#john servin looks

[bunny-jpeg]

my woman

capt. john price

cw: ex husband!price, jealousy, possessive behaviour, breeding, dark-ish themes, baby trapping, dark!john, proceed with caution!!

bunny says: happy birthday to me <3

you couldn't take it anymore. the stress of his job, the lonely nights, the distance was all too much for you. it broke you honestly, you couldn't be that woman for him. the idea of him coming home in a box made you overwhelmed at times.

price understood, he didn't even try to push against the divorce. but that didn't mean that he left you alone. if anything he pushed himself further into your life. that charming smile and those blue eyes, his hearty laugh and his rumble of a voice.

"c'mon, love. who's been over?" he said while standing at your front door. he stood a good head over you, he was broad as well. his eyes were cold as he asked again, "who's been over, lovie?"

you swallowed, "my sister she came over to see how i was doin'. plus, we're not married anymore, i can have whoever i want over."

price looked at you, "i pay for this place, technically i can decide who comes in and who leaves." he brushed past you and walked into the flat. hands in his jeans as he looked around.

you knew you couldn't physically kick him out, it was like an ant pushing a boulder! you stayed far back from him with your arms crossed, "john, get out."

he peeked into the kitchen before he walked in and said, "don't think so, love. i have to make sure that my girl is behavin'." he opened the fridge and pulled out a carton of milk, "oat milk drinker, now?"

your throat tightened, "i had a friend over."

price looked at the carton, "must've been over a lot, or used a lot of milk." he shook the carton, "almost empty."

your stomach flipped. after your divorce you had met a lovely man who worked stable hours and had a winning smile. but price didn't need to know that.

"you bringin' men into my home, fuckin' them on sheets i bought. you whorin' yourself out now, love?" his voice was laced with venom as he put the carton down, "everything you are, i made. from your rank when you were servin' to the home you live in." he got closer to you.

you swallowed, "john, leave."

"no, no." he closed the gap between you two. he took you by the wrists and leaned in, "no woman of mine is gonna be a cheap fuckin' slag."

"i'm not your woman, your girl or your wife."

"then maybe i didn't fight hard enough to keep ya."

your stomach flipped once more. there was something about price that broke your resolve. even after all the pain and heartbreak, he was your husband. so when he kissed you, you didn't push him away.

he picked you up with relative ease, you wrapped your legs around his waist on instinct for fear that he'd drop you. he put you down with a bit of force onto the recliner he loved so.

your face felt heated as you were about to let your ex-husband fuck you.

"my girl on my chair." he chuckled. he remembered the nights where he'd have a beer and watch the football game while you were in between his legs like an obedient little puppy.

he watched you strip of your clothes, his larger hands helped you as you struggled to get out of your sweatpants. poor girl, always needs a mans help. price knew that your limp dicked new man couldn't help the way he could.

he loved the sight of your nude, all the curves and dips. the wetness of your cunt that gleamed in the light of the room. he got his cock out of his jeans and stroked it.

"remember this, love?" he smiled down at you, "i know you're pretty familiar with it." he chuckled, you spread your legs for him like a good wife. he reached over with his free hand and ruffled your hair.

"please, john." you moaned.

he chuckled, "impatient girl, bet ya touched yourself thinkin' of me and lied to your new man about it. bet ya told him that you were more than happy to suck his limp cock. nothin' like mine, eh?"

you looked at him, "there's nothing i could find or buy that felt like you."

he laughed, a full hearty laugh then met your gaze once more, "good." he said, "i'm glad i ruined that pussy of yours. because you're my wife and this is the only cock you'll need." then leaned over you and pushed his cock into you.

you choked out a gasp at the fullness you felt. you could feel it in your stomach. you gripped onto the armrests of the seat as you tried to regain the air in your lungs.

your pussy felt like heaven to him.

the sex was brutal, your sweaty back got stuck to the leather as he held your hips and battered your sweet cunt. he liked the idea that he ruined you for other men, that no one else could make you feel the way he did.

"do you see now." he said, "we're meant to be."

you looked away, "john, please." you felt the warmth pool in your gut. he took you by the jaw and pulled you into a kiss as he continued to move against you.

"you're my heart and soul, baby girl." his voice was low and erotic, "made just for me." he wanted to get it through to you that you were meant to be with him. arousal shot through him at the idea, the best way he could make sure that the two of you would be tied together.

it fueled him to push his cock as deep as it could go. his heavy balls hit against your ass as he fucked you without abandon. your sweet moans filled his head and he could feel his grey t-shirt grow hot with sweat.

he didn't worry, next round he'd get undressed fully. for now your sweet slick would ruin the denim of his jeans. he gazed at the expressions on your face as you closed your eyes.

"that's it."

"please, john. fuck, pull out." you whined.

"can't do that, love. you're keeping me in ya. you want this too. keep a little reminder on me in ya when you call that fuckin' prick of yours to break up."

"i'm not breaking up with him." you trembled in an attempt to gain some kind of control

he grabbed you by the hair and made you look at him. his chuckled lowly, "cute, love. but no, you're going to sit there with my cum in your cunt as you call that fuckin' prick to tell him to leave you alone. or better yet, you keep my cock nice and cozy inside ya when you call."

you swallowed and whimpered, "please, john."

he gave you a rough kiss on the cheek, his facial hair was scratchy against your soft, sweaty skin, "it's either that, or he won't be walkin' ever again. i'd suggest you take the more merciful option." he let go of your hair and quickened his pace.

you squeezed your eyes shut once more and it wasn't long before orgasm pulled you under. your slick cunt gripped his cock as the euphoria rushed through you.

price was pleased with himself as a pathetic noise left your lips. he gave a few more hearty thrusts before he finished. his noises were lower, darker and deeper than yours.

"good girl." he said, "lettin' your man do what needs to do to keep this together." he pushed strands of hair out of your face, his cock still hard in you, "see, you can listen. you can behave."

"john." you whined.

he patted your cheek lovingly, "shh, not now. let it happen." his voice was so calm and cool. the tonal whiplash made your head feel murky.

why did you leave him anyway?

he then grabbed you by the hair and brought you down onto the expensive carpet. he took off he shirt while you were on your shaky hands and knees. he knew your pulse was racing.

"don't worry baby girl." he said as he kissed your sweaty back, "just gotta go a few more times... until it takes."

-

while re-marriage wasn't common, being mrs. price was your rightful title. especially now that your little girl was born. price got you a nice house on a piece of land out in the country. you could raise your little family in peace.

"c'mon honey." you cooed at your toddler as she tried to stand on shaky legs, "go see daddy." there was such tenderness in your voice.

who would've thought a nice house and a cute little babe would've fixed ya right up!

price watched you try to teach your little girl how to walk on the grass. your hands held her smaller ones. price smiled at the rim of his teacup. for a moment he thought he lost you, but there's no worries now. you were his and next time he wouldn't let you leave. <3

[tinylilacbun]

Pairing: daddy!john b x little!reader x papa!jj

Warnings: age regression, some cursing

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You were standing before the entrance of the country club, hands shaking and tears forming in your eyes while you call John B, anxiously waiting for him to pick up.

Just seconds later you hear him on the other line. "Hey baby..." He trails off, waving JJ over to him as he hears you starting to sob instantly. He puts you on speaker, trying to calm you down. "Baby, breathe. Are you hurt?"

"N-No..." You sniffle and both boys sigh in relief.

"Okay, can you tell me what's going on?" He asks, JJ pulling his hat off while pacing back and forth, desperate to know what or who made his girl upset.

"I-I was servin' one of the guests and-and he was bein' weird and tw- tried to touch me! I was bein' nice and told him not to...b-but later my boss came to me and fired me bee! Didn't do anythin' wrong-" You sob, hoping nobody hears you right now and he could hear your speech slurring a little and knows you're fighting to not slip in public.

"Mother-" JJ starts and John B gives him a warning glare, sending him off to get the keys for the Twinkie.

"It's okay, bun. Where are you right now?" He sounds calm but also he was boiling with anger, knowing that creep probably told your boss some shit, threatened or bribed him to fire you just because you told him no.

"M'outside before the entrance..."

"Alright, stay there. Me and papa are on our way, 'kay?" You didn't answer but John B knows you were nodding your head.

As soon as JJ was sure you weren't on the phone he started cursing and ranting while getting in the drivers side of the van. "I swear- imma beat the shit outta that asshole. How dare he? Fucking kooks-"

John B tunes him out, more focused on texting you to make sure you're alright and keeps you updated on how far away they are.

Soon enough they spot you standing before the country club, hugging yourself sadly. John B quickly goes to the back and slides the door open, jumping out to embrace you.

He scoops you up, getting back in the Twinkie he slides the door close before sitting down and cradles you in his arms. He brushes the strains of hair that stuck to your wet cheeks to the side, looking down at you with a comforting smile.

"M'sorry-" your bottom lip quivers and you went to hide your face in his chest.

"Hey, you don't have to be sorry at all. It's not your fault, okay? Neither of us are mad at you." He assures you, wiping the one tear from your cheek that slipped. "Right, JJ?"

"Huh- oh hell yea! We're proud of you for standin' up for yourself, cupcake. If something like that ever happens again you have my full permission to slap that person." JJ says catching you smiling a little through the rearview mirror, giving you a wink.

John B just rolls his eyes but doesn't say anything as your giggling at JJ's antics was better than seeing you cry. As much as he's the more responsible one he can't deny that he wishes you spat in that creeps face. Anyway, it was a shit job either way.

Maybe he can talk to Mr. Heyward about giving you a mini job.

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Taglist

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For JJ:

@chiaraanatra

[project1939]

200 Films of 1952

Film number 197: The Member of the Wedding

Release date: December 25th, 1952 

Studio: Columbia 

Genre: drama 

Director: Fred Zinnemann 

Producer: Stanley Kramer 

Actors: Ethel Waters, Julie Harris, Brandon De Wilde 

Plot Summary: (Based on the play by Carson McCullers.) Twelve-year-old Frankie is a sensitive and wildly emotional girl who feels left out and alone. When her older brother Jarvis arrives home with his pretty fiancée Janice, Frankie irrationally falls in love with them and the idea of their marriage. Her housekeeper/mother figure Berenice tries to gently talk sense into her, while her 6-year-old neighbor John Henry just wants to be her friend. 

My Rating (out of five stars): ****¼  

Films based directly on plays in 1952 are emphatically different than typical screenplay-based ones! Like Come Back, Little Sheba (film number 85), this was very dark, stark, and realistic. Both deal with subtler and more mature themes, and happy endings are eschewed for something painfully ambiguous. Each film has the hallmarks of theatrical adaptations: Dialogue and acting are front and center. They take place in only one or two settings, limiting the cinematography. The scenes tend to be much much longer, and the score is sparser. They are definitely not films the average Joe would like. (minor spoilers)

The Good: 

Ethel Waters. She was the highlight. Her acting was incredibly moving, and her character felt like the actual protagonist of the film, not Frankie. She played Berenice as a fully realized motherly character- there was none of that demeaning and racist “I sho’ does love servin’ white folks!” vibe. She felt like a real woman in her own right, with her own complex life.

Julie Harris. She played Frankie in the stage version, and although her performance is divisive today, for the most part I liked it. Yes, she threw loud obnoxious tantrums, but Frankie was clearly a highly highly sensitive girl experiencing the emotional hurricane of puberty. She acted externally the way I did internally at that age, so I could very much relate! Her “overacting” mostly worked for me because of that. 

Brandon deWilde. He played a really cute oddball well. His lackadaisical attitude, desire to hang out with a 12-year-old girl, and ease at which he tried on women’s clothing made me smile. 

The writing was good- it was smart, nothing was overly explained, and it was a pretty masterful character study of both Frankie and Berenice. 

I liked that the cast for the film was the same cast used in the acclaimed Broadway run. Most movies change some of the cast to add Hollywood star power. (Think Lancaster in Come Back, Little Sheba or Hepburn in My Fair Lady.) Ethel Waters was definitely famous, but she wasn’t a big movie star per se. Harris and deWilde both made their film debuts in this. 

I appreciated the unusual “plot” and theme. This isn’t really a coming-of-age film, although it’s advertised as such. Frankie goes from one obsession to another, essentially, and neither of them are about her blooming into adulthood. It’s really about characters, not about “growing up.” 

Damn, you could feel the Southern summer heat in this! Every character was sweating buckets, and the camera lingered on it. These were the days before air conditioning was widespread, and boy do you empathize! 

There was no easy happy ending- things were left quite sad and ambiguous. 

Ethel Waters got top billing, which was almost unheard of for a black actress in Hollywood then.

The Bad: 

Although Harris’ work was lauded in this, she does not look 12 by any measure. She was 26 or 27 when this was filmed, although she doesn’t look that old either. She could believably pass for 16-18 maybe, but 12 is really pushing it. There were times I could suspend my disbelief a little, but there’s no denying it detracted from the realism. I doubt any 12 year old actress could play a role this demanding, though.

Some things with Ethel Waters’ character Berenice were cut from the film version, which was a shame. She was the strongest part of the film for me, her acting unmatched. 

Like most theatrical adaptations it got too “talky” at times for a movie. “Show don’t tell” was not the motto here. 

It also felt “stagey”- you would never doubt this was originally a play. Because of this, sometimes scenes ran on too long. 

We have yet another misleading movie poster that dishonestly exaggerates non-existent salacious content! “A girl becomes a woman in the middle of a kiss” is the yuckiest kind of false advertising! It has nothing to do with this film! 

[ringosthickthighs]

John and Yoko In A Vintage Clothes Shop - Stockbridge, Massachusetts 1977

[daniversus]

Just me sprinkling some black girl joy. 🌻

[scotianostra]

31st March 1652 saw the Honours of Scotland saved from Cromwell's forces at Dunnottar Castle.

There are a few different versions of how The Honours were saved, and I usually get questioned about whatever version I use on this date,  I am posting a version direct fro The University of Aberdeen's web site, fittingly, written in The Doric.

Back in the days lang ago fan fowk wir aye fechtin wi een anither a chiel caad Oliver Cromwell hid gotten rid o King Charles I an cut aff his heid. He then taen ower England an wis for takkin ower Scotland as weel. Noo, there wir fowk fa thocht that he'd nae richt tae dee that, but Cromwell's airmy wis ower strong for them an they his tae dee aa they could jist tae survive. Een o the things Cromwell wintit wis the 'Honours o Scotland' - that wis the croon, sword an sceptre; the Scottish Croon Jewels. But thir wir fowk fa werena for lettin Cromwell hae them and Honours landit up in Dunnottar Castle jist aside Steenhive. Fan the 'Roondheids', that's fit Cromwell's supporters wir caad because o the shape o the helmets his airmy wore, heard aboot far the croon jewels were they sent an airmy tae get them back. The airmy wis commandit by General Lambert an he demandit that George Ogilvie, the Governor o Dunnottar haun them ower tae him. But the Governor refused an the castle wis surrounded by Lambert's airmy an naebody could get in an naebody could get oot. Nae even maet wis allowed in. Dunnottar's hich on the cliffs an wis affa difficult tae attack but Lambert thocht he could stairve the fowk in the castle in tae giein up. Ae thing that wis allowed in wis some medicines for Margaret Ogilvie, the Governor's wife fa wis nae weel. The wife o the minister o Kinneff Kirk, Mary Grainger, wis allowed in tae tak in medicine an bandages for Mrs. Ogilvie an her man, the Reverend James Grainger. He wis already in the castle for he widna leave his fowk fan they wir in sic a steer o trouble. Mrs. Grainger an her maid, Alison wir kenspeckle figures gyan in an oot o the castle an the sodjers gairdin the doors got eesed tae seein them. Ae day fan the twa weemin wir veesitin an argy-bargy got up aboot fit wis tae be deen wi the croon, sceptre an sword.

"We canna hing on muckle langer," said the Governor, "We're near haun oot o maet an we'll be aitin sea maws neist. We'll hae tae gie in seen. Fit can wi dee aboot the Honours?" "Weel," said the Rev. Grainger, "we canna bury them, this rock's ower hard an there's nae pint in tryin tae hide them for Cromwell's airmy will either find them or burn the buildin till there's nithin left."

"I've an idea," said Mrs. Grainger, "Alison an I could smuggle them oot. The sodjers ootside are eesed tae us gyan back an fore. We could walk throu them get on oor horses an be hame afore they'd jalouse fit hid happened."

"Na, na. Wi canna hae that," said the Governor. "D'ye ken fit the sodjers wid dee tae ye if you an Alsion wir found oot?"

"Besides that, ye aye arrive wi bundles an parcels, ye dinna leave wi them," said Rev. Grainger. "That plan's nae eese av aa."

"But fit if we wir comin fae a direction they wid expeck us tae come fae cairryin baskets?" spiert Mrs. Grainger. "Fit div ye mean?" spiert the Governor. "Weel," explained Mrs. Grainger, "If we were comin up fae the rocks aneth the castle cairryin baskets o dulse, fit wid be wrang wi thon? Far else wid ye get dulse but doon on the rocks." "Ye'll need tae explain a bittie mair," said the minister, " Fu dee ye expeck tae find the Honours on the rocks an fu are ye tae get doon there yersel?

"Here's aa wi need tae dee," said Mrs. Grainger. "Alison will heid for the bottom o the cliffs alang the rocks. I'll arrive at the gate as usual wi a lot o lint bandages, a fyow mair nor usual but the gairds will nivver ken the difference. Noo, ye mak up a wee cheer that I can sit on. Mak a rope wi the bandages an syne ye'll lower me doon tae the bottom o the cliff an I'll be haudin a basket wi the croon, sceptre an sword in it. Alison'll help me at the bottom o the cliff. We'll hap the croon jewels in dulse an set aff back tae Kinneff Kirk."

"Are ye gyan gyte, umman!" wis Rev. Grainger's answer tae the plan.

"James, fit else can wi dee? Is aa this time sufferin in here tae be for nithin?"

Rev. Grainger lookit at his wife an the servin lass an shook his heid. "Aye. Maybe ye're richt. Ye'll need tae prepare a place tae hide the Honours an I think I ken jist the place. Get Wattie fae the smiddy tae help ye. He's a true chiel an wid dee onythin tae help the King. Get Wattie tae help ye shove back the poopit an lift een o the flagsteens unnerneth. Dig oot a hole an fan ye get back tae the Kirk, an God willin, ye will, ye can beery the honours in the yird aneth the poopit."

"That seems tae be settled, then. Mrs. Grainger, Alison, Scotland will nivver forget fit ye're deein for the country," said the Governor an the plan wint intae action.

The neist day Mrs. Grainger arrived at Dunnottar an, as usual, wis let intae the castle withoot ony bother. Eence inside she got oot the lint an it wis twistit intae ropes an tied tae a wee cheer that Rev. Grainger hid made up. They wint tae the back o the castle that looks doon tae the bottom o the cliff an Mrs. Grainger wis lowert ower the side wi the croon jewels in a dulse basket that she wis cairryin. It wis a relieved Mrs. Grainger that felt rocks unner her fit efter fit seemed an age traivellin doon the side o the cliff. Alison wis there tae help her.

Alison hid already gaithert a wheen o dulse an it wisna lang afore the honours were hidden aneth a pile o dulse in twa separate baskets. The twa lassies stertit up the cliffs an Mrs. Grainger hid tae waatch an see the sodjer fa hid lettin her intae the castle didna see her comin up fae the rocks or he micht hae jaloused fit wis gyan on.

Fan they got tae the tap o the cliff they were in for a begeck for fa wis staunin there but General Lambert himsel.

"An fit hiv ye twa bin up till?" he spiers. Alison lookit worried but Mrs. Grainger wis quick wi an excuse, "Wiv bin gaitherin dulse. Nithin better for the caul on a frosty day!" The General lookit at the baskets syne gaed his heid a shak, "You sea gyan fowk'll ait onything. Gyads! Saeweed for denner! Fit could be worse?" An wi that he turnt roon an tellt the serjint o the gaird tae, "Escort the lasses tae thir shelts an get us aa fae the smell o the dulse!"

Withoot anither wird or a look roon the twa lasses marched tae thir wee shelts, mounted an trotted aff on the road tae Kinneff Kirk. Eence at Kinneff they met in wi Wattie fa hid already shiftit the poopit an raised the flagsteen. The Scottish Croon jewels wir beeriet an the poopit shoved back on tap. Tae help pit the Roonheids aff lookin for the Honours a rumour wis spread that Sir John Keith, youngest son o the Earl Marishal had managed tae get the Honours smuggled oot tae France. But they bade in Kinneff Kirk for acht year until Charles II wis back on the throne an the honours wir returned tae thir hame in Edinburgh Castle. But things micht hae bin far different if it hidna bin for twa lasses fa saved the Honours o Scotland.

Pics are a  Tableau depicting the event, part of a display in Edinburgh Castle, a reconstruction of the castle by Andrew Spratt, check him out on Twitter he does some great work, and how the castle looks nowadays.

[fordarkisthesuede]

The Tolls of Justice - Chapter 5

It's morning brunchtime in Atlanta, and I'm servin' up a big ol’ stack of Johnny cakes with a juice reduction on the side. B)

IMPORTANT SPOILER TAGS: past mention of abuse, mental illness, gun violence, bonding over trauma

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Read on AO3 or continue below:

[Chapter 5:  The Wheel Still Turns on the Upturned Chariot]

John was quite used to keeping an eye and an ear out for everything. Arkham had its share of nasty surprises in all its forms, and it paid to be well-prepared for anyone rounding the corner or prying their eyes into what they shouldn’t see.

It took him one week to learn St. Dymphna’s camera patterns. Two to learn the normal guard rotation. One-and-a-half to learn the layout.

He was not used to the impromptu schedules they seemed to make for him, however. It was like his doctor saw some psychologist’s note about how repeated structured tasks was supposed to help affirm that the patient’s reality was indeed everyone else’s reality, scratched it out with pen, tore it out of the book, and tossed it out of the window straight into the industrial-size shredder while they knocked back a beer.

Yesterday was supposed to be the day. Instead he was suddenly forced to see - more like wait around for - his Parole Officer and assigned social worker. Apparently he could not get away with saying he was adjusting fine - both of them grilled him so much after the hour of waiting a piece that he felt like he’d been seared to a fine medium-rare.

As much as it infuriated him and made him want to just grab them both by the collars to make it very clear he was ‘okay’, he’d barely hung on. He’d had to clench his toes as much as possible and try to channel Bruce’s enviable ability to keep calm under pressure as he actively stopped himself from clenching his teeth or saying something he’d regret. He knew - knew - a lifetime in Arkham and a small obituary list on his record would always make people question his intentions and sanity, but it didn’t make them any less annoying, and it didn’t do that...other part of him any favors.

It might have been tamer now, but it was still there, and with every new tightly-wound ball of aggravation it was fed he could feel it start to pace. It seemed to take more and more calm-time to get it to stop lately… Heck, he could feel it now, still but almost pressed against the inside of its cage like it was waiting for something to come close enough.

But he would have to deal with it later. Today was the day. He’d had to adjust his schedule, had to account for a few extra things, but here, in the early evening before the sun completely set and Officer Kane was busy doing his ‘personal call’ to the on-duty nurse downstairs, John could make his move.

He watched the camera in the hall as he counted by tapping his fingers against his thigh. It would turn the other way - indicated by the slight shift in the lens’ focus if he could see it - in twenty seconds. He was wedged tight in the corner underneath it, having slid there and made a show of opening and closing the door so it looked like someone had gone inside.

The felt the familiar anxious thrill in his legs and sides of his head, just like when he was sneaking around Arkham. It was brighter in St. Dymphna, and had less places to hide, but at least if he got caught John wouldn’t be thrown in the hole.

Of course, they could throw him back. They could lock him up and refuse to house him again later. They could-

John shook his head. He didn’t have time to be paranoid.  

This was the time for action! For suspense! For catchy secret agent music!

He’d tapped to twenty, and the Secret Agent Man theme started to cycle in his head; he side-stepped carefully against the wall, just to make sure the camera couldn’t see him for the few steps it took to be out of the watchful eye’s range.

He walked on the sides of his feet rather than his heels, reducing the inevitable noise on the not-that-clean tile floor, and made for his target - the door halfway down the hall with the plate that read Officer Hank Kane, Parole.

John didn’t have long. Thankfully his office didn’t need any RFID card or fingerprint or anything like the more dangerous rooms in the place. Just a plain, old-fashioned lock.

And John had an old-fashioned method for unlocking.

Secret - aaagent maan, Secret - aaagent maan! He hummed to himself, sliding the lost-and-found credit card he’d been carrying around for a while into the gap between the door and the frame, and carefully angling it to wedge in-between the lock mechanism and begin to pry, bending the card out of shape. They’ve given you a number, he continued, wiggling the card’s edge into what should be the right angle and pushing, And taken away your naaame!

He pushed hard, and he twisted the knob at the same time as his finished the chorus - click.

John ducked inside the dim office and almost slammed the door shut just in time. The camera switched positions every thirty seconds - two more and he’d have to walk away like he wasn’t trying to break into the place and wait some more.

The place was just like it was yesterday, and couple have almost doubled as the Arkham Warden’s private office:  a couple of slightly-peeling filing cabinets that held useless documents John didn’t need; a bookcase with a couple of ‘law’ books and far too much football paraphernalia for the Gotham Rogues alongside several pictures of the guy’s wife and kids; a pair of wooden chairs that John swore were deliberately designed to be uncomfortable; and a boring desk with the same thin-client PC and sleek monitor as everyone else had, and yet two more family pictures, one of which had a King Charles spaniel John wanted to kidnap on principle of it being way too cute.

The tune kept playing in the background of his thoughts as he took a seat in the much-more-comfortable office chair. He made sure not to touch the arms.

Password-locked. Just as he’d thought.

John had watched very carefully as Hank typed away yesterday. It was something clearly easy for the guy to remember, because unlike some of the doctors and other staff, he didn’t dawdle over the keys or tap them lightly as they waited for their hippocampus’ reflex to kick in. He’d done the same motions several times during his last visit, which likely meant he used the same password for everything. (Dr. Song seemed to use various complex ones, if her odd typing methods were anything to go by.)

Which was good news for John, because he wasn’t sure what the password was.

He had some good guesses. It was something easy to remember, so something somewhat personal with a series of numbers at the end…so an anniversary of something was pretty likely.

John had remembered the areas of the keyboard Hank had used:   somewhere between one and four and eight and the dash sign on the top row; he’d had to use one finger to hold down the shift key for letter on the upper left, clearly not excelling at touch-typing; he was sure he hadn’t used the space or bottom row of letters, too. He had three tries to get it right before the account would get locked.

He took a moment to think.

Two distinct things in the guy’s otherwise very boring life was his family and football.

John knew the tricks to get into people’s protected FriendBook pages; he could try the anniversary of his marriage or birth of his kids, saved in a note on his phone.

Or he could look up the year the Gotham Rogues won last; it was before his time, he knew, because people wouldn’t stop hoping they’d go all the way every damn year.

Orrrr…

John flipped the keyboard over halfway with his palms. No sticky note there, unfortunately. He supposed he could poke around the desk a little more on the off-chance the guy had left it lying around carelessly like Bruce did with cash, but he was on limited time. He could risk looking and get his fingerprints all over the place, but why bother when he could just try to look it up?

Hm. Family, football, family, football…

John eyed the desk. The picture of the dog might as well have been taken by a professional photographer – it was all alone, as happy as could be, beaming up at the camera in a showy grassy yard with the perfect angle. The family portrait was a typical family photo with all the taste of Wonder Bread.

It was probably the dog, plus either the year it was adopted or the current one.

John mapped it out mentally on the keyboard. Woofles2019 seemed to fit pretty well with the pattern he remembered. It was worth a shot.

He put it in, waiting for the little wheel to finish spinning and give the ‘incorrect password’ message.

There was a soft da-ding, and John was looking right at the same outline of St. Dymphna holding the white lily to her chest that functioned as the clinic’s logo.

“Sheesh, why not just use password while you’re at it?” He snorted to himself.

John didn’t have too much time. He continued humming his little theme to himself to help count off.

He recognized the same enormous register of criminals that Bruce had access to back at the Batcave just sitting on the desktop. John was pretty sure Ian ‘Nito’ had done time for something, likely a drug habit if he’d left the facility after only a week.

At least it was a web-based registry rather than a whole program, so John could easily just delete the history there afterwards as long as he had the time. Well, if it would load fast enough…

John tapped his fingers on the mouse button gently, still keeping the rhythm as the page took it’s time to load. He wondered if Bruce ever had to deal with dumb inconveniences like this before he’d got the super-computer installed. There seemed be a few dozen guys (and non-guys, possibly) named Ian. A quick sort by crime, and the more timely Ian arrested that jumped out to John was Ian Coggs.

There was no ‘Ian Nito’ on file, but ‘Ian Coggs’ made John think of the word in-cog-nito.

It made John chuckle to himself. It was definitely the sort of thing John would do, if he were giving an alias with his own name. Well, if he could make a decent play on ‘John’ anyway. And he had decent makeup to cover his white-and-green tones.

The arrest photo taken several months ago was definitely the ‘Mr. Nito’ that John had seen, only the boring t-shirt Ian was wearing was covering up the tattoos more.

Ian Coggs, arrested for driving under the influence and possession of heroin. Notes included he had traces in his car indicating he might have had the intent to sell, but the charge didn’t stick, as there was no mass quantities in Ian’s car or apartment. He seemed to have served a short sentence and was ordered to check into a clinic.

Hmm… John took a picture of the screen with his phone, making sure to capture the last known address as clearly as possible.

John thought for a second – he could look up Ian’s patient file, too, now that he knew Ian’s full name. It was probably somewhere in some kind of share-drive.

The screen flickered, and a pop up informed him that the operating system was not licensed and please license it, would you? John rolled his eyes – a common issue with those sorts of old OS sitting on the network’s virtual machines. It was wonder they didn’t upgrade yet. The thing was practically a dinosaur.

He ignored it and did a quick search in the X-drive-marks-the-spot had Ian Coggs’ old data just sitting in a folder with his name on it. No handy doctor notes, of course, but there was a discharge form.

John skimmed it, interrupting his little background-tune with an intrigued hum. “Looks like Ian was moving to Bludhaven…”

He’d have to look up the new address later…

John was running out of time. He very quickly wiped away the last few bits of internet history on Hank’s machine and went back towards the door, counting the last couple of beats on his thigh. Three, two…

On one, John again became the ghost of Arkham’s hallways, silent and swift, leaving his tampering unnoticed as he closed the door behind him as softly as can be. Another successful heist on his mental tally; Arkham three, John…

He found himself stopping.

I’m not at Arkham anymore, he thought to himself. He blinked, staring straight down the hall.

Right. Right, it just…looked like the repainted Arkham, sometimes. Sneaking around like this just reminded him of it. That was all.

He resumed walking, clenching his hands and releasing them. He wished he had something else to touch for a bit. Just to make sure.

He reached the stairwell. He needed to get to the library on the second floor. It was open until lights-out at eleven and it was the best place he could get some privacy and a decent phone signal.

It was a short walk to the small room that smelt of overly stale cigarettes and books, with a hint of wood-polish underneath.

St. Dymphna wasn’t new. Arkham wasn’t either, not by a longshot, but at least it had a sizable selection in comparison, even if the tall metal bookcases were all kinds of dangerous. St. Dymphna had short cases, all in soft wood so no one would hurt themselves, all in a room about the size of Bruce’s master-bed-and-bath, half of which was occupied by un-squeaky tables and hushed conversations.

He casually weaseled his way towards the little stacks, pretending he belonged there as much as anyone else, and had a peek at his phone.

Four full bars – the best signal he could get.

Too bad his battery was at twelve percent.

John frowned down at the device, half wanting to break it on principle of it not behaving. He’d charged it just yesterday!

“Old fashioned way it is,” he muttered to himself.

Thankfully the reference section was always deserted. John knelt down and skimmed over the few little books of Gotham history – including one on crime statistics that probably should not be accessible to patients – and snatched the guide-to-the-state map book, feeling the weight and laminated paper cover in his hands.

John thumbed through the soft pages by flicking them like a deck of cards, and stopped right at Gotham.

He’d seen this same map before, years ago, when he was a very bored Arkham newbie who still didn’t know what Gotham was. It was a shiny thing, at the time, a beacon of freedom and mystery, a break from the madness and rust and rot of Arkham. It didn’t take long into cycling through the numerous news segments and headlines for John to realize it was a city with a criminal underbelly so obese that it was a wonder anyone could still be considered an honest citizen. It was fascinating, really, to go back as far as possible and learn just who and what had led to the then-current state of things. The power imbalances and shuffles of gangs, the creative ways people wanted to hurt each other, the things people did just to survive another day… He had hours of fun picking apart the reasoning and motives and predicting outcomes. It was a good thing to delve into when he was stuck without entertainment, which was often on his bad days.

John pulled out his phone and opened the picture he’d taken of Ian’s arrest entry:  his old place was at 511 N. Blade Street, Apt. 1005.

He traced his finger around, and North Blade Street was deep in what everyone referred to as “the Cauldron”, and naturally above South Blade Street. What highly appropriate name for roads; the Cauldron was a hotspot for the more basic criminal activities and lower gangs.

Kind of far to travel to get to the humble area of the Eastern Docks, but that was only if he still lived there. He probably did, if he was hanging around town, even if it was just temporarily. He wouldn’t put it past him to just muscle his way back in, either.

He flipped to the Bludhaven page. Ian supposedly moved to 900 Wanda Way.

Wanda Way was tucked into a tiny corner, off another road, but… There was no nine-hundred address. Wanda Way had addresses in the four-hundreds.

A four and a nine were easy to misinterpret if not written clearly, and the forms were filled out by hand and stamped by an authority figure before being scanned-and-typed in… The only question was, was it done on purpose?

Wanda Way sounded too much like “wander away”, and clearly the guy liked puns on his name, so John had the feeling he’d chosen whatever place was there just to throw everyone off.

The guy was clearly smarter than he looked…

John hummed. Now he just had to get someone to look at Ian’s old place and shake him down.

“Hey, clown,” someone said quietly, poking him in the back of the head.

John felt a surge of annoyance quick-boil his blood. Couldn’t they see he was busy? He wanted to throw the map book at the offender and start teaching them some manners.

But he grit his teeth and clenched the map a little too hard instead, blinking hard once to help push the urge away. It was still there, but he couldn’t let it out. “What?” He growled, turning around.

Mickey stood there, somewhat bewildered by…well, maybe he was actually seeing the roiling violent urge in John’s eyes. Mickey almost looked sheepish, suddenly, drawing the offending hand he’d poked John’s head with to tuck under his arms lying on the shelf. “Just tryin’ to get your attention,” he muttered, staring at him somewhat innocently with his chestnut brown eyes.

John had softened somewhat, seeing as it was only Mickey and not some new asshole trying to pick a fight. “You could always try saying my name, next time, Mick’.”

“I tried twice. You didn’t answer.”

“Third time’s the charm,” John shrugged with a little titter. “Sorry,” he added, not feeling it at all, “I just tend to get absorbed in things. What ‘cha need from little ol’ me, Mick’?”

“Just wanted to know what you were doing,” he mumbled, not looking at him.

What a terrible liar. He probably got caught with his hand in the cookie jar somewhere and wanted escape. “Miiick’, what did you dooo?” He teased, putting a hand on his hip like he was a disappointed parent.

“I didn’t do anything.”

“Mm-hm. Let me guess – you said something a little too bold to someone and now they’re trying to find you.”

Mickey might as well have been sweating bullets as he turned his head to look around. “Maybe.”

John chuckled. “Who did you piss off? ‘Firecracker’ Fred? Abdul? Abdul looks like he could fight well… Ooh, was it Harper?”

“No, none o’ them.” Mickey turned back, glancing back at the front door, and suddenly ducked to the ground like he’d been shot. John heard him crawling on the floor around the case, and John could barely contain his curiosity, so he poked his head up above the shelf to see who had entered.

It was another one of the handful of women staying at the place, scanning the room with a hoity-toity sort of anger. Karen McCarthy - addicted to miscellaneous pills, wine, and pretending she was better than everyone else. John had all of two interactions with her, and disliked both of them.

“Don’t let her see me,” Mickey pleaded from the floor. John sank back down and tried to read Mickey’s face. Why on Earth was he scared of a woman less than half his weight class? Mickey grabbed onto his arm, begging like his life was on the line.

John knew that look. He’d seen it for years in Arkham - Mickey was scared out of his mind. “What did you do?” John whispered. Mickey was friendly with Devi, and seemed to keep his hands to himself. But that didn’t mean he was innocent.

“I just said that her art needed work,” he answered, his voice starting to waver. “She just…flipped out.” Mickey breathing awkwardly. “She just started yellin’, and…” His naturally tanned skin was paling more, shaken by the thought of it. “Don’t tell her I’m here. Please. ”

John didn’t have to. Hell, he could fake it and just let Karen look around all day long as Mickey found new, more entertaining places to hide.

But Mickey was clearly rattled. He hated loud noises and seemed to put up a tough-guy front with everyone. The fact that he was so scared of a middle-aged woman yelling at him that he ran away to hide suggested he might have a trauma surrounding such a thing.

If their situations were reversed, there wouldn’t be any promise of an eventual life with Bruce that would hold John back if Mickey let him be forced to confront his own traumatic experiences again.

Besides, saving him was the hero thing to do. And John could never be Bruce – not exactly – but somehow John was his hero, and who was he to let Bruce down?

“Go a few rows down and duck close to the stack,” John advised quietly. “I’ll take care of it.”

Mickey looked a little more confident as he gave a stiff nod and snuck away.

John put the map book back casually and stood, stretching his arms and craning his back like he’d been there for a while. Making himself as obvious as possible.

Sure as Batman stalked the night, John only had to turn like he was going to leave when he found Karen in his personal space, her beady eyes narrowed in determined dislike. “Where’s Mickey?” She asked, her French-tipped index finger pointing at his chin. “You know where he is?”

“Y’know, the first question really drove the point home, Karen. There’s no need to ask twice.”

Karen was trying to stand tall. Sort of hard, since she was almost two whole heads shorter than him. “Don’t get smart with me, John. Have you seen him or not?”

John gave a dramatic laugh, like he actually found the idea funny. (It helped that she was trying so hard to be fierce when John had faced the scariest people imaginable on a nearly daily basis.) It seemed to get her attention; her shrewd eyes were watching him carefully and she looked a little confused. “In here? You’re kidding, right?”

“Why would I be?” She asked haughtily, clearly thinking he was insulting her.

“The guy can barely read a street sign! He’s so macho-illiterate I doubt he knows what a library even is,” John lied, thinking back to one of the more feral inhabitants at Arkham. Karen didn’t have to know he was talking about a different guy. “He’s probably hiding out in the men’s room by the fitness joing. It’s closer to home and he’ll think you won’t have the nerve to go in there.”

Karen clicked her tongue and looked even fiercer. “Oh, I won’t have to go in to give him a piece of my mind…”

Not that you have much to work with, John thought with all the bitterness he was brewing away inside.

“Thanks,” she said dismissively as she stormed away on her pointless little mission.

“No problem,” John said with a cheerful little wave, “you stupid jerk,” he added quietly, unable to hold it in. He didn’t care if she heard or not, but they were in a library, and raising his voice any more than he already did would be rude.

Once the offending lady was gone, John strolled over to Mickey’s hiding place, finding him with his arms around his knees. “She’s gone,” he said simply. Mickey was not standing to leave. He was staring at the shelves across from him with the same sort of vacant stare that John instantly recognized as dissociative. It wouldn’t be good to just leave him there. He knelt down and waved his hand in front of his eyes. “You home in there?”

“Huh?” Mickey came back to reality. “Sorry. I…” He clammed up for a moment. “I’m not good with women.”

“Ha! You and me both, Mick’,” John joked, nudging him slightly. “You get along with Devi just fine, though.”

“She’s different,” he muttered. “She’s not like…that.”

Talk about vague. Still, if John had any guess he’d bet on… “Abusive?”

Mickey drew in on himself a little. “Yeah. She’s calm. Doesn’t yell. Doesn’t belittle anyone. Doesn’t laugh at people for nothin’.”

Ah. That explained a few things. “Sheesh, I’m two out of three, there. It’s a wonder you talk to me.”

Mickey stared at him firmly. “You’re different, too,” he stated. “And you’ve been there.”

John was perplexed, for once. He hadn’t mentioned anything of his relationship with Harley to anyone, much less in a place Mickey could’ve heard.

“I keep thinkin’ I’ll wake up and be back there,” he explained, running a hand through his short crew-cut and staring at his worn tennis shoes. “In that house. Like nothing changed…”

Ohh, that’s what he’d meant when he said he ‘got’ why John didn’t want to go back to Arkham. Mickey had lived in an abusive place he was forced to call home for a long time.

John wasn’t going to pry further. He didn’t need to. Mickey had finally cracked open like the other eggs at Arkham, and John could see the yolk swimming in its translucent goo.

Mickey was clearly thinking about that trauma now, seeing as how it was at the forefront of everything. It’s wouldn’t be very good of John to leave him on his own now, even if Karen didn’t come back.

But could he risk letting Mickey in on the big mystery? Mickey wasn’t the brightest crayon in the box, but he paid attention enough. A different point of view wouldn’t hurt, either.

“Well sitting there thinking about it all night’s not going to do you any favors,” John said with a nudge on his shoulder. “Trust me, every doc’ I’ve ever had tells me that! Ha ha!” Dial it back; that was too light-hearted. “I know something that will get your mind off it - always works for me, anyway: puzzles. And I’ve got one upstairs I could use some help on.”

“…okay.” Mickey stood by himself, clearly intent on leaving now. “I’ll get Devi, too.”

“The more, the merrier,” John shrugged. “Don’t wait up, I’ve got to make a call first.”

Mickey blinked, apparently examining him for any trace of a lie, and seemed satisfied. “Thanks, John.”

Finally, some decent recognition. “You’re welcome.”

Mickey stuck his hands in his hoodie’s pockets and walked away without another word or gesture that would indicate he had anything else to say.

So John did what he came there to do:  he pretended to be looking for something in the back rows until he seemed settled on something, and sank to the floor with his phone out.

He had to share his findings with Bruce. He couldn’t keep the knowledge of Ian Coggs’ name to himself for another day – he needed more information, but Bruce needed it even more, and surely he’d be ever-so-grateful that John had tossed a nice bundle of intel’ his way that Bruce would heap some praise onto him in beautiful voice of his.

John stared at his last message from Batman’s number.

Checking out Sionis’ place. Wish me luck.

John, of course, had wished him the best luck accompanied by ten heart emoticons. But that was last night, and there was no news on Roman Sionis suddenly being arrested or disappearing or anything like that today. So more than likely, Bruce was still looking for him...

He scrolled up a little. Apparently the guy whose charge-card was used to book the hotel room from the latest serial murder was claiming it was fraudulent charges. Naturally.

John looked at his contact list anyway. Calling Bruce on the job via his cell might interrupt him. He could try the ‘office’ - aka the Batcave - and see if he could catch him early and get him to do a tiny little search.

But he also didn’t want to bother him too much. Bruce had his plate piled high like he had the last clean one at a crowded buffet.

He could call Tiffany. She might be mad at Bruce - and somewhat rightfully so - but it didn’t mean she wouldn’t cooperate if he dangled the right bait.

Not to mention, Tiffany was less likely to be busy. He doubted they made up yet, so she probably wasn’t at the cave. He chose her cell, deciding that if she didn’t pick up, he’d try the cave next.

One...two… John gave a low little whistle as it continued to ring, the little theme song cycling back around again. Five...six…

Rustle, rustle. “...hello?”

“Hi-ya, Tiff’,” he greeted, listening for anything in the background to give away where she was, “What’cha doin’?”

“Well I was eating,” she answered somewhat grumpily, sounding like she had her mouth half-full. “You better have something good to interrupt my biryani.”

He could hear a slight hum, like a high-powered fan on a computer. There was no echo - she wasn’t in the cave. Likely at home. (Didn’t Bruce mention her sharing an apartment?) “Can you do me a teeensy favor?”

“What kind?” It wasn’t dismissive, but it wasn’t curious enough. Still, he could run with it.

“The firewall-breaching and record-lookup kind. I’d do it, but I don’t have the skills to break into records on a cell.” He tapped on his knee, choosing his next words carefully. “Which is why I’m asking you - you could break into BlackGate’s network with a screwdriver and one of those vendor-locked phones for kids.”

“I’ll have to add that to my bucket list,” she joked. A good sign. “What are you trying to break into?”

“Whatever’s at 400 Wanda Way in Bludhaven.”

Click-click-clack. “Haven’s Helping Hand?”

“Ooh-hoo, sounds legit.” Which meant Ian picked the place. He probably never set foot in it, but it was worth a look just to make sure.

“...so, what’s this for? You got a lead on our Chandis killer?”

“I wish,” John huffed, “but it is related to it. Our resident flying mammal is running around looking for B.M. and his lackeys and hasn’t had any luck; I think I’ve found one of them.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Well, since my friends here are working at places our main baddie has his sticky fingers in, I don’t think it’s a coincidence that mine was recently visited by someone who clearly takes orders from a boss; especially when I’m right down the street from the other little practices.”

“Wait, how’d you know Black Mask is involved with-?”

“Long story,” John interrupted casually, not wanting to delve into that, “Anyway, I also know the guy last lived at apartment 1105 at 511 North Blade Street. Since he’s definitely in Gotham there’s a chance he’d return to his old place.”

“Could be worth a look. Got a name?”

He couldn’t resist a good setup like that. “Why Tiff’, you know I’m called John,” he joked, giggling a little at how she must be pulling that annoyed face.

“...keep going like that and I’ll hang up on you.” She didn’t sound like she really meant it. John ticked off that little checkbox in his head.

“Okay, okay, sorry. It’s Ian Coggs - two ‘g’s.”

A bit of silence followed. John waited patiently, drumming his leg in the same rhythm as the old spy-show tune in his head.

“I’m surprised you’re not running to Bruce with this,” Tiffany mentioned.

“What, he’s not still out chasing the golden goose on top of our other two murderers’ shadows?” Of course he was. John felt it in his gut; Bruce was looking for anything, any shadow, any miniscule thing that might be a break.

“...probably.” It wasn’t quite a scoff - he could practically see her shrugging along like she was pretending very hard not to care.

“Besides, why wouldn’t I tell you? You were part of the team before me,” he said slyly.

Tiffany gave a little sputtering noise. “Doesn’t feel like it. If we swapped places, he’d let you do almost anything.”

That was a little true, but he wasn’t about to say that. He had the perfect opportunity sitting there and he wasn’t going to let it go. “Nah, he wouldn’t,” John answered, knowing there were several things he would absolutely not be allowed to do, “I mean, I might be ‘the adult’ but you’ve got more in the training department. And a better head on your shoulders; mine’s factory defective,” he finished with a giggle at his own joke.

She gave a sort of humph that he took to mean she was mildly amused. Bruce had done the same thing sometimes, with that little upturn in the corner of his lips. John wondered if it was something Tiffany had picked up from being around Bruce so often.

“Of course, you could always prove it to him,” John continued smoothly, pretending to be thinking it over, “If our guy coughs up enough, you’d practically be delivering B.M. on a silver platter.”

She was quiet; she was thinking it over. “You work near the docks; if he’s still in the Cauldron, it’d be a heck of a commute for him.”

“Hey, when the boss calls, you go anywhere.”

“True… I think it’s worth checking out.” John grinned and pumped his fist in triumph, tapping the floor with his shoes as much as he dared. Mission accomplished - he’d pulled the right strings, and now Tiffany was going to search the place for him! “Haven’s almost done cracking.”

John heard an annoying beep in his ear, souring his good mood a little; he pulled away, and sure enough the battery was at seven percent. “Hey, Tiff’, my battery’s dying and I get a pretty shitty signal everywhere else; you’ll have to text me what you find.”

“...it’s St. Dymphna, right? Which room are you in?”

Well, he didn’t expect that as a response. “Um, 308.”

“When’s lock-down?”

“Eleven...” He was pretty sure he knew what she was getting at. “There’s no fire escape or anything for you to land on, though.”

“But your window opens?”

“Yeah, a little...”

“Then it’s no problem. I can swing by in about an hour, hour and a half. I’ll be patrolling around there later anyway.”

“Well, uh, if that works for you…” He grinned to himself; a personal report, too? That could only mean he was growing on her, which meant more information on the goings-on, a happier Bruce, and one less stressful relationship for John to mull over.

Of course, she might just want to make sure he was behaving. Or seeing if she could gather any indication as to what he’d been up to and try to analyze him as much as he did everyone else… John shook the thought. Tiffany was a smart cookie, but she wasn’t on Iman or Bruce’s level of psychoanalysis. Even if she was trying to gather personal info’ on him, she wouldn’t know exactly what went on his head.

“See ya later, then, Tiff’,” he said simply, before remembering that Tiffany did not wear the same sort of armor that Bruce did, “And be careful; the guy packs heat on his right hip.”

“Thanks. Later.”

John hung up, feeling a sort of smug satisfaction. He’d be one step closer to delivering Black Mask to Batman’s doorstep and getting Dymphna cleared of any exploitive activity. And Black Mask himself would shed some light on whoever was pissed at him, solving the other puzzle that nagged at John’s already-messy mind.

Though, speaking of Dymphna and puzzles… John supposed it was time to get some other input.

*~*~*~*~*

“Look, it can’t be either of them, either,” John stressed, pointing to the map of Gotham he’d printed out a week ago on his wall, “Falcone’s dead, and when Maroni got shuffled off to the big house, half the city’s territory – these yellow flags – went up for grabs while their leftovers played follow-the-leader with a bunch of headless-”

“John,” Mickey interrupted, staring at him from John’s chair in the corner, “You’re doing it again.”

Devi flicked her butterfly knife open and closed from her spot on the floor, where she was sitting on several pillows she’d brought from her room. John likened it to chewing gum; just a little something to do to pass time. “He’s trying to say Macaroni and Fal-cone’s old running crews split up into their own groups, Mick’.”

“Then he should just say it,” Mickey muttered, crossing his arms and looking at his feet with an embarrassed scowl.

John resisted the urge to rub the bridge of his nose. “Devi, it’s Ma-roni.”

“I know what I said,” she smirked, flicking the knife open and closed again. “I like him better as a noodle.”

It was funny enough to make John chuckle, but it didn’t cool his temper. John was clearly not meant to be a teacher with how frustrated he was already getting. He didn’t know how Bruce had the patience for it. “Still. They’d normally be good contenders, but their groups are usually the kind to just get reabsorbed into other gangs, and our guy Black Mask-”

“Roman Sionis,” Devi stated, gesturing to the piece of paper John had taped up to the wall.

“- yes, him – likely picked most of the mafia’s less-loyal stragglers up. He’d provide the structure the need.” John circled the little areas he knew the loyalist parts were active in. “The ones who didn’t are a lot smaller in number now, probably still hovering around these little parts they used to haunt.”

“So what does this have to do with the ship?” Mickey asked, trying to follow John’s map marks. “You said that was Roman’s territory now.”

“That’s my point,” John huffed, deciding it was better to try and walk the annoyance out rather than say something he’d regret, “He’s got all this territory,” he gestured to the map as he made strides to their side of the room, “all these people under him, so why kill the informant? Why leave the drugs behind and make it so obvious that it was a hit when they could’ve just stolen the ship?”

“Woah, back up a sec’, hon’,” Devi interjected, leaning forward like she was interested. “You didn’t say anything about an informant.”

He didn’t? He could have sworn… Well, it didn’t matter. He’d explain it. “Ok, so – there’s five guys in the warehouse, right?” John held up his hand to gesture along, glimpsing the green nail polish still there. “Main guy, subordinate, two guards, and Muddy. Their van explodes – from the inside – and they all race out the one door with whatever firearms they have so they can escape. The shooter snipes the guards first, then the subordinate, but the de-facto leader gets the farthest away – the shooter had to get him in the leg first,” John emphasized with a gun motion at an invisible target’s leg, “then the chest. Muddy should’ve been out before the leader, but he’s captured instead.”

“So…Muddy planted the bomb?” Mickey asked.

“Yes!” John pointed at Mickey. “Exactly! He planted the bomb, he knew to leave last so he wouldn’t get shot up like the rest, and he knew when the ship was coming in!” He paced to them, thinking. “But that’s what I don’t get – if they had a guy on the inside high up enough on the chain that he was trusted with receiving that large a package, why did they kill him? Muddy could’ve provided all kinds of information in the long run - why rely on him for this one thing when he could’ve been their main plant in the whole operation? They could’ve found the Volto and Bauta heads and taken control of the area!” He smacked the map on the wall briefly, continuing to pace as his mind churned out everything he’d been mulling over. “And even if they were done with him, why not just leave him there with the rest?!”

Devi snapped her knife closed. “John-”

“Why make it an execution?! Why give him a gangster’s death twice?!”

“John.”

“And if it was all just revenge, why didn’t they wait until they could meet Black Mask personally to kill him, too?! Hell, blow his whole house up sky-fucking-h-!”

“JOHN.”

John suddenly found himself stopped in his tracks in the middle of the room with Devi’s hands on his shoulders.

“You’re ramblin’ again,” she said, smiling gently up at him and patting his shoulders. “Just take a breath, J’.”

He wasn’t rambling, he was just talking fast and trying to get all the thoughts out that had been piled in his brain for the past several days.

...but it wasn’t worth arguing over. Devi and Mickey didn’t have his sort of brain chemistry; they wouldn’t get it. It was easier to just ‘calm down’ even if it wasn’t necessary. It’s not like it would hurt.

John breathed in and out, clenching and unclenching his fists in time for several beats. Sure enough, he did feel calmer. Not that he wanted to, but...still.

“There ya go,” Devi soothed, patting him gently. “Better?”

“Yeah,” he lied. He wasn’t, he wanted to get it all out, just say everything that had been on his mind for the past several days. Wanted to just make them sit there, a captive audience, and ask everything even if he didn’t get an answer.

“Good. You’re onto somethin’.”

John blinked. “...I am?”

Mickey hummed to himself a little in thought. “I know why.”

John felt more confused. “Why what?”

“Why they didn’t wait to meet Black Mask. You said no one in his gang has seen his face - your guy has.” Mickey said with a little shrug.

Devi gave a little ooh. “Whaddya know, Mick’, we’re on the same page,” she said brightly with an impressed tilt of her head.

That would mean the killer knew Black Mask was Roman Sionis. “But why wouldn’t they just go directly to…” The second he said it aloud it clicked. It was why they left the drugs behind, why they drilled it home it was a hit – a herring in maraschino red.  It wasn’t about strictly killing Roman, but eventually taking his place. “It’s an inside job.”

“Ya said it yourself, J’,” Devi shrugged, “Those gangs he picked up ain’t loyal. Besides, you crossed off everyone else.”

Of course. It wasn’t some rival gang, it was someone in his gang, leading them all to believe it was a rival to throw Black Mask off the scent! That stupid sign with the bodies was just another herring! John had been looking up the wrong thing for days, hunting for a shadow!

Ha ha ha ha ha!

He couldn’t help but laugh at himself. At the whole ridiculous thing. How utterly silly they’d been.

And he caught himself remembering that random laughter wasn’t something most people took kindly to a little too late. Devi was glancing between his eyes as if to guess if he was having a manic episode. Mickey was stock-still, watching him with something similar. “S-sorry,” he said, trying to cover the last bit, “It’s just funny how dumb I’ve been. I mean, really, really dumb.”

They looked a little more convinced.

John rubbed the back of his neck, trying to rub the awkward feeling away as he stared right back at Devi, trying to let her see how sane he was. “Really, I would’ve just kept going in circles without-”

John felt like everything in the world had slowed to a crawl:  a dot of red rolled over Devi’s hair where her temple was, climbing up and disappearing like it had never been there in an instant.

It was like something in him woke up – he grabbed her shoulders and pushed her forward, hearing glass shatter before they even hit the hard tiled floor.

He felt the impact in his knees. Real.

Mickey tumbled out of the chair as Devi swore and John rolled away from her to force his back against the wall between them. He heard the thud of his shoulders hitting the wall. Real.

“What the hell-” she started, losing the rest as she spied the little hole in the wall where John’s head had been seconds ago. “Ohh, what the fuck.”

John was looking at the new shattered hole in the window, hearing his heart in his ears.

Someone shot at him. Someone had a laser scope and a long-range rifle. Someone was sitting out there, waiting for him to reappear, or waiting long enough to move positions and get him while they were sitting there.

“What do we do?” Mickey asked in a less-than-steady voice as he curled his legs to his chest. “What the fuck do we do?”

Devi shifted forward, looking like she was going to crawl for it. “We’re gettin’ the fuck out, that’s-”

John grabbed Devi’s arm and pulled her back with a hard yank. “NO!” She almost smacked back against the wall. “Look at the HOLE!” John gestured slightly to the bullet hole in the wall. “It’s lower than the entry one; they can see the floor!”

“Devi,” Mickey rushed, “You have a phone; you can call the cops!”

No, there was only one ofthose that could really be trusted -

“Are you kiddin’ me? You’ve seen how that shit goes! I’m black and John was tried insane – your half-Puerto Rican ass is the only one of us that can pass for one of their crowd! They’ll kill us just for sittin’ here!”

They could call Batman, but he was out chasing Black Mask, too far to -

“Well what the fuck are we supposed to do, then?” Mickey interjected too loudly, the sound breaking John’s already fragile grip on his temper.

“Will both of you just shut up and let me THINK?!” John shouted, slamming his fists on his bruised knees.

Silence settled in, but it felt like the thing inside of John was rattling the cage.

They felt it too, surely – the flight signal had been lit in their brains, but there was nowhere for them to go. John tapped his legs with his fingers one-by-one, feeling the material of his purple slacks as they made impact. Think, think, think – what do you know for sure, John?

There was nowhere to hide. Standing was out of the question. Crawling was just as deadly. They were all like carnival ducks stuck in their stall, brightly lit under a long fluorescent bulb, just waiting for the kid with the gun to aim just right.

They hadn’t been shot yet. Either the would-be killer was waiting for them, or changing position to the wall.

They couldn’t call out for help. Anyone who came in would be shot.

But they couldn’t stay there. If the shooter was smart, they would move after a bit to re-adjust.

So they’d have to throw him off.

John stared up at the long bulb, his mind whirling…

There was the obvious solution:  one of them could risk running for the light-switch.

It was almost sickening how easily he could imagine either of them bleeding on the floor by the switch…

When he thought about it, he was used to being by himself, but he was never going to be used to being alone. With his psychosis’ voices blocked out through his anti-psychotics, he’d found he’d missed the constant company, even if they didn’t always make sense or play nice with his brain.

But here he was, with real every-day company again. The kind that did, in fact, play nice and make sense. The kind that didn’t play mind-games or threaten him or let him get too riled up just to see what he would do. The kind that wouldn’t try to kill Batman if the opportunity arose, or kill him if they thought it was necessary. They weren’t constant, but they were there, as real as he was – he could hear them breathing and feel their fear in the air.

He couldn’t treat them like they were just means to an end.

The looked at the large fluorescent bulb in the ceiling, wishing it would flicker for a few seconds like the old Arkham ones did, and felt his own lightbulb power on.

“I’ve got it!” He grinned triumphantly, slapping his legs and feeling the sweet sting it left, “We need to break the lightbulb!”

Devi shot a look at it, then at him. “With what?”

“Something hard enough to shatter the glass?” John suggested with a chuckle. He supposed they could toss her butterfly knife, but it might not be heavy enough; they’d have to hit the right point. “The chair would work.”

Mickey looked at the desk chair by his feet. He was clearly rattled, huddled in on himself and looking pale. “It’s kind of big.”

“Don’t tell me those biceps are for show,” John teased, poking his arm, “Even I can lift that.” Mickey didn’t seem convinced. “Look, Mick’, you’ve got the corner. There’s no way the shooter can see you. You just need to squat and flip it up like it’s a table,” John said, gesturing the up motion with his palms.

“Mick’,” Devi said, “he’s right. You’re closest.”

Mickey stared at them both, then at the chair, and sighed slowly through his nostrils. “I guess there’s worse ways to go,” he grumbled, pulling the chair towards him.

“You’ve got this,” John said, flashing him a thumb’s up.

Mickey sneered a bit, but he still squat down rigidly and flipped the chair up into the ceiling, hitting its mark – there was the tinkling crash of breaking glass and a buzz of shorted electricity, and John instinctively covered his head as glass rained down and the chair clattered to the floor.

When he looked back up, they were all sitting in the dark. It was almost like being back in the Old Five Point’s office, where he had hidden while the Agency poked their noses in places they shouldn’t have been.

But that was the old John. New John wasn’t scared. Angry, of course, but he was almost…

Thrilled.

Yes… Toeing the line of danger, on a rescue mission for himself and his friends…  

John giggled, feeling ridiculous by how excited he was during such risky business. “Good job, Mickey. Got it in one.”

Glass shattered and a vwoop noise followed as the shooter fired again, causing Devi to push closer to him with a shout. The shot was a little closer to the edge of the dim light coming in through the window. A red dot disappeared, as if the shooter was turning the scope on and off.

A warning - they could still see in, they weren’t going anywhere.

Like hell they weren’t.

“Mickey, can you hand me my phone?” John asked politely. Mickey pulled it down by the cord, as if he thought the shooter could see it sitting there out of view of the window, and shoved it into John’s waiting hand. “Thaaank you!”

Tiffany was already on her way there - he could just tell her to hurry up. Or send that nice drone with the laser attachment.

John tapped his foot along with the rings. It was only three this time before Tiffany picked up, and she was clearly outside somewhere, because he could hear the wind rush by.

“Hey, how far away are you?” He asked quickly, keeping his eye on the window for any glimpse of the laser sight.

“A -” the voice cut off - “minutes. Why-”

“Okay, I can barely hear you, so long story short, I’m being shot at from someone on the building opposite me and would really appreciate some help.”

He could barely hear her over the wind and occasional break in the line. He was pretty sure it sounded like a surprised “what” and then something unintelligible.

“Yeah, so I still can’t hear you. I don’t know what they look like but I’m guessing they’re on the roof, the shots are angled down.”

Another shot came through the glass, closer to the corner.

“Aaand that’s our queue to leave! Hurry, okay?!”

John hung up, knowing she’d be there fast enough, but wondering if she’d be smart enough to hit them from behind or not. Unless they had a watchguard, which they could, depending on who they were…

There was no time for thinking about that. It was time to get out before the shooter decided to move enough so they could see them in the dim streetlamp.

They definitely couldn’t just run across. The pile of glass in the middle of the floor was a hazard on top of the fact they’d be seen. They couldn’t get around the little desk, either, since it was likely visible; they’d have to press flush against the wall to go under the window.

Or...they had to completely shroud themselves in darkness.

“None of you happen to have a stapler or somethin’, do ya?” Devi asked, holding something in her lap. “I’m tryin’ to think of how we can pin this to the window….”

John was impressed for a moment, having been thinking of somehow getting the sheet from his bed or the dresser to do it, but the feeling gave way to something more like a sinking stone plummeting to the bottom of his stomach.

She had been sitting on the blanket Bruce had gotten him when he was still in Arkham. It was the first thing he’d given him when he’d been put away; a green cashmere blend so soft that John almost wondered if it wasn’t made from clouds.

John yanked it out of her hands and clutched it to himself. “You were sitting on it?”

“The floor’s cold,” Devi stated plainly, not intimidated in the slightest. “Besides, you borrow my blanket when you sit in my room.”

That was true. He couldn’t resist covering himself in something as wild as neon-orange leopard with little skulls, even if it was only for a bit. But Bruce didn’t give that to her, she didn’t clutch it around her shoulders when she wanted to remember getting it, the cute look on Bruce’s face, the utter satisfaction John felt as he got under it for the first time and thought how finally, it was warm in Arkham…

He gripped it, telling himself that Bruce could buy a hundred more in as many colors and weights as John wanted when he got out. Enough to make the biggest blanket fort possible over the biggest mountain of blankets possible.

There was no stapler or anything handy, and he couldn’t shove them in the corners of the window… But someone could hold it.

John squinted at the window. He could stretch his arm across and cover it like a curtain; the pane and exterior walls were thick enough not to be pierced with bullets.

The chair was still on the floor. He was surprised no one had come running yet, with all the noise… There was a doctor underneath his room, gone for the day, naturally… But surely one of his neighbors might have heard.

Unless they just thought he was throwing a fit and didn’t want to get involved… Fine time for them to be ignoring him.

John rolled the blanket into a thin tube and swept it over the floor, pushing the shards of glass towards the chair as much as he could, flinching as another bullet pierced the wall.

He pulled the leg of the chair towards him by his foot, moving it slowly at first just to angle it right, and then yanked it towards him as another gunshot came through. Just as he thought, they were definitely targeting motion.

“Mickey, you’re gonna have to move.”

The burlier man eyed the chair warily. “I’m not standing up on that.”

John scowled as he stood to his full height, an urge to kick him only outweighed by the knowledge that one wrong move could hurt them both far worse. “For Pete’s sake, just move over next to Devi and stop acting like you’re going to die if you twitch out of line! I’m trying to save you, here!”

Mickey frowned, opening his mouth to retort, but closed it just as soon as he’d started, settling on just glaring back and doing as he was told, shuffling as John stepped over him to the corner.

“Now, don’t move until I tell you,” he emphasized, wagging a finger at both of them, “and when you do, crawl close to the floor.”

Once he stood (somewhat wobbly) on the chair by the corner, just barely out of sight of the window, John stretched out his hand in front of him, draping the blanket over it like he was pulling out the edge of a cape to do a dramatic reveal.

Pieces of glass wedged themselves in his bare arm. He could feel blood dribble out, feel the sting of cut flesh, feel a little spike in adrenaline and a familiar stir in his core that sent a tingle in his head…

Things looked clearer, somehow. His vision was always twenty-twenty, but somehow things felt sharper, and not just because little edges were digging into him. Without thinking, he knew all this, what he was feeling right now, was all very real.

He adjusted it to cover his arm with a little less glass-digging-into-skin, and upon draping it just right, it felt like he was almost a magician, covering the trick box from the audience’s view as the assistant did the rest.

“Ladies and Gentleman, the disappearing bullets trick!” John joked as he quickly shoved his arm over the top pane of the window.

It was just long enough to cover it completely, and there came a wonderful hush in the audience.

He could feel his heart in his ribs, pounding away like it was counting off beats, waiting, waiting, waiting…

Crash!

Crash-crash-crash-crash-!

Beams of light appeared one by one like tiny spotlights as the window. John barely flinched as he counted off the sounds.

At the count of ten, it went quiet.

John waited a beat, then two, and grinned wider. “And, ohh-ho, they’re gone!” John chuckled, “What a maroon... Okay, now you guys can go.”

“...what about you?” Devi asked, not moving.

“Just go,” John brushed off, not wanting to think about possible magazine refills, “Watch the glass.”

There were no more words, just the little thuds and occasional little crunch of glass telling them they were crawling as fast as possible. John held the blanket steady, thinking as he hoped the shooter didn’t decide to pack an extra magazine.

He could he risk peeking out across the way? Was the shooter keeping a few rounds in the chamber, waiting for his face to appear? Had they given up?

He might not see anything, but if he did, he would know at least the vague height of whoever was standing on the building three or four car-lengths away with a rifle, intent on killing him for whatever reason they had.

The door opened, letting in more light from the hallway, and Devi was the first to sneak through. John spied shiny spots of blood on her arms before she disappeared from view.

Mickey scrambled out after her, similar dots visible on his palms as he stood up.

John let the blanket fall to the floor as he heard them both call out for help. The noise faded into the background as he carefully took his phone out of his pocket. The little binocular lens clipped over the camera with a plastic snap, and John breathed in, smelling copper and the spring air of May, and slid his phone’s lens over the edge of the window, zooming in further on the building in the distance.

At first, he didn’t see anything. The camera was great, but it wasn’t exactly made for night use, even with the adjustments he made to the settings. Just black on a dark building, barely lit by the streetlamp.

But he moved it around a little, trying to get the exact angle the shooter must have been at, and he saw it.

A figure in the distance, barely seen at first, just a dark shape.

And then he spotted the drone with a spotlight, flashing over the figure’s back, and John pressed the record button just in time.

The figure whirled around with their long rifle in hand and smacked the drone right out of the air and to the floor, and seemed to hit it again, a flash of light showing off their silhouette again. One more smash seemed to satisfy them, but John could see them suddenly perk up straight, as if they heard something, and then they were gone, a black blob disappearing into the night with a whirl of a…

No. Not a cape. It was as if they were wearing a long coat.

He kept watching, almost hoping he’d see them come back so he could get a proper look at their face, but instead, he saw a figure glide down to the roof, too sleek to be Batman, and seem to rush to check if the shooter was still nearby, a second drone flying from their hip to scout ahead.

“John Doe?” A voice called from the hallway, light but smokey from years of tobacco use. An orderly - Todd something-or-other. “Are you still in there?”

“Yeah,” he called back, tucking his phone back in his pocket, “I am.”

“Keep away from the window. Police are on their way. I’m staying right outside this door, you just keep talking to me.”

“You don’t need to,” John answered, hopping off the chair and stumbling slightly, crunching over bits of broken glass here and there. “The guy’s already gone.” He pulled down the pages he’d taped to his wall, not wanting anyone to start thinking he was spreading some kind of conspiracy theory, and lingered on the piece he’d written ‘Ian Coggs’ visited Stitched Up Alt.’ on.

Something wasn’t right. The way Ian had looked at him that day, like he hadn’t expected him to be there. He seemed to have reported seeing him to Black Mask, but why would they go after him? Why would they care?

What was one mentally ill guy with a forgotten past to a guy like Roman Sionis?

*~*~*~*~*

John wasn’t sure what he had expected to happen after an incident like getting shot at by a sniper in the middle of the night, but he didn’t expect to be stuck waiting in St. Dymphna’s medical center. Devi and Mickey seemed adamant about not straying too far from him, despite the lengths the active officers on duty seemed to go to, shoving John in a corner bed as the nurse picked out the glass from his arm and they attempted to ask him questions while he repeatedly told them he wouldn’t talk until his lawyer arrived.

And good ol’ Reggie had practically come running on his short, square legs. He probably smelled a lawsuit waiting to happen. That, or Batman had ‘a talk’ with him about responding to anything to do with John as fast as possible after the whole thing with Dr. Crane.

John suspected it was a combination of both.

He was expecting Bruce, though, who hadn’t shown up yet. He didn’t mind if Batman didn’t make an appearance, but what felt like half an hour into the vocal probing, he found himself really, really wanting some comfort. There was only so many distasteful looks and thinly-veiled remarks he could take, even if they weren’t all directed at him.

“I told you, I’m not movin’,” Devi repeated for the third time, sitting quite still against the back of her own bed several spots over. She had the same sort of gauze bandage as him, only she had them on both arms, and some plasters under her short sweatpants where little glass pieces had stuck to her knees.

“If you’re sure,” Dr. Farms seemed to sigh, “Your sister said she’d be on the way. We’ll keep an orderly at the door in case there’s any trouble.”

Devi snorted. “These two aren’t trouble,” she said with a shrug. “I’m not wearing this t-shirt for nothin’, you know.” She gestured to the word ‘kickass’ spelled there in glittery cursive.

Reggie was quick-reading over the statement John had made, the end of his pen trailing underneath. John had left out the part of him using his phone, of course. He wanted to just grab it out from under his pillow and call Bruce himself. “And this is all correct?” Reggie asksed, tapping the fountain pen at the end of the pad of paper.

“Yup.” John swung his legs slightly over the edge of the thin mattress, gently digging his fingers into the fabric. He couldn’t do it too hard, or it’d attract attention.

“You counted fourteen shots?”

“Yuup.”

“...and how did you know when you could let the other two leave?”

“When no more shots came through. Isn’t that obvious?”

“Hm.” Reggie tapped the cap end of the pen against the paper. “This is acceptable.”

John couldn’t back the question burning in his head. The one he didn’t want a bad answer to. “So...what happens now?”

“Standard police procedure, they’ll investigate, ask follow-up questions - the usual,” Reggie answered, “As for your continuing treatment, I believe they’re still figuring out where you’ll be staying until the police clear this up.”

“What?!” Devi leaned forward, a few of her long thin braids falling over her shoulder. “You mean he’s not stayin’ here?”

“He can’t stay in an active crime scene,” the lawyer went on in his no-nonsense voice, “Especially not when he might have been the intended victim.”

“But he’s the reason Mick’ and I are even alive!”

“That doesn’t factor into the decision,” Reggie answered coolly.

“I don’t care,” Devi slid off her bed and joined John’s, crossing her arms and giving Reggie the stink eye, “I’m not lettin’ him go to one of those shitty state homes.”

“I’m afraid that’s not up to you. It’s up to St. Dymphna and the G.C.P.D.”

Them? They had a say in this?

No. No, no, no. He knew what they were going to do. What they wanted to do. He felt his lip twitch backwards and his stomach seize as something white hot hit him.

“I’m not going back to Arkham,” John said with all the restraint on the furious being under his skin he could.

Reggie’s fingers had twitched in a flinch, and he cast a look at John. “I’ll give this to Officer Hutton and remind him of that.”

Devi watched him go with a scrutinizing squint. “You doin’ okay, there, John?”

“Ha, no!” John answered honestly, finding no need to restrain his feelings any more. He felt the other end of the mattress sink; Mickey had sat down on his other side. “Just got shot at, interrogated unnecessarily, and now…” He crossed his arms, wanting to feel something remotely comfortable as the boiling point in his started to wind down to a simmer. “I’d rather have faced that sniper with nothing but a paperclip than go back to Arkham.”

Devi put her arm around his back, pulling him into a bit of a side hug. “I’ll kick their asses if anyone tries to put you in there.”

Mickey gave a chuckle. “Ditto.” He gave John a small smirk. “They’re gonna shuffle us ‘round to who-knows-where, but I’ll be damned if I let them throw you back. Not after you saved me twice in one day.”

John felt more of his anger ebbing away. He felt more grateful than anything, but there was that nice warm feeling that came with people doing genuinely nice things for him. “I’m sorry I yelled at you guys earlier.”

Mickey shrugged. “Better than losing my head.”

“Apology accepted. But it’s no big deal,” Devi said with a knowing little smile, “I’ve looked the devil in the eyes while only wearing a thong. It’s gonna take a lot more than that for you to get under my skin.”

John felt a giggle pass over him. “Better not let a doctor hear that - they’ve got scalpels.”

“That’s awful,” Mickey said with a shake of his head.

“Speakin’ of doctors,” Devi muttered, pulling out something from her pocket and sliding it into John’s palm, “Here.”

It was her butterfly knife. John had almost forgotten how oddly nice it felt to hold one. Light, dangerous, dexterous… The rainbow sheen on the metal was cute, but the fact that she was willing to just hand it to him, all trustworthy-like, was what made him smile, and made that warm feeling grow. “You’re giving this to me?”

“Doesn’t matter where you end up - Gothamites are bound to try somethin’ with you,” Devi said with a little shrug. “Besides, you could always pick a lock with it and run away, if you had to.”

“Run away to where?” John chuckled, “Bruce’s place is pretty far from all the funny farms.”

Mickey gave a short hum of thought and pulled a card out of his wallet. “Here.”

A key card for the Lucky Hotel.

“Better than nothin’.”

“You guys…” John almost felt like he was tearing up. No, scratch that, he was. “You guys are the best.” He put both gifts away (in separate pockets, of course) and laid back to grab his phone from under the pillow. The cops were all discussing matters amongst themselves, not even glancing their way. “You know what this calls for?” He pulled the camera app up and threw his arms around both of their shoulders. “A group shot!”

“Ooh, hold on,” Devi shifted, tilting her head just right for the camera angle, and smiled. “Okay, that’s better.”

Mickey shook his head, an amused smile on his square face. “I knew you two were crazy.”

“Ha ha, like you aren’t?” John ribbed. “Smile!”

A little click, and John thought it was one of the best he’d taken. Definitely one for the album.

And then, in the moment of silence afterwards, John heard it:  the instantly recognizable voice that wove in and out of his dreams, good and bad, real and unreal.

Bruce passed through the thin wall of police and doctors with the unmistakable stride of Batman, the sight hitting John like a jolt to the heart. Confidence, determination, power – it all came through in his steps, as reassuring and steady as the sunrise. It didn’t matter if he was in street clothes or bearing a five-o’clock shadow, it was Bruce’s Batman politely telling the doctor in his ‘fuck you’ voice that he wasn’t letting him stay there a minute longer.

John felt a hand push on his back, and barely heard to little ‘go ahead’ Devi whispered to him.

He didn’t care what was in his way. He didn’t stop moving until he was right in Dr. Song and Bruce’s space, not taking his eyes off Bruce for a moment.

“John,” Dr. Song said with a slight cough, forcing his focus over to her, “Bruce has offered to take temporary guardianship of you while the state goes through its’ investigation. As you’re a ward of the state in our care, you don’t have to say-”

“Yes,” John said, noticing Bruce looking him over like he was thinking of possible injuries, “I’m saying yes.”

Dr. Song seemed to have expected that. “Your lawyer and his are talking, but I made it quite clear that your current treatment is to be followed to the letter. I still want you to report for our scheduled therapy, and you’ll still have to make the appointments set by Mr. Casselli and Officer Kane.”

“That’s fine.”

“Medicine has to be taken strictly by our current regime.”

“Of course.”

“Work hours will still have to be met, if possible.”

“Makes sense.” Dr. Song looked like she was trying to find any reason John wouldn’t agree with. “Really, doc’, you act like I’m not going to come back,” John said with a light chuckle, “I kind of need that certificate of sanity, you know.”

“I just want to make sure you know what you’re getting in to.”

Oh, believe me, I know, John thought to himself, not daring to say it aloud. “I’m sure I can handle it,” he said, sounding as confident as half of him felt.

She seemed a little more at ease. “I’ll draft up the prescriptions.”

The second she was turned away, John trapped Bruce in his arms, intent on feeling the warmth radiate from beneath his plain white button down into his chest, and suddenly felt more…vulnerable than before. He knew he was safe – he was with Bruce – but when Bruce lightly held him back and said ‘it’s okay’ in that soothing, meaningful voice, the little walls in John collapsed, and he found himself clinging onto him for life and falling for him all over again.

*~*~*~*~*

Notes:  

Congratulations, John, you officially made two new friends!!! °˖ ✧◝(○ ヮ ○)◜✧˖ ° I’m so proud of you!!!

Thank you all for your continuing support!!! *.⋆( ˘̴͈́ ॢ꒵ॢ ˘̴͈̀ )⋆.* I hope you can feel my love radiate from the screen!

As you can tell, I had a heck of a time with this chapter. Sure, it’s almost a full week later than previously thought, but look how much stuff happened! It wasn’t originally planned to be this long - but hey, John needs to bond with people, so damn it, I’m gonna write it and make it believable! I had fun making use of the “camera feature” here and adding in investigation choices and a new time-out feature. And I had loooots of fun bringing out our vigilante!Joker in John throughout! I hope I did our boy justice! I reconsidered and rewrote a lot, but I’m pretty dang happy with how much I’ve laid out so far and what this chapter’s accomplished. Especially the little things I’ve hidden in here… Heheheheehheeh!

Next time we’ll return with Bruce, who seems to have a full colony living in his house as two sides of the mystery start to come together… See you in (hopefully) two weeks!

[falloutdialogue]

Companions and Vadim

In the Dugout Inn, your companion might start chatting with the bartender, Vadim. (Every companion but Dogmeat and X6-66.)

Cait

Oh... this place looks interestin'

Hey, handsome... what are you servin'?

Bobrov's Best. Is greatest moonshine ever to cross lips, lapochka ( Russian, for "darling/sweetie pie"). Very strong though. Two shots, you pass out on floor... guaranteed.

You don't know me very well, do ya? If you've got a record for number of shots done here, I'll double it.

Record is mine. Fourteen shots in less than two minutes. If you beat, I give them to you free. You lose, you pay double.

[Backing down.] Uh, maybe I'll just have some scotch.

Codsworth

Funny, I was expecting more of a sports bar.

Only the best moonshine in the Commonwealth. "Bobrov's Best" I call it. Robot should try. See if it's strong enough to power that engine, yes?

General Atomics' warranty stipulations only guarantee repairs and replacements when using the designated Mister Handy Fuel.

While an alternate fuel source would be beneficial, I'm afraid I must decline.

Perhaps you miss out on once in a lifetime opportunity? Vadim can give you warranty as well.

I don't doubt that one bit. Let's just say, should the need arise, I shall surely seek out your services... and leave it at that.

Curie

What a fascinating place.

Monsieur. Do you serve alcohol here?

Alcohol? No, I serve nectar. Nectar of the gods. Bobrov's Best.

The gods? You think to fool me. There is no proof of any divinity in all my records.

After you try Bobrov's Best, you will disagree. Mark my words.

He is joking with me? The pulling of the leg. I say, humans are so confusing.

Danse

Dugout Inn. Hmmm, wonder what that means.

Citizen... what is the origin of the name of this establishment?

Is something to do with baseball. Got idea from old map of stadium.

Baseball? I'm not familiar with that.

Go talk to Moe Cronin. He tell you all about old American sport. I warn you. Once you get him started, he not want to stop.

Thank you, citizen. You've been quite cooperative.

Deacon

Hey Vadim.

That swill you call alcohol kill anyone yet?

Ah, the mysterious John Doe. Last time I see you, you were in uniform. But, strangely, the other guards don't know anything about you.

I work the midnight shift, you know. Barely even see the other shifts.

It is almost like you are not a guard at all. Crazy, I know. But also curious.

You know what they say about curiosity. See you around.

Hancock

Well, well. Uh, I'm gonna need a minute.

[Meeting one of his heroes.] You're Vadim Bobrov. As in Bobrov's Moonshine.

Uh, yes. I do not think I've had pleasure.

Name's Hancock. You ever thought about sellin' your product in Goodneighbor?

I... huh. Is good idea.

I'm gonna have one of my boys come talk to you. I think you and me are gonna get along swell.

MacCready

Oh man, I love this place. Vadim is a character.

Vadim! Still killing people with your moonshine?

MacCready! Is good to see you, tovarisch(Russian, for "comrade/friend"). How is Lucy? She still as beautiful as I remember?

No... she didn't make it, Vadim.

I’m sorry, mouth tends to be faster than brain. Tell you what, I give you a drink on the house... for old times.

Thanks. You were always a real stand-up kind of guy, Vadim. Let's drink.

Piper

We're drinking here? Hmm.

So, what's the thing least likely to make me blind?

Piper! You have finally decided to come publish Vadim's latest tale of heroism, yes? H-heroism. That's it. Heroism. I don't say this word too often.

[Sigh] What'd you do this time, Vadim?

You will not believe. So, I awoke after night of fun to find myself wearing a coating of robot coolant... and nothing else...

Vadim, please. Stop. Now. Can, can I just have a beer?

Preston

I'm going to grab a quick drink.

Preston! My friend! Long time, no see.

Hey, Vadim. How you been doing?

I've been worried about you. The stories, you know...

Yeah, it was rough there for a while. But things are looking up again.

Fantastic news. Please, take load off. Relax and have drink.

You don't have to ask me twice.

Strong

Give Strong water. Or hound blood.

Uh... fresh out of hound blood. Not a lot of water either.

Just give Strong drink.

I'll get you a Bobrov's. It's kind of like water.

Smells funny. Tingles.

Valentine

The beer tastes like warm spit, but you'll be hard pressed to find a friendlier place for a drink.

Vadim, you old lech. How've ya been?

Oh, Nicky. I'm glad you're here. I've got new batch of moonshine I'm not sure is, uh, ripened yet.

You mean unfit for human consumption.

Yes, this is bingo. Help your friend, Vadim.

Vadim, we've been through this. I'm not going to be your guinea pig... again.

[nwbeerguide]

Postdoc Brewing Company hosts the "Demon Dinner" featuring food, beer, and of course Demon Star Barrel-aged Imperial Stout.

As October careens off the cliff of October, the folks at Redmond (Washington) brewery Postdoc are inviting you for a rare treat - your first taste of Demon Star. No, the brewery isn't giving away free samples, that's highly illegal and would also make the brewery cry since they weren't allowed to drink all the beer. Instead, the brewery is inviting you to their quaint little spot at the entrance (well one of them) of Marymoor Park. All that's asked of you is that you click on the link below and maybe pay something.

Starting at 5:30 pm on a dark evening, the crew at Postdoc Brewing Company will warm your palates with some pre-dinner drinks, before providing some light "Barrel Program Discussion / Brewers Q&A" from 6 pm to 6:30. Afterward, the brewery and you will sit down as staff provide a four-course menu pairing between Postdocs brewers and the cooks of Silver Spork Food Truck.

Surrounded by barrels, it is the hope of the brewery that your first sip of Demon Star Barrel-aged Imperial Stout will be memorable if at a minimum a unique experience. Included in the evening, besides listening to brewers speak about their craft, you and a limited number of guests will have the opportunity to drink directly from many of the barrels at the brewery.

The menu is, as Postdoc Brewing says " ... subject to change (but only for the better)." However, the brewery and Silver Spork are considerate on any food-related concerns or allergies you might have, provided you let them know in advance. Journeying down this story, you are invited to read the following tentative menu the brewery and Silver Spork have prepared.

1st Course

Fall Salad (mixed greens with green apple, pecans & goat cheese with an orange-beer vinaigrette paired with L.A.B. Partner Cranberry Gose

2nd Course

Rustic Cream of Mushroom Soup paired with Barrel Admixture Project 2019

3rd Course

Surf & Turf (Manchego Grits topped with “Spork” Spice Route Prawns & Grilled Flank Steak with Chimichurri) paired with Pop Quiz Hazy IPA

4th Course

Creme Brûlée paired with 2019 DemonStar Barrel-aged Imperial Stout

As always, this event will provide the indulgent with copious amounts of beer, so you are asked to prepare responsibly.

Tickets are $100 per person with all taxes and gratuities included. In addition to the dinner and a night of entertainment, the brewery will send each and every one of you home with a bottle of 2019 Demon Star Barrel-aged Imperial Stout, to enjoy later or when the urge overtakes your restraint.

Postdoc Brewing Company is located at 17625 NE 65th Street in Suite #100 in Redmond, Washington. For more information, including tickets, hours and current draft list visit http://bit.ly/1RsYFsB.

About Postdoc Brewing Company

Postdoc Brewing was the name that Head Brewer and co-owner, Tom Schmidlin gave to his garage home brewery while he completed his PhD in Biochemistry at the University of Washington. The name stuck and became a commercial reality once Tom and his wife, Julie decided to go into business together with neighbors Debbie and Jonny Chambers in late 2013. The business relationship has been fortuitous. Tom’s many years of brewing experience and knowledge of the craft brewing industry has combined with Debbie’s past work in large-scale manufacturing operations, Jonny’s ability in marketing and technology and Julie’s work as a Project Manager to get the enterprise off the ground.

Postdoc Brewing is also exceptionally lucky to have some great contributors on staff. Jason Heitt, runs a tight, yet entertaining ship in the taproom. Matt Sherman brings some great brewing experience as our Lead Brewer. Brian Donohue has studied tediously under Tom and Matt’s direction and is invaluable as our assistant brewer. John Lees does a great job keeping the beer moving out our doors as our Sales Manager. We’re very proud of our team!

We look forward to serving the Washington community, and beyond, for many years to come.

from Northwest Beer Guide - News - The Northwest Beer Guide http://bit.ly/2MIMXBv

[carryonmyswansong]

A Birthday Celebration, Chapter 3: Welcome to the Tea Party

This work of fiction contains adult themes and subject matter. Please do not read, reply, or reblog, if you are under the age of 18.

Series Summary: Today is your birthday. Waking from your slumber, you realize that today is not going to be as ordinary as you originally thought it was going to be. Chapter Summary: A celebration is had. Some shameless flirting takes place. Benny teases you some, leaving you wanting more. Word Count: 3637 Characters: Reader; Supernatural - Benny Lafitte, Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester, Castiel; Once Upon A Time - Jefferson the Mad Hatter, Regina Mills, Killian Jones; Constantine movie -  John Constantine; BBC’s Sherlock - Sherlock Holmes; The MCU and X-Men Universes - Stephen Strange, Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes, Peter Parker, Loki Laufeyson, Thor Odinson, Pietro and Wanda Maximoff, Professor Charles Xavier, Remy LeBeau; Criminal Minds - Doctor Spencer Reid Pairings: Reader & Benny, Reader & Remy Warnings: shameless flirting, hinting at sex A/N: I hope you have fun with this one lol - the next chapter will be quite a bit more... lemon flavored. 

Beta’d by @thorne93

Link on AO3 Series Masterlist

All page dividers were created by me. Please do not save and use. I make page dividers and will make a set for you, for $3. Please message me if interested.

As you walk through the door, there is a huge contrast in lighting. You shield your face with your hand, and squint your eyes, as the sunlight filters through the trees above you. Benny seems unaffected, as he leads you through the long archway of trees. You wonder how the sun isn’t bothering him. His type of vampire doesn’t burst into flames but they do need shade, since the sun makes them uncomfortable. You think the sunlight here might be different than in his universe…

Your thoughts are interrupted when Benny stops walking and you promptly walk into him. You whine a little as your body makes contact with his, feeling his muscles ripple under your touch, bracing so he doesn’t fall over.

“Darlin’, if you wonted to hold me, you just have to ask.” You can hear the smile in his voice as you turn a bright shade of crimson.

You fumble for something to respond with but it all comes out as gibberish. Giving up, you shake your head, leaning it against his back. You sigh and you go to walk around him to see why he stopped.

“Now hold on a second. Can’t spoil the surprise jus’ yet.” He stops you and covers your eyes with his hands. You note how surprisingly soft they are. Your body moves, without your consent, as you press your back to his front.

Benny hisses in surprise and you feel… something twitch against your backside. You quietly whine under your breath.

“Mmmm as much as I like this, we got somewhere to be, love. You gotta stop doin’ that or we ain’t gone make it to the party. And I really don’ wanna disappoint our guests. We got time for this after, though, if you still want.”

You wiggle against him for good measure, not trusting your voice. He groans in your ear and nips it with his teeth. “Now, sugar, behave yourself and I’ll reward you later.”

You shiver and he nudges you forward, urging you to walk. You let him guide you. The cool air of the tunnel of trees gives way to deep warmth of an open space. You tilt your head and Benny lets you. He chuckles as you sun yourself like a cat. He swears he can hear you almost purr under your breath, as the sun soaks into your chilled skin.

“You ready, darlin’?”

“I’m tempted to turn back around into the trees and do something extra naughty with you, where everyone can hear us but no one can see us, but I guess we can go to the party.”

Benny growls under his breath as the front of his body rubs against the back of yours. He leans down and whispers in your ear, “Your filthy little mouth is stirring things in me, chère, that I haven’t felt in a long time. We are definitely gone have some fun later.” He runs the tip of his tongue across the shell of your ear, before gently nipping the flesh there. He loves the way your body reacts when he does this.

Clearing his throat and breaking the spell, he says a little louder, so the others can hear him “Let's get this show on the road”, and slowly removes his hands so your eyes can adjust to the change in light again.

You blink rapidly, to try and clear your blurry vision and you nearly fall backwards as you take in the view in front of you. Thankfully, Benny was still standing close to you and catches you and keeps you on your feet. Your breath hitches as your senses are assaulted on all sides. You gasp, despite yourself.

As your vision adjusts, you take in the view. In front of you is a very very long table. It is adorned with cakes, various drinks, and all sorts of things too pretty to eat. The table is surrounded by chairs, most of them occupied. The ones that aren’t, do have owners and you suspect that they are only empty because the occupants are otherwise mingling with the others.

Benny ushers you to a chair. It isn’t at the head of the table, but really there can’t be a chair there because the table is deceptively round. It should be oval shaped but time and space bend here so it isn’t something you try and wrap your head around. You suspect that if you tried, you’d only induce a headache.

Benny sits next to you, scooting his chair so close to yours that his knee bumps yours. You smile up at him, as he looks down at you, seeking your approval.

All you can really think about is how beautiful he is. Something in your expression must have given him the answer he was seeking because he smiles warmly at you again.

Breaking the spell of the moment, Benny checks his watch and clears his throat. “Time to get this party started,” he says, with a smile. You all but swoon as the light makes his eyes sparkle and the creases next to his eye crinkle just right. He caresses your cheek, and then loudly claps his hands getting everyone’s attention. It happened so fast you aren’t even sure he touched you at all.

The conversations around the table abruptly end and everyone finds their seats.

“Friends, family, ladies, gentlemen, persons of indeterminate gender, and others, our Guest of Honor has finally arrived. Jefferson, if you would direct the tea pourin’, and Dean, if you would direct the food servin’, I will direct the present givin’!” He claps his hands again, as if to drive the points home. Before walking away to direct traffic, he leans down and whispers in your ear, “I can’t give you your gift in polite company, chère. But I’m gonna give you a taste of it a little later.” Before you can respond, he’s already too far away.

Behind you, a table appears, and next to it, a large trash bin. You assume it is for wrapping paper.

Jefferson is the first to walk up to you, so he can attend to his duties. He hands you a large hat box. Inside is a hat of unimaginable beauty. Complimenting your hair and skin tone perfectly. It suits your taste in fancy clothes, and you know you have something to wear, the next time you are invited somewhere formal. You bow your head and thank him. He grasps your hand and kisses the back of it tenderly, before walking away to help serve the tea.

Behind him, a line started to form. Everyone who brought you a gift, slowly filing into place, to wait their turn.

Next approaches Regina Mills. A large clothing bag in her hands. “Miss (Y/L/N), you may want to stand, for this. It is rather long.” She smiles at you. You unzip the bag and almost fall back into your chair. Inside is a dress that matches the hat that Jefferson gifted you. It is your perfect size. Compliments your hair and skin perfectly, and you tell yourself “Say ‘perfect’ one more time” because it is. “Jefferson and I worked together to make a matching set for you. The hat and dress will change shape, size, and color, to suit your needs, taste, and any physical appearance changes that take place. This is the default design.”

You carefully zip the bag back up and lay it on the table. Once it is safely in place you all but run to Regina and wrap your arms around her like it is your saving grace. “Thank you so very much. It is absolutely gorgeous.”

She smiles, kisses your cheek in a fond manner, and returns to her seat. You catch Jefferson’s eye and he winks at you.

John Constantine walk up next, and gifts you a priceless artifact that lets you find whatever realm you need at any given time so you can find your way back to your favorite characters. Like Jefferson, he kisses the back of your hand before walking back to his seat.

Killian Jones gifts you an antique compass and spyglass so you will never get lost. He caresses your cheek, after you hug him, and departs with “You deserve the best, love”, and smiles.

Sherlock Holmes plays a song for you on his violin… one he wrote himself. He doesn’t allow you to thank him, but bows and walks away with a glimmer in his eye you’ve never seen before. He only smiles to himself when he thinks you can’t see him and that was the best gift he could give you because that little smile is so beautiful.

Stephen Strange gifts you a key to his sanctum so you can have a quiet place to study. All you have to do is hold the key, and think about wanting to visit with him, and a doorway will open and portal you through. You look from Stephen to Sherlock and swear they could be brothers. But before you could entertain the thought, Stephen is wrapping his arms around you and his cloak is… his cloak is patting your bottom. You jump back and start laughing. Stephen looks mildly taken aback before he realizes you are batting away the groping “hands” of his cloak and turns to scold it while it tries to float off and away from its master.

Steve Rogers gifts you a gorgeous piece of art he drew himself. It is a portrait of the two of you in a warm embrace. This makes you blush as you stammer out your thank you to him. His ears turn pink. He waits for Bucky to give you his gift, so they can walk back to their seats together.

Bucky Barnes presents you with a metal flower made from a very large bullet casing. “I made this after I shot it out of the sky with my sniper rifle. I kept it a very long time, hoping to gift it to someone special. It is older than you are. I tooled it a little so the edges aren’t rough.” He kisses your cheek. Steve wraps his arm through Bucky’s and they walk back to their seats, leaning into each other like they have secret to share. Both look so happy. You can’t help but grin. As Bucky and Steve walk away, Jefferson passes by them. The three stop and Steve almost does a double take. Jefferson winks at them and Bucky looks as if he is fit to burst into laughter. Steve punches Bucky lovingly on the shoulder and they continue on their way. This causes you to laugh out loud, startling a very adorable little mouse nibbling on a tea cake near your hand, who squeaks at you very loudly, in protest. You gingerly extend an index finger, petting it reassuringly. It goes back to its snack, grumbling under its breath.

Peter Parker swings up to you from somewhere at the other end of the table, using the nearby trees as places to anchor his webbing. He gifts you something to help with your writing. One part magic and two parts science, it resembles a book and it records your dreams and passing thoughts to use for your stories. “Mr. Stark and several of the Inhumans helped me make it,” he tells you. You hug him in thanks and he walks away blushing and so flustered he forgets about swinging back to his seat.

A loud voice announces, “Loki, God of Mischief, Lord of Lies, son of…” and is cut off by an even louder voice… “Would you get on with it, Brother! She knows who you are! Can you believe this guy, announcing himself?” followed by a boisterous laugh. You hear a groan and a very annoyed “Very well” as a green mist makes its way to you. Out of it steps the God, himself. Loki presents you with a gold bracelet that appears to be a snake. He explains that when you are in danger, the snake will come alive and become much larger, to protect you. You embrace him and kiss him soundly on the mouth. To which his brother cheers loudly. You both blush and he walks away with a little pep in his step.You smirk to yourself, quite pleased.

You are taking a break from opening packages, and sipping your tea, waiting for the next person to arrive. As you are sitting here, looking off at nothing in particular, something sleek and metal makes its way to you. You look up, focusing your eyes. It is a very fancy wheelchair with a very large X on both large wheels. The man in the chair is bald and you smile warmly at him. “Charles!” you greet him, brightly. He smiles wide at you, extending both his hands. You place yours in his, and he brings them to his lips like he is greeting an old friend. You then lean down and wrap your arms around his shoulders and he leans into you. “Happy birthday, (Y/F/N). I’m so happy to be here with you.” Charles Xavier’s gift to you is one that is deeply personal. You kneel in front of him, and he presses his forehead against yours. He slowly restores the missing memories of your childhood. The happy ones. Memories from long ago, of your dad boil to the surface. Events you only dreamed about, that faded fast, after waking. Your smile deepens, as the long forgotten memories paint beautiful pictures in your mind’s eye. “Thank you, Charles. That means so much to me”. He kisses your forehead and wheels away.

You sit back in your chair, and bask in the glow of the warm feelings that wash over you from the day you’ve had so far. You know you’ve been here for hours and hours already, opening gifts and interacting with people. You also know that time will pass differently at home and when you return there, it will be as if no time passed at all. You take a sip of sweet tea that never seems to get warm, the ice never melting, and take a bite of something that looks like roses but tastes like strawberry shortcake. You hum in approval.

As you finish your snack, two bodies approach. Pietro and Wanda Maximoff. Wanda smiles warmly at you, and Pietro leans down kissing your cheek. Before you can blink, he presents you with a small box. Inside the box are what appear to be wedding bands. Wanda, feeling your confusion, explains. “We are twins, and because of this, and because of the experiments done on us, we are basically soul bonded. Closer than your typical twins, we both can literally feel each other’s heartbeats. I always know where he is in the world, and he is the same.” Pietro picks up where Wanda left off, without missing a beat. “Most humans can’t do that, so we thought that when or if you find someone you’d want to be that close to, this would be the perfect way. They can be worn as wedding bands, or if your soulbond isn’t a romantic one, they can be worn on any finger. They adjust in size and when both of you are wearing them, you can feel each other’s heartbeats and know where each other are.” “They are made of vibranium, infused with my magic. When you wear them, they will glow red, much like my magic does,” Wanda finishes. “That is amazing. Thank you!” You aren’t sure what else to say. The rings are truly a very thoughtful and personal gift. You stand and embrace the two of them, tightly. They walk off, arms linked, the air around them swirling with Wanda’s magic, sending out happy vibes. You sit back down and brush your fingertips over the rings. A flow of red, washes over them where your fingers make contact, and then subsides. You close the box and set it on the table in front of you.

As the twins walk away, a figure saunters up. He bows, takes your hand, and kisses the back of it like you are old lovers and he is reliving a wonderful memory of the coupling. This causes you to turn a deep shade of red and your body heats up. “Hello gorgeous. When Benny told me this shindig was for you, I decided to dress in my best finery.” Remy LeBeau steps back and extends his arms in a dramatic manner, as if presenting himself to you and you take him in. He’s wearing a black satin top hat, with a belt of red just above where the brim starts. The rest of his ensemble is a three piece thing with coat tails. The coat is a fancier, tailored version of his light brown trench coat. The jacket underneath is black satin. The vest is a deep shade of red. The shirt is also black, but not as deep as the hat or jacket. He isn’t wearing a tie and the collar of his shirt is open down to the edges of the vest, revealing a thick dusting of chest hair.

Your jaw all but hits the floor. “I figured I’d go with something classic,” he says with a smirk. You aren’t sure what to say but you are pretty sure you are drooling a little. He steps closer to you and your breath hitches. He leans down and whispers in your ear, his lips brushing your skin there “My gift cannot be given just yet. You must wait for it. I will be joining you and Benny later tonight.” His lips brush your cheek. You want to respond but you aren’t sure what to say. You do notice that he doesn’t go back to his original place at the table and pulls up a chair next to yours. You want to faint.

Spencer Reid walks up to you, hands you a book of his favorite poetry, wishes you a happy birthday, with his hand on your shoulder. You touch his hand, squeezing it in thanks and he walks away with a smile on his face. You flip open the book, and inside he’s written a little note on the first page. “Beautiful words, for a beautiful soul.” - SR

Sam and Dean Winchester make their way to you, followed by Castiel. Sam hands you a leather bound book, with a dragon on the front cover. Inside is a catalogue of all the monsters they’ve encountered so far. The book should be really heavy but it surprisingly isn’t. Dean gifts you a small dagger. It has runes carved into the blade, handle, and leather sheath. “It is meant to fit between your boobs, behind the center thing in your bra. Sam helped with the symbols. They are for protection and keep you hidden from demons. Cas helped with the blade. It's made from an angel blade.” He gestures to you and you nod your permission. He slips the small dagger between your breasts, fingertips lightly brushing your skin, drawing out the necessity for them being there. You shiver a little and the tips of Dean’s ears turn pink. You almost want to tell him “more”, but Sam clears his throat and grins at you both. When Dean is finished, he looks up at you and makes a face that resembles that of a proud child, showing his mother a drawing he did. You stand and hug the three of them. Castiel presents you with a necklace. The chain is silver and the pendent is too. It is an anti possession symbol. “I made this from the remnants from making the blade for Dean.” He places it around your neck and it sits right above where the handle of the dagger pokes out from your cleavage. You hug him again. He blushes a little and hugs you back. Sam and Cas walk back to their spots at the table and Dean makes his way to wherever they keep carting in food from. You assume to is to make sure whatever dinner foods that are going to be served, are on time.

More people show up. More faces you know from the stories, TV shows, and movies you love, but it all starts to blur together. You aren’t sure how you are going to get everything back to your home or how you are going to explain all the new things to those you live with, but you are so happy at how the day is turning out, that you don’t care.

As the line winds down, and you finally get a break to yourself, you are lost in thought for a while. After what feels like an hour or more, Benny appears next to you. He claps his hands loudly, getting everyone’s attention.

“Thank you, everyone, for bringing your gifts. Now that that is done, it is time for dinner! Dean, if you would?”

You hear from somewhere in the back, “Yeah, brother. Everything is ready.”

And with that, several people spring into action as food it brought out to the table, from the treeline surrounding the clearing where your party is being held.

All the food being set out has a something for everyone. Your favorites, and the favorites of all the people present. A smile plays on your lips at the beauty of it all. You sit back in your chair and wait for all the food to be placed. Once everything is where it should be, Benny sits down in his chair, looks over to Remy with twinkle in his eye, and announces “Everyone, dig in!”

You don’t know why, but this makes your skin heat up and you feel flushed. You begin to pile food on your plate and enjoy the meal.

Chapter 4: Cajun Spice, and Everything Nice

Tags:

I will not be tagging anyone from my character or universe tag lists. However, the tag list for this series is open, and will remain open until CHAPTER 7 is posted!

If you want to be added to the tag list for this series, you MUST be age 18 or older (no exceptions), have your age listed on your profile, and follow @carryonmyswansong​​. If you qualify, please message me or send an ask off of Anon. Please keep in mind that writing, posting, tagging and maintaining lists takes time and effort so please consider leaving feedback when you read something you’ve been tagged in.

[haerith]

@turnecoat​ //

"There's more ta life than servitude, yanno."

     “That’s fuckin’ hypocritical comin’ from yer, don’t ya think?”

     Snappy words. But obvious ones. The rumours literally flooding the lower ranks of Rocket are all about John, mister Looker, and his shit. Kane had joined Rocket not long ago in his pursuit of... Something or other. And yet all he heard of when eavesdropping was fucking John. John John John. John this and John that. Though, of course, they used the term Looker. And every single damn person knew through suggested threat alone to never ever damn well mention the man’s name outside of HQ. Sure, Kane only heard it from certain higher ranking grunts, but it was enough information to give him a clear picture. That... And he heard a lot of bragging from Jax, the man who seemed to use him like a rag and then discard him once done, spilling juicy details because, after all? He is so dumb and knows not to tell anybody anything the other man says lest he be killed... And he knows Jax will indeed slaughter him from talking too much. His scar stings...

     “C’mon, John.” He starts, knuckles on his hips as he leans forwards, staring up at the taller person. “Words spread fast. Yer a dog on a leash. Bitch of Rocket.” A weird hand gesture towards Looker as a sign of indicating the man as a whole. “Hardly a secret now, is it? Just th’ones who know of your shitty situation seem to also know to keep their fuckin’ mouths closed. Like me. ‘cept I’m more than happy to spout shit at ya than avoid yer bad luck company.”

     Fucking hell. Who has it worse in life, really? Him or Looker? Probably the other guy. Limping and hobbling around for weeks on end, and looking as though he’s seen the ghost of his beloved mother at every hour of the day, and also appearing close to passing out from lack of sleep. Poor guy. He... Yea. Okay. Fuck. He feels for John. So what? Well, yea. Durr. Gotta push that down into the pits of his stomach and move on. He isn’t here to pity people. He’s here for other reasons. So he has to try hard not to look sad in front of this guy.

     “Also, don’ speak as though ya know me. I’m only ‘ere to get some money to live off. Nothin’ more to it. An’ if that means servin’ shit then I’ll serve shit. Doesn’ matter t’me. I just wanna survive.”

     Ugh. He misses Umbra...

[deputysaint-a-blog]

“ if they want my blood, let them come for it. ”

@gcdsaved​ // the call // accepting

  The moon is high and clear, and a little yellow in the night. Wind whispers through the tall grass. Deacon takes a moment to enjoy the cool breeze, the feeling of dry grass brushing against the worn pads of his fingers. Somewhere, far off, a wolf calls, high and lonely. Closer, fawn bleats warily, it’s wobbly legs pushing it towards the protective shadow of it’s mother and herd, away from the beaten man standing in the middle of the field, looking possessed.

  There’s peace to be found in that moment, in the quiet of Hope County, away from the trucks and gunfire. Deacon breathes in deep, filling his aching chest with air, his abused ribs creaking in protest.

  Something behind him cracks, and he spins, hand falling to the empty holster at his waist. The tension in him eases, his eyes focusing on the figure at the edge of the trees, recognizing the painful slump of his shoulders, the bruised face looking at him, the anger in those too-blue eyes.

  John Seed stands there, defeated and bloodied, angry and cold, but whole, alive.

  “You should be resting.” Deacon tries, walking through the grass with all the grace of a lumbering bear. John spits something out at him in return, a threat probably, swears about his brothers finding him, what they would do to the junior deputy when they find him, what he will do to Deacon when he’s not bruised, not broken, not freshly flung out of a falling plane, covering from possibly cracked ribs, a hand Deacon suspects to be broken.

  They’re not empty threats, not entirely. But all of Holland Valley is looking for them, for him. Without a figurehead, his empire in the Valley has fallen. The cultists are scrambling, fleeing to the other Heralds, to Joseph’s forgiving shadow. And the locals… the locals are burning everything to do with the Project at Eden’s Gate. John’s legacy is burning.

  As far as they know, the only person who doesn’t want John Seed dead is Deacon, the only one keeping him alive is Deacon. And isn’t that a pickle?

  Deacon takes it in stride, all the verbal abuse, the physical but weak hits that sometimes happen when John is particularly foul or defensive. ( Like a cornered animal. That’s how John Seed behaves, all anger and fear and doubt. ) He takes everything in stride. Too patient, too calm. A constant body of cool calm, like the lakes up in the Whitetails. Cool and calm, flowing, but with no temperament.

  John’s hisses of promised violence only get louder as Deacon ushers him back to the camp, to the small warm fire that crackles in the night. They crack off with a pained noise as he’s pushed gently, so gently, into a chair, but pick back up again. Deacon’s so used to it that he nods along, fingers pressing into the other’s bruised flesh as he thinks over what to do next.

  “You should be quiet.” He says eventually, lips pursing as one harsh comment in particular hits too close to home, something about being bad at his job, protecting and serving the county. Something about failing to do even the most simple of acts. It’s a low blow, even for John Seed, and Deacon sucks in a breath of cold air. “You never know who is roaming around. They’re still looking for you. Mary May, Nick, they’re looking for your blood for what you did to them.”

  The look he receives is more animal than human. Bloodied teeth bared, blue eyes angry and piercing. “If they want my blood, let them come for it.”

  The tattoo on Deacon’s chest burns. Wrath. It’s not his sin, but he’ll wear it as long as he’s bidden. 

   Someone has to. 

[adventurepunks]

thedemonconstantine​:

“Oookay,” Said Andrew who did not seem the least bit perturbed that he suddenly became a meat-shield to John’s wife…that is if John wasn’t pulling his leg about that bit of the introduction.

He watched the creature shriek and fall back into its coffin like a wooden plank then raised his eyebrows at John, hands on his hips and sniffling.

“You ah…lost my address?” Asked almost testily…well maybe a little awkwardly, a little like a mumble with a side-eye to Talia just in case she heard him and thought it rude.

“…for the ah…wedding invite?”

Sniffle.

Hey now, weren’t they supposed to be friends?!

“Easy mate, weddin’s next year. Yeh comin’ wiff Pearl?” John tried very hard not to grin at how morose Andrew looked about it. Always a moody bugger, this one.

“Aye, me Queen, looks like we’ve gots ‘ta make space at Blood’s table for Bennett,” He scratched his chin and put on a show of nonchalance just to mess with Andrew.

“Yeh wants ‘ta sit wiff Zee-Zatanna or Richard? Or yeh wants ‘ta roost in th’ beams wiff Matthew? We’re nah servin’ blood though I kin arrange sumfing fer yeh.”

“This body was looted before it was discovered yet again and corrupted into…whatever this is right now, so as you can see, the gold tongue is gone, the neck collar and bracelets too,” Andrew chose to ignore John’s teasing and addressed Talia instead, pointing to the unadorned places on the creature that should have had jewellery. 

“Poor thing came back without any means of communication. Seems like it may not even be housing a soul or maybe just a fragment of it. I don’t sense much sentience,” He continued whilst peering into the sarcophagus for another good two minutes before sliding the heavy stone lid shut.

There was the faint stirring of air in the distant tunnels alongside the chittering of something else, yet Andrew was relaxed and lounging with an elbow against the closed sarcophagus.

“You really…you place-sat the knight and Occult first? Before me? Of course I’ll sit with Zatanna!”

“Woh kin I say, Bennett, weddin’s gunna be in broad daylite, heh!”

The ground began to rumble and dust unsettled by their feet. Perhaps the temperature in this little chamber dropped two degrees and still the men continued to bicker.

“Alrite, alrite, I’ll prepare a brolly fer yeh, tha’ spiffy enough fer yeh knob?” 

John was leaning against the sarcophagus too and nursing a cigarette, and the shadows behind him moved.

Something peeled off the walls to strike, fangs and claws and hissing spit, only to shriek in agony when a UV torch was shone straight into its ugly face.

SCREEEEEEEEEEE-

The thing turned to dust all over John’s shoulders, and another came to strike at Talia!

“Parasol. A parasol,” He corrected with a big toothy grin and shone his torch around.

SCREEEEEEEEE-

Oop, there goes another one! And another! 

“--” Talia stared at John saying not a word, as if her eyes were to convey that she had already accommodated guests she did not find fitting now John invited vampires as well.

What next? Ask a ghoul to be their son’s godfather?

As the boys played their little theatrics Talia followed a moving shadow with her torch light.

“Ah, Wallah-pt puptt” Talia spat dust that she ended up tasting on her tongue.

One was downed by the burn of the UV torch, another relieved of it’s head with her silver blade when it stepped an inch closer to Bennet than Talia was willing to allow.

"Are those theatrics important right now? I swear thirty years old, a hundred you never outgrow boyhood” Talia scolded them both and John was even rewarded with a slap at the back of his head as a dagger flew to pin a shadow to the wall. All Talia saw were moving shadows, her eyes were still very human after all and these creatures moved fast.

Very fast.

Thus a true marksman aimed to where they calculated they would be 0.7 seconds after their projectile left their hand.

No wind factor down here to factor in.

“I still....do not like...that you invited Boobarella to my special day” Talia grunted between swinging her sword taking out her anger on a pile of dust on the floor as if dispersing the dust would mean anything. She might be taking her frustrations of Zatanna’s insistence in being alive and John still caring about her on dust.

“I apologize, we are not used to company on our adventures. We shall resume our domestic another time” Talia even bowed her head just a little in apology to the vampire.

“Not that I wish to be patronizing but they were hardly a challenge, I doubt you procured our aid for this. Shall we proceed to find the real threat?”

[vagabondretired]

Forty-eight years ago today, at 10:56 pm eastern time, John Kennedy's vision to put a man on the Moon by decade's end was realized when Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin became the first humans to set foot on a heavenly body not named Earth. (It almost turned tragic when they nearly landed inside a boulder-strewn crater, but quick-thinking Armstrong switched the controls to manual and guided the module to a flatter surface. Whew!) The entire world was united in awe that day---the kind of awe that our next phase of human space exploration has to match, now that the shiny shuttles have been mothballed. My verdict so far: the SpaceX rockets look promising and are generating a real "gee whiz" factor, and we hope Elon Musk and NASA keep it up. For your enjoyment of the anniversary, today the Chez cafeteria is servin' up as much Tang as your tummy can hold. True fact: No one can hear u belch in space.

[scotianostra]

31st March 1652 saw the Honours of Scotland saved from Cromwell's forces at Dunnottar Castle.

I think most of us know the story about Cromwells forces laying siege to Dunnottar, he was after our crown jewels, he had already destroyed Englands crown jewels three years before. Here is an account of the events at Dunnottar, fittingly in the local dialect of the Doric.

Back in the days lang ago fan fowk wir aye fechtin wi een anither a chiel caad Oliver Cromwell hid gotten rid o King Charles I an cut aff his heid. He then taen ower England an wis for takkin ower Scotland as weel. Noo, there wir fowk fa thocht that he’d nae richt tae dee that, but Cromwell’s airmy wis ower strong for them an they his tae dee aa they could jist tae survive.

Een o the things Cromwell wintit wis the ‘Honours o Scotland’ – that wis the croon, sword an sceptre; the Scottish Croon Jewels. But thir wir fowk fa werena for lettin Cromwell hae them and Honours landit up in Dunnottar Castle jist aside Steenhive. Fan the ‘Roondheids’, that’s fit Cromwell’s supporters wir caad because o the shape o the helmets his airmy wore, heard aboot far the croon jewels were they sent an airmy tae get them back. The airmy wis commandit by General Lambert an he demandit that George Ogilvie, the Governor o Dunnottar haun them ower tae him. But the Governor refused an the castle wis surrounded by Lambert’s airmy an naebody could get in an naebody could get oot. Nae even maet wis allowed in. Dunnottar’s hich on the cliffs an wis affa difficult tae attack but Lambert thocht he could stairve the fowk in the castle in tae giein up. Ae thing that wis allowed in wis some medicines for Margaret Ogilvie, the Governor’s wife fa wis nae weel.

The wife o the minister o Kinneff Kirk, Mary Grainger, wis allowed in tae tak in medicine an bandages for Mrs. Ogilvie an her man, the Reverend James Grainger. He wis already in the castle for he widna leave his fowk fan they wir in sic a steer o trouble. Mrs. Grainger an her maid, Alison wir kenspeckle figures gyan in an oot o the castle an the sodjers gairdin the doors got eesed tae seein them.

Ae day fan the twa weemin wir veesitin an argy-bargy got up aboot fit wis tae be deen wi the croon, sceptre an sword. “We canna hing on muckle langer,” said the Governor, “We’re near haun oot o maet an we’ll be aitin sea maws neist. We’ll hae tae gie in seen. Fit can wi dee aboot the Honours?”

“Weel,” said the Rev. Grainger, “we canna bury them, this rock’s ower hard an there’s nae pint in tryin tae hide them for Cromwell’s airmy will either find them or burn the buildin till there’s nithin left.” “I’ve an idea,” said Mrs. Grainger, “Alison an I could smuggle them oot. The sodjers ootside are eesed tae us gyan back an fore. We could walk throu them get on oor horses an be hame afore they’d jalouse fit hid happened.”

“Na, na. Wi canna hae that,” said the Governor. “D’ye ken fit the sodjers wid dee tae ye if you an Alsion wir found oot?”

“Besides that, ye aye arrive wi bundles an parcels, ye dinna leave wi them,” said Rev. Grainger. “That plan’s nae eese av aa.”

“But fit if we wir comin fae a direction they wid expeck us tae come fae cairryin baskets?” spiert Mrs. Grainger.

“Fit div ye mean?” spiert the Governor.

“Weel,” explained Mrs. Grainger, “If we were comin up fae the rocks aneth the castle cairryin baskets o dulse, fit wid be wrang wi thon? Far else wid ye get dulse but doon on the rocks.”

“Ye’ll need tae explain a bittie mair,” said the minister, “ Fu dee ye expeck tae find the Honours on the rocks an fu are ye tae get doon there yersel?

“Here’s aa wi need tae dee,” said Mrs. Grainger. “Alison will heid for the bottom o the cliffs alang the rocks. I’ll arrive at the gate as usual wi a lot o lint bandages, a fyow mair nor usual but the gairds will nivver ken the difference. Noo, ye mak up a wee cheer that I can sit on. Mak a rope wi the bandages an syne ye’ll lower me doon tae the bottom o the cliff an I’ll be haudin a basket wi the croon, sceptre an sword in it. Alison’ll help me at the bottom o the cliff. We’ll hap the croon jewels in dulse an set aff back tae Kinneff Kirk."

“Are ye gyan gyte, umman!” wis Rev. Grainger’s answer tae the plan.

“James, fit else can wi dee? Is aa this time sufferin in here tae be for nithin?”

Rev. Grainger lookit at his wife an the servin lass an shook his heid. “Aye. Maybe ye’re richt. Ye’ll need tae prepare a place tae hide the Honours an I think I ken jist the place. Get Wattie fae the smiddy tae help ye. He’s a true chiel an wid dee onythin tae help the King. Get Wattie tae help ye shove back the poopit an lift een o the flagsteens unnerneth. Dig oot a hole an fan ye get back tae the Kirk, an God willin, ye will, ye can beery the honours in the yird aneth the poopit.”

“That seems tae be settled, then. Mrs. Grainger, Alison, Scotland will nivver forget fit ye’re deein for the country,” said the Governor an the plan wint intae action.

The neist day Mrs. Grainger arrived at Dunnottar an, as usual, wis let intae the castle withoot ony bother. Eence inside she got oot the lint an it wis twistit intae ropes an tied tae a wee cheer that Rev. Grainger hid made up. They wint tae the back o the castle that looks doon tae the bottom o the cliff an Mrs. Grainger wis lowert ower the side wi the croon jewels in a dulse basket that she wis cairryin. It wis a relieved Mrs. Grainger that felt rocks unner her fit efter fit seemed an age traivellin doon the side o the cliff. Alison wis there tae help her.

Alison hid already gaithert a wheen o dulse an it wisna lang afore the honours were hidden aneth a pile o dulse in twa separate baskets. The twa lassies stertit up the cliffs an Mrs. Grainger hid tae waatch an see the sodjer fa hid lettin her intae the castle didna see her comin up fae the rocks or he micht hae jaloused fit wis gyan on.

Fan they got tae the tap o the cliff they were in for a begeck for fa wis staunin there but General Lambert himsel. “An fit hiv ye twa bin up till?” he spiers.

Alison lookit worried but Mrs. Grainger wis quick wi an excuse, “Wiv bin gaitherin dulse. Nithin better for the caul on a frosty day!”

The General lookit at the baskets syne gaed his heid a shak, “You sea gyan fowk’ll ait onything. Gyads! Saeweed for denner! Fit could be worse?” An wi that he turnt roon an tellt the serjint o the gaird tae, “Escort the lasses tae thir shelts an get us aa fae the smell o the dulse!”

Withoot anither wird or a look roon the twa lasses marched tae thir wee shelts, mounted an trotted aff on the road tae Kinneff Kirk. Eence at Kinneff they met in wi Wattie fa hid already shiftit the poopit an raised the flagsteen. The Scottish Croon jewels wir beeriet an the poopit shoved back on tap. Tae help pit the Roonheids aff lookin for the Honours a rumour wis spread that Sir John Keith, youngest son o the Earl Marishal had managed tae get the Honours smuggled oot tae France. But they bade in Kinneff Kirk for acht year until Charles II wis back on the throne an the honours wir returned tae thir hame in Edinburgh Castle. But things micht hae bin far different if it hidna bin for twa lasses fa saved the Honours o Scotland.

[thedemonconstantine]

adventurepunks​:

“Well your favo tea is too milky and just tastes like sugar!”

WHOMP!

All of a sudden they might as well be cartoons in a kid’s TV show as her pillow busted open and there were duck feathers flying everywhere.

“Look the mess you made!” Zatanna accused shaking her head as if it was all John’s fault. “Now I need to go buy a new pillow!” As if she needed an excuse to get a new pillow or go shopping but that didn’t stop her from shaking her head at him.

With feathers in her hair she grabbed her parka and beanie hat braiding her hair as she walked down the stairs so the night air wouldn’t mess it up and knocked on the study door that was left slightly open for it’s occupant was prepping for a summoning.

“We’re going for a walk would you like anything?” she asked.

“Where are you heading?”

“No direction in mind.” Zatanna looked at John and no it seemed they would just wander.

“Something savory without cheese. Surprise me, I don’t care what it is” Nick requested for he was kinda feeling snacky. 

Zatanna did invite him but Nick would politely decline for he had matters to attend to.

“Would you like to borrow a hat? You’d be surprised how cold the wind is at night” Zatanna offered for she had a black bobble hat somewhere that ought to be neutral enough for John to wear.

Or he could pick one of the glittery ones she wouldn’t judge him.

Zatanna would just walk towards the McDonald’s just so they had a destination to walk to, it was only to clear her head anyway and Nick wanted something savory.

“We sometimes to there” Zatanna gestured to the little dive bar with the pool tables as they passed it. “On alternate Wednesdays the tables are free. The pool tables.” She had to be more specific.

They passed an open bar and Zatanna smiled. “Do you do karaoke?Come on, let’s have one drink and a song, then we will go to MacD’s get Nick something and head back”

“Mess I made? Aye buh is yeh room! Heh!” First week in and already shirking responsibilities! Shirk shirk!

John laughed as he tumbled out of her bed, tugging on his boots and made for his room in the corner of the Sanctum to grab his leathers. It wasn’t much but it’ll have to do. He joined Zatanna by Nick’s door and he lounged with an arm on the jamb and the other on a hip, spitting feathers because damned he was coated in them too!

“Woh’s salty wiff nah cheese? Is tha’ a trick question?” John gawked at the tall order after they were out of earshot, blinking twice at Zee and then he got a hat shoved at his chest. Just to be silly, he wore it blind over his eyes and let the fuzzy bobble bit hang in front, nodding his head to let the thing bob away.

“‘ow does I look?” CUE BIG TOOTHY GRIN.

“Alrite, so I’ve gots a theory,” Said John who was serious all of a sudden, lowering his voice as they stepped out onto the pavement from the Sanctum, pushing the knitted brim of his hat back to actually see where he was going.

“I fink I figured out why ‘ere’s so many fokkin’ Starbucks in dis area.”

He leaned in close to whisper, “Is th’ mafiaaaaaa-”

Money laundering and all that, right? RIGHT?

“Cor, why else are dey servin’ drinks tha’ sounds Italian, aye?! Coffee’s fokkin’ coffee innit?!”

He turned to look at the dive bar Zee pointed out and at the neon signs and the crummy little alley right next to it. Perfect.

“Karaoke? I’m all in!” John shoved the door open to peek inside. It was a weekday and an hour to closing so the crowd was expectedly sparse.

“Gin ‘n tonic, mate, wiff extra lemon if yeh please, ‘ta!” Said John as he slapped a crumpled bunch of ones onto the table.

“Aye ‘n ‘ow much fer a song?” He turned to Zee and grinned again, slouching over the bartop with eyes gleaming.

“Ladies’ pick! I’ll be yeh backup vocals!”