#it's one part of a three parts series

[biazerod]

The "snowed in" comic I've been teasing for every winter past 3 years, finally here! :D

part 1/?

[mumblesplash]

part 2!!!! [read part one here]

transcript below the cut arranged into stanzas to help show where the rhymes are:

“that’s why they brought gem in? as a failsafe?” as a pawn. we were told to point her at whoever we need gone

“gem won’t hurt her allies. …yet.” the curse she carries will it’s had its eye on her since she lost the other eye she was specially selected for her hunting skill it’s quite the high honor. “wow. how generous.” we try

think about it: why does almost no one fight the curse? “given how fast scott killed skizz last season, i can guess.” [“any pain you spare your friends, you’ll have to suffer worse”?] it’s designed to shut down higher reasoning with stress

[khaoala]

❝This is your only chance, Ai'Mook.❞

CHANYA AMARIT as VIVI and AYA ORAPAN as KAIMOOK episode 8 of LOVE SEA

[batchilla]

Your new partner is Grayson.

He’s a weird guy.

Not necessarily a bad guy, but a weird one.

He’s not cold, in fact he’s rather friendly. However, when you really consider it, he volunteered very little information on his personal life. Reasonable, you suppose. So long as he has your back in the field and gets his reports done, you don’t need to be best friends.

Your new partner Grayson is a recent Gotham transplant. You’d never personally been, but you weren’t oblivious to how utterly mad the city was. You could hardly blame him for getting out.

Your new partner Grayson, tenses up whenever someone mentions the Batman, or any of the nutcases he fights. You don’t pry.

You do your own research.

Your new partner Grayson watched his parents die. He’d been taken in by Gotham’s favourite son, a man he seemed reluctant to speak of. He’d had, and lost a brother, to the most deranged man Gotham, if not the world, had ever known.

You stop mentioning Gotham around him after that.

Your new partner Grayson is a weird guy, who seems constantly surprised whenever you demonstrate competency.

At first you’d suspected sexism. It wouldn’t have been your first partner to have that failing.

After a few days though, you catch him being equally surprised when officer Jackson makes a connection on a string of breaking and entries, and realise that perhaps he’s just not used to the cops not being utterly reliant on a very scary angsty furry and a small child without pants.

Your new partner, Grayson, is a weird guy, who disappears sometimes. Middle of a chase he’ll be gone, and you won’t see him again for sometimes as long as hours, before he’s back. More often than not, somehow through some insane luck, the perp will have been taken down by Bludhaven’s new vigilante, and tied to a lamppost for you to find. You both hated and envied his luck.

Your new partner Grayson was a weird guy… and he was a damn good cop.

He made connections like no one else. It was like he had some sort of sixth sense. You’d asked him once, about how he seemed to know all he did. How he seemed to have access to a whole other database of clues you just couldn’t see.

And he’d smiled that cheeky smile of his, and told you he’d been consulting an oracle.

Your new partner, Grayson, moves like nothing you’ve ever seen.

You’d initially attributed it to his past as an acrobat. The way he could simply parkour over and around anything in his way, run faster then he had any right to, chase down a perp like a bloodhound.

It was more than that though. You’d say without hesitation that if you were in a firefight, he’s who you’d want at your side. You must’ve owed him your life three times over by now. Even in those situations though, when no one would have blamed him for the use of lethal force, he never had.

You’d been pinned down by a smuggling ring. You, Grayson, and ten of them - all armed to the teeth.

He’d been incredible. Superhuman, almost.

Someone had shot out the lights. He’d told you one of the smugglers must have missed. You’d never once believed him.

Ten smugglers. You’d managed to knock out and cuff one, unwilling to risk taking a shot blind.

The other nine? Those had been your partner. He had them unconscious in a heap by the time your eyes had adjusted.

No bullet wounds. He’d done it hand to hand.

You didn’t know exactly what he was hiding, but you knew he was hiding something. You decided not to call him out on it. Not as long as you trusted that whatever he was using his … inexplicable skills for was good.

And trust you did.

Grayson was a good man. Even knowing little about him

Which was why this betrayal hurt so badly.

“Say again?”

You’d sat in relative silence in an unmarked police car for about half an hour on a stakeout, and Richard Grayson had just said the worst sentence you’d ever heard. You’d never been so utterly horrified.

“Peeps popcorn.” He says, holding up the tupperware containing an atrocious biohazard, grinning from ear to ear.

“One more time please?” you fight to keep up your faked anger, but fail in the face of that fucking smile.

Honestly, it should be some sort of crime to smile like that. Like everything would work out in the end, so long as you could keep him smiling at you.

“Peeps. Popcorn.” He says it a third time. He’s trying and failing not to laugh at her, at the way her mouth twists and flails to maintain a frown.

He was tempted to tell her it was in vain. He’d broken Batman, and he’d make her smile too.

Honestly, she had such a pretty smile. Not that he’d say that, she was his partner, and they needed to keep things professional.

“It’s my turn to provide stakeout snacks, and so,” he lifts the lid of the peeps popcorn balls.

“Peeps popcorn.”

She rolls her eyes, and looks out the window of the passenger side. But she’s smiling. “It is one of life’s great injustices,” she huffs “that you can eat like that and maintain your… impressive physique.”

Dick feels his chest puff out a little. While he had been able to tell all along that she had a crush on him, but he’d never risk acting on it. Still, it felt nice to be complemented by her.

“Seriously, do you clock off and just do the ninja warrior course all night or something?” She muses, her head against the window, looking at him out of the side of her eye.

“Not exactly,” he replies, sitting back in his seat, bringing his foot up onto the cushion. “Try one.” he presses, poking her side with the container.

She takes one, rolling her eyes and nibbles at the neon cluster of popcorn.

“No. no.” she gags, “oh that's nasty. Oh, it's so sweet. Why? Why Grayson. Why would you do this to me?” she asks, setting the sticky concoction on the divider between their seats.

Dick just laughs “I am determined to make you a peeps convert.”

“Never, regular marshmallows are fine.”

“Peeps are rainbow.”

“How old are you?”

“There is no age too old to enjoy whimsy, Detective.” he responds, biting into his own.

“Besides, are you implying that rainbow marshmallows are irregular? In this day and age? Tut tut.”

“We are not making me out to be a homophobe over peeps!” she protests, still laughing, slightly taken aback at the audacity.

“If you say so.” he says, stretching his arms over his head and into the backseat. Stakeouts were terrible. He was not built to sit still in a confined space for hours at a time. However, this one provided a useful opportunity he cannot afford to waste.

Not to torment her with his war of attrition for peeps supremacy - though that was fun.

He needed to be sure of something else.

“Well. You being wrong about peeps aside. I … wanted to check back on a file from a few months ago. You uh… you didn’t move the Holt murder file, did you?”

“Holt.” she clicks her tongue in thought “the guy with…” she gestures to her chest.

“That's the guy.”

“Not knowingly. I haven’t had cause to reopen it. No new leads. I tried to track down the kid… He didn’t want a bar for me. Guess I can’t blame him. I offered the help I could… but well… the last time someone helped him his dad got brutally murdered. He’s staying in the tent city by the docks, best I can figure.” She seems to feel guilty as soon as she says it, but Dick doesn’t blame her.

He had paid for that room. If he hadn’t… who knows what might have happened?

“But if someone moved it?” he prompts, not wanting to dwell on that gnawing guilt.

“Wasn’t me.”

Your new partner, Grayson, was a weird guy who ate strange and terrible foods.

He blames himself for what happened to poor Mr Holt. Because he was good to the core, and somehow that had led to something utterly twisted.

He’s also standing on your balcony. On the 20th floor.

And it all makes sense now.

Your apartment isn’t particularly nice. It was small, and frequently disorganised. Especially when you got overly invested in a case.

You’d been texted many gifs of the conspiracy board meme by friends over the years.

Work life balance? Not something you’d ever seen much value in.

And now, your unfairly attractive new partner Grayson was in your apartment, in full vigilante getup.

You need to find a way to be normal about that in ten seconds or less, because he’s staring at you, and you're staring at him, and it's starting to get awkward.

“Hello.” you eek out.

He greets you as Detective, followed by your first and last name.

Unusually formal, for him. Unless… unless he somehow thinks a few inches of fabric in the shape of a wingding is going to fool you.

Unless he thinks he’s got you hoodwinked.

“Nightwing… to what do I owe the pleasure?”

He leans in the doorframe, his hands braced against its top, so he is leaning into your space without touching you, and giving you plenty of ability to step back if you so chose. You don’t.

“I have reason to suspect there’s a serial killer moving though Bludhaven. And that whoever they are, they have someone in your precinct on the payroll.”

You fold your arms, bristling.

“Not sure I appreciate the accusation.” Sure, the bludhaven police department was ridiculously corrupted. But you’d hope that your partner would have at least the trust in you not to think you’d help a serial killer.

“No accusation.” he reassures “a request for help. I need someone I can trust inside the department. And my source says that’s you, sherlock.”

His source? Was he kidding?

No. No he wasn’t.

Oh this was madness.

This was hysterical.

He really, truly thinks that you can’t know him outside of his streetwear. And he’s trying to pass it off like he doesn’t know himself either.

Perhaps you should tell him you know.

But… Grayson and his peeps tomfoolery isn’t the only one who can have fun.

“So… you’re asking me to… what, exactly?” You prompt, unfolding your arms, willing to give him a chance.

Nightwing offers you a smile. It’s slightly different from Richard Graysons.

It’s just as sunny, and it makes you feel just as warm and fuzzy and giggly inside. You have to fight even harder to stop yourself blushing, given how much less this getup leaves to the imagination then his usual dress pants, shirt and tie.

But it’s a little more … brazzen. Flirtatious. More… cocky. Sure, He was always at least a bit of a show off, but as nightwing? He was one of the most capable, incredible people alive, and he wasn’t shy about it.

Oh, you were doomed. But that was a problem for later.

“I’m asking you to keep an eye on the ‘heartless’ case. Holt… he’s not the only one and I think there’s going to be more. And, to be blunt?”

He stands up straight, and puts an arm on your shoulder.

“It’s a big request. But you might be the only person in that station who I have real confidence in.”

You wonder what that says about his relationship with himself, but like so many things with Richard, you don’t ask.

“I can do that.”

“And I understand that it’s dange— I’m sorry, did you just agree?” he cuts himself off, staring at you.

You laugh then, just the once.

You owed him your life many times over as his partner. But as nightwing?

Since he’d come on the scene, you’d actually felt like something mattered. Like change could happen.

Like someone was willing to help the people of Bludhaven not to reap a profit, but because the system you’d once hoped to help restore was broken at its very core, and restoration wasn’t the solution - reformation and fundamental change was. And you didn’t know how to do that.

But then Nightwing had come onto the scene, and started kicking the asses of the worst of the worst, and you had felt like you had when you’d joined the force, bright eyed, bushy tailed, and determined to make a difference.

Before the incident. And every other day, when you’d felt that optimism slowly being crushed to death, into a fine powder and blown away in the wind.

“Yeah.” you say, and agreeing to help is one of the best feelings in the world. You get to help. To make a real difference.

“Bludhaven owes you a hell of a lot, Nightwing… seems like the least I can do is tell you if anything weird comes up.”

“Right. Thank you.” he clearly wasn’t expecting this. Maybe he’d thought it would be a harder sell.

“If I do… have anything for you, how should I alert you?”

He passes you a wingding. “Put this in your window. I’ll check in every few days.”

You raise an eyebrow “all your fancy tech and you don’t have a phone”

He shrugs “phones are traceable. Plausibly just something you picked up on a case as a trinket that you ‘forgot’ to log in evidence left on a windowsill? Lot harder to trace.”

“Fair.” you acknowledge.

“Besides.” he steps backwards onto your balcony once more “your place is on one of my main patrol routes. Can’t let anything happen to the best looking detective Blud’s got.”

You scoff, without any real offence. You know he’s only playing, and that he does, as Richard, respect your intellect more then your appearance - but you suppose as ‘nightwing’ he doesn’t know you that well.

“I think you mean best detective full stop.” you respond, and he gives a small bow of playful deference.

“But of course, sherlock.”

And then he’s gone.

That night, you don’t sleep.

You felt so stupid. He’s nightwing. He’s been nightwing the whole time.

The skills. The disappearing. The way he seemed to just… know things.

The way he tensed whenever someone mentioned Gotham.

… the timing of Robin reportedly becoming a child again.

Had your new partner, Grayson, been Robin?

Had he been using the Batman's archives to solve cases? Was that his so called oracle?

… wait.

Was Bruce Wayne the FUCKING BATMAN?

You screamed into your pillow. You were laying awake, face down in your bed, because now you had realised far too many things in one night.

The first: Your new partner is Nightwing.

The second: Bruce Wayne might be Batman.

The third: you, enchanted by that fucking perfect smile, had agreed to help track down a serial killer stealing hearts.

The fourth: Your new partner, Richard Grayson, between his stupid snacks, the Alfred Pennyworth foundation he’s been working to get off the ground, and his work as Nightwing, will save Bludhaven, you know it to your core.

And the fifth. The worst, and scariest part of your night: You may very well have fallen in love with him.

Chapter two

If you read this far, reblog?

Divider credit: @strangergraphics

Tag list:

@jasontoddproblems

@sunnie-angel

@stormz369

First time writing Dick! Feedback is welcome.

[answermywearyquery]

happy vegaspete day!

[royaltea000]

I love Bai Long Ma he truly don’t gaf

[wandixx]

Seriously chaotic fashion misadventures

I realized I posted a teaser and never really followed up on it, so here is some more of that

“Hey, Dami?”

Boy hadn’t looked up from the kittens he was bottle feeding but let out a hum indicating he listened.

“I'm thinking about trying out a more girlish style. Do you think it would suit me?”

Well, Damian had no idea but if Dani wished to give it a chance, then, well, the only proper reaction was to offer his aid.

*-*-*

“Father, I require access to your rouge gallery.”

Bruce almost choked on his breakfast when his youngest made this announcement.

Rouge gallery, as his children playfully called it, was vast collection of lipsticks, which he collected to uphold his Brucie persona. Famous playboy with head constantly in the clouds couldn’t not show up with discreet signs of scandal from time to time. And it couldn’t always be the same shade. Or scent when he choose more subtle approach and used one of his more feminine perfumes.

In all honesty, he enjoyed this.

But that’s not the point, point was that Damian wanted to use it and Bruce needed to know what disaster would fall upon him if he agreed.

“Mind telling me why, chum?”

Dick, who visited Manor for a weekend, barely stifled his laughter while Tim stared at his empty coffee mug like it personally betrayed him. Cass just wore her usual knowing and mischievous smile.

Damian shifted in his chair, hands clenching on butter knife. He was nervous and suddenly Bruce dreaded the answer he was about to hear.

“I don’t see how me sharing this information would change anything. It won’t be used to cause harm to anyone but it’s necessary in the extracurricular project I just started.”

“Dami, what project?” Dick asked, voice oozing with genuine curiosity and excitement. He was almost bouncing.

“I don’t want to disclose it.”

“Is this a hero or civilian type of deal?”

Damian didn’t look any of them in the eyes, both hands clenching on his seat as he kept shifting. Bruce narrowed his eyes. Was his youngest… flustered?

“Civilian”

“Alright, great” Dick swung back with single clap, almost tripping his chair over “I think B won’t have anything against you using his rouge gallery, will he?” Man knew his oldest son well enough to recognize his ‘don’t you dare to disagree’ tone. He was confused but there wasn’t any harm so he nodded with affirmative hum.

“Thank you, Father”

Boy practically inhaled rest of his food and rushed outside. Despite all his training and all his efforts, they clearly saw his excitement. Tim pinched himself and returned to staring at his mug.

“Cass, have you seen what I’ve seen or am I overreacting?” Dick asked, barely restraining his enthusiasm. Girl nodded eagerly, shoving more crumbs into her mouth. Young man cheered, throwing his hands up.

“What have I missed?” Tim mumbled, frowning a little.

“BABY BAT HAS A CRUSH!”

Cass nodded again with wide smile.

Oh.

Oh no.

Who were they? What did he know about them? Was Protocol 3r0s started? Did someone run a background check already? What could they do if they somehow hurt Damian? Was this person a risk to their identities? Oh gods, oh no.

He probably will have to do The Talk™.

He always dreaded having The Talk, with any of his kids. He felt The Talk with Damian would be even worse. Understandably so.

“Also sleep in at least three da-”

“Fuck off, dick.”

“Was this insult or-”

His children remained obvious to how much work it meant, cheering and sassing each other like they often did.

*-*-*

Damian did not know how it was possible but he lowered his guard enough to get caught.

"What are you doing?" Brown choked out after they stared at each other for a long moment.

"It does not concern you–"

"You're rummaging through my wardrobe, not many things concern me more and also, that's frickin creepy don't do it to anyone outside of the family"

She did have a point however he was not convinced it would be the correct approach if he shared his plan. Father's wards (even unofficial like Brown) tended to make assumptions and overreact based on these conjectures. Dani wasn't easy to scare off but he didn't want to check if his family would manage. They often did things thought to be impossible.

He tried to get away but the blonde stood fiercely in a door, leaving the window as the only way out. He wasn't this desperate. Yet.

Girl looked more and more angry at his silence. He had to give her some answers.

Now that he actually considered it, she could be a useful asset. She was far better versed in women's fashion and if he phrased it correctly, he wouldn't even need to bribe her. Question was, how should he phrase it?

"I have an acquaintance- I have a friend," he corrected himself "from the animal shelter I volunteer at. She mentioned wanting to try out more 'girlish style' and asked for my opinion. I wanted to see if you had any clothes that would fit her. She is smaller than me so I thought that whatever I take, it wouldn't be missed." 

Brown grinned with an unsettling gleam in her eyes. He suddenly regretted opening his mouth if not coming to this room in the first place. 

"Say no more, I have a plan Demon Child"

[jessmalia]

Mal's Avatar: The Last Airbender rewatch: The Crossroads of Destiny 2.20

[missfisherandjack]

Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries (2012-2015) ↳ 3x08 Death Do Us Part

[asliceofzosan]

in which Zoro takes the blame for not paying for the food at the Baratie (sequel to Sanji witnessing the riceball incident in Shells Town)

Ribeye steaks piled one on top of the other, a massive helping of mashed potatoes with boatloads of gravy, salads, soups, and fancy dishes with names Zoro can't pronounce — all made up the massively long order list that he knows Luffy has not a single Berry to his name to pay with.

Zoro looks around the place, tuning out the story of the giant goldfish that Usopp has told them before, his eyes resting on the blonde waiter flitting about and flirting with every woman at every table.

Sanji was his name. Zoro didn't recognize it. But when he arrived to their table and saw Zoro, it looked like their resident waiter recognized him. Zoro's reputation in the East Blue is not a laughing matter, so it didn't bother him at first. But the way Sanji stared at him, wide blue eyes and with a touch of a smile on his lips, told Zoro that there's something a lot more than recognition swimming in that man's head.

He can't put a finger on what it is exactly though. It's driving him crazy.

"Waiter, can I get a beer and something for my friends?"

Sanji turns to him and nearly steps back in shock. Zoro quirks an eyebrow, confused and a little annoyed. He wore his best clothes today (Captain's orders). And he's pretty sure he even took his mandatory once-a-week bath before they went inside (Nami's orders). Still the waiter looked at him like Zoro had grown a second head. Like he couldn't quite believe his eyes.

"Maybe there really is something wrong with your eye," Zoro muses, crossing his arms as Sanji quickly straightens his posture and shoves his hands into his pockets. "Got a problem with me, waiter?"

Sanji coughs out a laugh. Zoro notes with narrowed eyes that there is the slightest tint of pink coloring his cheeks. Is he blushing? The fuck?

"None at all, sir. I think I was just seeing things." The look in the waiter's eyes betrays his statement but Zoro chooses to say nothing. With a practiced smile, he turns back to Nami and asks her how she'd like her water that makes Zoro stare at him this time like he's grown a second head.

"And um..." Zoro is surprised Sanji hasn't left yet and is once again directly addressing him. "We have a few specialty riceballs not on the menu today. I'll bring them out... on the house."

Without even explaining what the fuck that meant, Sanji turns on his heels and beelines straight for the kitchen.

"I think Nami's boyfriend might be yours too, Zoro." Usopp teases him with a snicker and the glare he gives him is sharper than the blades of his swords.

Now, here Zoro is, letting Ussop's words affect him more than they have any right to as he downs his third bottle of beer.

The specialty rice balls haven't come out yet. Zoro's starting to think it's just a sick joke. But he doesn't let it get to him. Or tries to. Why offer free food when you can't deliver on it? Fucking ridiculous. And no, it's not like he suddenly craved rice balls when the blasted waiter mentioned them. That's not it at all. Bullshit.

"Didn't the waiter said he's coming by with rice balls?" Zoro finally snaps and the conversation his crew was having died down immediately at his statement. Ah fuck. He probably should have just kept his mouth shut because Nami was now looking at him with a shit-eating grin not entirely unlike the one he gave her when he teased her before the meal.

"How would you like them, oh great swordsman?" She teases with a glint in her eye. She cups her cheeks with her hands in delight at the irritated snarl Zoro gives her.

"With or without seaweed?" Ussop chimes in.

"Cubed or crushed?"

"Fuck off," Zoro hisses between his teeth. Nami and Ussop share a look before bursting into laughter. Zoro looks over at Luffy who was swinging his feet and obliviously sipping his milk. When Luffy makes eye contact with him, he just tilts his head with wide blank eyes and it makes Zoro question all his life choices.

"You wanna ask him?" Luffy says, already clamoring over the booth and waving at the object of Zoro's unexplained irritation. Zoro sinks into the seat as Sanji approaches with the bill for their meal.

"Your bill, sir."

"Zoro's asking if you're gonna bring the rice balls you promised." Zoro just stared up at the ceiling and thought of a million different ways to cut a hole into the floor so that the ocean could take him.

There is a headache inducing silence that follows Luffy's question. Zoro can't help but finally look at the waiter and he doesn't know how to explain the feeling that bubbles up when they make direct eye contact. Maybe it's indigestion. It's probably indigestion.

Instead of bringing up the damn rice balls, Zoro just grabs the tray with the bill from Luffy's hand. Just as expected, his annoyingly endearing captain put down an I.O.U for the ridiculously long list of food they ordered. Several possible scenarios could happen from this. And Zoro doesn't want to think about Luffy wreaking havoc in someone else's kitchen.

With a deep sigh through his nose and a knowing look at Nami, Zoro wrote down his own name in place of Luffy's.

"Zoro, what—" Luffy almost took the bill back when Zoro stood up and handed it directly to the waiter, who looked just as dumbfounded as the rest of them.

"If your head chef's got a problem with that, he can talk to me directly. Tell him that for me, won't you?" Sanji takes the bill, reads what's written, and there's a phantom lurch in his chest that happens when Sanji looks up at him and smiles. Zoro doesn't want to describe it. He'll allow himself to firmly believe that it's a side effect of eating too much food. It's indigestion. You're just constipated. Never mind that the feeling is most prominent in his chest and not his stomach.

"Of course, sir." Sanji purrs and the sound runs like a cold river down Zoro's spine. There's a hint of mischief in the gleam of his visible eye. Every instinct in Zoro tells him it's dangerous. He should take his crew out of here, onto the Merry, and run.

But he stays rooted to the spot, wrist limp on the hilt of his sword, as he watches that damn waiter walk away from him.

"WHO THE HELL IS RORONOA ZORO?!"

The steady routine of washing the dishes helps quiet Zoro's racing mind.

It's a very welcome distraction. The clinking of the ceramic against metal utensils provides a cacophonous symphony that helps drown out all of Zoro's waking thoughts. The sooner he starts to think, the sooner he starts to notice how that stupid fucking waiter has just been sitting at the table behind him, cursing Zoro with his mere presence.

Scrub scrub scrub...

"You sure you don't want any help?"

Scrub scrub rinse...

"No."

Scrub rinse dry...

"I really have nothing better to do."

Zoro's eye twitches.

"Good for you."

A long silence follows this and Zoro thinks the waiter finally gave up. That was until...

"Are you still mad about the rice balls?"

"Oh my god!" Zoro nearly slams a pile of dishes onto the floor. He turns to Sanji, who is just casually smoking at the table, and stomps over to him. Once he was right in front of him, Zoro snarls at him, one hand on the hilt of his sword.

"Talk about those damn rice balls one more time, I'm gonna chop your head clean off for them to use in tomorrow's ramen stock."

Sanji blinks, then turns his head to the side to blow smoke away from Zoro. Zoro tries to convince himself that he isn't staring at the way Sanji's lips purse around the cigarette in the process.

"I can still make you the rice balls," Sanji says without a single ounce of fear in his body. "I just couldn't do it while the old man was around." He then stands up and steps around Zoro with a practiced grace. "Are you willing to wait ten minutes?"

"I'm not hungry," Zoro hisses but his stomach betrays him with a loud grumble. He's been washing dishes for so many hours. He probably missed dinner.

Then, as Zoro straightens his posture, Sanji does it again — he smiles and Zoro doesn't know what to do.

"Sit." Sanji gently nudges a chair out with his foot. It lands perfectly in front of Zoro at a perpendicular angle. "I'll have them out in five."

"You said ten minutes." Zoro found himself saying, only to be contradictory. Sanji laughs this time and the resulting smile pierces Zoro's heart with a million cursed swords.

"When someone's hungry, I feed them." Sanji says simply and that's the statement that ends their conversation. Zoro still refuses to sit on the chair, instead finding himself gravitating towards the counter that Sanji was preparing his ingredients at and leaning against the marble.

Before Sanji found them at their table, he brought down a marine and a fearsome pirate with just his feet. Zoro was fascinated by his fighting style even if he didn't want to admit it out loud. But he's always been curious. Especially now, with Sanji whipping out the sharpest knives and using them effortlessly as Zoro would wield the Wado Ichimonji.

"You're good with knives," Zoro says before he could stop himself. Sanji chuckles.

"Of course, I am. I'm a chef. Best one in the East Blue."

"What's a chef doing waiting tables, then?"

"Cause I was kicked off the line this morning. It's a weekly occurrence, nothing special." The way Sanji scrapes his ingredients into a bowl betrayed how he felt about it despite his nonchalance. "I can cook better dishes than everyone in this damn kitchen but Zeff refuses to acknowledge that. It's always 'your food is crap', 'slice those carrots thinner', or 'needs more fucking oregano—"

Sanji throws the knife onto the cutting board, its tip now embedded neatly straight down the middle. It stood perfectly still, like it was afraid of what Sanji could do if he added more pressure. Zoro raised an eyebrow, looking up at the now irritated cook with a smirk.

"Sorry," Sanji mumbles, taking the knife and cleaning it carefully with a cloth. Zoro says nothing. He just props his elbow on the counter and places his chin into his hand as he watches Sanji in his element. Eventually, it's down to just shaping the rice balls with his hands and Zoro asks the question that poked at his mind during Sanji's mini outburst.

"If you're so dissatisfied cooking here why don't you just leave?"

Sanji pauses. His head is down, his blonde fringe obscuring one eye as his fingers twitch against the rice ball.

"It's not about that."

"Yeah?" Zoro leans as close as he could get with the counter between them. Sanji still refuses to look up. "A hot-headed cook who claims to be the best in the East Blue settling down here — where he is not head chef — is as contradictory as it gets."

"You don't know–" Sanji snaps but stops himself immediately. He looks up to glare at Zoro through narrowed eyes. "You don't know why I still stay."

"Enlighten me then, cook." Zoro leans his hip against the counter. "Because really, someone as good as you claim to be has got to have some ambitions. Dreams." Zoro holds the man's gaze. "Do you hate the old man?"

"No!" Sanji counters immediately. "The man fucking raised me. I owe him my goddamn life!"

"Owing him your life isn't the same as giving up your life to work at a restaurant that barely lets you cook."

"You don't know shit!" Sanji nearly slams his fist down on the counter, pointing a finger at Zoro with his face beet red. "This restaurant was his dream—"

"But is it your dream?"

Silence. Total utter silence.

Where color is nothing but a dark void of black and grey, a sea of blue greets him from the pages. Vivid pink skies and tangerine mangroves burst to life. All types of fish swim in his mind's eye but if he reaches out to touch them, it certainly should be real. A phantom breeze kisses his cheeks and water laps at his feet. He's drowning but he swims in delight. He's falling but he feels the clouds cushion him with warmth.

There is a vast ocean out there, one that contains delicacies and species from all four seas. Creatures of every kind, spices that have never been tasted.

The All Blue.

In Sanji's world of black and white — he strives to find the one place that's in screaming color.

There are tears in Sanji's eyes before Zoro could comprehend what was going on. But he wipes them away before he can get a good look at him. The kitchen was quiet around them. The only sound peeking through was the faint music from the bar outside. Though Zoro's heartbeat was louder in his ears than his own breathing.

But he could hear each footstep Sanji takes, the scrape of the plate as it's pushed in Zoro's direction, and the click click of Sanji's lighter as he helps himself to another cigarette. Zoro looks down and sees the rice balls presented in front of him — three heaping helpings, all coated in a different topping, all different flavors.

Zoro takes one.

And it's the best rice ball he's ever had in his life.

"I have a dream," Sanji murmurs, cigarette hanging loosely from his lips. One glance and Zoro could see that whatever his dream is... it still burns like molten lava in the heart of this chef. "I'd just rather give up on it than die searching for mine."

Zoro swallows, turns around, and takes the cigarette from Sanji. The ashes fall into his palm, its embers dimming as he squishes it between his fingers.

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," Zoro says, looking up to make eye contact with Sanji. He can see it almost immediately — the longing for something that seems near impossible to achieve, the acceptance that it's hopeless — but Zoro sees it, clear as day, that the flickering flame of hope still shines in Sanji's eyes. That he's just waiting for his sign to let it once again consume his soul in a roaring fire, brighter than even the sun could be.

Zoro wants to see him shine.

"Come meet my captain," Zoro instinctively wraps his hand around Sanji's wrist. Surprisingly, Sanji doesn't pull back. "I think he'd really like to get to know you."

Sanji doesn't protest.

Zoro takes the rice balls to go.

Never waste food.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

MDZS x Legally Blond Crossover 2: Nie Huaisang Goes To Jail.

(part one)

[ozimagines]

Oswald Psychiatric Hospital, West Wing

Uncooperative (1/?)

They had to sedate him in the ambulance. When he’d been Baker Acted, as it had been come to be known, he went into a full blown panic attack. He was labeled ‘uncooperative’, thrashing away from the medical personnel and law enforcement that had been called to abort his attempt on his life. If you asked Miguel, he wasn’t trying to die. If you asked Miguel what he was trying to do, he wouldn’t have had an answer for you. That’s probably what got him taken away. He should have come up with an excuse for the mouthful of pills before they got there. In his defense, he didn’t know the suicide hotline could contact law enforcement, and furthermore, he didn’t know law enforcement had the power to Baker Act. Miguel was unable to focus his eyes, even his toes going numb as his heart pounded the sense out of him. He turned to his side to see the paramedic next to him. Grace.

“Hey… Grace…” he slurred as the sedatives took over his system, his eyes still blurry. “I’m feeling much better now… you don’t have to take me to the hospital anymore…”

Grace the paramedic rolled her eyes, knowing that his lame attempts at escape were all for naught. Miguel tried to get up as if he wasn’t strapped down. Grace tutted.

“They told us you were uncooperative. Stop fighting it, you’re only making it worse for yourself.”

‘worse for yourself’ burned a hole in Miguel’s head. How could things be worse? He was getting put away. No one knew how to help him anymore, so they were locking him up. Miguel tried to escape verbally a few more times during processing, the actual process taking hours. These hours provided plenty of time for Miguel to panic. He panicked so much they had to strap him to his bed in the hospital and keep him sedated until he was through processing; through those big, heavy doors with mystery on the other side.

“I’m not a nutcase though.” Miguel reasoned with the intake nurse. “I don’t really have to be here.”

“Mr. Alvarez-“

“Miguel.”

“Miguel.” The intake nurse said with a kind of harshness. It helped to hear him first name. He felt so much like a number the other way. Miguel read the name tag; Eugene Rivera. “You’re exactly where you belong. You tried to commit suicide not twelve hours ago. Here you’ll be safe.”

“Mr. Rivera… can I call you Eugene?”

Rivera nodded tersely and continued to fill out forms.

“Look, imma level with you, I can’t be here.” Miguel pleaded with him, trying to keep as level a head as possible. When you’re mentally ill, any big reaction is categorized as an overreaction. “See, I’ll lose my job. I can’t afford to pay the copay for being here. The ambulance ride alone-”

“Miguel, I’m going to level with you.” Rivera looked him straight in the eyes. “Debt is the least of your worries. You can’t pay anything back to anyone if you’re dead.”

Miguel tensed up, his eyes narrowing.

“I didn’t try to kill myself.”

Rivera nodded, but made a face that showed that he didn’t believe it for even a second. He started working on the forms again, when someone entered the room from the only door out, being let in by some security. Miguel instantly shivered.

“Hello,” the man checked his clipboard. “Miguel, right?”

“…yeah.”

The man in the suit smiled, as genuinely as he was able. Creeped Miguel out a little.

“I’m Tim. This is Sean. We work on the West Wing of the Oswald Psychiatric Hospital. Why don’t you tell us why you’re here-“

“I didn’t try to kill myself.” Miguel snapped, losing his cool for a second. That Tim guy kept smiling. The Sean guy didn’t smile once.

“Wanna explain the mouthful of pills you had when the paramedics arrived?”

Miguel went to answer and then hesitated. He side eyed Eugene for a second, who was writing everything down.

“Does he have to be here?” Miguel asked, lamely.

“Yes.” Rivera said without looking up, making more notes. Alvarez craned his neck to see what he was transcribing, but Eugene moved his notes away.

“I wasn’t feeling good, that’s all.”

“So you took enough antidepressants to tranq an elephant?” Tim responded, swirling his iced coffee in his cup for a second. Alvarez wanted to deck him. “Okay, so you didn’t try to kill yourself, but you came awfully close to doing it anyway.”

“I didn’t swallow the pills.”

“Why’d you tell the 988 that you did?”

Miguel hesitated again, casting another glance at Rivera.

“Look, the bitch was giving me the same runaround I get from everyone. I’m depressed, so I called for someone to talk to me -just talk- until I calmed down. She kept asking questions. ‘Do you have a plan?’ and ‘have you executed a plan?’ And I’m just trying to tell her how I feel.”

“Uh huh, so then you took the pills.”

“I told her I just needed to talk. Just calm down and she kept trying to figure me out and if I was trying to die-“

“That’s pretty standard for a Crisis Line.”

Miguel took a deep breath, that vein in his forehead starting to bulge. They weren’t listening.

“No, I just needed someone to talk to me, like a person, just for fifteen minutes to feel like a person again. Fifteen minutes. She kept asking me if I had a plan so I told her about the antidepressants, that I was in pain and didn’t want to be in pain anymore.”

“And then you took the pills?”

Miguel slammed his hands down on the desk, and the security guy -Sean- put himself between Tim and Miguel, Eugene jumping back a little. Miguel curled into himself immediately.

“I’m sorry. No, I just… I didn’t put the pills in my mouth until I heard the paramedics. I got scared. I just told her I did so she would try and talk to me like a human being, but she’d already called the cops and I got picked up.”

Tim nodded his head.

“So you never actually took anything?”

Miguel sighed in relief.

“No… I never took any of the pills.”

He’d expected Tim to slap his forehead and release Miguel, apologizing for them being so silly. He didn’t, though.

“Unfortunately, Miguel, the paramedics showed up at your place and you had a mouth full of at least 6,000 milligrams of sertraline, so the cops weren’t gonna take your word that you weren’t intending to swallow them.”

Miguel’s heart sank.

“Why’d you even ask?”

“To assess your thought process at the time. Most non-suicidal people don’t call 988 and try to down a month’s supply of their antidepressants, just a note.” Tim took a sip from his coffee and Miguel wanted to hit him all over again. “So this is a no lose situation; we’re not gonna chance sending you home. You have a 72 hour psych hold right now with the possibility of extension if the 72 hours aren’t deemed sufficient.”

“Who deems it sufficient?”

“The doctor.”

“Can I see the doctor now?”

“Dr. Nathan will check in with you once every day, and assess the hold, but it will be at least 72 hours before you’re considered for release.”

Miguel’s heart raced again. He wasn’t good with small spaces; wasn’t good with being captive to anyone.

“What happens if they don’t deem the 72 hours sufficient? Can I sign myself out against medical advice?”

“No, you can go before a judge and contest the doctor’s decisions, but then you’d have to wait for a court date.”

Miguel’s heart beat even faster. Tim must have seen the look of panic in his eyes.

“Miguel,” he waved Sean to the side and sat down in the chair next to him. “You’re here because you need to be here.”

“It wasn’t a real attempt.” He pleaded, threading his fingers and rocking himself back and forth. Tim smiled sadly and patted his knee.

“All attempts are real attempts, Miguel. People don’t do what you did in a normal state of mind, even if you weren’t intending to die.” He put on his best dad face. “In time, you’ll see this for what it is; help. We’re not the enemy, Miguel.”

“You’re not exactly an ally.” Miguel grumbled, leaning back in his chair anxiously. He saw one word on the chart in front of Rivera.

Uncooperative.

He tried to calm himself down, but no one was listening to him. No one gave a shit. They didn’t ask him why he’d called the hotline. Why he was on the antidepressants in the first place. What had him sad enough to call a crisis line. No, they just wanted to ask about the damn pills. The pills were a symptom, not a cause.

Still, he knew enough at this point to understand that being marked ‘uncooperative’ wouldn’t get him out of there any faster. So he swallowed his pride and let them lead him to the West Wing. The involuntary, complicated, uncooperative ward.

First thing he noticed was that there were paintings on the wall, but not in frames like normal paintings, literally painted to the smooth, beige wall. The one closest to him was a palm tree and an ocean view. He thought it was cruel, painting lovely vistas in a place people weren’t free to leave. He saw an outline of something in marker drawn on the wall. He focused his eyes to see what it was. Someone had taken a faint orange marker and drew a hard dick halfway down the palm tree. He smiled against his better judgement.

Miguel took in the common area, filled with men just like him who had been deemed to be a threat to themselves or others. The involuntarily held. The uncooperative. Tim touched his arm and led him to a black man in a wheelchair.

“This is Augustus, and he’ll help you adjust to life in Oz- that’s what the patients call it. Oz.” He smiled a little. “Nice, right? Like the Wizard of.”

“Wasn’t the Wicked Witch from the West?” Miguel said, heatedly. And he heard an unhinged laugh behind him. He turned to see a large black man and a skinny white man laughing their asses off, listening to the conversation. Tim rolled his eyes.

“Ryan, Simon, please, be cordial.”

“Sorry, sir,” Ryan remarked sarcastically. “I thought we were being cordial by laughing at the new guy’s joke. Right, Adebisi?”

“Oh, yeah,” he smiled unkindly. “Very cordial.”

Tim turned to Miguel.

“They’re the resident jokesters.” He explained away and that only sent Ryan and Adebisi into further hysterics. They seemed to laugh at anything and everything. He scanned the room again. There were two older men sitting at a table, playing cards. A curly, black haired man sitting by the window and staring off into nothing. There was a tall, thin black man who looked like he was tweaking coming straight towards them. Shit.

“McManus, my man, you got any more o’ that clonaze-whatever? Feelin’ a little shaky right now…” he droned on, and Tim took a deep breath before answering.

“No more clonazepam, Omar, it’s a controlled substance. We told you if you tested positive, your controlled substances would be stopped and not restarted.”

“Okay, yeah, but, see, I can’t not take the clonazepam, ‘cause, like, I’ll go fuckin’ crazy without it, like I’m talkin’ loco, my man…” he went to put his arm on McManus’s shoulder and Sean shut him down, pushing his hand away.

“No, Omar. You already took your Hydroxicine dose for the next two hours. You’ll just have to make do until then.”

“Yeah, McManus, but you see-“

“No, Omar.” McManus said resolutely and Sean stepped between them again.

“Ok, White, back up.”

“Woo! Murphy!” O’Reily cheered, patting Simon on the shoulder, both laughing.

“Get ‘em, baby!” Simon jeered. Omar was escorted away and to his room by other orderlies. Miguel was sufficiently stressed out, hand on his head and starting to feel the room spin. This wasn’t happening. He didn’t belong there. He wasn’t crazy like these people.

Augustus must have known what he was thinking.

“Nobody thinks they belong here, man.” He advises Miguel. “It’s like how the saying goes that prison is filled with innocent men; wards are filled with sane people.”

“Yeah, we’re fuckin’ innocent, dog.” Ryan tormented from the table, laughing wildly at the glare thrown his way by both men.

“What’s their problem?” Miguel asked Augustus, who gestured for them to go down the hall. The West Wing was shaped like a U, the base of which was the common area with large see-through cells along the walls.

“Adebisi’s easy; he was caught being disorderly and violent so he said he wanted to kill himself to end up here instead of in jail.”

“Does that work?”

“Sometimes. But you’d have to be somewhat crazy to do what he was doing. Lotsa public indecency and shit. They say he has delusions of grandeur.”

“And Ryan?”

“Went on a bender after his brother died. Drank himself nearly to death. BP to the motherfucking D. It’s unclear how much of reality he understands.” Augustus shook his head. Miguel nodded his head towards the man with the curly black hair and a vacant expression.

“And him?”

“Peter. Doesn’t talk much. PTSD. Only says he’s here because his parents croaked, but he gets dailies from Dr. Peter Marie.”

“Why’s that important?”

“Dr. Pete specializes in sexual trauma.”

“Oh.” The realization made Miguel double take Peter in the hallway, who didn’t even acknowledge his existence.

“The tweaker was Omar. Used so much coke he went and gave himself bipolar with psychosis. Get high enough and you never come down.” Augustus rolled his wheelchair down the hallway, explaining the various states of all of its inhabitants.

“Him?”

“Kenny. Our youngest in the ward. Only turned 18 a week before they locked him up. Like the song goes; buys a gun, stole a car, tries to run, but he don’t get far.”

“Him?”

“Good Ol’ Robson. Big tough guy but gets regulars from Dr. Pete as well. Wouldn’t go mentioning that to him though.”

“Him?”

“Bobby Rebadow; got committed at the ripe age of 32… then had so much ECT his brain turned to mashed potatoes. He doesn’t speak but when he does, he tells us what God’s telling him.”

“And you?”

Augustus stopped rolling, looking up at Miguel very seriously.

“My theory or the official reason?”

“Both I guess.”

“I think it’s ‘cause I know too much. I got their numbers, so they gotta keep me locked up before I blow the whole operation.”

“…and the official reason?” Miguel asked, eying Augustus uneasily. Augustus smiled.

“Paranoid schizophrenia.” He laughed as he rolled himself away, cackling into the distance.

Miguel just watched him, taking his paper bag of toiletries to his room. Some of the architecture was odd until you thought about it for three seconds. The door handles were smooth and oblong triangle shaped. So were the rails in the bathroom. Took Miguel a moment before he realized they were hang proof. No window blinds either, just these movable wooden slats that filtered in the sunlight. He checked his toiletries. All non-toxic lest they be swallowed. Barely a few ounces of shampoo and conditioner, with a little bar of soap. No razor. Made sense.

He crumpled up the brown bag and started arranging his toiletries. He looked down at his shirt and pants. Since he’d been wearing pants with strings and a hoodie with the same, he’d been moved into hospital gown shirt and pants. It was damn near see through, but as his last outfit was not deemed safe, they said they’d get him some safe clothes when he was through processing. They’d yet to get him actual clothes. He felt so exposed in those gowns.

“Hey.”

Miguel jumped a little at the new and unexpected presence of yet another member of the whimsical ward of wonders. The man had waves of jet black hair pressing against caramel skin, and one eye that didn’t seem to be following its twin. It was nearly painful how handsome he was, Miguel thought with an odd amount of shame afterwards. He couldn’t believe that was his first thought upon meeting his new roommate, but he’ll be honest, he kinda thought wards were all crazy people zombified by meds. It was hard to see someone so vibrant in a place like this.

“H-hey, I’m Miguel.” Miguel went to put out his hand to the roommate, who didn’t take it, just eyed him suspiciously. Miguel retracted his hand a second later. “We bunking together?”

“Seems so.” The new man said with a raised brow. “Tu eres Latino?”

“Sì.” Miguel answered instinctively. The other man instantly warmed up, putting his hand out this time. Miguel shook it, but the other man guy yanked him forward so they were an inch apart. Miguel immediately revolted, trying to move away from the other man as his arms held him close.

“Get undressed.” He breathed, splitting into an insane smile where both of his eyes lit up. Miguel found his strength and pushed the man back, until he hit the side of the bed and grunted, holding his hip. “Pendejo…”

“Pendejo yo? Tu eres pendejo.” Miguel got into a fighting stance, ready to call for guards and remove his would be abuser. The man just kept rubbing his hip.

“Undress, fuckhead, I was gonna lend you some clothes.” He hissed in pain again. That bedframe hurt like a motherfucker.

“What? Why?” Miguel found himself asking, heart rate self soothing.

“First time in one of these hellholes?” The man asked, sitting in his bed with his legs crossed underneath him, bouncing a little with a playfulness that seemed way out of place.

“Yeah…” Miguel confirmed, rubbing the back of his neck and looking out into the hall to see if he needed to get any help.

“Well, they ain’t exactly quick about giving us shit. Taking shit, they’ll do in an instant, but giving shit? They take their damn time.” He bounded up and went into his own brown paper bag and fished out some clothes. Just an old pair of pants, no strings, and a baggy shirt. Man even fished out a clean pair of briefs and tossed them over to his roommate’s bed.

“I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but why are you doing this?”

“Eventually you’re gonna start to stink in those things. You can’t wash ‘em, so every time you get clean you gotta put them dirty things back on. I’m just saving both of our noses.” He laughed, and Miguel felt his face heat up a little in embarrassment.

“What’s your problem?” The man asked suddenly, taking Miguel a little off guard, if not for the goofy fucking smile that remained.

“My problem?”

“Sure, you don’t get set up in a palace like this ‘less you got a problem. Tell me your die-agnosis, my child, and I’ll absolve you.” He made the cross with his fingers on his chest, still laughing to himself.

“I’m here because of a misunderstanding. I didn’t try to kill myself.” Miguel asserted as if there were video cameras waiting to hear him admit otherwise. Shit, there probably were. The other man let loose a boisterous laugh.

“What a fuckin’ coinky-dink. I’m here ‘cause I didn’t try to kill myself too!” He kept laughing on his bed for so long that it made Miguel uncomfortable. He felt like the man was mocking him, so he reacted as such.

“Fuck you, cabron.” Miguel shot, angrily. The man instantly sat up, still smiling, and wagged a finger at him.

“Ooooh, careful, baby, you don’t want the orderlies to have you sedated. See, that’s what happens whenever we get agitated, man. A little too wily coyote for their roadrunners.”

“Uncooperative.” Miguel echoed, and the other man touched the tip of his nose and pointed.

“Bingo.” He laughed again to himself and reached for something under his bed. It was a soft, thin journal with a packet of thin markers.

“They give you your coloring pages yet?”

“Coloring pages? How old do they think we are?”

“No, no, Miguel, it’s how bored do they think we are? And the answer is; bored enough to color their damn My Littlest Petshop coloring pages.” He reached into the book and pulled out a page of a cartoon turtle, showing it off proudly. It was fairly well colored in, except Chico had made one addition; the turtle had a massive, hard cock sticking out from under it, and a voice bubble that said ‘What do you call a turtle with a hard on? A slow poke!’. Miguel thought to the palm tree painting outside.

“You do that little number on the palm tree painting too, Picasso?”

He laughed again and nodded big.

“So you’re familiar with my work?”

“You certainly have a style.” Miguel chuckled, already feeling more at ease. He stepped into the bathroom to change, and it was nice ditching the hospital gown. He suddenly got very self conscious. He looked up and the man was standing in the bathroom doorway, looking straight at Miguel’s dick.

“Jesus, man, personal space just isn’t a thing for you, is it?”

“Nah, kinda got numb to all that bullshit ages ago. Everybody sees everybody sees everything here.” He picked at his nails, eyes still going between the dirty digits and the prick of his new roommate.

“You didn’t tell me your name, man.”

“You don’t miss a trick, do you, cowboy?” He snorted as Miguel hiked up the pants to take away the show. The man gave him a face that said; ‘party pooper’. “It’s Carmen, but if you say that name, ain’t nobody gonna answer, ya dig? It’s Chico to everyone who ain’t an orderly or a doc.”

“Chico?”

“Chico.” He smiled, made a little finger gun, and winked as he clicked it. Miguel couldn’t help the little laugh that followed.

There was a little knock on the doorframe, and both men turned, Miguel assessing the situation and Chico smiling that eternal, everloving, goofy ass smile. There was another Latino standing there. Tall, with a scruffy head of hair and beard.

“Chico, it’s chow time.” The man regarded Miguel with the barest form of recognition; a head nod, before he turned away and went into the common area.

“That’s Carlos. Don’t let his rudeness confuse you; he’s ten times worse once you get to know him.” Chico cackled again at his own wit, and Miguel shook his head, still smiling. Honestly, the situation could be worse.

That’s what Miguel thought until he saw what was for dinner; cold pasta with mayo, carrots, and cheddar cheese. He could have fucking vomited.

He collected his tray and Chico called him over to his table, full with people. That Carlos guy. Ryan and Adebisi. Another fluffy haired, younger Latino who had a blank stare in his eyes. That Augustus guy. A heavyset black man stood at the precipice of another table, calling out poetic phrases into the air;

“Tried to die / I did that / In another person’s body / Not too far from here / I wrote a note / I did that / To explain why / You won’t be seeing me anymore / I opened the pills / I did that / Hoping my pain would stop / When I saw the bottom of the bottle / They call us worriers / We’re just warriors / That haven’t died yet /To claim that honor…”

“What’s that from?” Miguel asked Chico as they sat down. Chico shrugged, still grinning.

“His own fucked up brain, I guess. That’s Poet. He’s one of the few entertainments we get in here. We only get music therapy every week or so and the TV’s been busted for some time now.”

“How long you been in here?” Miguel asked, and Ryan let loose a sharp laugh. Chico’s eyes shifted but he never lost that insane smile.

“Just as long as everyone else, man, too long.”

Miguel gestured to Chico’s food; he had chicken nuggets instead. Miguel asked how you get that instead of the shitty casserole.

“You try and stab your wrists with the plastic fork, ma, that’s how.” Ryan informed, licking his spoon ravenously after dipping it into the salad dressing. “You get the finger food diet from then on, right, Chico, my man?”

Chico kept his head down, eating his food, not acknowledging the topic but a brief smile in Miguel’s general direction. Miguel’s eyes were drawn down to a faint scar on his wrist. It turned his stomach if he was honest. Chico must have noticed, because he nodded his head to Ryan.

“Don’t pay him too much mind, yo, he’s been on the holy trinity for some time now.” At Miguel’s confused expression, he elaborated; “Lamotrigine for moods, risperdal for psychosis, and sertraline for depression. Mood, ups, and downs; the holy trinity.”

He made that cross gesture with his hand again. Ryan didn’t mind; he held out his arms as if to say ‘you know it’.

“What can I say, homie, I applied myself. Gotta cover all them bases.”

“That reminds me, I usually take my… my meds at 9ish.” Miguel kept it vague, not as comfortable with everyone knowing his shit as some of the others. “Do they need my med regimen or what?”

“Med regimen, dig him.” Ryan remarked and Adebisi laughed.

“They got your file, Miguel.” Augustus informed him, rolling his eyes at the idiots he was forced to be friends with. “Any meds you need, they got for you. We take ‘em after dinner, after breakfast, and after lunch if they’re thrice dailies. Plus they’re gonna give you new ones.”

“New meds?” Miguel shook his head. “I don’t need new meds.”

Everyone at the table laughed.

“Yeah, your meds are working super, chocha, that’s why you tried to kick the bucket.” Carlos stated, meanly. Miguel turned bright red and stared at his shoes. Chico noticed. Everyone did but Chico gave a shit. He nudged Miguel’s shoulder.

“Carlos is just pissy ‘cause his cariprazine makes him constipated.”

Miguel snorted, and Ryan sent a couple of ‘ooohs’ Carlos’ way, who lifted his hand up and smacked a middle finger against his palm.

“Fuck you.”

“Name the time and the place.” Chico fake kissed in Carlos’ direction, who rolled his eyes and stood to throw his food away.

Miguel was thankful that Chico took the spotlight off of him for a second. He sent an appreciative glance his way, before feeling like it was too much affection, and looking away. Chico clocked it before he stopped, smiling a little into his food.

“Keep the juice you don’t drink and the dessert you don’t eat, we bet those playing cards later. That and the little grippy socks they give you. Shit gets cold in here sometimes.” Chico advised before going to throw his food away. Miguel nodded, and followed in suit, not being extremely hungry for the cuisine. The 72 hours would be somewhat bearable. There was always the creeping thought that it wouldn’t end at 72 hours. That the doc would say he was loco and keep him there, forever in the worst of cases. He could be like that Rebadow guy who barely remembered his own name. Poet kept reciting off to the side.

“I went to the hospital / I did that / Where they give you clothes / Made of paper / And if they rip, you’re exposed / Like a nerve ending / Or a vein / Once shielded / Now open to all / To poke and prod / And try to put me back together again / I told the doctors how I felt / I did that / Only to hear / That this is life my dear / And it will never ever end / I cried alone in my room / I did that / Because their words of comfort / Reach me like knives / Driving deeper with each syllable…”

It came time for bedtime and the lights in the main area were turned out, people trudging to their beds and doors being shut. Miguel and Chico got into their respective beds, settling in for the night.

“I’m no good at sleeping away from home”. Miguel admitted into the darkness.

“You get used to it.” Chico responded, turning over.

“I’m no good at sleeping in silence either.”

“Clearly.” Chico snorted. Miguel smiled softly and turned over, closing his eyes and trying to get himself to sleep. The silence was deafening. He still couldn’t shake this creepy feeling all over him. He turned his body towards Chico, and came face to face with the man who had apparently moved out of bed.

“Wh-?” Miguel started to ask before he felt Chico’s lips crash into his, hand on the back of his head, lips moving rhythmically together. He felt something push into his mouth on Chico’s tongue and go down his throat. Chico kept kissing him for another minute or so, rubbing his thumb along the side of Miguel’s head. Miguel’s heart went from racing to lub dubbing peacefully under his roommate’s touch. Chico pulled back and pecked his lips again, softly, smirking at him dickishly. Miguel gave him a puzzled, questioning look. Chico just puckered his lips and winked.

“Diazepam… you’ll sleep like a fucking baby.” He got up and stroked Miguel’s head once more before he went to his bed. “Nighty night, precioso.”

Miguel panicked a little at taking meds that weren’t his own, before his heart started beating slower, and a weight was lifted off his shoulders, the room sort of stopping spinning but melting away underneath him. It was an out of body experience, taking valium for the first time. It felt as if someone were sitting on him, like a weighted blanket, going shh shhh shhhh until he drifted off to sleep. He was able to breathe again for the first time in a long ass time. It cradled him as he went to sleep, letting those bad feelings from only 18 hours prior be forgotten. Everything was forgotten. It was only Miguel and his bed and that glorious son of a bitch Chico snoring away next to him.

Miguel, for the first time in a long time, was cooperative.

[dalandduh]

Goober...

[weatherera]

The Hero

[cluescorner]

I cannot imagine being a Damian stan right now. You've got both Zdarsky's bullshit (where he clearly doesn't give a shit about your boy) and The Boy Wonder (where Juni Ba clearly gives so many shits about your boy) coming out on the same day. The whiplash must be insane. I hope y'all get some nice warm soup for your efforts jfc

[thenotoriousscuttlecliff]

Saw a review of Wheel of Time S2 that said they depart from books by pulling the characters in too many directions with not enough to do and I was like "Dude, there's nothing more Robert Jordan than pulling the characters in too many directions with not enough to do"