#if i was here for that long id probably be unstoppable honestly. like i always feel like my chinese sucks but honestly for only having 4

[zhuhongs]

the way that part of my conviction to learn mandarin was to understand untranslated vast and hazy and accusefive songs and now I p much understand them (not enough to have the confidence to make a translation tho, but i get the gist) but now there are some untranslated collage songs and i’m like... if only i was fluent in chinese I’d start learning hokkien just to understand these songs (and to know what the a-yis at the market are saying.)

[gerrydelano]

*clears throat* *leans into the mic* ocean focused vast-touched miriam sims.

i’m going absolutely bonkers yonkers y’all. it’s time to talk about THIS!

[ID: a discord screencap from username dramatic bitch, in all caps: “miriam sims kicks simon fairchild’s ass as the cooler vast avatar (not clickbait) / says fairchild: it was cool as hell i’m not even mad” /end ID]

FIRST OFF, her fucking son died from a fall. like. okay, simple enough.

she also lives in fucking bournemouth which is honestly supposed to be Such a boring place but she Hasn’t Left in apparently Forever like She Likes Being By The Water, For Inexplicable Reasons. (which jon misinterpreted as a kid. she stayed at a distance and watched the water from afar when she took him there usually and as a child he took that as her Not wanting to be there or play with him. Definitely Not True, but it took them a long time to actually discuss it.)

she named her cat “the lioness of brittany” after a fucking pirate queen who slaughtered french nobles. her special interest is maritime history and she loves the wild things. come on!

she’d definitely be a riverdance old lady y’know like that’d be very much something she’s into and went to see live. (probably dragged jon to go see it when he was too young to appreciate it but someday he’ll get it, maybe)

she comes across as very Distant emotionally, but has an ENORMOUS depth to her feelings and thoughts on situations that she largely keeps inside for the sake of appearing like a Stone, because she thinks (incorrectly, of course) that that’s what jon needs from her.

What he needs is “unshakeable.” What he needs is a pillar, fortified by age and experience against the toils of humanity’s hungry brutality, to set an example for him. He needs to see that where there is death and loss there are those who persevere. Who stand stone faced in the wake of trouble, and bark it off without opening their mouths. Effortless, like it’s easy. Like it’s the only way.

Miriam will be that person if it kills her. Until it kills her, as she is sometimes certain it will. She is also certain that regardless of the weight and power of self-made stone, she will try her hardest to kill it first.

that’s obviously not what he needs and it’s obviously where she first started to go wrong in their communication.

but think of the ocean’s relentless erosion of cliffsides. power from persistence rather than brute force. constant, determined, unstoppable.

also? i gave TSP gerry a specific trauma memory about an artefact stone dragging him into his kitchen sink and for a long time he associates it with dread, literally calls the feeling of dread “dreadstone heavy” etc, but i increasingly refer to miriam with language about her being a stone and having heavy eyes that he doesn’t associate with that initial thing. 

the dreadstone was a buried artefact. what’s the opposite of the buried? hm? hmmmm?

also! a small bit of foreshadowing from chapter 3:

He doesn’t know yet if he wants to leave. There is something profoundly secure about being up here, far enough away from the edge that there’s no way to fall off. Way up high above anyone else. Gerard doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do with the feeling that nothing can get them while they’re up here. He knows it isn’t true, but he very desperately wants it to be.

just a little nod to vast-elements being seen as safer, or Wanting them to be safe even though they’re not going to save you in the end by a long shot.

SEE ALSO: her routine with jon to calm him from his meltdowns? the steps were deep pressure, a glass of water, and lying down (like floating) until he felt better. DEEP PRESSURE? a glass of WATER? ALWAYS a TALL glass, specifically that, because no other cups or mugs worked it Always took the Tall glass filled to a certain height for him to time his calming down and she figured that out, she instilled it, she took comfort in it, too.

there’s also this bit from chapter 10:

Even if he wanted to explain that he’d done it to save an innocent girl, even if it would grant either of them peace of mind, Gerry’s lungs are whipping flags in the wind tunnel of his chest. The current seeps up into his brain and all his thoughts go cold and confusing. His fingers clutch at his shirt, desperate to knuckle his heart into beating right. Nana has to lean into his space to get his attention again.

“Gerry, take a moment. Look at me.”

He looks at her. It takes a moment, but he does it. Nana scoots to the edge of the couch.

“Will you let me get you a glass of water?”

The wind tunnel deafens itself and he remembers something. He remembers being so scared he’d scared her, too. Holding her shaking grandson on the green couch while he cried. Water. She’d gotten them both water, and it had helped. He hasn’t drank enough water today. He doesn’t have it in him for modesty.

[...]  She reaches for the glass and it slips from his fingers into her grasp like it, too, had become water somehow.

i know the whole thing is just nautical themed but a LOT of THAT? comes back down to nana specifically. that’s the kind of feeling he gets when he has a breakdown in her presence, and that’s how she Combats It. she has a way of reaching Through that feeling when she wants to and turning it OFF.

ren said, “it'd take her pragmatism and shoving down her feelings to get a particular outcome as best she can and pull it more towards that whole "big picture" mindset simon talks about? like she of course gets caught in the details and ignores the big picture of Everything in favor of her boys but. simon probably did that too before he lived damn near five hundred years”

YEAH! she makes lists and tries to encompass everything and every possibility, and then narrow down from there. she is VERY focused on the Big Picture. she approaches situations from a Broad and Objective viewpoint far far above and removed from the Feelings at hand because she wants to approach it logically and rationally and with full consideration for every possibility.

she is relentless and steady and calm through the difficulties of the two situations we see her trying to solve. unflinching, unyielding, constant.

in chapter 10, also:

It’s strange to be taller, even if it’s only by an inch or so. In his memory, he’s looking up at her from the floor. She was a tower. Had to kneel to meet his eyes. Had to bend. She’d bent for him, once.

a TOWER you say. that’s got quite a specific vibe! a very Endless, Overseeing Vibe. a “will never crumble” vibe. the pillar she wanted to be, but more. a different structure. not something holding up everything else, but standing alone and unavoidably visible in the big open sky when nothing else measures up.

angel said, “the trauma of losing family members. you said in an earlier chapter that she worried how easy it was to get hurt bc of how fragile ppl are, which is kinda in the vein of vast insignificance”

YEAH! LIKE!

Couldn’t it have told him something about being more careful? Staying where it’s safe? About not climbing to the top of tall structures when they both know his palms tend to sweat, that his fingers don’t always grip tight enough, that he’s not always quick enough to catch himself? That no one is guaranteed to be quick enough to catch themselves, and that anyone can fall? That a doctor might not be able to save them when they do?

that was an obvious reference to both of his parents dying but like. Hello!

let’s not forget that in chapter 9, the thing that kicked off his most profoundly damaging life spiral was a FALL. he FELL from a SMALL height and it had a MASSIVE impact on him! it was a FALL!

marley said, “nd like , even down to the part w the issues w her relationship w jon and how he was starting to feel like he had to go it alone, unintentionally of course & at least partially addressed but how details were being missed bc she was focused on the bigger picture parts of his life like the whole 'getting every book even if they were board books' thing”

EXACTLY THIS! like...  it’s like she retreated TOO far into herself, and at the same time BACKED AWAY too far. she was most certainly bottling up all her feelings after the trauma of such immense loss in order to keep from putting it on him, and in turn ended up just looking closed off in General and made him feel like he didn’t have access to her feelings/that she was not interested in his own. she got So focused on the broad idea of Keeping Him Alive And Safe (because she knows how easily people can just die randomly!) that she was not as emotionally present as she definitely wishes she had been, now that he’s distanced himself from her too.

Her grandson, at least, will not be Daniel but Moses. Miriam will stand in the river until she knows he is safe from harm, perhaps someday able to forget the clutch of fear and suffering, if only for so long. She will bear it for him in the reeds, and he will be safe. She will make him safe.

as early as chapter 4, she made an analogy about sending jon off on a body of water with the IDEA of it being to keep him SAFE, but ultimately rendering him alone and away from her in a way that just. backfired! it backfired! she had the wrong idea and there was a price and it sucks!

meanwhile, gerry reacts pretty well to how she approaches things with him early on because she’s being Extra careful with him due to the circumstance, which is a side of her jon isn’t used to. and by the time they see each other again, miriam has learned from a lot of her mistakes with jon and is handling things with gerry Really Well! but jon didn’t get that same result from her, because he knew a different woman.

he got the feeling of insignificance from her. he got the feeling that she was distant, bothered, and generally ambivalent or dismissive. NONE of which she was, but ALL of which are things that CAN come out of a disposition like hers whether she means it or not! it’s unconscious!

basically, their autism clashed really badly. they have different ways of communicating, different love languages, and she did Not know how to speak his fluently when he needed it, so they grew apart. gerry responds well to her, because he’s a totally different person. her methods aren’t one size fits all, which is KIND of ironic given her Big Picture thing. 

with the most recent chapters, i’ve been Really piling on the water analogies and everything especially in regards to her. but chapter 11 has one that gets me:

It occurs to him that Miriam is swaying, gently, from side to side. If he keeps his eyes closed, it’s like being out on the water. It almost neutralizes the nausea, the headache.

gerry has EDS and POTS, and he’s going through really bad opiate withdrawals right now. and nana neutralizes that vertigo and unsteadiness when she is holding him and swaying. when he goes up the stairs after parting ways with her in chapter 10, he REMEMBERS his headache - as if he had forgotten it while so close to her.

you’d think she’d induce those feelings, but she’s the ocean. not the sky. there are many parts to the sum; infinite drops in the ocean. there are so many sides to the fears, and to love.

she calls his name and it carries through the white noise. her voice is “a stubborn bell buoy in the waves of his focus.” she reaches through that effect. she actively keeps him from drowning.

while at the same time, she had unwittingly set jon out on the water to drift away.

i am personally deeply in love with the character i made out of her and i’m NOT going to spoil what i have in store for the next 5 chapters but BOY HOWDY! i sure care about miriam sims and her complexities and her misconceptions and her tireless determination and her enormous love and her fallibility and her refusal to purposefully become a part of what makes the world so ugly.

EDIT: i got this GORGEOUS comment on ao3 from IceEckos12 that put this into words SO beautifully i am NOT over it.

also, i saw the vast touched!miriam thing that you posted on tumblr (obviously have not read, because spoilers and all that), but thinking about larger than life miriam, thinking about a vast touched miriam, thinking about miriam and shanties....goodness, it's such powerful imagery. she's. how do i even encapsulate her. forgive me if i wax poetic for a moment. she feels like the open ocean to me. she's not necessarily warm, and sometimes she seems to be a little lonely, but to jon, she is an expanse. even he doesn't know the extent of what's going on beneath the surface.

i am literally in awe i am so in love right now PLEASE. vast miriam REAL.

the vast is an entity we all know for being deeply in love with the sky, with the sea. miriam HAS that. it’d be easy to pick up on the web flavoured red herrings i’ve been dropping, but in this latest chapter i have her directly subvert it by speaking about freedom and agency and the ability to flee and NOT be held down by something that is trying to control you. she opposes the web in that way, but ALSO embraces the idea of open air and open water and escape.

she is not a rock sunken to the bottom no matter how she tries to convince herself she is. she’s always been the waves.

EDIT 2: and now the entirety of chapter 12 sure does lean into this! and chapter 13 is from her perspective, featuring exactly how she got her mark :-) there’s also a lot of this featured in part 6 of the hand in hand series, too! i cannot be stopped.

[superemeralds]

OH WOW thank you for answering so fast!! I wanted to ask because in my opinion, Shadow is written kind of... poorly.. at the metal virus arc :c and I love how you characterize Shadow!! I was wondering, if you could, how would you have written him in it?

okay so this got. RAELLY long. it’s under the read more.. hhaaa... get ready for rambles.

before i start on what i would love to see different, here’s a few things that i really liked about his characterization in idw:

shadow being persistent about what he thinks is right, being very straightforward and strict in wanting to execute his ideal

the way he stepped down and let sonic try his way instead of being stubborn because sonic made a very good point. Shadow wants to be fair, and if he of all people deserves a chance, then so should eggman. kind of ties back to maria also, which is a nice nod to have considering it seems like modern writers for sonic usually treat the ending of shth as “ok she never existed to him anyways”

i like that he uses his GUN affiliation to his advantage to do good and help people (even if by rouges account he does it because he doesnt want to deal with zombots)

he has great devotion to make sure the truck is safe and peole get a chance to get out, giving (according to the comics anyways) more than 100% of his power dealing with hundreds if not thousands of zombots alone

I like that there’s a nod to shadow being insecure about his status as ultimate life form, and he is tempted to get infected just to prove to himself he really CANT get sick and he really IS a perfect being. He struggled a lot with the high expectations that were laid upon him, the expectations he’s laying upon himself.

I like how he had a great sense of shock and defeat when he realized that he DID get infected. It’s very true for him to be thrown off by it, get a little careless due to shock. its natural. it’s good.

his “i told you something like this would happen” towards sonic in the beginning of #19 is justified. He hates that he was right, he always is, and he wishes he wasnt. he could’ve prevented this, but its too late now. then later he risks getting infected with the metal virus, and he DOES get infected. He suddenly wasnt right anymore. This sense of irony... it’s probably one of the reasons he has trouble to concentrate on the fight. it’s a nice parallel. IDK if ian intended it to be this deep, but that’s what i read into it.

(i also want to point out that i like that herms gives everyone slightly diverse “skin”-tones. like diverse undertones. im still peeved they are all pretty pale but its hoenstly a nice little nod)

okay so here’s what i think could’ve gone better:

I feel like shadow being the one to drive the truck into the city is a reference to 06, where he is driving around in various vehicles. That in itself is nice, and i think shadow is a person who prefers to do things himself if there’s a lot at stake (which there was a lot of peoples lives) but i also think that he would think of himself as a powerful shield. He would rather be the one overseeing the battlefield insread of being the designated driver. He knows he was created for the frontlines, and he is someone who knows he can survive the front lines. He is not a sacrefice tobe made, he is the one who will make sure that no one else has to sacrefice themselves. Shadow should’ve been on site from the very beginning. Where is the rest of GUN anyways? Those low level humans should make an effort to protect the life on their planet.

Shadow did absolutely NOT use 100% of his pwoer to protect the truck. He could EASILY have done more. He can lift trucks. He could use chaos blast. He could easily have prevented just faling victim to the zombots so easily.

As mentioned above it kind of DOES make sense for him to go down easily due to being infected, but I think this was the wrong time to let him get infected. I think he wouldn’t let his guard down and carelessly touch a zombot. He would not give in to the temptation to test his limits like this if there was not a greater cause. I think he would easily break if someone he cared about (other than sonic) fell victim to the metal virus. This is something that would get him emotional, to get careless. He knows sonic can outrun the virus, but rouge can’t. Amy, Tails, Knuckles, Vector, all of Sonic’s friends can’t outrun the virus. There’s a big chance that he is immune, there’s a slim chance he is not. But even with that slim chance, he knows he could outrun it, just like sonic. Losing someone he cares about to the virus would remind him of his superiority, of how fragile life is and of his responsibility to protect life itself. Any restrait would be gone. He would be driven by guilt and anger at himself, that he could’ve done better, that he HAS to do better. It’s something that spirals him totally out of control. It’s something that would make him want to prove to himself that he has the ability to fix it all. because it’s all his fault.

this is honestly something that is so important. he feels responsible for this, because he did what was right and gave sonic and eggman a chance. In his mind, sometimes the right hting to do is the wrong thing to do, because sometimes only wrong actions get you to the right goal. he is a gray character like that, and i think it’s not shown enough. his regret and guilt don’t surface enough so that anyone who is not as invested in the character would be able to read it out of #19. there’s a lot of stuff going on inside shadow in this issue and its just. not enough time to unpack it all. this whole deal of him getting infected was too rushed. (as mentioned above i wouldve preferred he get infected a little later or under other circumstances)

I think shadow is aware of his responsibility as living weapon to not fall into the hands of the enemy. he has learned what it means to be manipulated, he learned what it means if he was used as a weapon by an enemy of life on earth. he does NOT want to be used as an object of destruction ever again. He would RUN. even if hesitant, but his emotions would make him excell even in that. he would make sure he’d run faster than sonic. he’s want to make sure that he’d give 110% and cure himself, something sonic couldn’t do.

the way he would go down in my mind is him excerting himself. He would absolutely reject help. he would prefer to not have any contact with anyone at all. For one because he feels guilty and he doesn’t want to deal with that emotionally, also because he doesn’t want anyone to see him in this state of weakness. He absolutely would loathe the idea of anyone being able to see him go down and surrender to the enemy. He would absolutely exhaust his entire energy reservoir building barricades and being the sole and only front line protecting evacuation efforts from a distance, to make sure that they have enough buffer to escape, should he fail.

shadow is someone  who is rash and has a tendency to boast his strength, but he also is someone who tries to consider any and all possibilities, no matter how painful they are to admit to his pride. he will shove them to the back of his mind, but they are still there. and if it COMES to those scenarios, he will have a plan for them. only if unpredictable things happen, or things that shake him emotionally, he would lose grip.

also in all those talks abt things shaking him emotionally, i dont mean that other people who arent his friends are not important to him, its just that friendship has a bigger impact on people. i think that should be pretty obvious, but since people like to misinterpret shadow id like to make sure people understand that i think that shadow values all and every life on the planet. he griefs over random deaths as much as his friends, it’s just that it hits more personal. mostly because he thinks... of himself as someone who always protects, but never has to be protected.

shadows relationship with himself is complicated. he thinks very low of himself. he pretty much hates himself. but that is because he thinks oh so highly of himself. he is perfect, ultimate, unbeatable, unstoppable, immortal, immune.... he expects all this of himself... even though he knows that it’s not true. it’s the one thing that he knows of himself. The one thing he feels that he could maybe achieve if he tried hard enough, and of course he is never trying hard enough; and at the same time he is trying so hard. He gives 300% and yet he still feels like he halfasses everything and he still feels like he could do better. On the outside he presents it with his strict edgy persona, that looks down on everyone. but really he feels so small. most of all towards sonic. sonic is so so tall compared to shadow (pun intended).

he looks up to sonic so much, because he always manages to go out of hisway to do what is right. even if it meant risk, even if it meant weakness. Sonic, the guy that easily could just get killed and hurt and not recover. the funny jokes dude that never thinks more than a single step ahead. This boy is out there risking his life for the life of this planet on the front lines and he shows not a single care about his own safety, always putting everyone else before him. shadow envies him. he really really does. thats why he values his opinoin. thats why he listens to him and even steps back from his OWN ideals, something he would do for only VERY few people, because of course shadow is always right. this is referenced in various sonic games (sa2 most of all,shth,sth) and in sonic x (yea its not canon but like. They Really Got His Character).

ADDING SOME RAMBLING AFTER ISSUE #33 RELEASED

[everybrook]

Brook's souls wandered around after his death and was able to resurrect himself, even though he was just bones... Is Brook technically immortal?

i have a lot of thoughts and headcanons about Brook’s quasi-immortality so, first off, thank you for this ask! second off, i’m very unorganized w how i explain things, so i apologize in advance. now, here’s what i think

- it can be assumed that the yomi yomi no mi will only bring the user back once, if only because Brook already knew what the fruit did before he ate it. that means someone else had to have had it once and died, letting it respawn. so Brook probably won’t just keep coming back. im sure Brook is fine w that tho, bc he seems like someone who would absolutely hate being immortal. do you know how many crews he’d lose? i don’t know if he could do that shit a second time

- of course, Brook’s soul is stronger than most souls! he can take out “fake souls” by pure force of will, power a dead body with no other real “power source” (when he was on the florian triangle, i imagine he probablt didn’t eat a whole lot. if all the bodies rotted to nothing, all the food probably did, too. brook must not need food, otherwise he would have died again), and purposely detach from his body and move around on his own. you could argue that this may very well mean Brook would be strong enough to, if he so desired, turn around if he died. of course, his soul is visibly tethered to his body when he does this, so it’s unclear if he would actually be able to control it still when he dies again. this is probably not something Brook will want to test, though

- as i mentioned earlier, Brook probably doesn’t need to eat, but he can. his soul can replicate most normal bodily functions, but i don’t think it necessarily has to. a while back someone sent me an ask suggesting everything he does—eating, sleeping, breathing—is completely voluntary. i agree! and Brook, being someone who has been alone for so long, probably decides to voluntarily breathe, eat, etc because everyone else does. it’s a connection to other people! he likes being included in stuff! (i think he also sometimes forgets he can opt out of this sort of thing...)

- example: Brook is strangled and decapitated. he chokes when strangled, but losing his head doesn’t. inhibit his breathing, or kill him. he doesn’t need to breathe, because he’s powered by his soul, not by oxygen. usually, though, he still chooses to. he wants to be included!

- other example: on punk hazard Brook falls victim to sleeping gas (either bc he forgets he doesn’t have to, or bc the gas took out everyone else and he doesn’t want to be left out/alone. depends how sad you want to be!), later, however, Brook is able to rescue Kine’mon when Kine’mon falls victim to a different gas without being affected himself. (if i’m remembering right, the other gas worked by affecting the skin, so it might just be that Brook didn’t have the skin for it to matter, but...) (it’s also like. an off panel thing, so i don’t know that Brook actually ran into the gas (it’s not rlly addressed), but i’m assuming given that. he sort of had to in order to retrieve Kine’mon since Kine’mon was in it)

- what i think makes this pretty clear is that Brook actually admits to faking some stuff to be included! when asked why he took a coat despite the fact he can’t feel cold, he admits he did so because he wanted to join in feeling cold with everyone else

- the only maybe-exception to this would be exhaustion. Brook gets tired regularly. most of his fights seem to end when he realizes he’s out of energy rather than when he’s in pain. i guess even soul power is not infinite. in his original fight with Ryuma, he seems more like he cedes defeat when realizes he can’t defend himself / his hair from Ryuma. it’s not injury that makes him give up, even though Ryuma fractured a piece of his skull.

- Brook’s soul-powered body has other effects as well! he’s immune to a lot of stuff other people arent, and so is much more durable and harder to kill.

- it’s unclear to me if Brook can really feel physical pain. this one is also hard to deal with since shonen characters always have high pain tolerance, but brook doesn’t really react to pain like he should? if he can feel pain, i think he feels it differently than other people. as mentioned, he was stabbed through his eye socket by Ryuma and didn’t seem too affected by it. despite the fact he can see, he was more by his skull cracking. being decapitated doesnt hurt, being shocked is easily walked off. again, i don’t know for sure. it’s hard to tell if this is Shonen Pain Tolerance or genuine inability to feel pain like others do. but, as mentioned, Brook usually seems exhausted after fights rather than hurt. he usually cedes defeat due to admitting a difference in skill rather than actual suffering.

- you can run an electric current through Brook (nami has more than once), you can “dehydrate” him (a guy tried at fishman island) and he’ll be fine (so he probs can’t die of thirst), you can decapitate him and he’ll put his head back on. i assume he could reattach limbs and be fine as well, should the need arise. he regularly tears his own head in half to store things inside. he can’t be affected by poison because there’s nothing TO affect, and he probably can’t get most sicknesses. he can’t feel cold, so he probably can’t freeze to death. with the fact he’s still active and agile at the age of 90, i don’t know that aging really affects him. when aged down in film z, he says the only difference is his hair is nicer. Brook’s bones can be cracked and he’ll put them back together with milk! Brook says the only way to kill him is to destroy his body, but how destroyed is enough? if you break his bones he can fix them! if you cut Brook into pieces, could he still be healed? how small would you have to go till he died? if you ground him to dust, would he die, or could you pour milk on him and find he’d reassemble himself? you could probably burn him, but honestly at this point i don’t know if id bet on it. the only reliable method with which one can kill Brook is to drown him. that might be his only weakness. Brook might be literally fucking unstoppable

(- also, this is just a personal headcanon i find relevant and not smth canon-supported, but i like the idea that sea water affects Brook differently than other DF users since he doesn’t have lungs and doesn’t necessarily need to breathe. Brook doesn’t drown when submerged, and instead the sea slowly erodes the yomi yomi no mi’s connection of soul and body. sapping the strength taken further, the sea instead literally saps his life away. the end result is the same, though, and after a few minutes held under water Brook is dead.)

- and these are my thoughts on Brook’s quasi-immortality. ive been looking for an excuse to make this post for a while, so thank you!

[image2fiction]

[ID: A picture from Animal Crossing of Rover, an anthropomorphised blue and white cat wearing a red and black sweater. He is sitting on a bench in a train. End ID]

Summary: a passenger reminds an old conductor of his distant youth.

Teen Skater On The Bellemont Express

this picture was sent in by @woowserss on twitter, and it quickly went off the rails, so to speak. enjoy!

- @angeleofbrahma

“All aboard!” 

The speakers crackled overhead, followed by a smooth, metallic whistle as the train began to lurch forward. A passing thought about my favourite train-theme movie, The Polar Express, flittered through my mind as I stepped off the platform and into the carriage. I never did see how that one ended. The old, wooden doors swung closed behind me, and so too did any chance of turning back now, returning my parents house and drinking cocoa under the gentle sound of snowfall.

I couldn’t help but hope I would fare better than the children in that film at the hands of their conductor, chaotic and unstoppable.

I shuddered. Whether it was from the chill or the creeping terror at the thought of that entity, I could not say.

“Well hello there!” a voice as rich as Jeff Bezos bellowed across the hall. “Don’t just stand there, make yourself comfortable, here let me take your bags!” A tall, elegantly-dressed gentlebat strode across the carpet to greet me.

“I-”

“Not a word my friend, don’t get many travellers on The Bellemont. I take great enjoyment in looking after those who do, now simply tell me three things - 

“Please no, I’m terrible at riddles.”

“No riddles here, my lad! None whatsoever!” He closed his Riddles.com tab discreetly. “Ah, well, uhhh... Cocoa! Do you drink hot cocoa?”

“I’m 18, of course I drink hot cocoa, now that I’m old enough.” A rush of anxiety poured over me, sure I was legal drinking age, but only just. I hadn’t ordered cocoa beverages for myself in public much so it was still strange and alien.

The bat gave me a skeptical once-over.

“Can I see some ID?”

“Oh- Okay,” I fumbled with my backpack, “Will my Teen Skaters League card do?” I paw through the mess; clothes, toiletries, way too much stuff. The lasagna I packed for lunch almost slops out onto the floor. Thankfully, I caught it just in time.

“Of course, sir, and you’re in luck - we have a discount for Leaguers!”

“Wow, you know, I’ve never been in an establishment that offered League discounts before!”

He looked at me gravely.

“We are the only remaining business in the Northern Hemisphere that does. You know I used to be a Leaguer myself, before they shut my district down.”

“Shut down-”

“Too many stunts, yeah. I think the police were too afraid we would get too good at skating and branch off into crimes; we were always too fast for them. They were probably just jealous. So, they burnt the place down, called it an accident, a story as old as skating itself-”

“They set fire to the-”

“Yep, whole danged rec centre went down. It was for the best, honestly. Course, after the flames died down I took to the rails, made something of myself.”

“Gosh. How old were you when you became whatever it is you are now?”

“Wasn’t too long ago really, three months maybe? In bat time though that’s much longer, nearly 6 months in human years. You’re a cat though, so it’s more like a fortnight right?”

I stared up at him, unsure of how to respond to this.

[ID: A photograph of a large bat with dark skin and golden fur. The bats eyes are closed and its wings are wrapped around itself. End ID]

another fine @tiredwiredandtired & @angeleofbrahma chaos fiction

[spartanguard]

you belong among the wildflowers

Summary: Emma Swan's life has been far from easy. Neither has Killian Jones'. Through a handful of meetings, a couple tattoos, and some fantastic music, maybe they'll find a happy ending. (CS Modern AU heavily inspired by the music of Tom Petty) | Rated GA, 7k | tw: minor mentions of alcoholism

a/n: HAPPY BELATED BIRTHDAY, HOLLI!!! aka @mryddinwilt​ I started planning this AU quite a while ago, in honor of our shared love of “Wildflowers”, but then it kind of spiraled when I sat down to write last Monday only to learn of Tom Petty’s passing. So this is kind of double duty as your bday present and an ode to one of my all-time favorite musicians.

thank you to @shipsxahoy and @optomisticgirl for looking at this!

Hope your day was amazing, Holli, and hope you enjoy this! Thank you for always being an encouraging, awesome person!! <3

“You belong among the wildflowers...you belong somewhere you feel free.”

She wasn’t sure when she first heard the song. It must have been on the radio when Emma was a kid, in one foster home or another. The memory was fuzzy, but the sentiment was clear: that she deserved to be happy one day, and to have love and peace.

Those all seemed like things well out of reach for a 16-year-old runaway orphan, but it was a nice thought. And a wildflower was as good as anything else to get a tattoo of, especially when the main goal in getting a tattoo was more just getting one out of rebellion than wanting it to carry any specific symbolism. Who knew, though? Maybe she’d eventually get that.

At least, that was what she told herself as the needle stung the skin inside her wrist. She liked to think she was tough, and she’d certainly been hit harder, but—ow. Oh well, it was probably due punishment for using a fake ID to get it in the first place.

On the other side of the dingy parlor was a guy who couldn’t be more than couple years older than her—fresh out of high school, probably, since it was early summer—also wincing through the work being done on his forearm. But when he realized she was staring, he sent a sly grin and a wink her way, making her blush. What? He was cute, even if his “beard” was patchy stubble at best and doing nothing to mature his babyish features.

He left halfway through hers being done, but was smoking against the building outside once she finished, with a guitar case propped against the wall next to him.

“Want one?” he offered, holding the pack out to her; she didn’t realize she’d been staring again. She also had never smoked before, but—eh, what the hell? She strode forward and, as expertly as she could manage, slid one out of the box and held it between her fingers like she’d seen done so many times. He deftly flicked his lighter and she lit the cigarette, then brought it to her lips and inhaled...and then sputtered and coughed once the smoke hit her lungs, which was received with a deep chuckle.

“First one?” he teased, blue eyes laughing. Her response was continued coughing. “Well, you never forget your first.” She glared. “Don’t breathe so deep,” he offered, his accented voice turning gentle.

Once she’d regained her faculties, she tried it again, doing as he said. She wasn’t a fan but it was definitely better.

“There you go, love,” he cheered, sounding almost proud.

“Not your love,” she threw back.

“Fair enough.” She joined him against the wall and they settled into an easy silence. He didn’t have to say anything for her to get the sense that they had more in common than being freshly tatted; the fact that he was alone, too, spoke volumes.

But then she nearly jumped when he introduced himself. “Name’s Killian; Killian Jones.”

“Emma Swan.”

“Suits you.”

“What does?”

“Swan.”

“What does that mean?” Maybe things were better when he was quiet; this boy had no idea how to talk to girls, did he?

“It means you’re feisty and I’d rather not piss you off.” Well, okay; actually, that was probably the best complement she’d ever received. “Is that your tattoo? A swan?”

Oh, right—people asked what tattoos meant. Better get used to that. “Uh, no—it’s a flower,” she blurted out, shoving her wrist toward him and showing off the fresh ink. “It’s...well, it’s pretty, and it’s...a reminder, I guess.”

“Of what?” He was genuinely curious.

“That even though I’ve had a rough start, I can still have a happy life.”

He smiled at her, cutting dimples into his round, boyish cheeks. “That’s awfully brave, lass.”

She just shrugged; maybe it was, but if she gave up hope, what kind of life would she have? Unused to such praise, she turned the attention back to him. “What’s yours?”

He held out his arm, showing off the intricate heart design, deep red against his lightly tanned skin.

“That’s gorgeous,” she muttered, suddenly feeling self-conscious of her colorless outline. “What's it mean? Are you in lo-ove?” she sing-songed—a well-used defense mechanism that she had a feeling he’d see right through.

“No, not yet,” he brushed off with a laugh. “But someday. Just like you, I have hope.”

She scoffed. “You really think anyone will love people like us?”

“Even the losers get lucky sometimes.”

They spent the rest of the night burning through the pack of cigarettes and wandering the backstreets of Boston, chatting under the light of the full moon. He was from England, originally, but he and his brother ended up in the states with a distant relative after their parents were gone. He’d just graduated high school and was headed west, just like her, but he was chasing a dream, just he and his acoustic. She just wanted to be anywhere but here.

“Let me know if you end up in Portland,” she told him once they’d found their way to the bus terminal. Funny that her last night in Boston was when she’d make her first real friend.

“Will do. Take care, Swan,” he goodbyed with a salute, boarding his L.A.-bound coach.

She waved him off, watching as his bus faded into the dark and silently promising to try.

“The last three days the rain was unstoppable. It was always cold, no sunshine.”

“Sounds about right,” Emma muttered to herself as she putted around the record store. More like last year, for her. As good as it was to finally be out of jail, she was quickly learning that not many places were eager to hire an 18-year-old ex-con with barely even a GED. Thank goodness there was a homeless shelter nearby, but the beds there sucked even worse than her prison cot and what she wouldn’t give for something just a little plush to sink her still-aching body into. Though, she supposed, that ranked pretty low on her current list of problems.

She’d just come back from yet another unsuccessful interview—who knew McDonald’s was so picky?—and had a stack of even more applications in her backpack to fill out and return. But her spirit was just a little bit more shattered after her shit morning, so she popped into the music shop to see if that could perk her up a bit. Plus, it was air conditioned, which automatically made it better than the Arizona oven outside.

She browsed the used vinyl, skimming titles both familiar and unfamiliar as someone sang and played somewhere in the store. Honestly, that was the main reason she’d stuck around; she certainly couldn’t afford to buy anything, but the free show was already helping her mood. And it was hard to feel unmotivated when that song was playing.

“There's something good waitin' down this road. I'm pickin' up whatever is mine. Yeah runnin' down a dream…”

She was halfway ready to pull out a pen and start filling out all those forms right there in the middle of the store, but then she realized that there was something oddly familiar about that voice. Cautiously, she followed the power cords toward the back of the shop, where a makeshift performance venue was set up.

And there he was, after all this time. Killian Jones.

He looked a little bit more worn, just like she probably did; the scraggly beard had filled in some; his dark hair was just as much a mess as it had been a couple years ago, and that tattoo was teasing her from under the rolled-up sleeve of a plaid shirt while he played his guitar. More than a few times, she’d wondered if he’d had any success. Phoenix was a far cry from Los Angeles, but hey, he was performing—and performing well.

She hung out near the back of the small crowd, just watching him pour his heart into his instrument and the microphone. The audience was bobbing along and tapping their feet to the familiar tune, and his acoustic rendition and soulful voice made it all the more endearing.

And then the song ended, he thanked the crowd, and they dispersed as he packed up his things. A few people slipped him some tips, and he flashed that dimpled smile that made her own mouth tick up at the corner. It was good seeing him happy, even if the odds were high he’d long forgotten her. Out of curiosity, she wondered if he had.

She carefully made her way to him. “Hey.”

He stood straight up at her voice, then slowly turned toward her, a grin forming on his face. “Swan?”

That answered that question. “Killian,” she answered with a small smile.

“Bloody hell.” To her surprise, he engulfed her in a hug, but quickly, she returned it. “How’ve you been, love? I’m sorry I never made it to Portland, but here you are and...wow. Do you want to get coffee?”

She was nearly whiplashed from the warm reception; she hadn’t been expecting that. “Uh,” she stammered, not sure how to approach the money thing.

“My treat,” he quickly added enthusiastically.

“Okay.”

They settled into a corner table of a quiet little cafe, and before he could ask her about the last two years, she quickly focused on him: “So, are you a rock star yet?”

He snorted. “Hardly. Only had enough bus fare to get me to Oklahoma, so I’ve been picking my way across the country ever since. But I’ve been playing bars and shops all the time, saving up. Actually, I’m catching a train to L.A. tomorrow. Care to join?” he offered with a wink.

“I wish,” she answered, laughing. “Looks like I’m stuck here for a bit.”

“Oh?” He seeemed genuinely disappointed. “Fancy job here?”

“I’d take any job, actually. I...I just got out of prison.”

“Oh. I see.” To his credit, he didn’t try to put any distance between them, like most people would. Actually, he was almost annoyingly in her space; if it was anyone else, she’d be the one backing away, but Killian’s presence was unusually calming. And, for some reason, she felt compelled to spill the whole thing.

“Yeah, I, uh, met a guy in Portland, and he got me in trouble. Set me up for the stuff he did. He ran off, I got caught. Ended up in jail for a year. Had a kid. So, here I am, a year later. Just giving it another go, I guess.”

“Wait—back up; you had a kid?”

Oh. She curled in on herself a bit; she hadn’t meant to say that part. “Yeah. Found out while I was in there. He’s...I put him up for adoption. No one wants a teenage jailbird for a mom.”

He reached out and grabbed her hand, turning it over to find her tattoo. As he rubbed it with his thumb, he said, “A couple of years ago, I met a fiery young lass who told me that even though she had a rough start, she still had hope for a happy life.” She averted her eyes, studying the floor instead; it had been a long time since she’d given that tattoo thought, going so far as to cover it with marker while in jail. Things had been pretty bleak then and weren’t looking much better. “Hope is a powerful thing, Emma; don’t tell me you’ve lost yours.”

“Hard not to.”

“Don’t, Emma. You deserve it.” She finally glanced up, and the resolve in his blue eyes was nearly intimidating. Slowly, she nodded, though she still wasn’t sure she believed it.

She nodded at his forearm. “What about you? Found your true love yet?”

He chuckled. “Not yet. But I’m sure they’re out there.”

“I hope you find them, Killian.”

“I hope you find your happy ending, too, Swan.”

Again, they spent the night together, wandering around Phoenix, him smoking and her not (she’d learned her lesson there), until they ended up outside the train station.

“Look me up if you ever end up in L.A., alright? I’ll be the one playing the Viper Room.”

She wanted to laugh, but he was so confident. “I will. Good luck, Killian.”

“You too, Emma.”

They embraced before he boarded the train, and she waved until it was a speck in the distance, before heading back to the shelter with a bit more determination than she’d had the night before.

“Well, the moon sank as the wind blew and the street lights slowly died…”

Man, what a night. It was 11 o’clock, but she was too keyed up to hit the sack, despite everything that had happened already. And the thought of heading back to the just-slightly-nicer-than-a-fleabag motel she was staying in quickly made her decide that if she was stuck in Nashville, she may as well enjoy it.

The nice thing about the town was that there was music and life everywhere, with no signs of dying anytime soon. She had her pick of the bars, and it only mattered what kind of music she was in the mood for.

The more famous venues were all packed, but there were plenty of holes-in-the-wall and dives to grab a drink and a show. A cozy little place stood out to her, and pleasing, upbeat, classic-sounding rock was escaping the open door. She gave her skintight dress a quick tug down (ugh, this thing loved to ride up); flashed her legal, 22-year-old ID at the bouncer (not that he was looking at it); and headed into the smoky, hazy bar.

The band onstage was good, and so was the whiskey. It was nice to just be able to chill for a moment; she hadn’t been able to do much of that with her new job. Not at night, especially. Spying a few plush couches toward the back of the place, she got a refill and headed back, hoping to put her feet up for a bit and maybe even kick off these impractical heels.

The eyes of just about every man in the bar landed on her as she passed through, but she’d gotten pretty used to ignoring that by now. Until one pair did a double take and called out for her.

“Emma?”

She stopped—no way it was him. His Facebook page hadn’t said anything about Nashville—did it?

“Swan, is that you?”

But clearly, her memory was unreliable, because she turned and there he was: Killian Jones, rockstar. Well, almost rockstar, but he certainly looked the part in his skinny jeans, black t-shirt, and—“Are you wearing eyeliner?”

“Good to see you, too,” he teased before wrapping her up in a hug, then stepping back and giving her a once over. “I’m going to guess you didn’t just get out of jail this time.”

“Nope,” she answered, laughing. “Just enjoying a night on the town. Are you performing here?”

“Yeah, I’m the next set.”

“I had no idea!”

“You say that as if you should have had one.”

“I mean, you do have a Facebook page.”

“Did you ‘like’ me, Swan?”

“Of course I ‘like’ you.” It was amazing to her how she could so easily slip into the same old banter with someone she’d only spent hours with, but it felt like so much longer. “I’ve gotta be able to tell everyone that I once had coffee with a rockstar.”

He ducked his head and laughed, cheeks growing adorably rosy. “I’m not there yet, but,” he jerked his thumb toward a professional-looking woman with dark curly hair, “my manager thinks I will be soon.”

“You will.” Emma had never been more sure of anything. Her own life was still in flux, but she’d always known that teenage boy from what felt like a lifetime ago would go on to big things, even if his face had lost some of that youthful softness now. “Do you have time for a drink?”

“Of course.”

They settled on a sofa and caught each other up on the last four years: he did finally make it to L.A., and worked as a bouncer a bit before finally catching a break—and the eye—of a talent scout, and then a record label. And now he was on tour, trying to drum up enough attention to be able to put together an album.

“I tried to catch you in Tallahassee, but it didn’t work out. Got too busy that night.”

His eyes narrowed with uncertainty. “And what are you up to now?”

“Using my good looks to trap guys,” she answered, only semi-sarcastically.

“Swan, beg your pardon if this is rude, but…” His eyes drifted over her outfit again, and he seemed oddly concerned. “Are...are you a hooker?” he asked quietly.

She was taken aback at first, but then could only laugh. “No, but I can see why you’d think that. I’m in bail bonds. This is honestly the best way to nab a skip.”

He breathed a sigh of relief. “I was near ready to offer you a job on my road crew,” he replied with a wink.

“You couldn’t afford me,” she threw back, smirking.

They kept chatting, and she had another drink, letting the warm buzz of liquor settle in her veins and relax her. Unconsciously, she found herself moving closer and closer to him, until her bare arm was lined up with his. If he cared, he didn’t say, or maybe his rum was having a similar effect.

He traced her tattoo with his index finger. “How’s this going?” he asked; he was still the only person who knew what it meant.

“Slowly. But things don’t suck anymore.”

“Sounds like progress.”

She followed suit, drawing her thumb around the edge of the heart on his arm. “And you? Found your love yet?” Her lips nearly brushed the pointed tip of his ear, they were so close now.

“No. Still waiting.”

“You’re a patient man, Killian Jones.”

“Aye, that I am.”

His voice dropped on that, with a seriousness she wasn’t used to hearing from him. She shifted away just enough to get a good look at his face, and his eyes were boring into hers, practically neon in contrast to the low lights of the bar. The words of the singer on stage swam into her consciousness; it was nearly comical how perfectly they fit the moment.

“But then somethin' I saw in your eyes told me right away that you were gonna have to be mine…”

The air between them grew heated very fast, raising goosebumps on her arm. And before she knew it, she was surging forward, crashing her lips into his.

Her hands found the nape of neck and his settled on her waist as she kissed him with everything she had. There was something just so perfect, so soul-satisfying about it as she nipped at his lower lip, that she didn’t know why she’d waited so long.

Their mouths and tongues fought for dominance as he held her tight, until finally they had to break apart for air. And then she realized what she’d just done, and who she kissed, and whose arms were holding her tight, and instantly backed away.

Hope was one thing, but the reality of a love—of a relationship—was still too daunting.

He rasped, “That was…”

“...A one-time thing,” she finished for him, not giving him another answer. She couldn’t; not with him. It was Killian. Their meeting was a fluke and the odds of it happening again were so slim; what was she thinking? Even if he was the one person who understood her; just—no. They couldn’t.

She hastily grabbed her purse and stood, a little too fast judging by the way the room spun. “Emma, wait—” Killian started, hopping up to stabilize her.

“No, Killian, I—I can’t.” She shrugged him off, not daring to look in his eyes. “Good luck.”

His plea fell on deaf ears as she raced out of the bar into the night, but one last line of lyrics caught her attention.

I'll never get over how good it felt when you finally held me; I’ll never regret…

But she would regret it, she knew. So it was better to run now.

“I'm so tired of being tired. Sure as night will follow day...”

It was raining—storming, really, and the power had gone out. So when someone started banging on her townhouse door from out in the dark night, louder than the battery-operated radio she had on, Emma was as terrified of an intruder as she was concerned it was someone seeking shelter.

Should have known it would be both.

The pounding grew quiet and a muffled voice was singing something unintelligible, which was then followed by a soft thud against the door and the hollow sound of a dropped glass that should have broken but somehow didn’t.

Baseball bat in hand, she cautiously tiptoed down the hall and peered through the peephole. Whoever it was was slumped against the door, soaked to the bone, and was dramatically raising their arm to knock again. As the sleeve of their leather jacket rode up thanks to gravity, she got a glimpse of a tattoo she’d recognize anywhere—though it was a bit different now. Just like him, she supposed.

“Killian, I’m opening the door; stand back,” she called, not wanting him to collapse in her entryway. Something told her he was going to regardless, but she heard a groan and the sounds of movement as she undid the locks and chains.

And then she swung open the door, and there he was. “Swan.” A tired smile deepend the lines around his eyes; she responded with a tentative one of her own. She honestly thought she’d never see him again after that night three years ago in Nashville—that he wouldn’t want anything to do with her, especially once he had hit it big.

But now a one-hit wonder was standing on her front porch, dripping wet and reeking of rum. Unable to come up with anything to say, she just stepped aside and gestured for him to come in.

“’M sorry to barge in on you like this,” he stammered, staring at the wood floor. “I...jus’ didn’ know where else t’go.”

“How did you even find me?”

“Same as you found me. Facebook. The internet.” It was her turn to cast her eyes down; she still ‘liked’ all his social media posts, but figured he’d never notice.

As a result of said stalking, she knew everything that had happened to him in the last few years, especially with his manager-turned-girlfriend. The celeb magazines loved him and Milah, going so far as to call them “Millian,” especially when his debut album was tearing up the charts. She’d seen the excess, the wild living, and the absolute love in his eyes when he was with her. She’d been happy for him, truly. And damn if that album wasn’t a rocker.

But then, in true rockstar fashion, he partied too much, lived too hard, and then the two of them got in a wreck. They weren’t at fault, thankfully, but Milah was killed instantly. He dropped out of the spotlight, was dropped from his label, and had seemingly disappeared.

Only to show up on her doorstep, on the other side of the country, clearly heartbroken and drunk as a skunk. Lucky her.

“Come on; you need a shower.”

“I keep crawling back to you...I keep crawling back to you.”

After getting him clean and dry—a feat in itself, given the lack of lights—and into the too-big clothes some one-night stand had forgotten, she had him wrapped in a blanket on the other end of her couch, where she sat watching him sip hot cocoa while the radio made background noise. Where he’d at least been a bit happy at seeing her when he arrived, now he just seemed like a kicked puppy, albeit a wasted one.

“So, how you’ve been?” he asked, in a tone that was too forced to be casual.

“Seriously?”

“What?” he threw back, glaring at her. “I’m sure you know all about me; isn’t it fair that I get caught up, too?”

“There’s nothing to catch up on.” There wasn’t, really; she just continued to catch skips and move around; it was pure luck that he caught her here in New York. “And I’m not the one abusing their liver here.”

“Be glad you don’t have a reason to.” He set his empty mug on the coffee table with a thunk and slumped against the cushions.

She scooted closer to him and gently took hold of his arm, running a thumb along his tattoo. He’d added to it since she saw him last: now, it had a jagged dagger down the middle, and a ribbon bearing Milah’s name. It looked fresh. “She seemed like an awesome woman,” Emma commented, hoping that might get him to open up.

“She is. She was. Bloody hell, I’ll never get used to that.”

Emma kept studying the tattoo, knowing that if she looked at him, she might lose her composure. “You got your wish, though: you had love.”

He just grunted. “Fat lot of good it did me. The high was better than any drug, and the crash is far worse.”

“The rum probably doesn’t help.”

“Doesn’t hurt.”

He fell silent after that, and she continued to massage his arm. The fist he’d been holding tight eventually slackened, and his breathing evened out. Finally, she dared to look at his face; he was asleep, but didn’t seem to be at peace. Dark circles nearly matched his thick eyelashes; his beard was scraggly again, but due to it being unkempt rather than juvenile; and hair was an uneven mess. How did someone who seemed to have everything going for them suddenly end up like this?

She stared down at her own tattoo. It seemed to be mocking her now. If things had gone so terribly for Killian once his dream was reached, then surely hers had no better chance of coming true. What a waste.

Killian spent the night on her couch and she made him breakfast the next morning, forcing food and water into him to help him detox. He was sober, it seemed, but she recognized the shaky hands that were gripping his fork with all he had.

“I can’t thank you enough for taking me in, Swan,” he finally said after the arduous process of eating was done. “You had no reason to; I owe you.”

“You don’t owe me,” she assured him. “But if you do feel like making it up to me: get help.”

He nodded solemnly. “I will.”

They both sensed the goodbye that was coming, but she had one more question. “Killian, why did you come to me?”

He just shrugged and smiled sadly. “You understand.”

She did.

The TMZ headline about his rehab stint lifted a weight off her, knowing he’d be okay—and making it that much easier to continue with her next move. It had been a minor blessing he’d been too far gone to notice all the boxes.

And then she made sure her address wasn’t listed online. For security—or so she told herself.

This place was certainly out of range of a Starbucks, but at least Storybrooke had some sort of coffee shop. It was one of those quaint, hipstery cafes that she generally made a point to avoid on account of being too homey—but, if Henry got his wish, that's what this little seaside town would become.

God, Henry—she was still pinching herself. Obviously, she'd thought about him a lot in the past ten years, but she never imagined he'd show up at her door the way he did, dragging her back here. He was a fantastic kid, better than she could ever hope for, and certainly better than she could have done.

His adoptive mother was obviously (rightly) uneasy with the situation, given that Henry basically blackmailed Emma into bringing him back and then into staying longer to get to know each other. It seemed he was a bit of a loner, and a generally curious kid, so it kind of made sense to her why he’d want to have her around. Assuming Regina allowed it, of course.

And hey, Emma could use a vacation. Two weeks away from the hustle and bustle of city life? She could do that, even if meant changing up her means of sating her caffeine addiction.

Thankfully, it was hard to mess up her coffee order, so she found a comfy corner of the shop and settled in with a book, killing time until Henry got out of school. The window she was seated by gave a stunning view of the Atlantic, and for a while, she got lost in the morning lights dancing on the waves.

“Well I started out down a dirty road…”

Emma stilled. She should have known this would be the type of place to have a guitar player. But that in itself wasn’t what froze her blood—it was that voice.

“Started out all alone…”

Impossible. Granted, he’d fallen off the radar since he went to rehab, so she just assumed he was back on the road somewhere. She’d never imagine he’d be here, though.

“I’m learning to fly, but I ain’t got wings. Coming down is the hardest thing.”

She was almost scared to look; she hadn’t taken her eyes off the ocean since hearing that first line. But she knew she had to.

And there he was: perfectly at home behind the mic with an acoustic guitar, perched on a stool in jeans and plaid, getting lost in the music like he did all those years ago in Arizona.

And he looked good. It was hard to look worse than he had when they’d last been together, but Killian appeared not just healthy, but happy. His ginger beard was neatly trimmed, hair was intentionally disheveled, and there was a brightness in his eyes again that sparkled like the sun on the water she’d just been staring at.

“Well some say life will beat you down. Break your heart, steal your crown.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” she muttered. Unconsciously, she started rubbing her tattoo with her thumb, like she'd taken to whenever he crossed her thoughts. It was great to see him like this, but it also made her realize just how far she was from anything resembling the peace that showed in the relaxed set of his shoulders and gentle smile as he sang.

“I’m learning to fly around the clouds. What goes up must come down.”

Thankfully, the cafe had a side door. Calmly, she gathered her things and slipped out. At some point, she knew she’d probably run into him—this town was only so big—but she didn’t want to face that today.

Fate had other plans, though, when she wasn’t paying attention to her path while she and Henry headed to the diner for an after-school hot cocoa. While listening to Henry tell her about that day’s ornithology lesson, she collided with something warm, solid, and familiar that instantly braced its arms around her.

“Oh, I’m sorry, lass—Emma?” His mouth hung open in disbelief when he realized it was her, eyes growing wide as he studied her, then crinkling at the corners with a grin.

“Hey,” she answered meekly, with a shy smile of her own.

“Bloody hell, I’ve missed you,” he exclaimed, pulling her in for an actual hug that she couldn’t help but reciprocate. It was Killian, after all—he was still right when he’d said they understood each other. His arms felt just as good as they had that night in Nashville. And no one had ever missed her before. “Where did you go?”

“I moved right after—”

“Mom, you know Killian?” Henry asked, interrupting their reunion.

Killian pulled back with a quizzical expression on his raised brow. “‘Mom’?”

“Emma’s my birth mother!” Henry shouted before Emma had a chance to reply, so she just nodded. Recognition sparked in Killian’s eyes, likely thinking back to that conversation years ago. Henry continued, “How do you guys know each other?”

“We go way back, lad,” Killian answered. “Your mum’s me oldest friend.” She blushed, but he was probably hers, too.

“Oy, what about me?” a similarly accented voice protested. Killian finally let Emma go and stepped away, and a slightly taller man was standing behind him. (She refused to admit that she immediately missed Killian’s presence around her.)

“Emma, this is my brother, Liam. He’s my—I’ve been with him for the last couple years, since...since I last saw you.”

She could fill in the blanks. “It’s nice to meet you,” she started, extending her hand, but then was shocked to be pulled into another hug.

“Thank you, Emma,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion. She was stunned, but nodded a response.

How was it she’d only been in this town a matter of days and already felt more wanted, more a part of things than anywhere else she’d been in the last 28 years?

Liam pulled back and cleared his throat; she pretended not to see the watery look in his eyes. “I’d love to stay and chat, but Killian and I have an appointment.”

“Can we get coffee sometime?” Killian asked quietly. “I’d love to catch up.”

“Yeah, me too,” she replied, unable to deny it anymore. She at least owed it to him.

Two days later, she arrived at the shop a couple hours before the time they’d decided on so she could catch him playing again. This time, she didn’t hide in the corner, and she didn’t run off before they could chat. He’d seen her, anyway, and knowing him, would just track her down if she’d tried to flee. She was tempted to, though, when he sang the last song of his set.

“I dreamed you; I saw your face. Caught my lifeline when drifting through space.

I saw an angel; I saw my faith. I can only thank God it was not too late.”

His eyes drifted to her more than once and she could feel her cheeks burning red. Add that to the list of firsts on this whirlwind trip: first time someone sang a song to her. And, of course, it was something super deep and heartfelt and she wasn’t tearing up, not at all, because how did this random friendship with a guy she’s barely spent 24 total hours with become so damn important?

“Now I'm walking this street on my own. But she's with me everywhere I go.

Yeah, I found an angel; I found my place. I can only thank God it was not too late.”

“How’d I do?” he asked seriously, once he was packed away and they were settled into plush chairs and fresh drinks. His sincerity took her by surprise—this was the guy who’d headlined some pretty major venues (including the Viper Room), and he was concerned over his performance in a coffee shop?

“You were fantastic; why would you be anything else?”

He blushed and ducked his head down in that sweetly embarrassed move she’d seen so many times. “I’m just getting back into it. Couldn’t while I was in rehab, and just...didn’t want to once I got here.”

“How could you not? It’s such a huge part of your life.”

He shrugged. “It was also a reminder of everything I’d lost.”

She knew that all too well, and couldn’t really blame him. That was why she’d been so transient in the last decade, and why she never got too close to people. They always left and let her down. Save for Killian, she supposed, despite his erratic presence in her life.

“So what have you been doing?” she asked. It was easy to fill a life with working and moving, like she did; it was hard for her to imagine what someone did staying in one place for as long as he’d been here.

“Helping Liam with his business—he runs the marina. Done a lot of sailing, a lot of reading. And I’ve been seeing a therapist.”

“Good.”

“Aye,” he agreed, nodding. “It’s been good, but it wasn’t quite...fulfilling, I guess would be the right word. So both Liam and my doc both encouraged me to pick up playing again, to see if that would help.”

“And?”

“So far, so good,” he concluded with a smile. “I was denying myself my own happiness by avoiding it, despite all the bad memories.”

“Even though you got your heart broken?”

“If it can be broken, that means it still works.”

His revelation hit her like a sword in the gut. Again, she started rubbing her tattoo, thinking of that far-off dream she’d once had. Had she been denying herself the chance at it?

Was she too scared of getting hurt again to go after her happy ending? Was it even worth it?

Or, more accurately, was it worth it not to?

“Swan?” His worried voice made her realize she’d zoned out, and the furrow in his brow when she looked up was a bit more concern than she could handle in the wake of massive personal epiphany.

“I...I’ve gotta go, Killian, I’m sorry,” she sputtered as she stood. “I’ll call you, or find you, or something,” she added on, babbling. “Just...I need to...go.”

She didn’t turn around to see the fallen, distressed look on his face; she just went. She needed to think. Her trusty yellow Bug was waiting outside and she just drove for a while, finally stopping at a scenic overlook with a panoramic view of the harbor. She didn’t even leave her car; the sight was impressive enough from where she was seated. And she let Killian’s words sink in.

She’d once dreamed of a life where she’d feel happy and secure. Not one where she’d want for nothing—just one where she had what she needed. And maybe even one where someone chose her.

But life had thus far proven that it was just a dream and she was better on her own, scraping by and making do. Had she just gotten so used to it that it was her norm? Or was she scared that by opening herself to that possibility of a happy life again, she’d inevitably get her ass kicked by the world and would never recover?

The last time she’d seen Killian, he was utterly defeated. Thankfully, she’d never gotten that low, but he managed to overcome it. He had hope—she could see it shining in those blue eyes. If he could do it, why couldn’t she?

The sun slowly fell and it grew dark around her as she sat with her thoughts. An ancient streetlight eventually flickered to life above her, rousing her from her thought-filled trance, and she knew what she had to do.

Because there was one person who had never left her. One who always had faith in her and understood her. And if she was going to go after that mythical happy ending, she wanted him at her side.

The next day found her at the coffee shop yet again. She was a bit late after having breakfast with Henry, but she arrived just in time for the last couple songs of Killian’s set.

“Had to find some higher ground. Had some fear to get around.”

There he was again, reading her like a book. She’d wonder how he did that, but again—they just got each other. And she was ready to turn to the next page.

“Square one, my slate is clear. Rest your head on me my dear. It took a world of trouble, took a world of tears—it took a long time to get back here.”

Once he was packed up, he cautiously approached her. “You alright, love?”

“Will you go out with me?”

If her straightforwardness caught her by surprise, it nearly knocked him off his feet. He practically fell in the chair next to her. “Beg your pardon?”

“Go out with me. On a date.”

The corner of his mouth ticked up. “Shouldn’t I be the one asking?”

“Don’t tell me you’re that old-fashioned, Jones.”

He chuckled. “I heartily accept, Swan.”

The date was perfect: good food, good wine, and a stroll under the stars—so many more in Storybooke than Boston, and the nerd pointed out some of the constellations to her.

The gentle kiss outside her rented room was even better. There was none of the awkwardness of Nashville, or the altered inhibitions. It just felt good and right and somehow perfect, like she’d been waiting for it forever, but hadn’t been ready yet.

She got a job in Storybrooke. She grew closer with Henry. She made more friends in town—Mary Margaret, the teacher; David, the vet; Belle, the librarian (and Liam’s wife). Once she gave in, once she let herself go after it, her happy ending settled around her—or maybe she was the one who settled into it.

Whichever it was didn’t matter; it was hers and it was real and she was never letting it go.

The cool wind whipped against her face from where she stood on the prow of the boat, but Killian’s strong arms held her close and kept her warm, and she leaned into his solid, sure presence that hadn’t wavered...well, ever, even when they were apart. His sweet voice sang in her ear and she knew—she finally had made it.

“You belong among the wildflowers.

You belong in a boat out at sea.

You belong with your love on your arm.

You belong somewhere you feel free.”

If you’d like to hear all the songs referenced in this, check out this playlist: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AldoDm2bV04&list=PL7YAlVeSin3Kq_1xtetAI0rovPvp-6Wdk

tagging some others who might enjoy this: @kat2609 @thesschesthair @fergus80 @xpumpkindumplingx @its-like-a-story-of-love @cocohook38 @annytecture @wingedlioness @fairytalesandtimetravel @disastergirl @laschatzi @ive-always-been-a-pirate @jscoutfinch @nfbagelperson @stubble-sandwich @phiralovesloki @athenascarlet @kmomof4 @ilovemesomekillianjones @whimsicallyenchantedrose

[differentjokes4differentfolks]

WTFIT Chap 10

Chapter ten!! I think it’s safe to say the fic is more than halfway done :) As always, thanks for the comments and likes/reblogs. I’m glad y’all like the story. Enjoy!!

Bruce swears if Vicki Vale was a villain she’d be unstoppable. He spends an hour alone trying to dodge her questions, his phone ringing incessantly (How did she even get his number?). When the mob of reporters shows up on his front step he tries to have Alfred shoo them away, but they’re like vultures. The camera flashes annoy him to no end, you don’t need camera flashes in broad daylight anyway (he thinks). The interview goes on for about an hour. He doesn’t mind some of the questions, no, he’s not straight, yes, he’ll donate to LGBT organizations (he donates to them anyways). But some are insulting and honestly? Some are just straight up kinky. He ends up just staring at one reporter after a certain question about leather, at a loss for words. So, in a curt fashion he ends the interview, loosening his tie as he enters the manor and heaving a sigh of relief.

“What was that about?” Dick asks, dressed to head out to Barbara’s. His hair looks stiff with gel, which makes Bruce frown and mess it up. Dick protests but Bruce cuts him off.

“You look better like this,” he says, “You’re not going to an interview, you’re going to hang out with your girlfriend.”

“Fine. But why was the press here?”

“Why do they ever show up? For information and uncomfortable conversations.” Dick looks confused, so he decides to enlighten him. “People saw me dancing with a man yesterday at that restaurant and Gotham was in an uproar.”

Dick blinks. “You’re gay? Or bi?”

“Maybe. Probably.” Bruce laughs awkwardly. Dick shrugs.

“So what? Why do they have to make a big deal out of nothing?” He kneels down to tie his shoelaces. “I mean, it’s just who you love, not that world-changing. You should call them when you find out who Batman really is,” he jokes.

Bruce hums in agreement. “So what do you and Barb have planned?”

Standing up, Dick runs a hand through his already messed up hair. “You know, I was thinking we could sightsee. Or maybe watch a movie. Or stay at home and do something. I’m not picky.”

An idea springs into Bruce’s head. “Take her to a cafe. There’s a great one across Wayne Tower, they have really good cheesecake.”

“Really?” Dick furrows his brow. “I think I know which one you’re talking about. You’ve gone? Doesn’t seem like your kind of venue.”

“I had nothing else to do. And if I hadn’t gone I would’ve missed out.” He edits out the real story, but the last bit is true.

“Alright. Well, I should go. I’m taking the Lamborghini.”

Bruce raises an eyebrow. “Don’t get it scratched up.”

“C’mon Bruce, you know me.” Dick winks. Yes, he does. As skilled a driver as he is, he’s still totaled a couple of Bruce’s best cars. “I’ll be back before nightfall.” He exits, leaving Bruce to slip out of his coat. Today is going to be a relaxing day, he promises himself. No going out, no phone calls, no anything. His eyes are half-shut when he falls onto the couch.

And then his phone rings.

With a groan Bruce looks at the caller ID. No name; it could be anyone really. Fine. He answers.

“Hello?”

“So I heard you were in the East End last night.” Selina. Bruce can hear the annoyance in her voice.

“I had a good reason. Scarecrow and Black Mask were there. They were going to poison the water system if I didn’t stop them.” Bruce turns on the TV, idly clicking on the remote.

“Really. And you didn't tell me?”

“I had a lot on my mind.” He stops flipping at a Harry Potter marathon. How many times have they marathoned this on TV in the past couple months? It’s almost constantly running. And if he’s exaggerating, it’s not by much. He leaves it on as background noise.

“Look, I appreciate you stopping them. Just tell me next time. When I saw Nightwing there I was about ready to knock him out. Didn't he tell you?”

He’d failed to mention that, actually. “Did he explain why?”

“Yes. I don’t like this, Bruce. It’s been so long since something like this has happened. Don’t get me wrong, taking a few millionaires down a peg or three doesn’t sound awful. But killing them all?”

“I know. But I’m going to fix it.”

“Tell me when you’re done, maybe we can do something, it’s awfully cold and the fireplace is roaring,” she purrs. Bruce rolls his eyes, but he can’t help a smile.

“You don’t have a fireplace.” The woman on the other end of the line laughs, and Bruce joins in. Once the laughter fades he says, “I’ll see you later, Selina,” the mirth in his voice audible.

“Bye, Batman.” She hangs up, her laugh the last thing Bruce hears before the phone clicks. She’s a valuable friend, he realises. He enjoys her company for what it is, upfront, witty, and relaxed. But it’s just that, that softer feeling of friendship, not unlike what he feels for Clark, or even Jim Gordon. He leans back on the couch, watching as Harry faces off against Voldemort. He can’t help but feel critical. Villains are rarely that one-sided.

Sitting on the couch got boring pretty fast. Countless pushups and crunches later and he feels more productive, though when he checks the clock it’s only eleven in the morning. What could he do to pass time? He glances at the phone. His finger taps at the leather of the couch rapidly. It might not be a good idea. It probably isn’t a good idea. But…

He turns on his phone, Joker’s number already in the contacts. The phone rings once...twice…

“Hello?” Damn, he’s not ready for this. It feels too casual all of a sudden. He hesitates. Joker’s voice is bright though. “Bats, is that you?”

“Hi, Joker.”

“It’s been a while.” It really hasn’t, it’s only been a few hours, but Bruce isn’t about to tell him that. “Oh, have you seen the newspaper, dear? We look amazing.”

“You saw that?”

“Saw it? I scrapbooked it!” Bruce can imagine the smug look on Joker’s face. He also thinks he knows the man enough that yes, he did in fact scrapbook it. He’s seen pictures up on the walls of his hideouts before, newspaper clipping and old Batman sightings from when he was just getting started. He still doesn’t know how to respond. It’s strange. “...You did call me, Batsy. Getting cold feet?”

“No.” Bruce’s defensiveness spikes. “You sound like you’re in a good mood, though.”

“Oh, I am.” Joker giggles. “Can’t compare to whenever I see your devilish good looks, but it’s a close second.” Shameless flirting. Okay. He can deal with this.

“Miss me?”

“Always.” Bruce can hear the smile in Joker’s voice. “My other half, the one who beats the crap out of me whenever I wreak havoc. When are we getting back to that, by the way? I miss our little sessions.”

Bruce snorts. “You miss that?”

Joker laughs. “Well that was an attractive sound. And yeah, I do actually.” He sighs. “Don’t you?”

As a matter of fact Bruce does. He hasn’t thought about it much, but it’s true. Fighting on rooftops in the rain, kicks and punches as fluid as a dance. Moves like reflexes. Adrenaline. “Yeah, I guess I do. This is the longest you’ve been around me without an actual fight.”

“Too monotonous.” A voice calls out in the background, Joker’s voice quieter as he tells the speaker to shut up. The voice answers back more animatedly, to which he replies with exasperation. Bruce figures it’s Harley in the background. He waits till the talking stops.

“So? What are you doing? Should I be worried?”

“It’s a secret. You’ll find out soon enough.” There’s a crash on the other end. Bruce frowns.

“What was that?”

“Darling, don’t worry about it. Trust me, you’ll like the surprise. I know I do.”

“If you say so.”

“I do say so.” Another crash. “Gotta go, I’m working right now. Ciao!” Joker ends the call abruptly, Bruce blinking at the short response. He’s suspicious, but knows he won’t get any answers until tonight. He slowly sets the phone down. And wishes the sun was setting.

*

He decides to let Tim come along tonight. He did a fair job in helping him and Dick out last night, and he does keep a level head for the most part. He’ll be working with Jason though, making sure there isn’t anything wrong at the Gotham Observatory, where the Gala will be held. Dick will be coming with him and Joker to the docks, but first he decides to check out Ace chemicals.

The weather is actually nicer today, the night still safe a slight breeze. There’s no report of snow, yet he can see a few flakes drifting in the cold October atmosphere. He breathes in the cold air, the sharp chill of it waking up his senses.

Bruce hasn’t visited Ace Chemicals in months. It hasn’t changed much, the plant only up and running half the time. Recently it’s been closed down for “remodeling”. He assumes that’s still the case, if it’s being used as a base. His instincts tell him it’s rigged in some way, but he won’t know until he gets closer. So he does, grappling to the top and looking in through a window.

The whole place is decked out in greenery, vines twisting about on the floor. Ivy. But there are also hints of something else, more Joker-ish in nature. A colourful box here, some toys strewn about. He purses his lips. Okay, so Joker has a hand in this. This must be the surprise he was talking about. He can’t say he wasn’t expecting it, the way he was talking earlier, and the fact that Harley was there. It’s a challenge. Just not one he has time for.

Bruce glances around, seeing a grate he can enter through. The closer he can get the better.

He’s inside when he hears Joker’s voice through speakers.

“What do you think, Bats? Interesting, right? Just wait.” A laugh.

Bruce takes out a few men, dodging and cutting at vines that rush at him. The factory only holds about a dozen thugs, not counting Harley, Ivy, and Joker. And it isn’t too big a complication. Though Ivy is obviously getting a kick out of it. There are plants everywhere. He can handle it, but those on top of armed henchmen he’s wasting time. He brushes by them, not discriminating, his goal just on the control room.

Harley lands in front of him, grinning. “What’s up, B-man?” She throws a punch, Bruce dodging and retaliating. Her blows don’t land, Bruce avoiding them easily, landing a hit. Harley grits her teeth, but instead of recoiling she uses the momentum for a kick. It hits Bruce’s side. He grunts, but the pain isn’t enough to stop him from knocking her back.

“Get back before I knock you out,” Bruce warns. Harley pretends to think about it.

“I think I’m good, you know? This is way more fun!” She jumps at him, landing a solid kick to his side. Again and Bruce blocks a second kick, knocking her away. She comes back in with a flurry of punches laughing as Bruce tries to block them. It’s when she lands a hit to his jaw that Bruce decides to act, ducking and throwing a punch at her stomach. In her haste to avoid the blow she missteps, and he takes that opportunity to pulls her towards him, twisting her arm behind her back.

She cries out in pain, and that’s when Ivy decides to join in. Large thorns erupt from the ground around them, Bruce stepping back with Harley. He makes quick work of tying her hands together, watching the floor warily.

“Gotta say, this is way more interesting than any movie I’ve seen!” Joker’s voice rings out. Bruce aims a look at the control room, narrowing his eyes. A vine snakes towards him, Bruce cutting it in two with a batarang. When Ivy reveals herself her eyes are blazing.

“How dare you hurt my babies?”

“And me,” Harley calls out. Bruce lets Harley drop to the floor, the woman falling with an “ow”. One of Ivy’s vines picks her up, placing her to a side before rushing at Bruce. He kicks at the plants, making his way closer to Ivy. Leaves slash through the air like throwing knives, a couple knicking Bruce, sharp like papercuts. He pushes on, avoiding thorny barriers and feeling as though he was walking through a deadly jungle.

It’s too late when Ivy realises Bruce has the upper hand, a few steps ahead of her. He knocks her to the ground, hand pinned on her neck. She hisses in anger, but he quickly places a blow to her temple that knocks her unconscious, her plants writhing before dropping to the floor. He glances up at Harley, who pouts.

“You’ll get what’s comin’ to you Batman! Just wait!” Her smile turns sly. Bruce drops Ivy off next to her, making sure they’re both bound tightly enough that they won’t get free any time soon. Time to go up into the control room. He steps over plants on the stairs, the windows streaming light. He guesses whatever he came for is there, as is Joker.

When he walks in there’s no sign of anyone, but he finds schematics of the observatory, as well as explosives and masks. Good, it’s all there. He places a tracker, knowing Joker is behind him the moment he hears a quiet click. He turns slowly. And his reflexes take over to avoid a kick to the head, a flash of purple that rushes past his eyes and causes him to jerk back. Bruce grabs at Joker’s leg, throwing the clown off balance and tossing him across the room. Joker hits the ground laughing, on his hands and knees. He stands up to run at Bruce again, a spark in his eye. Ducking before Bruce can knock him down, Joker doesn’t hesitate in throwing a punch that brings stars to Bruce’s eyes. He lunges again, a quick strike that gives Bruce only seconds to deflect. Another punch, a cuff to the head. He’s aggressive with his attack, Bruce waiting for the opportunity to retaliate. When he does Joker’s leg is just close enough for Bruce to kick at, throwing the man off balance. Bruce pushes him back with a hit to the chest that knocks the breath out of his lungs. Joker stumbles back, giving Bruce the opportunity to pin him against the wall, unable to attack again. The man gives a breathless laugh, eyes level with Bruce's.

“So, now what, Dark Knight?” he asks, resting his forehead against Bruce's. They're both breathing heavily, exchanging breaths in the messy room.

“You realise I'm running out of time, right?” Bruce frowns at Joker's careless little shrug.

“That's what your bat-brats are for, Brucie. You needed a little... distraction.” Joker smirks, Bruce not relaxing his grip. “Don't tell me you didn't enjoy it.” He places his hands on Bruce's waist, sending shivers through his body even through the layer of armor.

“Not the point.” He pulls back a bit, but Joker doesn't let him go, eyes half-lidded. His expression unnerves Bruce, but it also makes his heart beat rapidly, chest still heaving. “What are you doing?”

He barely has time to react as Joker presses his lips to his. Bruce makes a small sound of surprise.

This. This is crazy. He’s thought about it but now that it’s happening it’s all he can do not to short-circuit.  A rush of warmth suddenly hits him and he melts, deepening the kiss and pressing against the wiry man. He cradles Joker’s face in his hand, feeling warmth through his gloves. Joker’s trying not to smile into the kiss, he knows that, he can feel it, that slight pull to his mouth that only makes Bruce want to kiss him more. He tastes of cotton candy and something slightly chemical, a metallic tang that should be a deterrent but isn’t. It’s just something that fits, surprisingly.

Joker loops his arms around to pull Bruce down towards him, nails scratching at his cowl. Bruce almost loses himself completely, but the nagging in his mind reminds him of the task at hand. Which, if he weren’t Batman he would ignore it, but being a hero...

“We have to go,” he tries to say, the words turning to a mumble as Joker recaptures his mouth. Bruce lets himself enjoy a few more seconds before he puts his hand to the wall to steady himself. When he pulls away, Joker lets out a quiet whine of annoyance. “Joker. The docks.” Joker opens his eyes, his makeup more of a mess than usual, his pupils dilated so that only a thin ring of green is visible around them.

“Five more minutes.” He grabs at Bruce, who pushes him away firmly. “Bats.”

“We need to get to the docks, J.” He makes to turn away when Joker tugs him back.

“Wait. You have lipstick on your mouth,” Joker says with a satisfied little smirk. “Now that’s a look I could get used to.” Bruce’s knows his face is flushed but Joker continues, pulling out a handkerchief. “Wouldn’t want your little bat-family to see though.”

He helps Bruce clean it off, Bruce protesting, “You don’t have to say ‘bat’ in front of everything.”

“Well let’s see. Batman, Batmobile, Batsuit, Batarangs, Batwing...kind of a running theme,” Joker points out. Bruce is unable to come up with a good comeback. The clown looks over Bruce until he can’t see any traces of paint. When he’s satisfied he nods, reapplying his own. Their breathing is steadier, though Bruce still feels like he’s floating. It’s an odd, light feeling, his nerves are on fire but in the nicest way possible. He smiles uncertainly at Joker. The man beams before kissing him again lightly. “Alright, we can go to the docks now. Nightwing is going to meet us?”

“That’s the plan.”

They head down the stairs, where they find Harley free of her bonds and cradling Ivy’s head in her lap, Ivy murmuring about how next time they should just plan a picnic at a garden. She glares when she sees Bruce, but Harley’s eyes are on Joker, whose smug expression is clear on his face. She winks at Bruce, who suddenly wants to sprint out of the factory, grapple onto a very tall building, and jump.

Instead he settles for a warning. “If I hear anything else from you two the rest of the week I’m dragging you down to Blackgate myself.”

Harley leans back, smiling crookedly. “We got it, Batman. We’ll be quiet as mice, won’t we, Red?”

“Stop hurting my plants or you’ll be in a body bag, Batman,” Ivy says, the severity of her gaze not lessening. Bruce nods.

“Noted.” He gestures to Joker to get a move on, the clown walking up to the Batmobile before him. They get in, Joker turning the radio on. He cringes when the only thing that plays is the police scanner.

“Please tell me you have music.”

“I don’t have time for music when I’m in this car,” Bruce says, thinking it obvious. He’s not going to jam out to tunes when people are in danger. That’s pure evil.

“It adds to atmosphere! Imagine racing after baddies listening to ACDC! Or maybe some obnoxious pop song, I don’t know. What kind of music do you like?”

Bruce doesn’t reply. Usually he listens to older tracks, unless Dick or Tim plays the newest song. But he doesn’t like anything specific really. Joker looks at him expectantly. “...Eighties music. Journey.”

Joker nods. “Not what I had in mind, but I can see that.” He opens the window, cold air rushing in. Whooping and laughing in delight, he sticks his head out, eyes closed. He only comes back in to ask how fast it can go. Bruce smirks, pushing down on the gas till they’re a blur. Joker finds himself pushed back into his seat, cackling at the rush.

One of the perks of being a vigilante? No one questions when you’re speeding.

*

The docks look the same as they did on Monday, though this time Dick waits for them near the entrance.

“You guys took your time. I’ve been waiting for at least fifteen minutes.”

Bruce glances at Joker, who raises an eyebrow. “There were...complications that held us back. Anyways,” he gestures to the clown. “Lead the way.”

Joker cracks his knuckles, rolling back his shoulder like he’s about to put on a show. “Gladly. Ozzie’s got eyes everywhere, but if we go through the docks he won’t expect it.” He strides into the maze that is the docks, humming the mission impossible theme. Dick looks at Bruce out of the corner of his eyes, but Bruce doesn’t respond, starting after Joker. They’re headed in completely the opposite direction, more towards the shipyards themselves then around the shipping containers, the slight creaking of the ships putting Bruce on edge. It makes complete sense that Penguin would have a ship though. He doesn’t know why, but he feels the need to be extra cautious, some of his worry from earlier this week making a reappearance.

When they arrive where they need to be Joker stops them, holding his arms out. He then points to a large ship that towers over them.

“That’s the one. If Ozzie is there then your job is done,” he says.

Dick squints at him. “Are you trying to jinx us?”

Joker scoffs. “Believe me, if I wanted you to fail you wouldn’t be here right now. I’m rooting for you guys.” He wraps an arm around Bruce, the latter jolting away. Joker just grins.

Dick looks at them oddly. “Right. I’ll just scope around the other side, see if I can find a different way in. Divide and conquer, right?” Bruce inclines his head in agreement.

“Be careful.”

“You too.” Dick runs off, Bruce following him with his eyes until he disappears. He turns to Joker after, crossing his arms. Joker raises his hands defensively.

“I’m not doing anything out of the ordinary you know. You’re the one who gets flustered. It’s a wonder you can keep any secrets.” He pouts. “Maybe you should just tell Grayson.”

Bruce sighs. Joker’s right, but there are more important things to take care of. “I will. After the gala. We need to finish this though, come on.” He sneaks on board, scanning the ship. Oracle hasn’t said anything yet, but he knows it’s just a matter of time. She’s usually on top of this.

Once on the ship they split up, Joker taking on half the men on the ship with ease, if not discretion. But at least the distraction helps Bruce take out his half. He joins Joker at the door, the man wiping blood off his mouth, sticking his tongue out at the flavor.

“These guys aren’t pulling their punches. Kiss it better?” he suggests, waggling his eyebrows.

Bruce rolls his eyes, turning to open the door and enter the ship. This is going to be a thing now, isn’t it. He should’ve expected it. “Later, maybe.” Joker closes the door after him quietly, Bruce just making out the words he murmurs.

“I can live with that.”

*

“How’s it going, Grayson?”

It’s Jason. Dick makes sure no one is around before replying. “It’s all going good. How’s it looking on your end?”

“It’s quiet. If this is where they plan on blowing up the wealthy then they aren’t very prepared. I assume that’s Batman’s doing.”

“Yeah. Hey, I gotta go, I’m on Penguin’s ship.” He hears footsteps coming towards him and hides behind a container, knocking them out the moment they step close enough.

“Yeah, yeah. Tell us if you need help.”

“Sure thing.” Dick shivers as he opens the door, the cold rushing out. Has Cobblepot never heard of heating? Just because your persona is Antarctic doesn’t mean you have to live at negative temperatures. Gotham isn’t even that cold yet either, why is there ice on this ship? Taking the cosplay way too far, Penguin.

The ship itself is huge, more than enough for one man. And henchmen. Dick barrels his way through at least ten just on the first deck, going down through a dark hall. Penguin is most likely in the center of the ship, if at all.

He sneaks through the ballroom, used now as more of a storage area, crates piled haphazardly on the once polished floor. He imagines the rest of the ship looks the same way. The ship creaks as it bobs on the water, Dick wondering just how old it is. Oswald Cobblepot isn’t known for buying things second hand, but it’s worn down. Not suited for a life of crime.

Bruce joins up with him further down, Joker still with him. Since Tim had mentioned the clown acting different Dick’s been studying him. He thinks Tim may have been right. Joker just leans against the wall like it pains him to stand upright, waiting for the next step. His eyes still have a dangerous flicker to them, but Dick isn’t so sure it’s aimed at him anymore.

“Have you found anything?” Bruce asks him. Dick shakes his head.

“No. He’s probably in the lowest part of the ship. It’s been a breeze so far, which worries me.”

“I guess we’ll find out.” Bruce opens the door to the left of the trio, a door that Dick guesses is the boiler. He steps through, not waiting to see if the others follow.

It’s all grey. Cold metal everywhere, not a soul to be seen. Dick tries a different door and finds it locked, going instead through the grate on top. Bruce and Joker come after, and the three find themselves in a small room, another door at the end labeled Office.

“He’s in there?” Joker whispers. “Seems a little drab.”

Bruce does a quick scan. “He’s in there all right. The only thing is I know he wouldn’t just be here alone.” He looks somber, Dick not liking the expression but used to it by now.

“Should we just open the door?”

“You find a back way,” Bruce says. “I’ll go through the door...as a distraction if need be.”

“Shouldn’t be too hard if it’s just Penguin. I’ll wait out here,” Joker says. He slides down the wall, sitting cross legged on the scuffed up carpet. He closes his eyes in something that almost looks like meditation. Dick stares, the man before him more of a puzzle than ever, but he shakes it off. A look at Bruce proves it’s nothing the older man hasn’t seen before.

Dick sighs. “I guess I’ll go now, should be a grate or something right? I’ll tell you when I’m ready.” He exits the tiny outer room, back in the boiler. As it happens, there is an air conditioning system that spans out to the whole ship. And it’s just big enough for Dick to crawl through, frowning at all the dust and trying not to cough.

Penguin’s voice can be heard from somewhere underneath him, and he finds an opening in the corner of the room, where he can see the stout villain on the phone.

“They’ll never know what hit ‘em. This plan is foolproof... Yeah, I got the stuff, that blasted bat took a lot, but we should still have enough...no, it’s not here. You think I’d trust in these idiots enough to keep it safe. Don’t worry, I have it somewhere they won’t find till it’s too late.” Dick listens intently, a spike of worry travelling through him.

If the rest of the supplies he has aren’t here then we’re just wasting time!

He comms Bruce, murmuring “Ready.”

Bruce slams into the door to open it, Penguin jumping up in outrage. This was what Dick always enjoyed, Bruce making an entrance to unsettle the bad guys. Make a scene and people are either so scared or distracted that they won’t know what hit them. He opens the grate quietly and drops down behind Cobblepot.

The villain is obviously angry, but he’s smirking through his cigar all the same. “You think you’re so smart coming here?”

“Where are you keeping your cargo?” Bruce demands, closing in on Penguin’s desk.

“What cargo?” He puffs smoke into Bruce’s face, but his nose barely wrinkles in disgust. He grabs Oswald by the collar. “Alright, alright, I’ll tell you where it is. After this!” He whacks Bruce in the head with the butt of his umbrella, having a heavy swing for such a portly man. Bruce drops Oswald, Dick wrapping his arm around his neck so he can’t move. The man squawks in indignation and surprise.

“Where is it?” Bruce says, glaring.

“It’s too late, you’ll never find it!” Dick tightens his grip on Oswald. “I won’t tell you, you can threaten me all you like! You think I’d just give it up...after all this...? Do you actually think...I wasn’t using everyone as distractions?” His breath comes in short gasps. Bruce nods at Dick, who drops him.

“You’re done here, Oswald.” He ties the man up, Penguin barking curses at him.

“You won’t make it, you’re too late!” Bruce growls, slamming him into the wall. Penguin growls, shaking his head in pain. Dick takes him from Bruce, glancing up at him.

“They’re not at the observatory, Robin and Red Hood would’ve found it by now.”

“I know.” Bruce snarls, punching at the wall. Dick starts, not used to this side of Bruce.

“You know we’ll figure it out, we always do.”

Bruce shakes his head. “I knew something was wrong, but I kept trying to push the feeling away. Bane had a plan, his chemicals, but it fell through. Then with Crane and his toxin, but we took care of it. Maybe... they haven’t been working together at all. Maybe we’ve been on a wild goose chase, and for what?” Dick scrutinises the man.

“Maybe this time you shouldn’t trust your gut. If you think you’re gonna fail what’s the point in trying?” Bruce glances at him. “This isn’t about Joker is it?”

Bruce shakes his head almost vehemently. “No. This is entirely different. I’m just...”

Dick’s seen Bruce go through this before. Though he can be a drama queen at times, he does also get weighed down by the job at times, loathe as he is to admit it. He places a hand on Bruce. “You’re tired. I get it, you can’t always put up a front. Trust me, I’ll be taking a break after this, and so should you. But Batman is bigger than this. And you’re going to have to put aside any uncertainties.”

Bruce stays silent for a long time before he nods. “You’re right. We can do this. We have time. But we won’t get anything done standing around.” He looks at the door, expression resolute.

Dick’s comm goes off before either can move. “Dick?”

“What’s up, Babs?”

“There’s a lot of activity over by the Asylum, might want to take care of that. Tell Bruce.”

“Yeah.” Bruce looks at him questioningly.

“Something’s come up at the asylum. Can anything else go wrong?” He sighs.

Bruce scowls, hand on the doorknob. “We’d better get over there then.” He opens the door.

Dick carries Penguin, who drifts in and out of a daze as they exit the room. Joker’s standing when they get to him.

“Nothing?”

“Just him,” Dick says, gesturing at Penguin. The clown grins, coming over and bending down to look at Penguin. The villain blearily looks at Joker, brow deeply furrowed and a scowl prominent.

“You finally caught him. One less thing to worry about, right?” He taps at Penguin’s head. “Shame he lost his hat though, I wanted a souvenir. What now?”

“I need to find the rest of the supplies, they spread everything around, most were just diversions. Now there’s something going on at Arkham,” Bruce explains, a tinge of anger in his voice.

Joker tilts his head to the side. “So, what are you gonna do about it?”

Bruce clenches his hands into fists. “What else? We’re going to stop this and figure out what’s really going on.”

After all, if he doesn’t there won’t be a Gotham to really save, just rubble and chaos. And maybe Gotham could take it, but Bruce doesn’t want to let it experience that much destruction while he’s still around. He’s got a job to do.