#just sniffing around for any semblance of purpose or will to live. i just want to mean something. maybe tomorrow i will scream in my car.

[chinacatmoonflower]

I’ve spent the whole year grieving. I want nothing more than to live again but I don’t even know where to begin. I feel smaller than ever.

[kybercrystals94]

Local Flavors

Read here on Ao3!

Summer of Bad Batch 2024 | Week 5 | "You're a bad liar." | "Need a hand?"

Rated: G | Words: 1733 | Summary: Domestic living has a learning curve.

Hunter stares at the basket of small, glass canisters, each filled with some kind of crushed plant or seed. He hopes the bewilderment he feels isn’t evident in his expression when he looks up at the woman, their immediate neighbor to the west, Kyly. “Thank you,” he says. 

Kyly grins at him. “You don’t know what they are, do you?” 

Hunter considers lying, but he considers a moment too long for it to be convincing. “No,” he admits. 

“They’re seasonings,” Kyly says, as though that simply explains it. 

It doesn’t. 

“Ah,” Hunter says anyway.

Kyly rolls her eyes. “For cooking. For flavor.” She starts sorting through the bottles, rattling off the meaningless names of each. That’s when Hunter notices they are labeled in pretty, decorative font…probably hand written by Kyly herself. 

“Let me know if you need any help figuring out what to use with what,” Kyly concludes with a charming, toothy smile. She wiggles her fingers when she waves goodbye, and walks away, disappearing around the corner. 

A snicker behind him makes Hunter’s face and ears burn.

“Making friends, are we?” Crosshair asks. “Pretty friends.” 

“Knock it off, Cross. Kyly just brought us a housewarming gift,” Hunter mutters, turning and shouldering past his brother to deposit the basket of seasonings on the kitchen counter. 

Crosshair plucks one of the bottles from the basket, holds it up and shakes it. “What the kriff is this stuff?” 

“Seasoning,” Hunter says. “For cooking.” 

Crosshair manages to screw off the lid one handed, sniffing at the contents suspiciously. He makes a face. “I do not want this on my food.” 

Hunter snatches it away from him. “You wouldn’t know good flavor if it bit you in the shebs,” Hunter says. He doesn’t mention that he can smell the seasoning in question without lifting it to his nose, nor does he admit that it doesn’t smell appetizing. Instead, he screws the lid on tight and puts the questionable seasoning aside. 

“And you do?” Crosshair snarks back. “Maybe you should take Kyly up on her cooking lessons.” 

Hunter rolls his eyes. “It isn’t intergalactic science. I’m sure I can figure it out.” 

“You do that,” Crosshair says with an annoying smirk Hunter wants to slap off his face. 

Crosshair must sense the threat, good soldier that he is, and slips through the front door before Hunter does anything drastic. 

***

Omega and Wrecker return from the docks as the usual time for evening meal approaches. As they approach the house, Omega sniffs at the air. “Do you smell that?” 

Wrecker takes a deep breath through his nose, carefree expression crumbling into a look of utter disgust. “It smells like something died.” 

“That stench is dinner.” Crosshair slinks out from behind the house, arms crossed with a pleased look on his face. 

Wrecker and Omega exchanged horrified glances. 

“What happened to it?” Omega asks. 

Crosshair flashes her a feral grin. “Hunter.” 

Wrecker gapes. “How? 

“Oh, I assure you he took great care in destroying every semblance of edibility,” Crosshair says. 

Omega makes a face. “Hunter wouldn’t ruin food on purpose.” 

“He’s trying to impress our neighbor by using the housewarming gift she brought this afternoon,” Crosshair says loftily, leaning against the railing of the front porch. “Problem is, he doesn't know kark about seasonings.” 

“Hey, language,” Wrecker grumbles. 

Omega, unfazed, clasps her hands together. “You mean Kyly?” 

“Yep,” Crosshair says, popping the ‘p’ with finality. 

“Aw, that’s so sweet,” Omega coos, but another waft of clashing flavors drifts by, and her demeanor crumbles. “Maybe we should ask her how to use them instead of just…” 

Crosshair huffs. “I tried to tell him that.” He pokes Omega in the forehead. “It's your turn.” 

“Me?” Omega squeaks. “I don’t want to hurt his feelings!” 

“You think I do?” Crosshair asks. 

Omega narrows her eyes. “It hasn’t stopped you from telling him anything before.” 

Crosshair shrugs, conceding the point. 

“Well, one of us has to tell him,” Wrecker groans. “Otherwise, we’re never gonna eat anything good ever again.” 

“Be our guest, Wrecker,” Crosshair says. “Break a poor man’s heart.” 

Wrecker balks. “He has to know. I mean, can’t he smell it? What’s the point of enhanced senses if you can’t smell what you’re cooking?”

“As hard as it is to believe, Hunter isn’t perfect,” Crosshair retorts. 

Omega’s shoulders sag. “Fine. I’ll tell him.” 

***

The moment they walk in the door, Hunter is on them. “Just in time for late meal,” he says cheerfully. 

Omega’s resolve melts like an ice cone in the late afternoon sun. 

Crosshair gives her shoulder a nudge, and Omega subtly shakes her head. Her youngest brother sighs. “You said…”

“Shh,” Omega hisses. 

They sit down at the table. Some sort of dish is displayed in the middle. 

“It’s called a casserole,” Hunter tells them. “I found the recipe on the holonet.” 

“Did you follow it?” Crosshair asks. 

Omega kicks his shin under the table. 

“What’s in it?” Wrecker eyes the food like it’s a coiled snake about to strike. 

Hunter lists off the ingredients. “There were measurements, but we don’t have measuring spoons. Any seasonings we didn’t have, I substituted for ones that looked the same color and texture.”

“Maker, help us,” Crosshair breathes. 

Omega takes a deep breath. Maybe it will taste better than it smells. Bravely, she wraps a fist around the serving spoon and scoops a generous helping of casserole onto her plate. She has to bite her cheek from grimacing at the reek that curls up in rolling steam. 

She is surprised when Crosshair follows her example next, then Wrecker. Hunter serves himself last.

Then they sit in loud silence, waiting for someone else to try it first. Finally, Wrecker picks up his fork, spears the prongs into the casserole, and takes a bite. Omega and Crosshair watch him carefully, waiting for the facial contortion soon to follow the courageous act. Wrecker barely chews, swallowing with a gulp. 

“Mmmm,” he says, but his eye twitches.

Hunter frowns, looks down at his own plate for a moment, then takes a huge bite. His eyes widen before he spits the mouthful out into his napkin. “It’s awful!” 

“It’s not that bad,” Wrecker says. 

Hunter casts him a withering look. “You’re a terrible liar.” 

Crosshair heaves a heavy sigh, shoving his plate across the table. “In his defense, you should have known it was terrible before either of you took a bite.” 

“What are you talking about?” Hunter asks, looking genuinely confused. 

“Can’t you smell it? It smells terrible…Wrecker thought something died when he and Omega got back to the house…and they spent the day at the docks,” Crosshair says. Omega tries to catch Crosshair’s eye, tries to signal him to shut up, but Crosshair successfully misses every cue thrown his way as he adds, “I bet Kyly could smell it from her house.” 

Hunter looks mortified. “And you didn’t tell me? Why didn’t you say something before I kriffing served it?” He stands up and begins gathering the plates, dumping the untouched casserole back into the dish. He gives a sharp whistle, and Batcher comes bounding into the dining area, a place she is normally forbidden. “Here, girl. Got something special for you,” Hunter says, putting the dish on the ground. 

Batcher snuffles at it loudly before slowly backing away. 

Omega can’t help the snort of laughter that bubbles up, and she claps both hands over her mouth to try and stifle it. She doesn’t dare make eye contact with Wrecker or Crosshair. 

“Well,” Hunter mutters, “looks like we’ll be eating in the market tonight.” 

***

The next morning, Omega knocked on Kyly’s door. The woman answered immediately. “Omega! What a pleasant surprise. I was just making morning tea. Please, please, won’t you join me?” 

Before Omega could answer one way or another, she was pulled inside and guided to a lovely little table covered in a crocheted cloth and a vase stuffed full of wild island flowers. Kyly left to the kitchen and returned with another cup and saucer and placed them at the other seat. 

“Do you take cream or sugar?” Kyly asks, sitting down across from Omega and pouring the hot, aromatic beverage into Omega’s delicate cup. 

Omega admires the thin curving teacup, so different from the thick mugs her brothers drank caf from each morning. “I like both, please,” Omega says. 

Kyly drops two large lumps of sugar and a generous splash of cream. Omega carefully imitates Kyly in stirring the tea with a spoon, the soft tink, tink, tink sounding absolutely musical.

“Now, what can I do for you?” Kyly asks. 

“I wanted to thank you for the seasonings you brought yesterday,” Omega says. She takes a careful sip of tea and is pleasantly surprised by its mild, sweet flavor.

Kyly smiles. “I grew the herbs in my garden and dried them myself. Have you gotten to try any of them yet?” 

“Hunter used some last night,” Omega admits carefully. “I’m not sure we know how to use them…properly. We grew up on rations and formulated meals from Kamino. We don’t have a lot of experience being–” Omega searches for the proper word. 

“Domestic?” Kyly supplies. 

Omega grins. 

“Perhaps,” Kyly says slowly, “I might be able to lend a hand.” 

***

“I need your help,” Omega says, standing in Hunter’s doorway. 

Hunter is towling his hair dry after washing up from his morning and afternoon spent down on the docks with his brothers. He glances at his sister. “With what?” 

“Late meal,” Omega chirps happily, bouncing on her toes. 

Hunter levels her an unamused glare. “Hard pass.” 

“Ah, c’mon, Hunter,” Omega says. “I promise it will turn out better than last night.” 

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” Hunter deadpans. 

“Kyly told me this recipe is Hunter-proof,” Omega says, matching Hunter’s tone; however, her eyes are glittering with stark amusement. 

Burning embarrassment scorches up Hunter’s neck and across his face. “Kyly said that?” 

“Well,” Omega amends gleefully, “maybe she didn’t say Hunter-proof.”

Hunter rolls his eyes. “Fine. But if this goes wrong, we’re blaming you. I can only be responsible for one botched supper a week.” 

“Fine by me,” Omega says, shrugging one shoulder and grinning at him. 

Hunter huffs and follows his giggling sister into the kitchen. 

***

That night, when a hearty fish stew tastes every bit as wonderful as it smells, Omega gives Hunter all the credit. 

END

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[spideyspeaches]

Inconveniences ↬ p.p

AN: This is a reupload from my old account!

An entry for @geminiparkers’s 1k writing challenge!

Pairing- College!Peter Parker x Stark!Reader

Warnings: mentions of sex :)

Wc: 1.7k

Masterlist || Taglist

1.

You didn’t understand what people saw in the Avengers. They were annoying and had no concept of personal space.

Or maybe those were just your thoughts. You’ve been living with them ever since quarantine started, finally able to convince your parents that you were capable of living alone, you were an avenger, after all. Well you weren’t really living alone, as the people in question along with your boyfriend, Spider-Man lived with you.

Never were you ever glad that May Parker, the angel, had allowed you two to stay together (without much embarrassment).

Back to the point where you got no privacy. For example:

“Peterrrr” you whined, elongating his name to get his attention. You had been horny all day long, craving some semblance of touch from your extremely sweet, hot, amazing, beautiful boyfriend.

He hummed, not even looking up from the laptop he was typing on. He was laying on his side, so you tried to shimmy yourself between the little space on the couch and him, only to grunt when he wouldn’t move.

So you tried something else, because fuck the Avengers you wanted a dick now.

“Petey petey pie,” you whispered, tracing his abs from under his t-shirt. You knew your trick would work, because you could feel them clench.

“Y/N, not here sweetheart.” He muttered, holding your hand while he continued to ignore you.

Pouting, you huffed and flopped back as much as you could.

“You promised you would be free tonight! Gah you’re such a nerd!�� You whined, rolling your eyes when you saw Nat entered the living room.

At first she ignored you both, sipping at her milkshake and walking towards the kitchen.

“You chose me and not Harry remember? Thought you were into nerds not gonna lie.” He smirked, his voice low, the kind that had you clenching without a thought.

“And? Are you questioning my choices? Come on Petey you can do your homework later.” You said.

You climbed on top of him, your foot purposefully catching his dick. By now you were practically on his chest , tracing circles around his nipples.

Smirking, you continued to pepper his exposed neck with featherlight kisses, making sure to moan every now and then.

“Y/N, what are you doing?” He clenched his jaw, huffing to show that your kisses were not affecting him.

“Well you’re being a party pooper, so I’m having mine.” You muttered, voice muffled as you slid your hands inside his t-shirt, scratching your fingers against his chest.

Grunting, he gently pushed you off, sitting up with his laptop on his legs, “Y/N this is important."

Mouth open now, you puffed your cheeks, folding your hands on your chest.

"Can you believe this dude?!” You shouted, looking at Nat while pointing at your smirking boyfriend, “he chooses homework over sex!”

***

2.

Sipping at your drink, you smiled at the scene in front of you. It was almost half a year under quarantine, and Tony had finally agreed to host a party, albeit an internal one with only the Avengers, and May, now that she was out of duty from the hospital.

“How’re you feeling babe?” Peter appeared, wrapping his hands around your stomach, resting his nose on the crook of your neck.

Sighing, you leaned onto his head, enjoying the way he kissed your neck, caressing your waist with his thumbs.

“I’m good, things are getting normal again, if only the president caught the virus, this country would be a much better place.” You snorted, feeling your back vibrate as he laughed.

“You hate him so much don’t you?” He said.

“He’s hate worthy.” You shrugged, turning around to wrap your hands around his neck, playing with the baby hair on the nape.

Leaning forward, you hummed against his lips, crading your hands through his hair as he pushed you into his chest, fingers playing with the hem of your pants.

“Someone’s gonna walk in on us.” You mutter against his mouth, moaning as his tongue attacks your lips, parting them hungrily.

Swaying with the loud music, you whimpered when he touched your waist, his fingers hot and leaving shocks, your pussy throbbing and gut coiling with anticipation.

Panting desperately, you pulled at his shirt, fingers scrunching in the material as he lifted you up, planting on the counter top as you wrapped your legs around his waist, effectively straddling him. Feeling his muscles rippling under the shirt, gave a throaty moan, huffing due to the lack of oxygen.

Sweat was already coating your foreheads, creating highlights on his cheekbones and reflecting off the lens of his glasses-

“Peter did you see my- Oh! Oh am I disturbing you? Why don’t you use the bedroom though, I don’t think Tony would like if you do it in the kitchen-"

"May! Oh my god-"

”-It’s okay honey, you’re not a teenager anymore-“

Falling off the counter top, you bit your lip, playing with the hem of your shirt, not meeting May’s eyes. You look at your blushing boyfriend, embarrassed at being caught making out in between a party.

"May, just go, please-”

“Um, sorry I was just leaving anyway, you know, I got work to do. Yeah. You both continue.” She smirked, nodding at you and sending a sly wink at you.

Shaking your head, you looked at Peter, twiddling your hands together.

“Sooo, wanna make out?” You ask.

“Yeah. Sure"

***

3.

The dishes clinked together, the noise echoing in the empty kitchen. Peter moved with agility, hands cleaning the dishes as he passed it to you who were putting them on the rack.

You saw him take a deep breath, biting your lips and gulping. You knew what was coming next.

Peter had always been protective of you, as a friend or as a girlfriend. He protected everyone who he loved.

"I’m sorry-"

"Save it. Take your meds and go to sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow.” He grunted, nearly smashing the plates as you raised your eyebrows.

“Well be careful of the plates, they’re fragile.” You joked, heart beating fast as you contemplate his reaction.

“How are you so chill about all this?! You know you were reckless, and yet you do decide to not acknowledge the fact that you almost died!” He slammed his fist, nearly breaking the plate with his hand, a small piece did break, piercing his skin.

You jumped at his sudden aggression, your own anger building.

“I’m a big girl now Peter, I can take care of myself, I don’t need you to look out for me everytime I go out!” You snarled, curling your fist, “and you’re one to talk you hypocrite! You’re always so reckless during patrols, how is me getting blasted by a bomb in a fireproof suit, reckless when you get hit by bullets on a daily basis?"

"I stopped listening after you said you got blasted by a bomb, you’re not enhanced Y/N, how am I supposed to-”, he said voice cracking, “I love you okay? I can’t - I can’t lose you okay?"

Your chest ached at his hurt voice. Peter had lost a lot in his short life, his parents, his uncle, almost lost Tony. And now you felt bad about making him feel that way.

"I’m sorry Petey.” You said, taking his cheek in one hand, holding his suds filled hand in another, “You’re hurt."

He chuckled, looking at his hand where the broken plate had pierced it. Tony wouldn’t mind one broken plate, he was a billionaire after all.

"Yeah.” He said, sniffing and putting it under the faucet to get off any remaining blood. You watched in fascination as the wound closed up, not even leaving a scar behind as if you were watching a time lapse.

Rolling your eyes, you grinned mischievously, poking his chest with you fingers and snorting as he giggled, pulling you closer-

“Bucky! Give me back my cookie now or I swear to god-"

"Ughhh you guys do this purposely don’t you?” You groaned, glaring at Bucky and Sam as they stop in their tracks, looking at each other and smirking.

“We neither confirm nor deny your accusations.” Bucky said, plopping the cookie in his mouth and walking out of the kitchen as you bang your forehead against the table.

Why can’t people just let you be intimate with your boyfriend for one second?

***

+1

“Are you sure no one’s gonna walk in, Spider-Man?” You hummed against his lips, moving in slow motions as he caresses your bum.

“If they do, I’ll take care of it.” He rasps, squeezing your bottom and fingering the hem of your shirt shorts.

You were sitting in Peter’s bedroom after a full day of teasing him, because you were horny and desperate. Softly kneading your fingers through his hair, you whined at the feel of his bulge against your crotch, a wet feeling already seeping through those shorts.

Rubbing your hips faster against his, you huff, tracing his biceps and squeezing them occasionally as he moved down with his lips, slipping off your tank top.

“Thought you had super speed.” You grunted, urging him to go faster as he unclasped your bra before looking at you with a smirk, his eyes shining with mirth and lust.

“You were a bad girl today, teasing me every opportunity you got, it’s only fair if I get to do the same.” He said before squeezing your one boob and sucking on the other, a wet pop noise leaving his mouth every time he sucked on it.

Spreading your legs further, you shimmy out of your shorts, lifting Peter’s shirt up to get him out of it before he stopped you.

“Oh no, you’re not-” he started before the door opened with a bang.

“Did you guys-” before Tony could see anything, Peter produced his web-shooters and shot at the door, locking it for at least another two hours.

A muffled, “at least use protection!” Was heard from outside the door. Your face was burning with embarrassment, looking at Peter with an innocently terrified look on your face. He could hear your heart racing, and it was making him like, really hard.

“Now, where to begin.” He whispered, chills shooting up your spine, goosebumps appearing on your skin and the wet feeling intensifying between your thighs.

“Let me at least undress you.” You plead, lifting his t-shirt and unbuttoning his jeans simultaneously.

“No, you were a brat today, and brats don’t get a taste without punishment.” He smirked, flipping you so you hit the backrest, holding your arms up and…webbing You up against the headboard, “today I’m doing all the work."

And you didn’t mind it really. Like, at all.

[crystalirises]

The Final Answer (36 Questions AU 3/13)

Third part.

OUR SWEET OLD LIFE

Fundy curled up on the farthest end of the couch, his slitted eyes tracking every movement that Dream dared make in the rundown shack he had made for himself. He watched as the blonde glanced at the cobwebs in the corners, at the dusty windows, at the tattered couch that Fundy sat on, at the grime-covered walls, and at the recently polished floor. 

The blanket was draped over his own shoulders, Dream insisting that he didn’t care much for the cold. Like how Dream didn’t care for anything except for a bunch of flimsy discs that held no significance to anyone other than Fundy’s uncle who was exiled by the very man in question. His sharp nails raked through the cloth of the couch, wincing as a small tear formed. Niki would kill him if she noticed it. Heh. He didn’t know how Dream found his way to Drywaters, but he must have done something to know. His hair bristled. Dream didn’t threaten Niki or Ranboo, did he?

He let out a low growl as Dream’s attention turned to him, their gazes piercing through each other’s soul. Fundy refused to wonder what was beyond the porcelain mask. He refused to wonder if he would see hurt in those forest green eyes he used to love so much, the eyes he woke up to every morning. Dream fumbled, mouth opening and closing like a stupid fish in a dirty pond. Fundy pulled his knees closer to himself, his sharp nails biting into the skin as he waited for whatever bullshit Dream would concoct. He didn’t know what was going on in that devious little mind, but it couldn’t be good. 

Fundy was exhausted from being fucked over by the entirety of New L’manburg and the Essempy. He hated the man before him, hated how his heart ached at the sight of him. He hated that he wanted to forgive him even if the blonde didn’t apologize. He hated how he still felt for his ex-husband, the ex-husband he thought he’d left behind.

“So… I know we can’t go back to the way we used to be. You’ve made that perfectly clear, sta― Fundy.” He doesn’t miss the way his old nickname easily slipped through Dream’s lips, the way he quickly averted from finishing it. Fundy sniffled, wiping at his nose with the edge of his jacket sleeve. He hated that nickname, anyway. So why did it hurt to be reminded of it? 

“We just have to move forward from this. The sooner we apologize to one another, the sooner we can go home… where it’s safer.” Dream walked closer, trying to pull Fundy into an embrace.

“Dream, with you… no place is safe.” Fundy winced at the bitter and harsh words that left his tongue, averting his gaze the moment those beady black eyes turned to him. He shivered, pulling the blanket tighter around him. He didn’t like being scrutinized in such a way… he couldn’t see Dream’s face. Fundy would like to give him the benefit of the doubt… but this was the masked man who took everything from him. He didn’t want to see what was behind that painted smile. 

“You can’t speedrun an apology, babe― Dream.” Shit.

“I’m sorry… I know this hasn’t been easy… for you… for us…” His ex-husband’s tone was strained, with fear or with sadness Fundy couldn’t really tell. He forced himself to look at Dream, watching as the man placed a hand inside his sweater pocket, scouring for something… Fundy leaned further into the couch, wishing that it would swallow him whole. Then he’d be free. 

“But I… I want to fix this, Funds. We can still fix this. I have a plan, trust me. Remember those… questions you forced me to answer during our date?” Dream smiled, hoping that the memory would illicit some semblance of nostalgia within the fox hybrid.

“Oh! You mean those 36 Questions that you said were stupid! Those questions that were designed to make a stranger fall in love with you! How could I forget?” Fundy wanted to remain positive. He really did. But Dream’s presence made it difficult. He wanted to forget this. He wanted it to be over. He was stupid to think he could escape. Was there any land in this land that Dream didn’t own? 

“If you think answering those questions are going to help, then you’re wrong. You probably lied about your answers, anyway.” Fundy sniffed, his nails digging into the skin of his arms.

“Funds.” He saw two glints of light emerge from Dream’s pocket, and Fundy did everything he could not to cry right then and there. Dream had their wedding rings, the large diamond gems glimmering despite the dim light of the living room. Fundy had worked hard for them. He didn’t even beg or plead with Wilbur for money nor did he steal them from some unsuspecting L’Manburgian. Now… Now he glared and sneered at them as if they were nothing but dirt. 

“We need to move forward, and I know how we can do just that.”

“And what brilliant plan is that, Dream?” He heard the thwack of metal against wood, his attention turning towards the metal bucket Dream had placed on the ground. The man turned to pick up the flint and steel Fundy had dropped before, his fingers lingering in the air for a moment before finally grabbing them. Dream walked back towards the bucket, gazing longingly at the weddings rings before tossing them in. Fundy winced, the rings clamoring against the bucket’s steel surface. 

“What… What are you doing?” Fundy glanced up into that white porcelain mask, his heart stuttering in his chest.

“If we want a new start, we’ll have to do it again, right?” Fundy curled up into himself as Dream approached him, the flint and steel in the man’s hand giving Fundy a vision of cloth burning against a blood red sky. He felt nauseous as he stood up and followed Dream towards the bucket. They stood on opposite ends, an arm’s length away but neither of them tried to reach out. Fundy felt cold, his hands trembling. 

“We could restart. A new life. A new chance. At least… this should give us closure.” Dream placed a hand on his chest, wishing that they didn’t really have to do this. But they needed to.

Fundy felt his throat constrict, a hint of what was to come forming in the back of his mind. Was this really what they needed? Was this what Fundy wanted? He took a shaky breath, forcing himself to look up into that porcelain mask, the urge to tear it off rising with each second. He didn’t make a move. He didn’t want to get a sword through the chest, thank you very much. Fundy stared, hoping that the man would start to elaborate his purpose. Of course, he had no choice but to ask the question, 

“What is this, Dream?”

“There is something to the ritual of setting some old stuff on fire.” Setting what on what? Fundy felt his heart skip a beat. He suspected, but he didn’t… His stare focused on the contents of the bucket, holding in the tears that threatened to spill from his eyes. Would burning what they used to have really help them in the long run? Fundy didn’t know, and he didn’t know why he still cared for two rings anyway. Fine! Yes! They should burn them. 

“A way of saying this now lives in memory. A way of saying it's only a memory.”

Dream sighed, “There's something to the ritual of setting a torch to what is gone.” The flint and steel were heavy in his hold, his knees threatening to give way as he stared at the devastation on Fundy’s face. Dream didn’t want to do this… but they needed to move forward, didn’t they? He recalled an old memory of his childhood, of a man standing before a bonfire as the crackle of burning metal rang through the air. This was how it was done. 

“The ancients did it to honor a memory, and now we do it to honor what we used to be.”

Dream held back the sob in his throat, “Let's say goodbye to our old life. It was heavenly.” Fundy wished Dream wouldn’t remind him. He didn’t need a reminder. Dream was adamant about this, and Fundy couldn’t bring himself to protest. He nodded, listening to the haze of words his ex-husband was spouting. He didn’t want to hear any of them. He couldn’t bring himself to. Besides, he already knew how this would end. He knew it since he opened the door. 

“Tonight… let's say goodbye to our old life...”

Dream smiled as he looked back, “…and the memories.” Dream recalled the first time they had met, no war hung over their heads. He remembered the hesitation in Fundy’s voice as he asked Dream out on a date. He remembered every moment they shared together. What a shame, they were coated in misery now.

“It was imaginary.” Fundy recalled the rush he felt as he prepared the perfect date for a perfect man (Hah! He was wrong about that). He remembered the fear he felt… of being rejected and mocked for even daring to try. He remembered the Dream he met. The Dream he loved. What a shame that the Dream he knew never existed.

“Which is why we say goodbye to it, and hello to this.” Dream gestured to the two of them, the short distance between them bothered him. But it was what they had. It was real. He raised his hands, ready to burn away everything they had. His chest burned with agony, the tears in his eyes hidden only by his mask.

“This is ridiculous.” Fundy reached out, grasping Dream’s right arm before he could drop the flint and steel into the bucket. Dream turned his attention to him and Fundy quickly redrew. He didn’t know why he had done that. He wanted it to be over, didn’t he? But he reached out… Why did he want to prolong the pain?

“Why?” This was the perfect way to move on. They needed to move on. Dream held back his frustration. He wanted to end it quickly, but Fundy just had to hesitate. His fingers curled tightly around the flint and steel. It needed to stop. He was that close to fixing it. Fixing them. That was how it needed to end.

“I don't see why I have to join your little cremation ceremony. You're the one who ruined us…” He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. Fundy took in a shallow breath of air, refusing to back away despite the aching need to immediately apologize. He wouldn’t apologize. Not to Dream of all people.

“It was a bit more collaborative than you're remembering.” Dream raised a brow at the accusation. This wasn’t entirely his fault. He hadn’t forgotten the way Fundy had mocked him during the meeting. His own fucking husband had laughed at his face and called him a bitch. He held back the seething rage he felt.

“All I want right now is the same thing I wanted two weeks ago. The truth. Did you care about me? And why did you let us continue in the first place?” Fundy let the matter drop. They didn’t need to argue right now. At least… not when Dream was holding the flint and steel. He only had two lives left after all.

“The person who I was on the day you and I met…” History would paint him as a bloodthirsty tyrant, but they forget that he too was but a child when the war began. He never wanted to go to war. He only wanted peace… but Wilbur broke the law and staged a revolution. What was he meant to do? He did what he had to… that doesn’t change the fact that he would scrub at his hands at night, willing the red that stained them to go away. 

“…was deeply ashamed of who he had become. So deeply ashamed of what he'd done…” His hand clenched into fists.

Dream’s hands began to shake, “…and when you showed him questions, the 36 questions…” Fundy scoffed, but it felt half-hearted. He remembered their date, Dream looked uncomfortable and Fundy didn’t blame him. Why would he? Dream only agreed so Fundy would stop pestering him. Still, he wanted to know who Dream was and maybe… he wanted Dream to know him too. He then brought up the list of questions his father had once used on his own date with his mother. 

“He looked ahead and saw who he wanted to be.”

Dream had loved who he was with Fundy. He didn’t feel as if he had some higher obligation, he was just… Dream. 

“We built a life. Forgot our history. ” Politics was never meant to get in the way. That was the agreement. No politics. That was their promise. Dream wouldn’t bring up the Essempy and Fundy wouldn’t bring up L’Manburg. What they did in their respective circles was never meant to seep into their lives. When did that change? When did that line get crossed? 

“Added the details that fit in our old life.”

They didn’t let the outside world ruin their life. Until now… “Let's say goodbye to our old life. It was heavenly…” Dream’s attention flickered back towards their rings, the symbols of their promise. Their wedding was an event to remember, a momentary peace between two warring factions. Dream had walked down that rose petal-covered aisle, a happiness he’d never felt before blooming inside his chest as soon as he saw his husband at the altar. He never wanted to forget that day. 

“… those old memories.”

“They were real to me…” Fundy was ecstatic with joy as he had watched his Dream walk towards the altar. He forgot about his fears, he forgot about his pain… He had Dream… and that had been enough. He wished he had known beforehand that while Dream was enough for Fundy, Fundy was not enough for Dream.

“I don't expect for you to understand perfectly.” Dream adored every moment he had shared with Fundy, he might even go so far as to call them his favorite memories. He doesn’t miss the doubting glint in his husband’s eyes. Even without this whole… dilemma, Fundy would always doubt their love. Would always doubt him. Dream tried so hard to show him that he was enough. He didn’t need validation from anyone… but Fundy never saw that. 

“I loved them, too, as much as you, and I’d want you to bury them with me.”

“Okay…” Fundy gave in. He was an idiot for that, at least that’s what he thought. He moved until their shoulders were pressed together, but he refused to look at Dream. They were here to finish… whatever it was they had. He wanted to get this over with. He needed to get this over with. All it took was one second.

“Okay what?” Dream looked down, registering the way their shoulders were grazing. He savored that small yet brief touch. It might be the last one he’ll ever get from his husband. He wished he could reach for the fox hybrid’s hand, but he knew he’d ruin the moment and probably get tossed out of the house.

“Give me the thing. There is something to the ritual…” Fundy doesn’t wait for Dream’s response, yanking the flint and steel from his hands. He needed to do this. Not Dream. He was the one who wanted to move on. He looked down at the familiar tool, the echoes of his past seeping into his mind. Thrill raced through his veins, the feeling of being free… When was the last time he had burnt something? He should fix that. 

“… of setting fire to the lie. A way of saying that's one win for honesty.” He felt nothing but sheer joy.

“What's done is done.” He heard the soft click, the flint and steel falling from his grasp as the flicker of flames began to rise from the metal bucket. He listened to the crackle of fire, soaking in the warmth. 

This was better. Fire made everything better. For a moment. For just this moment. He felt happy.

“Tonight… I say goodbye to our old life.” He could feel the satisfaction on his face. He could feel the apprehension in Dream’s gaze. Good. He drove them both to this. Fundy let out a small laugh, this was a good plan. 

“It was heavenly.”

“Tonight…” Dream’s heart ached.

“We say goodbye to our old life…” Fundy’s heart soared.

“And the memories.” This was all wrong.

“It was imaginary.” Fundy had never felt this free.

“It was heavenly.” Dream had never felt this hopeless.

They watched as the rings turned to ash.

Fundy smiled, “May it rest in peace.”

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

prev / next

[fishfingersandjellybabies]

Finding Your Heart - fic

Characters: Bruce Wayne, Damian Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth, Dick Grayson, bits of Tim Drake and Stephanie Brown Summary: This wasn’t the way he wanted to find Damian, after everything that happened between them. This wasn’t how he wanted Alfred and Dick to reunite with him either. A/N: Dick was driving the plane. Crane blew up the building on purpose to cover his tracks, and was the one to lock Damian in the lab after he and the nameless henchmen fought. The whole family comes home and basically all live in the cave/Damian’s room as he recovers, and they all have conversations with him about what he was doing, why etc. Damian didn’t kill the guy who stabbed him because he recognized the henchmen was no the problem, Crane was. He’s still a good boy in my book. Glossed over kind of plotholes because I didn’t care enough and it wasn’t the point of this story ok bye. Don’t forget my Pateron and shit!

~~

If Bruce was grateful for anything, it was the fact that no matter what he lost, save for his parents, it always came back.

Jason came back. Dick came back. Tim came back. Stephanie came back.

Alfred, now, came back too.

Damian…he came back. And then he left again.

It was in the back of his mind, as they celebrated Alfred’s return to life, and Dick’s return from amnesia. The fact that their returns were not through darkness, not through aliens, not through a multiverse crashing down around them and changing time.

It was magic. It was a miracle.

But Damian wasn’t here. And Bruce would never ever forget that. Not now, as they shared delivery pizza at the island in the manor’s spacious kitchen. Not in the days after, as things settled back into a semblance of the old normal, with new quirks here and there. Not in the weeks after either, as Alfred returned to being Penny-One, and Dick began to retrain himself to return to the Nightwing title soon.

Just as Bruce would never forget the tears in Dick’s eyes when he explained to him and Alfred what had happened to their youngest. His breakdown, and resolve in the violence. When he explained why.

“It’s not your fault.” Bruce promised, even as Alfred pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, and silently dabbed his eyes. “It’s mine. I…I didn’t see his grief. I didn’t understand how badly he was taking your absences. I didn’t know.”

“But I would have.” Alfred had whispered, closing his eyes.

“We would have.” Dick corrected.

And he’d never forget the despair on grandfather and son alike, when Dick asked if Bruce had any idea where he was, and he had to tell them no.

Damian was a sore subject, to say the least, after that. No one spoke of him, though Bruce found everyone stopping near the case holding his old uniform every so often.

Not a memorial for the dead, this time. But a memorial for the child they failed.

His name was like a bad word, a sour taste, and Bruce never forgot that either.

Most of all, he never forgot it was his fault.

Even now, as he, Tim and Stephanie fought against a gang that he had yet to determine which super villain they associated with, he thought of his son. The one not there, the one he chased away.

How much he could use his help right now. How much he missed him.

God, if Jason knew, he’d be furious. Furious because he didn’t learn the first time around, with him.

The fight was in the streets, and it was becoming a stalemate. Not that he and his partners for the evening would give up. But he was looking for an opening, a moment to retreat, regroup, then reappear with a new attack plan.

But the moment never came, because suddenly one of their enemies shouted.

“Boss said it’s a go! She’s blowin’!”

Before any of them could comprehend the warning, a building down the block – a lab, if Bruce had his bearings right – shuddered in an explosion. Glass from windows spraying into the street, flames pushing out right after. Dust and ash came at them in a typhoon-like wave.

And the gang members in the street laughed.

“You’re fucked.” One nearby cackled. When he came back into view, he had a gasmask on. “You’re so fucked, Batman.”

Bruce punched him in the Adam’s apple, and let him drop to the ground unconscious.

“Something’s in that building.” Bruce said through the comms. “How dangerous?”

“Gotham Labs.” Tim’s voice crackled. Bruce still couldn’t see him in the floating dust. “No major projects that I know of. Or dangerous. Vegan cosmetics was the last big thing I heard about coming from there.”

“And now it’s all up in flames?” Stephanie sighed. “So much for stealing Batman’s credit card on its launch date.”

“Spoiler, please.” Tim snorted.

Before Bruce could scold them, tell them to focus, get them to get these thugs off the street, there was a shriek from the lab, and a shape running from the destroyed building.

“Take care of them.” Bruce ordered. “I’m going up ahead.”

Stephanie and Tim both gave their affirmatives, and jumped back into fighting the henchmen, now with a small element of surprise in the fog. As Bruce ran forward, he saw the shape was a woman in a lab coat.

“Help!” She was screaming. “Someone…anyone! Police! Ambulance! Help!”

“Ma’am.” Bruce called as he approached, careful not to scare her. She turned towards him with tears cascading down her face.

Bruce frowned. She…was clean. No ash, no burns. Her hair wasn’t even out of place. He glanced back towards the building, now smoking.

“Are you alright?”

“What? Oh, me? Yes. I’m fine. We’re all fine.” She sniffed, trying to wipe at her face. “But he’s not. He’s trapped and…and I don’t think there’s any vents in there, and we can’t-”

“He who?”

“I…” The woman paused. “I don’t know. He didn’t give a name. He just…he just appeared! Out of nowhere! Got us all out of the lab, shoved us in the bunker, told us to stay there until help arrived. Then…then the explosion happened, and when we came out to check, he was still in the lab, but…but Batman…”

“What? What’s wrong?”

“He was bleeding when we saw him.” The woman’s tears suddenly flowed harder. “But the canisters were all broken, we could see them.”

“What was in the canisters?”

“I…I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” The woman cried. “He…he was paying for our other research, and…and he was blackmailing us. We didn’t have a choice.”

Bruce’s stomach dropped.

“Who paid you?” He demanded. “What was in the canisters?”

“Fear gas.” The woman whispered. “Jonathan Crane was forcing us to make it. Mass produce. The…the boy tonight, he saved us, but whatever happened, all the canisters are broken, and the gas is in the lab.”

The woman hid her face.

“And there’s a failsafe on the doors.” She wailed. “That…that fucking shit is dangerous. So if even only one canister malfunctioned, the lab would seal itself shut to contain it.”

“For how long?” Bruce asked. “How long does the lab seal for?”

“I don’t know!” The woman yelled. “Crane installed it! He never told us!” She stopped her foot and pointed from where she came. “But he’s in there, the gas is flooding the place, he’s hurt, I didn’t see him have a respirator, and we can’t get him out!”

Bruce nodded, shoving his own respirator onto his face. “Stay here.”

The woman, surprisingly listened, but shouted information after him. The lab was in the basement, and the remaining scientists were still trying to first reach one of the doors to the lab through the explosion wreckage, and second, try to figure out if they could even open the door.

“Red Robin, when you’re finished, I’ll need you inside.” Bruce called through his communicator as he burst through the doors and looked for a way down. Not hard, when there were various holes in the floor from the explosion. “And both of you, there’s a potential for fear gas in the area. Masks on, now.”

They both returned an affirmative, and Barbara was immediately on the line herself, relaying last known sightings of the Scarecrow.

As Bruce got to the lower levels, he began to follow the voices, the sounds of things being thrown, or pushed. After a few rounded corners, he found the gaggle of scientists, three pushing fallen shelving units and chairs away from a large metal door, and a fourth knelt in front of said door, typing wildly on a keypad.

“It’s…it’s not working!” The typer growled in frustration. “There’s…there’s nothing I can think of! Nothing is working!”

“Then keep thinking!” Another one spat as he threw a table over the heads of the other two assisting him. “That kid is a fucking goner if we don’t get him out of there!”

Unlike the woman outside, Bruce didn’t announce his presence, just silently moved forward. As he reached them, he glanced into one of the windows next to the door, just to see what he was going to be working with. Who he was, hopefully, going to save, and not have to watch die a slow and painful death.

Immediately, his knees went weak.

The lab wasn’t that big. Smaller than an average fast food joint, but bigger than a grocery store public bathroom. Even through the opaque green gas, Bruce could see canisters lining the floor underneath the tables that followed the walls of the room, where microscopes, liquid-filled vials and partially constructed containers sat.

Each canister had a sizable hole in the side, and Bruce could only guess – remote detonation.

But none of that was important, not now, as he tried to stop himself from collapsing to his knees. What was important was the boy in the middle, wearing a black body suit, similar to Nightwing’s, and a black cape with a hood and faded gold trim.

Damian.

“Jesus Christ, no.” He gasped. The scientists nearby jumped, having still not seen him.

Luckily, it was Gotham, and even scientists were disillusioned to the sudden appearance of a vigilante. “We’ve gotta get that kid out of there, Bats. Just one inhale of that crap will make you hallucinate. He’s been in there at least ten minutes, probably more, who knows what the effects could be.”

“Death, probably.” Another one said. The one who spoke slapped her on the arm. “What? I’m being honest! That’s why we don’t have to waste, here!”

Damian hadn’t moved at their ruckus. He was lying on the ground, eyes closed, half curled in on himself, hand clutching his side. There was blood on his fingers, and coming from his nose. Even through the gas, Damian looked dirty. Tired.

Bruce wondered where he’d been sleeping. Was he sleeping? Was he safe?

But then his heart stuttered again, as he noticed something else in the room. In the corner, by a door on the other side of the room. A man. A body.

A body that was, surprisingly, breathing. A body dressed like the gang members outside, that was wearing a respirator that looked suspiciously like one Bruce knew Damian used to carry, when he was Robin.

“…You all need to get out.” Bruce found himself croaking, as his surprise and heartache began to transform into action.

“What? No way. We need to get that kid out!” The one at the keyboard countered. “And…and maybe that other one, I don’t know if he’s even still…”

“I’ll handle it. Now go.” Bruce heard a click on his communicator, other chatter. Alfred it sounded like, to Barbara. Dick, too. He was at the cave with Alfred. The scientists didn’t move. “I said now!”

The four jumped again, and one by one began to slowly move. The last one, the man at the door, stopped on his way. “…You get that kid out, Batman, or so fucking help me.”

Bruce glared down at him. The man shrunk away and ran after his coworkers.

Bruce looked back into the room. The man in the corner was unconscious, he could tell that much. But still.

Bruce put his hand on the window. “…I don’t know what to call you.”

Damian twitched at the noise, and twisted his head to look at Bruce directly. His mask was still green, and it didn’t move as he frowned.

“Oh, great.” Damian sighed, dropping his head. “You.”

“I’m going to get you out, son.” Bruce said. “I promise.”

“Save it.” Damian huffed. But it was quick, and Bruce knew it was because he was trying not to breathe. “I’m not talking to you, Mother.”

Bruce blinked.

The gas. The hallucinations were your fears.

“It’s…it’s me.” Bruce tried instead. “Not your mother.”

Damian turned away, rolled with a groan to lay on his back. “My father doesn’t show up in real life, why would he show up in a fear-induced hallucination?”

Bruce almost smiled at his attitude. He was trying to fight the gas, like it was a sentient being. That was so like him.

God, Bruce missed it.

“I…Rob…” Bruce swallowed. “Da-”

“Do not say another word, Master Bruce.” Alfred scolded on the communicator. His voice was loud. “Focus on getting that door open.”

“I…right.” Bruce shook his head, and crouched, pulling out a code-breaking device from his utility belt.

“Tim will be in to help you in a few minutes.” Dick now, but he sounded distracted. “And we should be only a few minutes behind him.”

Bruce froze. “…What?”

“We’re coming.” Dick said plainly. “We’re coming to get Damian.”

“Wait, no.” Bruce growled. “Nightwing, you’re not recovered yet. A-Alfred, you’re…you are not to be in the field. It’s not safe-”

“And you will have your hands full with the other man in the chamber.” Alfred shot back. “Not to mention, you only have a respirator for yourself. From your cowl footage, it’s clear Damian gave his to that man. You know as soon as you get in there, he will be in the throws of the effects of the gas, and won’t recognize you. He doesn’t recognize you now. He will fight you, or flee, before you can get him any kind of help.”

“And we are not letting that happen.” Dick hissed. “We’re bringing Damian home, Bruce, or so help me-”

“It’s not safe.” Bruce snapped back, hitting buttons on his device. He could hear Damian babbling in the lab now. Talking about how he’s not scared of anything, least of all his father, or his judgment. Which, of course, Bruce knew, meant the complete opposite. He ignored the guilt in his heart, at least for a moment. “You are both to stay in the cave and wait for-”

“Bruce.” Alfred said coldly. “I am coming to get my grandson. Nightwing is coming to get his brother. And there is not a goddamn thing you can do to stop us.”

Bruce heard the distinct sound of a link click off.

“…So…” Stephanie chimed in after a moment. “Red’s on his way in and…I guess I’ll wait out here for Nightwing and, uh, Penny-One to arrive.”

Bruce frowned, squeezed the device in his hand a little too tightly, heard it creak in his grip. He continued to search through codes, the others be damned.

They didn’t know what he would do. Their beliefs were wrong. He wouldn’t worry about the man who clearly stabbed his son. He was unconscious and had a breather. He was fine. Tim could take him, whenever he got there.

No. Bruce would rush in, and he’d take his son into his arms. He’d put pressure on the wound, and hold his boy, no matter how hard Damian fought him, no matter how deep in the gas’s hallucinations he was.

He’d hold his son and this time, he was not letting go. For anything, or anyone.

He heard Tim arrive behind him, and glanced back into the chamber as Tim pulled a wire from his glove to plug into the keypad on the door. Damian was muttering to himself now. But more than that, he was trembling. Sweating. His eyes were wild behind the mask, darting back and forth, or trying to keep them closed, and failing.

He stood, put his hand on the thick glass. He wondered what Damian was seeing, hearing. “Son.” He called, and Damian twitched, curling deeper into himself. “Focus on my voice.”

“No.” Damian shot back.

“Batman, it’s not a good idea.” Tim offered, clicking away on his pad. “You know he’s hearing things. It’s not coming across as you.”

“Doesn’t mean we can’t try.”

“Doesn’t mean it won’t be construed into something else by the time he hears it.” Tim snapped. “You know that.”

“So you want him to lie in there and suffer?” Bruce shot back. He saw Tim tighten his jaw. “The least we can do is try.”

“The least we can do is focus on getting him out of there.” Tim countered. “So save your emotional vomit for later and help me.”

He huffed a frustrated breath, but…Tim was right. Of course Tim was right. So he pushed at the door, testing how tight it was, if the explosion had loosened it at all, and settled back in next to Red Robin to hack into the system.

The code was seven digits, and after they believed they figured out three, Bruce glanced over to make sure Tim had his respirator on. Glanced up at the unsteady building around them, that could theoretically collapse on them all at any moment. After four numbers, he glanced back to Damian. His trembles had manifested constant twitching now. Fingers, ankles, lips.

The gas seemed to be settling a little now, the room a little less green. That didn’t help, of course, since Damian was on the floor, where said gas was settling. But it would make containment easier. Wouldn’t reach the city, or any one who wasn’t in this room.

One less thing standing between he and his boy.

His heart fluttered when they hit the fifth digit. Hope, he could hope, he had hope. Damian had hope.

And when Tim’s device dinged for the sixth a moment later, Nightwing and Penny-One appeared in the doorway.

Dick was in his full Nightwing uniform, the one he hadn’t yet worn since before the amnesia. The one he was wearing when he was shot, Bruce realized, as he noticed the shadow of the large bloodstain on the costume’s neck.

Alfred was in black and dull green tactical gear, a black eye mask and a clear respirator adorning his face. He had a shotgun in hand, but Bruce saw at least one more handgun on his hip.

He forgot sometimes, Alfred used to be in the British army.

“Move.” Alfred demanded. Tim shifted to the side of the door, eyes still on his tablet. Bruce didn’t. “Batman, I won’t ask again.”

“He really won’t.” Nightwing mused as they walked forward. He was just finishing putting on his own rebreather. “Seriously, Bruce. Let us handle this.”

“He is my son.” Bruce countered, but his voice wasn’t right. It wasn’t as authoritative. It was almost whiny.

Almost scared.

“And you ran him off in the first place.” Alfred countered. “So the likelihood that you are the first one he’d want to see is almost zero.”

“Not to mention, there’s an asshole in there who, by the looks of it, stabbed him.” Nightwing added, glancing into the window. “So it’d probably be better if you took care of that guy than one of us because let me tell you, B. We’re already not happy.”

Alfred pumped his shotgun. “Indeed.”

“We’d also like some cover, if you don’t mind.” Dick said brightly. “There’s still been no sign of Crane. And if he or anyone else shows up while we’re trying to wrangle Damian, there could be trouble.” Dick looked over with a dark grin. “And we don’t want any more trouble, you know?”

And he did. Bruce did know. Bruce knew all of that, and on a normal case, he’d have already suggested and done all of it.

But, still. His heart was getting in the way. For once, his heart was overriding his head, and all he found himself saying was, “But he’s my son…”

For the first time that night, Alfred softened a little. He put a hand on Bruce’s shoulder. “So let us help you get your son home safely.”

At that moment, Damian screamed. No words, just a loud sound as he dropped to his back, body bowing as his chest and hips lifted.

Dick swallowed. “Red.”

“I’m working on it!” Tim snapped, angrily punching buttons on his tablet. There was the sound of something falling across the room. “I think if I can just…”

The tablet beeped, and the door sighed as the seal broke.

Dick was at the door instantly, digging his fingers into the seam until the door shifted. Bruce grabbed it too, pulling it until the gap was wide enough for their bodies to slip through.

“Kid!” Dick was calling as he fell into the room first. Damian growled in response. Dick jumped across the room anyway, dropping to his knees. “I’ve got you.”

Tim got into the room next, and he silently went for Damian’s assailant. Then Alfred, who followed Dick. Bruce remained just inside the room.

“Can you hear me?” Dick asked quietly, running his hand over Damian’s hair. “Can you hear me, D?”

“Fuck off.” Damian gasped, pulling away from Dick’s hand and struggling to twist up onto his elbows. His cape twisted around his biceps. “F-fuck off, I don’t have to listen to you.”

“I know.” Dick said smoothly. He glanced at Alfred, who already had gauze out, and was trying to assess Damian’s injuries. “…Do you know who you’re talking to?”

“What, did Satan suddenly forget his own name?” Damian spat, waving his arm like he was swatting at a fly around his head. “We already had this conversation last time I was in Hell, you twat.”

Bruce felt himself twitch at the statement. But he didn’t get any more time to think about it, as Tim was calling, “Any time you feel like it, Batman!”

Bruce shook his head, running over to help Tim with the other man in the lab.

“So yes, I know your name. And I know what you’re going to say.” Damian droned as he slowly shifted to his knees. “I know my parents hate me. I know I’m worthless. I know it’s my fault everyone is dead. Or was there something else you’d like to add?”

“…Oh, my boy.” Alfred whispered, and Damian froze. His eyes went wide as he slowly sat back on his knees. “My boy, it’s alright.”

Damian blinked, and tears appeared in his eyes. Almost robotically, he turned his head towards Alfred. “No.”

Alfred smiled. “Yes, my dear. It’s me. I’m here.”

“No!” Damian wailed. He turned back towards the room, searching. Eventually his eyes landed on something above and behind Dick’s shoulder. “Get him out!”

Dick glanced behind him, just to make sure there was nothing, and even looked over towards Bruce and Tim. They both shrugged.

“Pennyworth does not belong in Hell.” Damian hissed. “You’ve stolen him, haven’t you. You’ve stolen him and you’ve trapped him here, you overgrown piece of shit. No wonder you were kicked out of Heaven, you absolute waste of space!”

Damian tried to lunge, but the slice in his side reacted to the movement, and he recoiled instantly, shoving his hand against it.

“I’ll duel you.” He decided. “I’ll duel you for his soul, and I’ll kill you. Then I’ll rule Hell, and I’ll be sure to get all the souls you’ve stolen out.”

“Damian.” Alfred tried softly. He passed the gauze to Dick. “My dear boy, I’m not in Hell.” He reached out and carefully took Damian’s hand between both of his. Damian’s eyes, impossibly, grew wider, as he turned to look at Alfred once more. “And neither are you.”

“I should be.” Damian breathed. “I should be for what I did to you.”

“You did nothing to me.” Alfred promised. “What happened wasn’t your fault.”

It was mine. Bruce thought, as he rolled the man and pulled his arms together for Tim. It was mine, and I let Damian take the blame.

“I should have done something. I should have figured something else out.” Damian gasped, tears rolling down his face. He jerked, but didn’t take his eyes off Alfred, as Dick pressed the gauze to his side. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologize for, Damian.” Alfred promised, squeezing Damian’s hand. “Absolutely nothing.”

“D, I need you to breathe.” Dick hummed. Damian jumped again, looked towards him. “Or, well, I need you to breathe slower. In and out.”

“I’m sorry.” Damian continued, eyes looking around the space, looking right through Dick. There was an accent in his voice now, and both Dick and Alfred knew too well that his accent only returned when their boy was at his lowest. “Pennyworth, I…I should have sacrificed myself. Bane would have happily killed me instead of you.”

“Don’t talk like that.” Alfred continued to try to soothe. “Damian, just focus on my voice, alright?”

“I should have let him kill me. I should have been there for Grayson.” Damian rambled. “I could have pushed him out of the way. Taken the bullet.” He tried to tug his hand from Alfred’s but the old man wouldn’t let go. “That’s why I’m here. That’s why I belong here. I failed you, and I failed Grayson and I am worthless so of course I belong down here in this god forsaken pl-”

“Hey.” Dick whispered. Balancing holding the pressure against Damian’s wound in one hand, he reached for Damian’s free hand with the other. Damian’s fingers twitched in his grip, and he watched with almost glee as recognition hit Damian’s eyes. “Kiddo, you didn’t fail me.”

Damian’s tears fell faster.

“You have never failed me a day in your life.” Dick smiled. “And look, see? I’m right here. I’m fine.”

“G-Grayson?” Damian murmured hopefully.

“Right here, Damian.” Dick nodded. Damian blinked at him, then looked at Alfred, then back. Then his eyes seemed to roam the room, like he was seeing it for the first time. He even looked over to Bruce, Tim and the man in the corner. “I came home.”

“…I’m sorry.” Damian whispered, looking back towards Dick. “I should have been there.”

Dick kept his grin, and shook his head. “No, you shouldn’t have.” He glanced behind Damian, watched as Alfred let go of his hand to reach into one of his pockets. It reappeared with the extra respirator they had brought, and he silently held the back of Damian’s head as he pressed it to his face. Once again, Damian didn’t seem to notice the action, nor Alfred retaking his hand. “I’m frankly real damn glad you weren’t.”

“It’s my job to protect Batman. My Batman.” Damian continued, frantically trying to blink the tears from his eyes. He turned to Alfred. “It’s my job to protect my family.”

“It’s not.” Alfred smiled too. “Your job as always been to allow us to love you, and to come home safe at the end of the day.”

“Your job is to be a kid.” Dick added. “Right now, your job is to not bleed out on this floor. Think you can do that for me?”

But Damian was shaking his head. Damian was pulling his trembling hands from theirs and hiding his face behind them as he doubled over himself and pressed his head to his knees.

“I’m sorry.” He cried. “I’m so sorry.”

“…I don’t think he believes they’re real.” Tim whispered as he leaned back from the unconscious man.

Bruce shook his head. “He won’t until his system is free of the gas.”

“Or until he stops losing blood.” Tim hummed. “We’ve gotta get him back to the cave.”

“I’m so sorry.” Damian continued across the room. “Please forgive me. Please, please forgive me.”

“…I agree.” Bruce sighed. He watched as Alfred pulled Damian’s hand back into his, and ran the other along the back of his head. As Dick, keeping one hand against the injury, wrapped his arm around Damian’s back and leaned his cheek on his shaking spine. “We need to get him home.”

“Want me to deal with this guy while you go with them?” Tim asked, pushing himself onto his feet.

Bruce watched for a moment longer. Listened as Damian sobbed, as Damian hated himself. Watched as Dick closed his eyes in sorrow, as Alfred wiped away his own tears too.

“No, I’ll…I’ll stay. They have him.” Bruce admitted, despite how tight his heart felt. “The more of us finishing this up, the faster we can all get home and be with him.” Tim nodded and helped Bruce to his feet, then leaned over to haul the man up. “…Nightwing.”

Dick opened his eyes and glanced over. After a moment, he nodded and sat back up. “Alfie.”

Alfred nodded too, reaching into another pocket and pulling out a syringe. Dick gently rolled Damian to his side, which Damian surprisingly allowed, and carefully gathered the boy into his arms.

“P-Please forgive me.” Damian continued, still hiding his eyes behind his one hand. As soon as he was settled, Alfred leaned forward and plunged the needle into his throat.

Like everything else, the fear gas made it so Damian didn’t notice.

They were all silent as the effects took hold. As Damian’s cries slowed, and tapered off into slow, watery breathes. As his hand dropped from his face in unconsciousness.

It was like a funeral procession as they left the remnants of the lab. Dick first, Damian in his arms. Alfred right behind them. Tim and Bruce bringing up the rear with the nameless man between them.

On the street, the GCPD were already swarming, taking the rest of the gang into custody. The plane Alfred and Dick brought sat in the middle of the road not far away.

“Get him home.” Bruce murmured as he passed Dick. “Call with any updates. We should be back soon.”

“Take your time.” Dick hummed. “It’s going to take us a while to get him stable.”

Bruce nodded, and gave Dick’s shoulder a grateful squeeze. He nodded to Alfred, who gave him a grim smile, and then they parted ways. Bruce watched as they loaded into the plane, as it took off down the street.

He exhaled, and let himself smile, just a little.

He’d found him. He’d found his boy.

It was another two or so hours before the rest of them could clamor home, the city saved, the day won. They’d found Crane, and they each took an extra punch or two to him, in honor of Damian.

But when Bruce stepped out of the Batmobile in the cave, the first sound to greet his ears was Damian crying. Still.

He frowned as he moved up the stairs. Had the gas not worn off yet? Why hadn’t they given him an antidote?

But he stopped as the medbay came into view. Damian was hooked up to every machine available, injuries bandaged and Dick was lying next to him on the cot. Damian himself was sat up, and engulfed in the embrace of one Alfred Pennyworth.

“You’re alive.” He was wailing, clinging to Alfred’s torso. To Dick, who was rubbing his back, he cried, “You came back.” Then to both, even as Alfred tried to wipe at the boy’s eyes. “You’re both here.”

“Like we could ever stay away from you, kiddo.” Dick smirked.

But still, among the tears of relief and reunion, was the litany that wasn’t as influenced as the fear gas as they’d hoped.

“I’m sorry.” Damian whispered. Alfred just stroked at his hair. Dick just rolled over and wrapped his arms around his waist, careful of the now bandaged stab wound nearby. “I’m so sorry. For everything that’s happened. For everything I did. Everything I didn’t do.”

It was something they’d have to work on, all of them. And a confrontation was coming, Bruce knew. But that was okay. That was fine. It didn’t matter. There was only one thing that mattered. One thing that Bruce, and everyone, was grateful for.

Damian was home.

[sparkandwolf]

Savor With Me

Pairing: Stiles Stilinski/Derek Hale Rating: Teen Summary: Stiles wasn’t sure when the change had happened; when they could sit together and not want to punch the other, when they actually seemed to authentically enjoy the other’s company. When he went to leave, Stiles was extremely aware of the lack of warmth Derek had provided to him throughout the night.

Or, 5 times Stiles doesn't notice how close he's become to Derek and 1 time he savors it.

1.

“Derek,” Stiles said, amusement filling his voice, “are you finally allowing me to sit on the couch? Is that… Is that space for me?” Stiles waved around at the rest of the pack filling up other pieces of furniture that had been slowly dragged into his loft as he refused to get any himself. Scott and Allison were cuddled up on a chair Scott had convinced his mother to let him steal, Isaac, Boyd, and Erica were squished into a loveseat beside the couch with Cora spread across all of their laps and Lydia and Jackson were on the opposite end of the couch, Lydia perched on Jackson’s lap.

Derek rolled his eyes and glared in their direction. “This seat was supposed to be for Lydia, but apparently, no one in this pack can keep their hands off of each other long enough to keep the usual seating arrangements,” Derek grumbled. Stiles let out a joyous laugh and launched onto the cushion next to him, reaching for the popcorn he had on his lap. Derek pulled it away, some spilling over the side in an attempt to keep the snack from Stiles.

“You don’t have to keep your hands off of me either, Der-Bear,” Stiles cooed as he shoved into Derek’s side. Stiles wouldn’t have done that even a few months prior, but after everything the pack had been through and all the times Derek and Stiles didn’t let each other die, he figured he’d earned a little bit of teasing.

“I never want to hear that nickname again,” Derek warned, but his arm was wrapping around Stiles’ shoulder and pulling him closer as he hit play on the movie. Stiles didn’t think anything of it as he looked around at all of his other friends, entangled in the most intimate ways like it was normal. He thought that maybe it was their new normal and shrugged, letting himself lean into Derek just a little more.

read the rest on ao3 or under the cut

2.

It was only a few weeks later during another pack movie night when it happened again. Scott had decided the pack bonding needed to occur monthly, so they had all spent the night in Derek’s loft. He didn’t have quite enough spare bedrooms, but they made due on whatever piece of furniture could house them and on the blowup mattresses Stiles bought for the specific purpose of pack sleepovers.

Derek had woken up first, like he always did, and Stiles followed soon after. He didn’t find himself sleeping much, his mind riddled with nightmares even when he did finally sleep, so even the smallest noise of Derek rummaging through the cabinets in the kitchen was enough to stir him. He stretched, wiped a hand down his face as a lame attempt to get rid of the tiredness he knew ghosted it, and stood up from his deflated mattress.

“Mornin’,” Stiles mumbled as he shuffled into the kitchen. Derek must have heard him coming because he held out a cup of coffee, filled with cream and sugar just like Stiles had liked it, and grumbled his own semblance of a greeting. Almost instinctively, Stiles nuzzled into Derek’s side in thanks and pressed his face into Derek’s solid shoulder. He hummed, the smell of coffee and Derek overwhelming his senses. He looked up at Derek, just a bit of surprise on his features that Derek wasn’t pushing him away. He figured they both must have been sleepwalking, but then Derek looked down at him and they both smiled like it was the most normal thing in the world.

3.

It was only a matter of time before another big bad swooped its way into their lives. Of course, because when isn’t Stiles the butt of the joke, it had to mask itself as an entirely too good looking substitute teacher that Stiles spent a few nights fantasizing about. He couldn’t really help it. The man was gorgeous; dark and messy hair, broad shoulders, bulging biceps and rock hard abs from what Stiles could see underneath his deliciously see through button down shirts. Stiles didn’t realize that was his type until Mr. Lewis strode into his AP chemistry class and knocked Stiles’ breath away.

“Mr. Stilinski, can I have a word?” Mr. Lewis asked, cocking an eyebrow at Stiles. If he didn’t know any better, it seemed like a proposition, and one that Stiles was not about to turn down. Every ethical thought in his mind went out the window when it came to his virginity and Mr. Lewis. Scott gave him a thumbs up as he left, slamming the door shut behind him.

“You can have all the words, really. I do have the ability to stop talking,” Stiles rambled, realizing that maybe that wasn’t all true. “How can I help--” Before he could finish, Mr. Lewis was pressed up against him, his back to the chalkboard at the front of the classroom, an incredibly long tongue swiping up his neck. Stiles was too distracted to focus on the fact that his tongue was, in fact, entirely too long to be human.

“I smell him on you more than the others, Stiles,” Mr. Lewis hissed as his fingers grabbed at Stiles’ chin and forced Stiles to look away, baring his neck. “Erica, Isaac, Boyd, sure. They share his scent, they spend time with him, wherever he inhabits, but you…” He sniffed, a long, slow sniffle that had Stiles’ skin tingling and not in the way he would have liked. “You smell like his.” The words were punctuated with a snarl and Stiles felt the hot breath ghosting over the pulsing beat in his neck.

“Let him go!” Derek’s voice was there in an instant and the prickling in his skin disappeared as Mr. Lewis was pulled off of him and thrown against the wall to the back of the classroom. Stiles finally saw the sharp teeth, split tongue, and all black eyes and suddenly felt like he was going to faint. Derek was at his side in a moment, his arm wrapping around his waist to stop him from sliding down the wall. His hand threaded through Stiles’ hair and pulled his head into his chest, Stiles leaning into the touch and closing his eyes. Stiles’ wrapped his arms around Derek’s waist, ignoring the snarls and growls behind him as he used the steady beat of Derek’s heart against his ear to calm him.

When the noises stopped, Stiles chanced a glance up. Derek rested his forehead against Stiles’ and took a deep breath, shaking his head. Stiles reached up and rested his palm on Derek’s cheek and answered the question he knew Derek wanted to ask.

“I’m okay. Mr. Lewis, as much as I might have wanted him to, didn’t get a chance to touch me,” Stiles joked. He felt the low growl in Derek’s chest and let out a small chuckle as he patted it, batting his eyelashes up at Derek. “Relax, sourwolf. I told you I’m okay .” Derek closed his eyes and breathed Stiles in, deeply and thoroughly. Stiles couldn’t stop thinking about if Derek smelled their scents mixing the way that Mr. Lewis did.

“Your dad is on his way, Stiles. You should probably…” Scott gestured to the two of them and Stiles furrowed his eyebrows when Derek shot up and away from him. He grabbed at Derek’s hand, feeling more panicked than he wanted, still stirred up from almost being killed again. Derek turned back toward him and pulled him into his side as his dad arrived, breathing heavily with his gun drawn. One look around the demolished classroom and he sighed, holstering the weapon before glancing at Stiles. His eyes darted to Stiles’ hand in Derek’s before he pulled Stiles into a hug. Stiles didn’t let go of Derek, even though he thought he should have.

“Why are you always the one getting attacked, kid?” Stiles wanted to say something sarcastic about him being the weakest link, the one human in a pack of supernaturals, practically a celebrity in the world of being kidnapped. He didn’t, though, because that wasn’t the case anymore. Mr. Lewis had wanted him because of Derek and that was something he didn’t feel like admitting out loud just yet. He focused instead on the soft circles Derek thumbed on the back of his hand and the overwhelming sense of peace that it brought.

4.

Stiles chose to not think about the close call with Mr. Lewis for the next few weeks. He threw himself into planning pack events and spending as much time as he could with Derek. He didn’t make a conscious choice to spend more time with Derek, but he didn’t exactly stop himself from knocking on the door of the loft most nights either. Derek let him in each and every time, even when Stiles wasn’t sure he wanted the company.

“I brought you pizza. Dad wasn’t in the mood for it, so I came here,” Stiles explained when Derek opened the door with a scowl on his face. It didn’t disappear as quickly as it usually did, but Stiles forced himself inside, plopping the pizza down on the counter before reaching for two plates in the cabinet. Stiles heard the door slide closed and smiled to himself, knowing Derek was going to let him stay.

“What kind of pizza?” Derek asked as he sat down on one of the mismatched stools Stiles and Scott had found at a yard sale a few months prior. Stiles opened the box and placed two pieces on each plate before handing one to Derek.

“Meat lovers,” Stiles said happily, knowing it was one of Derek’s favorites. He sat in the stool next to Derek and scooted it a bit closer so their shoulders and thighs were pressed together. He smiled at Derek, a wide grin that seemed to be specifically for Derek lately. What caught him off guard was Derek’s soft smile back at him. Derek leaned into him further and, to Stiles’ annoyance, let out a throaty moan as he took his first bite. Stiles had to bite down on his lip to stop himself from groaning at the sound. He thought Derek might have noticed when he shot another sideways glance at Stiles.

“You got a meat lovers pizza for your dad?” Derek asked, the smirk on his face evident in his voice. Stiles went to respond, something sarcastic probably, but Derek was right. He would never buy the artery clogging, heart attack waiting to happen dinner for his dad. Instead of analyzing it, Stiles reached over, grabbed Derek’s plate, and pushed it over to the far end of the counter. Derek leaned over him, grumbling insults that had Stiles laughing until Derek’s shirt pushed up on his back and Stiles saw the smooth skin and lean muscle. He choked on his pizza. “Are you okay?” Derek asked, the concern evident in his voice. If only he knew what Stiles was thinking. Stiles bet there wouldn’t be any worry if he did, so he waved Derek off and took a large sip from his soda.

“I’m-- Good, yeah, fine,” Stiles stuttered as Derek rested a hand between his shoulders and rubbed slowly. The touch was soft, gentle pats as Stiles drank down more of the liquid, trying and mostly failing to compose himself. He nodded quickly and breathed in deeply to refill his lungs before picking up his slice again. Stiles figured Derek would move his hand, but instead, it wandered to the small of his back and stayed as they talked.

Later in the night, Stiles was entirely too aware of the change in them. He sat next to Derek on the couch, just the two of them side by side. Derek’s arm was heavy on his shoulder for most of the movie and when it wasn’t, it was because it was resting on his knee, squeezing as he laughed or shoving at Stiles’ shoulder when he said something stupid. Stiles wasn’t sure when the change had happened; when they could sit together and not want to punch the other, when they actually seemed to authentically enjoy the other’s company. When he went to leave, Stiles was extremely aware of the lack of warmth Derek had provided to him throughout the night.

5.

Mornings after pack bonding night were rough for everyone on a normal day, but Scott figured everyone needed one after their weekend run in with a succubus that left everyone drained. Monday morning came and no one wanted to get out of their respective sleeping spaces. Derek had to drag Erica off of the chair she’d slumped over in and Stiles was slapped twice, once by Allison who profusely apologized and once by Cora who didn’t really care. When everyone had woken up, Derek and Stiles worked together to make breakfast, an intensely domestic task that neither of them batted an eyelash at. Stiles would roll up a dish towel and smack Derek’s ass and in return, Derek would spray him with water from the dishes he was cleaning.

“Is everyone ready to go?” Stiles yelled through the loft. There were a mixture of passive agreements and groans as Stiles slid open the door to the loft. He rolled his eyes and waved everyone through the doors, counting them off like toddlers. Derek was the last to the door, arms crossed over his chest, and an amused look on his face. Stiles glared at him as his own sleepiness started to get to him.

“What? I finished high school four years ago, I deserve to watch you all suffer,” Derek said as Stiles walked out the door. Stiles sighed heavily and he wasn’t sure why, but he took a step closer to Derek.

“Even me?” Stiles said, more flirtation in his tone than he had expected. Derek nodded and raised his eyebrows, tilting his head.

“Especially you,” Derek shot back. Stiles smacked his arm before leaning in and placing a soft, chaste kiss on Derek’s lip. When he pulled back, he smiled warmly at him and wandered over to the rest of the pack.

“We’ll see you later, Der,” Stiles shouted as he led them down the stairs. He laughed as Scott stumbled over his feet, clearly not awake enough for the amount of effort needed to descend the staircase. Lydia was holding onto the railing with all she had in her, her knuckles almost white from the grip as she slid down. Everyone had their feet shuffling, unable to fully pick them up, but Stiles had an unusual skip in his step. When they reached the lot, it felt like death flooded over him and Stiles froze. His feet dug into the gravel and he gasped, the noise seeming to jolt his friends wide awake.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Lydia screeched, holding a hand to her head. Stiles looked at his friend’s casual faces and gaped at them.

“Did I just kiss Derek?” They all nodded in unison, apparently unconcerned with the fact. Stiles looked up at Derek’s window, to his car, and back at his friends. “I just…” He ran both hands over his face, scrubbing at it before his fingers pressed to his lips. He thought back to the nonchalant way he had leaned in, how Derek himself didn’t see anything weird about the gesture, the softness of the kiss itself. He just had his first kiss with Derek and… no one cared? “How are none of you freaking out about this?” Stiles yelled to his friends who were walking in the direction of their cars.

Scott turned his head as he threw his leg across his motorbike. “Why are you freaking out about this?” He asked, furrowing his eyebrows. Stiles waved his hands erratically and was about to explain when Erica piped up from the passenger's seat of Boyd’s car.

“We all know you two have been sleeping together. We can smell him on you almost every day,” Erica said casually as she pushed her sunglasses up her nose. Stiles inhaled sharply and closed his eyes. He felt a hand on his shoulder and opened them to see Isaac in front of him.

“The pack is cool with it, Stiles, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Stiles didn’t have time to thank him for their unneeded consent as he was too busy groaning and staring up at the sky.

“We haven’t even-- What are you-- We’ve never even--” Stiles couldn’t get his words out, all stutters and hisses as he paced back and forth, the gravel crunching beneath his feet. “We haven’t even kissed yet!” He exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air. Mostly everyone stifled their giggles, Scott opting to rev his engine and clear out of the parking lot, his laughter echoing over the sound of his bike.

“Well, I mean, you just did,” Erica said with a shrug as Boyd started driving. Isaac waved him down and hopped in the back seat, sending a sympathetic glance at Stiles. He was alone in the lot, his feet kicking at the gravel as he debated his next move.

He figured he should go up to the loft, apologize profusely and hope that Derek didn’t punch him for attacking him with his lips. He fucking kissed Derek and he didn’t even let himself savor it. Had he wanted to savor it? From what he remembered, it was not the worst first kiss they could have had. It wasn’t under the extreme duress of a bad guy or when Stiles was too drunk to remember it, so he couldn’t be too angry. It could have been worse, he tried to keep reminding himself. He sighed heavily, running his hands over his face again, only for his fingertips to linger on his lips once more.

It made sense, really, that he would kiss Derek. Stiles had noticed it, of course he had, the way that he and Derek seemed to be getting closer, the initial annoyance gone from both of their systems. They made sense in some weird way that Stiles hadn’t really let himself think about. Derek was the calm to his storm, the rough edges to Stiles’ perfectly crafted circle. When Stiles wouldn’t stop talking, Derek shot him a look, one look to get his mouth to shut. When Derek was angry beyond control, one touch from Stiles seemed to placate his wolf. It was all of the proof Stiles needed to turn back toward the door.

When he did, he was surprised to see Derek in the doorway, his chest heaving like he had just sprinted down the stairs. “Derek, I--”

“Shut up,” Derek nearly growled as he took four long strides to reach Stiles. Stiles opened his mouth, about to apologize for whatever had made Derek so angry, but he couldn’t. Because Derek’s mouth connected with his in the hottest kiss Stiles had ever been a part of. It was messy, definitely not as chaste as their goodbye earlier, but Stiles didn’t care. He grabbed onto Derek’s hair, threading his fingers through the softness to tug him even closer. It was like fire erupted through Stiles’ entire body, his skin tingling with every touch as Derek ran a hand under his shirt to rest against the center of his back. Derek’s other hand grasped at the back of Stiles’ neck, tilting his head up to deepen the kiss even further.

If Stiles thought Derek’s gentle touches were heaven, he didn’t know how to describe that kiss. His head spun with every bite to his bottom lip, every swipe of Derek’s tongue against his and he felt like he couldn’t breathe. When he finally pulled back enough to take a breath, Derek followed him, both of them stumbling back into the door of the jeep. Derek pressed his hips to Stiles and the pleasure of it seemed to snap him back into reality. He pressed his hands to Derek’s chest and pushed softly enough that Derek seemed to snap back, too.

“We should talk about this…” Stiles said, pretty unconvincingly. Derek cleared his throat and attempted to take a step back, but Stiles pulled him closer by his jacket and smiled up at him.

“If we’re going to talk, I need to… back away,” Derek said weakly. Stiles heard the nervousness in the way his voice cracked and had a hard time believing it was for him.

“Then we can keep kissing,” Stiles decided, nodding as he surged forward and pressed his lips to Derek’s again. And if he missed school to roll around in Derek’s bed all day, he had no regrets.

+1

“Do you two have to be all over each other all the time?” Lydia whined from her place on Jackson’s lap. Stiles rolled his eyes as he disentangled himself from Derek as he waited for the popcorn to finish in the microwave. He gestured toward the two of them in disgust.

“Are you serious? Look at all of you!” He exclaimed. Lydia was practically straddling Jackson’s lap in the chair, Erica, Boyd, and Isaac were squished together on the loveseat, and Scott and Allison were on the couch, snuggled into each other’s sides with Cora’s feet spread across their laps. There were no more seats to be seen and Stiles sighed heavily.

“I can’t believe I’m being exiled to the floor once again,” he muttered, sitting with his back against the couch. Cora rested a hand on his head and patted it, Stiles swatting it away in annoyance. When he saw Derek, all of the anger in his system seemed to flood away. Derek stopped and glanced around before releasing his own sigh. Stiles thought he would kick Cora out of his usual spot on the couch, but instead, he sat next to Stiles and wrapped his arm around his shoulder.

“Is this okay?” He whispered as he pressed play, his lips brushing against the shell of Stiles’ ear. Stiles nodded and looked over at him, stunned.

“You’re not going to move anyone?” Derek shook his head and pulled Stiles further into his side. Stiles shifted his hips to throw his legs over Derek’s, wrapping his arm around his waist.

“No, I think I’m okay with this,” Derek replied. Stiles glanced up at him and Derek met his eyes. There was so much fondness in them, he didn’t know how to contain his joy. He leaned up and connected their lips in a gentle kiss before settling into him and turning toward the movie. “I don’t know why you always complained about the floor. It’s really not that bad,” Derek commented. Stiles laughed and slapped his stomach playfully.

“It’s cause I always wanted to sit with you, idiot,” Stiles explained with a roll of his eyes. Derek pressed a kiss to his head and no more words were exchanged, the crashes from the movie barely noticeable to Stiles as he listened to Derek breathe. If someone told Stiles a few months prior that his new seat would be next to wherever his alpha was sitting, he probably wouldn’t have believed them. But with Derek pressed to his side, his hand stroking soothing circles into the skin of his shoulder, he would gladly take his seat on the floor.

[why-this-kolaveri-machi]

Fic: Come As You Are (2/11)

nope. i haven’t given up on this, no matter how long it takes me.

Summary: A series of codas/tags/missing scenes to every episode of the first season of TItans. 

Warnings: SPOILERS for the whole series, some swearing, violence and gore, lot of dense parenthetical nonsense and fancy formatting. I’ve also taken the liberty to fill in some gaps that were left by canon.

corresponding episode recap is here, and the episode recap series is here.

Chapter one is here.

Come As You Are

1.02

For about an hour into their drive out of Detroit, they say nothing.

Rachel is huddled awkwardly against the car door, staring at the floor or out the window. She doesn’t talk or even look at Dick for a while. He can’t really blame her; every time he blinks, he’s still seeing Rachel’s kidnapper’s face pressed against the glass, leaking blood and brains even as he melted from the inside-out. The last twelve hours have been a lot to take in, and for some time Dick lets the empty hum of cruising down the mostly-deserted highway fill his brain.

Things start filtering in eventually: Rachel sniffing, the creak of leather as she shifts in her seat, the whine of the engine, the cold bite of air through the crack in his window, the vibrations of his seat, the steering wheel under his hands—even the way his hair falls over his forehead, his shirt clinging to his back with cold sweat, the sense-memory of hot, sticky blood on his hands. Each of them plucks at his over-stretched nerves until he can’t stand it anymore: he grits his teeth and fantasises, very briefly, about ripping the steering wheel out and screaming until he loses his voice.

Instead, he says: “you hungry?”

Rachel looks at him warily. There’re flecks of blood on her chin and near her hairline, and Dick’s gut clenches at the sight. God, she’s a kid who’s just had two people murdered gruesomely in front of her, and here he is, no real destination in mind, about to get her snacks like they’re on a camping trip from hell. That’s not even counting the mysterious demonic force inside her body or the fact that she’s being chased by an honest-to-god cult—she needs actual help, like something someone from the League can provide, not a washed-up sidekick with anger issues who’s just barely keeping his life on track. What was he even thinking, just up and running like this without a plan, Bruce would be so—

Well.

Well, shit. So much for fuck batman—even his own brain was betraying him.

“Yeah, maybe,” Rachel mumbles to the dashboard.

Okay—okay. Dick can work with that. Make a plan. Step one. “There’s a rest-stop a couple of miles down the road,” he says, his voice sounding remarkably steady even to him, “we can stop for a bathroom break and some snacks. Does that sound okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” Rachel says, still not looking at him.

When they stop, Rachel goes straight to the bathroom, and Dick takes a moment to breathe in the shadow of the convenience store. Clearly he needs to investigate what’s going on here, but before that, he needs to figure out what he’s going to do with Rachel. He doesn’t have the resources to protect her on his own (doesn’t think he can stand another second of being helpless as she clings to him, horrified and desperate), but he’s burned his bridges so thoroughly with most heroes—meta or otherwise—that he can hardly think of anybody who would welcome his presence as anything other than an insultingly transparent way to exploit their fraying goodwill. Besides, most heroes are well-connected to the League, and he absolutely in no way wants any of this to reach Bruce’s ears.

(there’s a part of him that thinks that Batman knows anyway. The thought makes his chest tighten and his skin prickles with barely reigned-in panic.)

In the end, he really only knows a couple of people who are still active heroes, and who couldn’t give a shit about what the Justice League thought, or knew. And even if they give him shit for showing up unannounced at their door after all these years—he deserves it all and more—they’re not going to turn away someone in actual need of help. Not even him.

Rachel’s walking towards him, her breath misting in the chill air, sweater sleeves tugged over her hands. “So,” she says, her voice trembling just a little, “are we going back to Detroit?”

“No.” He smiles at her, and for the first time in a while, feels the tightness in his chest ease just enough to allow in a semblance of the light and purpose that filled him the first time he jumped off the edge of a building as Robin. “We’re going to Washington.”

-

This is the end, Hank says, wracked with pain and crooked in all the wrong places. He smiles as he says it, though the smile is crooked, too, cracked through the centre with exhaustion and uncertainty. This one final operation and we’re fucking set for the rest of our lives.

Dawn nods, smiles, only half paying attention to the building schematics on the table. Inside, her heart thunders with anticipation, and her knee jiggles as she draws bright red, thick lines for the path that she will take right to the heart of the fight. Hank’s bait; a flashing beacon to draw fire (and another scar, and another scar, and another scar) while Dawn swoops in, taking down gunrunner after asshole after trafficker, feeling their bones crunch underneath her boot. It’s one thing to come home, weary down to your very bones, phantom punches still raining down on your body with every step you take; and quite another to be in the eye of the storm, spilling blood and laughter and thinking: this is all I’ve ever wanted—

“Babe?” Hank asks. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” She gets up and walks towards him, cupping his face in her hands. Instantly, his rough edges soften, and he leans into her touch. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

“About how if this is the last time we do this, we’ve got to give it everything.”

“Those fuckers won’t know what hit them,” Hank tells her, and Dawn thrills to the glint in his eye.

-

When Dick finally lets go of her, Rachel is reminded of peeling bandages and raw skin (sunken, sightless eyes and blood bubbling endlessly out of an open mouth) and she instinctively catches at his sleeve, not quite ready to have him leave.

He turns, and for a moment he glows blood red, just like the child in her dreams who saw his parents fall to their deaths, helpless. “Rachel,” he says, “I’m not going anywhere.”

Rachel thinks of the nights Melissa would say that to her, utterly exhausted, shoulders slumped under limp hair. She even meant it, sometimes.

THEY NEVER MEAN IT.

“I know,” she says, letting go of his sleeve and gathering the hastily-drawn crosses around her along with what’s left of her composure, “I’m sorry. I just—I thought I saw the—the thing that made the other guy explode, and, and I don’t know, I thought maybe it’s here, or maybe because I’m here, more bad things are going to happen—”

“Hey, hey. Listen.” Dick gives her his most reassuring smile, but this time she notices that he doesn’t touch her. “I know you’re freaked, and you have every right to be, but I just got some leads to work on, and we’re going to figure this out, okay? I promise you that there’s nothing scary here—except maybe pizza that’s going to go cold very soon.” He gets up, tilts his head to the door.

HE PUTS ON A GOOD ACT, BUT HE’S NOT YOU.

She nods and follows him out of the bathroom. They eat in silence for a while, as Dick goes through several more papers that his computer spits out. She stares at him, nibbling at her piece, appetite entirely gone. He seems utterly unperturbed at the pictures that he’s looking through—though he is a detective, and (she hopes) he’s probably seen worse things. The only weird thing, honestly, is that he’s helping her at all after everything.

“Um,” Dick says suddenly. “You want to watch more TV?”

I want to know what’s going on, but you’re not telling me. “I’m okay, thanks,” she says.

Dick flashes her an awkward smile and goes right back to his papers. In any case, it’s better than what Melissa would usually do after Rachel had one of her… episodes, which was lock herself in her room and pray, then pretend nothing ever happened, as if Rachel couldn’t see her red-rimmed eyes, her flinches, her furtive looks whenever she thought Rachel wasn’t looking—

AND LOOK WHERE THAT GOT HER. AND JUST WHAT’S GOING TO HAPPEN TO HIM—

Rachel shudders. “Are we leaving?” she asks, if just to get out of her own head for a minute.

“Soon,” Dick says distractedly, flipping through another report. He doesn’t even look at her.

Well. At least that’s familiar.

-

“I’m sorry,” Dick says. “I’ll clean that up.”

And it’s that—more than showing up after dropping off the face of the earth for years, more than bringing some overpowered teenager to their doorstep, more than even cosying up to Dawn like he’s still fucking eighteen—the way he coolly dismisses the fucked-up thing that’s just happened like it never happened at all, that really pisses Hank off. He’s already looking for a broom and dustpan, and all Hank wants to do is punch that neutral expression right off his pointy face.

“You’re a real piece of work, you know that?” Hank says instead.

This is where Dick will come back with a wry smile and something meaningless and utterly infuriating like so I’ve been told, but Dick surprises Hank by saying, “I know. I’m sorry.” He drags a hand over his face. He looks tired, his hair tousled and greasy, dark circles under his eyes like he hasn’t slept in a while. “I shouldn’t have—I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Hank raises an eyebrow. “About taking that kid in, or bringing her here?”

Dick is silent for a long moment. Then, in a moment of raw honesty that’s so far removed from his smug billionaire circus kid shtick that it throws Hank for a loop, “Both, I guess.”

“Well.” Hank turns around and rummages for the broom, suddenly uncomfortable. “It’s what we do, right? Help people no matter how fucked-up and dangerous it gets?”

(no matter how much it kills you, piece by piece—)

“Even if you are an asshole?”

“Especially if you are an asshole,” Hank says firmly, and hands him the broom.

-

They’re gone.

It isn’t immediately obvious; every struggling, hard-won breath is like being stabbed over and over again, but enough time passes that Amy is aware that there is no fresh agony being inflicted on her, nor can she hear the voices of her assailants anymore. Another eternity is spent processing this and the fact that her body feels… broken on a level that she had never thought was possible.

(God. She knew partnering with a Gotham detective was going to be dangerous, but she didn’t think he would actually bring a piece of that godforsaken city with him—)

Her phone’s not far away—she can see the screen blinking to life by the couch as messages come in. She begins the slow, excruciating process of dragging herself there with one arm—the other utterly useless. Her wounds burn as they drag over the carpet and she almost passes out entirely several times, but somehow, she gets there, and presses 911 with trembling fingers.

“Please,” she whispers through a mouthful of blood to the operator who answers. “I don’t want to die.”

-

A hand closes over Dick’s shoulder, and for one long, hysterical moment, he expects to look up and see the imposing shadow of Bruce Wayne. Instead, it’s Hank, face half-obscured by blood dripping from a head wound and twisted into a rictus of agony so sharp it freezes Dick’s breath in his lungs.

“Dawn,” Hank whimpers, falling to his knees by her side, holding her hand. She’s past responding to him now, straining to breathe past the blood bubbling up her throat. Dick’s hands ache from chest compressions, but he isn’t sure any more if they would help.

“The ambulance is on its way,” he says, hoarsely.

Hank nods, never taking his eyes off Dawn. He cups her face with his hand, the movement so gentle that Dick feels like he’s intruding on an unspeakably private moment. “I don’t want you here when it comes,” he says.

Dick nods, numb. He stumbles to his feet, dizzy, feeling cold and hollow in all the places he’d kept under wraps for so, so long. He wants to fall to his knees and sob, wants to reach out and pull Hank by his shirt and snarl that he never meant for any of this to happen, wants to rage and vomit and despair. But the part of him that’s already planning ways to chase down their attackers, the part chiselled into shape by Batman and years of buried trauma, snaps into place, lifts his head, and makes him say, “All right. I’ll meet you at the hospital.”

He turns and leaves, the sound of snapping wire still echoing in his ears.

[teamoliv-archive]

Cutscene: The New Normal, Part 2

Ivory didn’t think it would be this daunting looking at the door to her own home. She felt almost like a stranger staring at the door to the strangely subdued upper-class house. Mom and Dad weren’t ever the kinds to show off too much. All her memories of it felt distant and while she remembered growing up here, so much of her life was defined by the Cheshires and more importantly by Jade and Molly that she wasn’t sure she really could call it her home. She hesitantly knocked on the door and stood awkwardly, adjusting her the goggles on her new outfit atop her head. Hopefully she looked more like a huntress and less like... whatever she really was.

The door opened to a curious ‘Yes?’ before a surprised gasp greeted her. A fair-haired but aged woman greeted her. Gossie Reynard hadn’t aged well these last few years; her mother looked like a woman ten or fifteen years older than she should be. It wasn’t any surprise given how infrequently both she and Dad were around. She must have spent most of her days doing nothing but worrying about them both.

“Ivory!” Ivory’s mother threw her arms around the tall girl and cried into her shoulder. “Gods, I thought I’d lost you...”

“M-Mom...? What are you talking about? What’s going on?”

Ivory sat down on a white chair in a living room she remembered almost perfectly Almost nothing at all seemed to have changed- it looked almost locked in time almost like it was mocking her mother’s wrinkles and weakening frame. She was beautiful once. Her mother sat at another chair after Ivory politely declined anything to eat. “Mom...? What do you mean you thought you lost me?”

Her mother sniffed and pulled a tissue from a box on a small table. “Your father is cleaning up Mr. Cheshire’s mess again...” There was a bitter look on her face as she unceremoniously chucked the wet tissue into a nearby wastebin. “I’m not stupid; I know what your father’s doing even if he won’t tell me. But now he’s off in Mistral doing only gods know what. He could have any job he wants but insists on this one! He could be working on a huge project for the military or run his own company or... anything but no, he wants to pretend to be a glorified accountant and go off making shady business deals for the sake of someone else’s money. Sometimes the damn man makes me wonder why I married him.” She smiles to Ivory warmly as if to reassure her, “Only sometimes, dear, don’t worry.”

Ivory uncomfortably shuffles in her seat. She knew her mother was kept in the dark about a lot of things. If she knew even half of what Ivory had done for Jade over the years with her father’s knowledge, if not necessarily his blessing... she didn’t want to consider finishing the thought.

Ivory refused to make eye contact. Trying to cope with the reality of what Jade had done to her and Molly was more than difficult. She still refused to believe that the devotion, the years together, and the almost father-like reverence they had for their master was all the result of a weak mind and a manipulative semblance to make it easier for them to go along with what he wanted. He trained them, he gave them something to do with their lives- purpose and direction. Now it was gone. Compared to the macabre comfort the Red Arena gave, her own family felt almost hollow. Did she really even belong here?

“It... It might be my fault.” She shuddered to think of what the consequences of spilling out the whole truth would be, but she did it anyway, every graphic detail. She explained the fighting pits themselves, the punishments for the fighters, the kidnappings, her own role in plotting to spirit away her own team and killing Cassandra Cheshire, Molly, Jade, Robin, and finally Lilac’s revenge scheme. “I don’t know what to do anymore... The Arena, Jade, my only real friend... we’re practically sisters and now... It’s all gone. I’m sorry I lied to you. I don’t expect you to forgive me...”

She still stared at the floor. She couldn’t look her mother in the eye- not after that. She fully expected to be kicked out in a rage or dragged off to be arrested or to at least just to back to the Cheshire estate. She got none of those.

“Ivory. Ivory, look at me. Don’t treat your mother like she’s a stranger to you.”

She finally lifted her head. The look on her mother’s face was difficult to read. It looked disappointed, grateful, sad, relieved, angry, and resolved all at the same time. She took a deep breath. “This is... a lot to take in. I can only imagine how you must feel not knowing what to do now.” Her mother forced a weary smile, “But you’re not lost. The first thing you did when you got back to Atlas was to come here- to come home. You’ll never not be our daughter, Ivory. You’re not lost because you don’t have a plan, you’re free because of it. I didn’t marry your father believing he was some sort of saint. I married him because he always reaches for what he believes in, right or wrong. You could stand to learn from that. This is a chance for you to start over and be who you want to be.”

Ivory swallowed a large lump in her throat, trying to push out an objection. “Mom y-you can’t just... After everything I just told you- I’m nothing to be proud of, I-  I’m not a good person!”

Ivory’s mother got up and brushed her dress smooth before walking over to Ivory’s chair and picking up her hands. “Then why was saving your friend’s life more important than anything else when it came down to it? No one is evil Ivory. Everyone has a story no matter how blackened and horrible it may be and that story can always have a happy ending, don’t ever forget that."

Ivory shakily stood up and it was her turn to lean against her shoulder to cry. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! I don’t deserve this!” Her embrace was met in kind with a shushing noise to let her get the emotions out of her system at her own place. “It’s alright, Ivory. If you’re going to start over, let’s do this the right way. When you’re ready.”

Ivory nods and finally lets go. Her mother walks over to a low bookself and pulls out one of several old white books. “It’s like I said, Ivory, everyone has a story. This is yours.” She hands the pristine book over to Ivory who first looked at the cover in faint recognition.

The Tale of Ivory Cressidia Reynard

“Mom... is this...?”

“Your story, Ivory.”

She opened the book to the first few pages. There were some short paragraphs in her mother’s hand about things like her birth, her first steps, first word, and then later details about her young life occasionally illustrated with old photos. Most of the pages were blank. Mom’s “story” books were always about people’s lives of those close to her. She collected the tales of friends, relatives, and family members in her volumes. The squat bookshelf was full of them. “You’re giving this to me?”

Her mother nodded. “You’re more than old enough now and it’s a good a time as any to start. Forge your own story, Ivory. Whenever anything important to you happens, take the time to write it down later. Put some pictures in it if you’d like. Start with the one you told me today, and give yourself a happy ending.”

[whatscallion]

holiday fluff challenge.

Summary: Once out and about in the stars, the Guardians are bored, which would be fine and dandy if Quill didn’t know what day it was back on his home planet. Tis the season for him to be homesick for a holiday he had fond memories of. So, after a tumultuous regalling of what Christmas entailed, the stars were painted in yuletide joy with the best patchwork family he could ask for. 

Written for @buckysbeardliness‘s holiday fluff writing challenge! Yaaaay!!

Word Count: 1,703

The stars always shone the brightest between galaxies. Amidst the vast emptiness where most saw desolation and solace, there was so much more to the cosmos than that. Colors in every shade reigned supreme in giant displays of reality’s making and unmaking. Unfathomable giants tower through the void, granting hues beyond the comprehension of what most believed to be beautiful. Against the velvet backdrop, the beauty of the universe acted as a painting of creation’s design, forever bent to the will of the wild beauty of the unknown.

With every twinkle from a far off star, the Prince of Spartax was forever reminded of his youthful days on Earth, where the same hues burned brightly against the gutters of houses or contorted into some semblance of Santa or his reindeer. There had been times before where he’d grown almost despondently homesick, but a special kind of lament overcame him around this time every year. The holidays that only he seemed to know about reminded him of the solace he’d willingly enshrouded himself with by staying away from his home planet.

More than once Peter Quill found himself wondering if other planets and races had their own traditions like Christmas, for there was nothing quite like it on Earth. He wondered- . . .

“You have been staring out the window for an hour.”

The sudden appearance of a hulking mass next to him was enough to make Quill nearly jump out of his skin. The yuletide trance he’d been in while staring out over a cluster of stars that greatly resembled Christmas lights shattered to pieces in an instant. He might’ve peed a little bit.

“Dude- Drax. How many times do we have to go over this? It’s like I need to put a bell on you or something.” It had grown increasingly difficult to have these brooding moments without interruption as of late. It might be time to take respite somewhere and stretch the crew’s legs. They could really only take so much of each other’s company in the Milano before the screeching and threatening started.

“Putting a bell on me would defeat the purpose of a surprise attack, Peter. What if I needed to sneak up on a space pirate on the ship and slit his throat? A bell would give me away.” Quill leveled his stare on the bigger alien if only for a moment.

“When has there ever been a space pirate on my ship?”

“Yesterday.”

“There was not a space pirate on my ship yesterday!”

“That’s because there was no bell on me when I killed him. Silent. Invisible.”

“Oh my god, not this again.”

The general clammer of the argument of Drax’s invisibility ( or lack thereof ) echoed through the small vessel, basically alerting everyone within that something of a storm was brewing. This only served to bring Gamora to roll her eyes and delve her attention further into sharpening her blade, Rocket to sneer and sneeze while working away on the next planet destroyer, and Groot barely looked up from his video game.

It took roughly ten minutes of arguing that Drax did not master the art of invisibility in order for the berserker to quietly assume he simply needed to work harder at his craft. It had left the patchwork team to settle around the table strewn with various parts to various machines, random bits of what was hoped to be food, and the occasional relaxed leg, as if having feet firmly planted on the ship’s floor wasn’t enough to convey how relaxed one was.

“Whats’a matter, Quill? You look chunky when yah pout.” It was naturally Rocket who’d noticed the underlying morose veil now coating Peter as they all sat there, convening out of boredom. Truth be told, Gamora had noticed, but it’d never been in her nature to say these things out loud and in the presence of others.

Before Peter could answer, Drax added his own delightful comment.

“It’s the posture,” the Destroyer said without looking up from peeling his fruit. This naturally brought about a scowl on the half-Terran’s face, allowing for a subtle change in his stature. Shoulders squared, back straight, chin raised a bit - and all it did was bring the verdant beauty across the table to glance at him with a subtle smirk. If he didn’t know any better, he would’ve thought Gamora found great joy in others tormenting him.

“It’s not- It’s just around this time I get a little homesick.” It was an admission of vulnerability, bringing a sense of weakness with it. Rare was it that an opportunity to prey upon him was given ( purposefully ), and yet the far off jingle of sleigh bells had him lamenting over the yuletide joys of his past.

“Why?” All eyes were on the soft voice that spoke, mostly out of surprise that it’d been Gamora to take it upon herself to open a can of worms in a gentle manner. Across the table, she watched him with curiosity, half expecting this to be some kind of attempt to lead their flock astray with delusions of a planet no one else had ever gone to. It’d happened once or twice before, though she wouldn’t dare admit she had believed him for a second.

“Christmas,” he stated just as quietly. And thus, the mistake was made that he had assumed everyone knew what the holiday was.

“What,” was all Rocket could say. That was when it hit Quill that he’d have to explain this.

“It’s a holiday on Earth.” He figured that’d be enough. But he was wrong.

“There were holidays on my home planet, but I do not get sick for them,” Drax spoke, albeit somewhat pensively. There was almost always an air of constant confusion with the Destroyer.

“No, it’s just a holiday you spend with your family. I just uh, remember the times with my mom- . . .”

“Your sentiment is showing,” chuckled Rocket, earning him a harsh glare from Quill.

“Dude, it’s a nice holiday with lots of food, gifts, and just- . . .”

“Gifts? What kind of gifts? If we are going to celebrate Chrysler. . .”

“-Christmas-”

“Then I have truly given the greatest gift of all.” Leave it to Drax to be humble. Expectant eyes were on him as a smugness overtook his normally rigid features.

“I have kept you all alive. You’re welcome.”

This had naturally sparked a debate over what was to be considered “alive” and how it did not include the general well-being of those kept alive. While such a hot topic was broached upon fairly regularly ( mostly after every job they did as a team ), it still boiled down to the fact that Drax was somewhat right - they were all still alive. It may not have been Drax’s fault that they were all alive, but he could at least take partial credit for it. It’s what teams did.

It’s what family did.

Once the heat had settled somewhat ( for the fifth time that day, it felt ), the explanation began of what Christmas was without going into great depth. Peter didn’t have it in him to explain the birth of Christ and everything that entailed that particular story. Instead he mostly skimmed over the general idea of the holiday. How it was a time for togetherness, for happiness, for food, for company - all of which they generally had on that cramped ship.

Quill couldn’t have smiled more when they asked specifics about his favorite day, which led to the crew coming up with ideas on how to make the ship more festive for the season that was on another planet at the other end of the galaxy. After promptly coaxing Groot out of his room, which was a feat in itself, they’d managed to find the emergency tethers - the same that were supposed to be used if they were out in space and needed to something to grab onto in order to get back to the Milano.

In no time at all, they hung loosely from Groot’s form, and he was none too pleased about how it limited his movement. It was when it was touched on that he was allowed to play his game all he wanted, just so long as he stood there, that he seemed to get more in the holiday spirit.

“He needs a star,” Quill said as they all stood back to look at Groot, who honestly didn’t care at all that he was being ogled.

“Why?” This time, it’d been both Drax and Rocket speaking in unison. Quill might’ve glossed over why a tree needed a star at the top.

“It just makes the tree prettier- . . .”

“I am Groot,” he said in an obviously offended tone.

“I said prettier. Or what - more handsome? I don’t know how to describe a talking tree.” This had to be worth the effort, and Quill was sure of it. With a glance around the ship, they were all coming up short on what to put on his head. As it turned out, Groot had his own surprise. Atop his head, glimmering spores sprouted as a crown of flowers burst to life. It brought the shabby compartment to life with soft lighting, the lights dancing around the group much like they had on Xandar. It’d become a reminder that they had all come together as each other’s family, whether they liked it or not.

If Quill had been a lesser man, he would sniffed loudly. Rather, he let himself fall back into the nostalgia of it, the sense of the holidays engulfing him completely, settling new memories atop old. So lost was he in this newfound feeling that he barely felt the smaller hand slip into his own, bringing him to pull his gaze to the side, meeting that of rare comfort.

“Just one more thing,” he whispered, reaching into his pocket for a remote. From the speakers of the Milano, an unmistakable song came on, giving the final touch to their evening. Jackson 5′s ‘Santa Claus is Coming to Town’ couldn’t have been a better addition to the moment. 

Gamora’s smile widened, turning her head away from him so she could rest her temple against his shoulder. His grip on her hand tightened, signifying his gratitude that she was simply there, existing, living.

Thanks to Drax, who was inquiring loudly about who Sandy Claws was.

[thestoryweneededtowrite]

Javid Titanic AU - Part 23

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 15 Part 16 Part 17 Part 18 Part 19 Part 20 Part 21 Part 22

The boat deck was crowded with passengers, no one enforcing class boundaries now it was becoming obvious that a lot of people were going to die. Davey held tightly to Jack’s hand as they wove through people, pushing down to where there were still boats loading. The orchestra that had been playing at dinner in the First Class dining room had set up to the side of the crowd, playing some upbeat classical music that Jack couldn’t name.

“Music to drown by. Now I know I’m in First Class,” he mumbled under his breath, making sure Davey didn’t hear him. People on the ship were going to die because they had less money than others, and that just wasn’t right. Money wasn’t even going to save Davey so what was it good for. And music definitely wasn’t going to save anyone.

If Jack had it his way, they’d be asleep by now. There wouldn’t be handcuffs around his wrists, they’d have found somewhere safe where Esther couldn’t get to Davey, and they’d be cosied up under a blanket with Davey’s head on his chest and their hands clasped together and resting on Jack’s stomach. It was all he wanted for the rest of his life but right now he’d take just one night of it. Instead, they had this hellish nightmare.

When they got to the few remaining lifeboats there was a crowd of people gathered around each one, clearly far more bodies than there were seats for. Jack winced at the sight - so many innocent people were going to die. They stopped on the fringes of the group where there was less shoving going on.

“Women and children to the lifeboats. Women and children first,” an officer shouted above the dull cacophony from his audience.

“That’s not us,” Davey sighed, resting his forehead against Jack’s shoulder and trying to block out everything that was happening.

“No, it ain’t,” Jack agreed sadly. He nudged Davey gently so he could look into his tearful, big blue eyes. “Ya could still make it, you know. Young, First Class. Even if yous is a guy. Ya got a better chance than me,” he explained.

Davey sniffed back tears and shook his head resolutely. “We make it together, or we don’t make it at all,” he said firmly, squeezing Jack’s hand.

“Dave, this is serious. This is life or death,” Jack insisted.

There was a part of him that selfishly wanted to keep Davey with him forever, but he had to be realistic about this. If Davey was with him he was far more likely to end up dead, and that was the last thing he wanted. Only Davey wasn’t voluntarily going anywhere. “I know. I know,” Davey groaned, hiding his face against Jack’s shoulder again and forcing himself not to cry over the life he never got to have. He didn’t care if people saw, he didn’t care if people tutted or shouted or judged. He just wanted to be held by the man he loved before they both died. That didn’t seem like too much to ask from the universe at this point.

Jack got it. He didn’t feel much like letting Davey go either so he pulled him in for a proper hug and brushed his lips against Davey’s cheek as he did. It was as close to a kiss as he dared to go. Another gunshot sounded out, this one far closer, and Davey jumped involuntarily. Jack held him tighter.

When the officer spoke again his voice was harried and afraid.

“Women and children! Any more women and children!” he yelled out, wavering but standing strong against the wall of men in front of him who were getting increasingly desperate for a place on a lifeboat.

“Daddy!” a little girl cried, fighting against her father’s grip as he stepped forward with her in his arms.

“Pass her to me,” a woman offered, holding out her arms and accepting the toddler before tucking her into an empty seat on the boat. “It’s only goodbye for a little while,” her father called out, tears choking his words. “There’ll be another boat soon for the daddies, this one is for the women and children.”

His words were clearly a lie and everyone around knew it, with uncomfortable shivers spreading through the crowd. Still, no one said anything as the man comforted his daughter with empty words and pre-broken promises.

With a look around that told him there were no more women and children in the immediate vicinity, the officer gave the order to lower the life boat. Davey ignored the disappointed murmurs going around the crowd of men and wriggled through the crowd to look down at the boats rowing away, scanning them for a sign of Sarah or Medda or his father or, god, even his mother. He just wanted to know that someone he knew was getting out of this alive. It was no use. Everyone that far down just looked like insects, escaping from a trap. He couldn’t tell Sarah from Eve. Curling his fingers over the railings, Davey concentrated hard on not letting his lower lip wobble. Just as he was about to turn back and find Jack to cling to again for some semblance of comfort, the crowd behind him surged forward. He had no idea what had caused the sudden movement but it unbalanced him and knocked him over the edge. For a moment he was in freefall, tumbling through a step of space without even caring what he hit. He was so sure that he was going to die that night anyway, what did it matter how it happened. Everything seemed to slow down, with Jack’s fearful shout chasing him. When he finally hit something, it was the hard edge of the lifeboat and it knocked the wind out of him. He automatically scrambled backwards before he slipped down the space between the ship and the boat. There were shrieks from behind as the woman hurried to pull him up into the lifeboat and shouts from above as men complained he’d jumped on purpose.

As soon as Davey was safely inside the lifeboat, sat in an empty seat, he looked up in search of Jack. He was stood right at the edge of the railing, staring right back at him with despair and hope in his eyes. It was torture to watch Davey go, but the best sight he’d ever seen to watch him get safe. Jack was in love, and that meant there were just too many emotions involved, but if Davey was safe, everything was going to be fine. With one sharp nod, he tried to tell Davey it was all okay. That he needed to stay put and survive this thing.

“Count yourself lucky, son,” the woman beside Davey said, patting him gently on the shoulder.

He couldn’t see how it was lucky. The person he loved more than anything in the world, the one who made him feel like he was worth something, was still on a ship that was on its way to the bottom of the ocean. That wasn’t luck, that was hell. He watched Jack up there alone urging to him to stay put and wanted more than anything to be back in his arms.

The order was given to lower the boat again and Davey felt himself get further and further away. Crying children were comforted by crying mothers, with every gap in between wails filled with mumbled prayers. The only thing Davey prayed for now was Jack, and staying put definitely wasn’t going to get him that. If he got out of this alive but without Jack, there was nothing for him. He wouldn’t go back to his parents, he couldn’t even stay in contact with Sarah if he wanted to be safe. It would just be him, alone, against the world, and he couldn’t live like that.

“No. No, no!” he complained, struggling to his feet and scrambling over the other lifeboat passengers until he could clamber over the edge of the boat. He could just about reach the covered first class promenade on A Deck, ignoring the shrieks from the women around him.

“Davey! Dave! What are you doing?” Jack shouted down, banging on the railings and begging Davey to get back into his seat.

Pulling himself through a window onto the promenade and leaving the lifeboat behind him, Davey hit the ground running. The only thing on his mind was getting back where he belonged. His feet pounded the deck as he sped to the staircase that would take him back up to Jack, elbowing anyone in his way aside. He tugged the door to the foyer open and staggered inside, coming to a brief halt when he saw Jack stood on the steps looking afraid. Davey took the steps two at a time to barrel into his arms. “Davey! That was your chance. You’re so stupid,” Jack complained, hugging him tightly before kissing him desperately because, fuck it, things couldn’t get worse. “Not without you. Please,” Davey mumbled, his words muffled by Jack’s shoulder as gentle kisses were pressed to his hair. They were in this together, whether they lived or died. 

[almostafantasia]

the candle store

Clexa Week Day 3 - Stuck Together

Summary: Abby sends Clarke out running errands in the middle of a goddamn storm that has her trapped inside a store selling nothing but candles. But at least the girl who works there is cute…

Read on AO3.

Of course Abby would have Clarke out running errands on a day when it’s raining torrentially.

When she takes refuge in a candle store, Clarke realises that she probably looks a little bit like she’s decided to go for a swim fully clothed. Her clothes stick to her uncomfortably, drenched almost entirely and dripping onto the wooden floor at the front of the store. She pushes the hood of her waterproof coat down – for all the good it did her being up, as her hair still manages to be completely soaked and plastered to her forehead and the sides of her face.

“Hello, can I help you?”

Clarke looks up unexpectedly at the voice, only to find its owner, a girl of about Clarke’s age with tumbling brunette curls and green eyes that are wide in a genuine query. She suddenly becomes aware of her own appearance, and then in turn embarrassed by it, because the whole almost-drowned-in-a-storm aesthetic that she has going on right now doesn’t match at all with pastel colours and the overly fragrant scents of the candles that line every shelf.

“No thanks,” Clarke replies. “I’m just looking.”

And just looking is exactly what Clarke does for the next ten minutes, slowly making her way down one of the aisles as she peruses the shelves and pretends to know exactly what the difference between the four different apple scented candles are, even when they all smell exactly the same. Because truth be told, Clarke has no idea what her mother is looking for in a candle, whether she even plans to light them or if their only purpose is to give some semblance of having her shit together.

“Can I at least get you a hot drink?”

Clarke startles at the unexpected question, almost dropping the candle that has been held up to her nose for an olfactory inspection.

“What?”

“You’re soaked,” says the store attendant, gesturing down at Clarke’s clothes, which are still leaving a trickle of rainwater behind on the floor wherever she goes. “I could see you shivering from over there. The rain is only getting worse, why don’t you stay here to warm up until the weather lets up?”

Clarke ponders the offer for just a second, her top teeth digging in her lower lip, before she glances out of the wide windows that line the front of the store and look out onto the street. Even just looking at the rain outside is enough to send a shiver down her spine, and the prospect of going back outside any time soon is not an appealing one.

“Sure. A coffee would be good.”

The girl beams at Clarke happily.

“One coffee coming right up.”

As she waits for the girl to return with her drink, Clarke continues to take her time browsing the candles. She momentarily wonders if perhaps she would have been better off not coming to a specialist candle store at all – perhaps if she wasn’t presented with so much choice, the decision would be much easier – but when the ominous sound of thunder rumbles overhead, she realises that she can’t really leave the store and go somewhere else right now, even if she wanted to.

The girl returns with a steaming mug of coffee in one hand and a mug of something that looks like green tea in the other for herself. For the first time, Clarke glances down at the name badge pinned to the front of the girl’s sweater. Lexa. Somehow that name seems to really suit a girl who drinks herbal tea and makes a living by selling scented candles.

“Are you sure I can’t help?” Lexa asks, as Clarke accepts the coffee with a grateful mumble of thanks. “You’ve sniffed almost every candle on that shelf, some of them twice. What is it that you’re looking for?”

“Truth be told, I know nothing about candles,” Clarke admits. “My mom sent me here. She’s just moved into a new house with her fiancé and they’re having a “get-together” tonight to show off the new place.”

“A get-together?” Lexa laughs at the way that Clarke uses air-quotes with the hand that isn’t currently curled around the handle of the mug of coffee.

“It’s basically a party,” Clarke elaborates, rolling her eyes in disapproval of her mother’s choice of words. “But she’s in her forties and wants to seem sophisticated so she can’t actually call it a party. Anyway, I’m running errands and she wants some candles so that it seems more homely. To be honest, I’m not even sure that she wants to light them. They’re probably just for show.”

“Well, you’ve come to the right place. I know the right candle for any occasion.”

“Okay, so what scent screams “I’m having a mid-life crisis but I don’t want you to know that”?”

“How about…?” Lexa leads Clarke around the end of the aisle and into the next one along, scanning the shelves until she find what she’s looking for. “Spiced Orange? Just a little bit exotic, so it gives off the impression that your mom is still young and cool. But it’s not like really out there, if you know what I mean?”

Clarke raises her eyebrows, impressed with the way that Lexa immediately reads exactly what she’s looking for in the space of mere seconds.

“I … yeah, that’s perfect. Wow, thanks.”

“That’s what I’m here for,” says Lexa. “How many are you looking for?”

“Well one or two candles could just have been gifts,” Clarke answers with a shrug, “but I think my mom wants people to think that she’s the kind of person who actually goes out and buys candles.”

“So multiple candles,” Lexa concludes with a nod. She grins softly, then adds, “My favourite kind of customer. So how about we pick out a few different ones together.”

“Thanks,” Clarke says once more. “You didn’t have to do this, you know.”

“Please,” Lexa scoffs. “As if I was going to let you continue to fumble around on your own. No offence, but you would have got the aesthetics of the candles completely wrong.”

Clarke raises her eyebrows in amusement.

“Yeah, ten minutes ago I had no idea that candles even had aesthetics.”

“And that’s why you’re the customer and I’m the one who works here,” Lexa smiles at Clarke, leading her over to the back wall of the shop and a display of candles in every shade of blue imaginable.

Clarke watches as Lexa expertly navigates the shelf, pulling out candles and holding them up next to each other, then replacing them on the shelf, before finally turning to face Clarke once more with a candle in each hand.

“How about these?”

Clarke squints at the candles in Lexa’s hand, reading the names printed onto the labels in a cursive font. Morning Mist. Ocean Breeze.

“Who comes up with these names?” she asks, laughing softly under her breath.

“I do.”

Clarke sobers immediately, the smile falling off her face as her insides sink and her brain screams for the ability to turn back time just a few seconds so that she can stop the stupid words coming out of her mouth.

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean…”

“It’s fine. I know that they’re pretentious,” Lexa laughs, green eyes twinkling. “In fact, I like to challenge myself to come up with a name even more pretentious than the last.”

“How about…” Clarke pauses thoughtfully, taking it as a challenge to come up with a name that she hasn’t seen in her perusal of this store, but that would fit right in with the rest of them. “I don’t know, Woodland Walk?”

A smile spreads across Lexa’s face as she walks over to the shelf behind Clarke and plucks a candle off it without even reading the label.

“We have one called Woodland Dew,” she says, holding it up for Clarke to see. Lexa’s eyes are lit up with excitement like a small child in a toy store as she continues, “I love every single one of these candles like they’re my children but this one is my favourite. I used to play in the woods a lot as a kid and this reminds me of that.”

“If that one is your favourite then it would be rude of me not to buy one,” muses Clarke.

Lexa seems thrilled by Clarke’s words, her cheeks practically glowing in delight.

“In fact, I’ll buy two of those ones,” Clarke says, impulsively taking a second candle off the shelf. “One for my mom’s new house and the other for myself.”

“Is there anything else you’d like or will this be it?” Lexa asks politely, nodding down at the five candles they hold between them.

“This will be it.”

Lexa leads Clarke over to the cash register and scans each of the candles in turn, the green numbers on the screen facing Clarke increasing with each beep of the machine. Clarke pays for them quickly and packs them away neatly in the cloth shopping bag hanging from her shoulder.

“It’s still raining outside,” Lexa says, nodding outside through the wide window at the front of the shop once Clarke has finished paying for her candles. “You’re more than welcome to stay for a bit, if you have the time.”

“I…” Clarke hesitates, but then upon seeing the weather outside and realising that there is very little she would rather do less than go outside in the storm, answers, “Well, thank you.”

“Can I get you a refill on your coffee?” Lexa asks.

“I don’t think I finished the first one!” Clarke laughs, retreating back over to where their earlier discussions about candles took place, and picking up her mug from where she abandoned it on one of the shelves, discovering that it is indeed still half full of coffee. She collects Lexa’s mug of tea as well and brings both drinks back to the cash register.

“So, if you’re the one who names the candles, do you…” Clarke shrugs vaguely and then continues, “…well, I’m guessing you’re more than just somebody who works here on weekends.”

“I own the shop,” Lexa answers, her green eyes full of pride. She brings the mug now cradled in her hands up to her lips and takes quick sip before she continues, “I design and name all of the candles myself. I have a couple of employees who help me in the workshop we have upstairs, but this is my place.”

Though impressed, Clarke feels a little bit ashamed about the miserable state of her own life. Lexa can’t be too different in age, maybe only a year or two older than she is, yet one of them is a successful business owner while the other is running errands on behalf of her own mother in an attempt to win brownie points to overshadow the fact that she is barely scraping a living as an artist.

“Wow,” Clarke says. “That’s incredible. I’m an artist myself, so I really appreciate any kind of craftsmanship, but candle-making is something I’m not too familiar with at all. How did you get into that?”

“I guess I just really love candles,” Lexa shrugs, smiling in amusement.

“Enough to open a store?” teases Clarke.

“I majored in business management at college and since I graduated I just moved from one dull office job to the next. Then when I came into a bit of money last year I decided that I needed to pursue something that made me happier and here I am.”

“Here you are,” Clarke nods in agreement.

Lexa leans her elbows on the counter between them, the fingers of both hands still cupped around her mug of tea. With the hint of a curious frown on her face, she tilts her head to the side and asks, “An artist, you say? What kind of art?”

“Whatever pays,” Clarke jokes. “Painting mostly, the occasional bit of charcoal or pastel. I’ve dabbled in sculpture but it’s not really my thing.”

“Have you ever thought about opening a gallery?”

Clarke scoffs slightly under her breath because of course the idea has crossed her mind, but only in fantasies where she’s rich, successful, and dating somebody way out of her league.

“Not all of us can be successful businesswomen,” Clarke says wistfully.

“Business is nothing more than taking calculated risks that end up paying off.”

“Did four years of business school teach you that?” Clarke teases, arching an eyebrow at Lexa.

Lexa rolls her eyes and concedes, “Okay, business is slightly more than that, but that’s how I ended up running this place. I took a risk and it worked out.”

Clarke stares into the murky dregs at the bottom of her coffee mug, and then finishes it off, wincing at the way that the liquid left at the bottom of the mug is much more bitter in taste than the rest of the coffee was.

“I don’t know,” she shrugs half-heartedly. “Maybe if I stumble across several thousand bucks it’s something I can consider but until then I’m just going to have to keep on hoping for a big break.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to push,” Lexa says, reaching across the counter to rest her hand over Clarke’s. “You keep doing you. I’m sure your art is probably incredible.”

“Thank you.”

With the lull in the conversation reminding them both why they are here, both Clarke and Lexa instinctively glance outside once more. It’s Lexa who is the first to comment on the weather.

“It looks like the storm is letting up,” she points out. “It’s hardly raining at all anymore.”

“That’s a shame,” Clarke replies. “I’m enjoying myself.”

Tucking a loose strand of her hair behind her ear and smiling shyly, Lexa says, “Me too.”

“Well, I should…” Clarke says, nodding over towards the door instead of completing her sentence. “Thank you for the help. And for the coffee and conversation. It was really nice to meet you.”

“You too.”

Clarke adjusts the bag on her shoulder, now five candles heavier than it was when she arrived at Lexa’s store, so that it sits more comfortably, and then turns to walk towards the exit. She already has one hand on the door when Lexa’s voice calls out after her.

“Wait!”

Clarke turns on the spot, eyebrows raised inquisitively as Lexa walks towards her, hurriedly scribbling something down onto a small piece of paper as she approaches. Lexa’s teeth nibble at her lower lip in anxiety as she extends her hand and offers the paper to Clarke. It turns out to be a business card, the name and address of the shop written in the same typeface as the labels on the candles that surround them, but with the addition of a cell phone number scrawled at the bottom in ballpoint pen.

“This is my number,” she tells Clarke. “For if you ever need any expertise on candles again in the future. Or, you know, if you fancied going out for lunch sometime next week?”

Her voice is hopeful, her question phrased so that Clarke knows that there’s no pressure to say yes, but remembering how helpful Lexa has been to her today, how unapologetically welcoming she has been to a clueless stranger, there’s only really one answer that Clarke can give her.

“That’s would be nice,” she tells Lexa with a smile, adding with a promise of, “I’ll call you.”

The smile that cracks across Lexa’s face, different to the smiles of a shop assistant just trying to be friendly, is one of genuine happiness, and the combination of relief and excitement that crosses Lexa’s features only fills Clarke with a warmth that has the small

“I look forward to it.”

[nandanajames-blog]

Cupid Paws

A man and a dog meet in the park every day. One day, neither of them turns up. The usual crowd, who loiters around in the park in the evening, when the man and the dog used to meet, met as usual. However, the absence of the man and the dog was fleetingly noticed by the usual crowd who gathered in the park, the dearth of it being felt in the way the park suddenly seemed quite nondescript and flaccid, without the usual sight of the dog and the man galumphing around, with the dog incessantly hovering around the man, wagging his tail affectionately and trying to articulate his love in ever so many wordless gestures and the man reciprocating by caressing his head and gesticulating his response in ever so many endearing ways. It was also felt in the way some amongst the usual crowd mused out loud, almost absentmindedly, how that dog and the man who always seemed oblivious of everything else around them, seemed to have suddenly disappeared out of the blue. ‘Probably they decided to enjoy a quiet evening at home’, wondered aloud one of them. 

But, what they didn’t know was that theirs was an unusual romance; the park had been the place where the dog and the man had met and started their daily habit of meeting. And now, the man, who had previously eschewed from taking the dog home, had finally decided to take her home because he realised that those coveted few hours in the evening, being at the receiving end of unconditional, irrevocable love from a four legged creature had accorded his life with a newfound frisson and vigour that he hadn’t even realised had been brazenly lacking in his life. And more importantly, it came as a miraculous solution out of the bolt to everything that had been beleaguering him for long.

He hadn’t realised that he had been wallowing in misery, his life enshrouded with an implacable sense of malaise that had begun to precariously crawl and permeate its way into his life. The dog, whom he affectionately addressed as Fluffy, had found him one day as he was slumped on a bench in the park, an inundating sense of melancholy gripping and shrivelling his heart at the prospect of his failing marriage, of his life listlessly trudging past, without any sense of meaning or purpose and plummeting him into this endless abyss of uncertainty and quandary that just seemed to gnaw at his mind, denuding him of every lingering vestige of positivity he could muster. Fluffy had come, sniffing at his clenched fists, her round, soft nose nuzzling against his knuckles, and her paws tentatively lumping ahead and trying to reach out and cling on to him and suddenly he found himself relaxing, his clenched jaw muscles relaxing for what seemed like the first time after ages and his lips curving into a genuine, ecstatic smile after incessant, painstaking attempts at contriving to maintain a semblance of bonhomie and normalcy. It flabbergasted him, this unexpected companionship that he had stumbled upon. After that, it had become an everyday phenomenon, this enigmatic disappearance of his for a good two hours from home in the name of “some alone time to clear my head”, which had also become yet another source of utmost exasperation and mystery to his wife. Until today, when he finally brought her home, this tiny little bundle of happiness cradled in his hands.

His wife opened the door, expecting that all too familiar prickle of annoyance at seeing his face look perceptibly and conspicuously exuberant and refreshed after this daily drama of his surreptitious disappearances. She flung the door open, exerting and channelling her ire at two years of their dysfunctional, crumbling marriage into that act ,only for her to find herself suddenly riveted, rooted to her spot, her hands frozen midway in the air, gobsmacked, at the sight of him standing there, holding that snug, bundle of a stray dog. He was grinning his goofy, eye crinkling smile that always managed to break her resolve (much to her chagrin), but which had been disconcertingly elusive for so long that  it took her back to the days of their relationship with a poignant, wistful pang in her heart that instantaneously brought tears to her eyes.

She had always wanted a stray mongrel, a cute, tiny one at that, but he had always been obstinately and unreasonably against the very notion of a dog hovering around at their home, “especially a stray dog”, almost spitting out the word “stray”, his face scrunched up with that disdainful look that made her want to hurl something at his face just for her satisfaction of seeing him yelp in pain. Having grown up without any siblings and only having had dogs around her to seek solace in, she had cried and bawled her eyes out when she realised that he was actually serious about not entertaining dogs at their home and somehow, it still eluded her how, but she ultimately gave up her tantrums and protests for his sake. She had appeased herself by convincing herself that love necessitated sacrifices. But, it always tormented her how he had it in him to deprive her of the one thing she could have sworn she could never live without. Marriage had spiralled down abysmally, their other differences, incompatibilities and disagreements also rearing their heads and being hauled to the forefront and the love and passion that they had once nurtured for each other, despite all odds, dissipating and obfuscating into a hazy, disconcerting memory in the back of their minds, seeming almost surreal and a thing of the painfully irretrievable and elusive past.

She took a few steps ahead, her mind still racing and enraptured in a daze, with an equally stupefied smile tugging at the corner of her lips. She reached out to Fluffy whom he had placed gingerly on the ground, cradling and caressing her wordlessly and then turned to him, endless questions struggling to form its articulation, but failing to tumble out. ‘Her name is Fluffy’, he said, with a sheepish smile and then, just the sight of him standing there and looking down at her with that goofy smile back on his face, his hands in his pockets and his face barely veiling his hopeful, beseeching expression snapped something in her, those days of interminable fights, accusations and recriminations suddenly appearing unimportant, already brushed aside and forgotten. She got up and flung herself into his arms , burrowing her face in the nape of his neck, whispering endearments that they hadn’t exchanged in ages , locked  in a passionate hug, that moment of salvaged, rekindled  love feeling more real and ardent than anything else that they had ever shared. Fluffy also bounded up and down in joy, galumphing and bouncing around the embracing pair in a frenzied mirth, his yelps and squeals of joy along with their muffled endearments and supplications, forming a mellowing, soothing cacophony. It was a happy sight.

This is a story I wrote as an answer to a copy test that I had been allotted when I was applying for an internship. The first two lines about the dog and the man was given, leaving me befuddled at the prospect of turning this into something interesting, especially because it involved a dog, for I am far from being an animal lover. I started writing with absolutely no clue as to what I was writing or where it was heading. But, I surprised myself by managing to turn this into a love story of sorts, instead of something dark, dreary and cynical - the kind of writing I always tend to succumb to. As I was listlessly scrolling past the stuff I had written, most of them naturally falling to the “just for myself” category, I decided that this one had to be put up here at least because it’s quite a conspicuous break from tradition for me to write a story, and a love story at that.