with that:

Just. The strange horror that comes from combining money and both health care and mortuary services. I think about that as it happens irl all the time, so I really like digging into this episode through that lens. I honestly generally like the vacuum dessication process for dealing with remains (and the idea of keeping a person's remains with you, not just hidden in an urn, but proudly displayed in a clear disc, small enough that you can keep them with you if you wish or leave them on a shelf or something). But there is such a weirdly surreal thing there, to me, about Quark (assuming he will be dead very soon) literally auctioning off parts of himself. Not only is he stressed and just in a bad place because he thinks he's about to fucking die, he also has to manage his mortuary situation (which. Since the tradition he follows involves auctioning parts of the remains, as opposed to being left in a place as a burial or spread ashes or sky burial or something, it really can't be planned in advance. Unless you auction off your future remains well before death, I suppose. In any case it's harder to do that stuff ahead of time). THEN the fact that he doesn't even HAVE Dorek syndrome, and the revelation that Brunt has bought the rights to Quark's remains (and apparently in some beta canon he bribed Dr. Orpax to lie and say Quark had Dorek syndrome, which. I generally don't pay heed to beta canon but fuck, dude. That makes so much sense. Not only because that makes Brunt's knowledge of the situation even more believable, but also because there it is again, that intertwining of medicine and money and how it never comes to any good except to those in power, namely Brunt. Also Dr. Orpax to some degree, in that he has power over Quark as a wealthy doctor, but also Brunt has power over Dr. Orpax bc he's fucking Brunt, FCA. How do you refuse a bribe from a determined FCA liquidator without putting your own life on the line? So I don't and do blame Dr. Orpax for this, but mostly this is Brunt being a twisted shithead).

AND THEN you have the relationship specifically between Quark and Brunt! The way they're both so toxic to each other yet so invested. It's genuinely fascinating. The extreme power imbalance, too; Brunt is a man who has a LOT of power. He has financial power in his wealth and as an agent of financial law, he has political power, he has physical power because he can afford Nausicaan bodyguards. Quark is, in comparison, just like, some guy. I think Brunt's role in this episode can also be read as somewhat of a metaphor for Ferenginar and the society Quark is trying hard to succeed in. It's a system that's built to fail for basically everyone, something Ishka, Rom, and Nog have all realised in their own ways, causing them to break from various traditions and find fulfilment in other ways of life (social reform, living in Bajoran/Federation society, and joining Starfleet, respectively). Quark, however, is determined to make this work (which, ultimately, is why DS9 feels a bit like a tragedy for his character), but Brunt, and the society that acts through him, literally have him in a stranglehold (well, literally as in a dream, but y'know), and no matter what Quark does, he loses. If he honours his contract and kills himself, he loses, because. Well, because he's forced to commit suicide. But if he does what he ended up doing, not honouring the contract, he loses again, because he loses his standing in his society, utterly, along with a lot of his livelihood and personal possessions (literally including the shirt off his back). He manages to keep going because of the support of friends and family outside the system, but. Fuck dude, that's still so rough

And the fact that Quark feels so trapped by convention and honour and contract that he really, actually considers killing himself, too. And the ways he ponders it, testing Garak's methods on holograms. I mean, fuck! He watches himself die over and over and over again! I'm sure too that as he watched, with each hypothetical death he began to feel less and less sure of what he was doing, if the contract was right, if this was all worth his life...then his dream. Wow dude. And the way he stands up to Brunt the next day, knowing that no matter what he does, he is about to lose so much.

In short "Body Parts" is a wonderfully surreal homoerotic horror about the evils of capitalism, particularly in medicine and mortuary services, AND it's somehow also very funny (seriously how did they pull that off??? Like I'm out here being like "This is horror" but also laughing my ass off bc. "I GET TO SUE DR. ORPAX FOR MALPRACTICE!!! and I'm gonna live!" and "When you see how much your body is worth, you're gonna wish you died years ago" and "*snap* I'm dead!" and "I'd rather be naked" this episode is so weirdly funny considering how depressed it makes me get about money and such) AND it has a b plot involving a baby transplant

[seoafin]

yuuta is likely not questioning his ties to gojou bc it was gojou in the first place who left him with the higher-ups and likely encouraged him to travel abroad. it's possible yuuta no longer feels a sense of responsibility to gojou and yuuta has always been one to act with his heart first, and his heart tells him his friend (inumaki) has been hurt. and this isn't something yuuta can accept. yuuta has the power to act, now, and he will.

i wonder if yuuta's motivation for executing yuuji isn't just revenge (or avenging), but an attempt to find a way to heal inumaki. it's not like yuuta's desperate to work for the higher-ups, it's just the way things are rn and he needs them for his own devices. is it possible he's still working according to gojou's plan? or does he have his own goal separate from the civil war i think is going to happen anytime soon. his immediate goal really seems to be to hunt yuuji down tho lol and smth to do with inumaki

i’m also wondering why shoko wasn't implicated? if i was the paranoid higher-ups, i'd want to cover all my bases, including her who's known to be close to gojou and getou as their peer, as also yaga's former student. i guess they can't afford to lose their doctor in a war, or... (YKW AKUTAMI PLS DONT JINX THIS ONE)

and inumaki’s too far after sukuna’s DE. and it’s just impossible for him to run that fast from the radius if that one map represents the time during sukuna’s DE. he was the only one...in that area. v v easy victim for a quick abduct and decapitation if u ask me. or—he got caught up along the edge of sukuna's "taking megumi into acct” 140m radius DE, the cuts sukuna inflicts are near impossible to heal and the seals are there to keep inumaki from bleeding out, if not emergency aid. BUT THE HIGHER UPS ARE SO SUS

ALSO it's not like yuuta’s incapable of understanding inimaki, so supposing yuuta saw inumaki in person and that inumaki and he were able to communicate, it's likely yuuta knows exactly what happened. he knows he's being manipulated. he's just made it clear he doesn't care.

and the title,, jjk 137: 堅白同異

堅白. gongsun long basically deals in the metaphysical "unviserals"

堅白論 "on hardness & whiteness" = a hard and white stone is 2 entities; basically a hard and white stone can only be a hard stone or a white stone. there’s no "stoneness" of a stone, only the "hardness" of a stone preceived through touch and the "whiteness" of a stone through sight. considering his white horse dialogue, it shld be a hard and white stone is three entities, but i’m not sure either.

basically, he was very particular about names and how they refer to things. all things exist with or without names, but without names there is disorder and no understanding and, thus, no universals or particulars. additionally, the hardness and the whiteness of the stone don’t exist together — u can’t see "hardness" nor touch "whiteness", so gongsun long is like... they are "hiding" from each other so how can one say they are inseparable, such as in "a hard and white stone".

*head in hands* i can't tell if this is referring to the new yuuta or the new rika or the new rika in relation to yuuta or the other way around or yuuta in relation to being a shaman who works for his own interests while working for the higher-ups supposedly...... what am i even saying

sum philosophy stuff, but it does mean sophistry according to jpn dictionaries from what i've seen.

堅白 (jian bai) — from 公孙龙's gongsun long’s jian bai on similarities & differences (堅白論)

同異 (tong yi) — from hui shi’s contract differences (合同异)

all i got from hui shi's he tong yi is that there are similarities in differences and differences in similarities and everything is "relative", but there also is the "absolute". apparently gongsun long's and hui shi's studies were pitted against each other or sth only to be found that they complemented each other ?? IDK

gongsun said that universals are separate entities in perception, hui shi said that the concept of differences are inseparable

堅白同異 means sophistry then does it also reference how yuuji's body is neither "yuuji's" nor "sukuna's" and how there's now a little bit of yuuji in sukuna and vice versa.

i saw someone on reddit say that this refers to yuuta and his opinion on yuji. he only knows of yuji as 'hard' (a vessel for a curse that can kill/harm people) but does not know yet of 'white' yuji (a kind, loving person who wants to be good). later he'll see that both can exist. i also think the "hardness/whiteness" reference is more to the situation in general and yuuji. abt who is telling the story and relaying information. it was mentioned in goodwill event that tokyo folks have a different view of yuuji bc they know him as a person. he’s just a curse to others

on the one hand, gongsun put forward the idea of "li jianbai (离坚白)", and on the other hand, he also put forward the concept of similarities and differences and similarities in differences.

ALSO gojou’s exile is v v similar to sugawara no michizane 🧍

the subtle concept of wu-wei (yin-yang) is def here v v contrasting against western perception of good and evil, akutami did his homework and now there’s too many things in my mind,,, the way i revisited gongsun longzi today for the first time in years bc of jjk,,, the same way i revisited philosophy for this danmei i'm reading LOL. anyways chinese philosphy always make my braincells hurt 😔 so take this with a grain of salt - 🐱

YES!!! I AGREE!!

i’ve seen a lot of posts talking about what’s going to happen if inumaki says he doesn’t want revenge on yuji, but there weren’t any posts about how maybe yuuta doesn’t care!!! i saw a theory on reddit that maybe the sophistry title is about yuuta being manipulated, knowingly or unknowingly?? we’ll find out later

if shoko gets implicated i will pass away. there’s too much angst happening already 😭 but at the same time i do think she’s too valuable for the higher ups to punish her because they need her. even yaga said so

Once again...akutami's mind.....

[theravenclawlover]

Monster

Parings: James “Bucky” Barnes x Reader.

Warnings: +18 Mentions of torture, mature language, future smut, mentions of death, slight depression, mentions of kidnapping.  

Word Count: 2,066.

Summary: You are one of the youngest members of the Avengers, and you love it. Out of the blue an impossible mission is assigned to you alongside Natasha Romanoff, and it was sure to change your life. Lies, and betrayal from the closest people in your life; they never told you who you really were.

Chapter Number: 2.

Chapter Tittle: The Mission.

A/N: Hey! I’m back with another update for this series as you can see! I’ve been so busy with life, it’s a little tiring. Who would’ve thought that online courses could be so homework heavy... Nevertheless, I made some time to twink this thing up and some other chapter, so my prediction is that maybe later or tomorrow there’s going to be another chapter up! Thank you for being so patient with me, it means a lot! Now for those who read my Harry Potter fics, I know I still owe you lot a smutty Weasley Twins fic, and I promise I’ll post it by the end of the month or beginnigs of next, I haven’t been able to finish it for some reason. Also, I think I’ll try to start drafting chapters for my “Welcome to the Industry of Porn.” It’s been almost a year since I last updated that one. Okay, I’ll stop! Enjoy my fellow readers! 

After getting things ready, Nat and you found yourselves in her car; Natasha on the wheel. She kept on glancing at you, not real expression set but it was kind of annoying you. At first it didn't bother you and didn't really mind it, but it had been an hour since her eyeing had begun, so the annoyance was bound to sprout from you any minute.

"What?" you said a little snappy, it couldn't be ignored any longer. It was just rude to stare.

"What?" echoed Natasha with feigned confusion.

"Why do you keep looking at me like that?" You exclaimed while turning to face her as much as you could with the seatbelt on.

"Like what?" She didn't turn like you had, but you were able to see the change of her expression from your seat, she just gave you a confused look at your words.

"Nat, you haven't stop looking at me! It might sound crazy, but you've looked worried ever since Steve mentioned this "Bucky" person." You couldn't stop from raising your voice a little. She was agitating you and you knew you probably were overreacting at the whole situation.

She let out a sigh before answering, "Y/n, we have been sent to bring the Winter Soldier by no means of force. He has memory problems because HYDRA thought it was a great idea to mess with his brain. So, I'm sorry If I can't take my mind out of it! Also, I'm not looking at you with worry, I was just wondering why you seem so calm." At the last words she'd turned to face you, having reached a red light.

"I never thought that I would witness what I believe is a mini freak out from you. Also, I had my breakdown in my room when we were getting ready. He's scary for what I've read in his report. Remember Washington? Stupid question, of course you do. Dude, I cried when you and Steve were on the run. Trust me, I'm fucking scared, but I'm trying to stay calm. I have a theory that he can smell fear. So, I'm practicing my 'I'm cool with a brainwashed assassin in the room' face," you exclaimed with the tiniest grin on your face. Joking about the matter seem to help with your anxiousness, and the exasperation from before now gone.

"To be honest with you, I'm rather impressed that you look better than I do right now," she said after stopping the car in front of a big old building that looked like it was about to fall, "we're here."

"Shit." It was really happening. All you had to do was peacefully bring a brainwashed dude with you back to the base. Should be easy. Piece of cake, right?

"Let's do this, " said Nat getting out of the car, her façade of tough—not really a façade, she was tough—assassin had 'activated' once more.

You both stepped through the rough looking doors, according to the last report on him, he was in last the floor going up. You were shaking a little when you had finally made your way up. Nat made her way toward the door with quiet steps. Once the two of you were in front of the room neither of you knew what to do next. Do we just knock, or we burst in like the badass women we fucking are? you thought to yourself, a little grin trying to break on your face. You didn't get to dwell on it for too long because Nat had knocked on the door, her face showed the clear regret of that action. She had just acted without thinking of the consequences of her actions—how odd.

There was a noise coming from inside, you could hear hesitant footsteps coming towards the door, you knew he was going to open the door anytime soon, but you didn't know what to do so you just stood there. The movements from inside suddenly stopped, you saw the shadow of someone right in front of the door from its order side. A second later, that someone opened the door, and lord did the sight made you blush.

The door opened to show a shirtless man, long hair covering his face. He looked as if he had just taken a shower, he hadn't been expecting anyone—I mean, who would? The building was mostly empty, except for the homeless that looked for shelter. You knew you were staring but you couldn't remove you gaze from his massive, muscular form, and that glistening arm.

"Good afternoon," said Natasha, breaking the silence. He didn't say anything he just kept looking at both of you trying to figure out who you two were, and most likely wondering why you had disturbed his peace and quiet. After her words, more silence came—awkward silence.

"We are here to help you out, we know who you are," Natasha proceeded to say without introductions. Wrong move. The calm face he'd had was now replace with a cold expression. Before either of you could muster words out, he'd closed the door and hurried back inside.

"Shit! Shouldn't have done that!" Natasha grabbed her gun kicking the door trying to stop him. You did the same thing, grabbed your gun and try to stop him before he disappeared once again. You knew it had been hard to get a hold on a ghost like the Winter Soldier, so you couldn't afford to mess the mission up.

Once inside, he had put out on a shirt and was ready to jump from the window. Nat shouted a 'stop' but he didn't listen, he jumped from the window. You ran to the window to see him landing flawlessly on the ground. Before running off, he turned his head, and you swore he winked your way. Without another glance, he ran and vanished from your view when he took the first turn to the left.

"Crap! The fucker ran away again! He was ready," said an angered Natasha, now standing by your side.

"That was so fast. Who gets dressed that fast?, and that bag must've been packed already," you said looking around for any type of intel you could find. You needed to know where he has heading next, that could help with the foul mood Fury was surely going to be in.

"I don't know, but what I do know is that we are in big trouble when we get back," said Natasha with a sigh escaping her lips. With one quick look around, you gave up and headed back to the car, your murder by your boss awaiting you.

                                                        °°°°°

"Sir, he just ran back inside and jumped from the window and disappeared." For the umpteenth time you told what had happened to Fury. When the two of you got to the new secret facility of S.H.I.E.L.D.—or what was left of it—you were to give your mission report to Fury. Steve was there, listening on how bad the mission had gone; he looked worried, but you had a feeling that it was because his friend was in the world off the radar rather than worried about either Nat or you being yelled at by Fury. You felt guilty, Natasha and you had messed up the chance for him to see this 'Bucky,' but at the same time you were slightly annoyed at his uncharacteristic coldness at your failure.

Fury was mad that you two had failed the mission, but he had known that someone like him was no easy target, but that doesn't mean that he let you off without some type of punishment. You knew that S.H.I.E.L.D wasn't the same organization that once was, now it was just a little group left since the incident with HYDRA. Fury told you after he had—somewhat—calm down that Natasha and you were to be in the tracking team. Meaning that you were to sit down in front of a computer until you got wind of him.

You got back to your room but not before spending the rest of the afternoon working for the new coordinates of where he could have run to hide. You opened the door to your room; once in, you kicked your shoes off and walked towards where your bed was, putting your gun and badge on the nightstand. You were exhausted to even remain awake while walking around to get things done. You went to the bathroom to take the most relaxing shower. The warm water felt so good against your tired body and your thoughts ran wild, with no care. At first it was just how bad you had mess up the mission and the guilt that came with that, but then you could only focus on him. Those piercing blue eyes that seem to take you away from reality... You shook your head trying to forget about those eyes, but you found yourself going back to them. They seem to bring you a sense of comfort that you couldn't explain. You quickly finished your shower, trying to rid yourself from thoughts of him. Once out, you grabbed your panties and the biggest, baggiest t-shirt you owned, and with no trouble you fell asleep.

                                                         °°°°°

You were in a room that seem too familiar for some reason, there was a glass window in front of you. You walked towards it; it showed another room. Your eyes landed in the person that was in the middle of the room, it was him. He was shirtless inside a capsule, he looked troubled while he slept. There were people waking him up, and when they did, they sat him on a chair not far from the capsule he had been. There were doctors around him with clipboards, and big machines were being situated around the blue-eyed man. You looked around, besides the doctors there were people in green outfits—officers. Then you looked to your other side and saw one of the doctors coming to the room you were in, he walked towards to what looked like a control panel. You saw him pressing some buttons, and the big machines in the other room started moving.

Your eyes moved to find his, he was already staring right at you; he couldn't see you, though, the glass didn't allow it. One of the doctors near him grabbed something and put it in his mouth, him never questioning what. He kept looking straight ahead, you felt as if he could really see you through the glass, it made you shiver unconsciously. One of the doctors now gave a signal towards the glass, and so, the man on your side of the glass pressed one button and the machine got closer to the man sitting on the chair. Before you could guess what was going on, he was screaming. You didn't want to see, your heart ached at the way his eyes shut abruptly, how his knuckles were now white from gripping the chair. You couldn't look away and you weren't even able to flinch at his screams. You didn't know how long it went like that, but all the screaming was soon replaced with a shrilling silence. As soon as he was still, dead-looking, some officers were now helping him up and taking him somewhere else. Everyone started to leave, doctors and officers alike—loud-ish chatter amongst them. There was one person who didn't move, and he was looking at you. The man smiled and made his way towards you, he seemed familiar and nice.

"What you just saw, Y/n, was how we made our best weapon stay emotionless, and strong. That is why he is valuable to us; he doesn't show emotions towards his victims." The man was now kneeling in front of you, "now, honey, we better get you to your room. Tomorrow is going to be another day full of training."

"Yes, sir," you said. Your voice sounded so young, probably less than ten years old. He picked you up, and you wrapped your tiny arms around his neck. It took forever to get to what you guessed was your room. Once inside and you were changed into your pajamas, he helped you get in bed, tucking you in.

"Have sweet dreams, my little princess," said the man that was looking at you with loving eyes.

You gave him a soft, sleepy smile before yawning while muttering softly, "goodnight, papa."  

Tag list:

@boredtotearz100 @john-benderr @cnco-ravenclaw-46

[bullwrinkledmagnum]

Easy Self Test for females

My suspected natural mother (genetic) says she's never had kids.

So this is rather odd. But i had always had milk come out of my nipples since for a long time. Since the 90s. So i know i had been previously pregnant (now in 2019 and for a few years) when i first remember this And i had an adverse emotional reaction.

Its understood, scientifically through research you cannot have breast milk without having a baby.

This article states 20-25% of people can.

I believe this is a cover-up to make you shut up and stay out of the way.

Someone told me it was oil like i had weird zits inside my nipples... Or on the edge.

Whatever it worked. I had to avoid the emotions of my children dying or being taken away because I would have killed myself. I couldn't handle knowing and doing nothing about it.

I feel this is a risky post.

1. I dont tell you and you never know or you never believe you do have a kid

2. You find out you probably did and can't handle it.

So. I am going to believe the world is mentally stable and strong and post it

Now before you decide to check, maybe you should get yourself a DNA test kit for Christmas -- Ancestry.com is currently allowing. My Heritage is cheapest but anyone can see your DNA. 23andme you can hide it from the public but the militaries have access (limited just to match they dont download it) and DNA4U is a private currently not on the market company as they have never been and will not be soon as all their resources are going to this crisis.

https://www.crigenetics.com/index-v-3

Is also participating in allowing access.

My Heritage allows any company's DNA to be uploaded to their system for free.

However. Genetic information will not be available without paying.

So you can get any test really and then upload it. Check they allow you to download the raw DNA. Most do as it is your own information.

Doing this will allow you peace of mind. If you have breast milk then you won't worry of they overlook you in returning your child. You will be one step ahead.

I know this is super difficult.

It's kinda stressful for me to write it, knowing I am opening a Pandora's Box.

Remember to seek counseling if you need. Look online for free resources. Talk to a friend. Keep busy.

Now

To test all you have to do is squeeze the tip of your nipples. There will be colostrum. It will look like a dirty oil.

It can be a dark gray to a yellow to a clear color.

If you "clean" your ducts regularly, like daily but don't express the milk, you can have seperated milk, a thick white. Bright white spongy material. This can also come out of your armpits. Which can be confused as deodorant or may be deodorant.

Now if you are brave. Rub your armpits daily for a week. And check your nipples for expression.

The milk ducts are located in the arm pits also. And down through the breasts.

Feel free to massage your boobs but if you don't feel comfortable, do your armpits.

If after a week nothing comes out you have not had children. Most likely.

I suspect that many will have children in China. So please if you can, get a DNA kit.

If you cannot afford to. My Heritage will set up a system to give them to you free of charge. The system needs to be made and i will notify you. But you may write in as of now if you would like. But if you get a non valid response try again. There's many customer service people and they will need to be notified.

By January they should be together on this. So write in and title it "human trafficking"

They will make a system available ASAP. So its a special team you contact but for now know you may get an idiot and then just start over.

This is actually developing news so...

I'm sorry. I truly am.

Some people have had breasts and tissue removed due to cancer. It is Likley you had a clogged milk duct and doctors removed it. And called it cancer.

So if you have suffered from breast cancer, its Likley you have had given birth.

I'm extremely sorry.

They tried to do that to me when I was 13. But my dad fought them.

He told me over and over "you don't have cancer and don't let anyone Tell you and if They do, tell me and i will kill them. Or call the police if i am not home"

So i believe that most cancers are a lie. That cancer doesn't exist.

That does not mean people have suffered.

I am sorry you have been a victim.

I know this is horrible news right before Christmas.

I choose to tell you now because I know you're busy thinking about how to make people happy with gifts and etc and your focus is on,Christmas.

So please continue to focus on Christmas and allow this to be a business issue that will become personal when you have the answers you need.

This is a later issue that you will need to prepare for. Combined with the now issue of family and friends.

Soon you will have family and friends around you and you may xhoose to,express you may be a victim. A 22 year old. No kids. Rarely or never had sex but has breast milk.

I thought i was a virgin until i was 18!!! I had kids at 10!! A bunch!!!

So I KNOW this information can be bad.

This is why I choose to expose it now.

Because at Christmas even if I'm in the dumps, I can either pick myself up Or be glad i know an actual reason I'm so sad feeling!

So please don't let the anger exist in you. Use that energy to research. Pound out some dough for the holidays. A King's cake perhaps with a baby hidden in.

That can make you sad but also make you feel, you know what? It Is Gonna Be Ok.

So it is an item on the task list that you put away until later.

I say this because you want to know Who they are. Where they are. What has happened to them.

Don't.

Do not do that.

They will tell you.

Focus on you.

Remember you are good enough to be loved.

Remember to brush your teeth -- crest will make them brighter white but can turn them brown if you dont get every dip and tilt. Colgate is good at not doing that.

Do laundry.

Take care of You and Your family you habe now. Yoir friends.

That is what you habe now. Enjoy this last time without Yoir kids. Because right now they're at a free baby sitters. And always have been.

So enjoy Yoir time off from being a mom to a bunch more people.

We are doing the best we can to find them and give them to you.

So you do the best you can in being happy to see them.

Thank you.

And i am sorry if you are someone like me. But one day it will get better.

[carelessadventurer]

cadcnce​:

Consider if you will, which option is worse- knowing that Zephyr was nearby and dreading the eventual encounter; or finding yourself unsure if you heard him and slowly going mad from the tension that you’re about to deal with a slippery Liberi who specializes in messing with your head. It surely doesn’t help matters that his arts allow him to move freely and quickly as he wishes around the Landship. In Bait’s case, he’s the one of the operators to fear the most when she’s attempting to play hooky from her appointments.

And, if he’s going to suffer the prodding of annoying chemical smelling medics, then so is she. Just because she’s a kid doesn’t excuse her. Besides, between Bait’s bitter frustration and Kal’tsit’s scathing reprimanding it’s clear which side of the line he’ll be holding for his own well being. It’s nothing personal.

But where was he? Was the operator actively searching?

Yes, yes he was. His own early appointment perhaps a punishment for his behavior during the last check in. That, or perhaps the medics hoped to utilize him in order to track down. Two birds one stone in their case. Well, one bird, this bird. Must they torment said bird? Eh, lets not get into what Zephyr deserves for the time being… nap or nonsense or otherwise. There could even be some guilt to be had for using his skills as a tracker and stealth operative in a game like this, but at least this way someone was having a bit of fun.

When Bait peeks her head out of the vent, the Liberi is sitting up against the wall just below the opening. Arms folded, expression peaceful with lidded eyes. Well, until one of them pops open to peer up at the runaway. Should the Zalak try to dash away, she was getting a hand locked onto her collar to yank her out. So long as she behaves… no physical convincing was needed.

“So, my excuse with this kind of thing is I just don’t care for doctors. And the med bay smells awful. But I’ve come to learn that I’d rather give up 10 minutes or whatever to get poked at a bit and get told some nonsense, than the alternative. Doesn’t it just suck when people around here care about you, kid? Making us their business. Ridiculous.”

Bait looked down and froze when she saw the Liberi. The worst of her fears had been realized in this instance. How had he gotten so close without her noticing. She would be impressed. No, she was impressed he'd managed to get so close. She would have to ask him for some pointers but she probably would not. She and the Liberi were enemies in this moment. She wanted to duck back inside the vent but remembered what happened the last time. So she just stared down at him and slowly drew her hands back into the vent. He would not be able to get her out if she made herself to big to not be pulled through. But first...

"How are you awake right now?" Bait muttered her tone exasperated, "Do they dislike you that much?" As she was speaking she hooked her foot on a loose panel as if to make sure she had more grip for her soon to be struggle. Her ears twitched as he spoke. She scoffed at the words, "They don't care that much. Most of us are just here to be researched on you know."

The validity of that last claim was something Bait herself was uncertain of. However, she would not put it in the realm of the impossible. She could not afford to trust anyone that much. After all, she was only here in the first place because of Asclepius. The moment she became useless, she would be kicked out. It doesn't matter how much she was told otherwise. Bait glanced back over to her right hand momentarily crystals were beginning to peek out past the cuff of her sleeve.

Bait shook her head before staring back down at him. "You... you know I can't let you take me in." She focused on him her expression as serious as always, "Besides.. I can just get Asclepius to do my check up once he gets back. We don't have to do this. We could both take a nap and no one would be the wiser." It was a lie. It was all a lie but maybe it would be convincing enough for him. Probably not though so she started to brace herself for the expected pull. He'd see what happened when you tried to corner a Zalak.