#ive been fussing w this way too long so here

[jasmancer]

I often describe my ideal Laura&Gabby dynamic as "Lilo and Nani" which led to this

[sixtyeightdays]

Timinette social media or timinette with being underappreciated?

i am so sorry this took so long but i hope you like this! :)

i kind of strayed off topic a little and its a little mess so im sorry for that but i hope this is okay

this will have some bruce bashing so uh yeah 

theres also tim and jason brotherly bonding because i am a sucker for brotherly bonding fics.

also, tim, mari, chloe (basically the parisian folks) are 16. jason is 19, dick is 23, and damian 13.

-

Timothy Drake Wayne had had his issues with his own self worth before.

Unlike everyone else in the family, he hadn’t been born into the family, or even been chosen to be part of it. This did sometimes result in a severe drop in Tim’s confidence levels, but he always managed to bring it back up.

Eventually, Tim found that the best way to deal with it was just to accept it. Not act out on it or anything. No, it was best to just accept it and be on his way.

At first, he had fought the unwanted thoughts invading his head, but appointing him as CEO of Wayne Enterprises had been the final straw that broke the camel’s back.

If they didn’t want me in the family, why would they make me CEO of Wayne Enterprises? Tim thought.

But then it pushed itself into Tim’s mind.

Because they don’t want you at the manor.

Tim shoved the thought away and shook his head, looking out the plane window.

Just.. accept it. There’s nothing he could to but accept it. He had no one to talk to either.

Damian would probably jeer at him and call him a weakling. Tim didn’t really need that. Bratty little 13 year old, that one. Besides, Damian wouldn’t care about it anyway, probably just tattle on him in hopes of getting Red Robin benched permanently.

He had contemplated talking to Dick about it for a while. After all, Dick was the ever so helpful Golden Boy. But then he decided against it. Of everyone in the family, Tim would never expect Dick of all people to understand issues with self worth. Dick was told very often that he was loved, wanted. Dick would probably tell Bruce anyway, and that was the last thing Tim wanted.

Jason.. well he was busy. He was always busy. Regardless of how his and Jason’s relationship had drastically improved, he wasn’t ready to open up about this. Don’t get him wrong, Tim was glad that he and his old hero had started to make amends, and now Jason had barely any qualms in calling Tim his brother, and that he could call him whenever he wanted. It made a rush of warmth erupt in his chest whenever he heard it.

But, he just didn’t feel ready to talk to him about it. To anyone about it.

Now, it was Monday morning and he was on his way to Paris in the Wayne company jet, because some rich designer named Gabriel Agreste requested some sort of business partnership.

There was also a designer called MDC that Tim was very interested in meeting. He was a huge fan of her work. He had checked out her website and was pleasantly surprised by the quality of her work, especially since she had no employees and made everything herself.

The fact that she was Jagged Stone’s honorary niece had also contributed to Tim wanting to commission a MDC original.

He had contacted her a before the plane left, and lucky for him, she had decided to meet him at his hotel on Thursday after lunch to discuss and take measurements

It was partially why when Bruce asked him to go to Paris, he didn’t fuss. He didn’t even protest about how being in Paris would affect Red Robin’s patrol. He had just nodded and left.

It had been a very last minute decision, and he hadn’t even had time to tell Jason about it. He had left a few hours after Bruce told him about it.

Tim sighed, leaning his head against the cool window of the plane, taking a sip from the coffee mug he held in his hands.

He admittedly zoned out for the rest of the journey, but in his defense, there was only an hour left on that flight anyway.

Stepping off the plane with his baggage, he made his way to the exits and after checking out of the airport, hailed a cab to bring him to his hotel, Le Grande Paris.

He may or may not have also zoned out on his 15 minute long ride to the hotel. Tim felt bad for the very nice taxi driver whom he had ignored, and gave him a very generous tip. After all, it wasn’t like he needed the money.

Judging from the wide eyed and awed glance the driver shot him as he left, the driver appreciated it very much.

Walking into the hotel lobby, checking in and waiting for the room key to be given to him, Tim already knew he was going to turn down Gabriel’s offer.

His research had shown that Gabriel was a recluse and hadn’t left his house in years. His assistant, one Nathalie Sancouer went on appointments with him on a call. He was also seemingly cold to his only son, which didn’t fly well with Tim, especially since the son was the same age as him.

He was expected to finish more work in Paris, especially since there was no rogues to disrupt anything.  

He was not expecting a petite bluenette to crash into him and change his outlook on life.

The girl who bumped into him blushed profusely and apologised while two blondes, a girl and a boy laughed behind her.

She shot the two a playfully stern look, narrowing her eyes. Her eyes had the same glint Selina had when she saw Bruce. Playful, yet deadly. It was amazing how fast the blondes shut up.

“I’m Tim.” He shook Marinette’s hand, slightly charmed by the blushing girl.

“I’m Marinette. Are you checking in? I can escort you to your room. I know this place like the back of my hand.”

Tim was startled. Marinette did not seem to have any idea that she was talking to CEO of WE. She was talking to him like he was Tim. Just Tim. He was intrigued by the girl. The way she said her sentence, she wasn’t boasting or showing off, she was stating a mere fact out of politeness and the kindness of her heart.

You don’t see that around much anymore, Tim mused. It was like a breath of fresh air.

He nodded in acceptance and showed her the room number on the key that he was given before she had bumped into him. Her eyes widened.

“Well, looks like you’re on the floor I was already going to. Chloe lives here. Her father runs the hotel, and all the penthouses are on the same floor.” Marinette waved her hand at the blonde girl who was laughing earlier.

The girl stuck out a hand. “My name’s Chloe, the pleasure’s all yours.”

Tim’s lips curved into a smile as he shook her hand. “I’m Tim.”

Chloe pointed to the boy next to her. “That’s Adrien.”

Tim recognised him. He was that Agreste boy. The son of Gabriel Agreste, who he was supposed to meet on Thursday. Tim vaguely wondered if Adrien was going to be there for the meeting.

Tim didn’t like it when people announced out loud that he was a Wayne. So he didn’t do that to Adrien. Tim just shook his hand with a smile. Adrien smiled back, and Tim could see that gratitude in his eyes.

Tim nodded and his mind drifted to Marinette. She seemed rather nice, and she didn’t seem like the type of person to take advantage of rich kids. He decided to ive her the benefit of the doubt. Obviously, Chloe and Adrien trusted her, so he was willing to be open minded about this.

Besides, on the unlikely chance that she was trying to suck up to rich kids, Tim could very easily sue her, or at the very least, scare her off.

Marinette, Chloe and Adrien took the lift up with him, the four falling into an easy banter. Tim was very glad he had become fluent in French a few months prior to going on this trip.

Once they reached the outside of Tim’s suite, however, Marinette turned to Tim.

“Do you, maybe wanna join us after you put your things down?”

Tim grinned. “Why, I’d love to.”

-

It was the right thing to do. The four of them had a blast, and Tim knew now more than ever that Marinette genuinely liked the company of the two blondes and that she wasn’t just using them. He didn’t think she was, but it didn’t hurt to check.

They had hung out together, from that afternoon to late in the night, to around 9 maybe? Tim wasn’t sure. Tim felt a warm rush of joy flow throughout his body. He couldn’t remember the last time he had hung out with anyone that weren’t using him for his money or weren’t his family.

The four had become really close and the three Parisians probably knew more about Tim that his whole family did put together at this point.

Tim couldn’t remember the last time he had let loose so freely.

It was funny how it worked. Tim didn’t know why, but he had the comforting feeling that they could be trusted. Sure, they hadn’t known him for long, but he felt a sense of comfort with them, more comfortable than he’d ever felt with Bruce, hell, more than even Alfred.

Tim didn’t tell them all of his secrets, obviously, Red Robin being one of them. But it was okay. Unlike Bruce, who would research and pry into his business, Chloe, Marinette and Adrien shrugged it off.

“We’re all entitled to our own secrets.” Marinette had told him.

It made Tim wonder what kind of secrets the three were keeping, but he brushed it off. If he didn’t have to spill his secrets, the three didn’t either.

Eventually, night fell, but only Adrien left. Tim had looked to Marinette questioningly, and she just shrugged.

“His dad needs him back. I told Maman I was staying over with Chlo tonight. It’s not a school night after all.” She shrugged.

It was funny how much Tim trusted the three. He trusted them more than he trusted Bruce, at this point. Even if the trust he had in Bruce wasn't much to go on, it was surprising how easily the ex-Robin trusted the Parisians. But then again, life worked in strange ways, and this may have one of its strangest yet.

But Tim didn't protest. He rather liked the Parisians and like he's said, he trusted them. And from the looks they all gave him throughout the day, fulling of laughter and openness, he knew without a doubt that they trusted him too.

Among all three Parisians, Tim had bonded with Marinette the most.

Firstly, while the three were a formidable trio, Chloe and Adrien, it seemed, were childhood friends. They were extremely comfortable around each other, and it wasn’t like they were trying to leave Marinette out. They included her in everything they could, but the noirette occasionally bowed out and let the two friends do their thing.

Secondly, Tim was pretty sure that the two didn’t normally have so much childhood games. He was pretty sure they were making some of them up on the spot.

If Tim didn’t know better, he’d say Adrien and Chloe were trying to set him and Marinette up.

Marinette. The amazing little bluenette that crashed into him and changed his outlook on life.

Yes, he had only known her for less than a day, but they just clicked.

Marinette had tried not to, but it was obvious that her self esteem was at an all-time low, much like his. When Tim had asked Chloe and Adrien why when Marinette was in the bathroom, they had filled him in on how a girl named Lila at their school was bullying her and spouting lies about her.

“How bad are her lies?” Tim questioned.

“She saved Jagged Stone’s kitten from a airplane runway.” Chloe said.

Tim spit out his coffee.

“She misses months of school to be in Achu to work with Prince Ali for Go Green campaigns.” Adrien continued.

Tim didn’t know Achu or Prince Ali very well, but he was pretty sure the prince only did Helping Children Campaigns. He took a sip of his coffee.

“Her latest one? I was dating Damian Wayne, but he and his brother fought over me and now I’m dating Timothy Drake, CEO of Wayne Enterprises!” Chloe said the last part in a nasally, simpering tone that was obviously meant to be Lila’s voice.

Tim choked. Lila was 16! Damian was 13! Tim mentally filed a reminder to sue this Lila girl. Also, his love life was rather pathetic. He hadn’t dated since Stephanie. Lila’d would probably do a better job going after Jason if he weren’t with Roy. Wait, no. Jason didn’t like psychopaths. Or maybe he did, Tim wasn’t too sure.

“That was pretty accurate.” Adrien looked slightly impressed.

Tim shuddered. What kind of sicko had a voice like that?

Marinette had come out of the bathroom at that point, and all three of them effectively shut up. She looked concerned and asked Tim if he was okay and why he was so pale.

He shook his head. “I’m cool, cool, cool.” He ran a hand through his hair in an attempt to be suave and Marinette laughed.

Tim’s expression softened at the melodic sound. Chloe and Adrien exchanged a look before smirking at Tim.

Marinette had subtly complimented him a lot over the span of a few hours, and Tim had felt his confidence level slowly rising. It made Marinette smile.

Tim had returned the favor, and by the end of the next day, he and Marinette had almost as many inside jokes as Adrien and Chloe did.

(Chloe had walked Adrien to the door, and Tim and Marinette had hid from Chloe in Tim’s suite, giggling at Chloe’s playful irateness.

Tim had a great time.

He had also managed to finish most of his work beforehand.

He, along with Chloe and Adrien, had gone to Marinette’s house on Wednesday, and the four of them had spent the whole day in a peaceful silence doing their work.

Chloe and Adrien had finished their school work early and had copied their work into Marinette’s workbook. Tim had smiled at the sight because he was rather happy that Marinette had friends who were willing to do this sort of thing for her.

Marinette had spent the whole day working on several commissions, sketching the designs and sewing them out. Tim had been shocked by how many different types of fabric the bluenette had in her closet. Chloe and Adrien had shot him a look that said “get used to it”.

Tim was pleasantly that no one had disturbed him while he was doing his work. they had all done their own work respectively, and even when they were done, like Chloe and Adrien, they had kept quiet and didn’t make any noise to disrupt Tim and Marinette, apart form their whispered chatter.

In Gotham, Tim would almost always be interrupted by rogue attacks or his brothers and father. It made it almost impossible to finish his work on time, and resulted in many overtimes and no sleep.

Marinette’s parents, a happy baker couple who’d persuaded Tim to call him Tom and Sabine instead of Mr and Mrs Dupain Cheng, had stocked them up with a steady supply of pastries and amazing coffee. It was probably expected, they did own a bakery after all.

Tim swore that the Dupain Chengs’ pastries could rival Alfred’s.

While Tim was looking at Marinette work, he was taken aback by her efficiency and quality of her sewing. Normally, one jacket would take a day to make, including handmade embroidery. Marinette had done it within two hours from scratch.

Tim was tempted to commission her, but it seemed that her plate was already full, so he didn’t. Either way, he had come to meet with Gabriel Agreste and possibly MDC.

When they were all done with their work, after spending practically the whole day in Marinette’s room from 9 in the morning to 6 in the evening, they decided to go get dinner.

Tom and Sabine bid them goodbye heartily before turning to their customers and pulling a tray out of the oven.

Tim had met Chloe and Adrien’s significant others. A rather cold girl named Kagami, and chill looking boy named Luka. (Tim thought that Kagami and Chloe, and Luka and Adrien suited each other and balanced out perfectly.)

Originally, Tim had thought that Luka was dating Marinette. After Luka had hugged Adrien, he had turned to Marinette and called her ‘his Melody’. It didn’t help that she called him ‘her Harmony’.

Tim totally did not feel jealous.

But then Marinette groaned and nudged Tim in the ribs. “I guess we’re fifth wheeling.”

“Aren’t you dating Luka?” He pointed to the green haired boy.

Chloe and Adrien clutched their stomachs, laughing, while Kagami and Luka smiled. “Nope. Mari-hime is single.’’ Tim swore the fencer stared into his soul.

Tim was not afraid to admit that Kagami scared him more than the Joker did. Okay, maybe the Joker was a far stretch. Killer Croc or Two-Face maybe.

Luka leaned down and gave Adrien a peck on the lips. The model blushed and Luka grinned, exposing two slightly sharp canines, much like a snake’s.

It was currently mid November, so it was pretty cold. But Tim didn’t see why Mari was wearing a layer of heattech, a long-sleeved sweatshirt, a hoodie, and her winter coat, plus her hat, earmuffs and gloves.

She looked like a puffy marshmallow. A very pink, cute marshmallow.

Luka had shot him a ‘it’s better not to ask’ look and Tim wisely kept quiet.

They had a great time at dinner. Tim and Mari had an amazing time. Tim wasn’t entirely sure about the others, he was too busy paying attention to Mari.

The crinkle of her eyes when she smiled, the red flush from the cold dusting over her freckles lightly, the bluebell colour of her eyes.

He didn’t notice the ‘he’s so whipped’ looks from everyone else. Luka shrugged.

“Well who doesn’t like Melody once they meet her?”

Everyone else shrugged. “Fair point.” Chloe muttered, burying her head in the crook of Kagami’s neck.

Suddenly, screams broke out from nearby. Marinette immediately ceased talking and whipped around to face her friends. Tim looked very confused at her actions but looked worriedly to where the screams were coming from.

Suddenly, the floor rumbled and they all looked up to see baby August, who had been akumatised into Gigantitan again.

Marinette, Chloe, Adrien, Luka and Kagami immediately herded Tim back to Mari’s house, where they hastily climbed up the stairs to the loft.

“Tim, stay here.” Kagami ordered.

“What is this?” Tim couldn’t help but ask.

“It’s an akuma attack.” Chloe shrugged, looking not at all fazed.

Actually, Tim noticed, none of them looked fazed in the slightest.

“This is maybe August’s 7th time getting akumatised?” Luka said. “He’s relatively harmless though. It happens a lot.”

“Wait, where’s Marinette and Adrien?” Tim questioned, suddenly noticing that they were missing.

Kagami, Luka and Adrien exchanged a glance. “They’ll be fine.” Chloe waved offhandedly, logging into Marinette’s computer to turn on the live news from Nadja Chamack.

“Don’t be bemused, it’s just the news!” A pink haired lady was standing abnormally close to where Gigantitan was. Tim felt slightly worried for her.

“I’m Nadja Chamack, and we’re here at another akuma attack. It seems to be just baby August, however, so don’t worry. Ladybug and Chat will be here soon enough!”

Tim was appalled at the lengths this woman was seemingly willing to go to to get the scoop.

Noticing his expression, Luka smiled. “Don’t worry, Tim. She’ll be fine.”

“How do you know that?” If Tim let this happen, he was very sure that Bruce would murder him for a) getting that lady killed b) not helping. “I have to help!”

Chloe pushed him back into the chair where he was attempting to rise. “Sit down.” She ordered.

Tim didn’t want to, but he was interrupted by Nadja speaking again.

“Ladybug and Chat Noir are on the scene!” The camera view zoomed into a pigtailed girl in red and black spandex with a blonde boy in a leather catsuit. Tim vaguely wondered if he was Selina’s kid.

Tim’s eyes almost fell out of his head when he saw the two of them run up the side of the Eiffel Tower, with no grappling hook, no vault, nothing, before flipping off of it like a well oiled machine.

It was obvious that the two trusted each other to a deadly extent. They worked like two parts of a whole piece. 

August swatted Ladybug away with a wave of his hand, flinging her into the Eiffel Tower so hard it dented.

Panic seized Tim’s stomach when Nadja Chamack was trampled on by August, effectively crushing her. When August lifted his foot, Tim looked away.

Chloe, Kagami and Luka did not look fazed, and Tim wondered why, before standing up again. Chloe pushed him back down.

“She’ll be fine, relax. All of Paris have probably died at least, what, 9 times?” Kagami stated, crossing her arms. She levelled Tim with a steely glare and Tim cowered in his seat.

How did the League not know about this?

Suddenly, the person holding the camera cheered, as swarms of Ladybugs flew everywhere, fixing damages. Tim noted with relief that Nadja had reappeared in front of the camera, looking slightly confused but otherwise fine.

“I think I’m gonna throw up.” Tim staggered to the bathroom, and right when he was about to puke, two thuds landed behind him. Tim could see a green and pink light flash and he turned around to see what it was.

He was just in time to see Ladybug and Chat Noir detransform, leaving Adrien and Marinette, looking stunned.

That was it for Tim, he hurled.

And Marinette was there, brushing his hair out of his face and holding the back of his shirt so it wouldn’t get in the way. Adrien had edged out of the room, while an unfamiliar voice was chortling.

When Tim was done, he washed his mouth with shaky hands, and Marinette looked at him sympathetically and with a slight trace of fear. It was almost undetectable, but Tim had spent enough time with Cass to know when someone was scared, no matter how she tried to hide it.

Tim didn’t want Marinette to feel scared of him. He wanted her to feel safe around him. He shakily spun and engulfed her in his arms. Her body relaxed tremendously as she hugged him back.

He was taller than her by a only few inches, so Marinette’s head was comfortably buried in Tim’s chest. Tim was thankful that none of his vomit had gotten on his shirt.

“I like you, Mari. So, so much.” Tim confessed.

The bluenette he was holding wiggled in his arms, looking up at him with those beautiful eyes.

“I like you too, Tim.” Her quiet voice broke into Tim’s train of thoughts as he panicked.

“I know, you probably don’t like me back but-- wait, what? You like me too?” Tim knew his voice had cracked but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

“I do.” Marinette confirmed, stepping on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek.

Tim’s face flushed and Mari giggled.

“Does that mean you wanna--?” Tim blushed even more.

“Yes.” Marinette was obviously enjoying the way Tim was suffering right now.

“So.. it’s official?” Tim asked hopefully, looping his hand with Marinette’s.

“It’s official.” She grinned.

Adrien had interrupted them at that point, and after Tim changed into one of Marinette’s designs, a black, long sleeved shirt with ladybugs at the side, she and Adrien had explained about the miraculouses.

Chloe, Kagami and Luka revealed that they were also miraculous holders, but they were temporary heroes, even if they got to keep the miraculous on hand.

Marinette and Adrien were joint Guardians of the Miraculous, and they were something called true holders. The Ladybug and Chat miraculous were two halves of a whole, Adrien had explained. He and Mari were also the only permanent miraculous users chosen by the previous guardian, while Chloe, Kagami and Luka were chosen by Marinette.

Tim was then introduced to the some of the kwamis (Pollen, Tikki, Plagg, Sass and Longg), who referred to Marinette and Adrien as Guardians.

Tikki referred to Marinette as Mari, Plagg referred to her as Pigtails. Tikki referred to Adrien as Adrien, and Plagg referred to him as ‘kid’. It didn’t take a genius to know who wore the pants in their relationship.

Then, Marinette and Tim’s newborn relationship was brought to light, and Tim was sufficiently scared from the shovel talks given by the Parisians, as well as the kwamis. Marinette had laughed at him, and he had pouted for the rest of the night.

“I wield the power of Destruction in my hands so if you hurt Pigtails, I’ll cataclysm you. I sank Atlantis, so don’t try me.” Plagg’d scornfully stated.

Marinette had berated him and told him that Plagg really needed to stop sounding so proud that he sunk Atlantis, while Tim went pale and was reminded of his secret.

“Uh. Guys? I have to tell you something.” Tim wrung his hands together nervously. “You know how in Gotham, there are vigilantes?”

They nodded.

“I’m.. one of them? I’m Red Robin.” Tim squeaked.

There was silence, but then everyone, bar Marinette and Kagami burst into laughter.

“Only you, Melody, could create a love square with only two people and still somehow fall in love with a superhero.”

Mari flushed and Tim looked confused. “Who..?”

Everyone pointed to Adrien. He shrugged.

“M’Lady and I are soulmates.” He winked, intertwining his and Marinette’s hands.

“But we’re platonic soulmates.” Adrien dramatically let go of Marinettte’s hand. “Adrien had a crush on Ladybug. Marinette had a crush on Adrien.” He explained further.

Realisation dawned on Tim and he fell back into Marinette’s lap as she groaned at the way Adrien worded it.

“You suck.” She deadpanned.

Adrien had the gall to grin at her. “I’m also the one you share a soul with.”

She rolled her eyes.

Everyone had a nice laugh, but they all fell asleep rather quickly. It had been an emotionally and physically exhausting day for all of them.

The next day was Tim’d meeting with Gabriel Agreste. Tim wasn’t sure if the others knew he was Bruce Wayne’s son, but he figured if they didn’t he may as well surprise them.

So Tim left a note for them, and left 15 minutes prior to the meeting at 9, leaving the his friends in Marinette’s room.

hey guys, i have a business meeting at 9. i’ll come back as soon as i’m done, which will be 10? latest. i’ll probably be back before you guys wake up. i hope i will. bye for now. see u mari <3 love, tim.

His friends. Tim’s heart warmed. This was the first time he had made friends that weren’t his family, or superhero buddies.

Tim arrived at Agreste Manor at 9 on the dot, ringing the doorbell.  An electronic camera shot out from the wall and Tim jumped.

The person behind the camera opened the gate, and a buff man escorted him into the Manor, where Gabriel was waiting.

He was standing at the top of the steps, looking down at Tim. He inclined his head, and Tim followed the elder Agreste into his office.

The meeting went faster than expected. Tim had been expecting Gabriel to persuade him, but he had let Tim go. Instead of the half an hour meeting Tim was expecting,it was only twenty minutes.

Gabriel had offered a partnership with the Waynes in which he’d design for them, and they’d sponsor him. Tim had politely declined, and Gabriel looked slightly put out, waving to the buff man to escort him out.

Adrien had walked into the manor as soon as Tim reached the center of the room. Adrien stopped short.

“Tim? What are you doing here?”

Tim pointed to behind him, where Gabriel’s office was. “Business meeting.” He repeated, and waited for Adrien to connect the dots.

His eyes widened. “You’re Timothy Drake? CEO of Wayne Enterprises?”

Tim nodded. Adrien’s eyes widened before he smirked. “Have you told Mari?”

“I was gonna tell her today.”

“Nah, she has a meeting at like 2, with a client.”  

Tim frowned, but then shrugged. “I’ll tell her before.” He decided. “I have a meeting at 2 too.”

Adrien nodded and smiled. “Treat her right.” He said, before entering his room.

Tim smiled, even after Adrien was out of sight. “I will.”

-

Tim had a few hours before his meeting with MDC. He made his way back to the bakery, where he was greeted with a peck on the cheek by Marinette.

“Chloe went back to the hotel, Harmony and Gami have school, and Adrien had to go home.” She beamed. So cute.

Marinette and Tim spent the few hours eating lunch in Mari’s room and watching Netflix, judging the shipping potential between the Brooklyn Nine Nine characters.

They had agreed that Teddy was boring and annoying, Jake and Amy were a power couple, and Rosa was a badass .

Marinette really liked Gina, Tim preferred Holt.

Soon, it was time for the meeting. Tim and Mari both had to go back to Le Grande Paris, so they opted to walk there together.

“Who are you meeting?” Tim asked curiously.

“Some CEO named Timothy Drake.” She replied.

Tim stopped. He turned to Marinette.

“Timothy Drake.” He repeated. Marinette gave him an odd look. “Do you know him?” She asked.

“You’re MDC?” Tim’s voice came out strangled and Marinette looked taken aback.

Understanding dawned on her and she stared at Tim. “You’re Timothy Drake?”

He only nodded.

They stared at each other for a minute but then burst out into laughter, causing a nearby mother on the phone to shoot them a nasty look.

After the initial shock wore off, the two had continued to the hotel. They were on the way, anyway, and they could always either visit Chloe or stay in Tim’s suite.

Marinette giggled as she worked, deftly taking Tim’s measurements.

“Normally this takes forever,” Tim remarked, peering over Marinette’s shoulder and watching in awe as she drew out the design for his suit.

Within minutes, it was done. Tim was amazed by it. It was a simple suit, but the colours she encorporated into it as well as the designs made Tim extremely happy. It managed to capture his essence, and look stylish at the same time.

She’d even drawn a design for the tie! (instead of blue, it’s red)

After about three hours of Marinette working in Tim’s suite (she had gone home and gotten the fabrics and used the sewing machine she always leaves in Chloe’s room), as well as Tim finishing his remaining paperwork for WE, the suit was done. Tim was awed by it.

The suit jacket was a nice, velvety maroon colour that was reminiscent of Tim’s Red Robin suit and Marinette’s Ladybug suit. The inside was a black colour, as another tribute to the colour schemes of Tim and Mari’s secret life.

The tie was the same deep red colour of the suit. What Tim loved the most about it, however, were the tiny coffee cups sewn on it. “A personal touch.” Marinette had said.

There was also the letter T embroidered on the back of the tie and the lapel of the suit right next to the MDC emblems.

“What do you think?” Marinette asked nervously.

“I love it!” Tim lifted Marinette up by the waist, spinning her in the air. She laughed with joy and he put her down but still in his arms.

He cupped his cheek and Marinette’s hand wrapped around his neck. Simultaneously, they leaned in and their lips met in a chaste kiss.

Marinette ran her free hand through Tim’s hair as Tim’s free hand pulled her closer to him by the waist.

Suddenly, the door burst open and they jumped apart. 

It was Chloe, smirking wildly, her phone camera raised.

It didn’t take a genius to know what happened next.

Mari and Tim chased Chloe around the hotel to get her to delete the photo. Chloe crowed loudly that she was going to send the photo to Adrien, Luka and Kagami.

(Mari and Tim did catch her but Chloe had already sent the text.)

The six friends had a buttload of fun the next few days. Occasionally incorporating their work into the mix, Tim had never been so on time to hand in his paperwork.

On Saturday, a few hours before Tim was supposed to go to the airport to get on the Wayne private jet, the six were in Chloe’s room. 

The only sound that could be heard was the faint chatter between Chloe and Kagami who were talking together, the soft strums of Luka on his guitar and Adrien next to him constantly dying while playing Subway Surfers and him raging not-so-quietly. Tim’s head was leaning on two pillows in Marinette’s lap, typing on his laptop which was propped up on his lap while Mari’s pencils scratched against the paper in her sketchbook.

It wasn’t exactly silence, but it was peaceful. An almost silence, if you would.

Until a phone blared to life. 

Everyone jumped as the shrill sound of Tim’s ringtone pierced through the peaceful almost silence.

Tim cringed. “Sorry!” He called. 

He swiped the accept button without looking to see who it was, mildly pissed off.

“What?” He snapped into the phone.

“TIMMY!” A familiar voice burst out. Marinette jumped and dropped her sketchbook on Tim’s face, glaring at the phone. Tim pulled the phone away from his ear, and put a finger to his mouth before pushing the speaker button.

“Tim? You okay?”

“Apart from you bursting my eardrums, I’m fine. What do you want, Jason?” Tim answered dryly. He wasn’t sure if his irritation could be heard through the phone but Jason picked it up.

“Not very nice to your favorite brother, now is it Timmy.” Tim could imagine Jason wagging a finger sarcastically in his face.

“Learned it from you, Jay. But seriously what do you want? I’m kinda busy.”

“You may wanna put your coffee cup down for this.” 

Tim sighed and placed it on the floor.

“Now what?”

A bang was heard from outside and all of them, bar Tim and Mari (Tim was way too lazy to get out of Marinette’s comfortable lap, and she couldn’t get up with him in her lap) rushed to the door to see what was happening. 

Some people had burst into Tim’s room across the hall.

Three guesses who.

“What are you doing, dumbasses?” Chloe’s exasperated voice rung out.

A man with a white tuft in hair was standing in the doorway turned around, phone in hand. He hung up on the call promptly.

“We were looking for our brother, Tim. The receptionist said he was in this room. Have you seen him?” An older man walked out of Tim’s room, with several others hot on his heels. 

The shortest one was dark-haired and had green eyes, the other was a girl with chopped dark hair, an arm wrapped around a taller blonde girl’s waist. There was also a redhead in a wheelchair. The other two there were males, one was an near bald elderly, the other had blue eyes and dark hair and was rather tall.

That was six of them, Chloe noted. She and the others exchanged a look, debating whether or not to let them see Tim. After all, they could be lying and were kidnappers or something.

They obviously noticed the look. The tall one with blue eyes spoke. “You know him! Where is he? Did you kidnap him?”

Adrien choked trying to hold in his laughter. Luka patted him on the back calmly.

A tsk came from the inside of the room. Chloe looked back. Tim shrugged. It was her room, after all.

Chloe bit her lip, looking torn between letting them in or kicking them out. She looked to Kagami for help, and she nodded, but then inclined her head toward Chloe. Basically, ‘I think you should, Tim seems to know them. But he may not want to see them. Your call. Your room.’

The guy with the white tuft looked ready to barge in the room.

Chloe huffed and opened the door wider. She and the other stalked back to their seats with the echoing sound of ‘ridiculous, utterly ridiculous’. Everyone outside exchanged looks, and entered.

They were not expecting to see Tim in a girl’s lap, that was for sure.

Instead of the greeting they were expecting, Tim merely turned his head to look at them before huffing and returning his gaze to his laptop screen.

Marinette laid a hand protectively on Tim’s head and started running her fingers through his hair. 

If they weren’t shocked before, they definitely were now. Their eyes practically bugged out of their head at the sight.

“Replacement?” Jason cautiously asked. 

Tim huffed, much like Chloe, and Marinette ceased her ministrations. Tim whined, but Marinette levelled a glare at him and he sat up.

Marinette muttered softly, “I can see why your self confidence is so low.”

“Nah, Jason’s one of the nicer ones. It’s teasing.” Tim assured her. The girl only pouted and fell back into her seat, picking up Tim’s laptop to read what he was working on before Tim’s family rudely barged in.

Jason looked slightly touched.

Tim sighed and crossed his arms. “What are you guys doing here?” Chloe, Adrien, Kagami and Luka slowly inched around Mari and Tim. This did not go unnoticed by the Waynes.

“We came to visit you, Timbo!” The tall one said.

Tim pinched his nose. “That’s Dick. Barbara. Cassandra. Stephanie. Alfred. Bruce. Damian. Jason.” Tim pointed to each of them in turn. 

Luka spoke up. “I’m Luka. That’s Adrien, Chloe, Kagami and Marinette.” Marinette shifted when her name was called, exposing the laptop screen to the Waynes. Their eyes widened when they saw the bold letters ‘Murders and Muggings: Patrol Recap’. 

Dick coughed into his hand, jerking his head towards the computer. Tim rolled his eyes at Dick’s attempt at being subtle.

Jason and Stephanie snickered. Dick looked offended. 

Dropping all pretence out the window, Tim deadpanned. “They know my secret. Didn’t tell them about yours, though they’ve probably figured it out already.”

“You should’ve told us beforehand, Timothy!” Bruce looked like he was a second away from yelling. A steely glare from Kagami stopped him from doing just that. Cass looked at her in approval.

Marinette bristled at Bruce’s tone, but did not move from her seat. This wasn’t her battle to fight-- it was Tim’s.

Bruce pinched the end of his nose. “I’m disappointed in you, Timothy.” 

Despite knowing Bruce was going to say that, Tim winced. Jason looked pissed and opened his mouth to say something, but someone else beat him to it.

“How dare you.” Marinette’s quiet voice shook with fury as she stood up. Tim squeezed her hand and let go. Adrien, Luka, Kagami and Tim instantly surrounded Tim, forming a protective circle around him.

“How dare you. Tim is the most wonderful person I know. Other from the idiot I share a soul with, my Harmony, my Dragon and Queenie, he is the only person who is genuinely kind and caring. He is the sweetest person I know and if you think you can step into our turf and belittle my boyfriend, you have another thing coming.” Marinette snarled.

Adrien stood up, stepping forward to stand next to Marinette. “I’ve only known Tim for a few days, but he means a lot to all of us. Like Marinette said, you will not step into our turf and be rude to our friend.”

“You underestimate how much power we have here.” Kagami moved over to the other side of Marinette, eyes flashing. 

Chloe stood next to her. “I can very easily kick you out of this hotel, out of Paris, even. Tim is my friend, and we will not stand here and let you talk shit about how he disappointed you.”

Luka stood up, moving next to Adrien. “Like we said, Tim means a lot to us. You have no idea how much he does for all of you. He deals with your stupid company paperwork, even though he’s only 16 and it should be your job. He spends more time helping you on patrol and fighting rogues than paperwork but you scold him because he can’t finish as much as you’d like?”

Marinette’s normally warm blue eyes that were so full of love were now completely devoid of emotion. “That isn’t parenting, Bruce. That’s toxic.” She spat out Bruce’s name with so much loathing and hate, that he unconsciously took a step back.

Tim was very touched. No one had ever done that for him before. No one had the guts to stand up to Bruce Wayne or Batman. His eyes watered and he hastily wiped them away.

Bruce’s eyes flashed, and he strode forward. “I think you underestimate my power.” He spread his arms. “I’m Bruce Wayne. I can kill your career in a heartbeat. I can make sure you are never hired by anyone, nor will you ever be able to make a name for yourself. I’ve almost died before. Damian and Jason have. We deal with things you guys can only dream of. Sure, your father may be the mayor of Paris, Chloe, but I can easily kick him off his position of power. Don’t fuck with us.” 

Marinette’s eyes flashed with surprise at Bruce’s declaration that Jason and Damian have died. Ignoring Bruce, she turned to Adrien, who was squinting at Damian. 

“Do you want to heal them of the Lazarus pits? We can, after all. We’re Creation and Destruction.” Marinette spoke in the Guardian language.

Adrien side eyed the Waynes and nodded. “Even if Bruce is a bitch, Jason and Damian don’t deserve to live like that.” 

Marinette and Adrien looked behind them, past Tim, to where the Kwamis were hiding. Plagg and Tikki nodded. After all, they could always wipe the Waynes’ memories if they weren’t willing to keep it a secret. The Waynes didn’t know what they were saying. Jason stifled a laugh when Adrien caled Bruce a bitch, but the Waynes instantly went on guard at the sound of Jason and Damian’s names (since their names can’t be translated).

Marinette and Adrien turned back to Tim and the others folded, closing the gap that they had left, so no one could lip read or learn from their body language what they were about to do.

Marinette and Adrien walked a few steps back, a few steps in front of Tim but a few steps behind the others. They smiled reassuringly at Tim. They weren’t going to hurt Jason or Damian. Tim nodded. He trusted them.

Tikki and Plagg zipped over to them and phased into their joined hands. Adrien and Marinette smiled to each other closing their eyes. They channelled the Guardian energy, Creation energy and Destruction energy. 

They lifted their raised hands, and as if on command, Chloe and Kagami stepped aside, allowing the green and pink swirling energy in their conjoined hands to shoot towards Jason and Damian. The beam split halfway, hitting both Jason and Damian.

They braced themselves for pain, but they didn’t feel anything. They looked around, and saw the energy. The green colour of it was one everyone instantly recognised as the Lazarus Pit madness.

They could do nothing but watch as more and more green colours was sucked out of Jason and Damian before swirling upwards and over their heads into a ball of green energy.

After what seemed like a lifetime, the green stopped escaping them, and Jason and Damian could feel an immediate relaxation of their feelings. It was like there was anger and negative emotions buried into a pit of their minds, but they didn’t notice that it was there until it was gone.

The green energy ball was now as as big as a bowling ball. It churned once, and started shrinking. Something was compressing it and forcing it into a smaller ball. With a sizzle, it split into two. A pink ball and a green ball, the sizes of an apple.

However, the green ball wasn’t the Lazarus color green. It was a warm green, the colour of emeralds. Despite that, within both the pink and green shell had a green ball, the toxic colour of the Lazarus pit inside. It swirled around in their respective prisons, but couldn’t break free.

The balls of energy slowly drifted towards where Marinette and Adrien were standing with serene looks on their faces.

The pink shell hovered in front of Marinette, while the green one hovered in front of Adrien. The pink and green encasing the Lazarus green broke apart, and the pink and green energy shells flew into their conjoined hands.

Marinette and Adrien opened their eyes. They weren’t eyes anymore, just glowing eye sockets. Marinette’s were pink, and Adrien’s were green. The same colour of the shells, the others realised.

Now what was left were the fizzling balls of the Lazarus pits, its toxic green giving off an eerie glow.

Marinette and Adrien held up their free palms, and the balls rested on their waiting hands.

They looked to each other and seemed to be communicating before the plunged the balls into their chests.

Their whole body glowed for a second before lifting the two up in the air. The Waynes, Luka, Kagami and Chloe jumped when they started talking.

“This hurts.” Marinette admitted. Her face did not show any kind of discomfort. Adrien grinned. “Yeah, it does.” His didn’t either.

They shared a laugh before the green and pink faded, and the two plummeted onto the carpeted floor. Just before they hit it, the green and pink glowed softly again, allowing the two to land gently on the floor, feet first.

The light faded completely and Marinette and Adrien collasped in the chaise behind them, unclasping their hands and panting slightly. Plagg and Tikki zoomed out of their hands as soon as they separated and didn’t even bother hiding.

They plopped themselves on their chosens’ heads and all four of them began to nap.

“Did they..?” Dick uttered in disbelief.

Jason and Damian could only nod.

“Lazarus. Gone?” Cass pressed.

They nodded again.

“Forever?” Bruce croaked.

“Yep.” Marinette’s exhausted voice came from the chaise. Everyone spun to look at her. Chloe ran to her room’s kitchen, bringing out some honey, cookies, camembert, chocolate and eggs.

The active kwamis zoomed out form their hiding spot and got to work on their food. Marinette tiredly pushed herself to her feet, stumbling. Tim caught her. Marinette smiled gratefully at him, and gently scooped Tikki off her head. She reached over and got Plagg too. 

She nudged Tikki with her finger and placed her next to the cookies. She didn’t bother to wake Plagg up; he’d wake up as soon as he smelt camembert. She placed him down, next to Tikki and they woke up, lazily nibbling on their foods.

Mari let out a breathy sigh and swayed on her feet. She curled up next to Adrien and started to snore.

Dick frowned. If she was dating Tim, why was she so cozy with Adrien?

He moved to wake them up.

Suddenly, he stiffened and fell to the floor.

Pollen stood behind them, antennae still poised after stinging Dick. “No one wake the Guardians up.”

Muffled protests from Dick on the ground.

“They share a soul, Dick, being next to each other recharged them faster.” Tim explained.

“They what now?”

-

well yes thats it. 

i kinda got sloppy at the end because i spent almost 8 hours on this, and its only 8k words. im kinda proud of it though lol

no there will probably not be a part two, although i may upload this on ao3

anyway i hope you liked this !! <3

[igirisuhito]

Title: Afflicted Relationship(s): Kamukura Izuru/Komaeda Nagito Hinata Hajime/Komaeda Nagito Rating: Mature Chapters: 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / ? Chapter Summary: Komaeda weighs his options, Kuzuryuu begrudgingly listens to his worries Trigger Warnings: Panic attacks, mental breakdown, dismissing mental illness, IV stuff

[Ao3 Link]

┈┈┈┈․° ☣ °․┈┈┈┈

Hinata was sprawled out on the floor lying face up. His body was lifeless, save for the occasional twitches of his fingers and eyelids as neurons and muscles misfired in a feeble attempt to keep him conscious.

I knelt down, taking the boy's heated face into my hands and angling it up towards mine. He was incredibly pale, the only colour remaining on porcelain skin the flush of his fever. His breathing was slow and shallow, every little warm breath close enough to taste on my lips as I leaned in close. There was no way I couldn't begin to panic when he was in such a state.

"Hinata-kun! I understand if you're so repulsed by my actions that you've passed out, and I know it's more than I should ask of you..." The words came out of my mouth too rushed and barely intelligible, so I took a deep breath. "But please give me some sign you're okay."

My hands were beginning to shake, enough so that my hold on Hinata’s face became too loose to support the weight of his head. His face slipped from my grasp, his head lolling to the side as a soft gasp escaped my lips.

Did I kill Hinata-kun? No, that's ridiculous. You can't kill somebody by kissing them. I mean, you can, technically, but not like this. Surely not?

I wiped the remaining saliva from my lips, subtle evidence of a possible cause of death. Carefully rising to my feet, I stared down at Hinata’s weakened form. Fear was beginning to take hold, anxiety burning through my bloodstream and forcing me to move.

I can't lose him, not to such a hopeless cause. Hinata-kun didn't deserve to die such a pointless death by my hands, he deserved something grandiose, something exhilarating.

This kind of death would just be… boring. Wasteful.

"Tsumiki-san!!" I called out, my feet setting into motion as I made a dash for the room's exit. For a second, I felt a passing relief that Hinata had collapsed before Tsumiki had accidentally seen the repulsive things I was doing, but quickly scolded myself for thinking such a selfish thought. Hinata’s life was in danger and here I was glad that Tsumiki didn’t see me sucking face with him? How pathetic.

There was no doubt about it. It was my own luck that had caused Hinata to pass out. It was protecting me from being caught preying on him. That realisation caused something deep within my chest to ache with repulsion, dread, undiluted terror.

Despair.

I can only assume it was that same twisted luck that guided me into Tsumiki's arms, causing me to bump straight into her as she was coming into the room. All of the school's advice against running into halls went wasted on the likes of me. We slammed hard into one another with an "Oof."

As Tsumiki went crashing to the floor, the saline bag in her hand was squished into her chest, causing it to burst and soak her clothes with salty water. They stuck to her body damply, clinging to her skin in an erotic way. Her skirt had also flown up in the process, flashing me with an inappropriate amount of thigh along with her white underwear.

"Uwahh! K-K-K-Komaeda-san!!" She squealed, pulling her skirt down in a desperate attempt to save her dignity as her face flushed a bright red.

"A-ah, I'm so sorry you had to even accidentally touch somebody as disgusting as me!" I reached out a hand, offering to help her up. "My apologies for running, but it appears that Hinata-kun has collapsed."

"Wahh?! D-D-Don't worry about me, t-that's what you should be concerned about!" Tsumiki grabbed my hand, allowing me to help pull her up to her feet.

Without another word she scooted past me and into the room, abandoning the spilt saline bag on the floor. She practically pounced on Hinata's lifeless body, throwing herself into her brilliant talent as she pressed her ear to his chest and a hand to his forehead.

“He- he’s burning right up! Wh-why was he even out of bed? What was he doing before he collapsed?!" She began exasperated throwing a flurry of questions at me, all whilst examining Hinata's eyes for any sign of possible head trauma.

"He was…" I paused, teeth teasing unconsciously at my bottom lip. "Kissing me. We were making out."

The nurse's head snapped around in a fashion not so dissimilar to the creepy way an owl's would turn unnaturally. Her grey eyes bore right into me with an expression of rage mixed with shock. "A-are you s-s-serious?! K-Komaeda-san that's so irresponsible! You should know that you'll catch th--"

“Of course not!” I slid my hands up the sides of my arms, gripping at the sleeves of my jacket as I pulled my eyes away from Tsumiki’s. “Don't you know that kind of thing only happens in fiction? It would be repulsive for somebody like me to take advantage of an Ultimate’s illness for my own selfish desires. The very thought makes me want to vomit in my mouth!”

Tsumiki narrowed her eyes for a second, before realisation set in and they shot back open. “O-oh! I see…”

“Ha, hahahah.” Bringing my hand to my mouth, I touched my lips absentmindedly and glanced towards Hinata's body still laid out on the floor.

Was it wrong of me to say that? I can't have Tsumiki knowing of my intentions, she would stop me without hesitation. Perhaps the others would tie me up again, then I would miss the murder and the investigation... how awful. But, I can't shake this odd feeling that this is the wrong thing, that I should tell the truth. There is a possibility that not being honest about the cause of Hinata's fainting spell could lead to complications further on.

It could even be the one thing that leads to his death. After all, his condition is somewhat worse than Owari or Mioda's…

But owning up would reveal our intentions and likely ruin any chance of allowing the Ultimates to shine even brighter…

No. I shook my head free of the thoughts. The silence had dragged on long enough, Tsumiki was going to start questioning my words unless I spoke up soon.

“Well then… should we move him?”

"R-right!" With a few fervent nods, Tsumiki hopped off Hinata's body. "Yes! Please help me get him onto the bed so I can properly tend to Hinata-san's needs!"

Hinata-san's needs… huh?

Nodding in return, I brought myself back to Hinata's side and knelt down to the floor. "Well then, would you be okay getting his legs?"

"O-of course!" Scrambling to his legs, Tsumiki quickly slid her arms under the back of Hinata's knees. "I'm r-ready to lift him when-whenever you are."

I hooked my arms under his armpits, making sure not to take note of just how damp and sweaty he was with fever. There was a moment of eye contact, a quick nod, and then we both lifted him.

Thankfully the hospital rooms were so small, we didn't have to move Hinata incredibly far to return him to his bed. Tsumiki rearranged his sheets, carefully tucking Hinata back under the dull blue comforter as she examined his arms.

"I-I-I was coming to re-replace his IV… but it l-looks like he's p-pulled it out…" With a rather disdainful expression, she glanced over to the IV pole. "Again…"

Just as she had said, Hinata's line was pooled on the floor, the small tube that had presumably been in his arm now having smeared blood on the floor. The machine had stopped infusing, in fact it had been switched off entirely so as to not alert Tsumiki, and now the remaining fluid in the line had drained onto the floor.

"He's been rather uncharacteristically troublesome, hasn't he?" I couldn't help but chuckle, glancing over at the restless, almost pained look on Hinata's face. "I'm sorry, it's reprehensible that I would laugh at your struggle, but I could never see Hinata-kun kicking up such a fuss in his usual state."

There was a short moment of silence before Tsumiki giggled as well, clasping her hands together. "Y-you're right! H-Hinata-san is v-very different. But it's okay! We w-will get through this!"

"That's the spirit! Your hope is amazing Tsumiki-san! To still haven't given up on Hinata-kun like that… it's amazing! Truly nobody has a tolerance like that of the Ultimate Nurse!" As I took a rather sharp inhale, I couldn't help the big grin that spread on my face. "Seeing you in action like this has brought a worthless nobody like me hope and distracted me from all my worries!"

Ah.

My… worries.

My smile became a little more strained. Tsumiki was looking at me with a mix of disgust and fear, the enjoyment she had been feeling at receiving compliments far gone.

I didn't let my smile fall as I blinked slowly, realising it was probably time for me to leave her be. Lifting my hand, I waved to her as I began to head towards the door. "Well, I won't get in your way any longer. Goodbye."

As I left the scene, I glanced back one last time at the room. In the place where Hinata had collapsed, the spider lily he had been holding earlier was laid on the floor, likely having been abandoned when he came towards me. It seemed as though it had been crushed among the chaos, red petals scattered and bleeding onto the linoleum floor.

I turned away quickly.

Why do I… feel so distracted? Why am I so scared ?

He kissed me. He wants me to spread it. He told me to spread it. That should be my top priority.

So why do I so desperately want to turn back? To return and sit by Hinata's side, taking care of his every need instead of spreading hope?

As I stepped out into the hallway, I shut the door behind me with a shaking hand. That sensation in my chest only continued to grow as I made my way back towards the waiting room.

I should be putting a plan into place, something that would allow me to spread the disease faster. Something that would perhaps lure someone here, bring them in contact. Or perhaps I could bring the infected into the quarantined hotel? Or go back into Hinata's room to go check on him again? Tell the others that Hinata was dying and that we so desperately needed them to come do something before it became the fault of me and my filthy luck and the blood of an Ultimate coated my hands and I would be so deservedly executed.

Unconsciously, my fingers found their way into my hair, winding themselves around the coarse locks and pulling tightly. There was a familiar sound ringing in my ears, the loud buzzing of a swarm of insects. They filled my ears and mouth and eyes with their filthy touch, tainting everything in sight, destroying the world before me.

"It's your fault he's going to die." They whispered, barely audible beneath the white noise. "It's always your fault. You know this."

My mind was racing, my lungs were burning. It was if a black poison was seeping over my mind, dripping down over my eyes, obscuring my vision and thoughts. I couldn't think straight, everything was so overwhelming it was almost funny.

It was funny, so I laughed. It hurt my chest and wheezed like the final pitiful exhale of a corpse, but I laughed.

And I laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed.

Until something hit me hard on the back of my head, knocking me from my daze and causing me to choke on my breath.

"Oi. Stop freaking out, it's fuckin' creepy."

I blinked a few times, my vision beginning to clear as those dark shadows were chased back into the corners of my vision. The hospital's lobby slowly came into vision, along with a very angry looking Kuzuryuu. He scowled, crossing his arms over his chest tightly and forcing himself to sit up taller.

Ah, of course. How unsightly it must be to watch someone like me being so pathetic.

All my attempts to apologise were drowned out as I coughed and spluttered, attempting to regain my breath. The world was much clearer now, my eyes readjusting to the tropical sunshine streaming through the windows. It appeared as though I was now sitting down in the waiting room, yet I had no memory of moving from the wards and into the lobby.

I unballed my fists, my fingers aching from the strain as they unfolded and released my hair. The pain pulling at my scalp faded, and slowly I brought my shaking hands down to my knees. To my frustration, they instinctively gripped tightly at the fabric, clutching tightly until the denim burned into my palms.

Opening my mouth, I attempted once again to say some kind of apology for my misgivings, but all that came out was a rasped "Ah," closely followed by a shaky "Sorry."

Kuzuryuu huffed, his nose crinkling as he prepared to spit some kind of insult, but instead of ripping into me, he paused. There were a few seconds of still silence before he sighed loudly, allowing his body to relax a little and posture fall. "He's fine, don't get so fuckin' worked up about it."

"I'm… sure you're right." A breathy laugh forced itself out, as if squeezed out from the tight feeling in my chest. "After all, you are an Ultimate."

"Wha-? You think being an Ultimate makes me right about everything?" He scoffed, not in a tone as if he were looking down and mocking me, but more one of amusement. "They're wrong about you being crazy, you're just a fucking moron like me. Or maybe I'm the crazy one for even talking to you, who knows?"

It was difficult to think of what to say in response to that. I decided not to think too long on it, instead choosing to laugh along with him. "Perhaps."

The small smile that was on Kuzuryuu's face slowly dropped. The positive feeling in the air evaporated like mist and a heavy silence settled over the room. All that could be heard in the empty waiting room was the sound of Owari sobbing as though her life depended on it echoing down the corridor from her room. Eventually, Kuzuryuu broke the silence as he sighed loudly, leaning back in the stiff plastic hospital chair as best he could.

“I think I’m… starting to get your whole crazy ‘stepping stone to hope’ shit.” He paused to scoff at himself, as if he was in shock that he would say such a thing. “Ever since Peko saved me, it feels like I owe this life to her, or to everyone else. It’s like it’s not my own anymore. Just a spare.”

"If I'm not wrong, you're referring to Pekoyama-san's sacrifice? It’s no surprise you feel that way, but there was very little you could have done to prevent her execution.”

Kuzuryuu still grumbled after I asked, sounding frustrated by the question. It was no surprise, he had reacted rather poorly when I brought it up during Owari’s fight as well, but dancing around the topic seemed pointless. What Pekoyama did for the one she loved was amazing, there was no logical reason to not acknowledge that.

“It’s that stupid fucking Monokuma’s fault! But what kind of fucking person am I to let Peko take the blow for me after all that I said? It’s messed up. The only reason I didn’t die is because she shielded me, a tool ‘til the end.” As he said the last few words, Kuzuryuu slammed his fist against his leg, growing more frustrated as he continued to think about it.

I shrugged. "Pekoyama-san was an amazing person. She died for the sake of your hope, so that you could continue to be a beacon for your family and the Kuzuryuu Clan. There's no point in being angry at her for doing the right thing…"

The right thing, huh?  

"What she did wasn't the right thing! The right thing would have been for her to stay with me!" Jumping out of his chair, Kuzuryuu glared down at me. "No death is a 'hopeful thing' you dumbass!"

Spreading hope is the right thing to do, so that's what I should do, right?

"Hey! Are you even listening to me? Jesus, you really are messed in the head." He scrunched up his nose in a snarl. "I'm trying to be more forgiving and a better fucking person and all that shit but you really piss me off, going on about how everything is great as long as it's for fucking hope !"

I don't need to worry about my feelings. I just need to spread hope, like Pekoyama-san did.

I looked up at him, locking eyes as I smiled widely at the Yakuza. "I think I get it now. Thank you, Kuzuryuu-kun, you are a truly wonderful person. I'm sure Pekoyama-san is proud of you."

"What?! What the hell are you talking about, you bastard? Don't go around saying things like that." In an attempt to hide his reddening face, Kuzuryuu turned his head to the side, looking away from me.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to upset you." I raised my hands in a defensive position, hoping to calm him.

"Whatever… just go take a break or something." Still refusing to look at me, Kuzuryuu grumbled. "I'll take care of things here, alright?"

I nodded. "Thank you, Kuzuryuu-kun, you really do make a brilliant leader."

"Just get out of here!"

Laughing softly, I carefully rose to my feet, still feeling a little dizzy from lack of oxygen. As Kuzuryuu began to head back towards the wards, I realised something.

"Wait! How did you know about what happened to Hinata-kun?"

"Huh?" He stopped, spinning around to face me. "Because you came in here cackling like a maniac. You wouldn't answer my questions so I checked in with Tsumiki about it. By the time I got back you were still out here having your breakdown, just now sitting down and babbling away to yourself creepily about how you were a murderer."

"Ah." Yeah, that sounded right. "Sorry about that."

Kuzuryuu shook his head, muttering something under his breath before pushing open the doors to the corridor and continuing on his way.

I figured it was probably time I did what he said too and took advantage of this opportunity to put my plan into action.

With a wide smile, I headed towards the entrance of the hospital, pushing open the doors before stepping out into the warm sunlight.

[yakocchi]

(Eisuke) The King’s Training – “Try to Satisfy Me” // Episode 1

A bit of context for what this is from: otona love is their mature hub for existing Voltage series and their original adult series. So it’s just essentially 100koi+ (Love 365) except you have to play it on a shitty web browser and also pay more monies per story. technology

For a while I thought I imagined seeing this story in the site, but actually voltage just got lazy and didn’t tag this story with anything. Legit, you can type “eisuke” and “suite room” in the search and it doesn’t show up. it shows up on the kbtbb store page but… whack. almost reminds me of how useless the 365 app search can be

Episode 1 is free (!!!) so if you wanna follow along with a portrait of eisuke (bc I didn’t post further screencaps) then… there you go

this ep is… not adult-adult, but eh. It’s the later eps that do the adult content or w/e

eisuke nonsense behind the cut

…

At the penthouse, where it seems like I’m always being summoned to come over… Within seconds I was already thrown into bed, and I weakly pushed against him.

[MC]: “N-No, don’t…” [Eisuke]: “Stop trying to hide every single little thing.” [Eisuke]: “Do you intend to make me say that over and over again?” [MC]: “Even then, doing this all of a sudden is a bit embarrassing…” [MC]: “Can you at least turn off the lights?” [Eisuke]: “Will that be all from you?” (This is bad… his mood quickly went sour.)

When I shrink away from the icy gaze above me, the sheets are then mercilessly torn away. [MC]: “Ah-” [Eisuke]: “Are you not in the mood to entertain me?” [MC]: “ah… Please, wait-” (As it is - it’s impossible!) Tightly shutting my eyes, I brace through my shame and-

(He shut them off for me!) [MC]: “Thank y–“ [Eisuke]: “…” In that split second I sigh in relief, he suddenly grabs onto my ankles. [MC]: “!” [Eisuke]: “From here, I won’t let any more complaints come out of you.” He forces himself between my knees, a smirk on his face. (Seems like it’ll be a long night…)

…

The next day – (I’m dead… dead tired…) (I only had resisted him for a little bit, and yet I was punished until morning…) I groggily continue to make the bed when I stagger a step and bang into the cleaning wagon. [MC]: “Aaah-“ [Erika]: “MC, hold it. What are you doing?” [MC]: “I’m sorry for causing more unnecessary work for you!” Waking up to tidy the massive heap of fallen amenities, Erika hands me the new sheets with a thud. [Erika]: “You know, you’ve been slacking off too much lately.” [Erika]: “Even if you’re Mr. Ichinomiya’s girlfriend - let’s not get too carried away now, hm?!” [MC]: “Of course not!” [Erika]: “As punishment, please do the rest of the cleaning by yourself!” (So that I can keep up with Eisuke, I’ve been working my hardest.) (‘Getting carried away’, I haven’t done anything like that…) Erika leaves the hotel room, and I was left alone to continue cleaning.

…

That night–

(If I don’t hurry, I won’t make it on time!) Flying out of my dorm and dashing through the hotel lobby, two figures then intercept my path. [Ota]: “Oh cool, perfect timing.” [Ota]: “We’re going up to the penthouse, so come and serve us some coffee.”

the… the main lobby where they all hang out is called the penthouse too, right in jpn they use “organizers’ room” which… that aint it in engl i remember that much. right??? oh no look what you’ve done voltage, this is what happens when you make 1 kbtbb update a month

[MC]: “Uh, right now?” [Baba]: “Ota, you gotta call that off for now. If she’s in this much of a rush, you should just sympathize with the dear.” [Ota]: “Ahh, gotcha.” [Ota]: “So, you were peacefully relaxing in your room after work when you got a call?” [Baba]: “Something along the lines of ‘Get to the penthouse, you have 5 minutes’, as they say?” [MC]: “It’s just as you say! Well, I have to-“ [Ota]: “Looks like Eisuke’s ‘training’ has wrapped up with flying colors, huh?” [Baba]: “Then, how many minutes do you have left on the timer?” (Oh, no- by just talking to them for a moment, my five minutes have passed!) I cut the conversation short and jump onto the penthouse elevator.

…

[MC]: “-So, I’ve kept you waiting!” [Eisuke]: “You’re late.” [MC]: “?!” Opening the door - Eisuke was right there, leaning against the immediate wall. He approaches closer, apparently irritated. (Th-That scared me… It couldn’t be that he was actually sitting around waiting for me, right?)

season 1 mc u will soon realize he has no hobbies despite having billions of dollars to invest in any hobby ever

(I should apologize for now) [MC]: “Sorry,” [MC]: “Before I got on the elevator, I was occupied talking to the others…” [Eisuke]: “I didn’t permit you to give me excuses and the like.” (No matter how you look at it, he’s clearly in a bad mood.) I feel a chill run down my spine before he grabs my wrists and pins them above my head. Trapped between the door and his body, I timidly ask, [MC]: “Are you… angry?” [Eisuke]: “I’m going to retrain you.” He leans his face a breath closer before licking my lips. Instinctively opening my mouth, he slips his tongue through and caresses inside. [MC]: “…Mmn-“ [Eisuke]: “…” Every time he bites the tip of my tongue, the wet sound echoes through the silent room. (Eisuke’s kisses are always so sweet, as if to melt me-) In these kisses filled with his desire that yearns down to the core, my mind grows hazy. …thump, thump… (Footsteps?!) [MC]: “Um, isn’t there someone coming up the stairs?” [Eisuke]: “And what’s the matter with that?” With a devious smile, he had snapped off a few of the buttons on my blouse. [MC]: “Please wait, someone can come in and see us…“ [Eisuke]: “Don’t kick up a fuss.” [MC]: “Ah... S-Stop…” -Knock, knock! [Soryu]: “Eisuke. Are you in?” [Eisuke]: “Yeah.” [Soryu]: “I’m opening the door.”

MA BOI SORYU DUN DESERVE to be part of ur sic voyeuristic ways u eggplant lookin ass

lol idk if the engl version has this yet but remember the eisuke story where he swaps bodies with soryu and then soryu was pretty much like “no TOUCHIN MY BODY IS SACRED” and that was like season 17 my season 1 boy dun need this

(Th-This is a problem…!) Rattle, rattle-

[Soryu]: “…Are you in the middle of something?” [Eisuke]: “I’m busy right now.” [Soryu]: “Then I’ll ask you from out here.” (Th-Thank goodness…At some point Eisuke had locked the door.) As I finally let out a sigh of relief – While Eisuke normally conversed with Soryu, he began to further undo my clothes. (He’s opening up my blouse, and my bra is…) (But if I make a sound here, it’s likely that Soryu will find out what’s going on.) I twist my body in a subtle attempt to resist, but with a great force I was pressed even harder against the door.

[Eisuke]: “…” [MC]: “…guh…” His teasing fingertips sneak under the hem of my skirt and stroke the inner side of my thighs. Lightly biting my lip, I desperately keep my voice from leaking out. [Soryu]: “There will be a change in the items up for the upcoming auction.” [Eisuke]: “And this item is?” [Soryu]: “A painting. Ota is currently appraising it, but it’s almost certain to be a forgery.” (What should I do, the current situation is…) I also could hear lively chatter from the penthouse lobby below. In this situation where it seems that if I get even a little careless I’ll be discovered - my heartbeat wildly beats faster. [Soryu]: “Baba is currently looking for an alternative piece, but…” [Eisuke]: “But I thought there was a sculpture in the warehouse?” [Soryu]: “Isn’t that one supposed to be the centerpiece for the following auction?” Eisuke is discussing business matters with his usual expression… as he pulls down the straps of my bra. [MC]: “….Hh…” [Eisuke]: “…” His fingertips glide along to skim against the tip of my breast. (Even though Soryu’s on the other side of the door,) (He’s purposely… on the places where I’m likely to cry out…) [Eisuke]: “I don’t care if we put that one up earlier.” [Eisuke]: “Report that to Baba.” [Soryu]: “I don’t mind that, but…” More and more, the core of my body blazes hotter and I want to lose all of myself to him. (I know that wanting something like that right now is out of line,) (But…) Even if I’m aware of how inappropriate this is, I can’t escape the comfort of the sensations Eisuke gives me. [Eisuke]: “Is there a problem?” [MC]: “…kgh-” Though his words are directed to Soryu, his irises are directly captured on me. When I slightly lean my relaxed body towards him, he strokes my hair in a toying manner. [Soryu]: “…It’s quite difficult to talk about.” [Soryu]: “I’ve had enough of this - Can I at least open the door now?”   [MC]: “!” I return to reality upon hearing Soryu’s voice laced with suspicion, and I shake my head to signal my resistance. But Eisuke, without letting go of my body, puts his arms to the back of my knees. (Huh?) (As usual, this is where it ends, right…?) [Soryu]: “Eisuke, are you listening to me?” [Eisuke]: “I do believe I told you that I’m in the middle of something.” When I look at him, my heartbeat picking up - With an amused smirk carved on his face, he presses these lips against my earlobe. [Eisuke]: “Spread your legs wider.”

(End of Episode 1)

If you’re interested in the rest, please consider buying the other episodes! or not. ( ´_ゝ｀) save up ur monies for the things to come, idk. ive been holed up for weeks drinking me choccy milk i dun not got the energy to be voltage pr

[lookwhatilost]

lmao Christ I found the peach post abt my first date w andrew and it’s such a doozy

why did I even keep talking to him after this

this is long as fuck and also super nsfw but my fucking GODDD is it a ride

okay so I met andrew when he was bartending at social still a while back. hes p much worked in every bar in downtown Bethlehem – like, the tapas bar where I used to go w ian all the time, “nothing good ever happens at” rippers, he used to barback alongside w jus at steelgaarden, slung margaritas at urbano, and plied me w spiked shamrock shakes at mccarthys – so we’ve run into one another multiple times as he’s bounced around the north side. I made a joke once abt how he spawns in every bar and he thought it was funny

so he randomly asks me on a date over messenger and i accept. like, I’m still in contact w Justin but whatever undiagnosed mental illness he has is becoming more apparent and distressing w each passing day and it’s becoming more obvious that he intends to do nothing abt it. so I’m not rly sure abt what to do w that and those feelings and everything but it’s definitely time to start exploring other avenues even if it’s jst for the sake of palette cleansing.

he wants to go see this all female performative of waiting for godot at the community college and I think that sounds cool. it’s creative, it’s different, we can go out after it. I get home a little early and tell him we can hang out my place for a little beforehand and get the “getting to know u better” awkward talk out of the way before we go over. and he’s obviously very nervous but he’s sweet, yknow

we go over to the community college and the play is weird and long. the intermission is at 9 and we leave during that bc we dnt wanna be stuck there until almost midnight. so we go to TR (while tommy is working bc I’m Bitch) and chat and drink and we’re hitting it off very well. he’s cool! he’s smart! he’s funny! he’s weird as hell but in a good way! it’s not jus lvl Fireworks but I’m happy and I’m distracted. We hop to stoke and stick around until last call and grab a 6 pack to take back to my apartment

I literally never do shit like this but I have no problem w him coming over there and sleeping over bc, hey, I’m Definitely Going To Have A Second Date W Him. it rly seemed like this could’ve gone somewhere. so I thought

and what follows is nsfw bc I cant stress enough that this is basically my version of cat person

like listen. intimacy w justin was very hit or miss in terms of him being too rough or something awkward happening outside of that. and it was disappointing sometimes but it was something I could overlook bc it was someone I was fucking over the moon for. and those awkward moments were basically my benchmark for what bad sex looked like

I dnt think ive ever been more incorrect abt anything in my life

this guy is jst. the absolute worst. like first of all I take his shirt off and he has fucking dermal piercings on his hips and I’m immediately rly turned off by it but it’s like. ok. if I can overlook the stupid “please kill me” bullseye on justins chest I can overlook this. but he’s jst. so. so. LOUD. he won’t stop moaning like some girl in a porno. and dirty talk. so much. i HATE that shit so much it’s so stupid. like SHUT UP. i wanted to get a scarf out of my closet and gag him not even bc I was trying to be kinky or whatever like I jst wanted the fucking NOISE to end

he won’t stop yanking at my hair which i also hate. and he’s saying weird shit abt how he wants me to dominate him (literally went into my nightstand, took out my vibrator and told me to use it on him and I was like BITCH NO THIS IS SO WEIRD) and jst. I’m in this situation and actively hating every minute of this but I feel like it’s gone too far for me to back out.

but this jst keeps going. for literal hours and I’m so fucking tired at this point but he’s jst. not finishing or anything. i dnt even know how. so I’m basically jst going along w it waiting for it to fucking end and in the middle of this shitshow he blurts out “i love you” which was such a... bad moment for obvious rzns but that’s the only time someone has ever said that to me out loud. and I was like “shhh dnt say that” and he repeated it and jst kept repeating it throughout the hellish course of the night. and I’m jst sitting here wondering how this went from amazing date to the honest to god worst mistake of my life. thinking abt why I’m so concerned w being nice to this guy and not hurting his feelings when I’m jst in literal hell

it’s finally fucking over and I fall asleep. my alarm wakes me up at 7:30 bc I have to work but he’s not in my bed anymore and I hear someone fussing in the kitchen & what I think is a cork popping but I dnt rly know. and he comes back into my room and says that he went to do me a favor and cleaned my kitchen up a little. but the place is messier than it was last night which is?¿

at this point evan comes out of his bedroom and complains to us abt the horrible day he had at work and Andrew says to him “you sound like you could use a drink!” But ev recoils bc it’s so early and he asks Andrew if he’s drunk & leaves to run errands. his reaction was a nervous “no” but he mixes something anyway and he’s like “this is for you babe” and it’s like. disgusting. it’s gin, razzmatazz, triple sec, rumchata, and coconut water. stronger than rocket fuel and not at all pleasant tasting. I reject the nasty cocktail and he slams it down. I tell him I have to work and he needs to leave. But he’s like “I wanna keep hanging out!” And he will jst. Not leave.

he makes another drink for himself and I see the gin is empty which is weird bc it was half full? and then it clicked that he was probably in my kitchen drinking all my gin while I was asleep. and it’s Hendricks. It’s expensive as hell and it’s also almost 90 proof. so he’s wasted to the point of delirium and I have to call into work to babysit him until he’s sober enough to go home

so I’m waiting for him to sober up and he keeps trying to initiate more sex and I keep rebuffing it and he takes his pants off anyway and jst. passes out w his entire naked ass out on the couch

so im jst sitting there for a little while questioning my life choices when ev comes back around 2:45 and is like. what in the fuck is going on and I tell him that Andrew decided to get morning drunk and things got weird. and he’s like “there is a half naked man on the couch and I’m going to do something abt it if you’re not” so ev yells “are your pants off?” and wakes him up and i tell him that I need to start my day and it’s probably time for him to go. he refuses, say he wants to hand out more. evan gets our swifter out of the closet and starts jabbing him w it, saying “GET OUT” so he finally does

he came over at 5. he left at 3 the nxt afternoon. he left his underwear on my coffee table and his flannel in my room (which I am stealing, not the underwear tho) and the second he left ev sprayed our couch down w Lysol and was jst losing his shit laughing at me

but all and all. turns out you can have a tinder horror story without tinder as well! who’d have known!

[whatmack]

ive been struck by the mattneil i love to imagine the shovel talk all 5 feet of andrew would give matt, he better be Sure hes entrusting him w the light of his life its what neil Deserves

 YOU READ MY MIND (kinda, read on), Andrew…protecc Anonymous asked: AHGTSFAJSFS MORE MATTNEIL ASDFGHSAF WTF IM CRYING THAT WAS BEAUTIFULTHANK YOU I love these dorkosAnoymous asked: I’ve never shipped mattneil but your fic????Good shit!That’s so flattering tf??? I got u to like a ship, at least in one case!!! They’re so good and sweet I cryAnonymous asked: god okay ‘im not making you eggs’ made me consider mattneil and now I’m APPALLED at the lack of content*strums guitar* welcome to my lifeI realized very young that if I was gonna see the content I wanted to see in the world…I was gonna have to make it myself. The Audacity, how Dare, (pfft)

Neilhas gotten better at dressing himself. Most of the time he’s in his uniform orin gym clothes, so it’s only obvious when he makes an effort, like now. He hadfussed for an hour in front of his side of the closet before pulling on one ofthe two-button t-shirts that Allison is making him replace all his regular t-shirtswith, and the pair of jeans that makes Andrew stare at his legs most intently. He sets up the laptop on the kitchen table, taking care to center it and turnon the light over the sink so he’s not in shadow. His hands are shaky. Andrew heaveshimself up from the couch as soon as Neil is situated and starts choppingvegetables behind him with their largest kitchen knife.“You don’t even like bell peppers,” Neil points out, booting up the Skype app.His armpits are sweating. It’s cold and damp and gross. Will Matt be able totell? Andrew slides the knife between his middle and index fingers and uses it toflip Neil off. Neil responds with the British hand-slang for “cunt.” Andrewgives him the five fathers. Neil twists around in his chair to show him a Greekwrite-off. Before he can finish the gesture, Matt messages to ask him if he’sready to call.The video takes sevenhundred years to load, and the shivery anticipation that has been swirlingaround in Neil’s stomach coalesces into a single sharp crystal when Matt’svoice comes through, a second before his face. He looks nervous. He’s wearing abutton-down, and he…is he holding a rose? Neil didn’t even put shoes on.

He can’t do this.

“Wait, sorry, wait,” Matt blusters, shoving the rose out of frame and reachingout both arms. There’s a laugh from off-screen and Dan’s chin appears in theupper left corner, her hand patting Matt on the shoulder.

“I told you it was too much, babe. Hey Neil!”

“Hey,” Neil says. Andrew, who has resumed his meal prep in the background,sighs.

Matt rubs a hand over his forehead. “Hi, Andrew.”

Andrew flips the knife over the back of his knuckles and stabs it point-down througha pepper, pinning it to the cutting board. Matt jumps in his chair and winces.

No matter how many times he does it, it always makes Neil feel warm inside whenAndrew shows himself willing to protect him. He shuffles his socked feet on thefloor, pleased. He must be doing something silly with his face because Mattsmiles (Neil shuffles faster and tries not to duck his head) and Danlaughs.

“Now the knife is dull,” Neil says. “Great job.” He dodges automatically to theside, and a moment later one of their smaller knives whistles past his ear,narrowly missing the laptop. The thunk-thunk-thunk of Andrew’s chopping starts up again. Dan’s chin kisses the top of Matt’s headand retreats.

Conversation is stilted in the beginning. After a while, though, the familiarityof speaking to Matt takes over Neil’s nerves. It’s not all that different fromtheir usual Skype calls and before long Neil is sprawled sideways, gesturingwith his hands while he and Matt interrupt each other. Andrew finishes bristlingin the background and rinses the knife to put it away, grabbing Neil’s trailingfingers and kissing them on his way through to the couch, the way he does severaltimes a day. Matt waggles his eyebrows when he sees this, and Neil flushes.

“I had a good time,” Matt says, when they start winding down. “Can we, um. Dothis again? Next week?”

Neil fiddles with the edge of the placemat he’s dragged towards himself at somepoint during the call. “Can we still call regularly in between?”

“Of course,” Matt says, his eyes soft. Neil bites the inside of his mouth andthinks better of it, lets himself smile, as wide as his face wants him too.Matt looks dazed. Oh; so that’s something Neil can do. Neil presses theknowledge into the safest part of his brain for keeping.  

“I had a good time too,” Neil says.

Matt is more happy with that than makes sense. “Damn, I wish you were here. I’dsend you off with a good-night kiss. If—if you wanted, I mean—”

“Yeah,” Neil says, feeling the pang of Matt’s absence sudden and sharp. “Um,when—in person. We can. Do that?”

“Sounds like a plan,” Matt says. Neil wonders if the uptick in his pulse isvisible over the screen. He cups a hand to his neck, just in case.

Being attracted to people is exhausting. Neil thinks he likes it anyway.

[ohdeputy]

100 Letters PART IV

Arthur Morgan x John Marston

Words: 6,812

Read on Archive

Part III

-

Pain crept periodically in and out of existence for John, alongside his blurred vision. He felt no sense of time and his thoughts were not tangible. The only consistency being the agony of his wounds. His face was hot and sore, causing him much discomfort through his restlessness. He was sure he had a fever from the amount he was sweating.

What John could only assume were days that passed by as he lay bedridden felt like hours for all he knew. Sometimes he could feel splotches of sunlight against his skin cast through cracks from the nearby window and distant chatter of people around him. Abigail’s fussing also made it through the haziness every so often. He preferred to tune it out when he could, wishing she could just let him be. It was bad enough having to listen to her when he was fully conscious. Other than those instances he was surrounded by black.

For the most part, that is. Sometimes John swore he could feel someone’s hand holding his. Rough and slightly calloused, yet so gentle. It was always at night, from what he could tell. When no one else could be heard and the air was at its coldest, making him shiver in his sleep.

He had the creeping suspension that perhaps... No. He thought, there is no way. Feeling foolish for even thinking it was who he imagined and somewhat hoped it might be. Nevertheless, John always held on tightly, feeling a deep comfort at the contact.

Soon, he started to stay awake for longer than the short moments he could only manage before. He was still confined to the cot he lay on, but he was not in a permanent state of confused slumber any longer. The pain had subsided slightly, yet he still could not move his face too much.

The first time he awoke fully rested, he reached a hand to the fresh stitches holding together the deep slashes in his skin. He winced, partly from discomfort. He couldn’t help feeling a little sad over it, too. It was… strange. This sort of thing never really bothered him before. He’d been shot a couple times, injured in countless other ways and had never thought twice about it. His scars were deeper than physical, serving as a reminder of how he alone he felt on that mountaintop.

Just off to his side, he could see Abigail. Whether her expression was of anger or worry, he did not know.

“Hey.”

Her brow shot up, “hey?! Seriously, John Marston, that all you got?”

He closed his eyes, too tired to start this again with her.

“You are a silly, silly man. You really are.” She stood up from her seat, “eaten by wolves. Never heard of such a ridiculous idea.”

She sat down again, clearly indecisive with whether she wanted to leave or continue shouting at him. “Who gets themselves eaten by wolves? I mean really, who?!”

John breathed out through his nose in frustration, his tone curt as he responded, “I didn’t mean to, Abigail.”

Now Abigail sighed as she put a hand on his shoulder. Some of the anger had gone from her voice, “you never mean to but you always do. Always… trouble.”

“Well, I’ve certainly made my mistakes.” John blinked, looking away.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she retracted her hand and he felt her intensive gaze on him.

“Whatever you want it to!” His words were a little more vicious than he intended, but he was fed up. He winced from the discomfort of moving his stitches as he spoke.

Her hand was back on him, “just shut up and get some rest.”

Underneath all the aggressiveness, John knew Abigail cared about him. He just could not understand her methods of showing it, most of the time finding her unbearably exhausting.

John continued to stay confined to the small bed for the next few days. He spent that time resting, and when he wasn’t asleep he listened to the people come and go around him. He would hear the hushed conversations between Arthur and Hosea, other times the soothing repetition of Javier sharpening his knife. One time he woke to sound of Miss Grimshaw shouting at the other girls. He pretended he was still asleep for fear of her shouting at him, too.

Throughout all of it, Abigail was always around. She mostly fussed about how foolish she thought he was, but also kept him updated on everything that was happening. When she told him how the gang finally planned to move on, he grew eager. Back down south, she had said, into the state of New Hanover. At this point he did not care where they went, as long as it was far away from the past. The land here was cruel and had already given him too much trouble.

Sure enough, once they were certain there would be no worry of another storm, they set a course south. John did not see much of it, since he was still too weak to do more than walk a few steps anywhere. After Abigail and Charles helped him into the back of one of the wagons, he did not see anything but the shifting of daylight across the canvas cover he lay under. Only emerging once they arrived at their new hideout of choice.

There, the first couple of days had blurred together. He was still not up to his usual strength, especially exhausted from their journey into the new state. He spent much of his time resting while the other gang members settled into the place around him. It was nice. Small, but not bad.

They found themselves in a clearing just beside a cluster of trees that kept them hidden well enough from any unwanted attention. At least for the time being. It had grown a lot warmer now that they were free of the snow, but a chill lingered that still caused his breath to hang in the air during the early mornings.

John had come to know this place as Horseshoe Overlook, having a wide view of the surrounding land. The lush forests and the winding Dakota River had become familiar to him from all the time spent confined to the camp. He couldn’t complain too much, though, as it was a sight to behold. Calming too, with sounds of nature all around him whenever he sat at his favorite spot just at the edge of camp. There, stood a tall oak that he would always situate himself under. Either with a book, propping himself against an old tree stump with a fresh cup of coffee, or his thoughts.

John could almost say he liked it here, but often he was reminded of the circumstance of their arrival. Blackwater always lingered in the back of his mind, lying dormant but never forgotten. He waited for the day where Dutch would properly address the complete disaster and wondered what he might say of Nico. He found himself looking over his shoulder more often, watching out for Dutch and avoiding him as much as he could. It got to the point where it may have even started to look suspicious. John couldn’t help it. He felt like a coward, but he could not bring himself to look at him.

When a week had gone by and still nothing was mentioned, John thought that the whole thing would pass by unspoken. So when he sat in his usual spot viewing the river below him, he was taken aback when he heard Dutch call for their attention.

“Everyone, gather round.” His voice came from the centre of camp, where he had set up his tent.

It wasn’t since Blackwater that he had last properly seen him. Since the day he had killed Nico and left John for dead. Because he was at the top of John’s list to avoid, and had managed it well enough, the realization hit him so suddenly. He originally thought Dutch might approach him once they had settled in. That he would corner him someplace to threaten John about what he saw back in Blackwater. To his surprise, it never happened. Dutch never once mentioned Blackwater since before the heist, and John had no intention of asking.

But it felt wrong. Not only for the horrors John faced at seeing his friend murdered in cold blood, but also for the ones they left behind. Jenny and Davey left in unmarked graves back in Colter, and the unknown whereabouts of Sean and Mac. After everything, John was left almost convinced that Dutch had put the whole mess completely behind him, never to be spoken of again. Until now.

When he hesitantly approached, their eyes locked momentarily. The blood in his veins ran cold like he was a deer caught in the sight of its predator. Fear seeped through his body when Dutch gave him a sadistic smile, and already John was preparing himself for the worst.

He joined the cluster of people around Dutch’s tent. Hosea and Arthur could be seen seated next to the gang's leader from recent conversation with him, looking a little tense. Others now stood around them, eager to listen to his speech.

“I just wanted to say how proud I am of all of you.” Dutch held a hand to his chest, feigning a sense of appreciation. John had to refrain from letting his face express how sickened he felt.

“Things may not have gone well in Blackwater, we lost some dear friends.” He paused to evoke some sort of sorrow around his words. “And we mourn them, we do. But we must stay diligent. We must carry on, or it was all for nothing!”

He looked at everyone pointedly, gesturing with his hands to emphasize his words, “would you have them die in vain? Davey, Mac? Jenny? Poor Sean?”

“We don’t even know if Sean is dead, it just looked like he was captured,” Lenny interjected, a couple of other murmuring in agreement.

“This is true.” Dutch nodded his head, “he may very well be alive. And if that is the case, we will bring him back safely. I promise you all-”

“What about Nico.”

Silence fell over the group as everyone turned to face Charles, who’d interrupted.  John was overwhelmed by a sudden appreciation for the man. Charles stared expectedly at Dutch, a couple of others turned to do the same. When everyone waited for him to answer, John noticed Hosea hanging his head. He thought the older man looked ashamed.

“Nico,” Dutch gave a heavy sigh. “She was like a daughter to me.” He looked off in the distance, eyes tearing up. He blinked and returned his attention back to everyone, his gaze turning dark. “But in the end she betrayed me. Betrayed us.”

He continued, “I regret to inform that it was she who alerted the law to our plans. I do not know what caused her to become a fraud within our midst, to take advantage of our hospitality," he spat the last word out. "After all this time to find out she was not who I thought she was.” He shook his head in disbelief.

“Her real name was Heidi McCourt, nothing more than a mere charlatan who infiltrated our family for self-gratification,” Dutch spoke with conviction. He turned away taking the opportunity to become wistful once more, “I only wished I’d known sooner.”

The more he spoke, the more worked up John became. Heidi McCourt? Betrayal? He felt a hand on one of his, not realizing he had clenched it in anger. Turning to see Abigail, her expression was one that pleaded him not to do anything rash. John retreated his hand away from her.

“I say good riddance, she was a rat,” Micah snarled out once Dutch was finished. “They always weasel their way into groups.”

Arthur suddenly shot up from his seat. He looked furious, glaring at Micah, but didn’t say anything.

Micah made no attempt to hide his smug expression as he focused his attention on Arthur, “you know I’m right, Morgan.” He snickered a little before continuing, “but don’t worry, rats always get what they deserve.”

Arthur held a fist at his side like he was about to hurl it into the other man’s face. “At least we can agree on that.” He walked off without another word.

John left, too. Not wanting to stick around the conversation any longer. Abigail followed, but he didn’t give her a chance to catch up as he pursued the direction Arthur had stormed off in.

He found him not far from the edge of their new camp, his arms crossed as he leaned against a tree.

“Fucking Micah,” John said as he approached.

Arthur didn’t look up as he responded, “don’t get me started.”

“And I can’t believe that stuff Dutch said about Nico, he-”

“Oh, just leave it, Marston.” Arthur cut him off, his tone short.

John reeled back, caught off guard by the harshness of his voice. His surprise quickly turned to anger, “are you kidding me?” He tried to keep the volume of his words down so they wouldn’t be heard, but could barely suppress his aggravation, “don’t tell me you actually believe any of that horsecrap!”

Arthur turned on John now. “Maybe she did deserve it!” he snapped.

John blinked at him. Arthur winced, instantly seeming to regret what he said, “oh, I don’t know.” He pressed his fingers to his temple, turning away.

John could tell he was conflicted. Still, it was no excuse for saying what he did. They had both known Nico the longest, and Arthur’s doubts only confirmed how deep Dutch’s grasp was on him.

John walked away, not sure why he even bothered to try and talk to him in the first place. The impulsiveness of his actions suddenly catching up with him. He got too emotional, deep down still believing Arthur was a good man and knew right from wrong. It was what he might have thought, but was being proved otherwise again and again.

Miserably making his way back to his tent, he threw himself on the corner of his bed. Thankfully, Abigail wasn’t there. He did not feel like talking about any of what just happened with her.

With nothing else to do and a newfound frustration, he decided to call it an early night. Not realizing how tired he was until his head hit the pillow, instantly falling asleep.

When he woke the following morning, the camp was quiet. Much of the gang had dispersed, leaving the place a lot less occupied. Micah was gone, much to John’s relief. Hopefully without the intent of coming back anytime soon, either. Arthur, Javier, and Charles had left as well. Something about them going to check out the nearest town.

John itched to leave, too. He’d become so bored from not doing anything and was once again suffocated from the people around him. He heard the town wasn’t too far away and thought he might finally be well enough to explore it.

Abigail was back to nagging him, and the combined company of Uncle and Pearson was starting to drive him insane. But more than anything else, John felt an uneasiness at the particular presence of someone else. Unlike a lot of his adept peers, Dutch had stuck around. And after his speech from the day before, John wanted to be as far away from the man as possible. The only issue was his means of getting to the town.

John sat in his spot on the stump under the oak tree. He held a book open in his lap but had stopped reading a while ago. Now he pondered on a way to make it into town. Under any normal circumstance, he would take the journey on foot, with it only being down the road. He couldn’t take his horse because… He thought back to the night he got attacked by the wolves.

He shuddered at the memory, remembering the last time he saw his horse. The last image of her fleeing from the predators that stalked him.

Though, if he was being honest, that wasn’t his horse. His actual horse was still somewhere in Blackwater, abandoned after the unanticipated turn of events.

John was struck by guilt, he hadn’t had time to think about any of it since then, with everything that followed. All he remembered was being thrown on some random horse with Javier in their escape, leaving behind the mare he’d been riding for years prior.

“How are you feeling, son?”

John turned around to see Hosea approaching him, and shook off the memory. He gave a warm smile to the old man, “a lot better. Nearly fine… but not quite there, y’know?”

“Course I know. It must be boring for you, but I’m glad you’ve been letting yourself rest.”

John was nodding, “it’s been a tough few weeks.”

“That it has,” Hosea agreed. The old man looked away wistfully as if preoccupied with something of his own.

“I was, uh, thinkin’ of heading into town.”

Hosea raised his eyebrows, “oh yeah?”

“Yeah, looking to get myself a new mount.” John gave a sigh, “thing is I don’t got no means of getting there.”

“Why that’s no issue, just take ol’ Silver!”

John faltered, “It’s kind of you to offer, but… you don’t have to do that on my behalf.”

“Nonsense!” Hosea waved his hand in dismissal, “she’ll be happy to stretch her legs. It’s only Valentine you’re heading to. Please, take her out for me. I insist.”

“Well, alright… thanks, Hosea.” He nodded his thanks after getting up from his spot. Briefly, he stopped by his tent to collect his things, slipping his arms into his coat and grabbing his satchel before being was on his way.

He walked the short distance to where the horses were left to graze. There, he spotted Silver Dollar and mounted up. The horse barely even looked up as John lifted himself up onto the animal. The older mare had known John for years now, trusting him almost as much as Hosea at this point. When John was younger, he and Arthur would joke about how the two of them, Dutch, Hosea, and Silver were the original members of the Van der Linde gang before any others had joined. He smiled at the thought, giving the old horse a pat.

John took the hidden path out of camp, emerging from the cover of trees and onto the main path toward the town known as Valentine. The ride there was relatively quick, seeing the bustle of people come into view as the buildings became more abundant around him.

It was a decent place, with a gunsmith, doctors office and saloon as well as a hotel. There was also a general store and train station, but most importantly a stable.

Horses and wagons churned through the muddy streets. John rode down them at a steady pace to take it all in. Piano music and loud conversation flowed from the saloon as he passed by. The sound of hammer and steel could be heard off in the distance, too, the town alive with folk keeping busy all around him. He always enjoyed seeing the different civilized places he was brought to. Studying new and diverse people sometimes proved to be even wilder than the western lands that surrounded them. It was fascinating.

John approached the considerably large barn at the end of the main street. He could make out the name painted in white with big lettering across the wood just above the doors.

AMOS LEVI & SONS.

Upon entering, the smell hit him before he even saw any of the horses stabled within. “Looking for a horse, mister?”

John turned to see a man polishing a saddle. “Err, yes, I am.”

“Well,” the stable owner wiped his hands on his leather apron, “what takes your fancy? We’ve got Kentucky Saddlers, American Paints... lots of fast ones.”

He thought for a moment, not really knowing exactly what he was looking for. “You have any sturdy ones?”

“Like a warhorse, sir?”

“Sure, something like that.”

The man moved to a stable just across from where they stood. “Well, we got this here Hungarian Half-bred. She’s a beaut.”

John studied the mare. She looked strong, with a dappled grey coat that stretched across the wide, lean muscle underneath. “She sure is.” He brushed a hand down her neck, “how much for her?”

“Two fifty.”

John almost choked at the price, suddenly aware of how hollow the satchel strung across his shoulder was.

“Do you have anything similar for…um, slightly less?”

The stable owner shook his head, “I���m afraid she’s as decent as we get.”

John couldn’t help but think to himself that it was no wonder they’ve always stolen their horses in the past. He left the man with an apology and the lie of a promise that he would be back when he had more money.

With no horse and a newly acquired sour mood, John returned to where he had left Silver. He untied the reins but was unsure of what to do. He couldn’t go back empty-handed, the time would come when he would need to rely on his own mount.

He walked Silver through town aimlessly, eventually wandering toward another couple of barns surrounded by pens full of livestock. Sheep, pigs, chickens, cows, the place was full, putting in perspective just how self-sufficient this town really was. It seemed too many animals were present for it to only be a ranch, though. Upon further inspection, John noticed a couple of men walking around the pens, one with a clipboard in hand. It looked like he was counting each animal in their sections, and only then did John realize the whole place must be some sort of auction yard.

As the two men strolled closer, John could just make out what they were saying. “…if we move the pigs into that barn, this area should be good for the sheep we got comin’ in from Emerald Ranch,” the one with the clipboard said as he wrote something else down.

The other nodded, taking his hat off to wipe the sweat from his forehead. “Sounds good. I’ll let the boys know when it’s time. You was saying it were for later this season, right?”

“Mhm.”

“Then, if you don't mind my asking, sir, why you thinking about this now?”

“Oh, cause it’ll be a big one, Pete.”

John listened, all the while making a mental note. He was no sheepherder, but neither was he a complete fool when it came to knowing there was value worth investing, or in his case stealing, in livestock.

“John? John, is that you!” The formation of an idea was suddenly interrupted when he heard his name being shouted. He looked behind him to see a coltish man make his way to where John stood, giving an awkward wave as he did.

“Hey, John! It’s me!”

John squinted, still unsure of who exactly this person that seemed to know him so well was. His memory was struck with realization when the man gave a goofy smile,“…Reedus?”

Reedus nodded with the same amount of enthusiasm John remembered him having. Save for being even taller than before and growing out a wispy looking beard, the stable hand was still the same as when he’d last seen him.

“What’re you doing here?” John asked him.

“I’ve actually come looking to work in the stables here. Amos, the owner, was kind enough to offer me a place. I grew up near Valentine, so I thought it would be nice to be around my ma again. How ‘bout you, what brings you to town?”

“My gang’s hindin’ out not far from the place, seems we are well suited in living a nomadic lifestyle.”

Reedus’ eyes widened, “no kidding! How is Dutch n’ Arnold getting along? And that Hosea!”

John smiled, “real fine, Reedus.”

The man pulled at the reins he held onto, “I actually came by the auction yard tryna sell this here horse. Won’t be needing one since I’ll be workin’ in the stables.” He gave a reluctant laugh, “you wouldn’t happen to be in need of one, would you?”

John blinked in surprise, “uh, yeah, actually.”

Reedus’ eyes lit up, “well, fry me in butter and call me a catfish! He’s all yours if you’ll take him!”

John hesitated, “I… don’t have too much to offer, I’m afraid.”

He waved a hand, “don’t be worrying about that, please, he’s all yours.”

“That’s mighty kind of you, Reedus, I couldn’t possibly accept.”

Now Reedus shook his head, “Y’all have always been good to me, I insist.”

He held the reins out to John, who reluctantly took them. “He’s an old boy, but he’s young at heart. Loyal and sturdy, too. He’ll treat you well.”

John didn't know what to say. “Thank you, Reedus.”

They said their goodbyes shortly after, and John made his way back to camp with both Silver and his new horse. Old Boy, he’d decided to call him, since Reedus admitted he never actually had a name for him.

The saddle was worn but surprisingly comfortable enough during his ride back to camp. The horse gave him no trouble and over the next while he’d grown quite accustomed to Old Boy. He took the time to care for him with not much else going on in the following days other than trying to get word of where Sean might be. Only after about a month or so of being at Horseshoe Overlook was there talk of finally getting him back. Trelawny had apparently heard about him being caught and held by some bounty hunters near Blackwater.

Arthur had spent little time around camp, but one particular night when he was around John heard him discussing with Dutch and a few others about Sean’s supposed rescue mission. When word travelled, both Abigail and Hosea advised him not to go. He reluctantly agreed, not that he was particularly fond of going back to Blackwater. He just couldn’t help but feel useless at doing nothing but sit around camp.  

After a plan was put into place, Arthur, Charles, Javier, and Mr. Trelawny all rode out. Two days later they returned successful, coming back with worse company than they left with. John didn’t have anything against Sean, but the boy just didn’t know when to shut up. Already he filled the camp with his annoying rambling, though people didn’t seem too bothered. They mostly used the fact that he was back as an excuse to celebrate. So that evening crates of alcohol littered the campsite with people drinking and dancing.

The sound of laughter mixed with music flowed through the night air outside where he sat in his tent. Almost everyone was celebrating Sean’s return, though John didn’t feel too up for it. He was glad that everyone’s spirits were lifted for the first time in a while, but it just felt too soon for him to be taking part in the joyous occasion.

He grabbed his rifle and pulled aside the tent’s opening to leave. Thinking he might make himself useful at the very least, he headed toward the camp border to patrol it. He spotted Charles already at its edge, looking out into the surrounding forest.

“I can take over if you’d like.”

Charles turned to face him as he approached.

“Thanks brother, but I think I’ll leave the festivities for the others.”

“You sure? I honestly don’t mind.”

The other man gave a nod of his head, “I find more comfort amongst the trees, no risk of drunken social interaction. You should go enjoy yourself.”

John dropped his eyes, “No, I… I can’t. Not yet.”

Charles gave a look of understanding, “Yeah. I get that.”

The two men stood in together in a silence that was not uncomfortable. John always did like Charles, probably because he was one of the few of them who actually had his head screwed on right.

“You should still go to relax a bit. It might take your mind off things.”

He looked over to Charles again as he continued, “mind you, that doesn’t mean get blind drunk.”

John chuckled at that, “I hear ya. Alright, well, let me know if you want to swap out.”

“Will do. Try to take it easy, John.” Charles gave him a pat on the shoulder before continuing his route.

John was a little lost on where to go, but as he walked back he could spot Hosea sitting off to the side at a table alone.

“John, my boy! Come, come. Join me.” His words were already slurred though the night was still young.

He motioned with over-exaggeration to the spot just beside him. John had no choice but to take a seat there.

“Here, here, take a drink,” he forced a beer into John’s hands, sloshing some of the liquid on him in the process. If it were anyone else, John might have minded. But Hosea could never do anything wrong in his eyes, so he didn’t give it another thought.

“You never did tell me how you got on in Valentine, huh?”

“It was good, yeah.”

“Didn’t get into any trouble, then?”

John smiled, “Hosea, who do you think I am? ‘Course not.”

“Goooood. Good, good,” the older man slapped the table a little. John didn’t remember the last time he’d seen him this drunk.

“That makes one of my boys. You know I tried to raise you decent, right? ‘Course Arthur had to go and make some trouble for himself in town, and, and… well, y’know…” the old man trailed off.

“Sure. You okay there, Hosea?”

“Yeah! Yeah, yeah…” His intense nodding slowly turned into his head shaking from side to side, “No, no…I don’t think so.” He frowned, “You know, I blame myself for Nico’s death.”

John was taken off guard by his sudden confession, he looked around wide-eyed in case anyone has overheard. He had said it a little loud, but nobody seemed to pay them any notice as the others sat around the campfire. Javier strummed away on his guitar, accompanied by the terrible singing of Karen and Arthur. Some others clapped along while Sean was already passed out in the dirt beside them.

John turned his attention back to Hosea, not understanding why he would say such a thing.

“How do you mean?”

Hosea sat slouched over the table now, his giddiness replaced by a somberness.

“I just.. I should’ve noticed. Something, anything.”

He looked up at John, eyes welling up. His heart twisted in pain from the sight.

“How could I not notice, John?” He said the words with such remorse, like he was actually asking him for an answer.

John was lost at how to respond, still not fully comprehending what the man was trying to say. Hosea was back to staring at his almost empty bottle. He looked at it intently and John knew he was somewhere far away.

“If I would have seen it coming perhaps I could’ve prevented her from turning away from us... I always tried, John, I did. With you and Arthur, too. She was misunderstood, I know that. But I loved her like she was my own.”

Worry was replaced by a wave of anger that boiled within John, having to sit and listen to a man who did not deserve the harsh treatment he was bestowing upon himself. Mistaking Nico’s distance for disloyalty when in reality it was nothing of the sort. He wanted to shout out the truth, that Dutch was the one to blame, not him. Yet, John held his tongue as he listened to Hosea blame himself. No matter how bad John wanted to tell him, he couldn’t. Hosea trusted Dutch too much.

“I cannot believe it. It almost sounds like one of my elaborate stories, doesn’t it?” He shook his head grimly. “Heidi McCourt…” he said under his breath. “And now she’s gone. An old man like me shouldn’t outlive a young girl like her. It just ain’t fair.”

John thought perhaps it might be the drink talking, but it sounded as if Hosea didn’t fully accept her betrayal as being true. Not that John could risk saying anything to him. And the little consolation it was, it still gave John the tiniest bit of comfort. Hosea wasn’t fully convinced, even if he wouldn’t admit it if he were sober, the thought was enough for John.

“Things… may have been complicated, but it wasn’t your fault Hosea. It wasn’t your fault.” He emphasized the statement to try and convince him.

Hosea gave a forced smile, blinking away tears. “You would say that, son.” He gave a heavy sigh before getting up from his chair, “I think it’s about time to call it a night.” Before John could say anything else, he stumbled off toward his tent, leaving John to wallow in the weight of their conversation alone.

The prospect of drinking now became tempting after the exchange. He picked at the label on his untouched beer. The singing had stopped a while ago so the night was filled with its usual sounds once more. People still drank around a fire that was far from burning out, just with much less enthusiasm. He thought he might turn in, too, until he heard someone call out to him.

“Joooooooohhhhhhnnnnnnn Marston,” the unmistakable voice of Arthur Morgan called through the air as John saw his form blundering toward him.

“Now don’t you start.”

“Ohhhhhh, take that stick out of your ass, Marston.”

He raised his brow at that. Arthur took some uneasy steps toward the table John sat at, sloppily flopping into one of the empty seats. He was obviously quite drunk. John watched his delayed movements as he slammed down the whiskey bottle he gripped in his hand.

His lids hung low as he swayed a little in his spot. As disoriented as he was, Arthur still managed to focus on John. He gave a little smile, and John had to look away. Even after all these years, Arthur could still make him flustered just by looking at him like that. He felt so stupid for letting the other man affect him so much, like they were still young kids sitting on a roof sharing candies. He knew full well things could never be like how they once were, but still his eyes darted to see if Arthur was still looking. And he was.

John cleared his throat, avoiding Arthur’s gaze once more. He looked around them, seeing the low light of Dutch’s tent at the other end of camp. John knew he had retired to his quarters with lady O'Shea quite early.

“Ohhhh loosen’ up, John. Dutch ain’t comin’ out.”

John was surprised by his quick wit despite being far from sober. He was about to respond when  Arthur continued. The ramble he went on was one John did not anticipate, making him second guess that perhaps he wasn’t really with it at all.

“So I went to Valentine, right, nd somehow managed to get into a fight.” He raised his hands innocently, “don ask mehow, I do not know. But we was fightin’ and this guy, this BIG guy was comin atchu from what I could see from the corner of meye, since, uh, this other sonovabitch was comin at me. But I knocked him out in one punch, so I go, ‘don worry Jahn, I gotchu!’”

Arthur paused to wheeze, “but it wasn you! It was Javier, nd he looks at me like whaaaat? Nd then BOOM, gets hit square in the jaw, nd. Well, I just. It sounded funnier in my head.”

Silence followed briefly after he finished. John could now make out the cut that split Arthur’s bottom lip, and how it was slightly swollen. John eventually responded, “… well, did you get the guy?”

Arthur blinked, eyes wide like he was reliving the tragic event all over again, “let’s jus say things escalated nd we nded up takin' the fight outside.” His voice drifted off slightly, “it were real muddy.”

“That sounds like quite the trouble you got into.”

“It weren’t jus me! Charles were there, too. Nd Bill, mmpre sure he started it. Nd you’s was there! Expect it were Javier stead o’ you.”

Arthur pressed his lips to the bottle of whisky, and John almost missed it as he mumbled, “you never come no more.”

John was sore just from the thought of the brawl. “I don’t think a bar fight would have been the best thing for me in my state.”

Arthur nodded, “mmprobably best.”

Another pause followed, John finding a certain comfort in their silence. The only source of light came from the low burning candle placed in the middle of the table, flickering across Arthur’s face and making his features dance.

It would be so easy to tell him. John didn’t know why the thought suddenly struck him. Maybe it was after everything he had gone through in the short span of the last couple weeks. Nico getting killed so easily and John’s close brush with death combined, life just seemed so fickle. To just to put it out in the air was so tempting. Arthur probably wouldn’t even remember the following day.

Dutch lied. About everything. I cared for you. I still care for you. I wrote you a letter every damn day and he burned each and every one of them to stop you from ever knowing…

Deep down John knew he wouldn’t say it. It was selfish. He couldn’t drag Arthur into all this, not now. Even if he did believe John, it could cause catastrophe, swaying the very foundation of the gang they’ve dedicated their lives to.

Perhaps after all this time, it had turned into John protecting Arthur from the truth. To avoid any more unnecessary damage. John already felt broken to the point beyond repair. But Arthur, he didn’t deserve to have his life completely turned upside down. For everything he knows to be a lie. At this point, it would just be a burden for him to know the truth.

Preoccupied with his thoughts, John didn’t notice Arthur moving closer until he took up most of his vision. John blinked back to reality, noting the way Arthur focused his attention on him, squinting his eyes a little as if he were trying to study John.

“Yur heal scarred up pre well.”

It took a second for John to understand what he meant, then he snorted, “you mean my scar healed up pretty well?”

Arthur frowned in confusion, “isn’t that what I said…”

John cracked a smile, unable to stop himself laughing at Arthur’s drunken foolishness. Arthur began laughing, too.

“What’re we laughing at?” Arthur asked him.

“Well, I don’t know what you’re laughing at, but I’m laughing at you. You’re ridiculous.”

It took a moment for Arthur’s stupid grin to slowly disappear as he processed what John had said. “Hey, thas not very nice of yoummarston.”

“Apologies, Mr. Morgan.” John tried to keep himself from seeming too amused, his efforts futile as he cracked up once more.

As if he had already forgotten, Arthur joined in again. He slapped his knee like John just told the funniest joke and the world seemed to stand still around them, making him briefly forgot about all his troubles. It was nice. Too nice, like it was too good to be true. John felt like they were teenagers again, getting up to no good with the fear of being caught by a scolding adult, all while acting like they could conquer the world. Talking similar to how they once did sparked that same nostalgic courage, like they could do anything. But they couldn’t, and the moment passed just as fast as it had come.

“I should, uh, go.”

“Yeah, alright, Marston. You always do.” He said knowingly, taking another swig of his whiskey bottle.

It was hard to get up from his seat. John wished he could let the moment last, but it felt…wrong. He didn’t want anyone to see the two of them like this. So he just smiled and turned away, slowly letting it fall away from his lips when his back was to Arthur.

He did not know whether it hurt less or more to talk with him like it was old times again. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy it, but it was a harsh reminder of what he could not have. A taste of what they once did have. And it only left John desperate for more. It was dangerous, he knew, and much too risky. And he knew It couldn’t happen again.

[terresdebrumestories]

Clark Kent, of Krypton - 1/4: Kal-El

FANDOM: DC’s cinematic universe. RATING: Mature. WORDCOUNT: 20 404 (Fic total: ~98k words) PAIRING(S): Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne (main focus is on Clark, though). CHARACTER(S): Kal-El | Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne, Jor-El, Lara Lor-Van, Kara Zor-El, Zor-El, Martha Kent, Alfred Pennyworth, Diana Prince, Barry Allen, Arthur Curry, Victor Stone, John Stewart, J’onn J’onn, plus a quick cameo by Lois Lane. GENRE: Alternate Universe (canon divergence), transition fic with romance. TRIGGER WARNING(S): A great deal of anxiety and self loathing, especially in parts one and two. Some descriptions are heavily inspired by my experience of dysphoria-induced dissociation. SUMMARY: Batman crashes on Krypton a few days before the Turn of the Year celebrations and Kal-El's life takes a sharp turn to the left, on a path that will ultimately lead him to becoming Clark Kent.

OTHER CHAPTERS: [II. Shadow] [III. Superman] [IV. Clark Kent] ALSO AVAILABLE: [On AO3] [On Dreamwidth]

AUTHOR’S NOTES AND THANKS: Seven months of work and nearly a hundred thousand words! How's that for a first foray in a fandom, uh? I'm actually pretty proud of myself on that one, and I hope you all will enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it! But before we start, there's a number of people I need to thank:

@susiecarter​, for getting me into this pairing (seriously, go read her stories!), cheerleading me through the writing process, and then betaing the whole monster in absolute record time!

@stuvyx​ for the AMAZING comic pages which you can find here and here, and for the banners used in the official @superbatbigbang masterpost. Go shower her with praise for her work! :D

The Mod Squad @superbatbigbang, whose instructions and work were impeccable and easy to understand even for me and my silly brain

The OfficialMovieSoundtrack channel on YouTube, for compiling the complete Wonder Woman score: I listened to this more than any other music while writing CKoK.

The jewish nerds of tumblr, who’ve been (and still are) spreading the word about Superman’s origins and the character’s original meanings and principles, which in turn had a rather large influence on Clark’s personality in this fic. I hope the bits with Martha will come off as respectful as I tried to make them.

And lastly, a tiny thanks to DC and Mr. Snyder, for deciding to cast Henry Cavill and his jawline as Clark Kent but also making him just not-how-I-wanted enough (and in the right way) to spark me into telling this story.

“Oh, you haven’t heard?” Lord Bel-Lor exclaims in lilting Council, with a hiccup of delighted surprise. “I would have expected the whole of El to know of this by now.”

 Kal-El, strategically stationed close to one of the potted plants meant to shelter the refreshments table from the dancing area, presses his lips together while the young Zod dignitary tries very hard not to sound too eager about incoming gossip. Kal swallows around a lump in his throat, but remains silent. His aunt and uncle’s Turn of the Year ball is one of the most important events of the year, and it wouldn’t do for him to cause a fuss.

 He stands in place, fingers tightening around his drink, and darts a quick look around. Lady Ona-Set has found her customary seat a few feet to his right, advanced age and a rather poor sense of rhythm having long ago banded together to keep her from the dance floor. Further to the left, close to one of five internal balconies, Lady Ra-Ny and her spouse have gathered a small but agitated-looking group of Worker dignitaries from Lot and Zod’s delegations. They seem to be engaged in a rather heated debate, hushed as it is. But the rest of the guests have, for the most part, elected to dance or make good use of the balconies allowing them to gaze over the minuscule shapes of their lavish homes, several thousand feet below.

 There was a time when El’s elite lived closer to their rulers. A long time ago, the Citadel of El was filled with habitations floor to mountain-high ceiling: the royal family lived in the last few city-wide floors, the lords and ladies shared the following quarter of the space, and the common people divided themselves between the Citadel grounds and the Outside. Then the Lords and Ladies of the Principality rebelled against King Hyr-El, who resolved the situation with a bloodbath first, and the destruction of a solid third of the Citadel’s inner buildings second.

 Ever since then, the Stateroom of Peace has floated, alone, in the vast emptiness left by the old families’ houses; the new Citadel Lords and Ladies made new homes on the Citadel Grounds, and pushed former merchants to become Mountain Lords and Ladies in city-domes of their own. The Stateroom—which, as its name implies, is used for every Guild Council meeting and many other official occasions—also serves as a ballroom for religious occasions such as the Turn of the Year, during which all of Krypton celebrates yet another cycle of close collaboration between Rao, the Helping God, and his brother-husband Vohc, the Builder. These are, at least, the Stateroom’s official uses.

 There is, however, a third—and chiefly preferred—activity that takes place here: gossiping. Kal has been privy to much of it throughout his near-thirty years of life, and he is largely unsurprised to find his family once again at the center of attention as Citadel Lord Bel-Lor proceeds to share the latest news of the Citadel Princes and Princesses of El.

 It goes like this: two days before this very ball, a mysterious spacecraft crashed on Lady Mon-Ka’s property. The precise patch of land in question, bordering the Citadel, had been deemed unfit for cultivation and left in disuse for quite some time, rarely visited and even more rarely monitored. Perhaps that was why no one raised the alarm—or perhaps, as Lady Kam-Leang remarks, Lady Mon-Ka was simply suffering from the effects of the energy depletion afflicting all of Krypton, and could not afford to keep her sophisticated surveillance system in a functioning state. Whatever the reason, no one at the time thought to investigate the craft.

 “No one, that is, but the Shadow of El,” Lord Bel-Lor says with a storyteller’s instinct for dramatics.

 Kal drains his flute of liquor in one go while the Zod dignitary dutifully asks about the Shadow of El. Lord Bel-Lor declines to delve into much detail, aware as he is that extensive knowledge of the Shadow won’t garner him any favor at court, but there is more than enough there to earn several exclamations of surprise and one shocked ‘No!’. The Shadow of El, he explains, is a disturbance to the peace, a master criminal helping other criminals escape well-earned justice...but alas, the people of the Citadel have taken a shine to them.

 “Something to do with old legends,” Lady Lin-Na says in a disdainful tone. “You must have heard of the Dark Sun.”

 “Only in passing,” the Zodian admits. “I hear they are causing some trouble.”

 “Inconsequential,” Lady Lin-Na dismisses, several other voices humming in approval, including her husband's. “But they did find their name in one of our old legends, in which Rao must go through a magical sleep, and a darker version of him—Rao’s dream self, if you will—takes it upon themselves to help protect the world during the sun’s long absence... Because the Gods may not interfere in the affairs of mortals in person, the Dark Sun casts a Shadow of themselves on Krypton, so that it may fight the monsters trying to take over the world.”

 Several voices try to be the first to express their disapproval and disdain towards the very idea, Council and Ellon overlapping in the conversation until Lord Bel-Lor clicks his tongue to reestablish silence. Kal-El picks up another drink—his third this evening—and ignores Lady Ona-Set’s judgmental glare as he sips at it, knuckles white around the stem.

 There is no true way to tell what exactly transpired in that disused field. What is known, however, is that by the time Lady Mon-Ka was made aware of the smoking ruins on her property, the Shadow of El had scooped the spacecraft’s pilot out of the wreckage and taken them to the Citadel. They appeared on the main external balcony with an alien in their arms and the light of the sun behind them, striking Lara Lor-Van and Jor-El almost dumb with awe. And the Shadow of El commanded them to take care of the alien, for the spacecraft had reached Krypton on the day of Vohc’s comet, and its pilot might therefore be an envoy of the God.

 Jor-El and Lara Lor-Van, known throughout El for their piety, took the alien in. By the time Kal-El emerged from his labs six or seven hours after dawn, groggy and sporting wrinkle marks from his pillow all over his face, the entire household was scrambling to accommodate both this badly-injured and unexpected new responsibility of theirs, and the ire of Zor-El, Citadel King of El and rather exasperated older brother, who had no patience for his younger sibling and sister-in-law’s latest religious fancy.

 “I fail to understand,” the Zodri dignitary says in hushed tones while Kal braces himself for the inevitable turn of the conversation from this point on, “why Citadel royals would comply with a criminal’s instructions.”

 “I forget sometimes,” Lord Dar Ran-No says with a smile painfully obvious in his tone, “how little of our internal politics is understood outside of El.”

 Kal listens to the giggles that follow the word ‘politics’ and resists the urge to mime gagging into his glass. It isn’t so much Lady Ona-Set he worries about—she has little affection for Bel-Lor, or any of the Citadel Lords for that matter—but rather the foreign delegations taking part in the celebrations. What the Zodri envoy is about to discover will make its way into every available ear before the end of the night; no two ways about that. Kal can almost hear General Dru-Zod teasing Zor-El about it already. At the very least, however, he does have the power to avoid bringing even more attention to himself with an untimely departure. With a deep breath, Kal forces himself not to empty his Ulian liquor in one go, choosing instead to soothe the tense ache in his neck with a slow overview of the room.

 The dancing is slow tonight, even by court standards, and most of the guests are still busy digesting the vast array of refined dishes they spent the better part of three hours sampling over the luxurious buffet. The light, as red as El’s famed sunsets, sparkles over jewelry and shining fabric. Lady Ra-Ny, her spouse and their group have retreated to one of the internal balconies, Warrior-looking men scattered in close proximity while Zor-El stands in the middle of the group. All over the dance floor, people laugh, voices loud and smiles sharp with the delight of mostly harmless gossip.

 Behind Kal, the chuckles have faded, and as Dar Ran-No feigns reluctance to share his knowledge, Kal prays in vain for the ground to open up and swallow him.

 “Something you must know,” the Citadel Lord says in a delighted tone that makes Kal slouch even further than he usually does, “is that Their Majesties have never been the sort to resist...scientific curiosity.”

 More giggles, and Kal overhears two voices sharing the title of a certain book in hushed Ellon.

 “A very specific sort of scientific curiosity,” Lord Bel-Lor chimes in, improper meaning exactly as clear now as it always is.

 More laughter. Kal doesn’t quite screw his eyes shut, but he does look down at the ground, feeling redder than the sun. In his armpit and in his ears, blood pulses with the sharp painfulness of shame, and he forces himself to relax his grip on his flute of liquor or risk breaking it. It takes everything he has to use a polite tone to send away the servant offering him a drink, instead of begging them to leave him alone.

 “I must admit,” the Zodri dignitary says with what sounds like genuine curiosity, “I am quite incapable of guessing what you are driving at.”

 “Do you truly not know?”

 “To be fair, Lord Bel-Lor,” Lady Kam-Leang says in an indulgent tone, “the young man doesn’t look much older than the Prince himself.”

 “Prince Kal-El? What does he have to do with his parents’ scientific endeavors?”

 At least two people snort at that, loud and undignified, and Kal’s face heats up even further, stomach sinking fast and low in his belly. Dar Ran-No’s voice sounds tight when he explains, in the usual embarrassing amount of detail, what exactly Kal has to do with his parents’ scientific endeavors.

 “That is revolting!” the Zodri dignitary exclaims, in a strained hiss that sends cold shivers down Kal’s spine. “Who would even conceive of something so—so—”

 “I believe it has been called primitive.”

 Kal somehow restrains himself from muttering unflattering things into his drink, but only just. To his left, Lady Ona-Set sits with her eyes closed, head tilted toward Kal, mouth hanging slightly open; but the lady shows no sign of drooling. Old she may be, but the gene for degenerative hearing has been eliminated from the collective gene pool for almost seven centuries, and she has always had a reputation for gossiping. No need to encourage that particular trait with entertaining dramatics on his part, especially when she can’t possibly be having any trouble hearing when Dan Ran-No continues:

 “Primitive or no, it was in direct keeping with their previous endeavors...and neither of Their Majesties has ever made a secret of it. When the—what was the word they used for it? I forget.”

 “The birthing,” Kam-Leang supplies, voice curling with a sort of fascinated distaste around the archaic word. “That was what they called it.”

 “Right,” Bel-Lor acquiesces with a scoff, “the birthing. Both Prince Jor-El and Princess Lara Lor-Van had been religious before, you must understand, but after the—uh—the birthing, they became quite convinced the child was a miracle of the Gods. A gift from Rao himself.”

 “Surely they didn’t—”

 “Oh, yes, they did,” Bel-Lor all but squeaks; Lady Kam-Leang and her husband both hush him.

 Kal winces at the sound, fully aware that this particular piece of gossip has lost none of its power in the twenty-nine years since his birth. He doesn’t even need to put any particular effort into picturing the looks on the Ellon nobles’ faces: wide eyes and delighted grins, vaguely hidden behind fluttering fans and flutes of sparkling Nyen wine. They have sported it at regular intervals throughout Kal’s life, and he can only assume the Zodri envoy likewise looks very much the same as every other dignitary ever has: as enraptured as his predecessors were by the scandalous yet fascinating story of the last natural birth of Krypton. There is, however, more to this story, and this time Kal does down what is left of his liquor before they speak again, wishing for all the world he’d thought to grab some of the fermented torquats Dru-Zod brought along as a gift. At least he would have had something good to chew on while waiting out the night’s agony.

 “They tried to have the child blessed by the priests of Rao—”

 “They were, of course, refused,” Lady Kam-Leang states with piercing finality. “The official reason was that to give the child such a name was an affront to the Gods no priest could ever be tempted to forgive—”

 “Truly?” the dignitary asks, genuinely puzzled. “I fail to see the problem with it.”

 “Because you are unfamiliar with Ellon,” Dar Ran-No says, “or you would know ‘Kal-El’ is the light of the sun.”

 “Although,” Lady Kam-Leang remarks, “things would perhaps not have been so bad if they hadn’t gone further still. For years afterwards, Their Majesties and their followers—yes, they do still have a handful of them—insisted on calling their offspring a miracle. A herald of great things to come.”

 Kal is...acutely familiar with that line. It is old habit, by now, to swallow the bitter shame that comes with it.

 “I heard rumors,” Lord Bel-Lor continues, “that Their Majesties wished to attempt birthing a second child, but it seems the Gods intended for the prince to be a one-time phenomenon.”

 “Some people in the Guild of Believers have whispered that this must be a divine punishment for the Els’ arrogance. I do not know that I agree,” Dar Ran-No says in a slightly pinched tone, “but the lack of a second ‘miracle’ did certainly temper Jor-El’s dreams of having a messiah for a son.”

 “But of course,” Bel-Lor adds, picking up where his fellow Citadel Lord left off, “if the other rumors are true, and Their Majesties are being plagued with a much more biological problem….”

 At least one person chokes on a drink. Another one, perhaps two, coughs. Kal assumes the high-pitched, quickly-aborted laughter belongs to the Zodri dignitary, although he wouldn’t be able to swear to it. Face burning even as the rest of him turns to ice, he makes a tremendous effort to keep his gaze on the ground and take deep breaths until the corners of his eyes stop stinging. Inside his chest, his heart throws itself against his ribs like a wild animal trying to escape a cage, and Kal has to blink several times before he can bring the patterns on the floor back into focus.

 The balconies are overcrowded, the object of too many mocking eyes and surrounded by the imposing silhouettes of Nyen Warriors. But they are the only place where Kal can hope to find a little fresh air—and peace, if he can be allowed to make use of the one occupied by his uncle and his friends, rather than any of the other four—until he has remained here for the full four hours required of him, and is allowed to retreat to the safety of his labs.

 He braces himself and, carefully avoiding Lady Ona-Set’s suddenly alert gaze, begins to make his way around the ballroom.

“Good morning, Kal-El,” Krypto says when Kal emerges from his labs, with no sleep under his belt and Kryo on his heels. “Their Majesties wished me to remind you of the king’s visit tonight.”

 Kal nods, always more tongue-tied than he’d like in presence of his mother’s hunit. Krypto has always been pleasant to him, programming far too stringent to allow even for the impression of disrespect in its tone; but it is an extension of Lara Lor-Van, and that is enough to keep Kal on his toes.

 “I remember,” he tells the hunit, “thank you. In fact, I was on my way to wash up and rest. I should like to be fit for polite company tonight.”

 “Good,” Krypto says the same way it always has, the one that makes Kal feel like he’s still a little boy. “Lady Lara also wishes you to know the doctors have officially released our guest from bed rest.”

 “Oh,” Kal says, heart rate picking up. “I suppose that is good news.”

 It will mean one more person to keep in mind, one more presence to navigate around in the palace, and Kal’s head aches just thinking of it—but it is still good that the alien didn’t die. They cannot, after all, be held responsible for Kal’s issues.

 “Quite,” Krypto replies in its usual toneless voice. “Their Majesties ask that you remember the name of House El must not be tarnished. Dinner should be served at the customary hour.”

 Stomach sinking to somewhere in the vicinity of his knees, Kal nods around the lump in his throat, head lowering almost of its own volition. He stands still as Krypto, ever unaffected by displays of emotion, extends him bland wishes for satisfactory repose and floats away towards the main rooms of his family’s apartments. The Lesser House of El may have lost much of the respect they once enjoyed, after Kal’s birth, but their living quarters do still occupy a solid third of the Citadel’s upper dome. Even living here his whole life, Kal has gone numerous stretches of several days—once as much as two weeks—without encountering his parents. The sight of Krypto leaving him to go and report their conversation to his mother is as familiar an image as Kal has ever known.

 He stands alone in the corridor for a moment, breathing in and out at consciously regular intervals while Kryo asks if he’d like a massage to be added to his personal agenda for the night. He nods, of course: a little help relaxing can’t hurt, after all, and he is going to need every ounce of confidence he can get today. That, and his sore arms will definitely thank him.

 “Your heart rate is elevated,” Kryo says after a short silence.

 “I know,” Kal says, heart picking up its speed again as he tenses in anticipation of Kryo’s predictable remark:

 “I am compelled to let you know your current readings are quite far above average.”

 “I know,” Kal says again, and breathes in deep to avoid snapping at it.

 It isn’t the hunit’s fault, after all, that these reminders were programmed into it. Some things, Kal has changed over the years; but he never did figure out how to make the hunit less judgmental without messing up its programming beyond repair, and so the tone has stayed. It's proven useful in the long run, in that Kryo's unaltered demeanor hides all the things that aren’t the way Kal’s parents wanted them to be, but it doesn’t mean the hunit is never annoying. Kal has practice with this, though, and so it is simple—if not effortless—to keep his tone in check when he says:

 “Don’t worry, Kryo, I’ll be fine tonight.”

 “You are a prince of El,” Kryo says, automatically beginning one of the most irritating conversational routines in his repertoire. “You are—”

 “Bound to interact with strangers from time to time,” Kal cuts in, “yes, I realize.”

 “Irrational behaviors due to feelings of inadequacy—”

 “Kryo. You are well aware I dislike it when you talk about me like this.”

 Kryo goes quiet, but doesn’t apologize. Contrition is not a state hunit were ever designed to emulate. They are far too matter-of-fact for that. Kal, for his part, breathes in deep again, and forces his shoulders to unwind as he finally walks away from the access stairs to his labs and strides toward his rooms. He has Kryo perform a general scan to locate the rest in the household—only in the part of the Citadel assigned to Kal’s parents, however—and is all but scolded for it. The other hunits of the palace are complaining, it seems, about the frequency of pings of that nature they tend to receive.

 “It is never a good thing to render house hunits dissatisfied.”

 Hunits are devoid of emotion, incapable of satisfaction or dissatisfaction by design. What Kryo is truly saying is that Kal’s use of household scans is above average and will therefore be reported; but the emotional vocabulary makes the whole thing sound just a tad less pathetic, and so Kal sighs and nods rather than correct the hunit. Besides, his higher reasoning functions are begging further out of this conversation with every step he takes toward his bed. No point in trying to argue in these conditions. He is in the middle of a jaw-cracking yawn, his entire being crying out for sleep, when the black-and-gray silhouette of his parents’ guest stops him.

 The alien, standing by the guests’ library, is tall by Ellon standards, though the people of Zod might find them of average size. Their anatomical model is familiar enough to be reassuring: four limbs with hands and feet, shoulders on the broader side but still within the limits of what Kal would call normal. The muscles seem too well-defined to be natural, although Kryo maintains that all staff accounts state the alien looks perfectly Ellon-like under their clothes. Kal has never seen them out of their clothes, though, and so the impressive shape of the alien’s body retains all its power as far as he is concerned.

 The main difference between him and the alien lies in the head. Where Kal’s is somewhat round at the top—though perhaps a little squarer than average around the jaw—with the ordinary short round ears of Kryptonians, the alien’s has two protruding appendages at the top, aligned approximately above where ears would be. They jut out of the alien’s cowl in menacing straight lines and narrow to frighteningly sharp-looking points. Kal...believes Kryo when it says the alien doesn’t actually possess ears—or horns—that look like this. The hunit is, after all, unable to lie to him. But that knowledge doesn’t quell the eerie feeling of strangeness that tightens Kal’s chest every time he looks at them.

 The alien’s most noticeable feature, however, is not so much their silhouette as their stance. There is no hint of groveling in it, none of the wary tension displayed by visiting envoys from neighboring planets. Not that those envoys cower, exactly, but they are always clearly conscious of the galaxy’s painful history with Krypton, and therefore never fully at ease. This alien—Vohc’s alien, as Kal has heard some call them—carries themselves with the easy authority of a Citadel Lord in the king’s confidence. Back straight, head high; no hint of doubt in their own worth, their own place, their own right to remain.

 The sight of it shrivels something already small and wrinkled in Kal’s soul, makes him want to shrink back in the darkness and hide from the alien’s presence...for, sent by Vohc or not, this alien certainly does seem capable of things Kal couldn’t even dream of; and the thought of being found wanting compared to someone who, according to the court, does not even have the decency to be from the known universe, let alone Krypton, is… distressing.

 It is, therefore, unfortunate that acting on that self-effacing impulse would bring more shame to Kal’s house than his continued failure to prove himself worthy of attention.

 “Good evening,” Kal manages after a deep, steadying breath, pulse hammering away so hard he can feel it in his clasped palms. “May I help you?”

 In front of him, the alien’s head tilts to the right in what must be—might be; hopefully is—a sign of incomprehension, and Kal almost gives into the impulse to slap himself in the forehead. The alien is not from any recognizable planet, let alone a known species. They did not respond to any of the local languages stored in the House’s courtesy translators, never mind Council or Ellon. Why, then, Kal would be silly enough to assume they would understand is certainly a mystery for the ages. Not the first of its kind, it is true, but painful nonetheless.

 Swallowing a sigh, Kal draws on his vague memories of learning Council as a child and starts again:

 “I am Kal-El,” he says in Ellon.

 He waits for a few seconds, taps his fingers to the middle of his forehead, and repeats: “Kal-El.”

 “I am Batman,” the alien says.

 The words are clearly unpracticed on their tongue, the gesture all wrong. No one in El would tap their chest to indicate personhood, after all. Still, these things can be forgiven; it is the alien’s grammar that poses a significant problem. None of the politeness markers fit their position: a nobody—for all anyone knows, at any rate—addressing...well, essentially another nobody, but of royal blood. Many at court would have had Batman’s hide for that sort of an affront, accidental though it may be.

 Batman is lucky, though: Kal has dealt with much worse than people addressing him as if he were a lower-ranked but still respected guest. It is easy, then, to quell the sliver of pleased surprise—and the subsequent shame at how readily swayed Kal is—rising in his chest; to muster a stiff smile and a nod and, when Batman does not seem willing to communicate any further, flee toward his quarters.

It takes Kal a long while before he can fall into a nap, and then it takes an even longer time for him to wake up properly once the evening comes. It isn’t that El’s simple tunics of straight lines and slashed sleeves take all that long to put on, really. It’s just...well, frankly, it’s just that Kal is somewhat clumsier than average. He tends to bang into furniture and trip on his own feet more than other people do, and existing in a near-constant state of sleep-deprived grogginess does not help. Science is worth it, he knows. It doesn’t make it any less awkward to step into the Fire dining room almost three minutes late and watch six pairs of eyes turn to him.

 Kal’s uncle, King Zor-El, is a proud man, taller and bulkier even than his brother Jor—a rare build, for Thinkers. He sits in state at the head of the table with an ease Kal knows he would never be able to replicate, gaze a strange mixture of fondness and disappointment. Force of habit, perhaps. Either way, Zor-El does not say anything about Kal’s tardiness. A simple raise of his eyebrow; the pinched look on Kal’s parents’ faces, the amused gaze that passes between Sol Ka-Zod—Kal’s aunt—and her stepdaughter...all of these are familiar enough to be set aside. Not easily, not quite. But they are set aside, and that means Kal is free to look around the rest of the room, and marvel.

 The Fire dining room is one of the smaller, cozier rooms of similar function in the Lesser House of El’s apartments. At the back, a fire burns year-round, for the rooms closest to the center of the dome tend to be colder, and fire has always been Rao’s way of welcoming guests. In front of the fire sits the table, around which Kal’s family has arranged itself amidst the flowing lines of curved columns, floral motifs carved into the very bones of the building.

There, to the right of Kal’s usual chair, sits Batman. Their back is still as impeccably straight as it was this morning, their shoulders just as steady, their jaw just as strong. This time, however, the slant of their lips, below their cowl, curls into something...well. Perhaps not quite a smile. Not a smirk, either. But there is the seed of an expression there, Kal is fairly sure, that could become either of those things; and it is such a novelty compared to the usual reactions he garners that as he seats himself Kal can’t help but blush, looking down at his hands until he feels in control of himself again.

 The meal is well underway by the time Kal comes back to himself, silten salads half-eaten and roasted keltar being rolled into the room. To Kal’s right, Batman has taken their gloves off to eat, and their hands look very much like Kal’s hands—a little bigger, maybe, in keeping with their owner’s size, but nothing strange. Nothing that would be out of proportion for a Kryptonian, at the very least. They catch the eye somehow, at least as far as Kal is concerned. Batman’s silhouette was so imposing this morning, so surprisingly regal for someone people have barely hesitated to classify as a barbarian; it is hard not to be surprised when it turns out they eat like a regular person.

 It wouldn’t do to stare, however, and striking up a conversation right now would mean talking over the main guests, an ill-advised course of action.

 “I don’t think the Melokariel Proposition will ever be accepted,” Kal’s father is saying when Kal finally dares to raise his eyes away from his plate. “Nor do I think it should.”

 Kal darts a glance over the table, unsurprised to find his cousin raising her eyebrows quite high into her glass of Ulian liquor. The reaction is, Kal supposes, understandable. As the first in line to take over the throne of El, Kara has been invited to every single one of her father and uncle’s twice-weekly dinners since the tender age of twelve, and is therefore even more familiar with Jor-El’s way of gearing up for a fight. Or, well. A debate, as he calls it.

 Notorious for his incompetence and disinterest in politics, Kal returns Kara’s gesture nonetheless. He might not know the ins and outs of this Proposition as well as she does, but he does know his parents, and the thought of another family argument beginning is about as annoying as it is stressful by now. At least he knows he won’t be asked to participate. Kal’s horrendous lack of social acuity, cultural refinement, or specialization has been exposed, discussed, debated, and condemned more than enough for a lifetime; he isn’t keen on sparking that particular conversation again by asking about the Proposition or, Rao forbid, trying to change the topic. He will get through this in silence, like he always has, and count himself lucky for it.

 “Ever the retrograde, brother,” Zor-El says while a servant takes his empty plate and replaces it with the largest keltar of the lot. “If I were to listen to you, we would be working our way back to the days of primitive savagery.”

 There is no need to look up to know Zor-El has nodded in Kal’s direction, the circumstances of his birth ever a sore point for the family. He dares a glance to the right instead, and blinks when he finds Batman looking down at the table coil they were handed along with their meat. There is nothing strange about the tool that Kal can see, though accidents do happen, so he turns back to the left when his father, having most likely run through his usual defenses of Kal’s conception—helped along by his wife, of course—snaps:

 “In any case, the fact that Krypton does not possess the necessary resources to—”

 “We have talked about this before, Jor,” Zor says in a warning tone. “Krypton will not debase itself by going around begging colonies for their scraps.”

 “Ex colonies,” Kara points out, mild but clear. “The Green Lanterns saw to that.”

 Queen Sol Ka-Zod elbows her stepdaughter in the side, but Kal has never seen his cousin heed that particular warning before. His aunt cannot be faulted for the gesture, as it is unseemly for an heir to the throne to dissociate herself from the ruling monarch so openly—even if only at the family table; but then again the only thing worse than that would be for Kara to have no opinion at all. As it is, the jab passes, and the conversation returns to its topic of choice for the past nine months or so: the Melokariel Proposition.

 Kal, knowing no one will think to ask for his opinion on the topic, takes a look to his right again, and freezes. Batman, despite maintaining as dignified a posture as can be, is making an unimaginable mess of their food. Bits of it have strayed from their plate; the rest stains both their hands and their forks...and that is when Kal realizes this should have been an entirely predictable outcome. What were the chances, after all, that Batman learned to use proper cutlery on whatever backwater planet they came from? The cost of forgetting your manners—and therefore, your place—is high on Krypton, however, and Kal is too well-aware of this to sit there and do nothing. He reaches over, ready to take action, when Zor raises his voice:

 “Mining the core is the only way to survive,” he says in a tone full of rebuke, catching Batman’s attention without effort.

 “So say Peacekeepers,” Jor retorts—too loud, too fast. “They have always been quick to demand and slow to think, but—”

 “Jor!” Kal’s mother exclaims, half reproof and half horror, at the same time as Zor warns:

 “It would do you good to remember which Guild your queen came from, brother.”

 Despite the fire, the atmosphere of the room grows chilly, and Kal has to force his fingers to relax as he closes them around his fork and table coil. He tilts his head to the side when the alien looks at him, left hand extended palm up toward Batman, coil hanging between his thumb and forefinger, and asks, “May I help you?”

 Batman looks at Kal for a few moments—or at least, they keep still, with their optical lenses pointed in the appropriate direction—before they nod. Kal nods in return and, in a practiced gesture, lifts the keltar’s nearest limb with his own fork, loops the coil around it, and slices it off the animal’s body by spreading his fingers. Batman makes no sound, and does not give any indication that they watched Kal's actions particularly closely, but when Kal outfits them with a coil of their own, Batman imitates the gesture almost perfectly, and then repeats it with diligence. There is something surprisingly circumspect in the way they move, as if trying to master the gesture in as little time as possible. It seems strange, to Kal, who tends to observe things for far too long before he makes a move, but it works in Batman’s favor, and they are eating cleanly in no time. Just in time, in fact, to hear Kal’s father snap:

 “If Tsiahm-Lo does vote in favor of the Proposition, he will truly lose the right to call himself the Wise King of anything, let alone Laborers!”

 “Jor-El!” Sol exclaims, obviously shocked.

 Even Kal’s mother doesn’t dare speak in support of her husband after that sort of claim, and it is easy for Kal to feel the assembly tense—even down to Batman—as Zor leans forward and says in a low voice:

 “I would guard my words if I were you, Jor. There are those who would consider such a statement dangerously close to treason.”

 The table is grimly silent for a moment, fragile balance poised on the edge of a knife, as Kal watches his father reconsider his words, swallow, and say:

 “Forgive me, everyone. I don’t know what came over me. Obviously, I misspoke.”

 On the opposite side of the table Lara, Sol and Kara all look distinctly relieved, though Kal can’t quite manage to relax his shoulders. He hunches in on himself a little closer instead, ignoring the way Batman’s attention seems to have moved away from their food and toward the conversation on the more interesting side of the table.

 Kara is the first to speak again.

 “If nothing else,” she says in a firm tone, “I don’t believe anyone should consider the Proposition without also considering its alternative.”

 The rest of the table mumbles their assent, until Sol and Lara join in and, soon enough, the debate veers away from the Melokariel Proposition itself and onto the merits of Krypton’s old colonial programs. Kal, who has little interest in joining that discussion either, presses his lips together and turns back to his food for the rest of the meal. Batman requires almost no further help, except when dessert comes and they seem more than a little perplexed by the singing flowers set atop the cakes.

 “You can eat them,” Kal says when Batman clears their throat and tilts their head toward their plate.

 “You?” Batman repeats, head tilted, while gesturing with their hand like they’re bringing something to their mouth.

 It isn’t the gesture Kal would use to signify eating, but context makes it easy to interpret. Kal repeats the verb for Batman’s benefit, rectifiescorrections their pronunciation to something more understandable than their first attempt, and starts thinking.

 There is no telling when—or if—Batman will leave Krypton. The Shadow of El passed along no word of anyone else in the alien’s spacecraft, and no one has reached out to El looking for a lost companion since the day before yesterday. There is a possibility—how much of one is impossible to tell, but the chance is real nonetheless—that no one is coming to rescue them. If so, they will need to integrate. They cannot possibly be expected to remain incapable of communication forever, and the odds of anyone volunteering to take them to a neighboring planet are minimal at best. As for waiting for his parents to think of Batman’s well-being...Kal would frankly rather not. And yet Batman will need to adapt and find a place in Ellon society.

 They will need to speak, Kal realizes. To learn the things they don’t know, to figure out the rules and customs of this place—for otherwise they leave themselves open to ridicule, contempt, or worse. As a man with experience dealing with two of these things, Kal finds himself loath to leave Batman to deal with them alone. Not when he knows he can, perhaps, do something about it.

 Kal is no expert linguist. In point of fact, he isn’t even a teacher. He is willing to help, though, and willing to spend some time trying to figure out the best way to help Batman around...which, he guesses, makes him the only choice available. It might be a bad idea. He has other things to do, after all. Responsibilities he cannot shirk. He is a Citadel Prince of El, though, and those responsibilities do extend to taking care of guests.

 He might not be the best choice for this, but if no one else will make time for the task, he will.

Raising his head at breakfast the next morning only to find Batman standing in front of him with the same serious expression they have always displayed is a surprise for Kal. He would say that he hadn’t expected the alien to seek him out quite that fast, but the truth is he hadn’t expected Batman to seek him out at all. Besides, it is long past breakfast time. Kal is still there, it is true, but that is only because he tends to work all night and barely emerges from his labs in time to ingest something before he collapses on his bed and sleeps most of the day away. Batman can’t possibly have missed that fact. Can they?

 Whatever the reason, the alien does not seem ready to stop looking at Kal in a way that makes him feel as though his use of his table coil is being assessed and found wanting. This is not, it is true, an uncommon sentiment for Kal. Most of his life has been spent in self-conscious discomfort. But the familiarity of the sensation does nothing to prevent a blush from rising into Kal’s ears until he feels like they are about to catch on fire.

 “Excuse me,” he tells the alien in an attempt to relieve some of the tension, “may I help you?”

 Batman remains stock still for a moment. Nothing in their expression shifts exactly, except perhaps for a certain sense of...looking for something. ‘Hesitation’ seems like too strong a sentiment, somehow, though it comes closest to what Kal perceives. Deliberation, then. Batman indulges in a few more seconds of it before they nod and take a seat in front of Kal. Behind him, Kal feels Kryo hover closer, perhaps out of a sense of misplaced protection, but the hunit does not do anything else.

 Meanwhile Batman has extended a hand and is pointing at Kal’s table coil, saying something in what Kal assumes is their birth language. He blinks, still a little too groggy to process this in a timely manner, and he is fairly sure he sees Batman’s lips tighten—a sure sign of exasperation on a Kryptonian—before they point at Kal:

 “I am Kal-El,” they say. Then, pointing at themselves: “I am Batman.”

 They point at the coil again then, and Kal blushes harder when he realizes the question was actually quite simple, and he should have understood it right away. He pushes past it, however, and answers with flaming cheeks:

 “This is a table coil.”

 “This is a table coil,” Batman repeats, pronunciation quite close to Kal’s.

 “Table coil,” Kal repeats nonetheless, just to make sure the alien will understand that only these two words designate the object they are asking about.

 That, and to make sure Batman won’t mispronounce it and accidentally refer to a very intimate part of the anatomy by accident.

 Batman, as has been the case so far, proves themselves a diligent learner, and manages a perfect rendition on the second try. Kal beams. He doesn’t stop to think, then, that Batman may not have been asking for a full vocabulary lesson when he points at his fork and says:

 “This is a fork .”

 “This is a fork,” Batman repeats, eyes fixed down on the table.

 Kal nods, grin widening despite himself, a thin bubble of pride growing in his chest.

 “This is a glass .”

 “This is a glass.”

 Kal walks Batman through several other eating implements—a plate, a spoon, a napkin—ever more pleased when Batman keeps getting the pronunciation right in two, sometimes three attempts at the most. They name all the items set on the table, eventually, and Kal imagines things will stop there for a moment, but then Batman points at the table itself and says, “This is….” with a tilt of their head.

 “This is a table,” Kal informs them. Then, because he can’t think of a better way to explain the question, he seizes his glass again and, with a tilt of his head similar to Batman’s, asks: “What is this?”

 Batman nods at that, mouth slanting...well, not into a smile, maybe, but a more relaxed angle, at least. Something that seems to hint Batman has finally found something worth considering in Kal, and, well. It would be a lie to say it does not affect him. There is something—giddy, almost, but also rewarding about this. About knowing he is useful here and that what he is doing right now will be—perhaps ‘appreciated' is the wrong word. Batman would be well within their rights to consider teaching them the language a demonstration of basic courtesy on the part of their hosts. Even so, whatever Batman learns and remembers this morning will be useful to them in the future. The sentiment is exhilarating. It loosens Kal’s shoulders, make him more willing to smile as he tries to mime the concept of a room in order to explain the word ‘parlor’.

 By the time they stop, almost an hour later—and then only because Kryo reminds Kal today is the day of his annual health examination—Kal has had time to fill his chest with so much satisfaction at a job well done he feels almost no self-consciousness at the gesticulating he has to engage in to explain that he needs to leave. Batman nods, somewhat less stiff than they usually seem to be, and then says two words—at least it sounds like two distinct words—in their language.

 Kal, caught off guard, nods back, close-lipped and tenser than he would like to be, and doesn’t look back as he leaves the room at an appropriately sedate pace, Kryo hovering at his elbow. He is in the process of trying to breathe his heartbeat into something more acceptable when the questions—the sudden uncertainty—become too much to handle, and he asks, “That probably meant thank you, didn’t it? No reason for them to—”

 To what, exactly? Mock Kal? Judge him? Insult him? None of these possibilities make any rational sense. Context, and Batman’s attitude, both point towards the alien’s words being some form of thanks but—but what if it wasn’t? Kal is familiar with his mind's tendencies. Its ability to twist even the most innocuous things into catastrophes has been a part of his existence for as long as he remembers, and he knows better than to listen to it without reserve.

 But still, a persistent part of him asks, what if he made a fool of himself this morning and did not realize it? What if Batman was only indulging him and could not hold it back any longer? What if they found Kal the dullest, most profoundly boring creature they have met in their entire existence, and are now determined to avoid him at any cost? The chances are slim—very slim, even—but….

 “You are panicking again,” Kryo says in its usual dispassionate tone.

 Kal does not hush it, but he does think about it. These concerns of his are...irrational, most of the time. He knows this. Not always, though. Kal has made a mess of things without meaning to before, has been found wanting in many and varied respects—numerous times, even—and Batman...well. It did seem, for a moment there, like Batman didn’t completely despise spending an extended period of time in Kal’s company. That is a good sign. But others have pretended as much before, and Kal should have remembered that; should have paid more attention to what he was doing, put more care into remaining—unobtrusive. Yes, that would be the right word. He knows how dull he is after all, should keep it in mind lest he keep making the same mistakes he made today—too solicitous, he’s sure, treating Batman like an imbecile or...or whatever else he did, really. It will come to him, he knows.

 “Kal,” Kryo points out again as they round a corridor towards the palace doctors’ offices, “you are panicking again. Calm down.”

 Never has that particular command been of any help in the past, but Kal has long since given up on trying to get it out of Kryo’s programming. He bites down on his instinctive rejection of the advice and breathes in deep instead. Then he asks, “Would you calculate the probability of what Batman said meaning ‘thank you’, please?”

 “Situational elements suggest an 85% chance that that would be an appropriate translation of their words,” Kryo replies. “The scarcity of available data means linguistic calculations might take as long as four weeks to process. Do you wish me to proceed?”

 “No, thank you,” Kal says.

 Eighty-five percent, he tells himself even as he knocks on the door to the doctor’s office. That doesn’t sound so bad. Granted, there is still a fifteen percent chance he misread the situation entirely. A fifteen percent chance Batman was seeking him for very different reasons—although he cannot fathom what those reasons might have been—and he only managed to annoy them beyond belief. Fifteen percent chances are more than enough to send his heart racing; more than enough to half convince him he should, perhaps, consider shutting himself off from the world for good, if only it would ensure he never made that sort of mistake again.

 “Good morning, Your Majesty,” the head physician says when she opens the door.

 She gives Kal a familiar once over, takes his expression in—and this time, Kal knows he is not imagining the exasperation. Sighing, he follow her lead and tries to steel himself for the upcoming assessment and the myriad of little embarrassments that come with it.

  The examination goes well enough, except for a few awkward bruises and wounds Kal has to admit he got from lugging heavy objects around in his labs—“If you’ll beg my pardon, Your Majesty, I know people lighter than these plants of yours,” the doctor says. Kal gives her an awkward smile and changes the topic; something new to be needlessly embarrassed about. The plants are nothing big, truly, nothing anyone would find really remarkable. Kal is known for being chiefly interested in botany, though, and most people do not associate this with sprained ankles or bruised ribs; so every instance of someone finding out must be followed by an uneasy reminder that Kal does not live a dangerous life at all but is, rather, ridiculously clumsy...and getting clumsier as the years go by.

 Still, he does escape the doctor’s office eventually, relief more than palpable in every single one of his veins. Then he gets to his laboratories, settles down behind the floor-to-ceiling, one-way window, and proceeds to lose himself in work.

 He is in the middle of a—lengthening—break several hours later, when Kara’s voice rings from the top of the stairs and bounces against the spherical ceiling of the comparatively minuscule room:

 “I might wish to update your security protocols,” she says, her footsteps gradually losing themselves in Kal’s small forest of growing plants. “They barely reacted when I approached the door.”

 “Of course they did,” Kal says without looking away from his current notes, “they know you. Besides, it wouldn’t do to give anyone the impression I’m trying to hide something in here, would it?”

 Kara hums from where, if the rustling is to be trusted, she is poking at Kal’s morose-looking keva vines. Not that he takes poor care of them—he hardly does anything else with his days, after all. But Krypton’s atmosphere has been profoundly changed by the ever-more-intensive mining projects grinding away at its soil, filling the air with more dust than many plants find it possible to survive. Some biomes have been able to adapt on their own in the northern parts of the planet, where mining activity has been subdued by the lack of remaining material worth the effort. But El is one of the least-affected Principalities. The worst of the work is yet to come, here, and while the king—in his wisdom—has remained steadfastly convinced no problem could arise from an intensification of industrial production, Kal has always been more...anxious.

 It was easy to combine this with his scientific curiosity and indulge in the sort of pet project none of his family members could truly disapprove of, despite his lack of formal education on the topic. Kara, for her part, has never quite seemed to understand Kal’s enthusiasm for his test subjects, and barely bothers to feign an apology when she accidentally snaps a leaf off a luat bush.

 “They seem to be doing better,” she says with a polite smile even as she places the broken leaf back into the luat’s force-field, the atmosphere set to mimic a seventy percent air pollution rate. She wipes her hand clean with a nearby rag before she continues: “Perhaps you are finally succeeding.”

 “We did move from a five percent survival rate to ten,” Kal replies without mirth.

 “Ah. Well...at least there is progress?”

 Kal tilts his head in concession, and then stiffens when Kara finally walks up to his desk and leans over his shoulder. The working lights, brighter than any other in the lab, must obstruct her view: she reaches for Kal’s papers, and although his first instinct is to grab after them, he knows better than to attempt it. Kara has, after all, been training all her life never to take no for an answer. Not at face value, in any case. Kal hesitates. Fidgets. At last, when he is sure Kara must have completed at least her second reading of what notes he has, he can’t help but ignore the skepticism in her expression and ask:

 “What do you think?”

 Kara’s lips purse into a doubtful expression, and she chews on her tongue for a second. Curbing her answer to sound more diplomatic, then. Perhaps Kal should warn her to get rid of the tell.

 “I can’t say that I have much expertise in linguistics,” Kara says at last.

 Biting down on a sigh, Kal reaches for his notes again, and meets no resistance from his cousin. He eyes his teaching plan for what must be the hundredth time today, and thinks.

Batman’s species is unknown on Krypton. Taking care of them has worked out all right so far, but nothing says they won’t be confronted with unexpected problems later on. They must be able to satisfy their basic needs on their own, which means they must be able to obtain food, drinks, sleeping accommodations and hygiene products. This implies naming said items, and learning how to ask lower-ranked individuals for services and thank them appropriately afterwards. Other things will come, such as asking for and understanding directions to various places, greeting individuals of various ranks and, of course, learning to make some form of conversation with the royal family without provoking an incident.

Kal is in the process of revising what he should focus on first and which verbal form to prioritize—desperately trying to remember his first lessons in any language in the process—when Kara sighs, sits on his desk next to him and asks:

 “How long do you believe this will take?”

 “A few months, I suppose?” Kal hazards. “They seem to be a fast learner, and they have more pressing motivation to learn Ellon than I did to learn La’u—”

 “I never understood why you even chose to learn La’u when you didn’t have to,” Kara interjects with a wink.

 Being ten years Kal’s senior means Kara was well into her La’u lessons by the time Kal started grasping the basics of Council, but he did hear his tutors rejoice about his prowess enough to imagine the sort of pains it must have caused Kara to learn it. Frequency-based languages are a struggle for anyone more used to words, but the fact that La’u uses deeper frequencies for more polite speech can hardly have helped Kara and her light voice. In any case, Kal himself struggled enough with the language that he cannot fully blame his cousin for her surprise.

 Still, the specifics of La’u are not the point, and Kal continues:

 “Hopefully they at least know what conjugations are, but we cannot be sure, and if they do not, it could add months of teaching in order for them to grasp the basics. And after that—”

 “After that?” Kara exclaims, but Kal is surveying his teaching plan again and only half paying attention to his cousin when he says:

 “Do not worry, I only intend to teach them Court Member forms, at first. That should serve them well enough until—”

 “Kal, I wasn’t—don’t you think you are taking on quite a lot of responsibility with this?”

 Something shrivels in Kal’s chest, a hopeful seed squashed to the ground by a distracted boot, and he hunches in on himself before he even realizes it. He does attempt to deflect the question with a shrug, but Kara would not be Kara if she could be satisfied with a non-answer of that sort.

 “Kal. You are a Citadel Prince. You are a busy man—”

 “I do believe you are confusing our timetables,” Kal mutters, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice.

 “Even so,” Kara insists, after clearing her throat, “your plants take up quite a lot of time and work, especially the nocturnal ones.”

 “I am well aware,” Kal tells the piece of paper he wrote Batman’s lesson plan on, “but even so, I am not half as busy as you are. I think I should be able to handle this.”

 With a shake of her head, Kara clicks her tongue and rises from the desk, walking to the disused elevator shaft that crosses Kal’s lab and knocking on it with her knuckles. “You know I believe in this project of yours, Kal. There is a reason I wanted to get involved. I know you will continue to give it your best effort—but I also worry you might be taking on responsibilities that are not yours.”

 “Batman is a guest under my family’s roof,” Kal points out, trying to keep his tone mild despite the sudden spike of irritation in his chest. “I do have responsibilities—”

 “There are plenty of tutors in our service—”

 “I’m quite aware,” Kal replies with more bitterness than he thought he had in store for the memory of his old teachers. “I remember my time with them, and I would rather spare Batman that.”

 “I know you did not enjoy your basic studies,” Kara starts, “but perhaps if you hadn’t been so difficult, things wouldn’t have been so hard for you.”

 Kal gapes for a moment, breath stolen by the sharp stab of pain in his chest at Kara’s words. She means well, he knows. And perhaps...perhaps, in some ways, she is right. It is possible—not probable, but possible—that Kal caving in to his teachers’ demands to specialize in the learnings of one Guild would have made his youth easier. It isn’t the done thing, after all, to ignore traditional limits the way Kal does. To defy genetic marking and engage in activities best left to those who were engineered for them. Still, what was he supposed to do?

 The very source of his fame is that Kal does not have any Guild markers in his genome. That he is, in fact, the only Kryptonian to have lived without them in centuries and, if the way his life has gone so far is to be taken as an example, for centuries to come. Why Vohc allowed him to be created—why Rao did not do him the mercy of never allowing his mother’s pregnancy to come to term at all—is a mystery for the ages. Still, the fact remains that he would never have been accepted in any Guild, no matter how well he studied. Believers, Workers, Thinkers…none of them would have wanted him. Why else would Kal’s teachers have scoffed when he asked if he would ever be allowed to learn any of the Guilds’ languages?

 It is most likely that Kara believes what she is saying. She has always been kind to Kal, and treated him as an equal, if something of an incomprehensible one. But the truth is that Kal’s tutors were ever unprepared for him—and he was a son of Krypton. How they would react to an alien, Kal would rather not find out. Not, in any case, if it means taking the risk of making Batman feel the way Kal did during his training.

 Taking a deep breath, Kal forces himself to straighten his shoulders as much as he can and, sidestepping the ever-delicate subject of his former tutors’ treatment of him, says, “Perhaps you are right. Even so, I have already invested time and effort in this project. I should very much like to bring it to fruition. I have talked with Batman—”

 “Is that his name?”

 “It is. Though we cannot know for sure whether they are a he—or if this concept even exists where they come from.”

 Kara concedes the point with a nod.

 “They seem to be an interesting person,” Kal continues. “I would like to get to know them better, but I cannot do that unless they learn to communicate with us and I spend some time with them. Teaching them Ellon seems like the ideal way to accomplish both of these things.

 Silence falls around them, and Kara fixes her gaze on Kal for a long time, a skeptical moue firmly set on her lips.

 “Very well,” she says at last, sighing in defeat the way she would never allow herself to if Kal were anyone else. It fills his answering sigh with gratitude. “Although I fail to understand what makes him—them—more interesting than any of the other aliens you have met and failed to befriend before.”

 She kisses Kal’s forehead before she goes, not noticing how still he has gone. He has to be still. He would cry if he weren’t, the shame of his own inadequacy catching up with him with the force of a laser blast. He tries to explain it later, only to himself—only in the privacy of his own head—but he can’t quite put it into words without finally breaking down into sobs: the way it felt to have Batman see him as a simple stranger, rather than a well-established failure .

 It is, sadly enough, a practiced routine to ignore Kryo’s bland inquiries about his health.

  It takes Kal some time, after his and Kara’s non-fight in his lab, to realize she must not have come to see him so they could discuss his newfound interest for the art of teaching. In fact, it takes him a full night of reflection—earning him several bruises and possibly a cracked rib that could otherwise have been easily avoided. Kara is busy all of the next morning, and Kal uses that time to sleep like the dead for a while longer, before he goes to visit her in the upper levels of the royal palace.

 “I understand,” she says when Kal is done apologizing, eyes on the floor as if he were still a little boy of ten trying to live up to his adult cousin’s expectations. “I suppose I wasn’t at my best myself.”

 Kal nods, struck mute now that he has said his piece, and waits for Kara to set what she was working on aside and add:

 “I wanted to ask what you thought of the Turn of the Year Ball. You did not dance much.”

 “You know I mislike it,” Kal says with an embarrassed shrug. “It accomplishes nothing save providing the court more fodder for gossip.”

 He glances up just in time to catch Kara’s knowing look, and feels himself blush. It shouldn’t be an embarrassment, for her to know what the court has to say about Kal. He has been a source of gossip for longer than he can remember, after all, and she must have been aware of this long before he ever began to suspect there was something wrong with him. Still, discussing a source of humiliation is not the same as being aware of its existence, and for a moment Kal finds himself quite unable to speak.

 “I understand,” Kara says with the same soft tone she always uses in these conversations of theirs. “I imagine you wanted some fresh air after that.”

 “I tried, but the main balcony was rather occupied,” Kal remarks, forcing himself to take his hands out from behind his back, only to twist them together again at his front. “Lady Ra-Ny was there.”

 “Well,” Kara says, her tone as mild as her eyes are sharp, “she does like her space. Did you see who else was there?”

 “Lord Ko Li-Van of Ul, Lord Nej Tar-Plak from Po—along with his lady wife—”

 “Ce-Qod? I thought she was too sickly to travel.”

 Kal gives a nonchalant shrug, dragging his eyes back down to the ground, heart hammering in his chest.

 “So did several others in their assembly,” he says. “One must assume she made an effort for the sake of the opportunity to meet your father.”

 “Indeed,” Kara replies, thoughtful.

 Kal glances up and finds her looking down at her work, though her pen hand is not moving.

 “It seems quite a lot of Worker Princes and Princesses were hoping for the honor of meeting our king, this week. One can only wonder why.”

 She looks up then, straight into Kal’s eyes, and he shrugs.

 “Perhaps they were simply hoping to present him with well-wishing gifts for the Turn of the Year. I did hear some of them trade ideas among themselves. I believe Shadow’s limbs were invoked more than once; or, failing that, some form of garment patterned with Dark Suns.”

 “Well, thank you, Kal,” Kara tells him after a long silence, features and shoulders as stiff as stone. “You always do pick up the best gossip.”

 Kal, who knows the way his cousin looks when she needs to think on something, nods, and makes his way back to his family’s level of the palace.

  Once he is back in his family’s dwellings, Kal decides it would be best not to put off his teaching project. The prospect of approaching Batman might be mildly terrifying—though the memory of their willingness to tolerate Kal helps—but it is a necessary step for anything to happen. Besides, teaching or no teaching, it would not do to leave Batman to their own devices like an inconvenient visitor one tries to get rid of, having been followed home.

 He finds Batman, after some searching, in one of the smaller libraries of the palace, not too far from the guests’ quarters. Neither the apartments nor the library have seen much use in many years, and the silence around them is enough to set Kal’s nerves on alert, but Batman looks unbothered by it. They've taken a seat by one of the curved windows, relaxed pose incongruous in contrast to the stiffness of their clothes—perhaps Kal should see about having something else made for them—with a book on their lap and something close to a scowl on their mouth.

 Kal steps closer, and recognizes the cover of The Adventures of Flamebird . The character is a rather popular hero in El legend: a servant of Rao who went around the world helping those they could—for their gender was never revealed, if indeed they had even had one—and did so well on their quest that the Sun God himself gave them a home atop the highest mountain of the world and allowed them to call themselves Xen-El: Xen of the light, under the protection of the Helper God himself. The story itself was nothing truly original, merely a collection of legends that had lived in El for millennia before Kal’s great grandparents were even conceived...but Kal spent many a solitary hour poring over this book, devouring Flamebird’s adventures, their discovery, and their friendship with Nightwing, who rose in service of Vohc and became the first true Thinker of Krypton.

 The book itself, in fact, shows the wear of such a love. It is creased and bent where multiple sets of hands were cajoled into holding it open for Kal...and later on, from many instances of bringing it along on official travels or solitary explorations, until the order was finally given to find it a home in the guests’ library. Kal’s lips twist with the memories. There are entire sentences of the work still carved into his mind. They are not, unfortunately, the ones his parents wanted him to learn—these were lost to time, but Kal retains the vague impression of certitude coming from them, the edge of despair creeping into their voices until they could no longer cling to the hope that Kal would, one day, reveal himself as Rao’s heir and lead El back to its former glory. Nonetheless, some parts of this book Kal could recite without looking at them, and he cannot help but smile when he sees such a beloved item in the hands of someone he hopes to come to know and respect in the future.

 Batman must be attempting to teach themselves Ellon with this book. It is a commendable effort, and something Kal might have attempted in their situation, but if the alien’s face is anything to go by the experiment is not quite yielding the expected results. Then again, as far as Kal knows, Krypton’s alphabet is quite unique in the galaxy, so unless Batman is somehow familiar with something similar, it is hardly a surprise that they are finding it hard to make sense of.

 Stepping closer, Kal clears his throat and says, “I might be able to help with that.”

 It is unclear whether Batman was already aware of Kal’s presence or if they simply have commendable control of their body’s reactions. Either way, they give no sign of surprise that Kal can see. The window does offer quite the vantage point over the library, it is true. Its round frame dominates a circular room, covered floor to ceiling with the yields of thousands of years of book collecting. The truly rare editions, made of organic fibers rather than the synthetic paper everyone uses nowadays, are of course stored in the master library. Still, this particular collection is nothing to blush at, and Kal inhales the dusty smell of many books collected together with a form of reverence, even as he waits for Batman’s response.

 The alien, for their part, hasn’t moved at all since Kal entered, as if waiting to see what might happen next. The image puts Kal in mind of a predator surveying its hunting ground...although, perhaps, with more benevolence than most. It would seem...unlikely, to most, for a royal guest to keep track of people’s comings and goings around here. Then again, those same people would also deem it impossible for Kal to notice half as much as he does, and so he does not entirely dismiss the possibility.

 He endures Batman’s scrutiny instead, resisting the urge to flush and hunch in on himself even further than he already does. Thankfully, after a long moment of contemplation, Batman says something in their own language—Kal could slap himself for expecting anything more, really. Of course, Batman wouldn’t be able to answer. That is the entire point of this conversation, isn’t it? Rao, Kal. Keep up.

 “I would,” Kal starts, and winces again. Simple words, in this situation, must be best. He tries again: “I want to help you speak Ellon.”

 Batman stays silent again, the cowl obscuring their expression in a way that leaves Kal at a complete loss. He does not have the strength to wait as long as he did the first time around, though, and so he steps forward, points at The Adventures of Flamebird and its colorful pages, and says, “This is a book.”

 He might, possibly, have imagined the way Batman’s lips quirk into the not-quite-smile Kal is beginning to suspect is their best approximation of an encouraging expression. Regardless, no rebuttal or rejection comes, and Kal allows himself to sigh in relief when Batman dutifully repeats the word. Then, Batman gestures for Kal to sit down next to them and Kal takes a place on the windowsill with rather more giddy enthusiasm than he’d expected to feel.

 “May I?” he asks, hand hovering over the book.

 He waits for Batman to push the collection into his hand and flips through the pages to the beginning of Flamebird and the Secret Lake . There, he points at the illustration and says:

 “This is water.”

 “Water,” Batman repeats with a small nod.

 Kal beams at them before he can think better of it, then flips through a few more pages to the part where Flamebird serves one of the old Lords of Krypton to prevent a servant from losing their place in the palace; points at the picture of a glass, and asks:

 “What is this?”

 “This is a glass,” Batman says.

 Kal grins again, and goes through several more illustrations, naming objects and checking back on Batman’s memory at regular intervals. It is easy to find the material he needs, the book so beloved it feels like he might be able to find specific pages without even looking. At some point, he drops it in his excitement, and thanks Batman when they pick it up for him, but otherwise a solid half hour is spent on nothing but new vocabulary. Until, that is, Kal realizes he cannot possibly expect Batman to memorize all of this without any sort of support.

 He manages to refrain from apologizing—although only because knows Batman would not understand the words—as he rises from his seat and goes to fetch Batman something to write on. He is not, technically, supposed to use the blank books stored at the bottom of the shelves, but then no one ever does, and he does not think they have been counted even once since he was born. He finds one with a black cover and the El coat of arms in silver embossing on the front, the lined pages inside ideal for a long list of vocabulary, and brings it back up to the windowsill.

 “Thank you,” Batman says, and Kal gasps and blanches.

 “Oh Rao, no, no! You can’t address me this way, you have no idea how much trouble—”

 Kal cuts himself off, face and neck heated enough to cook on them. Of course Batman has no idea what they've done. Kal should have anticipated this, even: they did run into this particular problem before. Kal...well, he does not mind what is technically disrespect. Quite the contrary, in fact. But others? Oh, others definitely will mind, quick though they are to forget Kal is a Citadel Prince when their lust for gossip overtakes them. Batman, of course, is unaware of the problem, and does not have enough understanding of Ellon for Kal to explain it to them as of yet, not without running the risk of confusing them for a long time to come—which means the situation calls for some social gymnastics.

 So, Batman is an alien. In theory, this would make them lower-ranked than any Kryptonian, let alone an Ellon in their own Principality. They are, however, also a guest of the royal family, however reluctant their hosts. This, in turn, will protect them from quite a lot of negative reactions, despite Jor-El and Lara Lor-Van’s disgrace. Servants’ modes of speaking are, of course, quite out of the question; but Batman cannot be allowed to address Citadel Lords and Ladies like equals either, or they will end up in a world of trouble. Which means they probably ought to talk like a Mountain Lord then, or at least as if close to them in status. It is, after all, unlikely that they will run into anyone ranking any lower than that while they are staying in the palace, and if they are to visit other parts of El...well, hopefully, they will wait until they can communicate better before they attempt it.

 “Let’s try again,” Kal offers, once his grammar is decided. “’Thank you’.”

 “Thank you,” Batman repeats, something in the way they move making Kal wonder if they have picked up on some of the social cues involved.

 Regardless, they do not seem eager to question the new, quite different version of the phrase, and Kal beams again, hard enough to push the embarrassment of his earlier mistake almost out of his mind. He ignores the lingering traces of it for the time being in order to pull Batman’s notebook open, pen a rapid sketch of a glass in the left hand margin, and label the drawing in his most careful schoolboy handwriting. He hands Batman the pen when they tap his wrist, and repeats the word when asked, impressed when Batman adds notes in what looks like two different alphabets of their home world.

 They archive the rest of what Batman has learned so far in the same manner, Kal flipping through the pages of The Adventures of Flamebird between words, finding his favorite illustrations without much effort, even though it has been years. After the words come sentences, and Batman puts them through the same process as the rest, writing down both the way they are to be pronounced and what Kal assumes is a translation below the Kryptonian letters. Then, after a while, Batman speaks again, in that strange language of theirs.

 Kal turns back to them, only for them to point down at the book and repeat whatever they were saying. The words, obviously, are entirely opaque, but the sentiment behind them seems easy to interpret, and Kal decides to go out on a limb in order to answer.

 “This is one of my favorite books.”

 He clutches the book to his chest with a wider smile than he remembers sporting in years, excited to meet someone whose reaction to the stories does not range from fond amusement to open disinterest for a collection of children’s tales.

 “Favorite books,” Batman repeats, and Kal beams again, closing the book to point at the cover.

 “They are Flamebird,” he tells Batman. “The legends say they were the very first El of Krypton.”

 Batman looks—not invested in the topic, perhaps, but mildly interested, if their mouth is any indication. No more disinterested than before, at any rate. And Kal—Kal has had few occasions to discuss a book he is passionate about in his life, his family not much for fiction. This, most likely, explains how he manages to spend over three hours talking Batman’s ears off about the book and why, in the end, even the mortifying certitude he must have bored the alien almost to tears isn’t quite enough to prevent him from seeking their company the next day.

  Batman progresses much faster than Kal expected. It takes them only two weeks to remember the numerous words Kal plied them with during their first lesson—something of a mistake, perhaps, to throw so many words at them and expect they would remember them all so soon—and then only about a week after that to grow quite at ease in asking for what they need at the dining table. Where before Kal used to remain silent while his parents or the rest of his family discussed one topic or another, he is now able to put this time to good use helping Batman improve their mastery of Ellon with an enthusiasm he does not remember feeling for the rest of his work before.

 He does not neglect his studies, of course, and Kara eventually stops feeling the need to ask if he is still fit to take care of his nocturnal plants. He does, however, spend most of his afternoons in the guests’ library with Batman, learning bits and pieces of Batman’s language through their alphabet of sound, and engaging in more and more complex discussions about Flamebird and the various legends surrounding them.

 He convinces Batman to let themselves be measured—with their uniform on—during the second week, and presents them with a black and cowled variation on the latest fads in Ellon fashion, the slashed sleeves of their new tunic opening up to reveal lighter gray underneath, and the strange motif of Batman’s original outfit embossed on a breastplate similar to what even Kal has taken to wearing on a regular basis.

 “Thank you,” Batman says when they receive the gift, although Kal is rather unsurprised to find their expression as mild as ever.

 “You are quite welcome,” he says. “I know the old one is cleaned every night, but I also know how uncomfortable it can be to wear the same thing every day.”

 He cannot be sure Batman truly glances up at him at the words, covered as their face is, but he does get the impression of it nonetheless. They have, after all, been spending almost all their time together these days—save for the one evening his uncle received a small group of Worker Princes and Princesses in the Stateroom of Peace, and Kal put his family’s absence to good use, excusing himself early to work on his nocturnal specimens. Such proximity makes it easier to understand someone’s expression, limited though their shared vocabulary may be, and so Kal is, perhaps, not caught as wholly off guard as he could have been when Batman asks, “Is this Nightwing?”

 Despite having anticipated the question, Kal blushes. It is one thing to draw inspiration from a legendary hero for a friend’s outfit, it is quite another to have them pick up on it. Not that Kal is too concerned about anyone else understanding the reference, seeing as Nightwing had fallen into disrepute long before he was born.

 “Perhaps,” he hedges, though it does not feel like Batman believes him.

 Nightwing was once as popular a legendary character as Flamebird, at least in El. He was, after all, the very first Thinker, and Thinkers are El’s favored Guild. Many Els have been engineered to be Thinkers in the past, and Kal’s family members are no exception. Why, his father even married into his own Guild, a rather unusual choice for royals. But where Nightwing, and his patron God Vohc, was once revered and respected as a leader of the people and a Builder of great things, later centuries turned him from ambitious to proud, from charismatic to authoritarian, from an instigator of beneficial change to an agent of chaos.

 In El, at least, it is Rao who now presides over the Gods, guiding them with his light to follow the rituals set thousands of years before by early Ellons. Flamebird, too timid and too tangled in the story of Nightwing, has also been largely relegated to the role of fairytale character, following in Rao’s footsteps with unwavering loyalty and teaching the young how to make their parents proud. A worthy goal, Jor-El used to say when Kal was little; and Kal’s destiny, his mother would add. To make them proud. Not that it did them—or Kal—any good but then the future is a hard thing to predict, and Kal did not turn out to resemble Rao in the slightest.

It was, perhaps, quite inevitable that Kal would never meet anyone who shared his preference for the older versions of the tales.

 “I like it,” Batman says at last.

 The tears catching in Kal’s throat are a surprise but he does, thankfully, manage to keep them from falling.

  Weeks turn into a month, and then another beyond that. Batman continues to progress in Ellon at astonishing speed, his—not their, as he tells Kal at the end of his first month on Krypton—ability to pick up on a word’s meaning and the complex grammatical structures of Ellon beyond anything Kal has ever heard of. Not, of course, that many people are willing to discuss much of their lives with him, language learning included, but still. He did read a few books on the theory of language acquisition, after all, and from what he sees either Batman comes from an especially quick-witted species, or he is even more exceptional than Kal suspected.

 Eventually, Kal’s parents start talking to him a little. Nothing more than idle conversation in between more important errands, but it is still progress, and an occasion for Batman to practice his skills with someone other than Kal. It...worries Kal, in the beginning. A selfish reaction, he knows—but Batman is smart, with a dry sense of humor Kal can’t help but grin at, and prone to engage in the sort of verbal sparring that makes Kal feel more alive, somehow. Talking to him—existing next to him—is a breath of fresh air. It is the very first time Kal has met someone who doesn't merely tolerate him, but rather, for some reason, seems to appreciate him.

 So it is...understandable, perhaps, if not honorable, that he fears losing this once Jor and Lara start addressing Batman over the dining table. He won’t do anything to stop it, of course. Knows better than to keep someone he has come to care for more than he ever planned to from making new friends and building himself a life on Krypton and in El...but there is still a part of him that sighs in relief once it becomes obvious something about the Prince and Princess of El’s conversation displeases Batman. Not much. Not enough for him to shun them entirely. Just—just enough for Kal to pick up on it and feel selfishly, shamefully glad.

 Kal is, in all honesty, not as good a person as he wishes he could be.

 Nevertheless, Batman does not desert Kal, and when the time comes for him to be invited to one of King Jor’s minor receptions, he appears on Kal’s doorstep long before they are to join the rest of the palace’s occupants for the descent into the Stateroom.

 He looks—well, Kal has always known Batman looked good, even in the strange, almost goofy outfit he brought from this Earth of his. Shoulders like his cannot be disguised by what is clearly thought of as a set of armor. The softer fabrics of El’s ceremonial outfits, however, the elegant work of the decorative breastplate and the geometrical embroideries—all of these combine to reveal a body no one would have to blush at. A body Kal may well be thinking of a tad more often than he is supposed to, hidden as it is behind its layers of clothes.

 “I would offer my assistance,” Kal says when he has made sure he isn’t staring, “but it seems to me like you have everything under control.”

 “Contrary to what everyone seems to think, there are things I am quite able to handle on this planet.”

 Kal chuckles despite himself, and hides the smile that lingers on his face by busying himself with the fastenings of his tunic. It has only been a week since Batman started talking to him as an equal and while Kal should, by all accounts, maintain a proper distance between him and someone so insignificant in Kryptonian society, he finds he does not want to. What does it matter, that Batman is a nobody from nowhere, if he is Kal’s friend?

 “Well, the outfit suits you well,” Kal tells Batman as he finishes putting his breastplate in place.

 “Black does seem to be my color,” Batman agrees, a dry blankness to his tone that makes Kal smile again, “even when everyone else satisfies themselves with the darkest khaki s I’ve ever seen.”

 It takes a bit of time for Kal to understand what khaki means and provide a decent translation. When that is done, though, he cannot help but agree with Batman as to the rather monochromatic state of Kryptonian fashion. Most fabrics that Kal is familiar with are dark and muted, as if the light had been leached out of them, so that the solid black and gray of Batman’s outfits seem almost bright by comparison. It is a good look on his friend, though, and Kal finds himself toying with the idea of saying so as they move to join the rest of his family at the entrance to the Way Down.

 “It is a fancier name than it needs,” Kal admits, rubbing at his neck in embarrassment, once Batman asks about it. “But it is the only way to reach the Stateroom of Peace from here, so….”

 “The only way?”

 “There are the service elevators, I suppose,” Kal says with a shrug.

 There used to be five of those, actually, disseminated at various points around the palace, until the lower botany labs were built and one of the shafts had to be closed; one of Kal’s ancestors disliked the coming and going of servants so close to them. Nowadays the serving staff use the four remaining—small and uncomfortable—service shafts, deliveries are made through a specific balcony, and Kal’s family uses the Way Down, voices echoing against the room-wide walls of polished metal. The feeling of it is rather like sitting in an egg meant to welcome forty adult Kryptonians, and Kal cannot help but wonder how much of his discomfort every time he goes down rests on that particular architectural choice and how much is simply due to what he knows he will have to face downstairs.

 “You live in a fortress,” Batman says after a pause.

 His gaze is still firmly set forward, his shoulders unmoved. Yet there is something in his tone that squeezes at Kal’s heart, a sort of tightness he isn’t sure he can figure out on his own. It leaves him nervous and tense, more hunched than he would like as he fiddles with the hems of his sleeves.

 His father, when he notices it, pulls Kal's hands apart without a word.

 “It is unbecoming,” Kal’s mother says with a shake of her head. “You must rid yourself of this habit, Kal.”

 Kal leaves his cuffs alone and mumbles an apology, though he can’t help but try and explain himself.

 “No one is as fond of these occasions as they would like to appear,” Jor-El replies as the seven of them step into the elevator, “but you cannot shame our House with that sort of ridiculous behavior.”

 Resisting the urge to wrap his arms around his midsection—a much bigger embarrassment than simple fiddling—Kal nods at the ground. It is, in all honesty, a good thing that Batman is here. Kal has no desire for his friend to realize how pathetic he can be just yet—or perhaps ever—and so it is easier to keep his shoulders straight than it would usually be. Besides, while Kal has no illusion about the interest people may find in him—very little, if any—Batman still hasn’t tired of him. In fact, the alien has treated him with something not unlike a form of fondness, like tolerating a faulty but well-worn hunit. It isn’t much. Kal knows it isn’t much. It is, however, better than he remembers ever knowing elsewhere, and it helps him keep his self-consciousness at bay as he takes a small step away from his family and toward Batman.

 They both stay quiet during the ride down, Batman having learned by now not to expect too much conversation from Kal’s parents. Brilliant scientists they may both be, but they are not teachers, nor very patient. And so, despite the keenness of Batman’s mind, behind that strange cowl of his, he has been forced to content with Kal as his only company...until, that is, rumors of his progress reached the Citadel Lord and Ladies, and he was invited to this latest function.

 “Are you always this nervous?” Batman asks just before they exit the elevator.

 Kal would like to have the conversational skill and the confidence to answer ‘often enough’, but in truth it is not that much of an exaggeration to say, “Yes.”

 Batman, thankfully, is not prone to clicking his tongue, shaking his head or, indeed, acknowledging his emotions or opinions in any voluntary way at all. This is good, because while Kal is slowly learning to read the alien—the man, he should probably call him—it makes it easier to pretend Batman doesn’t think he is being ridiculous for this. Kal squares his shoulders instead, breathing in and bracing himself just as the doors to the Stateroom open and the members of the royal family are introduced by order of importance.

 The Stateroom, far too vast for this fairly intimate assembly, has been divided in two for the night. At the front, closest to the exit of the Way Down, stands the royal table, at which Batman, Kal, and the rest of the family will sit on display for all the court to see for the duration of dinner. Then the assembly will move to the back of the room for the evening’s first dance—a mandatory exercise, Kal has been informed—and the other points of interest. There are professional dancers, two magicians, three jugglers, and one woman whose business is in fire; Kal would rather spend the evening admiring them all than dance for even a few minutes, but that is, unfortunately, not an option.

 By Kal’s side, Batman seems decidedly unperturbed by the crowd, the noise, and the myriad of occasions one has to embarrass themselves in this sort of public setting. He moves the way he has always done, head held high as a king’s, back unbowed, step unafraid. He behaves, in fact, more like a prince than Kal knows how to.

 As soon as the first nobles have paid their respects to the king and come to engage the mysterious resident of the palace, Batman slips into an almost liquid version of himself. His mouth stretches into a smile, the set of his shoulders mellows, and even his voice softens enough to become almost unrecognizable. It is like watching the man become another part of himself entirely, and Kal would gape if he were not as aware of their audience as he is.

 He follows Batman at a distance instead, watching him charm Citadel Lord after Citadel Lady, easy and practiced despite the still-obvious gaps in his vocabulary. It is a talent Kal could never cultivate, and a deep sense of shame settles in his chest, almost obscuring the pride he feels in his friend’s talent. The assembly, predictably enough, pays him little mind. Kal is used to that treatment, however, and while it is never pleasant it is easier, with Batman here, to push past the stopping power of indifferent disdain and listen to the gossip circulating in the room.

 If, that is, multiple talks of financial transactions can be considered gossip. Kal is...too well-known as an incompetent to join any of the conversation, but mining projects seem to be all the rage in El, and more than one Lord or Lady is already considering what to do for the king’s birthday, in six months’ time.

 Slowly, Kal trails Batman through the dining half of the Stateroom, wondering if this was how Kara felt when she was first allowed in polite society twenty-five years ago. They make small talk with many people, Batman coming up with a new way of calling Krypton grandiose for each pair of ears that would not accept anything less, and answering countless variations of the question: “What is your favorite thing in El?”

 No one, Kal notices, asks whether Batman misses his home planet at all. Not that he would answer—in Kal's experience, attempts to make the man open up about his emotions go about as well as punching the wall of the Citadel and expecting a door to open. Still, Kal cannot help but think the asking of that question matters, perhaps even as much as the answer. He might be biased, of course. Trying to bolster his own importance. Even so, he is glad he had the mind to ask this, at least once.

 They make their way back to the front of the room, where the dining bell will soon call them and the rest of the royals. Cold golden light shines over the room in waves, like a winter sun filtered through water. It gives the whole scene an eerie look, as if seen in a dream, though Kal does not remember it feeling like this before. Eventually, he and this mellowed version of Batman catch up to a small group composed of Kal’s family, all caught in conversation with General Dru-Zod.

 “You don’t like him?” Batman asks, tone flat enough to almost turn it into an affirmation.

 “I don’t believe he is very fond of me either,” Kal mutters in return, trying and failing to sidestep the question.

 He is under no illusion that Batman missed the evasion, of course. Still, the man has the kindness not to laugh at the childish sentiment, though Kal can’t help but feel like he wants to. Batman approaches the conversational circle, but Kal knows where his own place in this particular configuration is and stands by a nearby table instead, just far enough behind his parents to affect ignorance should any courtly eye wander his way. He can’t be sure Batman glancing at him through the lenses of his cowl is anything more than a figment of his imagination, but he does give a little shrug just the same. Just in case. It is good, after all, for Batman to have more interesting things to do than content himself with Kal’s company all day. This evening will do him good, and if it means he makes better friends than Kal in the process, well, it will have—it will be alright. Perfectly fine.

 As it is, though, none of the speakers pay Batman much attention, and Kal watches General Dru-Zod as he clinks his glass against Zor-El’s first, and Kara’s second.

 “To a most excellent deal,” he says.

 The small circle sips on what Kal assumes is one of the Zodri wines the general is so fond of, unbothered by Batman’s empty hands. The silence settles around them as they savor the taste, Kal’s uncle swishing the wine around his mouth before declaring it absolutely delicious. Kara sways after her second sip, closing her eyes and saying, “Forgive me, this is perhaps a little strong,” as if Kal hadn’t seen her drink men twice her size under a table.

 “Strong wine for a strong future,” Dru-Zod replies, self-assured. “This proposition is a boon from the Gods!”

 “This proposition hasn’t been signed yet,” Kal’s mother counters in a quiet, yet firm voice.

 Around her, the air tenses. Batman, caught between her and Dru-Zod’s piercing gaze, remains unmoved, while Kal’s shoulders bunch together even as he looks away. He knows these people’s faces well enough by now: there is no need for him to look at them to imagine the pursing of his cousin’s lips, the frown on his aunt’s face. The tightness of his uncle’s jaw when he hisses, “Sister.”

 “I am but speaking the truth,” Lara replies, still in an undertone. “You and all your Laborer friends may rejoice all you want, but none of your pretty gifts will amount to anything if Tsiahm-Lo changes his mind at the last second.”

 “Gifts have nothing to do with his decision,” Kal’s aunt replies in a mild, somewhat miffed tone. “His Majesty is perfectly capable of making his own choices, and no one here has any close contact with him.”

 “Not directly,” Kara remarks.

 Kal almost hears the air grow tense after her words. He cannot fathom Batman’s expression has changed much...nor that anyone else looks very pleased. Not with the heaviness of the silence around them. Still, he keeps his eyes turned away from his family, sweeping in wide arcs over the Stateroom and its crowd of milling nobility, the performers entertaining the crowd until the royal family finally feels the need to eat. Lady Ona-Set, robes swishing around her, wanders between tables, no doubt lamenting the excessively modern arrangements of cutlery.

 “Nevertheless,” Jor says with a tone of finality, “it would do Tsiahm-Lo good, rethinking his position. The Melokariel Proposition is pure folly, and my father—”

 Lady Ona-Set must have stirred some dust: something tickles at Kal’s nose and he finds himself sneezing three times in rapid succession.

 “Perhaps we should not speak of this where a foreigner can hear,” Kara interrupts Jor, switching to Council.

 “Perhaps you are right,” Dru-Zod replies, “although there is nothing much more to be discussed. Krypton has been stagnating for far too long, and this project will serve to revive it.”

 “You are a fool if you believe that,” Jor retorts with enough feeling to turn Kal’s head towards him, “and so are the Wise—”

 “Jor!” Zor and Lara hiss at the same time.

 On his chair, Kal stiffens. It is not done, to openly disagree with the Wise Council. Their hearing is quite keen and their new militia, specifically trained in Kandor to help unify the planet under one rule, has lengthened the reach of their arm. El holds some power in Krypton’s politics and retains its own police force, still—as does Zod and the distant Principality of Quod—but even Kal has heard whispers of how briefly prisoners taken by the Council’s militia remain in Ellon prisons. When, that is, they visit them at all. Even for royals, it is not done, to openly disagree with the Wise Council.

 For a moment, Kal thinks his family members will attempt to resurrect the topic and keep the conversation going. They spend a long time looking pensively at their glasses instead and then, without a word, the king leads his entourage up to the main table.

 The meal starts quietly enough, but the conversation on Kal’s right picks up again by the time the first dishes are brought out. To his left, Batman eyes the various foods with a tight pinch to his lips, and Kal smiles, even as he points out his favorites as well as one thing he is not very fond of but believes Batman might enjoy. They are well into the meal—in silence, for Batman is not one for idle chatter—when Batman asks, “What does your grandfather have to do with the Melokariel Proposition?”

 Kal almost chokes on his glass of water, and has to reach for a napkin with some urgency to cover the blunder. He is flushing, he knows it, and his heart is pounding hard when he answers with a question of his own.

 “Whatever do you mean?”

 “Your grandfather,” Batman repeats without looking away from his food, perfect profile insufficient for Kal to figure out what he is thinking. “Your family was talking about the Melokariel Proposition earlier. Your grandfather was mentioned, but I fail to understand how he is related to it.”

 For the barest moment, Kal gapes. He is, after all, widely known for his disinterest in the Melokariel Proposition, and his utter inability to change that fact. That Batman would have questions about it had never crossed his mind, let alone that he would come to Kal of all people for answers.

 “I’m afraid,” he says with some difficulty, cheeks burning with too-familiar shame, “you misunderstand me. I meant I don’t know what the Melokariel Proposition is.”

 Batman’s head turns toward him. The man’s eyes are invisible, and yet Kal still wishes he could squirm away from them.

 “The Melokariel Proposition,” Batman repeats. “I have been here more than two and a half months, and I’ve heard it discussed at least twice a week since then.”

 “Then,” Kal admits, shoulders drooping almost of their own accord, “you have a better mind for these sorts of things than I do.”

 There is no change in Batman’s posture, no indication in his expression or on his face that what he has just heard displeased him. This does not in any way prevent Kal from feeling like a great divide has suddenly opened up between them.

  Kal collapses at the door to the elevator shaft in his labs with a grunt of relief, and takes a couple of minutes to get his breathing back under control. His outfit rearranges into more palace-appropriate garments with a tickle, the slick feeling of dirty water and blood sending his stomach reeling. He wishes sometimes that he could just use one of the regular elevators for these outings of his. The scrutiny that would bring him, however...it would be ill advised, at best. And an unnecessary complication besides. So, abandoned shaft it is, though the necessity of the scheme does not prevent Kal from snorting, from time to time, as he tries to picture his parents’ expressions should they learn of this habit of his.

 “Avoiding servants?” Kryo asks when Kal slowly pushes himself to his feet.

 “Always a success,” Kal replies, and does not watch Kryo bob up and down in acknowledgment.

 His entire body is sorer than it has been a while, bruises growing on top of bruises. Tonight was not a good night. Multiple incidents; he’ll have to tell his family tomorrow. A dozen plants dead. Significant structural damage—well, no, that he can’t share. They would want to see it if he did, and it isn’t as though Kal could show them. In any case, it will be at least three days until Kal can afford to leave his work again.

 Three days might be pushing his luck a little, Kal knows. Two would arouse less suspicion. But the truth is, this is not an effort Kal is willing to expend, not when his only wish is to lie down and sleep for an entire week undisturbed. He may have to, at some point—Batman still has questions about the workings of El in particular and Krypton in general, and Kal is still the only one willing to answer him. Even that, though, has lost quite a lot of its appeal.

 Teaching Batman about his surroundings used to be a breath of fresh air, a dream of spring in the middle of winter. Ever since the ball, though, Batman has been—it feels like something broke. And—it makes sense. Somewhat. Kal was—he has never been an interesting person to begin with. A subject of morbid fascination, maybe. A specimen for the study of Krypton’s society. A cautionary tale for those foolish enough to dream of following into Jor-El and Lara Lor-Van’s hubris-filled footsteps, reminding them that wishing for Krypton’s next great leader will only get them someone like Kal.

 An interesting person, though? Not really.

 The thought twists at Kal’s gut, but he swallows the hard truth nonetheless. Tears won’t change things that are, and so he gulps them down and makes himself face the facts while he walks to the showers at the back of the labs. He is uninteresting. That, he knew. But at the very least, Batman used to find him—useful. Tolerable, maybe. A companion of limited worth, but still preferable to complete solitude and then...well, then, Kal did not see Batman for almost two weeks.

 Three weeks in, and they have finally resumed their usual study sessions, but it is easy to see the tone of them has shifted. There are as many questions as there have ever been, as many topics to touch upon. Batman still teaches whatever English Kal is willing to learn. But where before these moments flowed like long exchanges between friends, it seems to Kal Batman is now merely perusing a list of references, gathering information to examine it at a later date. Seeking pointers to guide his solitary studies rather than answers from someone he trusts. It is—it makes sense. Kal should have known it would happen. Batman has figured him out and moved on. He should have known. He should have. He should.

 But he did not, and tonight more than ever the thought twists inside him, clawing at his throat and the corners of his eyes in a way it hasn’t in the three months and some weeks since Batman crash-landed on Krypton.

 It is no use, spending so much time thinking of this. Kal knows this, and tries to push the thoughts out of his mind as he steps under the shower. Clearly, Batman was unwilling to bother with someone uninterested by the topic of the Melokariel Proposition. That is that; no more to say on the subject.

 Although it does, of course, beg the question of why Batman has become so invested in that project in the first place. What does an alien who did not even come from this galaxy care about a strictly Kryptonian affair? Everyone, after all, keeps repeating the truth that no neighboring planet will be affected, let alone Batman’s distant and unknown solar system. Why, then, has the man developed such curiosity about it? That he did not know of Krypton’s existence even while passing by it close enough to crash on it after an accident, Kal can believe. Light-speed spacecrafts are all equipped with automated pilots, and Batman did say he was traveling on business, attempting to reach friends who had required his help. The lack of help, too, is unsurprising. Batman did not have any way to communicate for a long time, and no one—not even Kal, he realizes, wincing—thought to offer help in getting him back home.

 But why would he grow so passionate about the Melokariel Proposition as to reject Kal on the sole basis of his lack of interest in it?

 “Would you like me to order some breakfast to be brought up?” Kryo asks when Kal emerges from his shower in a hurry and immediately shoves himself into his now-anthracite tunic.

 “In two hours, please,” Kal replies. “I have something to do, first.”

 It must be the space making him paranoid. It must be. There is too much of an echo, down there, too much darkness, like a cave of insanely regular proportions. Still, the doubt clings to Kal’s skin as he strides across the space, drooping leaves brushing at his face and arms as he goes on, wishing desperately for answers—or, failing that, for some way to stop thinking altogether...two things he might, in fact, be able to find in the same place.

 The Adventures of Flamebird has always been a source of comfort to him, well-worn pages and cover a soothing sight of their own by now. It would do him good to hold it, to lose himself in the myriad of tales it contains and the distant, unknowable lands of Krypton in its earliest days. It would ease his mind; soothe him enough, perhaps, to let him sleep and forget the night’s casualties, at least long enough to survive. And since the book has been residing in Batman’s bedchamber for several weeks now, perhaps Kal will manage to seize whatever feeble courage he has and ask some of the questions that, he can tell, will not leave him alone otherwise.

 He has no desire to do it. Kal is many things, but brave is not one of them, and the fear of losing whatever shreds of Batman’s friendship he still has stops him in his tracks at the bifurcation between the guests’ quarters and the royal apartments. He is, however, a Prince of El. Not the most glorious of them, and not a particularly good one, either; but if he suspects something strange is going on in the palace, it is his duty to examine it. He must do this, and he must do this fairly—he cannot let his desire for friendship blind him to whatever reasons Batman might have to research a planet-wide project involving so much energy...and if those reasons come with ill intent, then Kal will have to stop the man. Friend or no.

 Kal knows his duty, he truly does, but he cannot deny that relief washes over him, a few minutes later, when Batman does not answer the knock on his door. For a brief moment, the urge to forget about all of this seizes him, and he almost turns back. But tonight has been a bad night, and a dozen pe—plants have been lost by his fault. Four of them only saplings. He should have—done many things. He did not, and now they are lost, and that knowledge is what spurs him on to push Batman’s door open. The book can wait, though Kal will miss its presence tonight; his questions cannot.

 Making no noise across the carpeted floor is an easy feat, with shoes as light and supple as socks. Even then Kal is wary. Batman, he has learned, sleeps lightly. And, these days, most likely in short stretches. The first, Batman has admitted to him directly. The second, Kal is forced to assume from what he has seen of the man. He naps at random times, and is irritated and bad-tempered when left to sleep longer than he meant to. He has the uncanny ability to fall asleep anywhere, without needing to adopt an even vaguely horizontal position. All of these are symptoms Kal recognizes from his own poor sleeping habits, ways to get some rest between his nightly work and the demands of a princely life. It is neither healthy nor agreeable, but Kal has grown used to it, and he is at least capable of recognizing the signs of it in another, when faced with them.

 All of this, of course, can mean only one thing: something has come to disrupt Batman’s sleeping patterns since he distanced himself from Kal. Something that probably can’t  be the fault of any other Kryptonian, for Kal is still the only one to speak to Batman with any regularity, and he knows perfectly well no work was given to the man besides making sure he does not accidentally insult his hosts, or his hosts’ guests. The question now is to find out what, exactly, that something is.

 Kal, stomach heavy as a stone, crosses from Batman’s living quarters into his bedchamber without a sound, relieved to find the man asleep with his back to the door. He is snoring, too, soft and regular, and Kal allows himself a relieved breath before he creeps closer, knowing Batman well enough by now to realize nothing of importance in his Kryptonian life will be kept out of his reach.

 Batman’s Earth outfit rests on a dummy by the bedside, mended torso, yellow belt and all. To the right of that, immediately left of the bed, the crimson glow of the moon washes over a pile of books—some Kal recognizes, some he doesn’t—with some kind of sharp-looking weapon and, at the top, a bracelet of some kind sporting the all-too-familiar symbol of the Green Lanterns. Kal can’t help but stare at it for far longer than he should before he grabs it, shoves it into a brand-new inside pocket of his tunic, and has to put all his focus into exiting as quietly as he came in.

 He stops outside of Batman’s quarters for a moment, grateful for Kryo and its never ending watch as he tries to sort through his thoughts. A Green Lantern! In the palace! If anyone knew this—no. Better not think of it. Not, at any rate, until Kal has decided what to do about this information. He is not thinking clearly, he knows. Cannot possibly handle this information with the amount of care and objectivity it requires on his own, not without several days to ponder it, and he does not have that kind of time. This in turn can mean but one thing: he needs counsel, and not from Kryo, which does not know the meaning of affection. No, he needs someone whom he can trust, and someone who will understand, at least in part, the dilemma he finds himself in.

 With a clear path in mind at last, Kal sighs, braces himself, and sets off toward the upper levels of the royal palace.

  Kara’s pillow slaps him in the face with enough force to disorient him for a moment, and Kal only owes the lack of a second blow to the sharpness of her reflexes. She hisses imprecations at him for a while, until he pulls out Batman’s bracelet and cuts her short. Without a word, Kara reaches for the item, scowling when Kal pulls it out of her reach on reflex. She sits up straighter and asks:

 “Where did you get this? I swear to the Gods, Kal, if you contacted the Green Lanterns—”

 “Do you truly think I would be so foolish?” Kal hisses back.

 There are those on Krypton who have managed to get in touch with the Green Lanterns and remained on the planet, but Kal has never contacted any of them directly, though he is working with them after a fashion. The Green Lanterns’ name may only serve as a curse in the higher circles of Krypton, but the general population is hardly fond of them either.

 “Then where in Vohc’s name did you find this?”

 “Batman’s room, as a matter of fact,” Kal admits.

 Kara mutters something that sounds a lot like ‘Rao help us’ with the deepest scowl Kal has ever seen on her face. He supposes he cannot blame her for it. She looks him straight in the eyes then, still frowning, and Kal has to force himself to hold her gaze, to show her without words that he is not entirely careless but merely out of his depth.

 Eventually, Kara’s face goes through a complicated movement and, with the twist of her mouth that signals questions too delicate to be dealt with immediately, she asks, “Are you sure no one else knows?”

 Kal nods with a sigh of relief. He can’t know for sure what Kara’s advice will be, but whatever happens next, at least he can have some control over the situation, and maybe—hopefully—spare Batman the worst outcomes. Colluding with the Green Lanterns would send him to jail, at best—and not an Ellon one, at that. Kal may not be an expert on the topic, but he knows his uncle: there are not many things in this world that tighten Zor-El’s jaw with a mere mention, and the people who leave El for Kandorian cells tend not to come back.

 “Good,” Kara says.

 “Do you think the Lanterns could have sent him here on purpose?” Kal asks, heart in his throat. “I don’t think so, but I—I don’t know that I can tell what I wish to be the truth apart from what really is.”

 Kara clicks her tongue as she scoots to the edge of her bed and crushes Kal into a brusque hug.

 “They would have to be stupid to do that,” she says after she releases him. “Much though Krypton’s power may be….”

 “Diminished?”

 For once, Kara’s distinctly unimpressed look leaves Kal mostly unaffected. Krypton has been steadily declining for several centuries now, and the Wise Council’s reach has only grown upon Krypton these past decades, not beyond it.

 “Let’s call it that,” Kara begrudges after a beat. “Nevertheless, we are still a force to be reckoned with. It would be foolish of them to come look for trouble our way when we have respected the terms of the Treaty. Especially with Leaark and Axor at each other’s throats, at any rate.”

 Kal does not know what is going on between those two planets exactly, although he understands some kind of blood feud is involved. Still, it does not take a genius to grasp why the Green Lanterns would be keeping an eye on that rather than spying on a long-dormant enemy who has made no effort to communicate with the rest of the galaxy since the Independence Wars. The thought releases something in Kal’s chest, but only for a short while.

 Just because Kara sees things this way, after all, does not mean her father would agree, to say nothing of the Wise Council. Kal wouldn’t expect them to care whether a friend of the Lanterns came to Krypton by design or by accident. And Batman...well, even assuming he was lying when he said he knew nothing of Krypton when he landed there, his species, his planet, and even his solar system have no presence in Krypton’s database. There is nothing, intergalactic law or otherwise, to forbid Batman from associating with the Lanterns from Earth, so why should he be punished for it?

 But then, of course, there is also the matter of his latest activities.

 “I think,” Kal says with a heavy heart, “we still need to keep an eye on him.”

 Relating his reasoning to Kara only takes a few minutes, but Kal still feels like he has been speaking forever by the end of it. It is the right thing to do, he knows. Even for Batman’s sake—it wouldn’t do to let him involve himself in something as fraught as the Melokariel Proposition without at least a warning. That thought, however, does not do much to ease the feeling that he is betraying a friend, and he knows he has been too obvious in his worry when Kara loops an arm around his shoulders again.

 “Perhaps you should have a conversation with him, and take his version of things into account before we decide what to do about him. If he is planning to do harm to Krypton, we will need to stop him...but I see no need to punish him if he is only an unlucky traveler a little too curious about things he does not understand.”

 Kal nods, too afraid to voice the thought weighing on his mind: Batman seems too smart not to have any notion of what he is doing. Kal is still hoping all of this is an unfortunate misunderstanding, but already his heart sinks with the possibility of tragedy.

 “He hasn’t been friendly toward me since your father’s latest ball,” he admits, glad that he manages to keep the tears clogging his throat out of his voice. “I doubt he would listen to me even if I tried to broach the topic...and it is too risky to have that conversation in the more public places of the palace.”

 “Well,” Kara sighs, settling back under the covers, “the other you, then.”

[septic-dr-schneep]

JSE Fanfiction - In Time of Need (Part 17: Interim)

Summary: Unaware of what’s continuing at home, Chase becomes increasingly restless as he recovers from his surgery. Soon enough he receives a visit that will hopefully serve well to distract him.

Chase had always considered himself a good patient. He wasn’t like Schneep, who would grumble at his caretaker that they weren’t doing it right and he could take care of himself, and he wasn’t like Marvin, who was constantly looking at the clock to see when he could make a break for it. He wasn’t like Jameson, who felt guilty for causing a fuss, or like Jackieboy, who—

Well, at this point Jackie’s a better patient than I am…He’s somewhere in this hospital, just…lying there.

It went against everything in Jackieboy’s nature. As soon as he was patched up, he would try to leap off the exam table and go on patrol as if nothing had ever happened. He’d never been able to sit still when it came to healing. Perhaps that was still the case; he wasn’t healing right now. He was in tandem.

The point was that Chase had always been well aware of his limits. He knew what would stress him enough to hurt and what he could take. There had been a time when he didn’t care, when he had wanted the pain just to break through the numbness, but this wasn’t that time. Therefore Chase had stayed prostrate in his hospital bed for the past several hours. He’d hardly moved enough to wrinkle the blankets and yet he still found himself exhausted, as if he’d just finished a twelve-hour day of filming stunts.

Even if he’d been up and about, he wouldn’t have been filming; he’d put up a notice on the Bro Average channel almost five months ago that he was going on hiatus because of a serious family emergency.

“I…honestly don’t know when I’ll be back,” he’d admitted, scrubbing at his sore, tender, sleep-deprived eyes. “Hopefully by the end of this…I don’t know, maybe by the end of this year. Thanks, all of you, for understanding. Family comes first, y’know?”

Given his history with family, given what his viewers had watched him do for family, they were more than willing to let him have a reprieve. The stream of concerned comments had eased up as the weeks grew longer but there was always that sense of anticipation there. He knew they would be there waiting for him, no matter how long it took, and for that he was grateful. Hopefully he wouldn’t get too out of practice and lose his touch.

These thoughts were among the many he used to occupy himself as he whiled away hours upon hours of nothingness, resignedly drifting between sleep and a periodic staring contest with the ceiling. The ceiling always won.

Sometimes he would do his best to make conversation with Dr. Iplier and the Host, but he wasn’t close or knowledgeable about either of them so he eventually ran out of topics they might have in common. Neither of them were naturally talkative anyway, which only made it harder. The only entertainment Chase got during the day was when the nurses would come to check on him and even that was short-lived.

As the last nurse eased the door shut behind her, Chase leaned his head carefully back against the pillows and sighed deeply.

“Dude, can you grab my phone and see if any of the others have—?”

“They haven’t, Chase,” Dr. Iplier assured him, shuffling through the papers on the clipboard he was engrossed in. “I just checked twenty minutes ago.”

“Well, it’s on vibrate! Maybe we didn’t hear it! I just wanna know if they’re—”

“As impatience mounts within the Septic Ego, he recalls that he hasn’t taken a nap in almost an hour,” the Host cut in pointedly. “As much as he wishes he could continue to fidget and inquire, he finds that it will do him no good and that he should rest if he wants to leave the hospital sooner. The less time he spends awake, the less he will be aware of the time passing.”

Pouting, Chase hunkered down a little lower in his bed and mumbled, “You’re cheap.”

Before he could take the suggestion and close his eyes, however, the phone near Dr. Iplier’s elbow did vibrate. Perking up, he glanced at it in vague surprise and a haughty grin spread across Chase’s face.

“Well, would you look at that? Somebody’s calling! What’s the ID? ‘My Drug Dealer?’ ‘I’m A Kitty Cat?’ ‘Brainy Bub?’”

“None of them,” Dr. Iplier replied, raising an eyebrow at Chase’s phone screen. “It just says ‘Her’.”

At that Chase’s smile faltered, eyes widening as slow realization trickled into his brain. “Oh, no…Oh, no, I was supposed to…Give me that, doc, let me see—”

As soon as the doctor handed him the phone, Chase felt as if it weighed three pounds heavier than usual underneath the tangible frustration and anger conveyed through the text glaring back at him.

>The kids and I are at your house. Where are you? I’ve been ringing for five straight minutes. Don’t tell me you went out and forgot about them.

Cursing under his breath, Chase hurriedly swiped at the keys, wincing as he was forced to pull against the IV lead in his arm.

<Had an emergency, I’m at the hospital. Needed surgery.

>What? What kind of emergency? What kind of surgery?

<Doesn’t matter. Could you bring them here? I still want to see them!

>Are you sure the doctors will allow that?

<YOU’RE MY FAMILY.

As soon as he clicked “send” on that one, Chase knew he had made a mistake. He could almost sense Stacy on the other end, staring at those three words with skepticism and mistrust. His eyes lingered on them just as long, filled with longing, desperation, pleading. At long last, he could see her typing.

>Elvery Heights West General, right? What’s your room number?

Falling back against the pillows, he exhaled slowly and mouthed a silent thank-you, sending the proper information and then glancing back and forth between his companions.

“Okay, sorry to spring this on you, but I was supposed to have the kids today. They’re on their way here instead.”

“Oh.” Flipping the papers on his clipboard shut, Dr. Iplier promptly rose from his seat, brushing down his coat. “In that case, I’ll be excusing myself now. I’m not good with kids; they always end up crying when I’m around. Host?”

“The Host isn’t particularly adept with them either, but he would like to remind the doctor that they are meant to be protecting Chase Brody should anything arise.”

“Then you’re staying?” At the Host’s brusque nod, the doctor waved a hand dismissively. “Alright, then, do what you want. Just don’t let them start pulling on your bandages or anything; you almost ruptured a blood vessel when you took them off during the fight and I don’t think it’d make for good times if they ended up covered in blood.”

Chase visibly flinched at the thought and for half a second the doctor looked as if he may regret saying it, but he didn’t apologize. As the door slid shut behind him, the Host apologized on his behalf.

“The doctor has always maintained a noticeable lack of a bedside manner.”

“Yeah, no kidding…” Picking at some loose string on his sheets, Chase squirmed, discomfort striking a more prominent ache in his head. “Host…uh, my family’s kinda…well, I just don’t want you to be weirded out if my wife—my ex-wife and I are—”

“Chase need not worry; the Host is well aware of his marital status.”

“You are? How?”

At that the Host simply tilted his head, folding his hands primly in his lap. “There is very little that escapes him.”

Then did it escape him how unsettling he was being or was he doing it to toy with him? Chase wondered uneasily. He didn’t bother to ask; he had a feeling that whatever the Host might say in response would only compound the issue.

As soon as he heard their voices outside the door, the vlogger pushed himself up in his bed as far as he could, trying to plaster a smile on his face. His kids didn’t need to know what had happened. They didn’t need to know everything that was weighing on his mind or causing him pain; they just needed to see their daddy smiling. The Host straightened in his chair in the corner and while he didn’t smile—did he ever?—he did seem much more attentive, even expectant.

“Here we are,” Stacy announced as she eased the door open, letting Connor and Brianna shuffle into the room.

“Hey there! Come give me a hug, would you?” Chase urged cheerfully, extending the arm that wasn’t hindered by the IV.

As soon as they saw their dad was upright and alert, in contrast to whatever they may have imagined, the kids lit up, rushing over to latch onto him. Their warmth, their familiar smell, their little hands entwining with his…It never stopped being precious.

“We missed you, Dad!” Brianna exclaimed, wrapping herself tightly around his forearm and rocking back and forth with it.

“Mama wanted to give up, she wanted to take us back to her house but I told her to keep ringing the doorbell, no matter how long it took!” Connor piped up eagerly, tugging on his fingers. “I knew you’d want to see us!”

“Oh, I always want to see you, little man…I’m sorry I wasn’t at the house,” Chase murmured kindly, casting a fleeting glance up at Stacy, who stood at the foot of the bed and hadn’t said a word of greeting.

There hadn’t been an actual face-to-face greeting between them for about nine months—no, nine months exactly. She had known something was seriously wrong with him and the others after Schneep had been abducted, so whenever they had to see each other, she opted to skip pleasantries and get right down to business. The same rang true here. Even as her eyes asked, What happened to you? her mind purposely glossed over the explanation.

“How are you feeling?” she asked evenly, loosely folding her arms against her chest—closing herself off from him. He forced his smile to remain despite it.

“Better than I was. It’s been a long week,” he confessed honestly. “I should be out of here tomorrow, if there aren’t any complications.”

“What happened?” Brianna asked at the same time Connor happened to glance into the corner and notice the other man in the room, holding Chase’s hand protectively in front of him as he demanded, “Who’s that?”

“Oh, that’s a—friend of mine.” Hopefully no one noticed Chase’s hesitation. “He’s called the Host. He’s been keeping me company, making sure I’m okay.”

“The Host is happy to inform them that their father has been very well cared for,” the Iplier Ego assured them, his tone strictly neutral but a shade lighter than its usual monotone. Brianna wrinkled her nose unsurely at that, peeking up at her dad.

“Why does he talk like that?” she whispered.

“Don’t be rude,” Chase scolded lightly, ruffling her silky blond hair. “That’s just how he likes to talk.” Come to think of it, he didn’t know if the Host could talk in first person.

Now that he had been reassured that this was a friend, Connor had broken away from Chase and was peering with wide eyes up at the Host, fiddling with his hands. “Do you—Do you wanna see a magic trick, Mr. Host?” he ventured hopefully. “I’ve been practicing one and I wanted to show Daddy when we came so can I show you too?”

“You don’t have to say yes, it’s just a silly trick he does with a calculator,” Stacy cut in, a little embarrassed.

“On the contrary, the Host is quite interested,” he countered, to which she stifled a sigh as Connor scurried to her side and pulled on the clasp to her purse until she fished the calculator out for him.

“See, see, I can make the calculator talk to you when you turn it upside down!” he exclaimed, hurriedly punching in numbers and then thrusting it out for the Host to see. He shrank back only a little as the Host rose from his chair and he noticed how large the man was, but the hand the Host extended to hold the device was kind. As he read it, he chuckled lightly.

“The Host bids the calculator hello in return,” he offered.

Pleased that he was playing along, Connor beamed, snatching the calculator back and typing a second time as he bragged, “I can get it to say your name too! It’s really easy!”

At that the Host raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical, but as he watched him wait patiently as Connor fiddled with it, Chase couldn’t help but feel a warm surge of gratitude. He said he wasn’t good with kids…Or maybe he doesn’t need to be if kids are good with him.

“Here!”

After a pause, the Host cleared his throat, announcing in a tone that was measured to be somewhat gentle, “The Host is sorry to break it to the master magician, but that combination of numbers spells ‘HOSE.’”

“What?!” Scandalized, Connor took a second look and glowered, pouting, “Well, maybe you’ve been spelling your name wrong all this time.” The Host bit his lower lip at that, clearly trying to hide a smile, and the little boy took his toy back, returning his attention to Chase as the Host returned to his chair. “Daddy, this one’s for you!”

“It’s a really good one,” Brianna promised. “He showed me earlier.”

“Well, then I’m looking forward to it,” Chase mused, scanning the numbers for a few moments before turning it around. He promptly burst out laughing, the sound causing a ringing pain in his own ears that he completely ignored. “You figured out how to say ‘BOSS’ with numbers?”

“Isn’t it the best?!” Connor burst out, nearly hopping up and down in his excitement. “I did it all on my own and I knew you’d like it! I knew you would! I wanna show your friend Mr. Jack. Do you think he’d like it?”

At that Chase’s laughter waned, his attention falling back to the calculator screen. He could already picture the smile Jack would give if he could see it, the one that always lit the entire room and filled everyone around him with warmth.

“Well, Jack is…He’s been really, really busy lately,” he managed at length. “I’ll see when we can get together and you can show him, okay? Hopefully we can do that soon.”

As Connor nodded and took the calculator back, chattering with his sister about how much he would practice until then, Chase found his thoughts straying. Now that he’d been reminded of what lay waiting for him at home, he felt even more trapped in this bed than before.

[writinginstardust]

Just In Case

Pairing: Ezra Mason x Kady Grant

Request: anon asked  “Hi can you write a smut fic about kady grant and ezra mason ?Thank you very much.”

Warnings: smut is ahead, swearing as per the norm

A/N: so like i’m still bad at smut, i still can’t believe someone wanted more smut from me after the last one i wrote because let’s be honest it ain’t great, pretty sure this is a bit better though so that’s good. They have unprotected sex because pretty sure getting a condom on the Mao isn’t gonna be easy but make sure y’all have safe sex okay?

This originally had more to it but i’ve been really struggling to find time to write this so i left it here. I may write the part 2 but i’m not sure yet, if you want me to then let me know!

Word Count: 1896

*

12 hours before the survivors of the Bei-Tech attacks were set to arrive back at Kerenza IV, Kady Grant was trying to sleep. It wasn’t working out well for her. Her mind was screaming at her to check and recheck everything for the thousandth time, to analyse the plan and find anything that might go wrong yet again. She couldn’t keep it quiet. She needed a distraction.

With an irritated sigh she got up and left the private room she was allowed to use. It was cramped and used to be a storage room but considering how everyone else was living aboard the Mao, she had nothing to complain about.

She slowly made her way towards the hanger where she knew Ezra would be, probably over-thinking everything just as she was. There was a lot of responsibility on his shoulders, other pilots might live or die by his orders. To everyone else it seemed as if he took everything in his stride but Kady had witnessed the toll it was really taking on him. She knew he needed a distraction too.

Finally reaching the hanger, it took mere moments to locate Ezra. He was fussing over his Chimera, talking to a tired-looking mechanic about who knows what. She came up behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist.

“Kades? I thought you’d gone to get some sleep?” he turned in her arms, face scrunched up in confusion.

“I did, my mind wouldn’t let me though. I can’t sleep without you there.” His face softened and he leaned down to kiss her gently on the forehead.

“Let me finish up here and I’ll come to bed with you.”

“Ez, everything is fine, there’s nothing you can do at the moment. Come with me and let the poor mechanic go to bed, she looks almost as tired as you, …no offence.”

“None taken Kady, I’m exhausted.” She offered the pink-haired girl a grateful smile and left her and Ezra alone.

“Come on, come to bed,” she took his hand and led him back to her little room.

Laying with her head on Ezra’s chest in a bed only meant for one, Kady once again tried to find sleep. Though the steady beat of his heart and his gentle touches lulled her, her mind continued over-working itself and preventing her rest. She let out a groan of frustration and felt Ezra shift beside her.

“What is it?”

“I can’t stop thinking about it, about everything that could go wrong, about all the people that might not make it back, …about you not making it back.” Tears pricked her eyes as she turned to look up at the boy beside her.

“Kades, everyone’s been over this plan a hundred times already, if there was a way to lessen the risk we’d have found it by now. We can make this work, we can get everyone through this. I’m sure of it.”

He meant it, she could see the determination and surety in his eyes, hear it in his voice, feel it in the strong grip on her. She knew he would do everything to make sure they pulled this off but she also knew how relentless Bei-Tech were, how much more training they had. The odds were seriously stacked against them and it was highly likely some wouldn’t survive the assault. She couldn’t bare the thought that Ezra might be one of them.

“I know, I just wish it didn’t have to be you.” Ezra leaned down and pressed a loving kiss to her forehead before speaking softly against her skin.

“I wish it didn’t have to be any of us. But I want to fight, because I’m fighting for you. I can’t not do everything in my power to keep you safe.”

“Just, just promise me you’ll make it back.”

“I promise. I’m not giving up the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I’m not giving up you.”

And then they were kissing, expressing their love through the movement of lips, the touches of hands, the entwining of bodies. They kept kissing like it was their last chance to do so, in the back of both their minds they knew that it could be.

As the touch of their lips continued both became more desperate for each other and the kiss became deeper and more passionate. Their mouths worked in perfect harmony, tongues exploring and drawing needy sounds from each as hands tangled in hair, brushed cheeks, mapped bodies, committed every detail of the other to memory just in case.

Gasping for breath Kady broke the kiss. At some point she’d found herself on her back, Ezra hovering over her. He moved his lips from hers and traced a line across her jaw before moving to press a line of kisses down her neck, pulling little gasps and moans from her lips. He reached her collarbone and sucked harder on the skin there, intent on leaving a mark. Kady let out a much louder moan at the action which only spurred him on. As his lips continued to mark a path on her skin, Kady grew louder and louder until he eventually had to pull away from her.

“Kades, I love you, but shut up, people are gonna hear you.”

“If you think I care about that right now, you’re gravely mistaken. And if you don’t want me to be loud then stop being so good at that.”

He chuckled and reattached his mouth to hers as his hands began sliding under her t-shirt, dragging the material up her body at a tormenting pace and eventually chucking it on the floor. His lips left hers to leave a trail of kisses down her body, setting her skin aflame everywhere he touched. Lost in his touch, Kady barely noticed the rest of her clothes being discarded and his mouth working its way towards her centre until the first flick of his tongue against her brought her back to awareness with a sharp gasp. Her eyes shot open and her hands flew to his hair, tangling in it and keeping his mouth pressed against her.

Waves of pleasure rolled through her body as Ezra’s mouth continued to work its magic, every flick of his tongue bringing her closer to the edge. His hands gripped her hips to keep her still as she writhed beneath him, slowly losing her grip on reality as she became completely undone. Unable to hold them back, loud moans spilled from her lips as her orgasm ripped through her. Ezra ‘s tongue continued to work against her as she slowly came down from her high and pulled his face away from her when the stimulation became too much.

“…fuck…me…,” it was only a rasped breath, the only thing she could say through the hazy bliss her body and mind were in.

“Yeah that’s next on my to do list,” humour laced his voice and Ezra’s face had stretched into a self-satisfied grin at the sight of his girlfriend so undone by him. Kady wanted to wipe that grin right off his perfect face. So, she did.

Finally recovered enough to control her body again, she rolled on top of him quick as a flash and leaned down to kiss away that smile. Faintly she could taste herself on his lips but she didn’t care. She wanted to see him as wrecked as she’d been moments ago, and she knew just how to do it.

As they kissed she ground her hips into his eliciting a low groan from Ezra that she’d pay to hear again. Fortunately, she wouldn’t have to. As she continued moving against him more groans and sharp intakes of breath greeted her ears, and she enjoyed every last one.

It didn’t take her long to divest him of his clothes and her hands and mouth began thoroughly exploring his body at an excruciatingly slow pace, worshiping every inch of him until he was practically squirming with the need for her to do something more. With a wicked grin on her face she looked up and locked eyes with him as she slowly kissed her way towards where he ached for her to be, stopping only millimetres away and going no further. It was torture for Ezra and it took every ounce of self-control to lay still and wait for her to do something, anything to provide some relief.

Just as he thought he might combust from the tension and need running through him Kady moved and finally, finally, brought her mouth to him. It was only the tiniest flick of her tongue but after all the teasing touches it made Ezra see stars. A loud moan to rival Kady’s earlier ones tore its way out of his throat and she smirked before finally giving him what he needed.

As Kady’s mouth worked him into a state of euphoria, he could do nothing but lie back and take what she would give him. Just before he thought he might fall over the edge Kady pulled away causing him to let out a whine which he’d never admit happened.

“Shut up you big baby, I figured you’d be annoyed if I let you finish then,” she was right.

“You didn’t have to get me that close though, you’re such a damn tease.” He grinned down at her to assure her he didn’t really mind before pulling her up and into a heated kiss.

He rolled them so he was once again on top and checked she was ready before sliding into her agonisingly slowly. Twin groans escaped them as Ezra filled her, the feeling of being so connected heightening their pleasure. At Kady’s request Ezra began to move his hips against her, his thrusts slow and deep, turning Kady into a desperate mess beneath him. He wasn’t far from that himself, holding himself back was excruciating.

“Please…more…please!” Kady gasped out in desperation, her hips bucking up as she pleaded with him to give her what she wanted. And Ezra could never refuse her. He sped up his movements and her hips continued to meet his at every thrust as their desperation for both each other and their release built within them. When finally, it came crashing down on them Kady’s shout of his name drowned out Ezra’s own groans though she was hardly aware of it as her senses went into overdrive and her body was flooded with wave after wave of ecstasy.

It took a few minutes for her to come back to herself and she opened her eyes to see Ezra collapsed on the bed beside her in a similar state of exhaustion. She smiled as she brushed some hair from where it stuck to his forehead. Without opening his eyes, he reached up and entwined their fingers, gently bringing her hand down to his lips and brushing a feather-light kiss on her skin.

Sleepily she pulled a blanket over the two of them, curling her body up against his side as his arms wrapped around her and his hands started tracing patterns on her skin. She tilted her head up and their lips met in a soft and loving kiss which warmed her soul. No more words were spoken between them but the light kisses and gentle touches they shared until exhaustion made them succumb to sleep said all they needed.

[anonfeather]

Amnesia (demon/angle AU)

Rating: PG

Word count: 820

Content/Tags/Warning: slur, hospital setting, attempted murder, abusive parents

Notes: A while ago, @nackledamia said: “OKAY SO I've been craving some amnesia fics recently so: James forgets Thomas and Thomas has to find his way back into James' heart :')”

So, it inspired this ficlet, which is a sequel to the Angel/Demon AU drabble.

Upon opening his eyes, he was in terrible pain and confusion. A man was occupying a chair to his right, disgruntled look on his face. Thomas wanted to say something, but it came as a distorted moan.

“Oh, so you’re alive,” the man said. Thomas recognised him as his father. A loud beeping drew his attention; it was a monitor, checking his vitals. He tried moving his arm, but it felt heavy. He glimpsed at an IV, plugged into his hand. He gathered that he was in a hospital.

“Damn you,” hie father cursed. “Why didn’t you die? I could have gotten your life insurance.”

The words should have stung; maybe before the accident they would have. Right now however, Thomas could only find this man as pathetic. He didn’t care that it was his father, for that didn’t mean anything now.

The accident had jogged his memory; not of his current life. Something beyond life itself.

His eternal soul had been shaken up.

Before being reincarnated as a mortal, he had been a Demon, working to tempt humans down the wrong path.

This mortal life, with this trash of a father, had been his punishment for heavenly sin.

That of falling in love with an Angel.

“W-where’s James?” He croaked, throat dry.

“Who the fuck is that faggot?” the father asked, not wanting an answer. He stood up, fiddling with the tubes. Thomas realized he was covering his tracks. The jackass had tried to unplugged him from the life support! Too weak to comment about it, he committed the act to memory; swearing to summon a buddy or two deal with him later.

“Congrats, by the way, you’re finally emancipated.” Papers smacked him on his chest. “Good luck with your hospital bills.”

The weight of the papers disturbed his breathing. His father left, unconcerned by the trouble his act did upon his health.

‘Good riddance,’ thought Thomas. He blindly grasped around him to find his morphine drip. He turned it off, hoping that the drug’s fog would clear quickly so he could recall all the details of his soul-bound memories. He wasn’t ever supposed to get them back, but the near-death experience jostle his soul and unlocked them.

He needed to find James! His love had been punished too; he would have a horrible mortal life too. Thomas needed to save him.

oOoOoOoOo

Was it plain luck? Was one of their friend watching over them? James was in the same hospital as he was!

Thomas had escaped his room, inexplicably drawn down the hall. There was his love, surrounded by machines to keep him well. He was awake, reading a book, unaware of being spied by a former Demon that love him so dearly.

“J-james,” Thomas said, limping inside the room. The sudden visit took James by surprised.

“Hm, on hello. Ah, do you need a nurse..?” James pressed the call button.

“No, I just need to be near you. You don’t remember me do you?”

“I’m sorry, no.”

“That’s fine. At least I found you.” Thomas pressed his forehead to his mates’, tears of joy streaming down. “I got you, I’ll keep you safe. We’re finally gonna be together.”

“Er,” the former Angel didn’t struggle from the touch out of politeness. A nurse came in, carefully corradling Thomas away from her patient.

“Please set my bed here, please!” Thomas asked, not wanting to be far from his objective.

“I’m sorry, but it’s against hospital policy,” she said.

“The fuck it is!” Yelled Thomas. His exertion caused his breathing to go ragged. He coughed some blood, and stitches from his cheek came undone. The nurse took a step back, called for backup.

“Please, let him stay,” James said, his kindness to much for this world. He didn’t want to the other boy to suffer more simply to stay by his side. He obviously had a head wound; if staying in his private room was suffisant to keep him calm, he’ll gladly share.

The nurse aquiested, quickly getting the medical supplies and bed to fix Thomas up.

Thomas smiled placidly, allowing the nurses to fuss over him. As long as he could be near James, he’d be content. Drugs flooded back into his system. As he loss conscience, he stretched an arm towards James. He was too far to actually reach him, yet he tried.

James felt a weight in his chest from the devotion this stranger was giving him. His parents never gave a him a second glance ever since he was born, sticking him in different hospital out of necessity than love. It wouldn’t do for the governor's  sickly son to be medically neglected; bad publicity after all. They kept their distance; he was always alone.  

The need this other boy had to stay near him was heartwarming. It wouldn’t last, once his head trauma heals. But for now, he’ll indulge in the attention.

He asked to have his bed roller closer, to hold the other’s hand in comfort. He felt a drop of joy.

If only it could last.

[ghostmartyr]

Fic: A Terrible Idea [13/?]

Fandom: Attack on Titan Title: A Terrible Idea Author: Immi Rating: PG-13 Summary: Ymir’s pursuit of the hot cheerleader was meant to stay strictly lustful. But it’s a high school AU with a ship tag, so you know, fuck that. Notes: This chapter was going to be longer, but it got split for reasons I’m still not sure on.

Segment summary: They should probably have a candid conversation or five. But consider this: They could also not.

I II III IV V VI VII VIII IX X XI XII

Ymir and feelings had a great relationship. They said hi, they did Sunday brunch, smiled for the camera, then went on their merry way. No muss, no fuss, no clubbing anyone to death in a back alley.

That didn’t mean she wanted them for a house guest.

Porco, in typical Porco fashion, wasn’t helping.

“You kept saying you didn’t like her.”

“We’re a little past that, try to keep up.”

“But you said—”

For someone who’d been so offended by the idea that a person could want a strictly lustful connection with someone, he was taking the idea that Ymir might have been underselling the value of Historia’s pretty eyes very hard. Ymir could have mustered up an imitation of sympathy, but he was supposed to be helping her, and his current level of contribution was making his eyes go as wide as his mouth. Besides that, the other exciting new developments a new dawning school day was lobbing towards them made her problems way less fun.

First though, there was the morning after. Enter Ymir having finished up brushing her teeth in the cramped bathroom and while she gave her beloved housemate a few token moments that more awake people would appreciate for thinking.

“So,” Porco had said, speaking through gravel, “you like her.”

“Sure seems that way.”

“Historia.”

“Are you going to be like this all day?”

Porco had dunked his head in the sink and came out splashing water all over both of them. Marcel had crashed so hard his bed was still buffing out the dents, so for a brief segment of time soon to be all but erased, all this was his fun to miss. With a breath Ymir hoped he’d found fortifying, Porco wiped his face raw. “How badly did you screw up the kiss?”

Ymir rolled her eyes and came up with several biting retorts that made him cry, then they never spoke of it again.

If fucking only.

Instead, what had actually come out was, “I didn’t screw it up, I was savoring it. Standing still for romantic moments is what you’re supposed to do.”

Porco mumbled something which the record could not verify was actually, “Not that still,” so murdering him would not be the easily excusable brand of crime Kenny let slide, and Ymir still, in theory, had someone to bounce the wondrous trauma of emotion off of.

“Did you even talk to her after?”

“And ruin the mood?”

Porco had dropped his towel and looked close to a stroke. “Are you for real?”

“Between the two of us, my date’s the one that ended on a kiss.” A kiss which, Ymir had found out at that point, was not a good thing to reference if she needed more words to complete a burn. She rallied like a champ, though. “Unless you’re holding out on me, you don’t have much room to criticize.”

On another morning, the pale look of panic that bunny-hopped across Porco’s face would have been of interest. In a twist of very bad luck for one of them, they’d been living through this particular morning, where Ymir was trying not to hit the ground too hard from cloud nine, and Porco had not yet been embarrassed into silence.

“Maybe you should check your phone,” Porco had said, sure to have nightmares about the suggestion for another week. “Thing’s almost surgically attached, she might’ve sent you something to work with.”

All previous arguments to the contrary, Ymir had known by then that she was in some massive fucking trouble with the Historia situation. Her brain periodically turning to sappily romantic fuzz all night long when she was supposed to be sleeping was a good hint.

But when she’d turned her phone back on and found a waiting link to Pieck’s homecoming photos, she’d fallen down a whole new rabbit hole of emotion, and fuck Pock’s comments, if Historia had been in the room, she would have kissed her until she was the frozen one.

Needless to say, the conversation took a turn after that.

A turn Porco was still trying to skid out of as they walked to school the next morning.

“Your girlfriend,” he said acidly, for the fifth time, “told Pieck she could collect the Homecoming Queen crown for her. Pieck’s legs were acting up, so she gave it to me, and the King and Queen dance is traditional. It has nothing to do with anything!”

“Oh my gosh you two are so cute together,” Ymir said for the seventh time, scrolling delightedly through the shots Pieck had collected of the crowned royals dancing through the night.

Pock made a failed grab for her phone.

“Aw, and here your boyfriend is with Marcel. It’s so nice when everyone gets along.”

That locked Porco’s jaw right up, along with his fists and his gait. Probably because he could see the same smitten look Reiner was wearing in the Marcel pictures as he didn’t see in their pictures together.

Ymir didn’t mean to have a feeling about that, but she cuffed Porco on the shoulder anyway. “Don’t be like that, they’re best friends. It’s easy for a budding relationship to feel threatened by that kind of love, but I have faith—”

“Enough,” Porco said.

Ymir shrugged as gaily as she did everything. “Suit yourself. You should thank Pieck; she made sure to get your good side.”

He would, knowing him. With her around to nudge the thought into his head. Some of the stony redness taking over Porco’s everything backed off to plain ol’ redness. With an extra shoulder hunch for pity points.

Ymir didn’t need the pictures to know that he’d failed completely to turn his date into a date. She also didn’t need photo evidence to know that didn’t mean anything, because Pieck took care of Pock’s heart the way more sensitive people looked after a baby bird, but Porco didn’t know a thing about relationships. He’d be riding the sad until the next time Pieck smiled at him.

Or the grudgingly bitter. “What are you going to do about Historia?”

Ymir kept her eyes on her new prized possession. Pieck had caught the one nanosecond of Porco actually smiling when Reiner dipped him. “Are you back on that?”

Porco had the herculean nerve to roll his eyes. “Like you ever left?”

There was also a great shot Pieck had convinced Marcel to take of all three of them, both boys playing diligent honor guard to the lady joining their midst. The angle wasn’t perfect, but Pieck’s contented smile and Porco’s dopey one next to Reiner’s bursting grin made up for it.

“You barely even thanked her for those things,” Porco was saying. “Do you have some sort of plan?”

Ymir pulled a wrinkle out of her sleeve absently. “Things have been going fine so far. Why would I need a plan?”

The flummoxed silence was gratifying, but it didn’t last.

“You like her,” he said, more confused than horrified for once.

“Right.”

“…Shouldn’t you tell her that?”

“I don’t think dodging a confession for over a decade makes you an expert.” Ymir kept going before Porco’s softened nerves could pick up too bad of a bruise. “Look,” she said, “it isn’t something to rush into. I’m not gonna switch gears on her out of nowhere. She might not even be into that.”

The photos on her phone lost some of their luster with the words. To go with the excruciating pang in her heart saying them caused. The least punkest of rocks.

Porco, responding the way he usually did to being mined for mockery for a solid day due entirely to his own actions, said, “You mean what if she’s been a pervert all along who’s only interested in you for your body?”

“Hey. Hey. Hey Pock. Fuck off.”

----

She was not going to make it weird.

There was no reason for it to be weird.

The whole school already thought they were a thing.

They’d done it last week and no one cared.

Ymir was standing at the end of the fucking cafeteria line, wondering why in the fuck her legs couldn’t seem to move. Her only answer was an image in the back of her mind of what happened at one of the dances she’d actually attended, watching Porco watch Pieck. She didn’t care for it.

Historia was already seated, and looking at her was on par with how multiple lightning strikes probably felt.

The last time they were in the same room they’d kissed.

…Fuck.

How the hell was this doing this to her? Historia had always been beautiful. Her hair had always had that shine to it. Her legs had always gone on for days despite being a modest half-day, at best. Her arms always looked incredible. The very faded blue face paint on her cheek hadn’t been around long, but there wasn’t anything uniquely special about it. They hadn’t even kissed that time. Wanted to, very much, and oh hell that just put the time the want had entered reality back, and—

She always looked up and let the world stop when she saw Ymir.

So it was just going to be fucking weird.

Okay.

Ymir made her legs work. She made them drag her over to the table, and she made herself sit down, and she didn’t make herself stop thinking about kissing Historia because having all the romo didn’t mean she was suddenly a saint.

“Hey,” she said, sliding across the bench. “Thanks for the pics.”

“No problem,” Historia said.

Her phone wasn’t in her hand. The Tamagotchi was.

Ymir had a very serious problem. One the giant lumps taking up root in her throat were not helping with. Such a problem. A problem an overabundance of bad pop songs were written about.

Historia wasn’t going to bring it up. Ymir couldn’t call that a good thing, but she wasn’t going to complain. Who was to say there was even a reason to bring it up, when the whole stated excuse had been getting under her parents’ skin. A kiss here or there in the pursuit of pissing people off wasn’t anything at all.

What the hell was she supposed to do if Historia believed that?

What else was Historia supposed to think, when she went for a kiss and got jack back?

What if pissing people off was the only reason she’d gone for it?

How did people do this?

“Did you have a good… yesterday?” Historia asked.

“Yep,” Ymir said, like it was easy. “Bothered Pock, went for a run. What did you get up to without me?”

The somehow living bit-creature in Historia’s hand waved. “Not a lot.” Historia shifted slightly on the bench, putting their knees within a hairsbreadth of touching. Ymir could feel them both watching the splice of space, and it brought some very vivid memories back. “My life’s pretty boring without you.”

Was that flirting or just the truth? Both?

“I guess I should find more excuses to stick around, then,” Ymir said.

They were sitting too close for the kind of eye contact that brought on. Ymir tried not to look at Historia’s cheek. Barely any of the wing left, glitter lurking invisibly, and it gave her a thrill that went down to her toes.

Historia looked at Ymir, and Ymir could see stars in her eyes.

“You should,” she said.

Next

[zoemurph]

to have a friend, chapter five: $98

on ao3 1 | 2 | 3 | 4

happy birthday to myself heres a mess of a chapter thats literally ALL over the place but i do what i want

ive been watching the gbbo cause ive been super sick and now i will now project as i do with everything else. speaking of which, everything thats been mentioned happening in school in this fic has happened!! that applies to this chapter too!! isnt public school fucking wild

warnings: anxiety, anxiety/panic attack, some suicidal thoughts, let me know if any other warnings should be added

enjoy!

“Do you usually walk home?” Evan asks, following Connor out of the school.

“Yeah.”

“Do you not— do you drive?”

Connor gives Evan a weird look. “Why?”

Evan shrugs. “I don’t— I mean, most people drive. That’s a thing. That teenagers do. Jared drives. A-Alana drives. Um…most of our senior class drives, e-even if they don’t have a car. The juniors drive. Some of the older sophomores drive—”

“And are incredibly annoying about it,” Connor interrupts.

Evan ducks his head. “Not as annoying as the freshman.”

“God you’re right.” They stop at a stoplight and wait for the walking light to turn. Connor runs a hand through his hair. “I have my license, but I’m not allowed to drive right now.” Evan frowns. “Why not?”

Connor takes a step off the sidewalk and looks down the road. “Come on,” he says, motioning for Evan to follow. He takes long strides as Evan rushes to catch up. “Parents. Mom’s worried about me driving high or hurting myself. Larry’s worried about the car.”

“O-oh.”

Connor furrows his eyebrows and glances down at Evan. “Don’t worry about it, Hansen. I don’t care what he thinks.”

Evan nods. “Right. Right, duh. Of course you don’t.”

Connor shakes his head. “By the way, did I mention that my mom thinks that you have a really garbage immune system.”

“She does?” Evan asks in surprise. “W-why?”

“Word vomit.” Connor makes a face. “My bad.”

“I mean…” Evan pulls on the straps of his backpack. “That’s not— Anxiety can like…really screw up your immune system? Um…stress is bad for you. And I’m…always stressed.”

Connor snorts. “No shit.”

“Yes shit,” Evan mutters. “Cold season is a ni-nightmare.”

“Drink more tea,” Connor suggests.

“Wow, never thought to try that before.”

Connor laughs. “Okay, fine. I’ll let you suffer on your own then. Have fun being sick.”

“Being sick is the worst .” Evan steps closer to Connor to avoid a puddle. “B-because if you’re sick you miss class and then you miss work and everything starts piling up and then you have way too much work to do and then you’re failing out of school.”

Connor is quiet for a second before he says, “I don’t know, I skipped most of school last year and I’m still here.” He tilts his head as he looks at Evan. “I think you’ll be okay.”

“Okay is relative,” Evan murmurs.

“Anyway I wanted to warn you in case my mom starts shoving fucking…vitamins or a ridiculous amount of citrus fruits at you.” Connor steps onto the street as the sidewalk ends and casually walks in almost the middle of the lane. “She can be really…”

“Worried?” Evan suggests.

“I was going to say aggressive, but that word is nicer.”

“Hm.” Evan can’t really remember the last time his mom really fussed over him. It sometimes happens in quick bursts when she’s home, but she’s never home enough to really worry about him. She refills his meds when he needs more, she leaves him money for dinner, she pushes the scholarship applications. He can’t really imagine her trying to get him to take vitamins or eat oranges or anything like that.

Evan shakes away those thoughts and focuses on the walk to the Murphys. It’s nice. The trees have started to change color with the turn of the season and it’s starting to get colder. Not too cold, but cold enough that he has to start bringing a sweater to school. They’re only three days into October, but Jared has already started yelling about Halloween.

Evan looks at Connor out of the corner of his eye. It’d definitely be too weird to ask what Connor is doing for Halloween. He’s probably going to go out and get high or something. That’s what most teenagers do on Halloween, right? Go party and take advantage of illegal substances?

Evan will probably just leave out a bowl of candy on the steps and watch TV. That won’t be too bad. Or different from what he’s done for the past few years.

“Mom’s really into seasonal decorating,” Connor says when they get to his house. He nods to the autumn wreath hanging on the front door as he pulls out his key. “There’s a fine line between classy and tacky and I don’t think anyone in my family knows where it is.”

Evan smiles. “I think it’s nice.”

Connor huffs. “You would.” He opens the door and bends down to pull off his boots. “I’m home!” he shouts as he leans against the wall to undo the zipper. “Evan’s here too.”

Evan toes off his sneakers and moves them next to Connor’s boots. Connor had slipped him fifteen dollars this morning instead of ten and asked if Evan was free after school. Evan never does anything other than homework and therapy, and therapy is a Wednesday event.

Cynthia pokes her head out of the kitchen as they pass it. She smiles at Evan. “Hello, Evan! Are you two hungry?”

Connor looks to Evan and Evan shakes his head. “N-no, I’m good but th-thank you!”

She nods. “Let me know if you need anything.”

“Let’s go.” Connor leads Evan up to his bedroom. He tosses his backpack onto the desk and kicks a few things on the floor into what is sort of a pile of things against a wall. “I’d apologize for the mess but I don’t give a shit.”

Evan wonders if it’s weird not having a bedroom door. It seems uncomfortable. “I-I don’t mind,” he promises.

“Cool.” Connor bends down and picks up a mug from the floor. He looks inside and makes a face before putting it on the desk.

“What’s that?” Evan asks. And a better question is probably, should Connor wash it or just throw it out. Sometimes it’s not worth it to try and save dishes and the best option is to just toss them with whatever disgusting thing is growing in or on them.

“Paint water,” Connor says. He pushes the mug further away from the edge of his desk. “It looks like puke. Probably need to clean it.”

“You paint?” Evan asks in surprise.

“Not really.” Connor pulls out the desk chair and then leans against the edge of his bed.

Evan hesitates before he sits down in the chair. “I-I didn’t know you liked art.”

“I don’t. Art is the fucking worst.”

Evan blinks. “Uh…okay?”

“It’s hard ,” Connor almost whines. “Like…what’s the fucking point?”

“I don’t know,” Evan admits. “I’ve never really…done it outside of elementary school art classes and those were… I mean, we drew shoes that one time? Do— do you remember that?” Their art teacher had brought in a giant shoe because her husband’s company made custom shoes for basketball players, whose feet were so big they couldn’t buy shoes in a normal store. Now he wonders if the shoe was that big or if they just seemed big to second graders.

Connor furrows his eyebrows. “Yeah…yeah I think I do. She made us take off our sneakers and put them on the table. And Josh Powers threw his at Marcus and hit…who’d he hit?”

“I think it was Rachel,” Evan says slowly.

Connor narrows his eyes. “Which…which one?”

“The…redhead?” Evan sometimes forgets how many kids in their grade have the same names.

Connor groans. “ Which redhead?”

“You know multiple redheaded Rachels?” Evan asks, mostly just amazed that Connor knows people in their school beyond people he interacts with.

“It’s not as bad as the Olivias,” Connor points out. “I remember there were three in class in fourth grade.”

Evan snorts. “In third grade I had two of the Zacharys, two Hannahs, and two Joes.”

“ God .” Connor sits down on his bed. “Thank god the other Connor is in Zoe’s grade. I refuse to deal with that shit.”

“Elementary school was— it was…something.”

Connor nods. “Yeah. Lots of things were thrown.”

Evan doesn’t mean to, but he starts laughing. He claps his hands over his mouth and stares at Connor with wide eyes. “I’m sorry!” he says, voice muffled by his hands.

Connor rolls his eyes. “It’s fine , Hansen. I said it. And there was a lot of things thrown. Shoes. Dodgeballs. Printers. Bats. Rocks—”

“Tables at the principal.” Evan says.

Connor stares at him. “Wait what?”

“Uh…” Evan rubs the back of his neck. “Fourth grade. We had a project where— we were supposed to make an earthquake proof building out of whatever the teacher gave us and we— Well we made our own construction companies up? It was part of the presentation and one of the kids in our group didn’t like the name we chose and he started getting really really mad and the teacher called the principal and when the principal came in he threw the table and the project at her.” He meets Connor’s eyes. “Um…you-you weren’t the only one to uh…maybe have some anger problems? When we were growing up?”

Connor crosses his arms. “Growing up? Just growing up?” Evan would be nervous, except for the smile at the corner of his mouth.

“You never threw someone into the chairs in the cafeteria and beat them to a pulp,” Evan whispers.

Connor straightens. “You saw that?!”    

“Part of it. Heard more of it. Jared got a video.”

Connor whistles. “Shit, man. Sometimes I wonder how I’m the school freak when we have shit like that go down.”

Evan laughs nervously. So yeah, some guy in their grade sent a kid to the hospital for making a move on his girlfriend, and there were a group of girls who got into a fight at the mall, and some other kid who got suspended for bringing a knife to school and doing knife tricks during class. But still, Connor Murphy has always been the one everyone is afraid of. “I th-think it’s the black clothing and long hair? M-maybe?”

“You can jump on the haircut train with Larry,” Connor says, shaking his head, “but I’m not cutting it.”

“I like it.” Evan feels his ears burn. “It’s— it fits you.”

Connor stares at him before smiling slowly. “Thanks.”

Evan ducks his head. “Um… Can you— could you show me…any of your art?”

Connor sighs. “I guess.”

“I— You don’t have to! If you don’t want to you shouldn’t— I didn’t mean to pressure you into—”

Connor stands up and reaches for something on his shelves. “Hey, Ev, don’t worry about it. It’s fine. The world won’t end if you look at shitty doodles.” He grabs a spiral bound sketchbook off the top of his bookshelf. “Don’t expect anything actually good.” He opens the sketchbook and flips through it. “Here.”

Evan takes the sketchbook from Connor. The right page is filled with a bunch of drawings. A few are half finished, others barely made it past a rough outline, but a couple are more complete. In the corner there’s a drawing that’s been completely scribbled out with such intensity that Evan wouldn’t be surprised if Connor broke the pencil while doing it. On the left page is a profile someone with a strong nose and a rounded jawline, staring ahead with a blank look in their eyes.

The contrast between styles is almost incredible. Evan looks between the quick, looser, and more cartoony style and almost realistic sketch in amazement. The way that the person’s hair is tucked behind their ears and there’s soft shading on their neck, like Connor was afraid to do anything more.

“Wow,” Evan breathes. “These are really good.”

He looks up to see Connor giving him a funny look. “I’m paying you to be my friend. You don’t have to be a kiss up too.”

“I’m not,” Evan promises. “You’re good.”

Connor scrunches up his nose and takes the sketchbook back. He holds it up and tilts his head as he looks at the pages. “Okay…yeah I’m not seeing whatever you’re talking about. Just shitty doodles and a bad attempt to draw someone I saw in a waiting room.”

“I like them.” Connor lowers the sketchbook and Evan shrugs. “I don’t know anything about art, but you aren’t bad at it. I can tell you that.”

“Okay,” Connor says slowly. “Okay.”

Evan shifts uncomfortably in the silence. He doesn’t really know where the conversation is supposed to go from here. Maybe he should just—

“Do you have a Facebook?” Connor asks suddenly.

Evan furrows his eyebrows. “W-what? Why?”

Connor closes the sketchbook and throws it on his bed. “My mom was getting on my ass for not being friends with you on Facebook.”

“Who uses Facebook?”

“Moms,” Connor says flatly. “Wine moms.”

“Is your mom a wine mom?” Evan asks, looking over his shoulder into the hallway.

Connor shrugs. “I don’t know what she does all day. She could be a wine mom. Probably needs to be considering I’m her son. Anyone would need alcohol to deal with me all the time.”

Evan snorts. “You aren’t that bad.”

Connor smiles. “Okay. Whatever you say.”

Evan walks to the bathroom, furiously picking at his cast as he tries to keep his steps normal. His heart is racing and everything is wobbly and he feels like he’s about three seconds away from crying or throwing up. Or both. He can never tell.

He goes to the third floor bathroom. It means climbing the stairs — he hangs onto the railing like a lifeline — but it’s also usually empty. He needs an empty bathroom right now, he can’t lose it around other people, he can’t do that, he can’t be that kid who had a meltdown in front of half the senior class.

Part of his brain tells him half the senior class can’t fit into the boys’ bathroom.

The other half is spiraling faster and faster and faster.

He shoves the bathroom door open with his shoulder and stumbles into the handicapped stall as the lights flicker on. At least he knows no one else is in here.

Evan barely gets the door closed before he’s collapsing against the wall of the stall and sobbing as he tries to catch his breath. His knees are weak and he’s trying not to slide to the floor because it’s the bathroom it’s the fucking boys’ bathroom in a high school it’s probably the most disgusting floor ever but his legs are shaking and his hands are shaking and everything is shaking—

He scrubs away hot tears as they roll down his face.

Fuck .

He doesn’t even know what happened. One minute, he was in english. He wasn’t great but he was okay, and that was normal. And then someone was talking and Evan started getting lightheaded and there was a heavy weight in his chest and he managed to raise his hand and ask to go to the bathroom and sound somewhat normal and leave the classroom sort of calmly but now he can’t breathe he can’t breathe.

The walls are closing in around him and everything is getting smaller and smaller and crushing him under the weight of the world. Evan can’t do this. He can’t.

He pulls at the edges of his cast.

He could’ve— he should’ve—

Evan takes a shuddering breath and presses the base of his good hand against his eye. He wants it to stop he wants it all to stop.

“Evan?” someone asks softly

Evan inhales sharply and jerks away from the wall of the stall. He stumbles over his own feet and crashes into the wall, hitting his shoulder hard. “W-what— wh-who?”

“Uh, it’s just. It’s Connor. Are you…?” he trails off.

Evan’s breath hitches as he tries to force himself to calm down. He focuses on Connor’s boots, he can see them in the space between the stall doors and the floor. There’s something stuck in Evan’s throat and it’s making it hard to breathe and think.

“I recognized your shoes,” Connor says after a few seconds. “I was, uh, trying to get out of international relations, cause that class is…bullshit. I hate it.”

Evan forces a watery laugh. “R-right that’s— I heard it’s-it’s for the uh, the kids who want to take AP Gov but that’s— I can see why you might—” He takes a shallow breath. He can do this he can do this.

“Hansen, is there anything I can do?”

Why is Connor even here? Why is he trying to help, why would he want to help a disaster like Evan? A lost cause and constant disappointment who can never amount to anything and will never do anything worth remembering— not worth remembering not worth trying for not worth anything. He’s just an invisible speck lost in a crowd of millions of people and he’s drowning between all of them and can’t keep his head above the water.

“Hey,” Connor says, “is it okay if I touch you?”

Evan can barely even tell he’s moving, but Connor touches his wrist very softly so he must have nodded or something. Connor gently pulls Evan’s hands away from his face. He doesn’t know how Connor got into the stall but his head is spinning and his thoughts are a muddled mess.

Evan chokes back a sob and blinks away tears as they well up in his eyes and blur his vision. Connor is searching his face with furrowed eyebrows and a concerned look in his eyes and Evan just wants to curl up in a ball and have it all stop .

“What can I do?” Connor asks softly.

Evan shakes his head. Nothing, there’s nothing. He’s decided he’s okay with everything ending in this bathroom. Because everything hurts and his brain won’t stop why won’t it stop ?

“Um… shit . Hold on.” Connor lets go of Evan’s hands and Evan inhales sharply. “I’m-I’m not leaving,” Connor promises. “I’ll be right back.” He unlocks the stall door and Evan focuses on the sound of his boots on the floor because he can still barely breathe and he’s not sure how to hold on to reality.

“Just locked the door,” Connor says, stepping back into the stall. He shuts the door and slides the lock closed.

Evan takes a deep breath. It catches and it’s shaky and bad, but it’s slow and he needs— he has to slow down his heartrate. He’s supposed to be doing deep breathing exercises, it’s not supposed to get this bad.

Inhale through the nose for five. Hold for five. Exhale through the mouth for five.

Evan gets through two cycles before his mind freezes and panics and stops. He takes a few short breaths, gasping for air.

“You’re— it’s going to be fine,” Connor says. “It’s… There’s only like twenty minutes left of school, Ev. You’re going to be okay.”

Evan just wants to lay down. To lay down on this disgusting bathroom floor and curl up in a ball and sleep and never wake up. He could just melt into the floor and stop existing and that would be so much better than this. He closes his eyes and tries to focus on breathing a little slower but he can’t, he can’t.

“Do you…do you want me to leave?” Connor asks slowly. “I can go. I was just trying to get out of class. So I can—”

“P-please don’t— don’t leave,” Evan chokes out. He reaches out blindly, trying to find Connor with his eyes still squeezed shut.  

Connor takes Evan’s hand and squeezes it lightly. “Yeah, sure. Not going anywhere.”

Evan just holds on to Connor’s hand and tries to breathe. Tries to find some semblance of calm in his mind. He doesn’t think he ends up being successful, he thinks his brain just got too tired to keep being so anxious.

When it doesn’t feel like his lungs are getting crushed anymore, Evan loosens his grip on Connor’s hand. “I-I’m s-sorry,” he whispers. “I’m sorry that you— that you had to deal with me.”

“I wanted to help,” Connor says. “I promise.”

Evan can’t meet his eyes.

“There’s only a few minutes left of class.” Connor takes a step away. “Do you… Are you walking home today?”

Evan nods. He doesn’t like the bus. It’s still warm enough out that he can walk to and from school. It’s better than being on a loud and crowded vehicle that goes over potholes too fast.

“Let us bring you home,” Connor says.

Evan frowns at the floor.

“Zoe doesn’t have practice today,” Connor explains. “Just… I don’t know, can you let us drive you home? So you don’t have to walk?”

“I’m— you don’t have to,” Evan mumbles.

“Yeah, but I’m offering.”

Evan wants to say no, he really wants to say no. He can’t take advantage of Connor like that. But he also just wants to be at home as soon as possible. “O-okay.”

“Thank you.”

Evan glances up at Connor. Connor is running his hand through his hair.

“I’ll…meet you by your locker?” Connor pulls his phone out of his pocket. “Are you…”

“I’ll be fine,” Evan says softly. Connor doesn’t look convinced, but Evan doesn’t have the energy to convince him right now. “I’ll… My locker. Yeah.”

“I’ll see you in…like three minutes,” Connor promises. “You can do a fucking countdown if you want. But I’ll be there. I swear.”

Evan nods. He digs his nails into the palm of his hand as Connor unlocks the stall and leaves the bathroom. It takes him a few more moments to figure out how to move his legs.

He still feels slightly off balance and wrong. He takes his time on the stairs, letting the bell ring and students rush around him in a sea of half known faces. He hesitates outside his english room before he ducks inside to grab his backpack. He stammers out an apology to his teacher, saying that he got sick, and she just tells him to feel better and make sure he does the reading for tomorrow.

He has to climb the stairs again to get to his locker.

Connor is there, waiting for him, staring off into the distance. As Evan approaches, Connor’s eyes snap to him and he stands up straighter.

“Zoe’ll meet us by the band room,” Connor explains. He glances from Evan to the lock. “Here I can open it.” He opens the lock quickly and Evan just forces himself to stay standing and breathing.

Connor takes books from Evan as he pulls them out of his backpack and then closes the locker as Evan puts his backpack on.

Connor glances around the halls and then takes a few quick steps to the elevator and hits the down button.

“We-we aren’t supposed to—”

“Fuck it,” Connor interrupts. “Stairs are bullshit.”

The elevator doors open and Connor pulls Evan inside, hitting the close doors button until the slide shut. Evan grips the straps of his backpack tightly. If anyone sees them using the elevator without a pass, they could get yelled at. He can’t deal with that today.

They stop on the ground level and the elevator doors open and Connor takes Evan’s arm and pulls him out of the elevator before reaching in and hitting the close doors button again. “Come on,” he murmurs, leading them toward the music wing.

Zoe is leaning against the double doors of the band room, a guitar case strapped to her back and her saxophone case at her feet. She looks up from her phone at them. She does a double take when she sees Evan, eyebrows furrowing.

“Can we go?” Connor asks shortly.

Any concern vanishes from her face as she rolls her eyes. “It’s going to take us fucking decades to get out of the parking lot at this point but whatever.”

“S-sorry,” Evan mumbles.

She shoots him a look. “Don’t worry about it, Evan. It’s just— it’s kind of messy getting out of here. It’s not your fault.” She picks up her saxophone cause. “Haul ass, Connor.”

Connor mutters something under his breath as he follows her.

Zoe leads them to the back corner of the parking lot where a silver SUV is parked. Evan finds himself thinking that if Connor were allowed to drive, they’d be able to park in the senior lot and would be closer to the school.

Zoe unlocks the car and looks to Connor and they have some sort of silent conversation before Zoe pops the trunk and loads in her instruments. “Hop in, Ev,” she says. “The car won’t eat you.” She slams the trunk shut.

Evan pulls open the backseat door and climbs in, dumping his backpack on the floor. To his surprise, Connor slides in on the other side, and not into the passenger seat in front of him. Connor tosses his bag into the passenger seat before buckling in.

“I’m apologizing now for Zoe’s music choices,” Connor says, leaning closer to Evan. “She’s on an early 2000s kick right now and it’s really fucking annoying.”

“You’re really fucking annoying,” Zoe says. She pulls the parking pass off the mirror and shoves it into the sunglasses holder. “What’s your address?” she asks Evan as she puts the keys into the ignition.

“I’ve got it,” Connor says.

Zoe meets Evan’s eyes in the mirror before shifting the car into reverse. “Okay.” She turns up the music and twists around to wait for an opening in the line of cars waiting to get out of the parking lot.

Evan blinks in surprise as Check Yes Juliet blasts from the speakers.

Connor groans.

“Just help me get out of here, asshat,” Zoe says.

Connor turns to look out the window. “You’re good with cars coming in.”

Zoe squints at the line of cars and backs up as soon as the smallest opening appears. Someone behind them honks their horn and Connor just rolls down the window and flips them off.

“And now we wait,” Zoe mutters, once she’s gotten the car into the endless line of other cars attempting to get away from this place.

“This is why I don’t drive,” Connor grumbles.

Zoe scoffs. “Okay. Sure.”

Evan rests his head against the window as they slowly move through the parking lot.

“Is this Jordin Sparks?” Connor asks when the next song comes on.

“You might be judging me,” Zoe says, “but you’re the one who recognized Jordin Sparks.”

The car is warm and Evan is so tired that it’s hard to focus. He finds himself thinking that it’s sort of nice that Connor and Zoe are arguing over something so mundane as music, even if that’s just the surface level of a much deeper problem.

Evan doesn’t fall asleep, but he does drift off. He hears Connor and Zoe talking softly, but doesn’t process any of the words. When the car stops, he blinks slowly and sits up. He squints out the window and at his front door.

Oh. Cool.

“Thanks,” he murmurs as he unbuckles his seatbelt and grabs his backpack from the floor. He opens the door and climbs out, careful to find solid footing on the driveway.

“No problem,” Zoe says with a soft smile. Her eyes dart to Connor. “You staying here?”

Connor looks at Evan. He raises an eyebrow.

Evan nods. He doesn’t…he doesn’t think he wants to be alone right now. But Connor doesn’t have to know that. If Connor asks, Evan will just say that it would be weird if Connor left him after being worried or something. Something about friendship.

“I’ll tell mom,” Zoe says. “Now get your ass out of my car or I’ll drive away with you.”

“Fuck off,” Connor mutters.

Evan digs through his bag for his house key as he walks up to the front door. He pulls it out of the pocket and unlocks the door.

Connor flips Zoe off before stepping inside. Zoe flips him off as she backs down the driveway.

Evan pulls off his shoes and leaves them by the door. He drops his backpack on the couch as he passes the living room and wanders into the kitchen. He almost forgets Connor is with him until Connor leans against the kitchen table.

“Are you okay?” he asks softly.

Evan almost laughs because that really is the worst question. Instead, he opens a cabinet and holds out a box to Connor. “Cheez-its?”

“Did Jared buy these the other day?” Connor asks, taking the box.

“Uh…yes.” Evan feels his ears burn. “I— He bought a lot of snacks. We, um, still have pizza? If you want any?”

“Have you eaten today?” Connor asks.

Evan blinks a few times. “S-sort of? Lunch, I-I had some lunch. You?”

“Just breakfast.” Connor puts down the Cheez-its. “I’ll take a piece if you do.”

Evan feels like he might lowkey be being played, but Connor needs to eat. “Okay,” he says. “Want it warm?”

“Yeah sure.”

Evan focuses on getting the pizza out of the fridge and onto a plate and then into the microwave. As he watches the pizza slices spin, Connor digs through the kitchen drawers.

“W-what are you…?”

Connor holds up a knife and fork victoriously. “We’re good.”

“Are you… Since when do you eat pizza with silverware?”

“I’m not a caveman,” Connor says sagely. He reaches past Evan to pull open the microwave door a second before it beeps.

“You’ve never used it before?” Evan takes the pizza out and takes a slice before handing the plate to Connor.

Connor snorts and sits down at the table. “You’ve only seen me eat pizza like three times, Hansen. You don’t know me.”

Evan slowly pulls out a chair as Connor cuts up his pizza. “Yeah but…before you were eating it backwards. Which was— why were you doing that?”

Connor points his fork at Evan. “Used to make Zoe mad.”

“I-I guess that’s…valid.” Evan eats his pizza slowly as he watches Connor eat his piece by piece. He doesn’t really understand, but that’s okay. He glances at his half finished piece of pizza before he mumbles, “You don’t…you don’t have to, um, pay me for this.”

Connor lowers his fork with a weird triangle shaped piece of pizza still on it. “It’s fine, I can still—”

“No,” Evan interrupts firmly. “I— I wanted you to be here. I asked you to. It was my choice so you— you don’t have to give me anything. That’s… It’s only fair.”

“Are you sure?” Connor asks slowly.

Evan nods. “If-if you try to pay me, I’ll just give the money to Zoe to sneak into your room. O-or she could just take it. And then there was no point in giving it to me.”

Connor looks at him with an expression that Evan can’t decipher for a few seconds before shrugging and saying, “Okay” before going back to his pizza.

Evan isn’t entirely content with the answer but it’ll do for now.

—«·»—

“Here,” Evan says, taking the remote from Connor and opening Netflix. “Th-there’s never really anything good on TV.”

“Sweet, thanks.”

Evan doesn’t really know how they got to this point. They finished eating and Connor offered to leave if Evan wanted him to, but Evan shook his head and then somehow…they ended up on the couch.

“The Great British Baking Show?” Connor asks, reading the title of the first show under ‘Continue Watching’.

“Oh, um…” Evan plays with the hem of his shirt. “It’s…a nice show? It’s not— other cooking shows are a lot more stressful? And intense? This one is… It’s a lot nicer. It’s kind of funny and they have nice bakers usually.”

Connor gives him a half smile. “You like baking?”

Evan rolls his eyes. “We both know I can’t bake for shit.”

Connor laughs. “I know, it’s just funny how you like to watch people bake but burn mac n cheese.”

“I never burned mac n cheese,” Evan mumbles.

“Do you mind?” Connor asks, gesturing to the screen.

Evan shakes his head.

Connor goes to the beginning of the season Evan had open and restarts the first episode.

“Oh there are going to be lots of measurements that I do not fucking understand,” Connor says.

Evan smiles and leans back on the cushions of the couch. It’s nice to watch something where he already knows the outcome, and Connor has some pretty amusing commentary to add to the whole thing. It’s kind of funny how fast Connor decides who his favorite and least favorite bakers are.

As Connor watches a technical challenge where no one has any clue what the hell they’re doing, Evan feels himself drifting off to sleep and he can’t find the energy to stop himself.

—«·»—

Evan wakes up slowly. His eyelids are heavy— his whole body is heavy, actually. There’s still thick cobwebs of sleep left in his brain that haven’t been dusted away and they’re making it very hard to regain consciousness. This usually happens after really bad days that involve some sort of meltdown, but all it ever does is make Evan want to go back to sleep.

He turns his head to press his face more into his pillow. Something tickles his nose. Something like…hair?

Evan groans and sits up, squinting at the bright screen of the television. Connor turns to look at him and gives him a crooked smile.

Oh.

His pillow had been Connor’s shoulder.

“S-sorry,” Evan mumbles.

“It’s fine,” Connor promises. Their arms are still pressed together and Evan really doesn’t care to move right now. “Did you sleep okay?”

“Fine. Uh…how long was I…?”

Connor glances to the screen. “Maybe two and a half hours?” Evan’s eyes go wide. “It’s fine, Ev. I’m okay with being used as a pillow. You needed the sleep and I got to get through a few more episodes of the show. Win win.”

“Win win,” Evan repeats softly. “Do you… Are you leaving soon?”

“Do you want me to?” Connor asks.

Evan is a selfish person. He knows exactly what he’s doing. And he hates himself for it.

“Not yet.”

[lilmissmousey]

Denial: Chapter 4

When Bulma was five years old she’d broken her arm, stupidly believing she could fly from the tree in her front yard to her bedroom window. Her frantic parents had driven her to the emergency room where the stench of sterilization was overwhelming, the sounds of a routine day in the hospital frightening her small being to the core. To this day she could remember the lights above her as she sat trembling on the stiff bed, arm throbbing as her mother fussed over her. Bulma still hated anything to do with the doctors office, and the smell of sterilization products made her stomach churn.

But here she was, stuck in a small waiting room wondering if one of the people she cared about most would die.

Her knee bounced in a nervous rhythm, eyes swollen and red from sobbing. This was her fault. Vegeta was hurt, seriously so, and he did it for her. She should be the one in there. She should have been the one hit by that car. Maybe if she had paid more attention crossing the street this wouldn’t have happened. Maybe If she’d answered his text the night before they could have met up that next morning and avoided everything all together. They could have talked it out and everything would have been fine. But no. She had to be stubborn. Her heart had ached for him last night; he’d looked so handsome and her feelings had gotten the best of her. In one fleeting moment she’d pushed Vegeta just a bit more than his stoic countenance could handle. She’d taken the initiative and his rejection hurt. Deeply. But that didn’t mean she didn’t still care for him. Quite the opposite in fact.

It was well known in their city that Bulma Briefs was a lot to handle. She’d had several high profile relationships that had crashed and burned; spectacularly. Vegeta was the only man in her life besides her father that treated her like a human being. He didn’t care if her clothes were expensive, and frequently called her out on her tantrums. Despite his grumblings, sarcastic comments, and all around prickly nature, deep down Bulma knew he cared for her. She’d never seen him behave with such patience towards anyone, and the thought that he’d taken her place in front of that car without hesitation made her guts wrench painfully.

When the ambulance arrived only a few moments after the accident she had thrown herself into the back alongside his gurney, watching with horror as he was pricked and examined, the paramedics giving nervous glances at one another. The sirens screamed and the van bounced down the road, but all Bulma could focus on was Vegeta’s still body. One of the paramedics asked her questions, but all she could hear was buzzing. There was no doubt she was in a mild state of shock, and once they had reached the hospital she had to be steered out of the back and into the hospital waiting room where she had now been sitting for several hours. Whenever the door opened she’d stand, only to feel disappointment crashing over her like a tidal wave when it was just another person like her, waiting for news.

Another hour passed before the door opened, and in stepped an older man in a white lab coat, “Miss Briefs?”

Bulma’s hand immediately covered her heart for fear it would pound out of her chest, “Yes, that’s me. How is he? Will he be alright-”

“He’s okay,” the doctor said gently, sitting beside her, “somehow he’s not catastrophically injured. He’s got a small hairline fracture on his pelvic bone that will heal on its own and we believe a concussion. Not to mention he’s banged up with bruises and a bit of road rash. But he will be just fine given some serious rest.”

The breath in Bulma’s lungs left with a whoosh, “Oh thank God, thank you, thank you.”

“Quite a miracle really,” the doctor mused, patting Bulma’s shoulder, “if that young man wasn’t in such great physical shape the story would have been much different. I’ve seen milder accidents that result in a lot worse. He’s a bit drowsy from the pain medication, but you’re more than welcome to visit him if you like. He was asking about you.”

“H-he was?”

“Mmmhmm,” the doctor nodded, “he wanted to make sure you were alright. He woke up in quite a foul mood once we had him on the examination table. Said something about smashing my brains in if I did anything to you.”

“Oh Vegeta,” Bulma groaned, “I’m so sorry. He’s got a bit of a temper.”

The doctor chuckled, “No harm done. Once we had that IV in him he was a little more compliant. He’s in room 203, down the hall to the left. Take care of him alright? No physical activity for a few weeks; period. And he will have to have a check up here in about five days to look at that bump on his head.”

Bulma nodded, “Thank you so much sir. I’ll make sure of it.”

“Alright then,” the doctor stood, shaking Bulma’s hand, “he’s a good man Miss Briefs, he did a very brave thing from what I hear. Not many people I know would sacrifice themselves like that. Even when we were telling him what was going on with his injuries, all he was asking for was ‘my Bulma.’ I’m not exactly sure what your relationship is, but I thought you should know. Good day Miss.”

Bulma watched the doctors back as the door closed, trying to swallow the lump that had formed in her throat.

“My Bulma.” He’d said.

Despite the awful nature of the situation, Bulma felt her lips pull up in a smile and the happy tears began to fall. He was going to be alright. Her surly, grouchy Vegeta was going to be fine.

Her body froze. 'Her Vegeta.’

Oh. She had it bad.

Before she could muse any longer, Bulma finally gathered the courage to step out into the hallway, praying that he wouldn’t turn her away once she reached him. Although she couldn’t blame him if he did. It was her turn to take care of him now, and she intended to do just that.

-

Vegeta glared at the nurse beside his bed. “I said take out these IV’s. I don’t need them.”

“Sir,” the young female crooned kindly, “you’ve had a nasty accident. I can’t take these out unless the doctor okays it first.”

“Well,” he hissed through clenched teeth, “get the doctor then. I don’t need to be here-”

He stopped when he heard the choked sob in the doorway.

It was Bulma.

The nurse looked from Vegeta, to her, then back to him, “I’ll be back in a short while.” She said gently, and then eased around Bulma who was still standing by the door.

Vegeta stared hard at her, scrutinizing every piece of her visible skin for injuries. She looked alright physically he decided, but her red face and puffy eyes spoke volumes. He swallowed, looking off to the side at the white linoleum floor, “You look like hell.” He muttered.

Bulma choked back a wet laugh, “You big, dumb idiot. You’re one to talk. God you’re so scraped up…”

He finally looked back at her when she started sobbing again, arm trying to cover her face so he couldn’t see her tears, “V-Vegeta, I was so s-scared. I-I thought-”

“Are you going to come here or what?”

The arm covering her eyes went down. Bulma was sure she looked like a mess, but the gentleness of his words made her not care, “W-what?”

Vegeta sighed and winced, adjusting himself to sit up straighter, “Bulma, I can’t really get up to go to you. Come here.”

Within a few steps she was standing beside the bed, arms hugging herself tightly, “Vegeta, I am so sorry. This is all my fault. If I hadn’t done, well, you know what last night none of this would have happened. I hope you can forgive me-”

He held up a hand to quiet her, “Bulma, stop. None of this is your fault,”

“Yes it is,” she hiccuped, sinking into the chair beside his bed, face in her hands, “you c-could have died. I would have never been able to forgive myself. If you never want to s-speak to me again I understand,” Bulma’s words were broken again by her sobs, her whole body seeming to shrink as she hunched over.

For a long moment Vegeta was quiet, letting Bulma expel her overwhelming emotions. It was not in Vegeta’s nature to be nurturing. It was hard for him to give something he didn’t seem to have. He’d never grown up with compassion, no one to run to when he felt afraid. There was no one in his life he would lay down his for.

No one except her.

As if he were petting a frightened animal, he reached out with trepidation and rested his large hand on top of Bulma’s head. She quieted, eyes barely visible through the curtain of her hair as she peeked out and sniffed pitifully at him.

Vegeta swallowed. Fuck. She was beautiful. Slowly, he brushed her hair down, tucking it gently behind her ear, “Bulma, I really don’t know what to say,” he rumbled, “unfortunately for you, I’m pretty indestructible. The doctors said so. The bump on my skull didn’t scramble my brains enough make me a romantic imbecile which is really a shame.”

She blinked at him, “Are you seriously making jokes right now?”

Vegeta smirked, “Depends. Is it working?”

“Damnit Vegeta,” Bulma groaned, plopping her forehead on his mattress, “you’re crazy. You know that right?”

“I’ve been told,” he continued to pet her hair, “I’m really no good at this. What can I do?”

“You’ve done enough!” Bulma snapped, raising her head up. Startled, Vegeta snatched his hand back. “You threw yourself in front of a car for me! I care about you, you big oaf! I don’t know what I would do without you! I owe you my life!”

“You don’t owe me anything,” Vegeta insisted, but Bulma continued;

“I am going to make it up to you. I swear it. And I promise I won’t…” she trailed off blushing, “I mean, what I did last night was inappropriate. I shouldn’t have done that. It won’t happen again.”

Vegeta felt his jaw drop, a surprising wave of disappointment washing over him, “Bulma-”

“I was way too forward,” she continued over him, “I must have made myself look like such a hoochie-”

“Bulma-”

“Especially when I know you have no interest in me, you said so yourself and I kept pushing-”

Frustration finally reaching its peak, Vegeta snarled, “Bulma Briefs will you stop talking and listen to me?! How can I tell you I want you-”

“I hear someone wants their IV’s out.” A voice came from the foot of the bed.

Both Vegeta and Bulma’s head whipped around to see the smirking doctor.

The doctor pulled out Vegeta’s chart and leisurely thumbed through it, happily ignoring the two pairs of eyes on him, “Sorry to tell you sir, but we’re going to have to keep you overnight for observation. It’s that darn bump on your head. I’ll see if I can get you going first thing in the morning if everything goes well.”

If Vegeta had his way, the doctors lab coat would be tied in a knot around his stupid smug neck, “Is. That. All?” He hissed.

“Yup,” the doctor put the cart back into the holder, “sorry about the news. Good thing you have this pretty young thing to keep you company.” He winked, “Miss Briefs you have a nice evening.”

“You too sir.” Bulma smiled. The doctor waved on his way out the door, the eyes of Vegeta burning an imaginary hole in his back.

“Well, isn’t he so sweet?” Bulma smiled, “What was it you were saying?”

Vegeta growled and flopped back against his pillow, “Just…forget it. I’m tired.”

“Oh no, is it your head? Does it hurt?” Bulma asked. She placed her palm against his forehead, the skin of her hand cooling his hot flesh.

The contact almost made Vegeta purr, “A little.” He grumbled.

“Is there anything I can get you?” Her fingers began running through his thick black hair; if she kept this up he might fall asleep.

“Mm no.” He muttered, eyes becoming half-lidded.

“Do you want me to go so you can sleep?” She whispered.

His eyes, dark as the night sky slid to meet her worried gaze, “You can do what you want.”

Her bow lips pulled into a line, the crease he adored between her eyebrow appearing. She was weighing her options. Vegeta let his eyes drift shut, “I don’t mind… if you want to stay.” He finally admitted, “if you want too.”

He could hear the smile in her voice, “Okay. I’ll stay until your fast asleep.”

“…ok.”

The chair creaked as she settled farther in, removing her fingers from his hair and instead slipping them into his hand, “You don’t mind, do you?”

Vegeta didn’t open his eyes, but squeezed her fingers in reply.

Bulma squeezed back.

It was the last thing he was aware of for quite some time.

-

Evening had fallen, the crisp night air blowing the long hair at Zarbon’s neck. He’d come back to the scene where about ten hours earlier Vegeta was run over. Something had been nagging him.

And it was Vegeta’s act of selflessness.

This was not the little monkey he knew. Vegeta had been scrappy and cruel; certainly not the type of person to push some woman out of the way of a car. It was well established in the syndicate community that Vegeta had gone rogue some time ago, deciding to live a “normal life” instead of considering rising in the ranks of the Icejin. How had that ungrateful worm repaid everyone? Put Friezas’ father in prison. Oh, he’d certainly defended quite a few of the low level gangsters, but only a handful had gotten off. The rumor was that Vegeta had worked with the police. But because of that no one dared touch the once dangerous man who was now a goody-goody. It was risky. It was-

A glint in the corner of a building caught Zarbon’s attention. When he looked closer, he realized it was a cell phone. The black smart phone had a crack on the screen, but the wallpaper picture still lit up bright and clear.

It was a woman with long blue hair piled on top of her head. She was leaning over a table and looking at something. It was Bulma Briefs. And there was only one reason she would be the background of Vegeta’s phone.

Zarbon smiled.

Oh yes. This was exactly what he needed.

[1rmono]

can I vent n kinda confess here just a good Ramble please okioki sO im 17 (in my penultimate year (year 12 in the good ol UK) of school) and so it all began when this Boy in my form class asked me to thProm and it was so lovely i want to Re Live the moment every day. we were in computing class and we sit next to eachother and he sais "hey are you going to prom" n im like "hm yea even tho idont want to" (bc i hate dresses and fuss and parties) and hes like "its okay rachel you cn go w me" {1/???}

n then my heart did this thing tht only ever happens when he talks to me cs hes so polite and he alwasys says my name like wOw thats so Intimate how could you abd i feel sick but i live it?? andd i PAnicked when he said tht like dhbj so i blurted out “NO” and the. n i kick myself so hard and apologise “bc i already arrange the o go w my friends sorry” and ye i do kinda like this boy i guess bc he likes anime too n he reccommened one piece n kuroshitsuji to me n i enjoy them and {2/??}

i just pretended not to care hahahhah a aha H so then Prom happened, i didnt say Hi to him at th prom bc HA me,,initiating a convo??then pigs can fly! and he looked so handsome when i saw him from afar in th e crowd i hate evrything and so he went to college and i stayed in my school and ive not seen him since bc were not close friends just former form classmates and anime conversationers in the computing class. i couldnt stop thinking abt him and Cue the period of crying and regret and {4/??}

and “what if id sais yes then or then or said hi to him” and i did that toxic thing of making up a fantasy world where i was more friendly to him so tht he would like me and smile to me more i actually drafted in my notes for ages a message to him that id like to send ,,, like"oh howdy long time no see yea im sorry i said no to you when you asked me to prom" trying to hint “hi shall we use Magic to turn the clock backward and go to prom tgether even if jst like fridns like you wanted” and {5?/?}

and we could be closer and shit agh i regret regret regret i actually sent the message to him i think it ws “hi sorry i didnt say hi to you at th prom” about twi months after the prom and as soon as i sent it i had to go to th bathroom because i was so close to being sikc an d my heart was doing a louis hamilton alexander mcqueen weeeeooooo and ge replied “its okay dont worry how are you” and he used th (^.^) emoction how Fkin cute and i was reminded of how polite and friendly he was {6/??}

and friendly i dont know how he does it bc i cant talk to people properly and So Yeah he saaid the words “ive missed people too” meaning,,,, he doesnt miss me and even if he ever did he doesnt now!!! and tahts it thats the end ive never seen him since aNd its been overa year? since thatDay and whenever i see him on my social media i hate everything ad i just i just {8/8} im so s sorry for spamming you like i would nt wanna read an essay on some sappy schoolgirls first crush (fck me i said it)

hi its Sappy Schoolgirl again did i mention me n this boy were also anime friends with this other girl who is now a close friend of mine,, he siad to me once we should all hang out sometime which hasnt happened yet and i wont forget that time in Computing class when we were talking abt Subway and i said id never been (since then ive been twice n thought of him) and hes like “!!no!! youve never been to subway! i will take you! this saturday!!” but that didnt happen yk he was only joking

tumblr ate your third ask but this was such a rollercoaster omg….,,,,not to be sappy but ur love for this boy is so pure u even get excited over his emoji usage omg that is so real n cute wow…..i feel so bad it didnt end the way u wanted to n i feel like maybe meeting up with him once just to hang out n tell him how u feel might be good just to get closure about the whole thing? but that’s just my point of view ofc ! i hope it turns out better for u ah this really was like reading a high school love story that needs 1 more chapter added about the happy ending :(

[spotlightsaga]

Kevin Cage of @spotlightsaga reviews... Riverdale /S01\/E10\ Chapter 10: The Lost Weekend Airdate: April 13, 2017 @cwnetwork Ratings: 0.872 Million :: 0.32 18-49 Demo Share Score: 8.5/10 @riverdaleseries @archiecomics TVTime/FB/Twitter/IG/Tumblr/Path/Pin: @SpotlightSaga **********SPOILERS BELOW********** Four Months late isn't too bad, right? See, in Miami, it's never cute to be the first person at the party, and really the party never ends until someone actually says it does... And clearly the Riverdale Party is still very much in full swing. So consider this 10th Entry 'Riverdale Revisit'; the after party to end all after parties. Of course, we're going to be set up for S2 when it goes live. This is definitely not one of the tv shows that Spotlight Saga will be dropping in the coming, world famous, 'fall tv' season frenzy. But don't get it twisted, there are many on the chopping block... OUR chopping block. We're looking at what gets our blood pumping and our thoughts racing, giving us something more to talk about than "Last Night on ___insert uninspired show number #45 here___." 'Riverdale' has made a massive stir across social media and of course on The CW & their worldwide dominating partner, Netflix, as well. I love that due to streaming, the new large amounts of cash pouring in from its subsequent deals, and actually several generations full of 'cord cutters', there are no longer rules to watching and writing about television series and films... Get to them when you can, some will watch them live, some will stream them later, some will wait until they can binge them all at once like a Weekend Warrior with a pocket full of Ecstasy and a head full of hallucinogens. It's our world now, and CBS, NBC, ABC, FOX, and more (or less) importantly 'Nielsen Holdings', no longer control what, when, where, why, and how much. Smell that? That's the sweet smell of change... And the remnants of murder and sticky maple syrup, obvi. Ive been extremely careful not to overpraise 'Riverdale' in the past. Similar series have only led to frustration or feelings of complete frustration. Its hard to know what to expect from a show like this in the near future... We all saw the demise of similar series like 'Pretty Little Liars' and other shows that run through the same type of vein... Kind of like many of the other ones attempted over at the now defunct ABC Family where PLL first started. Like The WB, UPN, and now The CW, ABC Family has also gone through a newly rebranding process that didn't do much to help the sinking ship they now call Freeform TV... A network that only 'The Fosters' and its cheesy sister show 'Shadowhunters' seem to be keeping afloat. We aren't being negative, we're being real... And when you're at a party, or in this case, 'After Party', you've got to be real. You just gotta... Even if no one ever wanted the party in the first place. If you don't know what I mean, let me spell it out for you. Ready? Set? Spell! Ah fuck it, we'll just spill the tea... 'Let's have a Kiki! Lock the doors tight!' I sometimes wonder if my obscure pop culture references I often sneak into these articles ever actually connect. They probably don't, but to that one person that got it, FUCK YEAH! It's the birthday of Jughead (Cole Sprouse)... And much like the very similar, fellow female counterpart, Sheila the She-Wolf, another introverted style character from 'Riverdale's sister show on Netflix, 'GLOW'... Jughead is not really into parties and/or making a big fuss about a birthday or bringing any unnecessary & unwanted attention to his person. Unfortunately for Betty (Lili Reinhart), Jughead isn't really big on camaraderie, most definitely not in the spirit equivalent to the 'Gorgeous Ladies of Wrestling'! The reasons behind throwing these two characters' each their own impromptu birthday bashes on their respective tv shows are done for totally different reasons. With 'GLOW', it was slightly annoying at first (for Sheila, anyway), but eventually it turned from an apprehensive & anxiety filled event to a touching, sweet moment, where a closed off character had a major breakthrough that was captured in the perfect beam of light, allowing a significant development and enabling an insight into another character's backstory, bringing the whole cast together for the most part. In a great juxtaposition, on 'Riverdale', the psychology behind this one is actually much, much different... It's still got the 'trepidatious yet possible potential for a surprise moment of gratification' aspect down to a certain degree, but it doesn't go down the path of the balmy & charming. The reasoning behind Betty's sudden obsession to give Jughead the party that he never wanted, and the background as to why he's so against the idea in the first place certainly doesn't inspire camaraderie or any kind of 'feel good' moments, especially at the party itself. If anything, the intent is slightly bordering on the side of creepy. Riverdale?! Creepy?!? Yup! Keep up! It's only getting creepier. You see... We've been up on 'Riverdale' and then back down, and then back up and down again... And I think everyone here will openly admit that it's mostly due to a shaky CW track record, as well as similar networks just like it, though there has been a few inconsistencies outside of this oddball tone & beautiful color scheme we're always raving about. However, when the show fully embraces its complete and total anomalous, almost freakish eccentricities, we all just fall right back in love with the show again. It's episodes like 'Chapter 10: The Lost Weekend' that completely make us forget about past network follies and shows like PLL completely losing their way after gaining our trust and enthusiasm in its beginning stages. Reinhart is effortlessly serving up 'Bizarre, Bilateral, Betty Bananas' like a full-on, award ready, seasoned vet. Seriously, I don't want to blow too much smoke up the kid's ass, but I'm pretty sure her breakthrough performance here would even make the likes of decorated actress such as Nicole Kidman proud. Betty Cooper has a duality that Reinhart not only highlights with strong, hearty performances... But it's also the efforts of Director Dawn Williamson, a phenomenal Art Department (you guys KICK MAJOR ASS), Cinematographer Stephen Jackson (this guy was award-worthy in this episode), and Costume & Wardrobe (hell, everyone involved in the smallest, minute details) framed from shot to shot... The absurdity of how tight & perfectly situated her ponytail is, how hard she clenches her hands (leaving scratch marks on her palms), even the way she holds the cake & dawns the signature 'Jughead Crown', to whoever made the call of having those weirdo party goers in horse masks in the background - Good call, guys! That was freaking CRAZY! It's all those little things that make the picture such a pleasure to watch... Turning what seems like a normal teen drama at first glance, to a finely tuned, surprisingly compelling theatrical spectacle. The crazy is in full on abundance, though... It's not just Betty. Suddenly after a string of a few disappointing episodes, I come back after a break and either see things in a totally different light, or it could be that this was just slowly building right under our noses the whole time, or *the most plausible of all three options* is that the ironically lowest rated episode of the series, according to the great analysts over at Nielsen, is actually the most technically sound, character driven, insanely atmospheric entry of the entire 1st Season. Veronica Lodge (Camila Mendes) finally lets go of some deep resentments she's been bottling up and goes after Cheryl Blossom (Madelaine Petsch). This is a task that I wouldn't suggest to any person of sound or capable mind to attempt in any way, shape, fashion, or form. The act is crazy in and of itself, and pissing off the 'Ravishing Redhead' that literally wears the letters 'HBIC' on the back of her cheerleading uniform, that's 'Head Bitch in Charge' for anyone too young or too old to remember Tiffany Pollard of VH1's 'I Love New York', is obviously going to lead to a backlash that Veronica won't likely forget. Sure she might get her big 'W' now, but we must remind you... There's no 'W' in 'HBIC'. Meanwhile, Cole Sprouse & Skeet Ulrich, who plays Serpent Gangster FP Jones & Jughead's father on the show, are literally close to actually convincing me that they are really father and son in real life. The little ticks and nuances that they share are out of this fn' world insane. Either these two have spent a week in a trailer together mirroring their every move or we seriously need to ring in Maury Povich for a DNA Test! Oh, and apparently there's some guy on the show named Archie Andrews (KJ Apa)... The only drawback is that they've failed to make the main protagonist (is he tho?) even remotely interesting. He's good looking, but he's not a convincing redhead, and I'm still not hooked into his arc. Hey, that's ok... Enter Mary Andrews (Molly Ringwald - ChaChing!), Archie's long lost mother. So nice of you to finally drop in, Molly! Fred Andrews (Luke Perry) is ready to finalize the divorce, but we're just biting on all the possibly juicy dramatic scenarios! Who is Archie again? Back at the party, that burgeoning rivalry between Veronica and Cheryl hits its boiling point when Veronica gets a bit too carried away and accuses Cheryl and her deceased brother Jason (Trevor Stines) of having an incestious affair. Ah, gotta love seedy underbelly of the United States! The more money, the crazier the family!!! Oh but there's more! Good ol' All-American Chuck (Jordan Calloway), who actually WAS almost boiled alive, attempts to out Betty on her 'Dr. Jeckyl/Ms. Hyde' issue that surfaced when a hot tub prank got a bit too out of hand earlier in the season. To our surprise, and viewer delight, Jughead and his Dad actually had a moment, which was completely unexpected, yet felt completely real. Like I said before, Ulrich & Sprouse have stellar chemistry, and the writers seem to know this and obviously derive great pleasure in giving us this moment where the two aren't at total odds and Jughead not only carefully considers, but actually takes his biological father's advice... Providing solid proof that the series isn't trying to meander or stretch out any unnecessary storylines at all. No disrespect to fans of other series broadcast on The CW, but clearly this isn't 'The Flash'. These storylines seem to be heading into important territory at a reasonable pace, and not just hanging around to fulfill an episode number requested by an executive to make sure ad-space quotas are filled... Although I have considered that this could be an issue that the show could run into in its expanded 22-Episode Run that it's been greenlit for S2. There's plenty of juicy drama to go around, but when we see that drama making moves instead of being drawn out, then you know you've got a potentially good show on your hands. For now, 'Riverdale' is back on a solid trajectory, delivering what appears to be a set-up episode for the impending S1 finale... A set-up episode that was easily the most consistent entry to date from start to finish. The impression that an episode as good as this exists to move its characters like chess pieces, seemingly just to put everyone in place for the final three episodes is an exciting notion for the last 3 hours of S1 of 'Riverdale' to come!