#if someone tags this block as artemy again i will beat them to death with a hammer. this is not a joke. i cant take it anymore

[ffc1cb]

pathologic fanart

[violetsmoak]

Pieces of April [2/?]

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21099044/chapters/50202530

Summary: On the anniversary of his death, Jason’s second life takes an abrupt new turn and he’s faced with a challenge that neither Batman nor the All-Caste prepared him for.

Rating: PG-13 (rating may change later)

Warning(s): Past Jason/Isabel, kidfic, minor canon character death (pretty sure you can guess who, not either of our boys!), I’ll add more warnings/tags as I think of them. 

Canon-Compliance: Takes place in between the two RHATO series, so after Roy and Kori and before Artemis and Bizarro. 

First Chapter

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Somehow, Drake maneuvers through the city without getting a single red light and without going over the speed limit. It wouldn’t surprise Jason if he’s jerry-rigged some sort of portable device to alter traffic routes, but he doesn’t bother to find out.

Instead, he finds himself hoping he’s gotten all this wrong—that it’s another attack, someone using Isabel to get to him, like what the Joker did—

And then he hates himself for thinking that, because the Joker is always the worst-case scenario, and as thrown as Jason is by his growing paranoia, nothing warrants dealing with that lunatic.

So, he stews in silence, choking down two disgusting energy drinks as fast as he can to try to shake free of his alcoholic buzz. To his credit, Drake doesn’t ask him any questions the whole time, though, from the way his eyes keep cutting to him, he wants to. It’s more restraint than Jason would get from the other Bats, he thinks.

They arrive at the hospital, pulling up right in front of the emergency entrance beside the ambulance bay.

“Do you need backup?” Drake asks as Jason he swings himself out of the car, somewhat steadier on his feet.

“No. This ain’t somethin’ I need a partner on,” he replies. “Thanks for the ride and all, but I buzz off.”

“Got it,” Drake says, shifting gears. “Circle the block a few times, just in case.”

He pulls away before Jason can argue with him, the sudden movement causing the car door to slam before Jason can close it.

He scowls after him.

Smart-ass.

Though, now that Jason’s actually at the hospital, the idea of having Red Robin as back-up is a little more palatable.

He shifts, appreciating the comforting weight of his guns in their shoulder holsters—insurance for the possibility that this is all a trap—and then strides through the emergency doors, looking for the reception area or equivalent since he doesn’t have the tolerance to search any directories any time soon. By some miracle, there’s no line of people requiring triage just then, and Jason presents himself to the harried-looking young man at the counter.

“I’m looking for a patient,” he says without preamble. “Isabel Ardila. I got a call from a Dr. Kerry?”

“Kerry…” the man repeats wearily, types something into the computer and says, “That’s Obstetrics. Take the elevator down the hall, maternity ward is on the third floor.”

Maternity ward.

The words echo over and over in his head, each repetition making the pit in his stomach grow.

Don’t know for sure. Could just be a coincidence.

He swallows.

He knows as well as anyone trained Batman that there is no such thing as coincidence.

Numbness and queasiness that has nothing to do with alcohol bleed into him.

The journey to the elevator and upstairs pass in a blur of half-formed thoughts and impressions. His heart seems to be beating a lot louder than it usually does. No sign of trouble that he can see, none of the warning signals that there’s something untoward afoot here.

None of his senses warning him of imminent danger.

Perhaps that’s what makes him the most uneasy.

Before he knows it, he’s standing in front of another reception area, asking another nurse, or receptionist or whatever she is, for Dr. Kerry.

“I’m looking for Isabel Ardila,” he repeats, barely hearing himself above the rushing in his ears. “Where’s her room? I’m her…uh…husband.”

Another flick of a hand across a tablet and the woman’s face goes carefully and deliberately blank.

Shit. Even someone without training can tell that means bad news.

“Someone will be with you in a moment, sir,” she says, going for sympathetic.

He barely has time to go through the half-dozen possible scenarios in his head before a lanky man with thick-rim glasses in a white coat over scrubs approaches.

“I’m Dr. Kerry,” the man says when he gets there, as if Jason couldn’t guess. “I was told you are Ms. Ardila’s husband?”

“Ex,” Jason lies automatically, and it comes out as a croak. “It’s…been almost a year.”

“Ah.” His expression flickers with understanding but remains grim. “I wasn’t sure. Considering you weren’t present when she was admitted, and she didn’t mention you beyond putting your name down as her emergency contact.”

“I’m…just as confused as you are.”

Probably more.

Kerry’s expression is sympathetic but guarded. “I’m sorry. I take it your situation was…not traditional.”

“No. She was…we were…,” Jason says, and then shakes his head in frustration. “Listen, do we need to rehash my personal life, or are you gonna take me to see her?”

Kerry stiffens, and then sighs.

“I’m afraid that will have to wait a moment, Mr. Ardila. In fact, I think you may wish to sit down.”

He gestures to the wall of uncomfortable-looking plastic chairs.

“No,” Jason replies. “I’ve gotten enough bad news in my life to know what that means, so just spit it out.”

“Very well. Then I’m sorry to have to tell you, but she died about an hour ago.”

Jason hears the words, reads the shape of the other man’s mouth as he says them, and yet they don’t penetrate.

He’s no stranger to death or loss, but this somehow…

She got out. We went separate ways, she found someone else, she had a life. She can’t be…goddamn it, she was normal!

“…placental abruption…started hemorrhaging…no way to get the bleeding under control…one in a hundred cases…”

He barely hears any of it.

Jason could understand if it was one of the many associates he’s had over the years—his line of work, death is always a risk. People who work with him know that—Kori and Roy and any or every Bat and…and everyone he has ever worked with. Death is just part of the gig. Going out in a blaze of glory is expected.

Sometimes literal.

Which is perhaps why it’s such a shock to hear it’s happened to someone like Isabel. Someone normal, someone not in the life, except for when he selfishly pulled her into it.

“…can understand the shock this must be. I’m so very sorry.”

“That’s…it wasn’t your fault,” Jason says, only vaguely aware that he’s doing it.  

“The baby, on the other hand, is perfectly healthy.”

His gut clenches like he’s been punched.

“Baby.”

Before, it was just a suspicion. A worry. But that word—baby—it’s solid, it’s real.

“Yes. She’s doing well, despite the circumstances.”

She. There’s a baby. It’s a ‘she’.

Jason’s thoughts are refusing to connect properly for some reason, and it bothers him. He’s taken on entire squadrons of men when he was concussed and barely able to see straight. Fought back the side-effects of the Lazarus Pit, held his own against various members of the All-Caste when under the influence of their psychotropic, hallucination inducing herbal concoctions.

In all those cases he could think through his situation.

But he can’t now.  

“I’m…not sure I should be offering congratulations, though,” the doctor admits. “From the expression on your face, you weren’t aware she was pregnant.”

“…I wasn’t.”

“The contact information we had for you…it was in the forms she signed upon admittance. She named you as the father.”

Jason stares blankly again.

He’s been expecting those words since listening to the message, and yet they still don’t seem entirely real to him.

“Mr. Ardila?”

“I…” Jason swallows, forces his brain to get back in gear. “Look. Isabel and me, we haven’t been together for a while.” Nine months, a while, and for a reason. “So…it could be mine…but it probably isn’t. She was with another guy. I don’t even know his name.”

“I see.” Kerry’s brow wrinkles. “That complicates matters. Ms. Ardila didn’t provide any other contact information for anyone else.”

Jason thinks back to every conversation he and Isabel had, trying to think if there was anything that can help here. He knows her parents are dead, that she never had any siblings; she has family in Columbia, but they’re cousins she’s never even met.

“…Other than you, at the moment, this child has no family. And if you don’t intend to take guardianship of her, a social worker will need to be contacted to handle the case.”

Jason tenses.

“Social worker,” he repeats. “You mean foster care.”

He has sudden flashbacks to angry yelling and a belt across his back, always being hungry and cold and unable to sleep for wondering if tonight would be the night the latest piece of trash foster father decided to slip into his room and pay him a visit.

Kerry must detect the distaste in his words, though not the exact reason behind it, because he says cautiously, “I assure you, it’s a valid option, and in her best interest. Babies—infants especially—have a high probability of being placed. If that’s the option you think best, she likely wouldn’t spend much time there.”

Jason doesn’t know what to say to that, thoughts still whirling. He remembers being taken away from Wayne manor, spending weeks in a spartan bedroom in Gotham’s Child Welfare Bureau—

It’s not the same. This isn’t the same situation; this is totally different.

So why is he freezing up and unable to make a decision right now?

The doctor is watching him, expectant, and yet Jason’s tongue feels rooted to the roof of his mouth.

“Surely before that becomes an issue, a paternity test might be an idea.”

Jason closes his eyes at the speaker’s words.

He doesn’t even need to turn around. Of course Drake didn’t listen to him; of course, he’s standing right behind Jason.

Probably has been for a while.

Dr. Kerry appears startled.

“M-Mr. Wayne?”

“Drake,” the younger man corrects, striding forward until he is standing beside Jason. He doesn’t look at him, attention fully on the doctor. His expression is mild, but jaw set and eyes calculating. “I’ve been emancipated for a while.”

The doctor visibly recovers himself. “Be that as it may, this isn’t exactly your—”

“Business?” Drake interjects smoothly. “I’m afraid it is since I’m his partner.”

“Partner?”

The slight bulging of the man’s eyes might make Jason laugh if Drake’s words didn’t penetrate his mental fog. He knows the other man means 'partner' in a totally different sense from what the doctor obviously infers from it. Any other day it would be a joke—hell, he might even play along with it, depending on his mood, drag out the joke to see how annoyed the kid could get—

“Great pains have been taken to keep that quiet,” Drake goes on, warning in his voice.

As in, ‘don’t go outing Tim Drake-Wayne to the press if you ever want to see funding to this place ever again’.

There’d that absurd temptation to laugh, again.

“Of c-course, Mr. Drake. Naturally, patient privacy is paramount. But you understand that legally, right now the only one with a say in the matter is Mr. Ardila, and—"

“And whatever his decision, we need all the facts,” Drake continues in a bizarrely reasonable voice. “He’ll submit to a paternity test, and I’ll expect it to be done as soon as possible.”

“Yes, of course, it can be rushed if that’s what you—”

“No.”

The doctor and Drake glance at him.

“No,” Jason repeats dimly. “No rushing it. I can wait like a normal person.”

“A standard paternity test takes two to three days,” Kerry says, nervous. “If you want to know as soon as possible—”

“Other people need their tests done more than I do—things that can save people’s lives,” Jason replies. With effort, he turns to face Drake. “And besides, I don’t need any of this on the record so your nosy-ass family finds out about before…before I know what the hell is going on.”

He doesn’t really need to raise an eyebrow to communicate what he really means; Drake knows better than any of the others.

The younger man turns thoughtful for a beat, and after several seconds, nods.

“You’re right,” he allows. Then he turns to Dr. Kerry, who has been watching the interchange with the discomfort of someone watching a marital squabble. “We’ll wait for the results then. In the meantime, we should see the baby.”

Kerry blinks. “What?”

“What?” Jason echoes.

And Drake, polished as ever, offers the doctor a weary yet charming smile that has to have been perfected over years of training. “She just lost her mother, and as uncertain as the situation is, until we know different, Jason is her father.” Jason almost swallows his tongue at those words. “I read somewhere that it’s important for babies to be held, especially so soon after birth.”

Kerry appears a little shell-shocked. “I’ll…I’ll have one of the nurses escort you, then.”

“Thank you. We’ll wait here. I think we’re going to need a moment if you don’t mind.”

“No, of course. I understand. It won’t take long.”

They watch him hurry away.

Jason immediately rounds on Drake.

“What are you doing?” he hisses, panicked. “Why the hell did you even come in here, I told you to go!”

“Since when do I listen to you?” Drake counters, fiddling with something beneath the sleeve of his expensive-looking jacket. “You spent the whole drive looking like you were headed to your own execution. You forget I’ve been around after you’ve died, and it’s not pretty.”

“Something else is about to not be pretty, and it’s your face,” Jason grouses.

“Threaten me or not, I’m trying to help you figure this out without having to wait two days.”

“I said—”

“I know what you said. And I have DNA sequencing tech built into my wrist computer,” Drake tells him, tapping the spot beneath his jacket. “Totally secure system, direct feed to my computer at the Nest, no other Bats involved, and we can know in an hour. I just need to get close enough to the baby for a cheek swab or hair sample.” He cocks his head to one side, challenging. “So are you coming?”

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Next Chapter

[theeurekaproject]

Praeter Rerum Cadite

The unmistakable shriek of a dying woman cut the air like a knife, and in the distance, a body hit the floor with a sickening thud. Acidalia pulled her gun closer and forced herself against the alabaster wall, sitting as still as she could bear. Underneath her clock, her heart beat at the speed of a metronome at prestissimo. If her skin hadn’t evolved to tolerate Martian sun instead of Terran cold, she’d be sweating bullets, but she would never let them know that. She was an Imperatrix, not an animal, and she could battle her fight-or-flight instincts for as long as it took to win this battle—or, more accurately, win this war. Because now there would be war. There was no more chance of a peaceful resolution anymore, if there had even been one in the first place.

But that was the future. War was imminent, but not immediate, and Acidalia couldn’t afford to think of things as distant as tomorrow when she was cornered in a hangar awaiting her own doom. Above her, the laser fire grew ever stronger, and she knew she had to find some way to escape this place before one of those wayward shots came too close to her head. It would only take a single shot and she’d be dead or lobotomized, and that simply couldn’t happen. She had to live with her mind intact—martyrdom was not an option. She needed an exit.

Breathlessly, she glanced around the room, but she couldn’t turn her head too far; movement attracted the eye, and if she ventured too much from her hiding place, the warmth of the engine protecting her would no longer cover her heat signature. She’d be a sitting duck once more, and even the best crack shot in Eleutheria couldn’t take down a dozen enemies at once with just one gun. I should have brought bombs, she realized stupidly, knowing that thinking such thoughts now was utterly useless. As it was, she was very nearly unarmed, and completely incapable of fighting any of these soldiers hand-to-hand—they were Eleutherian brutes, and she was a half-Martian woman with bones so fragile they may as well have been made of paper. Fighting was not an option just as death was not an option. She had to get out of here quickly, or she had to get into a place where she could shoot from far enough away that being physically manhandled was impossible.

Acidalia surveyed her surroundings. She was reasonably close to a broken window, and if she was willing to deal with being stabbed by glass shards, she could probably make it outside. But they were thousands of stories above the ground, battling in an impossibly high skyscraper that reached above Eleutheria’s artificial clouds. Humans could hardly even breathe without assistance at this altitude, even if she miraculously didn’t fall. And, to make matters worse, she was already wounded–between the laceration Ace had left behind and the burns she sustained when Cassiopeia tried to shoot her the second time, she doubted she could even move without cringing in pain.

This pain is nothing compared to what they’ll do to you when they catch you, she told herself, but that thought was not very comforting, and she could feel her pulse quicken in response. Alestra had always told her that she needed to learn how to control herself—Ciphers could master their bodies’ innate responses, override their subconscious mind and their human DNA. Acidalia had never managed to learn that skill, and in the fire of battle, she had to admit to herself that her mother was right. She couldn’t keep up like this, with her traitorous panicking brain and her inability to curtail her animalistic instincts to flee. If she couldn’t calm down, reduce her body temperature and her light speed pulse, they would find her, and it would all be over. She couldn’t fight and she couldn’t run, so she had one option left: weasel her way out of here with logic.

Acidalia bit her lip and concentrated on the few advantages she had, envisioning herself as a player of chess and seeing the hangar as the board. She was the white king, backed into a corner, and Cassiopeia was the black player, incredibly close to a checkmate. But Cassiopeia was no grandmaster, and it didn’t take a genius or a Cipher to see that. Despite being a Generalis by birth, she had never led a military campaign before, and she was firing with all the accuracy of a child playing laser tag. Acidalia was outnumbered, but she was smarter than her adversities. That was both helpful and problematic—helpful because it made manipulation easier, problematic because Cassiopeia was not insightful enough to see the value in keeping her prey alive. If they wanted her imprisoned or interrogated, Acidalia would willingly surrender and escape later, but she had a sneaking suspicion Cassiopeia would put a bullet through her skull the minute she could just for the glory of saying she was the one to kill the bastard Imperatrix.

But Cassiopeia might not shoot if she couldn’t see her target.

Acidalia pondered briefly just shooting Cassiopeia in the face. It wouldn’t be difficult from where she stood—she could probably kill any man in this room without even trying. That part was simple. The danger came from being caught—if someone saw a shot come from this direction, they’d shoot back, and even thick metal engines couldn’t block laser ammunition. The metal would bursting a thousand little bullets under the heat and the pressure, and Acidalia would fall back, her body riddled with tiny holes, blood leeching out of her skin. That would not do.

So she would wait. Wait for an opportunity, wait for backup, wait for something, and pray that they didn’t kill her in the meantime. Artemis had called her and she hadn’t answered, so if anyone in the Revolution had any sense at all, they’d be sending in the cavalry any minute now. It would only be a few minutes before—

“Inveni eam!” somebody screamed. “Inveni eam—

Never mind, Acidalia thought. She’d been hidden well, but she’d forgotten that her feet were bleeding—she’d been running in heels across a floor covered in shards of glass, but the adrenaline coursing through her body had been so strong she’d hardly even noticed the sharp edges cutting into her skin. That didn’t stop the blood, though, and there it was, moving across the floor at the pace of a snail and leaving red streaks on the quartz. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to be noticeable, especially here in this platinum-coated, white-gold luxury.

As the soldier rounded the corner, Acidalia’s laser bolt hit him in his chest, ending his brief victory, but there were more soldiers hot on his tail, and she couldn’t relax for very long. Acidalia shot intermittently into the crowd of men and watched two or three of them drop, but there were far too many for her to ever fight off. She ducked to avoid being hit and dived sideways, her wrist throbbing with every jagged heartbeat, her ankle screaming in pain. There was nowhere to go. The outside was a dead end and her only exit was blocked.

I cannot die, she thought for the thousandth time. I will pry the reaper’s scythe from his hands if that’s what it takes. Death will just have to wait.

She aimed at a reflective piece of glass and fired. Her shot was well placed; it ricocheted off her improvised mirror and flew into a soldier’s head. As he toppled, Acidalia took down his comrade, who tripped haphazardly on his dead friend’s body before succumbing to her laser fire. In retaliation, someone else started shooting; a bolt whizzed past Acidalia’s arm, leaving blistering burns across her skin. She elected to ignore this, and focused instead on killing as many of them as she could. Normally, she wasn’t this vicious, but normally she wasn’t outnumbered and alone.

Christ, how many of them are there? she thought. Whipping her head around, she turned to look in the other direction. Men were jumping down onto the balcony she’d just escaped onto. Before she even registered what had happened, someone’s hands were in her hair. Pure revulsion surged through her as she wrenched herself away from the man on instinct alone, but he was far stronger than she was.

His eyes were pure pride. He had to be her own age or younger, just a kid, had no idea what he was doing other than that he captured the Imperatrix. His curly hair showed through his helmet. He was terrifying because he was so goddamn human. He held her fast, pulling the gun away from her side and pushing her against a wall. She kicked him hard in the shins, but he didn’t react, and her own foot started to bleed again.

“Vae,” she cursed. “Get off of me!”

His expression didn’t change. She raised a leg to strike him again, but was momentarily distracted by a flash of green eyes. Generalis eyes.

“I apologize for what I’m about to do,” Cassiopeia said cordially, without an ounce of regret apparent in her expression.

“My mother sent you to kill me, then?” Acidalia replied. “It’s just like Alestra to make someone else do all the dirty work for her. If you kill me, her hands are clean.” She snickered. “I won’t be killing you. You don’t deserve the waste of a bolt. You’ll die at the hands of a nobody and be laid to rest in a pauper’s grave, like every other bastard Martian who thinks they can contaminate our gene pool.”

“Like your life is any more valuable than mine?” Cassiopeia sneered. “I’ll be more prolific than an Imperatrix with a two-day reign.”

“You’ll go down in history as a traitor,” Acidalia countered. “I’ll be a martyr for my cause; what will you ever be but Alestra Cipher’s dragon?”

“Trust me,” she said, “I have a whole list of what I want to do. And I’ll start fulfilling that list right now.” She reached a slender, bony hand out and grabbed the crown. With a swift movement, she pulled it off of Acidalia, taking strands of her black hair with it. She did not wince. Her deep brown eyes bored holes into Cassiopeia’s, intense and vivid.

“You can call yourself an empress if you wish,” Acidalia said lowly. “Your power does not rest in the title you bestow upon yourself, but in the people who choose to follow you.”

“That philosophical bullshit will be your final words,” Cassiopeia warned.

“So be it.” Her heart pounded and every instinct in her body screamed at her to run as fast as she could, but rather than follow it, she simply leaned back and closed her eyes serenely. I’ll die with dignity, at least.

The man next to her cocked his blaster.

I’m a martyr, she reminded herself. It’s not all in vain. My people will avenge me. My death will send shockwaves through Eleutheria. We can win this war.

The gun was against her temple. It was cold.

Are those good enough last words? What if people quote me? How would anyone ever quote me? No one is here right now. I’m going to die surrounded by my worst enemies.

His fingers were on the trigger.

My brother will be devastated. Artemis will cry. Andromeda will punch something, or—or kill someone, or—oh, Jesus Christ, my death will be a catalyst for her committing a war crime. What if there’s a God? What if there’s a Heaven I’ll never reach because I just killed two dozen people?

“Get the fuck off my sister!”

The gunman’s shot went up into the air as T tackled Acidalia to the ground. He jumped in front of her and began firing shots at everyone in his reach, his eyes pure fury.

“Get away!” he yelled hoarsely.

“Like hell I’d abandon you,” she said, reaching for her gun. “Why on Earth did you come here?”

“I didn’t want my sister to die,” he replied, sounding oddly childish. “What was I supposed to do?” As he grinned at Acidalia, he took down three soldiers at once without even glancing at them. He’d always been an incredible shot, even if he liked to deny it.”

“T, you’re the most aggravating brother in the galaxy, but by stellae do I love you.” Acidalia pulled herself upwards and killed another man, letting the blood from his crushed head leak through her fingers and bury itself under her nails. Cassiopeia, bewildered, sat in the middle of the room, stumbling around the corpses of her own fighters. She drew her own laser pistol and fired quickly at Acidalia, but both shots missed; she was never a sharpshooter at close range. Without the support of the rest of her comrades, she was useless. Acidalia aimed without thinking, concentrating only on making this shot. One millimetron to the right, and the fire in Cassiopeia’s eyes would die-

Something smelled like ash, and someone next to her collapsed.

Cassiopeia shot at her again, but Acidalia fell to her knees so quickly the bolt didn’t have enough time to hit her. “T,” she whispered. “T, no, you’re-“

She whirled up, searching for anyone with a gun, anyone who could have just—no, not killed him, he couldn’t be dead, he wasn’t dead-

The realization hit her like a hovercar. Cassiopeia’s shots were never meant for her.

The sadistic grin on her face was enough to replace every ounce of panic in Acidalia’s body with seething, hot rage. She launched herself at the woman, grabbing her brother’s gun, no longer thinking about her own death, and wrenched the crown off of Cassiopeia’s head. It hit the wall with the force of a thousand stars, carefully arranged crystals of a thousand-year-old artifact shattering against the marble, platinum cracking under stress. Acidalia fired the gun two, three, six times. Some dim, dark part of her mind knew how suicidal this was, how much of a kamikaze stance she was taking, but the larger part of her brain simply didn’t care.

Mortuus frater meus. The thought echoed in her ears, louder than Cassiopeia’s incoherent yelling, louder than the laser blasts all around her. Mortuus frater meus. My brother is dead, he’s dead, et mea culpa, It’s all my fault, that shot was meant for me-

Emotions she couldn’t describe with words swelled in her chest—hatred, pure hatred, rage, like darkness bubbling in her heart, longing, sadness, and damp tears were sliding down her face and landing on the ground and the gun was out of power because T had been shooting it so much, shooting it for her, for Acidalia, for a woman who would be dead in five minutes, and Cassiopeia was laughing-

She took the blaster, T’s big, powerful gun bigger than her own arm, and smashed it on Cassiopeia’s skull as hard as she could.

Blood splattered the walls with red and Acidalia jumped backwards to where her brother’s corpse lay pushed to the side, still warm, so warm under her hands. His eyes were glazed over, the same brown eyes she’d first seen at thirteen, not blinking, just there, open. He had the same cocky smile and his last words played again in her ears: “I didn’t want my sister to die. What else was I supposed to do?”

Anything but this.

Everything came flooding back to her in a torrent of memories and thoughts and feelings. Cassiopeia was on the ground, her head invisible under tangled onyx hair. Corpses lay scattered against the wall, T’s just another body among them. Everything smelled like blood and smoke. The pain of the glass in her foot, the burns where the lasers had not quite come close enough to hit her, the death of her brother who only ever wanted to help, ached so badly she could hardly stand. T’s sacrifice was physically painful, burning like no visible injury ever could. Acidalia collapsed against the wall, grappling for control over her subconscious desire to flee. She clung to a piece of her broken crown with one hand and her brother’s empty gun with the other, shutting her eyes tight against the cold air. T’s body convulsed in agonal rasps, like a post-mortem death rattle, a parody of breath. She pressed her fingers against his neck, hoping without really hoping that he was alive.

There was no pulse beneath her fingers.

He gave another strangled gasp as the final reflexes of his dying brain gave a last-resort effort to get oxygen back in his body, but Acidalia knew how fruitless it was. His heart had already stilled. His consciousness was gone, his body empty. There was something equally sad and endearing about just how hard his lungs were trying, and how little it actually mattered. He was already gone, his brain already dead, everything that made T T already lost to the stars above. Acidalia had fought off Death and won, but she left casualties in her wake, and that made her question if her survival was even worth the cost.

She blinked back more tears and breathed in deeply. This was a bad time to have a meltdown. She knew she’d bought time, but it couldn’t be all that much; if she remained where she was, T’s sacrifice wouldn’t matter. Reinforcements were arriving, and there was no way she could stay here unless she wanted to be caught in more crossfire.

Shakily, Acidalia stood and grabbed her own gun. She left T’s on his corpse, folded his arms together like it was a proper burial, and kissed his forehead, like she’d done when he was eleven and scared and she was trying to be a good big sister. “Requiesce in pace,” she whispered.

Shards of glass dug into her foot with every step she took, her wrist throbbed and swelled even more than it had before, and the rest of her body felt weak, sore. She focused the pain intently, trying to concentrate on the sting of burnt flesh, the disgusting ooze of popping blisters. It was easier to deal with that than everything else. She shoved any other thoughts out of her mind as pure adrenaline propelled her towards the Revelation. There was no time to think or grieve or do anything.

As she clambered up the steps with all the dignity she could muster, Acidalia made out the silhouettes of two more women. She didn’t recognize either of them, but that meant she had no way of knowing if they were friend or foe, and she wasn’t stupid. She raised her gun instinctively, hoping it would be just enough of a threat to keep them from trying anything.

“Woah!” one of them half-shrieked. “We don’t want to hurt you, put that thing down!”

"Who are you?" Acidalia asked through ragged breaths.

"Um, Athena." She blinked again. “And this is Carina—we were sent up here to warn you about Cassiopeia—your brother said—“ “You knew T?” Acidalia could feel panic rise in her throat again. She had a duty to tell these people about the death of their friend, but she had no idea how she could manage such a thing without having a complete mental breakdown. Perhaps it would be easier now, she mused, before she really reconciled T’s passing with the image of the calm, healthy teenage boy she still had in her mind. The corpse on the ground and the smiling brother whose dog tags were in her bag still felt like entirely different people, and that combined with the adrenaline made the burden infinitely easier to bear.

Athena looked at Acidalia’s blooded dress and back up at her bruised visage. “He’s dead, isn’t he?” she asked.

Acidalia nodded wordlessly.

“I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault.” Acidalia was suddenly acutely aware of the black ash on her shirtsleeve—the debris from T’s laser wound, and the only remnant she’d ever have of her dead little brother. Dead little brother, her mind echoed back. Your brother died for you. He’s gone.

A terrifyingly warm, inexplicably yellow sensation flooded her consciousness. Everything in the world ceased to exist for a moment, and the sensations of drying blood and clinging fabric and sharp, painful breaths dissolved into background nothingness. The only thing left in the universe was the image of T’s cooling corpse in a room of other bodies strewn about in Eleutherian heat, the faint trace of a smile fading from his face. He was gone. He was gone and—

And Acidalia couldn’t do this right now.

“Get in the ship,” she said hurriedly to the girls. They were teenagers, clearly—Athena couldn’t have been older than eighteen, give or take. How dare Cassandra do this? Acidalia asked herself, seething internally. What person in their right mind would send two teenage girls to a war zone to accomplish a mission that could just have easily been done with enlisted soldiers? As if the death of one seventeen-year-old wasn’t enough, as if Acidalia needed more blood on her hands, as if any of these peoples’ lives were any more valuable than that of a woman who had just smashed someone’s skull in with a gun twice her size.

“Wait, what?” Athena asked. “What—" “There are people following us. If my mother’s men see you, they will kill you—and me—on sight. Go. Shields up, cloaking on—“ The Revelation hummed in response to her commands, sensing her featherlight touch on its hull and matching her fingerprints to its security system. “We’ll fly to Mars. It’s safer there, and I’ll blend in.”

“But—“ “They’ll kill you! Move!” In the distance, people were moving, and soon enough, they’d see the remnants of the battlefield, the sea of black-clad corpses. Then there would be hell to pay, and Acidalia was in no state to fight, let alone defend two people. She couldn’t die, not now, not after T sacrificed his whole future for her survival. Too many people were depending on her too much for her to ever let herself give up.

“I’m sorry, T,” she whispered to nobody and everybody all at once. The planet seemed to echo her sorrow back to her, the stars above singing a chorus of paenitemur, paenitemur. The world mourned the loss of one of its brightest young subjects in a way Acidalia could never afford to—not now, not ever. T was dead, but Acidalia was alive, and the Revolution would live to see another victory. There was no time for grief.

Wrist throbbing and heart pounding, Acidalia straightened herself and marched into the Revelation, determinedly ignoring the pain that seared through every fibre of her being.

She was an Imperatrix, these were her citizens, and this was her empire. The first battle was over, and she had lived. T had died, but she had lived, and she’d would put the life he had given her to good use. Her survival wasn’t really her choice anymore, if it ever was in the first place. She belonged to Eleutheria as much as it belonged to her, and this planet needed her to keep herself alive. She’d fight for this little blue marble until the day she died, because her brother’s death would not—could not—be in vain. I will fight for you, Acidalia silently promised, and I’ll keep you alive, even if it’s only in memoriam. This time she had no living brother to promise anything back, but he would have if he could, and that was enough.

[itsanerdlife]

Come Back to Me 16/20

Pairing: Clint Barton x Coulson’s Daughter!Reader

Warning: Angst. Drama. Struggles. Violence? Lying. Anger. Soul shattering ache in your chest. Self hate. Doubts. Plot twist!

Playlist

Everything slips right through his hands in the blink of an eye. Clint Barton can fix anything. World Ending? Save it. Bad Guys? Take ‘em out. The love of his life, his soul mate, forgetting their whole relationship? Fight even harder. She might not remember what they have. She might be confused, lost, scared, but it’ll be a cold day in hell if she thinks he’ll give up that easy. He’ll do anything he has too. Help her remember, or make her fall in love with him, all over again. But what if it’s not him that she’s getting close to this time? What if it’s a losing fight? Is he supposed to watch the woman he loves, fall for someone else? Like hell, is he letting that happen.

Tag List Is Open!!

Four Months & One Week After

You stroll to a stop outside the training room, watching through the window. Peter stops, backing up till he’s next to you, watching as well. Clint’s chatting with a woman, your guess is another agent. You have no idea who she is.

“Peter.” You can’t pull your eyes from your boyfriend.

“I can’t hear, it’s how the tower is built.” He shakes his head.

“FRIDAY?” You ask.

“Agent Coulson?” She replies.

“Can you hear Agent Barton’s conversation?” You wonder.

“I can, ma’am.” You and Peter exchange a look.

“Play it.” Peter orders as the agent’s hand lands on Clint’s bicep. 

“You know, I heard about Agent Coulson.” Hanna gives him a sympathetic smile, her hand on his arm.

“There have been serious ups and downs this last four months.” Clint nods.

“I’m sure that’s so hard on you. Losing her like that.” She nods.

“Well in certain ways, it has.” He agrees.

“I mean if you ever want to get together, talk about it or just wind down. I would be more than happy to help you.” She smiles.

“Um.” His head tips slightly.

Mild confusion flooding him. Her hand suddenly no longer friendly feeling on his arm. It sounds like muffled yelling, suddenly. They both look over to find Y/N yelling at Peter.

He’s blocking her path. Looking down at her, as she yells up at him. Her finger pointed at the two of them. Peter replies with something, she clamps her mouth shut, but stomps her foot down on Peter’s. 

Peter hobbles on one foot, yelling after her. As she stalks off down the hallway, and out of sight. He looks at Hanna, who cuts her glance to him. 

“I would stop touching me and probably check your backseat of your car before you leave tonight.” He steps back quickly.

“But she doesn’t. Her memories.” She babbles, looking confused. 

“Oh you didn’t think we broke up did you? She might not remember, but she still loves me.” He smirks.

“How? How does that work?” 

“Her heads broken, not her heart.” Clint snorts. “She’s not supposed to be angry; I’m going to go smooth that over. You might want to look into a transfer. She’s a little unstable, more so now than before.” He warns her. Heading for the door to speak to Peter.

“Peter?” He steps out of the training room.

“Why is it some woman touches you and I get beat up?” Peter wonders, shaking out his foot.

“Don’t sisters usually take their aggression out on their brothers?” Clint wonders.

“You might have a point.” Peter sighs.

“Where’d she go?” Clint chuckles.

“I’m assuming to your apartment, but she might be in that agent’s backseat for all we know.” Peter shrugs.

“I’ll find her.” He sighs.

“Or that agent’s body.” Peter calls after him. He chuckles to himself heading for the elevator. 

----- 

His phone dings before the elevator doors open. Fury announcing a meeting in thirty. He steps off the elevator, she’s staring at her phone confused. She clearly got the same text.

“Fury?” He asks.

“Peter better not have snitched.” She mutters, dropping her phone on the couch, she stalks out of the room. He chuckles, following after her.

“Snitched about your plans to murder another agent?” He wonders, standing in the bedroom doorway.

“Who said I was?” She looks over, batting her eyes.

“Yeah, Nat would.” He nods. She shrugs, going back to digging through her drawers.

“Want to talk about it?” He sits on the edge of the bed, watching her. She’s trying to pick a pair of jeans.

“Talk about what?” She doesn’t turn around this time.

“Hanna.” He smirks.

“Oh who’s that?” She asks, pulling out of a pair of bib overalls. She tosses them at the bed.

“You know I know you. I know you’re angry, and I’m sure you’re trying to remain collected, but I saw you stomp on Peter’s foot.” He smirks when she turns around.

“I saw, heard and witnessed her proposition you.” She throws up a hand.

“Yeah that was weird.” He nods.

“I have fucking brain damage and what woman just think it’s okay to what, solicit you?” She scoffs.

“Do you think I would take them up?” He snorts.

“That’s not the,” she struggles “point. I don’t know! We’re not in the same places.” She points out.

“Y/N just because we’re not in the same place, doesn’t mean I’m going to run off and entertain myself with someone else, while I wait for you to catch up.” He shakes his head. Standing he pulls open the drawers on his own dresser.

“Oh. Well I guess, I knew that somehow.” She runs a hand through her hair. She turns going back to looking for a shirt in her drawer. He quickly grabs his things, setting them on the bed, he stands right behind her.

“You might not remember, right now. But I still plan on keeping you for the rest of my life.” He leans down pressing a soft kiss to the curve of her neck.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” She looks up at him. He shrugs. 

“Our two best friends are some of the most elite spies in the world.” He grins.

“So that would explain the jewelry receipt I found in an empty bag at the back of the closet.” She nods slowly. It’s his mouth that opens a little now.

“When did you?” He stares down at her.

“I was searching for anything that might trigger my memory.” She shrugs, pulling out a white tank top. She shoves the drawer shut.

“Good thing what’s in the back of the closet is from your necklace.” He chuckles.

“Damn.” She whispers. Her hand touches the necklace she never took off. Little silver chair with a arrow at the center. “Is that where this is from?” She looks up.

“I do believe that’s from our third anniversary.” He grins, snatching up his clothes.

“So what did you mean then?” She turns watching him head for the bathroom.

“You don’t really think I’m going to tell you, right?” He laughs, standing in the doorway.

“What about Wakanda?” She lifts a brow at him.

“What part about it?” He grins, leaning on the frame.

“I believe promises were made, never keeping secrets from each other. I believe something else happened as well.” She smirks.

“Do you really remember that?” He wonders.

“I remembered the day your possessive ass kissed me.” She pops her shoulder.

“You knew that whole time?” He gaps at her, a grin forming on his mouth. She brushes up against him as she moves into the bathroom behind him. A grin on her lips, she wiggles her brow at him.

“You walked away before I could say anything.” She shrugs. He turns grinning at her.

“Get back here.” He laughs pulling the door shut. Dropping his clothing to the floor.

“No, Fury called a meeting.” She laughs, trying to slip past him. He catches her around the waist, dropping his mouth against hers. He backs her up till they bump into the door of the shower.

---------------

Everything Peaches 9/3/19 @mo320​ @ml7010​ @courtmr​ @avxgers​ @eliza-kat​ @irepeldirt​ @jordan-ia​ @jcc04220​ @dumblani​ @allyp1023​ @joannie95​ @rogvewitch​ @rileyloves5​ @sarahp879​ @sexyvixen7​ @doctoranon​ @abschaffer2​ @tony-stank3​ @tomhardy41​ @bookluver01​ @drayshadow​ @teller258316​ @wandressfox​ @cutekittybast​ @xoxabs88xox​ @amandab-ftw​ @carostar2020​ @thelostallycat​ @henrietteoaks​ @nea90sweetie​ @circusofchaos​ @bettercallsabs​ @miraclesoflove​ @queenkrissy11​ @shield-agent78​ @elite4cekalyma​ @sadyoungadult​ @destiel-artemis​ @isabelcrichards​ @iwillbeinmynest​ @sweet-honey15​ @scooby-doodoo​ @chanelmadrid13​ @killerbumblebee​ @spookygrantaire​ @geeksareunique​ @supernatural508​ @itzmegaaaaaaan​ @optimistic-babes​ @elizabethaellison​ @rainbowkisses31​ @aspiringtranslator​ @mariekoukie6661​ @pure-princess-97​ @capsheadquaters​ @youclickedthislink​ @futuremrsb-r-main​ @lovemarvelousfics​ @notyourtypicalrose​ @petersunderoos96​ @loving-life-my-way​ @jesseswartzwelder​ @itsy-bitsy-spidergirl​ @buckystolemyheart​ @booktvmoviefangirl​ @thatpeachybandgirl​ @supernatural-girl97​ @abbypalmer14-blog​ @thefridgeismybestie​ @eggingamazinglove​ @deathofmissjackson​ @awkwardfangirl2014​ @muffininahandbasket​ @queenoftheunderdark​ @perpetually-tuned-out​ @laneygthememequeen​ @writingaworldofmyown​ @death-unbecomes-you​ @shann-the-artist-moon​ @supernaturallover2002​ @daughterofthenight117​ @mcuwillbethedeathofme​ @verymuchclosetedfangirl​ @profoundllamanickeleggs​ @for-the-love-of-the-fandom​ @ocaptain-mycaptainmorgan​ @crazy-little-thing-called-buck​ @letsgetfuckingsuperwholocked​ @stupendoussciencenaturepanda​ @supernatural-strangerthings-1980​

Clint ‘Destory Me, I’ll Thank You’ Barton: @ml7010​ @tanelle83​ @sfreeborn​ @coley0823​ @xxloki81xx​ @boltsgirl919​ @carissime72​ @katpatrova17​ @honey-bee-holly​ @marvelfansworld​ @badassbeckettswan​ @fallinginlovewithqueue​ @thecaptainsgingersnap​ @jeremyrennerfanxxxx123​

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