#i just want to live in my house in peace

[1am-s0-veryt1red]

I am going to end up on the 6 o'clock news.

[greenglowinspooks]

(DCxDP) The obligations of a rogue versus those of a parent (Pt. 4)

—

Tw: descriptions of body horror, Dr. Crane has PTSD and Does Not Realize, Crane has an actual panic attack and just doesn’t care, the Riddler makes one (1) sex joke about Batman

Will be crossposted to AO3 eventually

(Pt. 1 here) (Prev here) - (Pt. 5 here)

(Masterlist here)

—

Dr. Jonathan Crane is in his lab, the acrid scent of chemicals filling the air, and his hands are shaking.

Danny’s health, for the first week that he had him, had been steadily improving at an extremely quick rate. However, his healing had begun to stagnate. Danny said that it was because his body had run out of ectoplasm, and that while there was a lot of ambient ectoplasm in Gotham, he needed a stronger type in order to heal.

And so, that led Dr. Crane here.

He had stolen the research notes from the Penguin years ago regarding his experimentation on him.

(He quite vividly remembers the sound of bone creaking and groaning as it twisted, lengthened. The squelching of shifting tendons and muscles, the strange fabric-like tightening of skin. The feeling of going from man to monster, of losing all claim to his humanity.)

Danny had called him Liminal, part ghost. He had said that he was transformed by, among other things, a kind of synthetic ectoplasm.

Danny needed ectoplasm.

Crane had the research notes. He had every ingredient necessary. And yet, attempt after attempt failed.

The chemical smell burns his nose. His hands tremble.

Dr. Crane is not afraid.

He doesn’t feel fear anymore. He’s tried to, many, many times, but nothing has worked. And yet, his hands are shaking still.

(The horrifying sensation of vertebrae pop-pop-popping along his spine, growing and lengthening. The unbearable itching beneath his skin as toxin glands begin to form. The feeling of his teeth sharpening and elongating, of his skull growing, of his vision changing and brightening. The awful stench of chemicals. The awful stench of ectoplasm.)

Jonathan takes careful note of his shaking hands, his blurring vision, his accelerated heart-rate and shallow breathing.

(Human hands. Human vision. Human heart and lungs and organs.)

He takes note of them, but he does not let that distract him from the task at hand. Danny is not a chemist, but Jonathan is.

The boy knows enough about chemistry in theory, but he won’t go anywhere near Crane’s equipment. He seems to have some sort of intense fear of laboratory settings, probably developed during his stay with the GiW, and Crane is willing to respect that, if only because he cannot afford to lose him.

As such, Crane is the only one qualified to do this. And, unfortunately, if he isn’t successful the boy may very well die.

He heats the chemicals to precisely the right temperatures, adding each one to its correct container.

Dr. Crane thinks of the Scarebeast, that creature born of cruelty and greed and a sense of superiority. That creature which he tries to ignore is a part of him, that can never be removed. A damage which cannot be undone.

He pours the contents of a small beaker into a larger flask, watching the liquids swirl together. The stench in the air is becoming closer and closer to the one burned into his memory.

Crane’s whole body is wracked with unpleasant sensations. It’s truly unfortunate, he thinks, that despite his mind’s lack of fear, his body still reacts so harshly.

Jonathan’s eyes wander, eventually settling on a purple and green card sitting innocently on the corner of the table.

Right.

Even if they wiped out the GiW tomorrow, and even if Danny could survive without ectoplasm, he would still be in danger.

Crane has to get him back to good health. It’s the only way he can be sure that the boy can defend himself properly.

The solution in the flask begins to foam, and Jonathan does not hesitate as he adds the final ingredient. He pours the mixture into a new container, capping it and placing it into a freezer set to -40 degrees.

Hopefully this time he got the timing right.

Jonathan tries to relax, the ventilation in the room slowly but surely clearing the familiar smell from the air.

He thinks of the letter.

Surely, he thinks, that man can come up with some better material for his jokes. Or, at least something new.

Same old threats, same old attempted poisoning.

Aiming his threats at Danny, though, that was new. New and utterly unacceptable.

Scarecrow did what he had to.

He doubted that his solution would last forever, of course, as with that man it never did. As such, he would prepare both himself and Danny for the inevitable moment that his choices came back to bite them.

However, for the moment, they were safe. Danny could rest and recover, and Jonathan could figure out a plan to minimize possible damages.

Jonathan is no longer shaking.

He’s exhausted. This is his fifth attempt today, and each one leaves an unfortunate strain on his mind and body.

With a sigh, he settles himself into his seat at a nearby desk, opening up his computer and logging his most recent attempt. He still has to wait for it to chill to know if it was successful, but he can always update the logs later.

Once he’s done, he stretches, joints popping loudly as he walks to the freezer.

When he sees the results of his tireless work, the ghost of a smile flits across his face.

Success.

Jonathan picks up the jug of ectoplasm and leaves the lab, which is in all actuality the basement of the new apartment that he moved himself and Danny into after receiving the note. The scrappy old woman who was his landlord had told him that as long as he paid her five hundred dollars up front, she would let him set up in the basement without any questions or cop calls.

And so, the most expensive apartment in the Narrows was his.

At least, he thought, the distance between the basement and the apartment was short enough that Danny didn’t have to sit in while he was doing his labwork.

Jonathan knew that he didn’t exactly have a strong grasp on the concept of ‘lab safety,’ proven by his built-up immunity to almost every toxic chemical he’d ever encountered, and he doubted that Danny should be around such an environment.

He was back to the apartment quickly, not bothering to hide the self-satisfied smile on his face. Danny is sitting in his armchair, trying to read one of his books. Danny looks up, ready to greet him, when he sees the jug in his hands and pauses.

“Is that..?”

“Synthetic ectoplasm,” Jonathan says proudly, “I found the Penguin’s research notes and decided to recreate it, since you said that you needed it to heal properly. I’m not sure if it’ll work the same as what you usually have, but I hope it’s helpful all the same.”

Danny is standing, now, and looking at Jonathan with a strange look in his eyes. He looks, Jon thinks, like he’s about to cry.

Then Danny is rushing forward and wrapping his arms around Jonathan, his scrawny form shaking.

Jonathan is, for a moment, horrified. Did he do something wrong somehow? Why is this child, who’s so afraid of touch, hugging him?

And then he hears Danny’s voice, and he knows that it was all worth it.

“Thank you,” he’s mumbling, over and over, “thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you so much.”

“Of course,” Jonathan says softly, because what else can he say?

The boy cries in his arms for a while, and Jonathan briefly wonders what his life must have been like before, if a person like him can be seen as a comforting figure.

Then, Danny pours himself a small glass of the synthetic ectoplasm, putting the rest into the small fridge which had come with the apartment, and he settles back down, sitting in the armchair once again.

Jonathan sits opposite of him, and they chat with one another as Danny drinks.

Danny talks to him about the stars and tells him about different spaceships, and Jonathan makes sure to pay attention and ask the boy questions.

He doesn’t miss the way that Danny lights up every time he asks him something about his interests. He’s so passionate, so smart, a trait that he seldom sees outside of his fellow rogues, and Jonathan wants to encourage that.

It’s…nice. Peaceful, almost.

And then the front door flies open, because Jonathan isn’t allowed to have nice things.

“Jon,” a familiar voice rings out, “what the hell?!”

Danny is frozen in place, clearly terrified.

Jonathan heaves a sigh, turning to face the nuisance who’s entered his apartment.

“Eddie,” he drawls, “to what do I owe the pleasure?”

Edward’s face is red with anger as he invades Jonathan’s apartment.

“Oh, I don’t know! Maybe it’s the fact that you sent a bunch of rogues a cryptic message and then dropped off the face of the earth for two weeks! I was worried, Jon!”

Jonathan hums in acknowledgement.

“I didn’t think it was that cryptic,” he says, picking up a book in order to pointedly ignore the Riddler.

“Oh, of course you didn’t, you straw-stuffed hickory dickory dickhead. I swear, you’re always—” he pauses, finally having noticed Danny sitting opposite of Jonathan, “—who is this?”

“My apprentice,” Jonathan replies, dreading the upcoming headache he was no doubt going to develop from Edward’s company, “he’s helping me hunt down the GiW. His name is Danny.”

Edward gasps dramatically.

“You—an apprentice?! And you’re letting him sit in the old man chair?! You don’t even let me sit in the old man chair,” he wails, draping himself over the headrest of the couch with a flourish, “Jonathan, I thought I knew you!”

“Edward,” Jonathan says, “get out of my apartment.”

“Oh my goodness, this is incredible. You’re becoming the bat!”

“I am not becoming the bat, Eddie, now get out.”

Edward has a shit-eating grin on his face as he waltzes over to Danny. Danny, who seemed terrified when he first appeared, is now looking at him with obvious amusement written all over his face.

“I mean, look at him! The hair, the eyes, the scrappy build. If you put him in one of those traffic light vigilante costumes, he could easily pass as a Robin!”

“I’m not doing this with you today, Eddie.”

“Riddle me this, Jon: I am a treasure hidden inside of a chest. You can break me, or steal me, or give me a rest. I can flutter, or pound, or attack, or drop, but if you don’t have me, you’re certainly fucked. What am I?”

Jonathan pauses for a moment before he groans, dropping his head into his hands.

“Eddie.”

Danny sits still, a confused look on his face as he repeats the riddle silently. Then, his face lights up in delight.

“A heart!”

“Jon, I like this one,” Edward says with a smile, ruffling Danny’s hair, “you are correct! A heart, something that I wasn’t aware that our dear Jonathan had!”

“Eddie, stop.”

“No, no,” Edward says, “I was worried about you, you deserve this. I mean, you even missed girls night! You never miss girls night!”

“Girls night?” Danny asks, absolutely delighted.

“Oh, of course,” Edward says, sprawling over on the couch, dangerously close to just laying in Jonathan’s lap, “we have it once a week. I’m invited because of Selina and Jon’s invited because Harley likes him.”

“And what does girls night entail, exactly?”

“Eddie,” Jonathan groans, “please.”

“Well,” Edward hums, “we usually paint our nails, or watch a movie, or gossip about the other rogues, and occasionally, we tell each other about any ‘encounters’ we have with Batman,” he says, raising his eyebrows up and down.

Danny’s jaw drops.

“Edward, shut up,” Jonathan says, an irritated tone in his voice that wasn’t there before.

“No way,” Danny says, “I thought that Batman, like, hated you guys or something. You mean he actually..?”

“Oh, the Bat is much like a bottle of liquor or a cheap cigarette, in that he was made to be passed around.”

Danny chokes on air.

“Edward Nygma,” Jonathan hisses, getting out of his seat and looming over the man, “get the hell out.”

Edward pales.

“Leaving, leaving!” Edward says, dashing away from Jonathan. He pauses, turning to flash Danny a quick smile.

“Remember Danny, I’m your favorite uncle! Not any of the other rogues, me!”

With that, he leaves, the room falling completely silent.

And, as per usual, that silence does not last.

“You full-named him?” Danny asks gleefully, “and it worked?”

Jonathan just sighs, sitting down on the couch and rubbing at his temples.

“Please, don’t take anything Eddie says seriously. He’s a moron.”

“Dr. Crane, please let me come to girls night with you,” Danny pleads, his eyes sparkling, “I promise I won’t embarrass you.”

Jonathan groans.

“Of course you won’t, Eddie will do it for you.”

“Come on, please?”

“I think we’re a bit busy with the GiW at the moment,” Jonathan snaps. He pauses as he notices the crestfallen expression on Danny’s face.

This boy is going to be the death of him.

“Perhaps, though, when all that is taken care of…”

Danny cheers, grinning wildly, and Jonathan is not at all relieved to see him happy again. Certainly not.

The rest of the day is relatively normal.

Danny works on trying to get information from the GiW database while Crane refines his his fear toxin, both preparing for a raid on the GiW base they located in Gotham.

It was only a temporary base, nothing of note, but there was a chance of discovering more bases through it, and that wasn’t something either of them were willing to give up.

Still, something like this would take time. Rushing would only lead to failure.

…

Late in the night, long after Danny is fast asleep in his room, Jonathan pauses.

The GiW are not the only threat out there. They aren’t the only threat to him or to Danny. Perhaps it could be helpful to reach out to someone with greater resources than himself.

He sends a quick message to Red Hood.

Hopefully, he thinks, everything will go smoothly.

—

[andy-clutterbuck]

The Ones Who Live | 1x03 - Bye

[marc--chilton]

i'm gonna sound insane just hear me out okay

when he sees me from waitress but it's hilson and the choruses are from different POVs from either side from the not-actually-unrequited love.

like. wilson, too nervous to even let himself imagine a relationship with house going well, only imagining terrible outcomes because they're both so awful to each other AS FRIENDS yet they've been friends for 20 years anyway, and really, what does that say about them?

but then there's house, who rarely ever lets people in one way or another, finding them boring at best and imbecilic at worst, yet is so soft hearted that despite his cynical and misanthropic nature, he falls so incredibly hard, so fast, he never stood a chance when it came to loving wilson. it's a rush, it's a terror, he's hooked on him forever, it's pitiful and he knows it but god even just feeling hopeful for a chance is almost enough for him

[pcktknife]

it might b getting to the point if I stay up past 11 I start getting a teeny tiny itty bitty passively suicidal. nothing crazy but it is like mildly annoying

[kaesaaurelia]

Friends, tonight's Hero Forge theme is betrayal, heartbreak, and having entirely too many dogs.

Companion to this.

[uhohitsdorian]

Sometimes I think about borealopelta and start crying from the sheer volume of emotion it stirs within me

[Image: a simplified drawing of Borealopelta markmitchelli, an ankylosaur, laying curled up on its belly, perhaps to sleep. It has chunky limbs and a purplish-red body covered in spikes, particularly along its sides. It looks sweet and comfortable. End ID.]

[sehtoast]

.

[piizunn]

not your founding father (mouthpiece)

My thoughts on Louis Riel being named first premier of Manitoba.

Taanshi kiyawow, Riel dishinikashoon. I descend maternally from seven Métis families from the historic Red River Settlement in Manitoba and Batoche, Saskatchewan. Notably, my Berthelett ancestors worked for the North West Company and were community leaders in the Métis settlement of Pointe a Grouette before it was systemically overtaken by French settlers who claim we formed no roots in the area (St. Onge). My Caron ancestors from Batoche fought in the North West Resistance alongside Louis Riel and Gabriel Dumont. My fifth-great-uncle Jean Caron Sr. fought alongside his sons at the age of 52; his house still stands in Batoche to this day, where thousands of Métis make pilgrimages every year to remember the events of 1885. 

What do you know about Louis Riel?

I can only read his words and imagine what guidance he would have provided had he lived longer than 41 years. Or imagine myself in his place as he walked to the gallows on November 16th, 1885. As a child when I visited Manitoba my grandpa and my kokum would take me to visit his grave, just as they did with my mother, who named me ‘Riel’.

We are inextricably linked through time and across our homelands. What’s in a name? Unasked for? Not yet earned? I do not yet know who I am to my people but I carry an important name and the trickster’s spirit, and with these comes the responsibility of understanding and revealing cultural and societal truths (Stimson).

I am still growing into my name

Today I am a mouthpiece

An interpreter of the past

What do you know about the trial of Louis Riel?

July 31st, 1885, Riel gives his final speech. Historical weather data shows that it was a hot day in Regina. Cooler than the days before but still hot with the swelter of the plains. He spoke long, in English, not the language of his birth.

“The day of my birth I was helpless and my mother took care of me although she was not able to do it alone; there was someone to help her to take care of me and I lived. Today, although a man, I am as helpless before this court, in the Dominion of Canada and in this world, as I was helpless on the knees of my mother the day of my birth. The Northwest is also my mother; it is my mother country and although my mother country is sick and confirmed in a certain way, there are some from Lower Canada who came to help her to take care of me during her sickness and I am sure that my mother country will not kill me more than my mother did forty years ago when I came into the world, because a mother is always a mother, and even if I have my faults, if she can see I am true, she will be full of love for me.”

“When I came into the Northwest in July, the 1st of July 1884, I found the Indians suffering. I found the half-breeds eating the rotten pork of the Hudson Bay Company and getting sick and weak every day. Although a half-breed, and having no pretension to help the whites, I also paid attention to them. [...] We have made petitions, I have made petitions with others to the Canadian government asking to relieve the condition of this country.”

“We have taken time; we have tried to unite all classes, even may speak, all parties.”

“During my life I have aimed at practical results. I have writings, and after my death I hope that my spirit will bring practical results.”

“When we sent petitions to the Government, they used to answer us by sending police [...] There are papers which the Crown has in its hands, and which show that demoralisation exists among the police, if you will allow me to say it in the court, as I have said it in writing.”

“If I am blessed without measure I can see something into the future, we all see into the future more or less.”

“The only things I would like to call your attention to before you retire to deliberate are: 

1st That the House of Commons, Senate and Ministers of the Dominion, and who make laws for this land and govern it, are no representation whatever of the people of the North-West.

2nd That the North-West Council generated by the Federal Government has the great defect of its parent.

3rd The number of members elected for the Council by the people make it only a sham representative legislature and no representative government at all.”

“I have never had any pay. It has always been my hope to have a fair living one day. It will be for you to pronounce - if you say I was right, you can conscientiously acquit me, as I hope through the help of God you will. You will console those who have been fifteen years around me only partaking in my sufferings. What you will do in justice to me, in justice to my family, in justice to my friends, in justice to the North-West, will be rendered a hundred times to you in this world, and to use a sacred expression, life everlasting in the other.”

What do you know about Louis Riel?

I have done this walk in my mind so many times that I have lost count. Historical accounts of the day note that it was a chill, clear, autumn morning. The prairies stretched out, silver frost bathed in sunlight. He faced it all and was brave until the end. Despite reports of it being destroyed, former premier of Manitoba Duff Roblin and his family, and the RCMP gloat over the supposed fragments of the rope that hanged the traitor, and I wonder how long the rope would be if you lined up every single scrap of twine rumoured to be the noose that killed Riel?

Does it make you feel less guilty to call him a founding father? Canadians are only able to remember him through his murder and not through his words that can still animate his presence. Written words and objects once owned are ghosts, extensions of our bodies and spirits. When I read his letters and journals I see the urgency in his penmanship, and I think about the sweat and invisible oils of his skin becoming a part of each page as he wrote and wrote and wrote. I wonder where each journal travelled with him during his exile, and why he chose each book. There is one with an illustration of a guardian angel watching over two children, and I wonder if he thought of himself as one of them being shepherded through life by his ancestors. 

Canadians argue about whether or not Riel should have been hanged instead of talking about what he had believed and said and accomplished, and what he wanted to do with the rest of his life had it not been cut short. 

No one talks about his dreams or his fears, and he did not live long enough to answer the question of if he would have wanted to be revered as the first premier of Manitoba. Or, in response would he ask for clean water for all, to stop the sweeps, and starlight tours? Would he ask for the Winnipeg police to search the landfills for our murdered women instead of brutalizing and killing us? Would he call for an end to all colonialism and genocide? Or would he simply ask for a place to smudge and be in peace for a while?

When we send petitions to the government they still answer us by sending the police, before turning around and calling Louis Riel a founding father (Riel).

Canada cannot answer these questions for him by giving him that title posthumously, only sit with the discomfort of blood-soaked hands, and wonder how different things would have been had that sacred fire not been snuffed out in 1885.

I cannot answer these questions for him either

And I am still growing into our name.

Works Cited

Riel, Louis. Excerpts from his final statement in court on trial, July 31st, 1885

Stimson, Adrian, “Buffalo Boy: Then and Now.” Fuse Magazine, vol. 32, no. 2, 2009, pp. 18-25. 

St-Onge, Nicole J.M. “The Dissolution of a Métis Community: Pointe à Grouette, 1860–1885.” Studies in Political Economy 18.1 (1985): 149–172. Web. 

[cocoa-coated-fish]

life is made in the little things. I'm being so serious. It's having a clean house, it's doing the dishes even when you're sad. It's eating 3 meals a day when you don't want to. It's heating up leftovers and knowing you cooked that to nurture your mind and body. It's buying a sleeper sofa so your friend can be comfortable when she comes to visit.

Six years ago, I didn't know if I would be here.

Two months ago, I wouldn't have been able to do all these things that give me great peace.

Just...things are good.

[twistedappletree]

got a random bug up my butt to literally pack over half of everything and move it all to the other house in one go 💀 i’m tired af now but WORTH IT

[binders-and-beanies]

I hate rich people and no I’m not just talking about billionaires

[mistyycowoa]

I feel like I've been stripped of a part of me as a human fundamentally by not having a fireplace. I should be allowed to stare at fire for 3 hours a day. It's a crime that I can't. THIS IS WHY I STARE AT SCREENS. IT GLOWS AND MOVES. GIVE ME MY FUCKING FIRE BACK I NEED IT

[merumis]

i hate this soooo much why do straight ppl have to come into my house and act like i’m a stupid dirty lesbian who will never measure up to them

[dirtytransmasc]

(personal vent about my sack of shit father ruining christmas again)

me, my fathers only "daughter"/child:

helps my grandmother for weeks to prepare for his christmas party that neither of us wanted (he goes way over the top. invites his friends that are all loud drunks. cooks food we don't like. keeps the whole house up partying into the early hours of the morning. makes a mess and refuses to clean up after himself. doesn't spend time with us and instead hangs out with his friends, even for family holidays and events. etc.

me and my grandmother are disabled, constantly in pain/have stomach issues, and generally just want to be left on our own for holidays, so the whole event is just awful for us)

has been up since 6* in the morning, continuing to prepare for his party so he doesn't throw a hissy fit, running on only a few hours of sleep*, running around from store to store, cleaning, cooking, decoaring, etc.

spends hours trying to wake him up.

after doing everything I am capable of skill/strength wise, I took a two hour power nap before guests come.

helps serve dinner, makes drinks, fulfills every task my father gives me to maintain the delicate peace in the household, cause my grandmother wants to murder him*.

does all of this with no complaint.

my father:

promises his full and undivided attention and help the day before the party (this is the only day he's offered the slightest help outside of making a huge dinner no one but he and his friends wanted), he then breaks this promise, does nothing, delegates every task my grandmother has given him to me, and then leaves at 6 at night to go party, ignoring the amount of cooking he needs to finish.

doesn't come home for almost 12 hours (he came home at 6am), waking me up*, sleeps till 1, leaving me and my gradnmother do 90% of the things that needed to be done today (as his guests are coming at 4).

invites more friends than he originally told us about, ditching us after dinner (which we served) to go hang out outside and blast music so loud it shakes the house.

and then complains that I "slept all day" and "did nothing" so now I need to clean the whole kitchen and all the dishes of over 15 guests, not him, the reason there's such a mess to clean.

he continues to demand this even after something he cooks, knowing I hate it and it makes me feel ill, and stinks up the whole kitchen, making me go lie down because it made me nauseous and gave me a migraine.

I then get to spend the rest of my christmas eve cleaning, doing dishes, while barely holding back tears.

thanks dad, for ruining an already awful christmas, you fucking asshole.

[umilily]

i've been here for less than 2 days and i'm already exhausted by this household.