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whump-a-la-mode · 3 years ago

Note

Would you consider doing another continuation of “badly injured villain collapses into arms of hero” ? I loved it so much!!!

Ahh absolutely, I love that one! The last piece was more comfort than whump-- let’s change it up a little bit. This one has one of my favorite tropes, a whumpee trying to escape caretaking!

I hope you enjoy, and thanks for the ask!

First Part

Second Part

CW//Talk of death, broken bones, paranoia, talk of euthanasia, IVs, food

Soup.

Villain wasn’t sure what they had expected, when they had been captured by their sworn enemies. But it certainly wasn’t... Soup.

Everything about the dish that Hero had placed in their hands was the very definition of enticing. It was warm, but not boiling, consisting of a beige broth and a heaping helping of noodles.

When was the last time they had eaten something warm? More than that, when was the last time they had eaten anything at all? The grass and garbage hardly counted, neither did the times that their utter starvation had led them to go so far as to chew on their own shirt.

Soup.

Villain was weak, the very picture of skin and bones. Didn’t their enemies understand that? Now that they were in their captivity, wouldn’t their foes want them to be kept weak? Starving? Desperate?

There was no good reason to give them soup. Unless...

When Villain was on the run, a hunted piece of prey, they had known what the consequence would be for being caught. The heroes would kill them, of course. In their mind, they had never once questioned that fact.

The heroes had not, in fact, killed them upon pinning them down. That part still baffled Villain. And, yet...

A horrible new thought struck them, as they stared down at the bowl, noodles dancing in a pool of broth.

What if the heroes were merely waiting?

They had a public image to keep up, didn’t they? An image that wouldn’t be all too squeaky clean if they had blown somebody’s brains out in an abandoned train station, whether they were a villain or not.

To kill them there, in that way, would have been messy.

Poison, however? Poison was clean. Poison left no trace, only a body to burn.

All at once, Villain lost their appetite. They put the bowl aside on the short table next to their hospital bed.

Looking up, they watched Hero’s nervous expression turn to one of confusion. Of course Hero would insist on watching it, insist on watching them eat their own poison with a smile.

Villain wouldn’t let that happen.

“Is everything okay?” Hero questioned with a raised brow.

Villain scowled. “My stomach doesn’t feel well.”

“Your stomach doesn’t...”

“I don’t want to eat.”

“Does it hurt?”

“What?”

“Does your stomach hurt?”

“I guess.”

“A lot?”

“Sure.”

Hero’s face scrunched up as they considered for a moment.

“Alright.” They seemed to decide, coming over to Villain’s bedside. Though they flinched, the hero did nothing but pick up the bowl of soup.

For a moment, they worried that perhaps Hero would lose patience, hold them down, force the poison down their throat. Yet, the bowl was merely removed as Hero turned, heading back towards the door.

“I’ll get you something to help with your stomach.” They stated, before they were gone. Villain could feel their chest tighten with the subtle click of the lock on the door.

Their peace was not long lived, and their next visitor was not nearly so calm. As soon as the white coat came through the door, Villain heard the heartbeat monitor they were hooked to begin to rapidly beep.

A doctor. They knew that immediately-- the white coat told them everything they needed to know, and the plastic tool container told them more than they wanted to.

Villain knew an IV kit when they saw one.

Squirming as much as they could with their leg restrained by a cast, they backed up on the bed, letting out a pathetic little squeak.

Now they understand. Having refused to eat the soup, the heroes wouldn’t be having Villain eat poison. No, they’d be injecting it straight into their veins. A lethal injection!

They hardly registered that the person in the coat had a face. Yet, evidently, they had a voice, as they began to softly speak:

“Hey, Villain. I heard you aren’t feeling well, is that right?”

There was no mal-intent in the voice. Yet, beneath the surface, Villain thought they could just hear poison brewing.

It didn’t matter whether they had imagined the menace. They were already scrambling, tearing monitors and wires off of themself. How had they been so stupid?

How had they not already tried to escape? They must’ve been drugged! More than the initial tranq dart, that was.

“I- I was fine before you jerks came after me!” They spat.

The doctor’s eyes widened as they considered setting down their supplies.

“Villain, hey.” They held up one hand, palm flat in an attempt at calming. “It’s okay, buddy. I heard you weren’t feeling well. You’re pretty dehydrated, so I’m just going to give you some fluids, okay? You’ll feel a lot better afterwards.

Just relax...”

“Relax?!” Villain’s voice chose that exact moment to crack. Blindly, fueled by nothing but a flood of whatever adrenaline their body had left, they swung their legs over the side of the bed. Ignoring the plaster cast on their shattered limb, they surged to their feet.

Escape. That was all they could think about, escape. If they could get out of here, then the chase could continue. It wasn’t ideal, of course-- They’d still be starving, hurt, scared.

But it was better than this. Better than whatever euthanizing drug the doctor had brought with them.

The door was blocked by the doctor, and was almost certainly locked too, but-

A window. A quick look made Villain aware that they were on a second floor, at least, but it didn’t matter. They’d rather break their other leg, too, than be put down like a rabid animal.

“Wait!” The doctor cried.

It was too late. Villain rushed forward, balling their hands to fists and slamming at the window pane once, then twice. Agony lurched from their abused fingers as they hit, again and again, not so much as noticing the tears as they ran down their reddened face.

Not a single crack.

“Villain.” It was Hero’s voice. “It’s reinforced glass, buddy. You’re gonna hurt yourself.

How about we calm down a little?”

#villain whumpee #whump #whumpblr #whump community #whumper #whumpee #hero villain whump #hero x villain #hero caretaker #hero villain trope #hero villain prompt #whump writing #whump scenario

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just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi · 4 years ago

Text

Brody in the Machine - AU

I woke up this morning and truly chose violence lmao

CW: The Machine (forced intubation, restraints, loss of bodily autonomy, medical torture), collar mention, touch deprivation, touch starved whumpee, self hate, sadistic whumper, lightly referenced human trafficking (kinda), choking mention,

As with all Machine pieces, please heed the warnings. This is just an AU and is not important to either Tool's or Brody's stories.

[Tool Masterlist (more Machine, no Brody]

[Brody Masterlist (more Brody, no Machine lol]

The Mechanic examined the blond young man that had been left for him. He was a bit short, small and already very timid. Honestly, Nigel wasn’t sure why he had been brought here but that was not his concern. He reached a hand out to touch the boy’s hair.

Brody was trembling, but trying to hide it. Things looked bad, they looked so so bad here, but! Just when it looked like pain and torture - the man reached out to pet him! He pressed his head against the hand, showing that he was good and sweet and friendly. That he didn’t need to be hurt.

And the man smiled! Brody’s heart lifted and he slipped closer to his side, leaning up against it. If the man liked it, liked him, there was a good chance he wouldn’t hurt him. He might get some mercy, maybe some comfort. He just had to make the man like him.

“Well aren’t you a cute little thing,” the Mechanic mused, bringing his hand to cup the back of the boy’s neck. The submission that rolled off him was wonderful, pure and unresisting. A collar was wrapped around the boy’s neck and it caught his attention for a moment. Absently, he glanced up to his assistant who was hovering by the door and considered them. The thought was tempting, to mark them and make them wear a symbol of their submission. That would take more thought.

Brody nuzzled in closer and the Mechanic chuckled. Sweet, but not why he was here.

“Fetch me the catch pole, Tool.”

Brody’s eyes went wide from where he was curled into the man’s side. No, no no no no that’s not, he didn’t, that-

“W-Wait, sir. Sir, I-”

The man hushed him, pushing him an arm length away with a tight grip on his collar. The other person - Tool? Were they called Tool? - came back with a long rod and obediently handed it over to the Mechanic. Easily and practiced, he slipped the wire loop around Brody’s head and cinched it tight around his neck. He cried out, hands flying up to try and release the pressure.

Tool’s eyes met the young man’s panicked ones and he had to look away. They hated this, hated themself. Hated how it never seemed to get easier.

The Mechanic pushed Brody forward and down the hall, not even needing to remind Tool to follow by now. He knew they would. Tears streamed down Brody’s cheeks as he stumbled along, mind going wild.

He whimpered when the door opened, not even understanding what was in front of him.

The Mechanic pushed him forward to the Machine table, adjusting the angle of the catch pole until Brody was forced to bed over, head pressed against the padding.

“Tool, ready the equipment.”

“Sir? Sir, please. I can be good. I, I, I promise, I can - I am! If, if if if, if you give me the chance to prove it-” He stopped as he felt the wire cinch tighter. Not tight enough to keep him from breathing but enough for him to get the hint.

Tool shuddered to themself but of course they obeyed. His hands were buzzing with anxiety as they picked up the components, having to take a deep breath to calm their pulse. Not for them, not for them, they hadn’t done anything to deserve it. The boy made another sad whine and Tool’s eyes fell closed. He hadn’t either.

But Tool didn’t have a choice.

The Mechanic grabbed the back of Brody’s shirt and manhandled him onto the table. “Stay.”

Brody nodded, shaking horribly but eyes locked on him. He could do that, he could stay. He would! He would be good and show him that he didn’t need this, that, that no one had to…

The Mechanic chuckled and turned away to prepare something else. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Tool walking up to the table. “No skin contact, Tool. Understand?”

Tool’s head snapped up, hand inches from Brody’s wrist. He nodded in understanding, worry plastered on his face. Brody whimpered, understanding the implications and Tool’s heart felt like it was going to break. With a tightly clenched jaw, they secured the straps around his wrists and ankles without touching him. The entire time, Tool’s mind was berating them over and over. They were weak and pathetic and despicable. They were just as bad as he was, maybe even worse because some part of them wanted to help and didn’t. Pathetic. Tool was pathetic.

Brody sobbed as he was restrained to the table. He still didn’t know what was going to happen, didn’t know what was going one, but it would hurt. It would be pain and punishment and terrible terrible terrible and there was nothing he could ever do to make it better. This man didn’t want him to be good, didn’t want him to do anything. He wanted him to suffer, and Brody didn’t know how to handle that.

Yet.

The man came back into his view and Brody shut his eyes. He had been told to stay. Stay - that was all he had to go off. He could, well no; he wanted to run. He wanted to be far, far, from here. But he didn’t even have the choice anymore.

Something cloth was laid on his forehead, making him wrinkle his brow in confusion. What? A moment later, there was a heavy pressure over it, holding his head down without touching him. He opened his eyes, looking for him to ask why. Before he could, he saw the Mechanic reaching down for him, thin tube in one hand.

He yelped when it entered his nose, crying out louder when it kept going into his head. He gagged and cried as it hit the back of his throat, feeling like he might throw up.

Down, down, down. Through his throat and farther, hitting nerves and places he never thought he’d feel. Tears were streaming down his face now, squirming desperately even with the tight restraints.

Finally it stopped and he sobbed. The Mechanic turned away and Brody’s head lolled to the side. That had to be it. It had to be over, right?

The assistant wouldn’t look at him.

Even from where his head was laid on its side, something plastic and large was shoved into his mouth and righted his head. He nearly choked on it. By now, his pulse was so loud in his ears he couldn’t be certain if they were speaking above him, if he was crying, if it was silent.

Another, thicker tube was pushed down and that he did choke on. He whimpered and whined and gagged as loudly as he could, eyes begging the man for this nightmare to stop.

It did not.

The Mechanic finished up the last few steps, letting Tool add the IV and electrodes, and stepped back to watch. The patient was shaking so badly he thought he might see the table shake. It was stronger than that, but the boy’s blond hair was trembling with him.

It was satisfying to watch.

Tool thought they were going to throw up. How, how was this just getting worse? He liked to do little things to help the victims. Lightly holding a hand here, brushing through their hair there. Little things, things that he had craved when he was in the machine. Had the Mechanic seen? Had he noticed what his assistant was doing and was bringing a stop to it? They didn’t know. The Mechanic had taken steps to not touch the boy either, so it was probably part of the process.

It made them sick.

~~~

There was something about this one. It stuck in the back of Nigel’s mind, drawing him back to the Machine room when he had other things to do. A dark curiosity was twisting inside of him. The subject had been so docile before he was put into the Machine, already so submissive and pliant. He was torn with taking him out immediately to see the results, and leaving him in for weeks to see the most extreme end. How would he be different? How far could he push the young man? How long would it take to make him functional to the point of useful if he left him for weeks at a time?

In the end, he only had a week with this subject. The Client wasn’t interested in the extremes, wasn’t curious about the breaking edge of human psychology. That limited the boy’s time to five days, the extra time necessary for re-acclimating him to self-sufficiency.

Pity.

Tool followed the Mechanic dutifully back to the Machine room. He had thought about coming back to the room alone to comfort the poor thing who hadn’t stopped shivering and crying. More than once during their duties, Tool had been tempted to give him just the slightest bit of comfort or touch. But there were cameras, cameras that the Mechanic could watch.

And as much as it pained him, as it ate at his soul and consciousness and stomach every night as he tried to sleep, Tool just couldn’t do it. They couldn’t risk going back in the Machine. They struggled to sleep, struggled to carry around the guilt that every new victim piled on their back, but he couldn’t risk the very real, ever present danger.

Pathetic, their mind whispered to him.

Brody didn’t look at them when they entered, didn’t have the energy to. Not physical energy; emotional energy. The shorter one, Tool, had been in and out regularly, and he couldn’t keep letting his hopes be raised and dashed like this. That was the real torture. The tubes, the electricity, the ache from the restraints was pain. Pain that he hated and wanted out of deeply, put it was just pain.

But being ignored? Being pushed aside and left with no recognition of his existence?

That was torture to his very being. It struck so much deeper, into the parts of himself that were the truest parts of him. Things he couldn’t control, couldn’t change. Things he never questioned, even when everything was strange and unknown around him, he could rely on what he knew of himself. Rather than his mind or his physical body, it was like his soul was dying, strapped there on that table.

The Mechanic hovered above him and smiled at the glossy look of his eyes. With a quick motion, he added a soft dose of sedative to the boy’s IV to make the transition a bit smoother. Suffering was over, time to revive him in the way the Mechanic wanted. Distant blue eyes fluttered closed.

When Brody awoke next, he was laying in a cot. No restraints, no tubes or wire poking from under his skin. He shuddered and tried to sit up, gasping and holding onto the cot side for dear life. Was it real? Was this a nightmare? Was that a nightmare? Where, when-

His head wheeled quickly to the sound of footsteps on the other side of the room. He had to blink hard to clear his eyes, the figure walking towards him blurry.

“You’re awake,” the Mechanic mused as he crouched down by the cot. The boy was wavering, adrenaline quickly leaving him weak and wobbly. Grinning, he reached out a bare hand to steady the boy by the side of his neck.

Brody melted into his hand with a broken whimper. Tears burned at his eyes and he would have sobbed if he had enough control over his lungs to do so. He didn’t have the strength to keep sitting up, but the man was more than able to hold. Brody’s eyes slipped closed, only able to think about the point of warmth from the man’s skin.

The angle of the hand changed slightly, like the man was moving and Brody whined urgently. One hand tried to raise up to stop him. No, no no no he couldn’t leave, not yet! Brody needed him, needed to know he was still real, still there. There was an amused laugh and the cot dipped as the Mechanic sat next to him.

Nigel leaned the boy against his side, enthralled by how he relaxed bonelessly into him. The little thing was so open, so willing for any contact after only five days. He carded a hand through the boy’s greasy hair and felt the shudder that went through him.

Absently, he looked up to see where Tool had been restrained casually. He wondered how long in the Machine it would take to make his assistant just as receptive.

tagging the Tool Crew only because this is not Brody's regular thing and I'm not just surprising the Machine on people. @unicornscotty @as-a-matter-of-whump @starnight-whump @whump-me-all-night-long @whump-it @rippedjeansandfadeddreams @valkyrie-whump @cupcakes-and-pain @whole-and-apart-and-between @misspelledwitch @fanmanga1357-blog @jo-doe-seeking-inspo @just-a-raccoon-in-a-party-hat @blackrosesandwhump @panic-and-chaos @savemycrustysoul @only-shadows-dwell-where-we-are

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whumpywhumper · 4 years ago

Text

Friends

I needed to release some comfort into the world. This skips some of the Hospital Arc, but the pieces will be connected.

Masterpost

@misspelledwitch @insanitywishes @imagination1reality0 @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @voidwhump @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @captivity-whump @liliability @muumimafia @fanastywhump @elisabethrosewrites @unsure-but-alive-752 @jeverest00 @texdoeshalo @fanmanga1357-blog

Thank you guys so much for your support, putting up with my questions at weird hours, and being excited about my characters: @0idril0 @rosesareviolentlyread @walkingchemicalfire

TW: Intubated whumpee

V***V

Markus isn’t quite sure when he wakes up the first time. Isn’t actually sure if he’s even really conscious. He’s aware, but the world is muted. It feels like early color TV, the hues not quite right and turning into an oversaturated mess the more he tries to force it. So he doesn’t, he stops struggling, just lets everything come back in stages.

His hearing comes back online first.

He hears the steady whoosh, gurgle, and hiss of medical equipment. The occasional urgent toned beep of a IV drip. The soft rustling and hushed voices of people doing their best to be quiet while shoving all of their worry and care into a box.

It’s all muffled and distorted through the cocktail of heady drugs in his system. The sounds swirl, clinging too long to his eardrums before slipping away to nothing. It’s disorienting, confusing, and he welcomes each wave of quiet that surges up to take away the noise.

There’s a growing anxiety that’s sitting heavily in his chest, but it’s not quite reaching him. Leaving him to teeter on the edge, giving him a hard place to fall with any gentle nudge.

Time flows syrupy slow, and it feels like he fades down back toward unconsciousness and up again before anything else becomes relevant. But, eventually, he becomes aware of his body too. He’s numb in the way that means that he’s on the heavy duty kind of drugs, administered correctly so that his pain is far away. Like the anxiety, the fear, the pain is just waiting on him to acknowledge it so that it can take over.

So.

He does his best to ignore it. To float in this absence of pain.

It’s better.

He doesn’t want to think about better than what, he just knows that it’s better.

So he focuses on anything other than the pain. He’s sunk into the softness of the mattress beneath him. The slightly harder cushion of pillows under his side and shoulder. The rhythmic compression and release around his lower legs, the not-painful pressure almost comforting, so much like a kind touch that he hasn’t had in what feels like years.

He almost feels cradled—safe—as something clicks on and warm air curls around his limbs and envelops him. He floats there, up and down, darkness closing over his head in staggering intervals as his body fights its way through the sedation.

It’s quiet, peaceful, for a while, real, deep sleep engulfing him and blotting out the awareness that his body has painstakingly been building up.

He wakes up again, not knowing how long has passed, not really remembering being awake at all. The world is still soft and liquid, slipping through his fingers faster the harder he tries to hold on to it, so he lets it go. Soaks in the myriad of conflicting and confusing sensations.

Time is skewed, but Markus is just starting to struggle with the thinning line between the numbness of his body and the morass of pain when the quiet clack of a curtain moving disturbs the quiet, the heavier tread of boots on hospital tile joining with the hiss-thunk of one of the machines. The sounds swirl around him, swimming up and burbling through thick water.

There’s a lingering silence as Markus feels the weight of this new person’s gaze on his lax limbs. An instinctive fear of the unknown bubbles up in his chest, and suddenly, he feels exposed. Vulnerable. At the mercy of a stranger when he doesn’t remember what mercy is anymore.

Viscerally, his body recalls harsh hands that pushed and pulled at his defenseless body. Hurt him, took advantage of his weakness, callously disregarded him as anything other than an inconvenience.

The silence lasts until there’s a heavy sigh, and the clatter of metal and plastic on tile. The blankets shift, and there’s pressure around his hand, the artificial, sticky feeling of latex that manipulates his limp fingers.

He gets nothing from that pressure other than the sensation of another person touching him without his permission. Desperately, Markus wants the simple comfort of someone holding his hand, that yearning striking a cord deep down, buried under the lingering fear and terror, reminding him of safety and home. But this touch is nothing but latex and a firmly artificial barrier between him and whatever supernatural sense he could gather of this person, leaving him with nothing other than the primal desire to curl into and away from the touch at the same time.

But.

It doesn’t matter what he wants. He’s still far from being able to move, even if he wanted to. Divorced from his flesh, only able to suffer and exist inside of it.

His soul cries out for safety, for someone, anyone, to hear him and take him home.

Something tickles the side of his face, and the person next to him shifts, another latex soft touch brushing over his cheek bone, feeling wet and cold. His hair is gently stroked, and the touch settles over the top of his head. The pressure around his hand tightens briefly, “Markus? Can you hear me, sugar?”

The voice registers, but it’s muffled, the words whisked away just as he’s comprehending them. The sound and the touch though anchor him out of the soupy mire his consciousness has become, but he can’t really respond, doesn’t want to respond. The person doesn’t push, just hums, shushing him nonsensically.

“Alright, sugar, alright,” the low voice rumbles, the words coming tentative and slow, “I know you’re still sleepin’, but David told me that you were tolerating the lowered sedation this time. That maybe a little more of what we’re sayin’ will start stickin’ with ya.” Soft, soothing patterns are drawn into the cold skin at the back of his hand. “Catrina told me not to, uh. . . not to overwhelm you, not to talk about any heavy stuff, just to try and get you to respond, ya know?” A thick, huffed laugh. “She’s kinda terrifying, doesn’t put up with any a’ us trying to bully her for information. So, I’m. . . I’m just gonna hold your hand, and you squeeze when you’re ready, okay?”

The man clears his throat roughly, and the pressure around his hand leaves for the rasp of what sounds like days old stubble, and Markus feels an unexpected, surprising burst of warm affection. An absent thought tiptoed its way across his muzzy consciousness, there and gone moments later: Clint never did like to cry.

The voice—god, it’s familiar, so fucking familiar—quiets for a while, and Markus is so exhausted. He drifts, pulled down by growing fatigue and thickening tendrils of pain. Maybe he slips down into actual sleep again, but the next time he’s aware there’s another voice filling the room.

“—seems kind of distressed.”

“Yeah, I hit the call button just before you came in, Catrina should be here in a second.”

“Good, good, he probably just needs them to check his drip, maybe increase it a little. It’s not easy to titrate these meds.”

He’s too confused, overwhelmed to realize how tense he’s become, to feel the way that his brows have gathered together, the way the muscles in his arms and torso have tightened, or the way that his lungs have started to fight against the tube in his throat.

His chest and throat are sending him urgent messages that there’s something wrong, the intrusion of something hard and unyielding that isn’t supposed to be there making him move automatically. Clumsily, he reaches for whatever is making him hurt, uncoordinated limbs heavy and unwieldy.

“Woah, hey, heyheyhey—” he’s intercepted, and Markus flinches from the gentle restraints as they pull his hands away , “—don’t do that, sugar.”

“Markus, can you hear me, buddy?” The pressure around his hand tightens, cold latex rubbing over his knuckles. “Can you squeeze my hand if you can hear me?”

Reflexively, he tries to pull away from the restraints, ignoring the request as his heart gives a discordant thump at the whistle of anxiety thrumming through his chest. He stiffens at the brief flash of real pain through his system, muscles protesting as he begs silently for release. Please, please no. He can’t stand the thought of being held down again, being helpless. But even that small of a movement seems to push concrete through his veins, and he doesn’t know if it’s the fatigue weighing him down or the way the others slowly, gently push his hands back to bed that has him settling.

“Shhh, okay, okay,” his shoulder is engulfed by a soft touch, the deeper voice continuing to soothe him, “you’re okay. Markus, can you open your eyes? It’s Evan and Clint, we’d really like to see you, yeah?”

Clint? Evan? It can’t be. . . He wants to see his friends so badly it hurts, even worse than the building ache in his body, but his eyelids must weigh a hundred pounds. He feels the build up of tears behind his eyelids, the heavy droplets slipping free without permission. Please, please be here. . .

“Fuck, Markus,” one of the voices whispers, cracking over his name, a sniffle accompanying it, “Clint, where’s Catrina? I think he’s hurting pretty bad.”

“I’m gonna go see if I can find her, maybe Olivia’s available. I’ll be right back.” There’s the rush of displaced air, sudden coolness of his skin, but Markus’s weak attention is drawn back by the other’s calming voice.

“Okay, buddy, we’re gonna get you taken care of, alright? It’s Evan, Markus, I’m not going to let anything happen to you, okay? I promise.”

Markus wanted to sob. He wanted it to actually be his friend so, so much, he remembered how he’d prayed for his friends but they’d never come. His face creased as a wave of pain rolled through him, teeth clamping down around whatever was in his throat. He heard a muted curse, “Fuck this.”

There was the snap of latex, warmth cupping his cheek, and then the overwhelming sense of Evan had Markus drawing from some reserve of energy that he didn’t even know he had. He turned into the palm against his face, fighting his eyelids until they lifted, light and shapes crossing his vision in a blur, and he heard a wet gasp. “Oh my god, hey,” a calloused thumb swiped over the apple of his cheek, smearing the tears across his skin, “hey, buddy, I’m here, you’re safe, okay?”

He blinked sluggishly, taking too long to reopen his eyes, but he finally found a modicum of focus as he took in the image of one of his best friends. He was still blurred, but the salt and pepper of Evan’s hair was visible over the blue of the mask covering the lower half of his face. He didn’t need to make out the details to know his friend now anyway, the skin contact lighting up parts of his magic not used in months. It was enough to push the pain back momentarily, dulling to a hum rather than a roar.

Evan’s other hand closed back around Markus’s, squeezing gently. “Can you understand me, Markus? Squeeze my hand if you can understand me.”

Slowly, his fingers closed around Evan’s, and he heard his friend give a shuddering gasp as Markus blinked slowly again. There was a rush of movement behind Evan, and the other man turned slightly. “He’s conscious and responsive.”

A startled exclamation, and another broad shouldered figure appeared in front of him, leaning over him. Markus drug his glassy stare over, not quite focusing as even these little movements drained whatever energy he’d gathered. “Hey, hey, sugar,” his free hand was scooped up between two latex covered paws, “God, it’s good to see you awake.”

“Take your gloves off,” Evan ordered, “skin contact seems to help. His vitals dropped back down, too.”

The figure did as he was bid, and Markus shuddered, eyelids dropping as relief and the safety of Clint flooded through him. “Fuck,” Clint whispered, voice broken. As well as he could, Markus drifted his thumb across Clint’s hand, and heard a startled exhale that turned into a shaky, surprised laugh. The relieved joy of his friends was bright, buoying him in reality as it curled up in his chest.

Even with the safety of both of his friends surrounding him, the pain came back with a crescendoing wave. He tensed again, eyebrows pulling together as he shifted minutely. God, my chest hurts, it hurts. A few more tears slipped free, and he tugged weakly at Evan’s hand.

“You hurting, buddy?” He squeezed Evan’s hand, and he heard the entire room shift as Evan gave some sort of signal.

“And that’s where I come in,” a friendly, warm voice interjected, coming closer as Clint released his hand. The impersonal feeling of latex took his friend’s place, and Markus was terrified again. Clint, please don’t let him, please. There was a starburst of panic, and Evan hissed in surprise. The beast master’s hand snapped from Markus’s face in time with a sound of alarm from the faceless entity as the latex was pulled away.

“Sorry, doc,” Evan chuckled lowly, “if you’d felt what I just did, you woulda done the same. Gloves, you’ll understand in a second, trust me.”

There was another snap of latex, and a new, slightly cool hand slid into his own. The sense of deep caring and logic accompanied the doctor’s surprised inhale. “HooKay, that’s new.”

Markus relaxed slowly as he felt the other man’s alarm turn into curiosity and concern, but nothing malicious, as Evan explained. “His magic’s coming back. He’s always been extremely empathic, normally has great control of what you sense from him, but in this circumstance. . .” he trailed off with a sigh, bringing his hand back to brush through Markus’s hair.

“Alright then, no more gloves if we can help it,” the other man’s friendly voice turned back to Markus, taking the news in stride. “Markus, can you open your eyes for me?” His tone was authoritative, but gentle, and Markus did his best to obey as a thumb dragged across his skin.

He only saw a bright sliver of light before his heavy lids became too much. Instead, Markus managed to tighten his hand minutely. That was easier for some reason, he didn’t have to try and make sense of the room, could focus on the safety net Evan provided. His friend hadn’t let go of his hand, the warmth of Evan’s skin warming Markus’s even with his poor circulation.

“Okay, Markus, I understand. Can you squeeze my hand again if you’re in pain?”

His fingers twitched, but Markus’s brain was becoming fuzzy on stress hormones, mired in the negative sensations. His lungs felt sticky, like his heart was turning over in his chest. “Okay, yeah, that heart rate is getting elevated again,” the voice was distant in a way that told him he wasn’t being addressed, “Catrina, let's give him one time dose of 50 mcg fentanyl, intravenous, and he can have an as needed dose of 25mcg every hour, if that’s not enough call me. Monitor for how he continues to tolerate the vent.” The voice came back to address him, “Markus, hang on just a second, okay?”

Evan’s hand swept down to drag the back of his knuckles across the side of his face, the touch exactly what he’d been begging for for months. “Go back to sleep, buddy, we’ll be here when you wake up again.”

“You’re not alone anymore, brother.” Clint’s voice trickled in as a wash of cold flowed over his chest, black swallowing up his lingering consciousness. “I promise.”

#Markus/Lucien Series #Intubated Whumpee #Sedated whumpee #whump #hurt/comfort #urban fantasy #magic #magical whump

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jungstruly · 5 years ago

Text

Doctor!Doyoung has one rule in his life — never make friends with his patients. In his field of work, he accepted the fact that people come and go. As an oncologist, he vowed to himself to never ever get attach to his cancer patients. He hated the feeling of just doing his normal rounds only to realize that one of his patients’ bed is empty.

But then came you who has the brightest smile that he has ever seen as well as a positive outlook in life despite of everything. Doctor!Doyoung tries to dodge any casual conversations with you. He tries his best to be professional every time the both of you meets. However, that didn’t stop you from making friends with him. Everytime he does his rounds, you make sure to give him a small origami. He hated it. He really does. But your sweet sweet talking as well as your daily origami ‘offering’ eventually breaks his cold heart. As time goes by, the young doctor eventually caves in.

“A frog?” Doyoung chuckles as he inspects the small paper frog between his large hands.

You eagerly nod, smiling at the nurse beside him after she checks your IV. “I actually had a hard time finishing it though. I hope you still like it.”

The last line comes out as a mumble, obviously being shy as Doyoung observes your work with careful eyes.

“It’s cute.” He tries to compliment you the moment he sees your expression. A huge excited grin is obvious on his lips as he rummages through his white coat’s pocket. “But I bet this is cuter,”

A gasp leaves your lips when he shoves a small paper crane origami in front of your face. He wiggles it between his fingers.

“Look at this baby.”

You hold out your palm to let him transfer it. “I didn’t know you can do origami.”

“Well, I tried. It’s actually a piece of cake.” He laughs nervously. Oh dear, if only you know how Doyoung spent numerous of hours just to make that small paper crane in your hand. He pulled an all nighter just for that but the huge smile on your face is enough to make his day.

You look at him in delight, leaning back on the soft bed before you go back admiring his work. “You know, a Japanese legend says that if you fold a thousand origami cranes, your wish will be granted by the Gods.”

“Really?”

A nod is your only response before deciding to joke. “Now if you excuse me doc, I have a thousand paper cranes to make so that my wish will come true. I want to get out of here, for real.”

Doctor!Doyoung freezes on his spot. His heart sinks when he hears you. Of course, he knows about your condition. You have a 50/50 chance of survival. The hope that glints in your eyes makes him teary eyed. That is enough to give him the strength and determination to fight for you. He will make everything work in the end for you to walk out of this dreaded place in which you called home.

The burning sensation in his throat can still be felt when he gulps down. He ruffles your hair to distract himself.

“Oh really?” His lips curves into a smirk, jotting down something on his clipboard before walking to the door with his nurse. “I bet I can make a thousand paper cranes faster than you.”

You gasp dramatically as your competitive side shows. “Oh it’s on Doc bunny. It is on.”

***

True to his words, Doctor!Doyoung finished making a thousand paper cranes. It took him a solid month to finish everything. A huge grin is evident on his face while walking towards your room. He’s such in a good mood that he greets and compliments anyone that he sees on the corridor.

The huge box fits perfectly between his large hands as he enters your room alone in attempt to surprise you. Little did he know that he’s the one getting a huge surprise.

It was scientifically impossible for anyone to feel like their heart stop beating but he feels like his heart did. You should be sitting on your usual place with a cheeky grin, waiting for him to do his rounds.

Not this time. Your bed is empty and is neatly arranged without a single trace of you. The plain bedframe is enough to make him dash to the information booth. Still trying to be careful with the box that he is holding despite of his quick action.

“W-where is she?” He pants, trying to catch his breath. The nurses in the station is obviously taken back with his sudden outburst.

He hits the box with his palm the moment no one dared to answer him. His loud voice echoes in the hospital corridor. “Tell me! My patient in room number 305? Where on earth is she?”

A nurse with a clipboard approaches him. “Doc she’s...”

She stops flipping her clipboard when she finds your record before she looks at Doyoung. He almost curse right here and there because he knows that expression damn too well. Cancer is a fucking bitch.

His knees got weak. He wanted to throw the box that he is holding. Whoever told you that making a thousand cranes will grant your wish, is the biggest liar out there. It’s nothing but bullshit because his wish didn’t come true. He just wanted you to get out of this hellhole. Was that too much to ask?

Tears are starting to cloud his vision. His fists curl at his side. Doctor!Doyoung is about to throw the box on the wall when he hears his name being called.

“Doc Bunny!”

He whips his head like lightning because the voice is too familiar. His face softens, tears starting to flow from his eyes freely.

There you are, standing a few feet away from him wearing that yellow sundress that the both of you always talk about. Only this time, the dextrose attached to you as well as an oxygen tank on your side is already gone. The color on your cheeks and your lips has returned to its original color. You give him a big wave. A huge plastic bag that is filled with different colored paper cranes hangs on your other wrist. You grin, waving the bag in front of you.

“I guess I win this time Doc bunny!” You giggle at him and he can’t help but to giggle as well through his tears. Yes you won sweetheart. You finally won this battle.

He makes his way towards you, wiping the tears on his cheek. Doyoung musters a smile. You stare at him with wide eyes as he pats the box in front of him. “I think I’m the real winner here. My wish came true.”

“You’re probably right.” Your lips turns into a frown. “I mean, your wish did came true right?”

For you to finally get out of here, for real. He nods, “Yes it did.”

He notices your reaction as he ruffles your hair. “What’s with the long face? What was your wish?”

“Well,” You chuckle shyly, tucking a loose hair behind your ear. To be finally with you, for real. “It’s a secret.”

“Unfair,” Doyoung huffs like a kid. He smiles cheekily. “Would you like to discuss it over a cup of coffee?”

You can’t help but to tease him. “It depends. Is it a date?”

Despite being taken back by your sudden confidence he smirks, holding out his arms for you to hold on. “Only if you want to.”

“It’s a yes then.” With arms interlocked with each other, you find yourselves walking towards the small coffee shop downstairs. “Now let me see your badly made paper cranes. Come to think of it, I feel like mine’s more well made.”

“How mean,”

For @starxblossom, happiest birthday to you! I hope you enjoyed Doctor!Doyoung KSKSKKSKS

#TIME CHECK: ITS STILL 10:48 IN THE PM HERE #TECHNICALLY ITS STILL OUR BDAY SKSKSKSK #mine came late cause i was out for the whole day uwu babe i jgh oh my #i FEEL BAD #PLS ENJOY MY DOCTOR!DOYOUNG AU🥺#nct imagines #nct blurbs #kim doyoung #doyoung imagines #doyoung blurbs

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juliepop · 5 years ago

Text

Inchworm

[Elliott Witt-Centric Fic] AO3 Link: here

Rating: General Audiences Warning: Sad feels? (A/N): That tweet about Elliott piano playing for his mom? Yeeeah, I had to write something because the song on the piano is so sad and slow.

Song link for your listening pleasure: here

Summary: A song can hold a lot of different meanings to people, and this song just means safety to Elliott.

Two and two are four

For as long as he could remember, his mother always sang him to sleep from a nightmare. Elliott could recall waking up from a dream when he was young, maybe four or five, and having his beautiful mother rush into his room. He was crying, great heaving sobs shaking his body as he babbled through an explanation about a monster coming to get him when his mother swept him into her arms.

Evelyn Witt had sung him to sleep, fingers gently combing through his curls as Elliott tucked against her neck and fell asleep to the soothing voice of his favourite person in the whole wide world.

Four and four are eight

When Elliott was eight, he got hurt really bad. It was an accident, his brothers had gotten stuck with babysitting duty, and the youngest Witt was a mischievous kid. He’d snuck into his mom’s workshop in the garage, a place meant to be locked, but some days she forgot to, and this was one.

Elliott had tried to grab something from the tall metal work table, chubby little fingers tugging at the overhanging rag his mother used to wipe off parts she worked with and managed to pull it down.

He also yanked down the array of heavy metal tools laid on top of it, one of the sharper edges of a tool smashing across the bridge of his nose and slicing it open.

He’d fallen backward and screamed, feeling his wet and warm tears mingle with the blood pouring down his small rounded face and alerting his brothers to where he was. Emmett had been the one to get there first, seeing Elliott curled up on the concrete floor sobbing and sweeping him up into his arms with a bark at the other two to call their mom.

The drive to the hospital was a blur, Elliott sobbing about being sorry and having to be sat on his brother Everitt’s lap even though he was too old to be doing that.

They’d gotten him seen right away; the little boy terrified that he was going to be in trouble for getting into his mom’s workshop when he knew he wasn’t supposed to. Except as soon as his mom saw him, she rushed over, smelling strongly of burning steel and the soft undercurrents of cinnamon as she drew Elliott into a tear-filled hug.

He’d needed to get stitches, Elliott recalling how he’d been held on his mother’s lap because he asked while the doctors came at him with needles and scary instruments. His mother had laid a hand over his eyes, whispering it wouldn’t hurt and how he shouldn’t look before she’d begun to sing.

Emmett had sung along too, Elliott relaxing into his mother’s arms as he cried a little but focused on the voices blending together and making him feel safe.

Eight and eight are sixteen

When Elliott was sixteen, his brothers died.

He’d answered the door to uniformed men looking solemn, asking very politely if his mother was home and Elliott had known then that something was very wrong. It was like having a boulder push up from your stomach to your throat, Elliott could barely breathe past the lump there as he panicked and called for his mother.

As soon as Evelyn poked her head around the corner, she knew, oil smudged face crumpling as she saw the two men stood at her door, and Elliott had managed to take two steps forward in a bid to get into the safety of her arms when they spoke behind him.

They were very sorry about their loss.

The officials kept talking then, speaking of how the three men in their service had gone MIA on a mission. They spoke of their sympathy and how truly sorry they felt, but all of that fell on deaf ears as Elliott felt his world-shattering. His mother had joined him on the ground at some point, Elliott not even remembering how he got there, the two knelt there caught in the unrelenting waves of grief that seemed to drown them with every passing moment long after the men had left.

Three lives had been taken, in an instant. Elliott had seen his brothers as invincible; they were all so young. It wasn’t fair, none of this was fair. Elijah was never going to marry his girlfriend and have that baby they wanted, and Emmett would never be a doctor. Everett wasn’t ever going to finish the bike he had sitting in the garage, and Elliott felt that like a tear in his heart. His brothers, the men who had taught him so much, were all dead.

Eventually, they got up, zombie-like in their mourning as the two climbed onto his mother’s bed to cry some more. Elliott wasn’t sure who started it, but sure as rain the soft sound of the lullaby his mother had sung to all the boys when they were feeling unwell sounded.

It was a duet, it had always been, and Elliott hadn’t realized it until he was older, and his mom taught him the song on the piano. It was the only song he knew, and the two of them sang it to one another between the tears.

Elliott wished he’d known how often he would sing it later on in his life.

Sixteen and sixteen are thirty-two

On his thirty-second birthday, Elliott did as he usually did, woke up early to eat breakfast alone in his small one-bedroom apartment before heading out. The care home nurse smiled when Elliott came by, waving him toward his mother's room with a comment that she was fairing well today but had not gotten much sleep.

It was a better day then.

Elliott rapped on the door sharply before letting himself in, smiling at the sight of his mother sitting on her bed with her hair braided to one side and staring out of the window. She barely reacted to his presence, just watching the birds outside as Elliott took his usual spot at her bedside table.

"Hey ma, you're looking extra beautiful today." Elliott greeted, lips curved up into a soft smile even as he was ignored. The steady drip of her IV was the only sound in the room for a while, Evelyn had been refusing to eat and drink, so they'd had to hook her up to a few things to remedy that. Elliott reached for her hand, feeling how cold it was and quickly stood to tuck a blanket around her.

Evelyn didn't even flinch.

"It's my birthday today, by the way. I know you sometimes forget it, but I thought maybe we could have some cake?" His mother doesn't respond, staring blankly outside the window and Elliott goes back to holding her hand in his. She's still cold, the doctor said giving her IVs for fluid would make it so, and despite the room being so warm, it doesn't help.

She used to reply when her sickness wasn't as bad. Some days they would have whole conversations, Elliott telling her about everything he could and watching as recognition flared in those hazel eyes. Then she slowly forgot more and more, asking him mundane questions over and over in the span of a few minutes, and sometimes she didn't even recognize him anymore. Now she kind of just sat there, coming in and out of her state, but those moments were few and far between.

Elliott still talked though, he told her about his day and what he had for breakfast. He spoke about funny bar stories that happened when he worked, talked about his training that was happening during the offseason of Apex.

He lied and talked about huge birthday plans tonight, saying that so many of his friends had planned something and tried to keep it a secret. He didn't mention he was going to go home after this, eat dinner by himself and go to sleep after he went to the gym.

No one had wished him a happy birthday.

When "lunch" arrives, the nurses bring in the cake Elliott had paid to have sent, two small pieces of chocolate sitting on thin paper plates with plastic forks. Evelyn doesn't react when they set up her actual lunch, the bag of artificial nutrition discreetly tucked away and leading to a tube that had gotten surgically inserted in her stomach. Elliott remains quiet when the care home workers do their job, waiting until the door is closed behind them before he perks up again.

"Hey, our cake is here! I'm not allowed a candle or anything because of oxygen or something, but we can pretend, and I'll make a wish." Elliott says brightly, tucking his chair closer to his mother as he moves the table hanging over her bed closer and starts singing happy birthday to himself. He makes it halfway through the song, voice cracking when the first few tears roll over his cheeks.

"...t-t-to me. Make a wish." Elliott rasps, shoulders shaking with the effort it takes not to just full-on sob as he holds his mother's hand. He pretends to blow out a candle, eyes slipping closed as he whispers the wish. "I wish you weren't sick anymore."

She doesn't react, and Elliott has to press his face against the bed in an attempt to compose himself. His mother needed him to be strong, he was her only living son. All they had were each other, and as badly as Elliott wanted just to curl up and cry, he couldn't. Not when she needed him.

"Inchworm, inchworm. Measuring the marigolds," A voice sounds softly, harsh from disuse but ringing clear in what was a deafening silence. Elliott jerks his head up, tears running down his face as his mother looks out the window but she sings. "You and your arithmetic, you'll probably go far."

He sobs openly then, hearing her voice for the first time in months, and Elliott breaks down. He shudders, trying to stifle his crying against the crisp white sheets of her bed and a small, frail hand presses to his head, resting there as his mother sings their song to him for the last time.

His final birthday present, before she was gone.

Inchworm, inchworm

Measuring the marigolds

Seems to me you'd stop and see

How beautiful they are

#Apex Legends #Mirage #Elliott Witt #apex legends mirage #writings

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quirkykayleetam · 5 years ago

Text

Empty Shell

Hello! This is an entry in the Broken Pieces series. The previous piece is Kind Restraints and can be found by that title or the tags of any of the main characters.

“We have a problem.”

Special Agent Daniel Wei looked up from his desk at Morgan Security to find his boss scowling down at him. He took a sip of coffee.

“You remember that Jonathan kid?”

Daniel nodded. How could he forget?

Despite the “Security” in the name Morgan Security, most of his assignments since joining the firm eight years ago were pretty tame. Intimidation was the name of the game for the most part. Sometimes he got to make people feel safe. Those days he drank less coffee and whistled on the car ride home.

What happened with the kid...? Daniel hadn’t seen anyone hurt that badly since his time in the service. He tried not to dwell on the fact that all that damage was done a 26-year-old civilian just protecting his job, but the image of Jay’s protruding ribs still woke him up at night.

“It’s his caretaker. Apparently she ordered Jones around like a schoolboy. Spit in Wilson’s face for good measure. They’re off the case, effective immediately.”

“Who is she?”

“Some brood named Evelyn or Emily or something, though the boys are calling her something else.”

Daniel’s boss chucked. Daniel didn’t.

“Look, Wei, I know it’s not your usual gig, but this whole thing is still on a need-to-know basis. I got managers breathing down my neck that nobody else even hears a fart about what happened.”

Unceremoniously, he dropped a bundle of blue medical files on Daniel’s desk.

“As of now, you’re the kid’s case worker for the firm. You screw this up and it's your neck on the line, not mine, you hear me? The whole thing was fucked from the start if you ask me.”

Daniel didn’t hear him. All he could see were the pictures closely documenting the welts, cuts, and bruises down Jay’s left side. They must have been taken the night of his rescue sometime after Jay passed out in Daniel’s trunk.

The agent took another long drought of coffee. Apparently he was going to have more nightmares tonight.

Daniel arrived early at the hospital the next morning.

Jay was already awake. A nurse in pink patterned scrubs slowly spooned swallows of lukewarm eggs into the patient's mouth.

Daniel looked away.

He pretended it was for Jay’s sake. Being spoon fed had to be a humiliating reminder of the computer scientist’s immobilized hands.

In reality, he couldn’t handle the look in Jay’s eyes.

Jay stared unseeing at the blank hospital wall in front of them. It was as if they came back to themselves any further they’d have to feel the pain and trauma and heartbreak of everything they went through and, at least now, early in the morning, forced to rely on strangers and IVs and pain meds just to survive, Jay’s body couldn’t handle it. It reverted into an empty shell.

Instead, Daniel found the figure slumped near the opposite wall. Elizabeth “Beth” Martinez, 38-year-old Art Department secretary at Landring Community College, looked like she’d collapsed more than fallen asleep in the stiff metal chair by Jay’s bed. Her mouth hung open a little and her hands stretched out on the armrest toward Jay. A rumbled duffel bag huddled under her feet. It couldn’t have held more than two sweaters and three pairs of socks, but Beth obviously wasn’t leaving that room unless she had to.

A flurry of movement brought Daniel’s eyes back to the nurse and her charge.

“We’ve just got a new protein shake in. It’s chocolate! I know it’s just breakfast, but you need to get some meat on your bones.”

She set the brown liquid and straw within reach of Jay’s mouth, but instead of taking a sip, Jay’s eyes went wide.

Jay lashed out, spooking the nurse and sending thick chocolate liquid puddling across the tile floor. Before Daniel could blink, Beth was by Jay’s side, rubbing their back as they buried their face in her neck.

“Don’t drink it! Don’t drink it, Beth!” Jay half yelled, half sobbed.

“I won’t. I promise, Jay.”

“It...It’s poisoned. You never know how it’s gonna hurt you, but it always does. I know, I know I need it. I have to stay alive, have to keep them away from you, but I’m tired, Beth. I’m so weak and tired, I don’t know what to do…”

With gentle hands, Beth gripped both sides of Jay’s face. She moved them upward until she could look Jay in the eyes.

“Jay, when you were at Princeton and your dad died and you drove miles and miles home in your roommate’s car just so you could be there for your mom as soon as possible, were you weak for wanting to sleep when you got back?”

“N...No.”

“It’s okay to be tired, Jay. It’s like, I don’t know, warriors on watch. You’ve done your job protecting us. Now it’s your turn to rest so we can take care of you.”

Daniel Wei left the hospital without a word. He had work to do.

***

Weeks later, the agent returned to find Jay sitting at a table on the other side of the room. Their hands were still in splints. They still had dark circles under their eyes. They stared at the table like its solid plastic was grounding them.

Daniel bit back a sigh as the kid didn’t even look up as he entered the room.

Then there was a kerfuffle behind him.

“Aha!” Beth said, bursting through the door. “I finally found a nurse who doesn’t do the Chronicle Sunday crossword at ass o’clock in the morning! Jay-bird we are good to go.”

Jay’s eyes lit up as Beth smacked the paper down in front of him and grabbed another chair. For the first time, Daniel realized they were blue.

“Bet you stole it,” they said quietly.

Beth hand flew out of her purse where she was rooting for a pencil and struck above her heart.

“I am deadly offended that you would even think that I would stoop to such things, especially on the day of our Lord! I asked, thank you very much! Besides, if you’re so against stealing, maybe I shouldn’t give you your other treat…”

“You’d withhold a treat from a poor invalid?” Jay deadpanned. “Oh my poor arm.”

Beth chucked. Jay smiled.

“I know you’re having trouble with straws, Jay-bird, but I thought, maybe…”

Beth pulled a purple aluminum can out of her purse.

Jay leaned forward eagerly, but then made himself pause.

“Am I allowed to…?”

“Hell, I don’t see why not! They’re trying to get calories into you anyway that they can. Junk food is only gonna help with that!”

Beth popped the tab on the Grape Crush and stuck a straw in it, moving it toward Jay as she nudged his foot companionably.

Tentatively, Jay took a sip. Then a swig. Then a gulp that took up half the bottle.

“Whoa, slow down there Jay-bird. They will kick me out of here if you die from a sugar high.”

“It tastes like capitalism,” Jay sighed.

“And?”

“And not like hospital food!”

“Good! Then this will be the first of our illegal smuggling adventures, deal?”

“Deal.”

There was a pause as Jay savored his soda.

Daniel cleared his throat.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, Jay,” he said. “I’m Special Agent Daniel Wei from Morgan Security. Would you mind if I borrowed Ms. Martinez for a few minutes?”

Jay looked at Beth who nodded wearily and got up to follow Daniel out the door.

***

As soon as Daniel and Beth got settled in an empty conference room, her whole demeanor changed. Her smile slid into a tight thin line and she squared her shoulders even as they fell a few inches.

“So, Agent,” she said. “When are we going to be able to get him out of here?”

“Jay’s casts home off in two weeks. If he passes all his physical examinations, I don’t see any reason for him to stay longer than that.”

“Good. And where we’re going? I assume you’ve got all of that sorted. There are a few things I’d like to bring with me, but everything else can go.”

Beth clenched her jaw as she said the words.

Daniel closed his eyes.

Here was a woman trying to hold the world together for a kid who’d completely lost his life. In the process she was losing hers too. If he made her, she would have to go back into that hospital room and tell Jay that everything was working out perfectly even if she didn’t know where they were going to be tomorrow or what Morgan Security would require of them. And she’d do it. He could see that weary determination in her deep brown eyes and he knew exactly how hard she’d come down on all of them if they pushed Jay too hard.

“We’ll continue to pay for your old apartments as long as we need to,” Daniel promised. “You’ll be able to get your stuff whenever you need to, whether that means going back yourself or letting us hire folks to get it for you. We won’t make you leave things behind. Not when they’re as important as Grape Crush.”

Beth didn’t smile, but her shoulders relaxed a little.

“As for where you’re going…”

Daniel passed a manila folder across the table to Beth.

“The firm picked out a safe house with the latest security. It’s off the grid with the best locks and monitors and motion detectors money can buy. And, for lack of a better word, it’s a bunker. I saw the place where they were keeping him Ms. Martinez. I thought Jay might prefer something more homey.”

Holding his breath, he took out another file.

“This holding just came on the market. It’s not far outside the city. You’d have to drive longer for doctor’s visits, but you’d have access to a public pool and a park a few blocks away. I made sure that it was only one story so you wouldn’t have any problems with dizziness and falling from Jay’s pain medications.”

“And it has windows,” Beth said softly.

“And it has windows,” Daniel said. “It looks like a home.”

He cleared his throat.

“There is one more thing about this property that you should know about that’s not in the papers.”

Beth looked up.

“I understand Jay has been seeing a Morgan Security psychiatrist.”

Beth almost sprung out of her chair.

“Look, I get it! You want to know what happened to him. You want him to tell you the story of every mark to make sure he didn’t tattle when they beat him half to death. Just don’t bring me into it. I’m not spying for you. I’m trying to make him better while you’re focused on your own damn pride!”

“I agree.”

“What?”

“Jay needs someone who understands what he’s going through and is focused on his recovery, not his worth to any company,” Daniel said calmly. “Next door to this address is Dr. Stephens. He’s an old army buddy who specialized in special service members and PTSD. This would not be his first time working with the aftereffects of torture. Jay might still have to meet with the Morgan Security doc for appearances sake, but Dr. Stephens has promised to see him off the books. Doctor/patient confidentiality would apply.”

That made Beth deflate completely.

“Do you really think this Dr. Stephens could help? Jay talks more in his sleep than he does in person. I still don’t know what’s going to set him off and I just…I just want him to feel safe.”

Daniel placed his hand on her, cold on the tan plastic table.

“So do I.”

***

Daniel returned Beth to Jay’s hospital room with the hope of a smile on his face. Before the could close the door, the pair started bickering about the answer to the crossword’s 27 Across. Beth held her pencil like a dagger while Jay batted at it with ineffective, casted hands. Through it all, their feet remained pressed together with comfortable pressure, reminding each other that they were there and they weren’t going away.

Like that night long ago when he rescued Jay, Daniel pulled out his cell phone and dialed Morgan Security. His boss picked up.

“No sir, there’s no problem,” Daniel said. “I just need to get a copy of the Chronicle delivered outside the city to Westover drive. Yes, this is a matter of great importance.”

Filling the “Empty Shell” square with Original Characters for @badthingshappenbingo! I think I’m setting a record for filling the most squares without actually making any of them line up lol.

Tagging the Broken Pieces Crew: (If you want to be added or taken off this list, just let me know!): @stoic-whumpee, @whatwasmyprevioususername, @whumpty-dumpty-fell-off-the-wall, @straight-to-the-pain, @castielamigos-whump-side-blog, @0idril0, @fallingstormphoenix, @whump-fantasies, @imagination1reality0, @whumpback-wail, @whump-tr0pes, @untilthepainstarts, @captivity-whump, @burtlederp, @redwingedwhump, @whumpiary, @captivity-whump, @blue-flare10

All credit to @stoic-whumpee for the idea of making Daniel a main character.

#Whump #Empty Shell #Hospitalization #Flashbacks #Hurt/Comfort #Aftermath #Jay #Beth #Daniel Wei #quirkykayleetam writes #Please pardon the language

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planetsam · 6 years ago

Note

Alex shuts down and is traumatized after witnessing Michael dying -Max brings him back- and Michael trying to reach out to him. Just them being each other’s life line please!

He shoots up with lungs on fire and his heart pounding in his ears.

He shoots up and cracks his forehead against Max’s.

Max goes down like a cheap drunk.

To be fair if he didn’t remember the sick, cold pull of losing most of his blood, if he didn’t remember Max being dead a few months ago, he probably would have a better reaction. As it is he scrambles over, shoving his fingers against Max’s neck to make sure he’s got a pulse and he’s breathing. The paleness only comes from his powers. Thank God. But if that hadn’t happened, he thinks, he probably would have been more aware. He would have realized that Max wasn’t the only person who was watching him bleed out.

Or maybe Alex is just too damn good at slipping away.

Isobel takes them both home and there’s a lot of hugging. Like a lot a lot. Which means it’s nearly forty eight hours before he realizes that the only reply he’s received from Alex is a quick ‘Working’. That’s not unusual in itself. Alex isn’t big into texting, he’s lived his entire life with his messages being closely monitored. His answers are usually one word or they come from a number Michael doesn’t recognize. So he doesn’t think much of it. He sends a devil emoji and Alex sends back a smiley face. He doesn’t even try to interpret that.

“Where are you going?” Isobel demands.

“I’m going to see Alex,” Michael says, “I think he’s avoiding me.”

“I’ll drive you.”

“Iz,” he whines and she scowls, “I’ll text when I get there,” he offers. She sighs but nods.

“Be careful,” she says.

He fights the urge to make a joke about always having protection and slips out before Max can voice an objection to him being out of sight. He’s not risking fate by texting while driving so he just drives to Alex’s house. His car is in the driveway and Michael frowns when he sees that Kyle’s is there too. The little bubble of worry begins to expand as he sees the parking job Alex has done. He knocks on the door, waiting to see who opens it. It’s Kyle who does, his face very firmly in doctor mode. Michael does not like doctors as a rule, but he likes doctors in between him and Alex even less.

“What’s wrong?” He demands. Kyle seems torn between sympathy and doctor patient confidentiality. It doesn’t make him feel better, “Kyle!”

“Keep your voice down!” Kyle snaps, closing the door, “he needs to rest.”

“What is wrong with him?” He repeats and Kyle glares, “I mean right now,” he amends, “why does he need to rest? What happened?” Kyle looks stunned and Michael suddenly has a renewed desire to kill him, “i was dying, my spacial awareness was not great!”

“You bled out in his lap,” Kyle cuts in. He ducks past him and pulls out a plastic bag. Michael opens it and almost gags at the smell, “He was trying to stop the bleeding. I found him this morning. He’s been in shock.”

“Damn it,” he swears, knotting the bag and shoving past Kyle who grabs his arm, “get off!”

“He’s asleep!” Kyle says, “I have him on an iv and he’s sleeping. I gave him a sedative. He’s not going to wake up for a few hours.”

“I don’t care!” He says and wrenches his arm free, opening the door.

Kyle doesn’t let it slam as he gets from the door into the bedroom. The picture over Alex’s bed is gone and hanging from the hook is a bag. Tubing snakes down into then crook of his elbow. Alex’s face is slack and his hair is unruly from going to bed with it wet. He’s got a grey Air Force shirt on and he’s completely still. It’s a profound disconnect from how Alex usually sleeps. Michael feels his throat tighten at the sight of it. Of him. He died but Alex was trying to stop that. Alex who never met a battle he didn’t want to fight was watching him bleed out. Was in shock for two days, probably locked in the basement wearing those clothes. Michael doesn’t know who he’s more upset with.

“Damn it Alex,” he mutters, tossing his hat to the side and toeing off his shoes.

Almost dying doesn’t mean Alex is going to let him off the hook if he goes under the covers in his jeans. Which is fine, he climbs on top of them, getting as close to Alex as he can. Sedative or no, he can’t really just lay there watching Alex sleep so he closes his eyes, focuses on the deep, even breaths that Alex is taking and let’s himself drift off.

“I’m fine.”

“You absolutely are not. Don’t say you ate. Tequila is not a food group.”

The huff brings him fully into consciousness. It’s late and there’s a lamp on. Alex is scowling up at Kyle who has his arms folded and no intention of letting him up. Alex glances over and his eyes widen in surprise. Michael rubs his eyes and realizes he was really asleep. Kyle looks from Alex to him which only seems to piss Alex off.

“He needs to eat,” he says.

“Okay okay,” Michael says.

“There’s food here.”

“I’ll make sure he eats,” Michael promises.

“Thank you,” Alex says to Kyle.

He doesn’t look thrilled Kyle is leaving. But Kyle’s the only one with a stable job and people to help. Which kind of leaves them together. Alex dips his head and looks at him quietly. Michael is very used to Alex initiating conversations like this, his silence is strange and unsettling. It feels like they are playing chicken. He caves first.

“You’re working?”

“I was.”

“What if Kyle hadn’t been here?” Michael demands, “what if you had been passed out—“ he’s not the only miserable liar apparently, “you were passed out?!”

“I’m fine,” he says.

“You are not fine! Stop saying that! God—i didn’t even know you were there or I would have checked on you way earlier,” Michael shakes his head in self disgust, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he says. His stomach rumbles, “lets get food, okay?” He looks over, knowing that his stomach has good timing for once, “can you help me?”

Grateful for something to do besides just hugging Alex in the bed—he promised Kyle he’d make him eat—he glances around for Alex’s prosthetic. Alex nods towards his crutches which are positioned near the bed. Michael picks them up and looks around, putting two and two together. It’s odd to see Alex get out of bed with one pant leg rolled up and tucked around the missing part of his leg. Alex hates the crutches, in more than just a metaphorical sense.

“I’ll clean it,” he says.

“You don’t have to—“

“Course I don’t but I got it,” he says, “where’s your leg?”

“Bathroom,” Alex relents, “I have cleaning stuff in the kitchen.”

“I’ll meet you there.”

He goes into the bathroom. Alex’s leg is disassembled and Michael realizes that they’re trying to dry it out. Blood is caked everywhere on it. They aren’t trying to dry it out because it’s wet from cleaning. His blood has damaged it. The metaphors is nauseating. But at least this is one area he can actually help in. He grabs all the pieces and makes his way into the kitchen where Alex is putting food on plates. He ducks under the sink and grabs the cleaning stuff. He ignores the food in favor of making sure Alex’s leg isn’t messed up by him bleeding out. Alex doesn’t react to the water in the bucket turning pink and then red, he focuses on other things.

“This is gross,” Michael says finally, “seriously this is disgusting. It’s not even all blood.”

“I mean,” Alex swallows, “you were pretty badly hurt.”

“Tell me all of them are dead,” he says looking over at him, “come on I need one piece of good news.”

“They’re dead,” Alex confirms.

Good. He isn’t thrilled about dying but he’s more concerned with the emotional distress they’ve put Alex under. Max can fix physical wounds. Alex is full of grit but he’s making progress damn it. Michael’s been enough of a setback for him. He scrubs the various pieces and wipes them down, making sure they are all clean. He fixes the vacuum mechanism. When he turns to Alex though, Alex shakes his head. Michael can’t blame him. He gets up and puts the leg back in the bathroom.

“Thanks,” Alex says.

“Seems like the least I could do,” Michael says.

“You’re here,” Alex points out and he doesn’t have a response for that.

He cleans up and eats. Alex is eating slower but he hasn’t had Isobel feeding him for the past 48 hours. Even though they’ve slept for most of the day, Michael finds himself tired. He yawns before he can stop himself. When he looks over Alex is yawning too. He smiles but Alex looks at him far more seriously.

“Do you want to sleep here?” He asks.

“Yeah,” Michael says. Alex nods, “Lemme text Iz.”

“I’ll get you something to sleep in.”

One berating later, he finds himself climbing into Alex’s bed. It’s strange and nod just because the bed is big enough. It’s strange because this is the most clothed he’s been laying next to Alex in his entire life. He needs this though, they both do, but his heart is pounding in his ears as he climbs in. He doesn’t know why he’s nervous, maybe it’s just because the dark and not seeing each other have always been crutches in their relationship. Whatever that relationship is in the moment. He rips the bandaid off as he turns to Alex.

“Talk to me,” he says, “come on.”

“I—“ Alex trails off.

“Alex,” He isn’t sure why he’s pleading with him. He doesn’t want to damage him, no more than he seems to do without meaning to. It’s fucking shitty that their relationship only seems to work when Alex is doing all of it, “Come on,” He says. Alex blows out a breath. The second one he blows out is shakier and Michael’s stomach drops, “c’mere.”

Alex rolls into his chest with barely any resistance and Michael grips him as tight as he can as Alex sobs into his chest. He just mumbles nonsense and holds Alex, trying his best to remind him at every moment he stops that he’s alive. He’s here. There’s one benefit to being with a screw up alien whose brother can heal. It’s better for Alex to get it out now but fuck if it doesn’t hurt to have him sob like this.

“It’s worth it, you know? I’d do it again—“

“Don’t,” Alex cuts him off, “don’t you dare say that.”

“It’s true,” Michael repeats, “I don’t want you hurt.”

“You almost died,” he says, “I was covered in your blood. Again.”

“I know, I know,” Michael smoothes his hair back and presses their foreheads together, “I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you. You saved me just as much as Max did,” he doesn’t let Alex shake his head, “you did. Now you gotta stay with me, right here, okay?”

Alex trembles and Michael aches to hold him but he has to hear. He strokes the tears from his cheeks uselessly.

“Alex—“

“Okay,” Alex says, managing to sound partially annoyed. Michael hugs him close, “you too.”

“Okay okay,” Michael relents, “I’m here,” Alex grips his shirt, “I’m here,” he repeats, in time with their heartbeats, “I’m right here.”

#michael guerin #alex manes #malex fic #roswell new mexico #malex #malex fanfic #roswell nm fanfic #prompts #michael x alex

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chibinightowl · 7 years ago

Text

Bakery AU, Part IX

One more chapter to go...

Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV, Part V, Part VI, Part VII, Part VIII

~*~

“Tell me what?”

Tim’s heart starts to race, a last ditch effort by his body to give him the brainpower needed to get the words out of his mouth. He takes hold of Jason’s hand and removes it from his chin, but he doesn’t let it go. “I know you’re Redwing.”

To his credit, Jason doesn’t even flinch. “Right,” he drawls. “Tim, I think you’re a little sleep deprived.”

“Oh, I am,” Tim agrees. He forges on. “But I know I’m right.”

“Really? How so?”

“Because I figured out that Dick Grayson was Robin when I was nine years old.”

Jason’s grip on his hand tightens, the only sign his words are affecting him at all. “Okay, suppose I buy this tale. How did you figure it out?”

Tim launches into a story that has never once passed his lips. About how as a young boy he went to the circus with his parents and met an acrobat who promised to do a quadruple somersault just for him. He spoke of how that night ended in tragedy, with the acrobat’s parents falling to their deaths when their ropes snapped. “I kept tabs on Dick after I heard Mr. Wayne took him in. Sometimes I saw him at society events it was okay for kids to attend. When I was nine, I caught a clip on one of those paparazzi TV shows of Robin. They were running a brief segment on local urban myths. The video was absolute crap even if they did try to clean it up, but it wasn’t the person I recognized. It was what he did that struck me the most.”

“What did he do?” Jason prods when Tim pauses to gather his thoughts.

“He did a quadruple somersault. There’s only person in the world who can do it. Dick Grayson. After I figured that out, the rest was easy.” Tim bites his lip, stopping the flow of words.

There. He’d done it. No going back now.

Jason places his hands on Tim’s shoulders, holding him firmly in place as he stares intently at him. “Are you telling me a nine year old boy figured out one of the most closely guarded secrets on the planet?”

Tim nods. “If you’re referring to Batman, yes. He goes to great pains to hide it. Superman on the other hand…a pair of glasses? Really?”

A heavy hand covers his mouth faster than Tim can blink. “I think that’s enough tonight. You’re tired and obviously getting to the point where you’re not thinkin’ straight.”

What? Tim stiffens and jerks himself away from Jason. “You think I’m making this all up? I’m exhausted, but I’m not stupid. Jason, I have never, ever, spoken about this to anyone before. If you don’t believe me, fine. I was trying to be honest with you, because if you want whatever this is between us to work, then you need to be honest with me.”

“I don’t think this is the time or place to be having this conversation. You don’t have a door right now, remember?”

Tim’s mouth snaps shut. Son of a bitch. Had he been speaking too loudly? He doesn’t think so, but Jason is right. All that’s keeping the rest of the world out of his little shop is a piece of plastic. “Sorry. Sorry, you’re right. I’m just…”

“You’re tired, Tim.” Jason hauls him back in and plants a tender kiss on his forehead. “Go take a nap. I’ll finish cleaning this up.”

There isn’t anything Tim can do but nod. He’s blown it. He knows he has. Goddammit, why did he say it? Had he really misread things so badly? What’s going to happen now? Jason would be fully within his rights to never see him again after this little bomb. Fuck.

Tim lets Jason direct him into the kitchen and, under his watchful eye, gets his blanket and pillow out of the storage bin. Jason doesn’t comment about it, which says a lot about where this is all heading. He makes a little pallet under his desk and lays down. Through bleary eyes Tim watches Jason turn off the light and close the door, leaving it open just a crack. This is the last time he’s going to see Jason, he knows it. It hurts so bad that he doesn’t want the same thing as him.

So much for that gamble.

As Tim falls into a fitful sleep, he swears that he hears the low tone of Jason’s voice speaking to someone. “B? You won’t believe what I just heard…”

~*~*~

The next day Tim decides is quite possibly one of the worst he’s had in a while. Jason is gone when he wakes up to the alarm the man apparently set for him. No note, no nothing, not that Tim expects anything after the mess he made of things last night.

Stephanie tries to get the story out of him when she arrives an hour later with breakfast and coffee, but he refuses to say a word other than that he and Jason had a disagreement. This isn’t something Steph can help with. It’s all his fault.

“Do I need to call him and tell him to stop being an ass?” the blonde asks pointedly.

Tim loves that her loyalty is unwaveringly with him even if she doesn’t know all the details. “No, I’m pretty sure this is all on me.”

“Oh, Tim.” Steph wraps her arms around him and holds him tight. “Are you guys done then?”

He sighs into her freshly washed hair. God, he has to stink to high heaven at this point. “I don’t know.”

Steph squeezes him, then draws back, hands still on his arms as she gives him a serious look. “You know what’s going to make you feel better?”

“The ability to rewind the last twelve or so hours?”

“A shower. Go home, Tim. Get cleaned up, and for God’s sake, brush your teeth.”

Tim laughs weakly because what else can he do? He put himself out there and got rejected.

This is why he doesn’t date. It always hurts when things fall apart.

The rest of the day passes in a blur. It takes a few phone calls to get someone out on a Saturday to replace his door, and as soon as that was done, Tim calls it a day. He and Stephanie already have a plan in place to get things back up and running tomorrow, even if it will take at least a week to get a new display case. That’s fine, they can still take the truck out and Tim can set out a tray with a single cupcake of each design for any walk-ins to choose from while keeping the rest in back. They can make this work. Gotham and a broken heart are not going to keep Tim Drake down.

As he walks home in the late afternoon sun, Tim decides to allow himself one night to wallow in his misery. He deserves that much. A quick stop by the store gets him a six pack of his favorite microbrew and he swings by a Chinese restaurant that makes what he swears are the best noodles in town. Literally, since they make their noodles right there.

Properly fortified, Tim brings his prizes home. Another shower and a change of clothes later, he settles onto his sofa to binge watch Netflix. There are some shows he needs to catch up on.

He does not think about Jason. Much.

Three hours later, he’s finished half his stir-fried noodles and three bottles of beer. Sleep sounds like a great idea, lightweight that he is, so Tim manages to put away his food before returning to the sofa where he puts on a BBC nature documentary to fall asleep to.

He cuddles under his afghan and is out in under a minute.

~*~*~

It’s late when Tim wakes up. He feels like he should still be asleep, but something has drawn him out of that sweet oblivion where he doesn’t think about Jason. Everything is quiet, so he decides it must be his faintly hurting head that woke him. Some headache meds and water will fix that, as will sleeping in his bed rather than the living room.

Tim opens his eyes blearily as he sits up. Then he opens them wider and jerks upright, the afghan pooling around his waist.

Standing in front of his muted TV is Batman, outlined by the glow of the screen behind him.

Oh, shit. Why…Oh. Oh. Jason must have told him everything. Of course, he would, the little bomb Tim dropped on him last night impacts everything his family works so hard for. God, how could he have been so thoughtless?

His inner fanboy cowers in the corner of his mind, wailing in fear even though Tim is reasonably certain Batman won’t actually hurt him. Scare the crap out of him, yes. Intimidate him, hell yes. This is very intimidating, yup. Babbling seems like a stupid thing to do right about now, so Tim keeps his mouth shut and waits for Batman to say something.

And waits.

Seriously? Is he waiting for Tim to speak up first? He has not had enough sleep for this. Tim shoves the afghan off his lap and swings his legs to the floor. “Would you like some coffee? If you’re just going to stand there, then I’m going to need some.”

Batman doesn’t move. If anything, he frowns harder without even moving his face.

Now there’s a trick Tim would love to learn. He makes his way into the kitchen and flips on the overhead light by the sink to see by. Coffee prep is something he could do in his sleep, so while the little pot is brewing, Tim takes two mugs out of the cabinet and sets them on the counter.

“Do you take cream or sugar?” he calls out, not really expecting an answer.

He doesn’t get one.

Black it is.

Tim pours two cups and returns to the living room. He doesn’t try and hand Batman his cup, but he does place it on the coffee table in front of him before sitting back down on the sofa. This is by far the strangest interview he’s ever been part of. It must be a neat trick, using your reputation to get everything you need to know out of a person without having to say a word.

This could go on all night. “What do you want to know?” Tim asks eventually.

“Start from the beginning.” Batman’s voice is a low growl, one that makes Tim’s throat hurt just listening to it.

So Tim starts there, telling Batman how he met Dick, the promised quadruple somersault, and the tragedy that occurred later. He tells him about how he kept tabs on the former acrobat through the news, that he just wanted to be sure the boy was happy. Then he tells him what happened when he was nine… “I’m not sure there are many people who could have made that connection,” he admits slowly. “I mean, sure, the people at the circus probably can if they ever happen to see Robin, or Nightwing now, do that. But outside of there? I don’t think I would have if I hadn’t been there that night and saw it myself.” As well as everything that happened after, but there’s no need to rehash that again.

“You were very young.”

Tim nods. “I was almost four. My mom always said I have a mind like a steel trap. That when something goes in, it’s not coming out. I think that’s part of the reason why I didn’t forget. I couldn’t, even if I’d wanted to.” He sips his coffee, debating about the next part. This is where he could get into some serious trouble.

Well, this is supposed to be a confession of sorts. And it does feel good to get everything off his chest after holding it so close for years.

“When I figured out who was under Robin’s mask, I decided I needed to see Dick in action again for myself. We lived in the city, and Mom and Dad were never around much, so it was easy to sneak out…” Tim tells Batman about how he used to map his and Robin’s patrol routes, how he would hide and wait half the night for even a glimpse of his hero. As he got better and grew more confident, that was when he started bringing a camera.

If Batman was rigid before, then those words made him even more so.

“Those first photos were horrible,” Tim admits with a wry shake of his head. “It took a lot of practice to learn how to shoot at night, just as it took a lot of trial and error to learn to develop my own pictures because these were not something I wanted to take to the convenience store and have just anyone see. But I got better and by the time I did, there was a new Robin.”

Jason. The Robin he got all the best photos of.

“I took my pictures for a little over three years,” Tim continues. “And then my parents were murdered in a botched kidnapping. My life was turned upside down for a time, but when it became clear that I was going to end up in foster care since I had no family to take me in, I knew I couldn’t keep any of those pictures. I couldn’t risk it, even if no one knows the faces beneath those masks.”

“What did you do?”

“I took them up to the roof of my parent’s townhouse and burned them. Each and every one.” It still hurt, even after a decade and more having passed. But it hurt like ripping off a bandaid hurt, and no longer tore at his soul. “All my negatives, I soaked in bleach.”

Batman gestures to the pictures hanging on the walls. The black and white photos are taken from various angles high above Gotham. “You didn’t stop taking pictures completely.”

Tim shakes his head. “No, but I didn’t take those until I’d graduated from culinary school and had my own place. I like photography, it’s something I’m good at. But it’s a hobby now. A skill I can put to use in my shop for my website.”

“You understand the concerns I have.” It isn’t a question and Tim doesn’t pretend to take it as such.

Still, he knows he’s expected to answer. “I do. Honestly, I wasn’t planning to say a word about this to Jason at all. Until last night, I thought what we had was just a mutually beneficial arrangement between two consenting adults. He’d never given me a reason to believe otherwise.”

“Until last night,” Batman states, echoing Tim’s words. “Why did you tell him this?”

Tim hedges and sips his coffee as he tries to gather his thoughts. For all that opening his mouth had been a mistake, the reason why he did hasn’t changed. On that one fact, he still feels like he’s on solid ground.

“Because last night he said he cares about me. That what keeps him coming back is me.” No need to mention the frosting part. Nope. “I’ve known for a little while now that I like him more than what our arrangement calls for. I figured that if he wants a real relationship, then he has a right to what I know so that he doesn’t have to lie to me when the shit hits the fan or he gets all battered and bruised and needs to cancel plans we’ve made. I can’t imagine it’s easy for anyone who tries to date one of you guys.”

“It isn’t. Especially for someone like you who cannot protect himself.”

The implication is clear as day. Tim tightens his fingers around his warm mug. “I know I’m putting myself in harm’s way if Jason and I keep seeing each other. I know I can be used against him or as a means to hurt him. I know all of this. But isn’t it up to us to decide if that’s a chance we want to take?”

“Yeah, B, stop stickin’ your nose in our business.”

Tim almost spills his coffee as Jason comes striding around from behind the sofa in full Redwing regalia. It’s an impressive sight, from the battered leather jacket to the dark gray uniform underneath that fits him like a glove. How long has he been here? Oh, shit, what has he heard? Tim tells himself to get a grip. Everything he’s said to Batman is stuff he plans to tell Jason, if the other man ever gives him a chance.

He’s here though, so that has to mean something. Right?

Batman doesn’t move, but it’s clear when he turns his attention on his son because that weighted gaze no longer sits like a ton of bricks on Tim. “I am trying to ascertain what this man’s intentions are towards all of us.”

Jason snorts incredulously. “No, you’re trying to be a dad for a change and scare away a potential boyfriend. B, Tim knows and hasn’t said a word to anyone. Do you have any idea how much easier this makes things for me? I don’t have to fucking lie for a change.”

Tim clutches his coffee mug, afraid to make even the slightest of noises for fear of interrupting what is clearly a very important argument. Inside, his heart sings with joy because Jason is fighting with Batman for him. If that’s not a sign from the heavens, he doesn’t know what is.

“What happens if it doesn’t work out?” Batman says to Jason. “Think about the damage Tim can do in a single moment of petty spite.”

“I’d never do that,” Tim interrupts. This is something he has to speak up about. “What you guys do is so much bigger than anything I deal with. You’re important. You all mean something to the world. For however long this lasts between Jason and me, I’m glad to be able to support him in whatever way I can. And when it ends, well, I’ll at least know that for a time, I made him happy. Because I can’t imagine you guys get that a lot.”

Both men turn and stare at Tim, heavy and weighted and wow, this must be the same feeling that makes bad guys quiver in their shoes. But Tim holds firm and doesn’t drop his gaze.

“B, you’re done here,” Jason finally announces. “You got what you came for. Tim won’t spill the beans. Now get out.”

“Redwing—”

“Get outta my business, B. I can either air dirty laundry about you and Catwoman or toss you out that window. Take your pick.”

Batman looms over his son, but Jason is clearly having none of it as he just stares him down. All the long years of exposure must make him immune. Tim finds that impressive because wow. Just wow.

That heavy gaze settles back on him for a moment before Batman walks away without another word, brushing past the sofa towards the window leading out to the fire escape. Tim feels a faint rush of cold air on his neck and then nothing. He turns around to look, just to be sure. The only thing he sees is the faint movement of his cheap window blinds.

“So that’s what being interrogated by Batman feels like.”

Jason snorts and picks up the coffee Batman never even touched. “Sort of. There’s usually a lot more punching and getting tossed off the side of a building involved.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” Tim feels faint at the thought. Although jumping off the side of a building doesn’t sound too bad if he’s with the right person…kind of like skydiving perhaps.

An awkward silence falls over the room, neither of them seemingly able to start the conversation that needs to happen. Tim fiddles with his mug and steals glances at Jason, who seems lost in thought as he drinks the not-so-warm coffee. What’s going on in his head? How does Jason feel about all this? He apparently likes the idea of him knowing who he is if his statement to Batman was legit.

Tim takes a deep breath and breaks the ice. “How much of that did you hear?”

“All of it. I followed B here and snuck in through your bedroom while he loomed over you like a creepy fuck until you woke up.”

“How long did that take?”

Jason chuckles quietly. “About half an hour. Color me impressed.”

“I may have had a few beers earlier tonight.”

“Lightweight,” Jason teases, but there’s a fondness to it. “You were quite the little stalker once upon a time, weren’t ya?”

Tim nods, feeling steadier now that they’re talking about his past. “I guess you could call it that. At the time though, I was so incredibly lonely that sneaking out for even a glimpse of my heroes was enough to negate the creep factor.”

Jason walks around the coffee table and takes a seat in the recliner. Under the jacket, Tim can just make out the stylized red bat on his broad chest. “You’ve mentioned before that your parents were never around that much.”

“No, they weren’t.” Tim takes a sip from his mug. It’s almost empty. “I had a hard time mourning for people who were never there. I got lucky when I was placed with Grandma Ives. She gets kids in a way I’d never seen before. Probably because she had six of her own, plus over a dozen grandkids. She helped me figure out what my grief was really about and gave me something constructive to do while I worked my way through it.”

“She the one who taught you to bake?”

“Yes.” Tim has many fond memories of Grandma Ives. Perhaps one day, he can introduce Jason to her.

“Did you really take all those pictures of me?” The question seemingly comes out of left field, but Tim has a feeling it’s a precursor to something bigger.

“I did.”

“Is it… Is this the reason you want to be with me?” Jason gestures to his uniform, to the mask he’s still wearing.

Tim is shaking his head before Jason finishes speaking. “No. Not at all. In the beginning, I was shocked that someone like you even spared a glance in my direction. I kept telling myself not to look too deeply into it, to not get attached, that we were both getting something we needed. But when we went out for dinner to that bar, it felt like a date. I wanted it to be a real date so badly that I had to keep reminding myself it wasn’t.”

Jason sighs heavily and leans forward, his solid arms resting on his thickly muscled thighs. “I think of that night as a date. It was all so clear in my head what I was doing, sweeping you off your feet and romancing the crap out of you, but in hindsight, I can see why you believed what you did.” He sounds defeated, which no. No. Tim is not letting this happen.

Standing, Tim sets aside his coffee and kneels in front of Jason, resting his hands over the man’s gloved ones and forcing him to look at him. This close, the lenses in his mask are disconcerting, but Tim knows Jason’s eyes are on him. “We’re both idiots,” he pronounces. “Doing everything ass backwards from the way we should have.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve fucked up,” Jason tries, but Tim shushes him.

“Me neither. But I think we have a good reason to want to do this right. If you want to, that is.” Tim trails off, his momentary boldness tapering into uncertainty.

Jason grabs hold of his hands, holding them firmly in his gloved ones. “I want to. Christ, I want to. But the risks…Tim, already the thought of something happening to you hurts like hell. If we go further…”

Tim raises their joined hands and presses a kiss into the material of Jason’s gloves. “I understand. Just know that I’m willing to take those risks. But really, the choice is yours, not mine. What you do, who you are…it’s all so much bigger than just me.” His confidence shocks him, even if it is nice to know he can bring it out when he needs to, despite the less than stellar circumstances.

“I need some time to think.”

“I respect that.” Tim tries to stand, but Jason rises along with him and draws him in close, pressing his forehead against the top of Tim’s head.

“Tim, this isn’t good-bye. I will let you know what I decide. And in person because you deserve that much, even if it’s not what either of us want.”

It’s more than Tim can reasonably expect. “I appreciate it.”

Jason pulls back a bit and runs his fingers over Tim’s cheeks, seemingly memorizing the planes of his face. “I’ll see you soon.” He leans in and presses a brief kiss against Tim’s mouth.

And then he’s gone, vanishing into the night.

#chibinightowl writes #Tim Drake #Jason Todd #Bruce Wayne #JayTim #Bakery!AU

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bioticgoddess · 7 years ago

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Songbirds and Baby Bats (IV)

Series Summary: Jason Todd returns from the dead and, after the events of Under the Red Hood,he goes from Gotham to Bludhaven in search of himself…and an old friend. But getting your life back is never easy and Black Mask has enlisted the aid of Gotham’s other Crime Families as well as a few ghosts of Batman’s past. He’s coming for the Red Hood and everyone of his allies.

Notes: This gif was so much more appropriate. You’ll understand shortly. Enjoy ladies and gents! Posting early because this weekend is a mess...Enjoy!

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PART IV

Jason arrived at the cafe first. He’d been volun-told to get up, after a much longer than anticipated patrol, to meet Dick. They were going to review the transcripts of relevant conversations pulled from their listening devices placed in the cars of Black Mask, Falcone, and Maroni nearly two weeks prior. It had taken them days to pull the relevant conversations and turn it into easily annotated paperwork. He would have absolutely preferred to be spread out on Amy’s living room floor, papers like fallen snow, going through every line with highlighters and coffee and trying to gain back the ground lost in his five-year absence.

The barista, a shorter girl with heavily braided ginger hair and a smattering of freckles across her cheekbones smiled at him. It was that plastered-on yet surprisingly genuine smile that most service industry professionals mastered. A secret weapon designed to convince everyone that yes, they did want dessert to go with that huge meal they’d just eaten. Or in Jason’s case, a scone to go with his large iced coffee. “Would you like anything else Jason,” she asked sweetly, scribbling his name on the side of a plastic cup.

Another of the baristas, tongues in hand, retrieved his scone from the pastry case. “No, but thanks, this looks great,” He grinned, accepting the paper bag the second barista handed him. Handing the ginger barista a twenty, he walked off, not bothering to collect his change, “You guys keep it.”

Her thanks was genuine and emphatic. It made him smile.

Dropping into a heavy cushioned chair near the pick-up area, Jason stretched out. He’d only agreed to meet Dick here because Amy couldn’t and neither liked the idea Dick coming to her apartment. Then, of course, Dick had insisted on meeting in public. He’d voiced concern about Jason shooting him. As if the acrobat would be worth the bullet; besides, his guns were locked up in the apartment. “Heh,” he chuckled to himself, breaking a corner piece off the scone and popping it in his mouth.

If nothing else, he could sit there and people watch ‘til Dick bothered to show up. Something he hadn’t really done during daylight hours since returning to Gotham-Bludhaven let alone the States. Not unless he’d been tracking some of Black Mask’s men, or the Joker’s, or otherwise trying to sort out his plan when he’d come home. None of it had been what he was doing now. This was for fun.

Watching the table nearest the door. The woman checking her phone periodically, seated alone and fidgeting with the seam of her cup’s sleeve. He noted glee that lit up her face when her partner walked through the door of the cafe; reminding him of a time when he was happier, younger, less world weary. The woman’s partner, girlfriend, enveloped her in her arms and peppered her with smiling kisses. It was a gesture he recognized. Something he’d done a lifetime ago and their overall elation was both visually loud and familiar.

It was how he’d felt when he became Robin all those years ago. How he’d felt when Bruce revealed he’d adopted him. A shudder ran down his back – not from the iced beverage collected from the order counter. He didn’t want Bruce to hold a happy place in his memories. Not now, after everything that had happened.

Scanning the room in search of distraction his eyes settled on a young man. A text book open on his table, furiously scribbling on a tablet. Jason could hear the soft tapping and swiping noises as the youth wrote, despite the popping sound his jaw made as he worked on the over sized scone in hand. He could see the title of the book from his seat: Gotham: A Study of Engineering. They’d had to break a dozen or so rules building the elite of the two river cities. Even before becoming a Robin he’d spent enough of his life crawling through the cities guts to know the kid wasn’t going to get the full story in that book. Not that he could tell him any of that, of course. There were too many safe houses and supply caches tucked into the bones of Gotham to risk it, even if he’d been of a mind to do so.

His phone buzzed, violently.

It broke his focus and, with the huff of a toddler, he fished the device out of his jacket’s interior slip pocket. Swiping his thumb across the screen and unlocking the device, the messaging app popped open automatically. A quick tap and the thread he had with Amy replaced it. Just got to the Manor. Text you when I leave.

Ok, he typed back..

Almost as quickly as his response went out the words “Be nice to DG.” showed up under his single word. “Hah,” he chuckled, “I’m always nice.” He sent a thumbs up emoji to her instead.

“No you’re not,” the acrobat shook his head. As per usual, he was popping up out of nowhere and doing it more frequently than Batman. Despite being almost twice as loud. At least Jason had the decency to not surprise his friends, especially those who could put him in the hospital.

Glaring, Jason rocked up out of his chair. Comfortable as he was, they couldn’t actually have their meeting next to the baristas. “Says you,” he grumbled, brow cocked, “This way.”

“See, this is exactly what I meant,” Dick observed, a grin on his face that was probably attracting half the single women in Bludhaven. He had that kind of optimistic magnetism even when he didn’t mean to.

He followed Jason through the growing throng of patrons to a table against the wall. It was positioned so they wouldn’t be visible from the window but could also easily guard the transcripts and any other relevant documents. All currently tucked neatly in Dick’s gray and blue computer bag. Either of their apartments would have been infinitely better but he had his orders. “So where’s little bird,” Dick asked, startling Jason – though the Red Hood buried it behind a swig of his coffee.

Pulling their chairs out in near unison, Jason shrugged. “Had an errand.” The two did their best not to let the metal feet grate across the café’s floor.

“Supply run,” Dick yawed, dropping into his wooden chair. The grimace that briefly graced his features told Jason that that had been a mistake. Either the wooden seat or metal chair back had reminded Dick’s body of some fight, bruise, or pulled anything from patrol and training. It was a sensation that Jason was intimately familiar with. Pushing the other half of his scone across the table as a peace offering, he nodded. Both in agreement and a sign that the food was fair game.

Anyone who walked past the pair, papers spread out between them, would assume two things: First, that they were brothers – despite looking similar only in the broadest of senses. Both boys had dark, nearly black, hair and deep blue eyes. They were both athletic and their faces had similar, again general, shapes. Overall, Dick had a much lighter look to him whereas Jason was far more dour. It wouldn’t have been an incorrect assumption, given that Bruce has adopted both of them during their respective childhoods.

Second, thanks to their hushed tones and body languages, that whatever they were doing with all those papers and Dick’s laptop was family business. What that meant to an onlooker could be up for debate, however. Again, the other baristas and casual observers wouldn’t have been wrong. “Where do you want to start,” Jason asked as his brother slid the stack of papers off of his laptop and across the table.

“You go through that pile and give me whatever looks relevant. I’ll add it to the file I’m building here,” he tapped the computer’s lid, “and we go from there. Otherwise, you going to tell me what’s going on?”

One brow raised, Jason shot back, “huh?”

“I know what Bruce said happened in Gotham. I know what the news said happened. I want to hear it from you and then I want to know why you came to Bludhaven. You’ve been here over a month, so yea,” Dick explained, drumming his fingers across the mouse’s touch pad. The computer thrummed to life a moment later and, without breaking eye contact, he typed in the requisite passwords. “Well?”

Snorting and rolling his eyes, Jason took a long drag on his coffee. The cold stimulant buying him time to formulate a polite, or at least less snarky, answer. He could do it. He could be nice to his brother. In theory at least, if not in practice. Before he could speak. Dick added one more caveat, “And not the G-rated version I’m sure you gave Amy either. Full disclosure.”

Jason glared hard over the rim of his cup-lid. Brows knit together, eyes narrowed, and an irritated growl vibrated from his throat. He didn’t want to give more than the G-rated, maybe PG, version of events in Gotham. That meant admitting, to people he actually liked, the extent of what he’d done. At the time things like dismembering drug cartel lieutenants had made complete sense. That using an RPG to push Black Mask over the edge and into unleashing Joker, all so Jason could get his hands on the clown, had been rational. Reasonable even. Now…he wasn’t so sure.

He still wholeheartedly believed that some criminals just needed to die. At the very least have their faces smashed in so badly their own mother’s wouldn’t recognize them. Also things he’d done during his return tour of Gotham. Nothing he’d done since coming to Bludhaven. It had a higher crime rate than Gotham, though most of that was organized crime and gangs instead of super villains – Penguin and Two-Face notwithstanding. He shrugged, finally setting his coffee down “Why do you care,” he demanded as Dick broke a piece off of the shared scone.

“You’re family. Look, didn’t show up after our fight on the roof because I knew you wouldn’t give me reason to come hunt your ass down,” He paused, blue eyes wavering for a moment. One that he covered for by flicking them down to the computer screen.

Snorting derisively, Jason looked down at the papers. The words were just a jumble of letters to him. “I came to Bludhaven to think. “ He sounded contemplative and, to a lesser extent, defeated. Giving voice to his reasons seemed to take all his bravado away, “I hacked the Batcave’s computer before I left, even before I went after Joker. So I knew, by the time I shot that RPG at Black Mask’s office, that Amy’d left Gotham and ended up here. Figured if I survived what happened with Bruce then I’d go to her. Of course I thought he might actually shoot Joker and not pull that bull shit with the gun. Those burns, on top of all the contusions from digging myself out from under that building, SUCKED. So when my plans literally blew up in my face…I had nothing. No idea what I wanted to do. I mean, I took care of a couple loose related Black Mask helping the Joker escape Arkham, but otherwise I was gone. A ghost. Far as the world knows, Jason Todd died…six years ago now.”

“And what happened in Gotham before the shit in Crime Alley,” Dick asked, again. He couldn’t say that, if things had been reversed and he’d been killed by Joker, that he wouldn’t have been as revenge bent as Jason. One of the baristas called another patron’s name, a subtle reminder among the screaming milk steamers, chattering locals, and coffee-shop music that they were in public. That discretion was still the better part of valor. Or in their case, survival.

“What you heard about? What Bruce and the news said? Yea…that was me,” he sighed. “I did some worse shit than was reported; some of it I’m starting to regret. So I don’t really want to discuss it in detail. Ever.” There was a note of guilt, or shame, coloring the fringes of his otherwise stern tone. Searching his face, Dick could tell that he wasn’t going to get the lengthy explanation out of his brother that he wanted. Not without it ending in a fight.

Skeptically, Dick pressured slightly, “And does she know?”

Jason nodded slowly, cheeks visibly redder. “She knows enough,” he muttered, even Dick had trouble hearing him. The more he was asked, the less comfortable he became and suddenly Jason felt like he was being scolded by Alfred; not sitting across from the closest person he’d ever had to a brother. Sure, they’d come to blows growing up – what siblings didn’t – but they’d also always had one another’s backs.

“Okay. So what are you gonna do about it,” Dick asked bluntly.

“Huh?”

“What are you doing about yourself? About Amy?”

“I-I don’t know. I mean, I hadn’t even planned that far,” Jason shrugged, eyes finally focusing on the paper before him. The letters going from a hodgepodge pile of sticks and circles to actual words. “Farthest I’ve gotten is helping you guys with this,” he tapped the top page. It was an email between Falcone and Black Mask, supposedly encrypted. Until Oracle had gotten a hold of it. “After that…I don’t know.”

Dick groaned, struggling to keep his voice down and his tone calm, “Dude. You’re living with her. You can’t tell me you haven’t been –“

“I’m sleeping on her couch. The closest I’ve gotten to her, beyond some middle school hugs and pecks on the cheek was when I got shot. That’s also the last time we had any sort of conversation about…us. Or what passed for us before I…” he trailed off, voice low. He was hesitant to say that he’d died. It was something done automatically, nonchalantly when in his Red Hood gear. But out in public, without the protection of his helmet and body armor, he felt like an over exposed nerve. “Yea, we had a moment when I first showed up but…I don’t know. I just don’t.”

Dick opened his mouth to say something, then immediately thought better of it. Neither his younger brother nor his partner had been very good at the whole courtship thing. It had taken both Barb and Alfred intervening to convince them to take the plunge before Joker got his hands on Jason. That had been what, six months during their senior year of high school? For both Amy and Jason it was a lifetime ago, all things considered. Swallowing he finally found a string of words that didn’t make him sound like a complete jerk, “Give her time. I know how much she cares about you, and you clearly still care about her.” Jason looked up, almost plaintively, “You know what I mean.”

Alfred set the kettle down between them, the green and white knit cozy brighter than either he or Amy remembered it being. Though against the stark colors and layout of the Batcave, even khaki was practically neon. “How are you handling Master Todd’s return,” he asked, breaking the silence that had settled over the entire property when they’d gone down to the cave.

Breathily she laughed, “Not well Alfred. Not well at all.” He nodded; she continued, eyes tracing the lines of steam that escaped her tea cup, “I always thought if, by some miracle, he returned that it’d be easy. Same as breathing. But…” Her brow furrowed briefly and it almost looked as if she was going to cry. “It’s not. We’re both falling over ourselves to be nice and friendly. It’s…”

“Awkward,” he offered. She nodded in turn.

She swallowed, hands wrapping around the cup more tightly. This was part of their ritual: Once a month Amy made the trip to the Manor with the intention of spending the day, part of it at least, with Alfred. He’d suffered in silence after Jason’s death where the others had raged. Even when it was futile. Part of that meant he sent her back to Bludhaven with a number of first aid kits, even if she and Dick didn’t need them. This time, her Supply Run would include some new armor for Jason to replace the ruined pants he’d been shot in. A project the Briton had undertaken without Bruce’s knowledge or permission. They were as much his children as they were Bruce’s.

“Miss Flynn,” he began, a grandfatherly smile on his face, “You and Master Todd were thick as thieves, one another’s shadows. That’s not a bond which can be easily erased, no matter what has transpired or how much time has passed.”

The tea was hot, not scalding, but still hot enough to hurt when she took a sip. There was a time when that had been point; she’d at least felt something as it burned the length of her esophagus. Now, it was just careless. “Mmm. And we are still.…in the field. There it’s like nothing’s changed, no time’s passed. In private…ah…um...the most familiar we’ve been was when he was shot a few weeks back. Don’t know that either of us even knows how to have that conversation. I bloody well don’t,” she chattered, running her burnt tongue across her front teeth.

“You must find a way or it will, inevitably, spill over into your work in the field I fear,” Alfred cautioned, sliding a small cup of ice across the table to the young woman. He’d known her well enough and watched her grief long enough to realize that she’d burned the inside of her mouth. “You both deserve better than that.” He was tired of seeing the children he cared for, the closest he had to children and grandchildren, as spent and used as they had been the last few years. Tired of watching them walk this world in varying degrees of anguish.

Letting out a soft sigh he continued, “You will find a way Miss Flynn, you and Master Todd both. Cliche and motherly though it may sound, perhaps it is best to let your heart lead when your head is not up to task?” That at least elicited a contemplative nod from the Irish girl as she popped one of the offered ice cubes in her mouth.

“C’mere,” Dick instructed. His back was to a wall, protecting the computer screen from the outside world. Exhausted and sore Jason practically creaked when he stood. He wasn’t sure how long they’d been sitting in these godawful chairs but it had been at least long enough to make even his ass go numb. “This is…not good,” the older vigilante muttered.

Almost as soon as his eyes leveled with the images and data on the screen, Jason’s stomach dropped. “Not good is an understatement,” his tone was flat, almost emotionless. Black Mask wasn’t just partnering with Falcone and Maroni to expand their enterprises in Bludhaven. He – They – had hired an assassin form the League of Assassins to deal with what they called their vermin infestation. A man the files referred to Deathstroke; a man whose reputation was infamous The three vigilantes were, with particular emphasis on Red Hood, to be terminated with extreme prejudice. His hire had been arranged by the Intermediary, about whom almost nothing was listed beyond what turned out to be an anonymous dark web bank account.

Reading all of that, following the path of Black Mask’s decisions on paper made Jason want to vomit. “We need to go,” he whispered, finally finding his voice again. They had to warn Amy, or at least bring her up to speed. More importantly they needed to prepare for the veritable war heading their way.

His phone vibrated across the table. Reaching for it, Jason caught it with his fingertips before it could take a nose-dive towards the floor. On the notifications tab, a message from the their absent third beamed at him Leaving for the apt. Text you when I get in. He sent a thumbs up back, swallowing hard. Since Ra’s had been responsible for Jason’s resurrection, it stood to reason that other, maybe all, members of the League knew the identities of Batman and his allies. Though Jason really hoped only Bruce, Dick, and himself were compromised. If they weren’t, things were about to become significantly more complicated.

“I’ll talk to Oracle. See if there’s anything she can dig up on Deathstroke or this Intermediary,” Dick was hesitant to ask her for this kind of help. The more he pulled Barbara into this situation, the more help she gave them, meant that more of a target had been painted on her as well. Where the League was concerned, they could never really be sure it wouldn’t all blow up in their faces. “You get Amy up to speed,” he said.

Jason swallowed, nodding. He was looking at his phone screen, suddenly the message he was typing out for Amy seemed less important. A long slow breath escaped him as he deleted the frantic words, a question about dinner. One he’d started as a way to burn off nervous energy. Instead he wrote, Meet you there Irish. Ride safe. Please. Without a second though he brushed his thumb over the send button. “I have a couple contacts I can talk to as well. Will take me some time to track ‘em down.”

“Do it, and no killing,” Dick warned. All kindness gone from his voice. “We have to be better than these guys.”

#jason todd #red hood #jason todd x oc #jason todd x reader #jason todd x you #jason todd imagine #red hood x oc #red hood x reader #red hood x you #red hood imagine #nightwing #dick grayson #alfred pennyworth #dcu imagine #dc comics imagine

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silverfootstepswrites · 7 years ago

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title Bang Bang summary The neon lights make me numb pairing Itasaku rating babies, close your eyes. racier than what i normally do.

The view from Victoria Peak was one of her favorite things about this city. Sakura clung to the metal barrier. The wind whipped at her cheeks and clothes, angry for a moment. And then calm again.

The entire island took on a strange gradient of glows. The bottom buzzed orange and warm as the streetlights beat back the darkness. And then came the high-rises growing from the concrete. Their many windows lit up florescent white and blue. She could pick out some of the nightclubs and parties even from here- the windows pulsing bright purples and greens. Last were the skyscrapers that reached like hands to the heavens. It almost looked like the clouds would snag against their pointed tops.

In the distance, she could make out the dark skeletons of buildings still in progress. The strangely-shaped one by the harbor was of particular interest. Yakushi Kabuto had invested a significant amount of money into that project. Her boys were still looking into why.

“Aunt Cheng.”`

“I know,” Sakura said, pushing away from the barrier.

“Uncle Hashirama is waiting,” Tenten reminded her, opening the back door of the car.

“We’ll stop by the restaurant and pick up some roast goose. He never gets mad when I come with food,” Sakura said. Tenten sighed as she got into the back with her.

“Honestly, you’re the only person I know who tests the Dragon Head’s patience,” she scolded half-heartedly. Zabuza chortled as he started the car and began driving. He took them through the long, winding road that spiraled down from Victoria Peak.

“I’m also the only female Red Pole, Tenten. I didn’t just get here by being a pretty face,” Sakura quipped in return.

“You’re late,” grunted Yamato as she got out of the car several minutes later. He leaned against the hood of his expensive sports car. It was one she didn’t recognize. Perhaps a gift from one of the Red Poles? Or maybe even Uncle Hashirama himself?

“You still playing as Uncle Hashirama’s chaffeur?” sneered Zabuza. Yamato lowered his cigarette, giving Zabuza an incredulous look.

“Fuck you. You’re her chaffeur too,” Yamato retorted, looking at Sakura.

“Now, now, boys. We’re not here to fight. Play nice while the grown-ups go up and talk,” Sakura said with a saccharine smile. Tenten smirked at the two men as she followed Sakura into the building.

Uncle Hashirama owned countless buildings in the city. But his preferred meeting place was the building that overlooked Victoria Harbor. It had a direct view to Kowloon on the opposite side of the water. But more importantly, some of the busiest ports were in clear sight from his office from the top floor. The floors below housed shell companies and fronts that never actually seemed to have any clients. The bottom floor of the old building housed a yum cha restaurant that was apparently quite popular. Even at this time of night, there was a line out the front door. Sakura glimpsed the busy restaurant as she walked up the stairs from the back entrance.

“You’ve got to convince Uncle to get an elevator installed in here,” huffed Tenten as they reached the 5th floor. Sakura shrugged.

“You pick and choose your battles with him,” she replied. She nodded to the thugs on guard duty who immediately opened the door for her. Taking the takeout container from Tenten, Sakura strode in, an extra swish in her hips.

“Uncle Hashirama-”

“You’re late.”

Sakura looked over to see who had spoken. Tobirama sat in an old leather armchair. An unlit cigarette sat between his lips.

“You know why you’re boring? You just said the exact same thing to me as Yamato,” she sighed, tilting her head. Tobirama scowled at her. Reaching into her coat pocket, she grabbed her lighter and tossed it. He caught it with one hand without thanks.

“But my brother is right, Sakura. You are late,” Hashirama said, turning in his chair. Middle age hadn’t taken his charm from him. His dark hair was perfectly silky, framing his tanned face. In his pressed shirt and and rolled up sleeves, he looked like anybody’s handsome father. He was one of the rare gangsters who had avoided scarring on his face. That was a testament to his strength rather than to his vanity, though. There were rumors that his body was unblemished too, although nobody could confidently confirm.

Hashirama rested his chin on his folded hands, waiting.

“Only because I stopped to get your favorite, Uncle,” replied Sakura in a sing-song voice. She held up the takeout, fluttering her eyelashes.

Hashirama heaved a deep sigh. He leaned back in his chair, making it squeak.

“Did you ask for extra sauce?” he asked.

“Uncle. How could you even ask me that?” gasped Sakura, holding up an extra plastic container.

“A fucking Red Pole bribing the Dragon Head with roast duck,” grumbled Tobirama a few minutes later. He watched Hashirama tear into the meat with both hands. The disgust was clear on Tobirama’s face. Sakura laughed as she shed her coat. Tenten draped it over her arm, leaving Sakura in a black blazer and matching skirt. She walked over to Tobirama, red heels tapping against the cement floor.

As her shadow fell across him, Tobirama glanced up at her. She reached into his shirt pocket to pluck out a cigarette. Placing it in her mouth, she leaned in close to press the tip against his. The paper sizzled. Tobirama grimaced.

“Are you serious, woman? You could have just asked for yours back,” he grumbled. But still he didn’t resist when she deposited herself in his lap, her calves resting on the armrest. Tobirama held up her lighter. She only batted her eyelashes at him. Sighing and muttering under his breath, Tobirama twisted to place the lighter in the pocket of her blazer.

“You’re a peach, Tobirama,” she said. She blew smoke into his face, making him squint. She used the opportunity to peck the tip of his nose.

“You’re hopeless,” he sighed.

“Okay, stop teasing him, Sakura. What did you want to talk to me about so badly?” Hashirama interrupted after swallowing a mouthful of duck. He wiped his fingers clean on a handful of cheap napkins. Sakura took her cigarette out of her mouth, holding it between two fingers.

“I just wanted to see if you got my present the other day, Uncle. I had it expedited just for you,” replied Sakura. She felt Tobirama let out a silent snort of laughter.

“Yeah and we got the card too. What Red Pole writes notes on stationery covered with bunnies?” scoffed Tobirama. Sakura turned to look at him, her eyelashes lowering.

“What kind of Red Pole calls them ‘bunnies’ and not ‘rabbits’?” she asked in return. That shut him right up. They both looked back at Hashirama. He took his time wiping his mouth.

“I have to say, Sakura, the handiwork was commendable. What gave you the idea for the presentation?” asked Hashirama. Sakura looked up humming, pretending to think.

“Oh, it’s just that he threatened to cut my face into ribbons. So I thought I’d return the favor. Although, the credit has to go to Sai for the actual work. He’s a real artist,” replied Sakura. Hashirama laughed at that.

“You know, I was worried when you brought in so much new blood during your initiation. But it seems like everywhere I turn, I’m hearing good things about them. I’m glad I trusted your eye,” Hashirama commended her. Sakura smiled shyly, lowering her gaze.

“Oh Uncle, you’re such a flatterer,” she replied. But then her expression sobered. She lifted her chin.

“I wanted to ask if this makes us even with the Uchiha-gumi? If you’re satisfied, I don’t feel the need to pursue any further retribution against the Japanese,” she went on. It sounded like a question but it wasn’t really. And Hashirama seemed to pick up on this. He tore off a piece of goose, dunking it into the sauce. He examined it as he spoke.

“Well, my dear, if you’re not upset, then I can hardly hold onto my own anger. Although I did hear that they damaged your lovely face,” sighed Hashirama. He stuffed the goose into his mouth when he had finished speaking.

“What?” Tobirama demanded.

Grabbing Sakura’s chin, he twisted her face to him. Pushing her hair aside, he found the small white bandage.

“It’s only two stitches,” Sakura assured him. “Relax.” She pushed his hand down. And then she leaned in close.

“It’s okay, Tobirama. You know I like it rough.”

Tobirama’s entire face flushed red. His hands clamped down on the armrests as he looked away from her.

Hashirama watched the exchange with a helpless expression. He hadn’t heard what she had said, but he could guess. He had to admit that it was somewhat funny to see her mess with his stuffy, uptight little brother.

“Oh and one other thing, Uncle,” said Sakura, turning back to the Dragon Head.

“I’m giving a bigger cut of our profits to you starting next month,” she announced. Hashirama’s eyebrows rose.

“Sakura, I’m not demanding more from you. You bring in almost as much money as Tobirama’s boys do. And you far outshine the Red Arrow boys,” he assured her. Her upper lip curled at the mere mention of the Red Arrow gang.

“Uncle, I’m not interested in being compared to the likes of Kabuto and his tweakers,” she complained. Tobirama bit back his smile. He met his brother’s eyes and quickly looked away to avoid laughing outright.

“Anyway, my boy Charlie Lau made a connection. We started moving product in through Ginza from Kowloon and he’s making a killing. Thought it would be nice that some of that trickles into your pockets.”

Hashirama looked straight into her eyes. His stare seemed to search her very soul. Many mistook this Dragon Head as being too light-hearted compared to his predecessors. But Sakura knew that he could spot a lie like a hawk spotted a field mouse. Talons out. Dive and kill.

“What do you want, Sakura?” he demanded. The laughter was gone.

Sakura took a drag from her cigarette. Tilting her head back, she expelled the smoke in one long trail toward the ceiling. With her left hand, she reached back, as if to hold onto the back of the armchair. Instead, she gently combed her fingers through Tobirama’s hair.

“Nothing....yet,” she responded. And then she smiled, eyes narrowing. She met Hashirama’s gaze.

“But when the time comes, Uncle, I want you to remember that I’m your favorite. Not Kabuto,” she added.

Hashirama looked her over one more time. He clicked his tongue against his teeth. Pushing his takeout aside, he motioned for a cigarette from one of his cronies.

“Are you about to start a headache for me, Jing-Mei?” he questioned.

Sakura raked her fingers across Tobirama’s scalp. She felt his grip tighten around her thigh. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that his expression hadn’t changed. She smiled.

“Now why would you say that to your favorite, Uncle?” she giggled.

Sakura sent Tenten ahead after her meeting with the Dragon Head. They paused in the lobby outside Uncle Hashirama’s office as Tenten helped her into her coat.

“Go ahead with Zabuza. Make your rounds in Central and check in on the boys. I want to make sure that we’ve got this month’s protection money. Be especially careful towards the east. If you run into the Red Arrow boys, avoid a fight if possible,” Sakura ordered, flipping her hair over her collar. Tenten frowned.

“What about you, Boss?” she questioned.

“I’m going to have a talk with Tobirama. If I need the car later, I’ll call,” Sakura assured her. As Tenten hesitated, the doors to Uncle Hashirama’s office opened. Tobirama strode out, his silhouette somehow filling the entire room.

Tenten didn’t understand how her boss got away with teasing him. Just looking at the man was enough to make her blood run cold. She had shed plenty of blood in her day, but this Red Pole was on another level. She had never seen a man with such murderous eyes.

“Go. I’ll be at my apartment in Aberdeen if you need me later,” she urged Tenten.

“Got it, Boss,” Tenten finally agreed. And then she hurried down the stairs before Tobirama could try to say something to her.

Sakura took her time fidgeting with her coat and brushing imaginary lint off her skirt. She waited until she was certain that Tenten was long gone before she began her lazy way down the stairs.

She listened. Heard his footfalls follow her.

His hand slammed against the wall just beside her head when they reached the landing for the deserted third floor.

“What were you trying to pull in there?” Tobirama growled. His chest heaved up and down. In the darkened stairwell, she almost couldn’t make out the red tattoos on his cheeks and chin. She looked up into his eyes, unwavering.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she replied. When her mouth moved, their lips almost touched. She could feel him trembling, hear his fist tightening beside her ear. She could even hear his teeth grinding together. His breath stank of tobacco as he exhaled.

“What will you do if Uncle sees us like this here?” Sakura whispered.

Tobirama didn’t move.

Sakura reached out, her palm resting against his chest. He flinched a little. But stilled as her hand ran down his leather jacket, smoothing over his side. She slipped her fingers under the zipper, depositing a key card into his pants pocket.

“Good night, Tobirama,” she then said. Without another word, she ducked under his arm and made her way down the stairs. Unhurried. Her hands in the pockets of her unbuttoned coat. She made it all the way down to the first floor, out the back doors. Yamato gave her a sullen nod as she passed. He didn’t seem to hate her as much as he hated Zabuza and Tenten.

“Your ride left, Aunt Cheng. Need a lift?” he offered, uncharacteristically generous. Sakura looked at him over her shoulder.

“No need. You have a good night,” she responded, already walking. Yamato gave her another nod, his eyebrows rising.

Sakura flagged a taxi a couple blocks from Uncle Hashirama’s building. She told him her address and then pulled her phone from her pocket.

Tenten must have spread the word that she was busy. There were only a few messages and they were mostly about things that could wait. She replied to Tommy’s text about their meeting next week. And then she read over the short email from Sai updating her on the goings-on at the club in her absence. By the time she was done catching up, the taxi had stopped in front of her building. She paid and then headed into the high-rise.

This apartment in North Point had been her first big purchase. Technically, it was in the Chrysanthemum gang’s territory, but they didn’t seem to mind. At the time, she had thought to stay in Uncle Hashirama’s territory. Back then, Red Pole had been a distant goal she had thought she would never reach.

She had started off as a hostess in her mother’s little snack bar in Yokohama. Her mother, a Hong Kong immigrant who never talked about her past, had raised her on her own. Sakura had a sneaking suspicion that either her mother had run away from her father or didn’t know who he was. Either way, she had grown up as Cheng Jing-Mei until the sidelong looks and snide comments at school had driven her home in tears. Where she had begged her mother for a Japanese name. To stop all those judgmental stares.

So the name Haruno Sakura replaced everything on the register. But the new name didn’t help. Everyone knew that she went home to an apartment above a smoky little snack bar in Chinatown. They knew that she was different, made comments about her mother and her whiskey-voice.

The only comfort Sakura could find was in her mother’s snack bar. Where other Chinese-born and their children stopped in after work for a drink and someone to talk to. Together they could share in the experience of not quite fitting in. Like jamming feet into shoes that were just a half-size too small. She started fighting those sneering bullies, learning to band together with those like her.

But then her mother had died. And with the money she made selling her mother’s bar, she could have finished school. Entered the work force and made an honest living. Instead she decided to move back to Hong Kong where her mother had grown up. With her passable Cantonese and middling Mandarin, Sakura had managed to find a job at a seedy little karaoke bar.

Which was where she had first met Hashirama.

At the time, a rakish man in his early thirties, Hashirama had been a Red Pole. In charge of the Chrysanthemum Gang under the previous Dragon Head. He had caught her staring at the fresh tattoo of the god of war, Guan Yu, on his right arm. She sang him a couple songs, had a few conversations. And she eventually became his favorite each time he visited.

“You know. We’ve been looking into making some friends in Japan. Do you think you’d be willing to translate for us?” he had asked one night. Barely 17, living in a dirty apartment with five other karaoke hostesses, she had jumped at the chance to do something bigger. To be useful to the handsome gangster who often felt like the only person to really hear her voice.

The favors multiplied. They asked her to hide a weapon. To make a phone call and recite some numbers. As her skills in Cantonese and Mandarin improved, Hashirama invited her to come work at a different club- this one run by the Chrysanthemum Gang. Where she didn’t have to sit on the laps of men she didn’t like. Where if anyone got mouthy with her, one of Hashirama’s men would be sure to step in.

She continued to translate, learning to smile and laugh to smooth over the tense moments. And that charm helped her ingratiate herself with his goons. They taught her to fight, taught her how to shoot a gun. Instead of “bitch” and “girl” they started to learn her name.

Soon, she was out of the karaoke booths. Instead, she was in the back room of the club. Helping Hashirama plan, sinking deeper and deeper into his secrets. Finally feeling like this was the shoe size that fit her.

These little things piled up one on top of another. Until the night she had been given as a present to another Red Pole: Orochimaru.

The betrayal had ruined her. She was inconsolable. Drowning herself in alcohol and fleeting flings with nameless men. She hadn’t understood what she had done wrong to make Hashirama throw her away like she didn’t matter. Why had big brother Hashirama suddenly come to hate her, she lamented. And as the months dragged on, she began to see how Orochimaru took a liking to her and trusted her.

She was given one laundering business. Then two. Then ten. Handed over the racketeering in the night market. Orochimaru bought a building in her name because she was just so damn good at keeping secrets. As the years went on, she gathered her own following as Orochimaru’s right hand and the second most powerful member of the Jade Gang.

She still failed to see the bigger picture until the night the Dragon Head was assassinated by Orochimaru.

He was executed by Hashirama’s men maybe an hour later. And by the end of the night, Hashirama was named Dragon Head.

She remembered standing in the back room of that smoky karaoke bar a week later.

“Was this all part of your plan? Sending me to Orochimaru? You taking over?” she had demanded. Hitting him and hugging him. Relieved to see him and hating him all at once.

“The Chrysanthemum Gang had to go to my younger brother. I knew that eventually I would have to kill Orochimaru. And having someone like you to take his place made things much easier. Of course, I didn’t realize how soon I would have to take him out.”

Now that she no longer needed to cower under Hashirama’s wing, Sakura devoured freely. Her ties to local businesses deepened. She invested in different companies, expanding and raking in so much money that at first she hadn’t believed the profit reports. Central was firmly in her grasp. Each cog in the machine spun smoothly. And those that couldn’t obey were ground to dust between the spinning wheels.

Soon, her slice of Hong Kong wasn’t enough. Hashirama, seeing her voracity, had sent her to work with their connections in Japan. The little seeds of influence in Yokohama bloomed under her hand. All of her old connections came in handy as she sweet-talked and fawned her way to control. Her influence spread, seeping up the coast of Japan like a disease.

As she tapped her key card against the door, she felt his heat engulf her back.

“You know, the point of us arriving separately was to avoid being seen,” she remarked, her fingers resting on the handle. Tobirama placed his hand on top of hers, turning the handle together, his breath hot against the back of her neck.

Her back hit the wall as soon as she stepped into the apartment. Their bodies twisting together, fingers tangling deep into her hair. She bared her teeth as he tugged her head back.

“I’m boring?” he demanded. Sakura smirked at him, watched him unbutton the top half of her shirt.

“The Dragon Head isn’t a fool. You can’t keep playing games like that in front of him. You’re going to get us caught,” Tobirama warned, his hands stilling.

“Oh. As if you’re subtle. Worrying over a little cut like a mother hen,” scoffed Sakura. Tobirama’s eyes narrowed, finding her bandage again.

“If that little rat wasn’t already dead, I’d drown him in Victoria Harbor myself,” he snarled. Sakura laughed. She dragged him up by the hair to meet her mouth.

“Ooh. Talk dirty to me,” she teased between kisses. Tobirama pulled back just enough to look her in the eyes.

“...You’re really fucked up, you know that?” he stated. And she couldn’t quite tell whether he was being serious or not.

“You are too, Tobirama,” she reminded him.

A smile warmed his face, burning from deep within his eyes.

“Never said I wasn’t, Madam Red Pole.”

#writing #eastern suns #triad!sakura x yakuza!itachi #itasaku #also it became tobisaku for some reason #idk what happened #this is what happens when you listen to your heart #fuk u heart #triad!au

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barry-writes · 8 years ago

Text

All I Had - Part 2

Summary: Savitar kidnaps reader because in the future she was his lover, she was there for him when everyone rejected him. However, she died and now he’s in the present seeking revenge from the team while finding a way to be with her again.

Pairings: Savitar!Barry x reader

Word count: 1754

A/N: Hi guys! The much requested part 2 is finally here. You gave me a lot of suggestions and ideas and I’m trying to incorporate them through the story to make it something enjoyable to all of us! I’m not sure if you’ll like this part as much as the first one, but I really hope you do. Also, this one has a lot of dialogue oops. But anyway, I’d love to hear your opinions, they mean a lot to me x

Masterlist

You tried to come up with a plan for anything you could think of. You thought of ways to take off the cuffs and run away, of how you could trick Savitar in letting you go, of ways you could send a message to the team and even to climb up the walls and escape through the skylight but you knew this was all useless, it wouldn’t work out and it would probably make everything much worse.

A few hours had passed and all you managed to do was crawl to a near wall to rest your back on it. You sat there hugging your knees to your chest, still feeling some pain in your head from the earlier blow.

You were sick, hungry, exhausted and you could feel your body shutting down but you didn’t want to rest, you wanted to be alert for whatever step Savitar was going to take next. At some point you had probably taken an accidental nap, though.

When you opened your eyes he was standing right in front of you, staring without making a sound. His sudden figure startled you and you gasped loudly, instinctively jumping back a little.

“I’m sorry, princess, I didn’t mean to scare you”, he said softly while he kneeled down to your level. “I just wanted to see how you were doing”.

“How am I doing? Not okay, that’s how”, you spat.

“What’s wrong?”, he asked while taking a strand of hair away from your face.

“You’re kidding me, right?”, you angrily said as you pushed his hand away.

“This could be a lot easier for the both of us, you know”, he sighed.

“I really don’t understand what you’re expecting from me here”.

“I expect you to try, Y/N”.

“Try what, exactly? To accept that I’m never going home again? That I won’t see my family and my friends anymore? That I’m probably gonna end up dying in the hands of a villain?”, you inquired as you crossed your arms.

“You are not going to die, I won’t let anything happen to you! I just want you to understand me”, he said grasping both of your shoulders. “I want you to know how much I need you, Y/N!”.

“You have a very peculiar way of demonstrating that”, you said staring right at his face. “I’m not interested in anything you have to tell me because I- ”, your words got cut by an abrupt loss of air.

“Y/N? Y/N, what’s going on?”, he asked while he slightly shook you by the arms.

His words seemed more and more far away from you and the room started spinning around as your eyes involuntarily closed and your body collapsed, making you fall unconscious on his arms.

When you finally woke up you had no idea of what happened or where you were. You definitely weren’t in the cold basement anymore, this place had more light and you could feel something soft beneath your back, perhaps it was a mattress? Where did that come from? You were still trapped in the shackles, though.

You slowly looked around and saw that this room was pretty messy, full of old furniture covered in dusty plastic, the wooden floor had some pieces ripped out and the painting on the walls were completely faded, giving it all a very dark and despicable vibe. It suited him, you thought to yourself.

Your eyes kept lazily searching this new place until your gaze met Savitar’s. He was leaning against the wall across from you and you looked at each other for a minute; you could swear you saw him smile.

“Hi”, he said lowly.

“Hi”, you replied in the same tone. “What happened?”.

“You passed out, probably because of dehydration”, he told you. “So I brought you here and put an IV on you. I guess it’s all good now”.

“Where the hell did you get an IV?”, you frowned.

“I ran to a hospital and stole it”, he shrugged. “But that’s not important, how are you feeling?”.

“I’m fine, I guess”, you said sitting up on the makeshift bed. “Where exactly are we?”, you motioned around with your hands.

“Well, this is my room”.

“Your room? Really?”, he nodded. “Fancy”, you pretended to be impressed and he let out a chuckle.

“I know it’s not ideal but it’s the best we can get in an old, abandoned warehouse. It’s not like we’re staying here forever”, he took a step in your direction.

“Right....And wh- ”, you tried to stand up but the cuffs held you back, making you groan in annoyance.

“Sorry about those. I just can’t risk having you pull something on me and running away”.

“Oh, but I thought you were a God?”, you said in a mocking tone. “How could I, a mere mortal, possibly trick a God?”.

He looked at you and his lips tilted up in a smirk.

“You know, one of the things I always liked the most about you was your sarcastic sense of humor”.

“I’m glad you like it because you’ll probably get a lot of it”, you crossed your arms.

“Well, it will certainly be better than you yelling at me”, he cocked an eyebrow. “Now, are you hungry? I bet you are. You’re always hungry”, he said as walked away.

“Not always! Only when I’m held captive in a villain’s lair without any food for several hours”, you joked.

He shook his head at your words and tried to stifle a laugh, coming back to the room with a plate and sitting on the edge of the bed.

“How about you put this in your mouth and stop talking?”, he said as he placed the food on your lap.

“You’re not very good with jokes”.

“It wasn’t a joke. Now eat”.

You looked down at your plate and your eyes almost glimmered at the sight of your beloved mac and cheese. He caught the look on your face and shot you a side smile, asking if it’s also your favorite food in this timeline. You nodded and was about to dig in the dish.

“How do I know you didn't poison this, though? My mom taught me to not accept food from strangers”, you inquired.

“Trust me, the only thing in there that could kill you is that nasty cheese powder that you like so much”.

“Touché!”, you laughed before taking a bite. “And c’mon, it’s not nasty, it’s delicious!”, you argued and he rolled his eyes.

“You know, we used to have discussions like this all the time”, he looked up at you. “I would say it was disgusting and you would tell me I just couldn’t appreciate fine culinary”.

“That does sound like something I would say”, you chuckled.

You fell in silence for a few minutes as you kept eating and he watched your every move. He could feel you being lighter around him and you felt it too, but neither of you really understood why. That frightened you because you didn't want to forget the fact that this is an evil man that kidnapped you and is trying to kill your best friend.

You thought to yourself that it was because he had a familiar face and that helped you to not be so scared around him. As much as he tried to hide it he still held pieces of Barry on himself that sometimes surfaced and you could feel them. Maybe that’s why you started to open up. Maybe by not pushing him away you could convince him to not execute his plan. If he’s really so hopelessly in love with you he would at least listen, right?

“Hey”, you broke the silence. “Can I ask you something?”.

“That depends. What do you want?”.

“How’s the future? I mean, how am I? Am I too different? Did I get ugly?”, you winced.

“No, you didn’t”, he chuckled. “You were as beautiful as you are now. But your hair was shorter”.

“Really?”, you smiled and he nodded. “And what was I doing? Was I still a scientist?”.

“Oh, yeah! A very good one. You worked alongside Dr. McGee at Mercury Labs”.

“Are you serious?”, your mouth was hanging open. “Did I get the spot? Oh my God, I’ve been studying and applying for that for three years now!”.

“Yeah, I know”, he grinned. “You have a brilliant future, Y/N”.

Your face fell and your smile faded with his words, making him question what was wrong.

“I guess I won’t have that anymore”.

“Of course you will!”, he said. “You won’t be locked up forever! I just need to finish this plan and then we’ll leave this place and you can continue to be amazing, away from everyone”.

“What if that’s not what I want, have you thought of that?”.

“Y/N, we already discussed this”.

“No, we didn’t! You just told me what you want and what you’re going to do! I never had a say on any of this!”.

“And you won’t have because I know what your say is!”, he raised his voice. “You want to leave and I won’t let you”.

“Maybe if you didn’t keep me as a prisoner and weren't threatening my friends I wouldn’t want to leave so badly, did you consider that?”, you inquired in a loud tone as well.

“I already told you you can’t change my mind. I’m not having this conversation”.

“Please! You told me you want me to understand you but you need to get my side too! We can try to understand each other!”.

“Not right now”, he got up and walked away. “You should sleep”, he left the room and closed the door behind him.

“Wait”, you called when he was already in the middle of the hallway, tears silently falling down your face.

He sighed and turned back, peeking at you through a crack in the door. “Can you stay? Just a little, until I fall asleep?”, you shyly asked.

“Uh, are you sure?”, he asked and you nodded. He entered and sat in a chair next to the bed. “Is there a problem?”.

“It’s just...”, you laid down and tucked yourself under a cover. “This place is so cold and dark and lonely. It makes me scared”, you whispered, looking up at him.

He looked back at you, listening attentively to every word.

“Don’t you ever get scared?”, you asked under your breath after a couple of minutes of silence.

“All the time, Y/N. All the time”, he said to himself.

#barry allen imagine #barry allen x reader #the flash imagine #the flash x reader #barry allen oneshot #barry allen fanfiction #barry allen fic #all i had #mine

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denriawhale · 7 years ago

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perhaps i should explain

a day before my birthday and i find myself reflecting on the fact that i nearly didn't make it to said birthday.

back in march—the 20th, to be precise—i got into a car accident. i'm going to go into the whole morbid affair here so if you don't like hearing about near-fatalities you should probably stop reading.

i was driving back to my college after spring break, at around 9:30 at night (i didn't want to leave home, so i stalled as long as possible, heh), when it happened. i was singing along to the music on my phone, and wanted to know how much time was left in the song that was on. so i looked down.

big mistake.

i lost control of my car—driving 80mph, with cruise on—and glanced off the left guardrail a couple of times before cutting straight across the road and spearing the other rail. i then slid along the rail, forcing it into my car. it slid under my left leg, taking a foot-long, 2-inch deep, 6-inch wide chunk out of my leg on the way, snapping my femur in the worst compound fracture my current ortho has ever seen and shattering my tibial plateau (my knee). it also broke my pelvis in 5 places. i sound a little clinical about this because it's hard thinking back to how much it hurt, really. the rail pinned me into a 6-inch-wide space between it and the back of my car seat.

i can say that while i was out of control of my car, i couldn't move. couldn't even take the cruise off. i really only had time to think "this is actually happening, this is real, this isn't a game or a movie. i am about to die... or be in indescribable pain for a long, long time" before the impact happened.

honestly, people ask when i regained consciousness a lot but i never lost it. and i can say that the impact was sort of like a jump cut in a movie. the previous second i was bracing and then i blink and the impact has happened and i'm pinned. the fear took a while (in accident time. time gets fucking weird in situations like this. in realtime it was probably maybe one minute or two.) to set in. actually the first thing i did of my own volition (the first thing i actually did was throw up eight times onto myself) was take stock of my injuries. i could move my arms and my head felt okay, and i could feel my right leg, it seemed fine. my left leg was a different story. i couldn't feel it at all. no pain, no cold, no nothing. i noticed that my knee seemed at an unnatural angle and it really, really bothered me to look at that. despite knowing it was probably a bad idea, i used my hands to shift my leg back into alignment.

nothing. it was like i was holding someone else's leg. i think that was when i started to get really afraid. i figured the leg was a complete lost cause.

i also figured that i was going to die.

i started thinking about my friends and family, and i made peace with myself. i'd done everything i could to be a good person, maybe i wasn't the best but surely god would see that i tried to help my friends and be a good family member and i would miss them but i would make sure to watch over everyone in heaven. after that i just waited to bleed to death. it was so, so painful and i've never wanted to die before then but at that moment i wanted it more than anything else i'd ever wanted in my entire life.

that was when jared found me. i didn't learn his name until over a month later, but he's honestly my hero. he witnessed my accident in his rearview and immediately pulled over to help me. of course, i didn't know that. all i knew was that while i was waiting to bleed out, my car's back door flew open and a man threw himself inside, mid-conversation with 911.

that was when i decided that i was going to fucking live. it didn't matter that i hurt, i wasn't going to go out with an ellipsis at the end of my story. i was going to fucking fight and then even if i did die, i could face god proudly and say that i did my fucking best right up until the end. the fear completely left me, and i became very determined and rational very fast. i guess it was a survival instinct from my body. adrenaline and all that?

he was telling them about my condition and making sure i was awake. the dispatch sent out help and he hung up, then immediately started trying to get the seatbelt choking me off. of course, he couldn't because the mechanism was wrecked—the entire front of my car was a mangled mass of metal and plastic, and my seat wasn't much better if we're being honest. he would have cut the belt, but he didn't have a knife and mine was in my purse, which was flung against the windshield and completely unreachable through the tangle of sharp metal. failing that, he asked if i wanted him to call anyone and i had him call my parents, who immediately began to rush to get to me, 2 hours away.

that was when the next miracle happened.

a volunteer firetruck—driving home for the day, not summoned by dispatch—pulled up and out poured about a dozen firemen. they ushered jared away and immediately began trying to help me. i remember the name of one of them because he was the one who tried to keep me awake and alive by talking to me the entire time. his name was nate, and his job was to sit in the back seat of my car and hold my head to make sure i didn't move it in case i had a neck injury. he also talked to me to keep me calm—though mostly the calming part wasn't necessary. i panicked a total of 3 times after the firemen arrived, each time screaming "help me" over and over and trying to pry myself out of the rail's grip. they only lasted maybe ten seconds before nate settled me down again. meanwhile the firemen tried to figure out how the actual fuck to get me out of my mangled car.

then the paramedics and another firetruck arrived, the ones summoned by 911 dispatch. the firemen wound up deciding to kick the rear and front windshields out—they put a blanket over me to protect me from the glass—and cut the roof of my car from the rest using the jaws of life. after the top was off, the paramedics rushed in. they tried and failed to stick me with an iv—shock and cold had collapsed most of my veins. i had no pulse in any of my limbs, but i was still awake and talking. i knew that if i passed out, i would die.

in fact, at one point it very sharply occurred to me that i could escape all the pain that was coming to me by simply closing my eyes and going to sleep and dying. it was so, so tempting. but then i remembered that one of my long-held beliefs is that the saddest thing in the world is a parent outliving their child, and i couldn't possibly do that to my parents, and i didn't want to leave my friends. my resolve to live got even stronger.

the paramedics had to use a drill to give me something called an io, which is basically an iv but it sticks into your bone marrow instead to give you fluids. by the way, it's also incredibly painful and when i still had one in the next day i actually thought my arm was broken.

once they managed that, the firemen started trying to figure out how to get me out. i remember thinking to myself that they needed to hurry the fuck up and stop standing around talking about what to do, but that's because i was in pain. logically i know they had never seen something like this and they would need to discuss how to help me or they might end up killing me by accident.

they ended up deciding to cut the reinforcing bars out of the back of my seat and then, using the jaws of life as a spreader, they forced the back away from the guardrail. at once, maybe ten firemen surrounded me and lifted me out of the car and onto a stretcher.

honest to god, that was the closest i came to dying. all of the pain completely vanished, and i closed my eyes and sighed in relief, nearly fell asleep right then and there. then i remembered what was happening and forced myself awake again.

that was also when i began to bleed to death. it turns out the guardrail had cut my femoral artery, and the only reason i'd made it longer than a couple of minutes was because the pressure of the rail crushing me was acting like a sort of tourniquet to stop the blood from escaping. the paramedics rushed me into an ambulance to stabilize me and stop the bleeding, rushing to put warm fluids into me and keep me awake. it started to get hard to keep my eyes open, and i said as much to the paramedics, figuring it was important. the look of complete and utter terror on their faces is something i don't think i'll ever forget. they rushed even faster at that point, making me promise to stay awake and then rushing me into a helicopter.

at that point i was too tired to speak, so i kept myself awake by looking at all of the buttons in the helicopter (there were so many, it was crazy) and trying to reason out what they might do. it was all i could think of. they got me to the hospital and into the trauma bay after that, and that was when things got a lot easier.

it took them an hour and a half to get me to the trauma bay, starting from when jared called 911.

once at the hospital, they had to do a CAT scan to confirm what all was broken and make sure my spine was okay, and they wheeled me to the scan room. they apologized so many times before they moved me to the table, because they knew it would hurt me (and boy, were they fucking right) but it had to happen. i, of course, cooperated easily because i knew what was at stake here. they got me back to the trauma bay and the red cross found my blood type (a negative) and started to give me blood. i woke up a lot after that, and started asking for details on what was happening and participating in conversation.

that was when the absolute worst part happened. they had to debride the wound—that is, pull pieces of road and dead flesh out of it. they apologized, then lifted my leg up into the air and started pouring betadine into it. that was the only time i screamed in pain. it was blinding agony, the worst thing i've ever felt in my life, so much worse than the accident itself. i wanted to die. i wanted to die so badly. but, eventually, it was over and they set my leg back down.

my family turned up after that, and at this point i was pretty certain i was gonna make it. so i wanted to make my family feel a little better. i made some jokes, like telling my mom "at least i kept all my teeth!" and apologizing to my dad for wrecking the car. i think they thought i was an asshole for joking around at a time like that, but hey. then i was wheeled out of the room and into surgery.

i'd end the story there, but i want to bring up one other thing. the next morning, they woke me up from surgery still intubated. that was the worst thing i have ever fucking experienced and for each subsequent surgery i have threatened the nurses with death if they ever wake me up like that again. never. again. imagine being restrained so you cant move your hands, unable to make even a groaning sound, unable to communicate, with a tube down your throat so you keep throwing up over and over and they keep having to suck fluid out of your lungs which just makes you throw up again and it's an endless fucking cycle. eleven hours. i spent eleven fucking hours like that. i have never wanted to fucking die more than i did when i was intubated. nothing compares. nothing. not even the month i spent in agony in the hospital while my bones knitted back together. it was fucking awful. never again. i will fight six bears barehanded before i let them wake me up intubated.

that being said, i'm really glad for those surgeons and that hospital and everyone who was involved that night. they're all the reason i'm still here and i will always be in their debt. i'm currently still recovering and i have one more surgery (on the 28th) in my future. unless there's some kind of complication, but i've been blessed to escape any kind of complications so far. i hope that continues. i'm expected to make a full recovery and i'll be able to go back to college once i have more stamina for walking!

anyway, there's my story. of course, there's more to it, but a month of hospital time would take so long to go over and in the grand scheme of things the part i wrote about is what's important. if you made it all the way down here, thanks so much for reading.

#personal #car accident #story

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vivaciouswordsmith · 7 years ago

Text

Four-Legged Fiend (The End!)

Here it is, ladies and gents. The last chapter of Four-Legged Fiend. It’s been quite the ride, my dudes, and I hope we’ll get to go on another one sometime soon. Depends on how quickly I can work up a new idea, I guess.

Anyway, as always, you can read this one here or beneath the cut. Start from the beginning, if you’d like. Enjoy, and thank you for reading!

Shouts rang out through the penthouse and jolted Jeremy out of an otherwise peaceful sleep.

He pulled his face out of the pillow and blinked at the wall for a few moments. He remembered the end of the heist well enough, but he had no idea when or how they'd made it back home. Yet here he was, safe and sound in his bed, and still in his heist armor, for fuck's sake. He rolled over and set his feet on the floor. With a yawn and a thorough scrubbing of his eyes, he pushed himself up and tottered over to the bathroom door.

One long, warm shower later, he dressed himself in a purple tank top and bright orange sweatpants and headed out into the penthouse proper. He'd only taken one step into the living room when something barreled toward him at breakneck speeds and leaped to consume his field of vision. A barrage of squeaks drowned out every other noise in the room.

Jeremy smiled blearily and patted in the general direction of the blur. "G'morning, Ryan."

Four squeaks sounded, and the pup panted in his ear. Then Ryan turned tail and ran back into the kitchen. A shriek rattled the half-empty glasses on the dining room table, and some glass thing smashed to the ground. Jeremy yawned and rounded the corner.

"Jeremy! Thank God you're here! Quick, get this fucking furry asshole outta here before he cleans out the whole fucking kitchen!"

Jeremy blinked and squinted at the foyer. Edgar lay abandoned at the kitchen's entrance while Ryan was nose deep in a fallen white box. Several fragments of white ceramic lay at Geoff's feet, and brown liquid wicked up into his socks. He gibbered for a few seconds when Jeremy just blinked at him.

"Dude, get your butt in here! We gotta save at least some of the kolaches!"

Jeremy walked into the kitchen and stooped to pick up Edgar. He squeaked him. Ryan didn't so much as look up. Now that he had moved closer, he could hear Ryan's frantic smacking and slurping. Flecks of pastry, cheese and meat decorated Ryan's whiskers and dotted the floor.

"I...I don't think they can be saved, Geoff."

"What's going on?" Jack walked in behind Jeremy and froze at the sight before him. "Ryan!"

The wolfdog's good ear shot upright. He glanced up and locked eyes with Jack. He grabbed the box's lid with his teeth and sped out of the kitchen. A single, half-eaten kolache flopped out of the box and smacked to the ground during Ryan's retreat. He zoomed through the dining room and took off for the patio before anyone could even say "Bad wolf!"

"Goddammit, Geoff, I told you to put those into the fridge until everyone woke up!"

"Who the fuck wants cold kolaches instead of fucking fresh ones?" Geoff flopped down on a bar stool and stripped his socks off with a grimace. "Besides, he knocked my favorite mug off the counter and smashed it to shit."

"I get the feeling that was on purpose," said Jeremy. "He's a devious little bastard."

"Probably," said Jack. He bent over, pulled a plastic bag out from under the sink, and set about cleaning up the mug fragments. "I love him and I hate him, you know?"

"Well, at least he's reminding us why we lock the fridge up," said Geoff. "Guess I'd better go order more fucking kolaches. Fucking prick." He pushed himself back up and headed into the living room.

"There's coffee if you want it, Jeremy," said Jack.

"Mmkay." He set Edgar down on the island, wandered over to the cupboard and pulled a cup out at random. The coffeemaker took up a good half yard of counterspace; apparently it was one of those buffet affairs or some shit, and held several gallons of the good old brown stuff. Jeremy helped himself to the sugar bowl and Geoff's half-and-half before plopping himself down at the table and putting his chin in his hand.

"You seen Gavin this morning?" Jeremy shook his head. "Didn't think so."

"Is...uh...is there any word on...has Caleb called about Michael yet?"

"Not that I know of. I don’t think we're going to hear from him for a while yet, so let's assume no news is good news."

Jeremy groaned into his coffee cup. "But I don't like not knowing, Jack!"

Jack sighed again. "I don't either."

A click-click-click pattered over to the table, and a long nose poked Jeremy's tummy. He looked down in time to see Ryan rest his head on his knee. There were still kolache remnants clinging to his whiskers, though his tongue was making quick work of them. Despite their ruined breakfast, Jeremy couldn't help smiling down at him, and rubbed behind his half-ear.

"Hey, buddy. It's good to see you again," he said. Ryan beamed and wagged his tail.

"Yeah, how's it going, asshole? Are you happy now that you've eaten two dozen fucking kolaches?" Jack glared down at Ryan and smacked his backside. "See if you get any treats today. Fucker." Ryan whined and brushed up against Jack's leg. "Nope. You are not guilting me into forgiving you."

“Aww, but look at this face, Jack!” Jeremy patted his lap until Ryan lifted his upper half up onto him. He turned to look at Jack with wide baby blue eyes and grinned. “Can you really stay mad at this face?”

Jack still scowled at Ryan for a good minute or so, and then sighed for a third time and smiled. “No, and he fucking knows it, too.” He reached out and threaded his fingers through Ryan’s ruff. “Still…it was pretty quiet without him around. Even if he’s a little shit, it’s better than…not having him around.”

Ryan clambered onto the table and padded over to lick Jack’s forehead. His tail wagged and hit Jeremy in the face several times.

“Yeah, yeah, I love you too, dickhead. Now get off the fucking table!” Ryan hopped down and padded down the hallway.

Not too long afterwards, Geoff reentered the dining room and sat down at the table. “Okay, I’ve ordered more fucking kolaches. Also, remind me never to be honest with delivery people. Tired of being the fucking laughingstock of minimum wage workers.”

“Look at it this way, Geoff. You probably made some poor asshole’s morning,” said Jack. “God knows those jobs are soulsucking.”

Geoff huffed and leaned back in his chair. “Yeah, I know that. I just wish it wasn’t me they were laughing at.”

“C’mon, Geoff, we laugh at you all the time!” said Jeremy. “What’s so different about one stranger laughing at you?”

Geoff’s response was cut off by his phone ringing again. “If this is about the fucking kolaches I’m gonna fucking shoot myself.” He set his phone on the table and turned it on speaker. “The fuck is calling me?”

“Uh��hi, Geoff. It’s Caleb.”

Everyone leaned in to the phone call, smiles and mirth immediately abandoned.

“Caleb? What’s going on? Is Michael okay?” Geoff’s hands gripped the edge of the table until the knuckles went white. “What’s going on?”

“Oh, he’s…he’s great. He woke up…he woke up this morning actually.”

Just as quickly as it came, all the tension left the table. Jeremy sagged into his chair, Jack let out a deep breath, and Geoff smiled. “That’s great! How is he?”

Something thudded in the background, and a new voice bellowed over the receiver. “WHO’S THAT? ARE THOSE FUCKERS CALLING? TELL THEM THEY’RE FUCKING DEAD TO ME!” They all flinched at the horrible popping and crackling accompanying Michael’s screeching.

“I put the news on for him so he could hear how you guys were, and, uh, well, they were showing footage of your most recent…heist, I guess. He’s, uh, a little ticked off that you pulled it off without him.”

Something in the background smashed to pieces, and Michael’s voice crackled through the receiver, much louder this time. “IT’S ALL ANYBODY’S FUCKING TALKING ABOUT, AND YOU FUCKING LEFT ME IN A GODDAMN HOSPITAL BED!” Something else crashed, and footsteps tapped unsteadily closer and closer to the phone.

“Hey! Hey! You’re not supposed to be up yet! If you pull out your stitches, you could die!”

“Uh…do you need any help?” Jeremy asked.

“I’ve got it under control, I swear.” A third crash rang through the call. Caleb let out a breath. “That better not have been his IV, goddammit. Anyway, just thought you’d want to know. He’s fine.”

“I AM NOT FINE, I’M FUCKING PISSED OFF YOU FUCKING PRICK!”

“Mind if I talk to you later, Geoff? When I’m not about to violate the Hippocratic Oath?”

“Sure, Caleb. Thanks for the update.”

“Bye for now.”

The call ended rather unceremoniously after that. All three of them sat around the table and stared at the grains threaded over its surface. The quiet sounds of a Halo match abruptly halted in the distance, followed by a telltale Gavin-esque squeal. The phone sat in the middle of the table.

“Well, I guess I should be glad he’s okay,” said Jack.

“He’s fine,” said Geoff. He stood and grabbed his phone. “He’s just being a pissy little baby.”

“He sounded fine. I mean, unless I’m crazy, Caleb almost sounded scared,” said Jeremy.

“Nah, Caleb’s pretty used to his shit by now. If anything, he’s probably going to charge me double for this.” Geoff moved back into the living room and flopped down onto the couch. “And he knows I’ll pay it, too. Medics are fucking hard to come by in this shithole, and the fucker knows that.”

Jack and Jeremy laughed at that and turned back to their coffee. Jeremy sat up a little straighter and sipped carefully at his coffee. Ryan was home, nobody was badly injured, their place in Los Santos was secure, and Michael was fully awake and ready to rumble, if the call was anything to go by. A tension Jeremy had long since become used to eased from his chest and shoulders.

A commotion sounded from the hallway. Jeremy glanced up in time to see Gavin running down the hall, Ryan hot on his heels. Though the Brit screeched and howled fearfully, he had a huge grin on his face and practically bounced down the hallway. Ryan’s tongue flopped up and down, up and down, and he loped along in Gavin’s wake. Ryan had long since stopped being overtly malicious to Gavin, but he, like the rest of the crew, loved to tease him in his own wolfy way. Gavin moved to hide behind Geoff, who immediately shoved him to the ground with a yell.

Even with Michael’s absence, it already felt like everything was back to normal.

By lunchtime, several new plans of action had taken root. Jack planned a big party for Ryan to celebrate his coming home in one piece, while Geoff coordinated with Caleb to bring Michael home early. Apparently, the medic was one outburst away from putting Michael on a permanent morphine drip. Considering how bad of an idea that was, Geoff decided it would be much wiser to bring the pissed off demoman home and deal with him there. Jeremy and Gavin were given some much needed time off, though they were warned to do their best to keep a low profile, or as Geoff put it, “If you get in trouble, your dumb ass is staying in trouble.”

Jeremy had to admit, it was weird to do nothing after so much planning and action. Sitting on the couch nearly bored him to tears, so he strapped a wiggly and antsy Ryan into his harness and took him on a walk around the Fakes’ turf. He avoided the area where the tank-cargobob had crashed; cops still crawled everywhere like angry ants, and it was a guaranteed way to end up in the slammer. It didn’t help that he was walking an escaped convict with incredibly recognizable markings and a propensity to rip throats out. Still, the Fakes had enough territory to provide a dozen alternate routes, so he gave no more thought to it and let Ryan lead him away.

After an hour, Ryan slowed down and panted like mad. His great shaggy flank pressed against Jeremy’s side and bit by bit leaned more and more of his weight on Jeremy, to the point where his knees nearly collapsed with every step. Any attempt to push him off resulted in Ryan practically draping himself over Jeremy, so he decided it was probably time to go home.

The first thing he heard when he made it back to the penthouse was a cascade of shouting.

“Guess Michael’s back,” he said to Ryan. Ryan’s ear perked up. All traces of exhaustion vanished, and he bounded to the end of his leash and pawed at the doorknob. Jeremy smiled and turned the knob for him.

“-fine, for the thousandth time!”

Michael’s angry voice reached them immediately, and after a brief look around, Jeremy quickly figured out why. He lay on the couch, bandaged back up in the air, and ranted at Caleb and Geoff, who were standing next to him talking about something.

Ryan growled and turned to gnaw at his harness. Jeremy did his best to bat his muzzle away while he undid the clasps. The moment the clip came undone, Ryan shook himself until the harness hit the ground and ran into the living room. He cleared the couch in one leap and pushed his face into Michael’s. His tail wagged and scattered a sheaf of papers over the wooden floor. Despite himself, Michael smiled and bumped his forehead against Ryan’s markings.

“Yeah, yeah, I missed you too, asshole.”

Caleb leaped onto the opportunity and said, “Okay, Geoff, you do know what you have to do, right? His bandages need to be changed at least twice a day, ten days from now I’ll need to take his stitches out, and for the love of Christ, please try to make him rest.”

“I keep telling you, I don’t need-”

“Yes, Michael, you do need to rest! Do you even realize how badly you were injured? If that turret had cut any deeper, at the very fucking best you’d be paralyzed from the waist down and peeing through a fucking catheter.” Michael opened his mouth, but a sharp gesture from Caleb quelled any argument. “I’ve given Geoff more sedatives, so if you decide I’m not worth listening to…well, I’ve washed my hands of it, I’ll tell you that fucking much.”

Geoff looked incredibly lost. “Uh…well, I…”

Luckily Jack rounded the corner to save them from themselves. “I’ll handle it, Caleb, don’t worry.” He gathered up the papers and pried a small orange bottle out of Geoff’s hand. “We’ll make sure you have your payment before nightfall.”

Caleb let out a sigh of relief and nodded. “I feel much better knowing he’s in your hands, Jack.”

Michael groaned and let his face flop into the couch. Ryan snuffled his back and growled low in his throat. He padded over to Jack, sniffed the pill bottle, and growled again. Jack let his hand rest on Ryan’s forehead and rubbed gentle circles between his eyes.

“Between me and Ryan, I’m sure we can handle him.”

Jeremy swore Ryan nodded and glared over at Michael.

“Oh, this is going to be so much fun,” said Geoff.

“What is?” Gavin rounded the corner and froze upon seeing Michael stretched out on the couch. “Oh – Michael! Michael, Michael, you’re back, Michael!” He moved forward and stopped again when Jack fixed him with a death stare. “Is…is he alright, then?”

Michael looked up and glared around the room. “I keep telling everyone I’m fine, but-”

“Bullshit you’re fine!” Jeremy blurted. “I fucking saw that wound with my own two eyes! I’m surprised you didn’t die right then and there! God, I…there was so much blood, Michael. Gav and I were soaked in it!” The memory flashed in front of his eyes; he squeezed them shut and sat down in one of their squishy armchairs. “I seriously thought you were going to die.”

For a long, long while, nobody spoke. The TV droned on in the background, detailing the weather for the upcoming week. A jet soared overhead, the roar of its engines slowly gaining volume and power the closer it got, and lingering long after it winged away. Michael stared stonily at a patch on the ground while everyone else gaped at Jeremy. He shifted and turned to the TV. The weather report wrapped up, and another round of reports on the New Eden heist rolled up. Fuzzy security cam footage showed blurry four legged figures running up and down the halls with green-suited men in hot pursuit.

“I…he’s right, Michael.” Everyone turned to look at Gavin. His cheeks darkened a touch, but he pressed on. “Jeremy had to carry you on his damn back, and both of you were drenched, Michael. Your effing spine was just…just…out there. Caleb said…you’d be lucky if you survived, and it would be a miracle if you came out with just a scar.” He crossed his arms over his chest and glowered down at him. “So stop being a bitch and calm your tits, Michael.”

Michael’s mouth worked for a few seconds, but nothing came out. He relaxed ever so slightly and finally said, “So, uh, is, is someone gonna, like, put on a movie or get me a controller or something? I’m fucking bored over here.”

A great breath of relief went through the room, and Jeremy relaxed into the armchair.

Gavin beamed brightly, all seriousness apparently forgotten. “Let’s see if we can’t make any progress in 7 Days to Die, yeah boi?”

“Sure. Not like I’m good for anything else in this state.”

Ryan came around the couch and dropped Michael’s customized controller in front of his hands. He turned back, nosed at Gavin’s solid gold controller, nibbled on it a bit, and thought better of it. Gavin squawked and bumped his nose away, which resulted in Ryan tackling to the ground and laying down on him. He yelled and wriggled, but a skinny Brit was no match for the bulk of a full grown wolf. He settled down and let his head thump down on Gavin’s chest.

“Ryan! Ryan, no! Ryan, I’m not having it!” The wolfdog’s eyes closed. His head lolled, and his weight sagged further down onto Gavin. “Ryan!”

Geoff grinned and beamed down at Ryan. “Good boy, Ryan. If you stay there, you’ll get a treat.”

Gavin yelled in horror while one blue eye cracked open and regarded Geoff with a very serious stare. Jeremy laughed, Jack shook his head, and Michael was practically crying with how hard he laughed at Gavin’s predicament.

Finally, everything had fallen back into place, and the celebrations could finally commence.

After a hectic few weeks of shootouts and falling tanks, a sunny day with little in the way of clouds was exactly what the Fakes wanted. Swim shorts were busted out and dusted off, and Geoff’s new patio, swimming pool and Jacuzzi were summarily christened.

(All weapons, including Nerf guns, were banned, as Geoff and Jack did not want a repeat of the Great Pool Explosion of 2016.)

Today, though, today was about relaxing and temporarily putting aside all worries. Sunlight streamed down between the slats in the roof, a light breeze ghosted over the water, and the smell of grilling brisket grew stronger by the second. Up here, where the buildings kissed the bellies of clouds, all worries and fears were left on the streets below. Up in the penthouse, everything finally felt at peace.

Geoff floated in the middle of the pool, sat firmly in his ostentatiously green-and-black, one hundred percent custom floaty-armchair. He had a soda in one hand and a brand-new copy of Cather in the Rye in the other. His sunglasses sat firmly on his sunscreened nose, and he glanced over the top of them every so often to see what everyone else was doing. Jeremy and Gavin splashed through the pool and sent waves of water at each other with disturbing frequency. Michael lay on a pool chair in the shade of a giant umbrella, doing his best not to look too grumpy. His stitches wouldn’t come out for another week, so Caleb insisted that Michael stay as far away from the water as humanly possible. Still, that didn’t mean he couldn’t watch the fireworks, or, the waterworks, he supposed. Finally, Jack stood behind the grill and tended to the sizzling meat. He had a ‘Don’t Fuck with the Chef’ apron on over his Hawaiian shirt and equally floral shorts, a wide-brimmed straw hat on his head, and a huge smile on his face. Ryan lurked in the shadows behind the grill. A newly repaired Edgar sat between his paws, but he paid it no heed. His eyes zeroed in on the raw brisket, bacon and burgers piled up on Jack’s lefthand side.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” said Jack. “I mean, a good chunk of this is already for you, Ryan, you do not need to eat it early.”

“I mean, he is mostly wolf, Jack.” Jeremy hoisted himself up on the lip of the pool and shook the water off his head and shoulders. “Probably wouldn’t hurt him if he did eat it.”

“Jeremy, you do not need to encourage him.”

Jeremy laughed and turned toward Michael. “You doing all right, Michael?”

“This fucking sucks balls, dude.” Michael scowled up at the fluffy clouds. “You fucks are splashing around like fucking newlyweds, and I’m stuck on this fucking chair with this fucking itchy-ass stitches!”

Ryan stood and trotted over to Michael. His scowl slipped a little, and he patted Ryan’s head.

“We’ve got your back, Michael, no matter how shitty and fucked up it is right now,” said Geoff.

Michael snorted and looked over at his boss. “Why the fuck are you reading, Geoff? At least I’m making a goddamn effort to be here.”

“I’m in the fucking pool, aren’t I?” Geoff flipped Michael off and took a sip of his E-Cola. “You don’t have to be the fucking fun police, Michael.”

“Oooh! Sick burn, Geoff!” Jeremy laughed and clapped his hands. “You gonna take that, Michael?”

Michael stared at the water for a few minutes. A grin stretched across his face, and he pushed himself up on his elbows. “Hey, Ryan.” The wolfdog looked at him. “Go get Edgar, Ryan!” He immediately turned tail and ran back to the grill.

Geoff eyed them and held his book in front of his face. “You fuckers better not try anything.”

“Geoff! I, I, I am appalled that you think I’d try anything. I’m an invalid, Geoff! I wouldn’t dream of trying anything!” Ryan dropped his toy between Michael’s elbows and sat back. “Anyway…” He grabbed Edgar and tossed him up in the air once or twice. “Go get ‘im, Ryan!” He shut one eye and tossed the plushie cow right into Geoff’s lap.

Geoff blinked and looked down into his lap. Moments later he shrieked and fumbled with the toy, his book and his can of E-Cola. “Fuck fuck fuck fuck get it off! No no no no no no-”

A shadow fell over Geoff’s chair, and by the time he looked up, it was far too late. Ryan slammed right into him and sent the whole kit and caboodle into the water. He coughed and spat out mouthfuls of chlorinated water while he paddled back to his upturned seat. His E-Cola bobbed back toward the back end of the pool, leaving a trail of dissipating brown liquid in its wake. His crew’s hysterical laughter rang in his ears.

“Michael, you…you goddamn little fucker!” He pulled himself up onto his seat and panted for air. “You nearly drowned me!”

“Don’t exaggerate, Geoff,” said Jack.

“You shut your stupid mouth, Jack!”

On the other side of the pool, Ryan pulled himself out of the pool and shook the water from his fur. He moved back into the sun and chewed on his prize. An uneasy feeling settled into Geoff’s stomach when no squeaks emanated from the blob between Ryan’s jaws. He glanced around and had his fears confirmed when he saw a soaked Edgar resting on the pool’s stairs.

“Ryan! Ryan! You drop that right now, you prick!” Geoff flung himself from the chair and threw himself toward the ladder. Ryan shifted away and held his tail up high. “You fucking heard me, asshole!” Geoff scrambled to his feet and launched himself at Ryan.

He promptly turned tail and darted back toward the house. Geoff moved to intercept him and managed to surprise the wolf when he dived for the grill. Jack let out a yell, but Geoff ignored him in favor of grabbing the sopping wet book in Ryan’s mouth. Ryan growled and dug in his paws. Geoff tugged back, a little well of despair opening in his chest when little pulpy holes formed in the book’s cover.

“C’mon, Ryan, give it back!”

“I’d let him have it, if I were you,” said Jack.

“Fuck no! I’m not letting him destroy another one!”

“Yeah, Geoff, get it!” said Michael.

“Tug of war!” yelled Jeremy, and Michael joined him in chanting “Tug of war! Tug of war!”

“It’s just a damn book.” Gavin’s mutter was barely audible over the chanting and Ryan’s growls.

Geoff dug his own feet in and gave a mighty heave. His heart leaped in his chest when the book came free and he fell flat on his ass. Michael and Jeremy whooped and clapped. He let out a sigh and squinted his eyes open to inspect the damage. His heart quickly sank back down. The upside-down title of Catcher in the Rye glittered up through his fingers, along with the frayed edge of the torn book. The other three-quarters of the book still rested in between Ryan’s jaws, and, as Geoff watched, the wolf hunkered down and chewed the book to little white shreds.

“Nice try, Geoffrey,” said Jack.

“Goddammit, Ryan, what the fuck do you have against the works of J.D. Salinger?” Geoff’s question was only a whisper. The wolf had no answer for him. With a final shake of his head, he finished tearing the book apart and trotted back over to the pool to fish out Edgar.

When Geoff looked up, Jeremy had gone back to splashing Gavin, who now sat in Geoff’s chair. It seemed they had claimed it for themselves and were now using it as a sort of impromptu King of the Hill game. Geoff scowled and squished back to the side of the pool.

“You assholes have to the count of zero to get the fuck out of my chair.”

“How the Christ are you supposed to count to zero, Geoff?” asked Gavin.

“I don’t know. Let’s find out.” Geoff jumped into the pool and joined Jeremy in trying to overturn the chair. Michael had tears leaking from his eyes.

Jack shook his head and pretended to fumble a large piece of brisket. It hadn’t been on the ground for three seconds when Ryan set upon it and gobbled it down whole. He smacked his chops happily and settled down next to Jack.

“That’s all you’re getting until dinnertime, Ryan. Unless J.D. Salinger ruined your appetite.” Ryan snorted. “I didn’t think so.”

He chuckled and cast a fond eye over the pool. The newly overturned chair bobbed crazily on the water while Geoff chased Gavin around the pool. Jeremy hung out next to Michael and chatted amiably with him, seemingly ignorant of the chaos unfolding in front of him. Jack smiled and “fumbled” a piece of bacon.

“Assholes, every one of them,” he said, and laughed again.

He wouldn’t trade them for the world.

Long after the sun descended behind the horizon, the party continued in full swing. Empty paper plates littered the table, stained with the remnants of barbeque sauce and chocolate cake. Several beer bottles decorated almost each and every place at the little table, most of them completely empty. The crew sat around and remembered past missions and heists, laughing more and more the deeper they got into their drinks. Ryan sniffed at all the plates, searching for any shred of brisket or sliver of bacon. Every now and then one of the crew would distract him by rubbing his ruff and slipping the plates covered in chocolate frosting away from his questing muzzle.

“Okay, okay, okay.” Geoff pushed himself upright and tapped two empty cans together. Everyone fell silent, and half a dozen sets of eyes came to rest on him. “Jack, if you could, uh, go get the present, I have something to say.”

Jack nodded and pushed himself out of his seat. The lads stared curiously after him, but their attention was almost immediately reclaimed by Geoff clearing his throat.

“You know, ‘bout a decade ago, I never thought I’d be doing this. I was squatting in shitholes with nothing to my name but a gun and the one guy who thought I was actually worth something. I thought I’d be there for the rest of my goddamn life; out on the ground with the rest of this city’s garbage, fighting for a piece of anything.” He reached out and thumped Ryan’s shoulder. “Then this little monster came into my life and fucked. Everything. Up. I’ll admit, I wasn’t that fond of him at the start, but he grew on me. A little.”

“Still sore about that book, Geoff?” asked Michael. Everyone tittered when Geoff scowled.

“Seriously, I don’t know what his problem is. Every other book in the house he leaves alone. Anyway…” He cleared his throat again and continued. “…this asshole’s had our backs back when there was nobody else, and he’ll be here for a while yet. Nobody – not the other gangs, not the fucking cops, not even the goddamn zoo – can ever change that.” He picked up his glass and held it over the table. “So, here’s to the best crewmate an honest criminal could ask for. To Ryan!”

“To Ryan!” the crew echoed, and clinked their glasses. Ryan grinned at them, tail thumping against the deck. He boofed once and wiggled in his seat.

“Okay, here it is, Geoffrey.” Jack rounded the table and set a large hinged box down in front of Geoff. “You want to do the honors?”

“Might as well.” Geoff flipped it open and reached into the velvety interior. “Since Ryan lost his collar, I, uh, dug real deep into my pockets and got him…this.”

A large leather collar hung in between Geoff’s finger tips. Dark blue suede flanked either side of the silver D-ring, and this was accented with three strips of white gems. A black skull dangled from the D-ring, letters glittering on the back of its head. Everyone oohed and ahhed.

“Jesus Christ, how much did that cost, Geoff?” asked Michael.

“Wasn’t cheap, I’ll tell you that much.” Geoff poked one of the white stripes. “These are real fucking diamonds, assholes.”

He leaned forward and fastened the collar around Ryan’s neck. It sat perfectly on his shoulders, and Geoff smoothed the skull into his chest fur. The wolf panted and wiggled in his seat, grin stretched oh so wide over his face.

“Good to have you back, bud. Here’s hoping you stay this time.”

Geoff spent several minutes rubbing the base of Ryan’s ears and sinking his fingers into his fur. The rest of the crew stayed quiet.

“So, who want to take bets on how long until that collar gets absolutely fucking ruined?” asked Jeremy.

Geoff turned and glared.

“Goddammit, Li’l J! Did you have to ruin the mood?!”

Everyone laughed again. Ryan chuffed a few times, lifted his head, and let out a long, low howl. The sound echoed over the rooftops of Los Santos and faded into the starry night.

A quiet reminder that the Fake AH Crew stood at the top of the world, and nothing would knock them down any time soon.

#thanks for reading guys #it's been fun :)#achievement hunter #gta au #fanfiction #ao3 #wolf!ryan au #wolf ryan au #maybe I'll write that X-Ray and Vav fic I've been working on in my head #that's an idea

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inawickedlittletown · 6 years ago

Text

Walking The Wire (131/156)

Summary: Tony Stark always knew about Peter Parker. He didn’t know that Peter was going to get superpowers and become Spider-Man, but he always knew about Peter because Peter was his son.

This will span from pre-Iron Man up through the rest of the MCU (eventually including Infinity War) and will be for the most part canon compliant except where I’ve taken some liberties and interpreted canon a certain way.

Pairings: Pepper/Tony, Tony/Steve (endgame), Tony/Mary (past)

A/N: If you want me to tag you when I post new chapters let me know. This fic is also on AO3

I used Collider’s MCU timeline to stay canon and the title of this fic is an Imagine Dragons song that is just so fitting for Peter and Tony

@findmeinthestarss

Masterpost

Chapter One Hundred Thirty

“That’s. Tony, that’s kind of--” Bruce trailed off.

“Crazy,” Tony said. “Yeah, well, I made it out of space in one piece and back here when the odds were that that just wasn’t going to happen. And Strange’s actions don’t make sense. He knew what winning might entail. Bastard didn’t bother to share with the class, but what can we expect for a magician.”

“You know, he actually is a doctor,” Bruce said.

“So am I, but I don’t brag about it,” Tony said.

Bruce laughed at that. “You don’t.”

“Thing is, I have to believe that. I have to believe that this all happened for a reason. It was my kid, Bruce. My kid. And so many others too.”

Bruce nodded. He was working on Tony, moving him over to The Cradle to knit his wound back together. It felt weird but it happened quick, before Steve got back even. So that when Steve did return, Tony was back in the cot. He still felt sore and Bruce wrapped up his chest before letting him put a clean shirt on.

“I brought soup and crackers. Some toast too if you’re up to it,” Steve said.

“And here I thought you’d get me a more welcoming meal,” Tony said.

“From what Nebula told me you haven’t eaten in days. You’re not up to eating a cheeseburger right now, Tony.”

Tony was really too hungry to argue and the chicken soup did smell good. There was steam coming off of it and Tony could tell that it had been freshly made.

“Thank you,” Tony muttered.

“And after this you need sleep, Tony. I won’t keep you here in the medical wing. You’re surprisingly not that badly off but you need to rest. Everything else can wait right now. We’ve got this, Tony, because we need you and we need you at a 100%.”

He ate slowly, trying to pace himself a little in part because the soup was hot but also because he wanted to drag the moment out. Since being back it had been about seeing everyone and being happy to be home and alive. It had been about letting Bruce check him over and take care of the stab wound. It was about starting to voice the things he’d been thinking about and hoping to be true and it was finally getting a moment to truly let everything sink in. Peter was gone. His son was gone. Tony didn’t know how he was supposed to sleep when that was fact and when Tony truly had no idea how they were to proceed.

“Nebula. Is she alright?” Tony asked.

“Fine. She’s with Rocket. She said she felt fine.”

“Right. They know each other. That’s good she’s got him.

Steve nodded. “You don’t have to worry about her.”

He finished eating and Steve placed his empty plates on a table. He moved with caution and looked at Tony like he might disappear in front of him. Tony couldn’t blame him, really, because a part of him felt exactly the same.

“Do you want to sleep here or--”

“Proper bed might do me good,” Tony said. “Any chance I can get rid of this thing.” He motioned at the IV line and the plastic bag it was attached to.

“No chance. You need those fluids, Tony. Just tonight.”

He was too tired to argue. Bruce helped them get to Steve’s room. Tony couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept at the compound, but Steve’s room was closest and someone had cleaned it up a little.

Bruce gave him some painkillers and Tony took them without protest and then Steve helped him get under the covers.

“Get some rest, Tony. I’m glad you’re home,” Bruce said before he left.

Steve lingered by the bed, fixing Tony’s pillows and his sheets.

“Are you -- do you have something to do or--”

“I have nothing else to do but to be here with you,” Steve said before Tony could finish. “I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Steve sat down next to him and Tony reached for his hand. It felt grounding to hold it even as all the adrenaline from the trip back home and seeing everyone was fading. Everything that had been keeping him together disappearing because he was home in a bed and Steve was just within reach. He didn’t need to be strong and hold himself together.

“Bruce did mean you should get some sleep,” Steve said. “You’re kind of -- you’re not doing that.”

“I don’t know...I keep seeing--”

His eyes. Peter’s scared tear filled eyes that had realized what was happening and that felt it before it did. Peter who didn’t want to go and who fell into his arms but became dust.

Steve’s arms slid around him and Tony felt grounded. He felt like there was something else to draw focus to. He was tired. Too tired and sore and hurt and Steve’s fingers were in his hair.

“Peter’s--”

“Oh, Tony,” Steve said.

His eyes felt wet and they stung. He curled himself into Steve and Steve held him back just as tightly.

“I wish it had been me,” Tony whispered. “I wish -- it should have been me. Not him. Never him.”

Steve didn’t respond. He held Tony tighter and Tony knew that Steve understood. It wasn’t a death wish. It was a wish that Peter hadn’t had to go -- the admittance that Tony would have given anything in order to take Peter’s fate away.

“It’s not fair,” Steve whispered eventually.

“It’s not.” He wasn’t crying anymore, but the emotions were still there. It hurt. It hurt more than anything. He pressed a kiss to Steve’s shoulder. “You’re allowed to feel this too. You were his dad too, Steve.”

It was true. Probably had been true before Steve even properly met Peter because Steve had always been interested and engaged in Peter long before Tony had gotten a chance to meet him. And then after -- after they had fallen into a family unit without even trying.

“I--”

“You were,” Tony insisted. “Her was ours. Our Peter.”

Steve pulled him even closer and Tony could hear Steve’s heartbeat -- steady and not too much faster than what was supposed to be normal. Soothing, though, to listen to. Steve’s fingers threaded through his hair gently and it was slowly that Tony let his fatigue take over. He felt a press of a kiss on his forehead and faintly heard:

“Thank you. I love you.”

Tony let himself smile even if it wasn’t enough and it didn’t take away all the pain. “We’ll get him back.”

Bruce considered everything that Tony had said and implied and it was hard to just accept. Tony thought that somehow they were going to win. But not just that, he seemed to think that everyone that turned to dust could be returned. Bruce didn’t know if it was Tony being delusional and holding onto hope. Mostly, he just knew that if the snap had been able to erase people, then the stones would probably bring them back too. So, maybe Tony wasn’t too farfetched in saying they could get them back. It was just -- Bruce couldn’t just believe that they were going to somehow win. He had seen Thanos and he knew the kind of power that Thanos wielded and the team wasn’t even all there. Thanos had already defeated them once.

It was hard to look at the list Friday had compiled. She’d gone as far as to get as much of a profile as she could for everyone that was missing. Most importantly those that were in some way related to The Avengers or Shield. The list had finally stopped growing like crazy. The governments of the world were getting a little more organized and things were calming down as much as they could. Still, there were always new additions and Bruce looked at the list as much as he could even though he hated it.

Natasha was sitting with Thor at the table, but Bruce ignored them and looked at the display of the list. Bruce was surprised when Shuri’s name popped up.

They hadn’t seen her before leaving Wakanda, but no one had implied that she had turned to dust like her brother and yet she was on the list which meant somehow that no one knew where she was. He wondered for a moment what that would mean for Wakanda, but it was something that the people of Wakanda would figure out on their own.

Friday brought up another and paused it. Scott Lang.

“Who is Scott, again?” Bruce asked.

Rhodes answered, walking up behind him. “Ant-Man. I guess he’s gone too, then. Shame. Explains why he hasn’t gotten back to us.”

Rhodes came to stand next to Bruce and he looked at the list and shook his head. “I don’t know what we’re meant to do now. How was Tony doing?”

“He’s sleeping, hopefully. He’s a bit bruised up and we took care of the stab wound. He’s going to be fine. Well as fine as he can be after losing his son.”

Peter’s name was up on the list. Bruce had barely gotten to meet him -- had seen him only with the mask on and hadn’t even known who he was at the time since everything happened so fast. He could see how his lost hit everyone. Steve’s devastation had been the worst but then of course there was Tony and how he seemed to hardly be holding himself together. Bruce remembered when he’d first learned about Tony and Steve and their upcoming wedding and it had been a shock but seeing them since Tony’s return -- it felt so right and natural for them to be together. Bruce almost couldn’t believe that he hadn’t seen it coming.

“Did he say anything about what happened while he was in space?” Rhodes asked.

“Not much. He mentioned Doctor Strange getting a view of possible futures. He thinks it means we’re on the path to victory.”

Rhodey scoffed. “And what is this, then?”

Bruce pursed his lips. He wanted to believe that Tony was right. “Tony thinks -- he thinks that this is our path to winning. Doctor Strange had the Time Stone and he gave it up to save Tony’s life. Which, if you know anything about Strange shouldn’t have happened. It’s what made it possible for Thanos to turn back time and take the Mind Stone even after it was destroyed. Strange must have known that would happen and that he would turn to dust when Thanos snapped his fingers but he saved Tony anyway.”

“What does that mean?” Rhodey asked.

“Tony thinks that Strange did it knowing what would happen -- that he did it because it needed to happen so that we can find a way to defeat Thanos now.”

Rhodey rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s a little crazy. We’re not all exactly rushing to go find Thanos. Not sure we could take him especially now that he has the stones.”

Bruce shrugged his shoulders. He stared as Friday moved through the missing profiles. Fury had officially been added to the list. Someone from Shield had found his car and presumably his dust next to a pager. It was supposed to be brought to them because Fury had sent a message and no one knew who he’d been trying to contact and with a pager no less.

Tony managed to sleep for a few hours, head pillowed on Steve’s shoulder, but Steve couldn’t sleep. He was too wired and too focused on Tony for sleep to be an option. Instead, he watched Tony and let him sleep. Tony needed it. His face was more relaxed in his sleep, but even then his fatigue was obvious. Steve thought that Bruce had to have snuck in something to help him fall asleep along with the painkillers because he doubted that Tony would have fallen asleep the way he did otherwise.

Steve didn’t know what to feel. He was happy to have Tony back, of course. But Peter was gone. So many people were gone...

Tony had called Peter theirs. Their son. Steve had never thought to consider Peter that way -- he was always just Tony’s son and yet maybe he’d already been thinking about Peter as his son too for far longer than he would have wanted to admit. Peter had told him that he was going to be his step-father back when he and Tony had first gotten engaged and it had been so absolutely touching. Steve had gotten extremely emotional over it.

Steve watched as Tony shifted but settled into his side again. He looked even in sleep like he couldn’t be at peace and yet he was beautiful. His fingers traced over Tony’s forehead and down his cheek. Steve couldn’t think of anyone else that he was as devoted to as he was Tony. The only one that might compare was Bucky but that was different. Bucky was family and his last friend left from his old life, but he didn’t mean what Tony meant to him. And Bucky was gone now, too. Dust just like Peter and so many others.

Tony moved closer, his face burrowing into Steve’s neck and his breath ghosting on Steve’s skin. He shivered in surprise, but settled and ran his hand through Tony’s hair. It was dirty but Steve didn’t care. Having Tony in his arms was everything. Steve didn’t care how long he’d be acting as Tony’s pillow and it didn’t matter because Tony was back and he needed rest and Steve was willing to give him anything he needed.

When Tony woke up, he woke up slowly, moving in Steve’s arms and shifting until he was trying to sit up. Steve helped him. Tony looked confused and unsure, his eyes moving from one side of the room to the other as if he couldn’t believe where was was.

“Hey, hey, you’re alright.”

“Steve,” Tony said and he let out a breath. “Oh god. Peter.”

It broke Steve’s heart to see how devastated Tony looked as he remembered. His face falling and pain etched into his frown. Tony took a deep breath and then he wrapped an arm around Steve, falling into his chest.

“I thought,” Tony said, “I kept thinking I’d come home and you’d be gone too. It was -- I was so afraid. Being out there and knowing Peter was -- but then, I didn’t know if I would make it here or what I would find and--”

“I’m not. I’m here. I’m here, Tony, and I’m never letting you go.”

Tony nodded as he pulled back. Steve didn’t let him go far, cupping his face and bringing him close to he could kiss him. It was not the best kiss. Tony gasped into it and their teeth clicked together and it was a little too hard and a little too messy and then Tony pressed his face into Steve’s shoulder and it didn’t really matter.

“He saw it coming. He was so scared. My boy, he was so scared and he just -- I couldn’t do anything, Steve, and he just he kept saying I don’t want to go…”

It was whispered into his shoulder but Steve heard it. His eyes stung thinking about it -- about Tony and Peter--

“I was holding him and then I wasn’t…”

“Oh, Tony.”

Tony was sobbing, shaking with the sobs that coursed through his body. Steve’s shirt was wet with his tears and Steve held Tony to his chest, failing to keep his own tears from falling.

Chapter One Hundred Thirty Two

#peter and tony #peter and tony fic #mcuwriting #mcu fic #iron dad #iron dad and spider son #stony #stony fic #marvel

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