#nobody else does um ‘patriotism’ quite like this

[reasoncourt]

turned on the tv and saw a close up of a footballer sobbing to the american national anthem. u ok over there, friends?

[nonbinarychaoticstupid]

F for the ask game

F - catradora, “stay”

*★,°*:.☆(￣▽￣)/$:*.°★* 。

this is based off of one of my predictions for how season 5 would end! i’m... wayyyy too fond of it djhdjkdhjj

it feels a little..... unfinished, but pls enjoy this mess!

Adora doesn’t remember waking up. She doesn’t remember anything except gradually becoming aware of Catra’s presence at her side. She doesn’t remember acquiring the layers of bandages wrapped around her waist, or the bruises she knows are trailing up her legs and forearms.

What she does remember is fragmented, broken into vague flashes of light and yelling and so much noise- 

She remembers Catra singing to her as she fell asleep, stroking the hair out of her eyes, blocking out the murmuring of the healers in the background. She remembers opening her eyes every few seconds to smile up at her, because it’d been so long since she last heard her sing. She remembers blood and the shattered pieces of a sword and being carried into sunlight.

And when she opens her eyes-

“Hey, Adora,” Catra says softly.

Adora blinks up at her, shuffling up against the pillows until she’s sitting as upright as she can. “You’re here.”

She nods. “You- um, you asked me to stay with you. You were also delirious and bleeding out, but-”

Adora leans her head against Catra’s shoulder almost automatically, moving as close to her as she can, and her voice stutters out and fades into a hum in response. 

“What happened?” she asks, as quietly as she can manage.

Catra rolls onto her side, curling around Adora’s upper body. At some point she must have removed her mask, because her hair is quite literally tied up, as though to keep it from falling into her eyes. It’s something Adora hasn’t seen her do since she was seven and growing out her bangs, and it feels... comforting to see.

“I’m not... really sure,” she begins, voice breaking a little. “How much do you remember?”

Adora shrugs. “Not a lot. I remember you carrying me to... wherever we are now.”

“The infirmary tent,” Catra fills in. “I had to get Glimmer to teleport us here.” She props her chin on the top of Adora’s head, thinking. “It’s... it’s a lot. What happened today. I’m still processing it.”

After a moment’s hesitation, she reaches out and laces their fingers together. Adora squeezes her hand back, and Catra smiles at her. “I’m glad you’re awake,” she adds in a small voice, settling her head back against the (massive) pillow. 

It feels good to be in her arms again.

“How long was I out for?” she asks. “Is the battle over? Did we win?”

Catra shakes her head. “I don’t know. I haven’t left the tent to check, and nobody new has been brought in. You were out for... a while. More than six hours. There isn’t a clock in here.”

Adora nods and doesn’t reply. The ache in her body has started to settle down, which is a relief. She tucks herself against Catra’s side and shuts her eyes, breathing deeply, and tries not to smile when she starts purring.

And then she starts talking.

“You- you were injured in the battle. I don’t know how. I found you bleeding out against a rock, trying to turn into She-Ra. You were barely conscious. It was- it was terrifying. I didn’t know what to do.”

“I remember that,” Adora murmurs. “Now you’ve told me, I remember it.” 

(She is crouched in mud and grass and it hurts, it hurts so much, and she can barely breathe around the wound in her side. And her vision is swimming and fading so quickly that she can’t be sure if she hallucinates the girl dropping out of the tree to her left and jogging over to her. She can’t be sure if the feeling of the girl shaking her shoulders is real, or a dying dream - because she’s dying, and she knows it - or if the girl is calling her name or- or- “Adora- Adora, come on, stay awake- please, fuck- please don’t- please wake up-” 

She tips her head back against the stone behind her and opens her eyes, which takes more effort than it should.

“Hi, Catra.”

“Adora,” Catra says, and her voice breaks. “Stay with me, please-”

- Everything fades into nothing, except for the sensation of pain.

It doesn’t stop hurting. She doesn’t stop hurting.)

Catra starts stroking her hair, which is... something she hasn’t done since the last time she had a nightmare in the Fright Zone (it’s soothing, remarkably so. She relaxes into her touch immediately). 

“I’m gonna have dreams about that for months,” she grins. “Please never do that again.”

“No promises.”

Catra laughs. The high-pitched, squeaky laugh, the kind Adora melts just a little for. She ruffles her hair, careful not to hurt her, and settles back against the pillows again. “Is that a threat?”

Adora grins up at her. “Always assume it’s a threat, Catra.”

“Pfft. You can’t threaten me; I’m the ex-leader of an intergalactic empire’s Etherian knockoff.”

They both look at each other for a heartbeat, then start laughing. And despite the strain on Adora’s wounds (one formed from a blade to the stomach mid-battle, the other belonging to a stun baton modified into a lazer canon by some ex-Horde patriot), she’s never felt this... happy. This light.

And when she finally stops to breathe, Adora settles her head back against Catra’s shoulder and holds her close, letting herself drift into silence. She feels Catra smile and shift up against her side, slipping an arm around her waist, leaving a good four inches between her weight and the bandages.

“Catra?”

“Mhm?”

“What happened when we got here?”

Catra shrugs, gently this time. “Bow’s dads wanted to set you up in a bed. I wanted to make sure you were okay. They didn’t want to risk making you bleed more or something, and I didn’t want to leave you alone. And you didn’t want me to leave.”

(She opens her eyes, and shuts them immediately after. “’’S bright.”

“It is,” someone - Catra - agrees. “You’re gonna be okay, though. Get some sleep.”

Adora shakes her head. “’M fighting. In a battle. To save the universe.”

“No, you’re not.” A hand settles on her chest. “You've done enough, Adora.”

She shakes her head again, but doesn’t respond. The fuzzy fading feeling has started to creep back in again, and it’s sucking away her strength, her ability to breathe. 

Someone else approaches, moving Catra out of her field of awareness - George, maybe? - and settles something heavy on her bed. “You’ll be fine, but we need to do a lot of complex magic,” he tells her. “I think it might be best for Catra to- uh-”

“I can go.”

And hearing that makes Adora’s heart swell with- with dread. 

“No,” she says, and reaches out to where Catra’s hand has moved to. “Stay. Please.”

She opens her eyes again and discovers Catra staring at their linked hands with wide eyes. “I- um-”

“Please,” Adora says again. It comes out much softer than she wanted it to. “Don’t leave.”

Something in her gaze softens. She sits down on the edge of the bed, shoving George’s box out of the way. “Okay.”

Adora shuts her eyes again. The darkness behind her eyelids rises again, swallows her whole. She welcomes it.)

“Yeah,” she says. “I was... really scared, I think.” 

Catra turns her head to look at her for a moment. Her eyes are... unreadable. Filled with so many emotions Adora can’t even begin to decipher them. She nods again, once, slowly, and adds, “I didn’t want to leave you. I- I was worried. I thought you were going to die.”

“I thought I was gonna die,” Adora mumbles. “I didn’t want to be alone.”

Catra’s eyes darken with emotion. She reaches up to touch Adora’s cheek (she leans into the contact) and- and-

“Adora?”

Adora drags her eyes away from where they were definitely not allowed to go. “Mhm?”

“I- I love you. I think I’ve always loved you, really. I’m sorry for not telling you when I should have. It- it took me nearly losing you to work up the fucking courage to tell you. I- I just- I wanted you to know that. You can be mad at me if you want, but- uh, yeah.”

The world stutters to a halt. It feels like the breath’s been knocked out of her, like the floor just fell away, like-

Shit. Shit shit shit oh my g0ds-

Adora opens her mouth, shuts it again. Catra has squeezed her eyes shut, withdrawing into herself in an attempt to lessen the impact of whatever she thinks her response will be. The hand on her cheek lifts away, and the loss of contact strikes something deep within her chest.

“Catra,” she replies, and her voice comes out- steady. Unafraid. “I love you too.”

Catra opens an eye. “You do?”

Adora takes her hand from where it’s fallen away from her face, presses it back against her skin. “I love you too,” she repeats. 

And Catra- Catra laughs. And it’s the most beautiful sound she’s ever heard. 

[spidergwenstefani]

Holy Dimensional Gateway, Batman! | 2/?

chapter 2 of this.

tw: a bad guy gets stabbed a little bit, and shot. Also some angsty-ish discussion of superhero sidekicks at the end but idk if that’s really a trigger

rated: T

The klaxon is still blaring, red lights flashing and a swarm of SHIELD scientists scrambling to assess the damage done to their base. Tony, for his part, is doing an astounding job of staring blankly at the newly rearranged portal and moving out of exactly nobody’s way.

“So,” he says, glancing sideways at Steve. “Was it just me, or did the portal kind of fold in on itself when Barnes dove through it?”

“It did,” Steve says, his jaw set in the patriotic way that it does when he dissociates from reality. Behind him, one of the scientists gently unpins a shriveled vine from the wall, letting the arrow clatter to the floor.

“So,” Tony says, slowly. It’s not that he’s still processing what’s happened, it’s just that he’d prefer to delay saying it out loud for as long as possible. “Barnes, um. He might not be in the same place as Barton. Right?”

“Right.” The unflinching void of space has nothing on the empty expression Steve’s wearing right now.

“Maybe he’s, um. Not even in the same time. And. And, the portal rearranged itself again after he went through, so…” Steve hasn’t blinked for a while, and Tony’s starting to get a little nervous about the state of his remaining teammate as well.

“So.”

“So, well. So, fuck.”

“Fuck,” Steve echoes.

>>==========>

>>==========>

>>==========>

“I want you to know,” Bucky shouts over the roaring wind, “If any pictures of this get back to my universe, I will actually shoot you.”

Superman just laughs, continuing his scientifically impossible flight towards their undisclosed location. He has his arms hooked under Bucky’s armpits, and while Superman seems to be tiring not a bit, Bucky’s having a hell of a time not sliding out of his grip. He’s self-aware enough to know what an idiot he looks like. He feels like a toddler trying to splash his way through a kiddy pool with nothing but those dumb arm floaties on. If Clint were here, he’d probably make another stupid comparison to that one Angry Cat or whatever. Bucky considers, for all of two seconds, telling him about it once they find him.

“Not to throw a wrench in your plans or anything, but I’m kind of indestructible.”

“Nothing’s indestructible, buddy,” Bucky says, trying to pull himself up just a little, but really only managing to kick around like a petulant child. “And for a guy that claims to be, you’re kind of slow.”

“Well,” Superman says, his voice still pleasant and cheery, “if I was flying at full speed, your brain might actually liquify.” His grip suddenly becomes a hell of a lot tighter, and Bucky feels very much like a puppy that’s been grabbed by the scruff of the neck. “Also, I don’t entirely trust you. I certainly don’t trust you enough to just drop you off at a friend’s door without spending a little time getting to know you first.”

“Okay,” Bucky says, because Superman has a grip of steel and it actually kind of hurts. “Lunch date?”

There’s a sudden flash from the ground below, and Superman stops short as an ear-splitting boom makes its way to them.

“There’s a great diner in Star City.”

“You’re buying,” Bucky says. Or, tries to say, because suddenly Superman is barreling down through the clouds and it’s all Bucky can do not to pass out.

He’s never seen Star City on a normal day, but he assumes there’s usually less general carnage and debris. Shards of shrapnel litter the section of highway Superman touches down on, and a lot of the piles of junk are still smoking from the recent explosion.

“How nice of you to join us,” someone says with a sinister sneer, and Bucky turns to find himself directly in the middle of a stand-off.

On one side of the highway, there’s a guy in a blue and orange body suit, the eyes of his mask and the sword strapped to his back pinging something familiar in Bucky’s head. He’s got some kind of tricked out semi-automatic in his hands and seems ready to shoot right through Bucky to get to the other guy.

The other guy, who’s got a bow and arrow, drawn and ready.

It’s not Clint. Bucky knows in an instant it’s not Clint. This guy is wearing green, a hood and domino mask helping to obscure his face. Even past the costume, his stance is different. When Clint draws his bow, he’s a study in serenity. Bucky knows for a fact his bow of preference has got a draw weight of two hundred and fifty pounds, but the strain doesn’t show. When Clint’s got a target in his sights, he might as well be made of stone. Nothing can touch him when he’s got an arrow at the ready, and the set of his shoulders says he knows it.

This guy? This guy looks almost feral, like a tiger ready to pounce. He’s on the attack and defense all at once, and maybe his form matches Clint’s in any technical measurement, but where Hawkeye is all tranquility, all patient tension, this guy is carefully channeled rage.

Superman is gone.

Bucky was so caught up in taking in the scene that he almost didn’t realize the big blue guy dropped down in the middle of the standoff and disappeared before anyone could blink. He catches sight of a blue blur on the edges of the battlefield, pulling back any civilians that haven’t already made a run for it, dousing fires that are spreading dangerously close to abandoned vehicles. Bucky wishes Superman could’ve at least pointed out the bad guy before fucking right off, because now he’s stuck between bizarro-world versions of Hawkeye and Deadpool with no background information whatsoever.

“Look, Robocop. Either make a move or get out of the way,” Robin Hood says, and Bucky hopes he hasn’t ended up in a universe where Tony Stark is blond and has even worse facial hair.

“Even a fancy arm like that won’t do much to stop a bullet,” Not-Deadpool says, which makes Bucky’s mouth quirk up just a bit.

“I’m trying,” he says, raising his arms slowly in a hopefully multiversal gesture, “to figure out exactly whose side I should be on here.” Nobody relaxes, but Robin Hood at least makes a short sort of snort.

“Well, I am Green Arrow, Hero and Protector of Star City. If you can’t pick between that and ‘Deathstroke the Terminator,’ I’m not sure I want you on my side anyway.”

Bucky turns to Deathstroke then, doing his best not to expose any weak points to either of them. “Deathstroke” is no “Deadpool,” but he figures it’s close enough to stake a guess on.

“You got a counterpoint, Wilson?”

Deathstroke doesn’t falter, doesn’t fumble with his gun or relax his stance, but the last name catches him by surprise, and Bucky only needs a split second of hesitation to draw his weapon. The bullet goes clean through Deathstroke’s shoulder, hitting at the same time as an arrow latches onto his gun, blowing the thing to pieces with the force of a small grenade.

Whatever knockoff brand Deadpool this guy is, not knowing when to quit seems to be Wade Wilson’s universal constant. He draws his sword, charging at Bucky with a speed that’s definitely enhanced. Bucky blocks the blow with his left arm, and the clashing metals send a supernatural clang through the air like a shock wave.

“What-” Deathstroke starts to say, and Bucky goes straight for the Ka-Bar on his belt. He aims a stab at Deathstroke’s side, but whatever’s in the guy’s body armor makes the blade glance off harmlessly. Deathstroke tries again with the sword, aiming a slash at Bucky’s thigh that he just barely dodges.

“Well,” Bucky hears Green Arrow shout from the sidelines, “I’m not gonna lie. I’m a little turned on right now.”

“There’s room for a third,” Bucky says through gritted teeth, ducking as Deathstroke gets a solid swing. His blade sings as it cuts through the air, and Bucky doesn’t want to know what kind of vibranium clusterfuck of an alloy the thing is made of. He drops lower, trying to knock Deathstroke off his feet by sweeping his legs, but he just sidesteps like telegraphing his movements is ever a thing Bucky’s been accused of.

Three arrows go whistling past Bucky’s head in rapid succession, but only one manages to nick Deathstroke’s shoulder, more of a papercut than anything else. It’s not for lack of trying. Green Arrow’s aim is true, but Deathstroke seems to dodge the arrows before they’re even loosed.

“Nice try, Emerald Archer,” Deathstroke sneers, and his next swing actually scrapes against Bucky’s arm before glancing off, the reverb sounding like some hellish version of nails on a chalkboard. “I know where those arrows will be before you do.”

Huh. That changes things. Bucky was thinking telepathy, but if this guy is just using some limited form of precognition, that’s something Bucky can work with.

“What about this knife?” Bucky says, just to draw Deathstroke’s attention back to him. He leads with the Ka-Bar in his right hand, swinging for the face. Deathstroke dodges easily, and if Bucky had to pick a counter move, he’d go for a sucker punch. He ducks before Deathstroke can even finish drawing back his fist, activating the retractable knife in his left arm and slicing at Deathstroke’s thigh. The body armor is lighter in his legs, and the knife cuts deep. Deathstroke lets out a shout, stumbling back. His rhythm is thrown enough for Green Arrow to let loose another explosive arrow, and the impact sends Bucky skidding back on the asphalt.

Deathstroke is gone when the smoke clears, which is a shame because Bucky was just getting into having a worthy opponent. He hears Green Arrow swear behind him, like that’s the end of that, and Bucky hasn’t taken half a step toward the vacant side of the highway before Superman is suddenly blocking his path. He’s radiating ‘disappointed mom’ in waves and the fact that his feet aren’t touching the ground does nothing to tone down the intimidation as he towers over Bucky.

“Well,” he says, squinting down at Bucky and pressing his lips into a flat line. “I’d be interested in knowing how someone from another universe knows the identity of one of our world’s deadliest mercenaries.”

He should probably be shitting his pants right now. Bucky’s getting the sense that Superman isn’t quite human, and beyond faster-than-light speed and a seemingly unlimited amount of strength, he’s still not sure what Superman meant when he called himself “indestructible”. Unfortunately, his intimidation technique seems more based on scolding than actual threats, and Bucky Barnes had to face down Captain America’s “disappointed in you” talk back when he was a teenager.

“There’s a Wade Wilson in my universe too,” he says, not even trying to act nervous. “The codename and the costume aren’t exactly the same, but I only needed him to let his guard down for a second.”

“Well, good work,” Green Arrow chimes in, and Bucky turns to see him counting the arrows left in his quiver. Apparently being escorted by Superman is enough of a character reference in this universe, because Green Arrow’s bow is strapped to his back instead of held at the ready. “Slade Wilson doesn’t let his guard down for almost anything.”

“Huh. That makes a couple more differences between him and the guy I know.”

“I’d like to hear more about the differences in your universe,” Superman says, a note of suspicion still in his voice. “I believe we had plans for lunch?”

“Cheeseburgers are on me,” Green Arrow says.

>>==========>

>>==========>

>>==========>

Batman, it turns out, is a lot more friendly when you’re on the same side.

Well, friendly is relative, but Clint thinks the provided Advil and glass of water have to count for something. He perches on the ledge next to Batman’s ominously gigantic supercomputer and wonders what it says about his life that the Venn diagram of people who have tied him up for interrogation and people who he considers his closest allies has a lot of overlap.

“Start talking,” Batman orders, his eerily pointed gloves clacking against the keyboard. “I want to know exactly how much our universes match up.” He pauses, turning towards him, and Clint gets the sense that he’s being scanned through the opaque eyeholes of the mask. “Your name wouldn’t happen to be Oliver Queen, would it?”

“Nope,” Clint says, rubbing absentmindedly at his still sore wrist. “Try Barton, Clinton Francis.”

One quick search later and the computer yields no matches, which puts Clint more at ease than Batman. It’s nice to know there’s not another one of himself running around in this dreary universe, but Batman doesn’t seem quite satisfied.

“You don’t know who I am, but you aren’t phased by the cape and the mask,” he rumbles. Batman’s toned down the demon voice to a low growl, but he’s still got a hoarseness that could rival Wolverine. “You’ve seen plenty of our kind before. Who are the heroes of your universe?”

“Well,” Clint says, weighing his options for all of two seconds. Batman still gives him some major heebie-jeebies, and rattling off intel on his teammates might not be the best tactical move, but he needs to earn some trust here, not to mention his Earth has dealt with way worse threats than some guy in a bat suit that spends his nights beating up old-timey gangsters. “That’s kind of a loaded question.”

Batman leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. Clint gets the sense that there’s one raised eyebrow behind his cowl.

“You mean you don’t have good guys? Sworn protectors of the common people?”

“Well, when you put it that way,” Clint huffs, because it kinda seems like the guy that lives in a Doctor Doom lair and dresses like a vampire on super serum is accusing his world of too much moral ambiguity. “There’s all the Avengers, obviously. Iron Man, Captain America, Thor, Black Widow. Our roster isn’t really set in stone, you know? And there’s the Young Avengers, the Defenders, the Guardians, the X-Men, the Fantastic Four, A-Force, the Howling Commandos, New Warriors, the Thunderbolts, uh, sometimes. Alpha Flight, if we’re counting Canada. Then there’s-”

“That’s enough,” Batman says, which is probably good because Clint hasn’t even gotten to the spin-offs yet. “No Justice League, then?” Clint snorts.

“That’s a little on the nose, don’t you think?”

“The Avengers?” Batman says flatly. “The Defenders?”

“Well it’s not the Vengeance Guild, is it? It’s not the Group of People Who Defend Things.” There’s a muscle twitching in Batman’s jaw, and Clint remembers a little belatedly that he’s not exactly a welcome guest. “So, um. No overlap, I’m guessing?”

“Not with the names you gave,” Batman says. He pauses, and his next words come out more cautious. “You’ve never met Superman, then? Or Wonder Woman?”

Clint tries really, really hard not to smile, because what is with this universe and names? Something must show on his face, though, because Batman sighs wearily.

“‘Captain America’ and ‘Iron Man’ aren’t better.”

“Yeah, I bet Superman’s name is a holdover from the World War II propaganda machine, and Wonder Woman is just a big fan of Black Sabbath.”

“You haven’t given me your name,” Batman says, more gravel edging into his voice. “What is it, Purple Arrow?”

“That’s just lazy,” Clint says, hopping down from his perch so he can puff out his chest properly. “No, you’re in the presence of Clint Barton, AKA Hawkeye. The world’s greatest marksman. The people’s avenger. The greatest sharpshooter known to man. The-”

“The public knows your identity?”

Clint deflates a little, because he was really just getting warmed up. Batman’s not the most expressive of people, but Clint’s spent enough time around super spies to notice the genuine surprise under his growl.

“Sure.” He gives Batman a one-shouldered shrug. “The public knows the identities of a lot of heroes. Steve Rogers, Tony Stark, Natasha Romanoff, Bucky Barnes, Bruce Banner… I guess Spider-Man keeps his a secret. I’ve got absolutely no clue who that kid is.”

“You aren’t worried about what villains might do?”

“Not really,” Clint shrugs again. “Secret identities are hard to maintain, and it’s not like I can’t handle myself if a villain shows up in my apartment.”

“What about your family? What if they go after them?” Batman sounds almost accusatory, like he’s been looking for something evil about Clint through the whole conversation and just found it. Clint kind of flails for a moment, and it takes a second for him to realize why the question is so odd to him.

“I don’t- The Avengers are my family. Or, the closest thing I’ve got. If someone tries going after any one of them, well. It wouldn’t work out too well. I’m pretty much as weak as the links get on that team.”

Batman steeples his fingers together like he’s a villain in a Bond movie. The wash of cold blue light from his giant computer screen doesn’t help soften the image. Clint tries not to fidget under his stare, feeling a little like a bug pinned up on a wall.

A moment passes, maybe two, and suddenly something in Batman’s posture shifts. He doesn’t relax exactly, but Clint gets the sense that a judgment has been passed. Something’s been decided.

“It’s almost dawn,” Batman says, and suddenly his voice sounds a hell of a lot more like a normal human being. “You should eat, and rest. We’ll get you back home as soon as we can.”

>>==========>

As it turns out, Batman’s enormous hell cavern is just the basement to a sprawling, gilded mansion.

Batman doesn’t say anything on the way up, and they both pretend not to notice when Clint almost passes out as the elevator shoots upwards. The mansion is still dark, still ominous as fuck, but the shadows thrown around Batman aren’t as terrifying when he’s surrounded by polished hardwood and plush carpets.

Batman leaves Clint in an expansive kitchen without a word, so Clint prays that at least the coffee in this universe is the same, and sets to figuring out the entirely too complex machine on the marble countertop. It’s a mess of buttons and light up touch displays, and Clint’s headache is coming back full force.

“Jarvis?” He calls, just in case. “Friday? Any fancy computer butlers around that can tell me how to work this thing?”

“Tragically, no.” Clint nearly jumps out of his skin at the very human voice, whirling around to see a man standing in the doorway to the kitchen.

“Uh, Batman?” He’s not the right build, but that’s something that a well-built suit can always remedy. The voice, though. That accent is all wrong.

“Wrong again, I’m afraid.” The man reaches out, and Clint gets about halfway through figuring out how to weaponize a Keurig cup before he realizes the guy is just turning on the light switch. Light floods the kitchen, rudely reminding Clint of his recent head trauma, and he nearly laughs because it hadn’t even occurred to him that Batman’s house would have light switches.

The man crosses the room to the coffee machine as Clint continues to blink the black spots out of his eyes. The machine gurgles to life, and Clint has to keep himself from hugging what he’s now realized is a much older man.

“Hi,” he says when he notices the room has lapsed into silence. “I’m Clint.”

“Alfred Pennyworth,” the man says, starting to pull cups and plates down from the cabinets. “Master Bruce will return shortly, and then I’m afraid you’ll have to meet the rest of the Waynes as well.” He offers Clint a smile over his shoulder. “I hope waffles are acceptable.”

Clint opens his mouth to say that yes, waffles are acceptable, in any universe, probably, but he’s cut off by another person entering the kitchen.

“Spare him the grand tour, Alfred. Our friend here needs food and then rest. Possibly with medical attention in between.”

The man is dressed in a robe and house shoes, like some kind of millionaire heir from the fifties. With the dark, slicked-back hair and classically handsome face, all he’s missing is the cigarette and three future centerfolds hanging off his arms.

“Um,” Clint says. “Batman?” If he asks every guy roaming the mansion halls, eventually he’ll get it right. Right?

“You can call me Bruce. Bruce Wayne.” He’s almost effortlessly charming, all dazzling smiles and sweeping gestures, but Clint didn’t spend the better half of his life among criminals and spies not to notice the way Bruce pauses for a split second to scan his face, checking for a reaction at the name.

“Nice place you’ve got, Bruce,” Clint says. The coffee machine beeps and Alfred hands him a freshly steaming mug. “Excellent butler. Basement could use some work, though.” He blows on his mug, watching the steam swirl outwards. Just the smell of coffee is already easing his headache. “Is it just the two of you?”

Alfred gives an amused sort of hum as he sets about making breakfast. Bruce’s mouth quirks into a smile. “Well-”

“I missed this,” another voice announces, because apparently dramatic entrances are a necessity for living in a mansion. Clint makes a mental note to go easier on Tony next time he requires fanfare for walking into a room. “Good coffee, Alfred’s breakfast.” The newcomer is dazzling in an entirely different way than Bruce, and Clint takes an uncomfortably hot gulp of coffee to hide his blush when bright blue eyes meet his. “Bruce picking up strays.”

“This is Clint,” Bruce explains, settling down at the kitchen island and opening a newspaper. Clint’s not sure if the paper was on the countertop, or if it just came with the outfit. It doesn’t matter, because startlingly attractive mini-Bruce is now offering Clint a hand to shake.

“Dick,” he says, and it’s not the bluntest offer Clint’s ever gotten, but it’s up there.

“Yeah,” Clint says. “What?”

“My name is Dick Grayson,” Dick Grayson says, his friendly expression turning a little concerned. “How hard did he hit you?”

“Who?”

“Bruce. You took a hit, right? Are you okay?” There’s a lot of concern there now. Concerned is a good look for Dick Grayson. He’s got the same blue eyes and jet black hair as Bruce, but Bruce doesn’t make them look nearly as pretty. Maybe if he grew his hair out more. Dick Grayson’s has the kind of hair made for shampoo commercials. It looks almost as soft as Bucky’s does.

Clint realizes with a start that he’s still clasping Dick’s hand, and drops it awkwardly.

“Sorry,” he says, and then clears his throat and tries again. “Sorry. I’m- maybe about to pass out.”

>>==========>

>>==========>

>>==========>

“It’s too early in the morning for cheeseburgers,” Bucky says, glaring down at the diner menu. He’s glad Clint doesn’t have to hear him say it, although if getting in an argument over In-N-Out as breakfast food is the trade-off for knowing Clint is safe, he’d take the heat in an instant.

“In your universe, maybe,” Green Arrow says. He’s still in costume, as is Superman, and their waitress seems to be having a hard time dealing with that. She has to use both hands to steady her coffee pot while Superman beams at her. “What, you have somewhere better to be?”

“Yes, actually,” Bucky growls. Superman seems to be stalling on his promise to take Bucky to his ‘friend.’ Stopping a firefight on the highway is one thing, but Bucky’s pretty sure “cheeseburger breakfast” isn’t a solid excuse in any universe.

“Bucky’s looking for a friend of his,” Superman explains. “A guy that got pulled through a wormhole by some sentient vines.”

“Ah,” Green Arrow says, sipping his coffee contemplatively. He gives their waitress an appreciative wink as she moves on to the next table. “Bats.”

“And associates,” Superman says, and Bucky wonders if glaring at them harder will make his vigilante acquaintances any more coherent. Instead, Green Arrow just knocks their shoulders together.

“Aw, look. He’s pouting.”

“I’m not pouting,” Bucky says, but his voice sounds pissy even to him. He grits his teeth as Green Arrow knocks their shoulders together again. “I’d just like to find my teammate as quickly as possible, and I don’t see how cheeseburgers will accomplish this.”

“If your teammate is half as good in a fight as you are, I’m sure he’s fine.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Bucky says. He’s seen Clint MacGyver a semi-functional bow and arrow out of paperclips and pocket lint when faced with the alternative of actually paying attention in a debrief. He’s pretty sure Clint would find a way to survive in the vacuum of space with just the clothes on his back if he had to. It still doesn’t change the nerves that have been buzzing in his stomach ever since he watched Clint tumble into the black void. “I’d still prefer it if I could see him for myself.”

“Two’s a couple,” Superman says. Bucky blinks, feeling the color rise in his cheeks.

“What?”

“Two’s a couple, not a team. How many more ‘teammates’ do you have?”

Oh.

“Two on the other side of the portal. More could get called in, I guess.”

“But just you went through after him?”

“It was a tactical decision,” Bucky snaps. He’s not sure why he feels so defensive. He’d probably be asking the same questions if the roles were reversed, and not nearly as politely.

“I think it was a good call,” Green Arrow interrupts, not even being subtle about defusing the situation. “You got me out of a pickle, anyways.”

“I’ve faced worse than Deathstroke in my sleep,” Bucky says, still more aggressive than he should be towards his gracious interdimensional hosts. Green Arrow opens his mouth to respond, but he’s cut off by a loud tap on the diner window.

There’s a girl standing outside, knocking impatiently on the glass. She has loose blonde hair and an outfit that looks like the skimpy Halloween store version of Superman’s onesie. Bucky would peg her for a fangirl, but Superman just raises an eyebrow at her through the glass.

“Kara?” he says, at a normal volume.

“You aren’t busy, are you?” The fact that there’s an external wall between her and Superman doesn’t seem to be bothering Kara at all. Bucky can just make out her voice through the glass, but the way Green Arrow is rolling his eyes tells Bucky he’s not in the enhanced hearing club. “There’s trouble on Stryker’s Island.”

“Luthor?” Superman asks. Kara shakes her head.

“Not exactly. I’ll explain on the way.”

“Wait,” Bucky says, because he’s not wasting any more time on his mission. Especially not alone with Green Arrow. “What about finding Clint?” Superman looks apologetic, and Bucky’s stomach drops.

“I can take him,” Green Arrow says, and if the stakes were any lower, Bucky would just resign himself to a couple more hours sitting right here in the diner. “I’ll call in the gang. I haven’t been to Gotham in a while.”

“Great!” Superman says, clapping his hands together like that settles it. Bucky buries his face in his hands.

“We can take the Arrowcar!” Green Arrow says, and Bucky spreads his fingers apart enough to glare at Superman.

“I want you to know that you’ve made an interdimensional enemy today.”

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Clint wakes up in a bed.

It’s a very comfy bed, and he almost considers rolling over and going right back to sleep. Something’s nagging at the back of his brain, though, telling him there are things that need doing and the bed must be left to do them.

He cracks his eyes open, wincing at the sunlight streaming through the blinds. There’s a girl sitting on the end of his bed, crouched like a cat. Or a gargoyle.

“Hi,” Clint croaks. His voice sounds like sandpaper, and he wonders how long he’s been out. She tilts her head, short black hair falling in front of her eyes. She doesn’t seem to blink quite enough for a normal human being, and Clint squirms a little under her gaze. Is she a ghost? Batman seems like the kind of guy who would live in a haunted mansion.

“You haven’t missed waffles yet,” she says finally, and Clint’s stomach growls as if on command. There’s something a little odd about the way the girl speaks. It’s not an accent Clint’s ever heard. He’s actually not sure if it’s an accent at all. Clint realizes that whoever brought him to the bed didn’t take out his aids. His ears feel a little gummy from sleeping with them in, but he’ll be damned if he takes his aids out when there are undead spirits on the loose.

The girl gets up, apparently done with the conversation, and heads for the door. Clint allows himself a groan as he rolls out of bed. His head is pounding, but there’s an unfinished cup of coffee in the kitchen with his name on it, and a minor concussion has never come between him and his caffeine before.

The girl drifts through the halls, not bothering to check if Clint is following or not. She probably hears him plodding along behind her, anyway. The place is about as creaky as an old haunted mansion should be, and each squeaky floorboard Clint steps on makes her silent glide all the more impressive. Either that, or it just further supports his hypothesis that she’s actually a phantom.

The mansion is kind of enormous, even now that morning light is creeping through the blinds and banishing whatever lurks in the shadows. Clint never quite got the difference between old money and new. To him, a big fancy house was a big fancy house, nevermind what Tony or Kate said. Now, though, stepping across carpet that seems like it belongs in a museum and eyeing floor-to-ceiling portraits that might actually predate the fall of Rome, Clint thinks he’s starting to get it. Bruce’s mansion feels like a different world, made for the dinner parties of elite secret societies, and full of rooms where men in tuxedos puff cigars in wealthy silence. This is not the lodgings of an ex-carnie thief with a shaky grasp on the timeline of the Roman Empire.

“When do we get to the family crypt?” Clint asks, because if the basement of the manor is just a neverending cavern, he shudders to imagine where Batman’s ancestors have been laid to rest. The phantom doesn’t answer. She doesn’t even turn around. “Are you going to kill me? Where are we going?” Still no answer. They pass another gilded frame, and Clint almost reaches out to run his hands over the placard before thinking better of it. That’s how you turn your peaceful ghost guide into a poltergeist. Clint wishes the carpet was dustier so he could check if she’s leaving footprints.

Ghost or not, their final destination turns out to be the kitchen. Clint can smell waffles and bacon from the other end of the hallway, and he hears voices as they get closer.

Bruce and Dick are still seated, chatting amiably as Alfred works the waffle iron. Clint’s coffee is gone, but Alfred places a fresh mug in front of him as soon as he settles down at the kitchen island. He nods his thanks, taking a sip as Bruce turns to him.

“Feeling better?”

Clint hums an affirmative. It’s not the first time he’s blacked out mid-conversation, and it sure as fuck won’t be the last.

“How long was I out?”

“Only a couple hours,” Dick says. “Alfred decided to turn breakfast into brunch so you wouldn’t miss out.”

“Thanks,” Clint says, scrubbing a hand over his face. “It’s been a long night.” Dick nods, offering Clint a look of sympathy.

“That’s sort of how we operate.”

As if on cue, a teenage boy looking approximately like death stumbles into the kitchen, shuffling immediately towards the coffee machine. Dick blinks at him, like this is a surprise, although both Alfred and Bruce pointedly continue on with their mornings.

“Why are you here?” Dick asks, and the kid spends about a minute stabbing his finger ineffectually at the coffee machine’s touch display before he mumbles out an answer.

“‘M’not,” he says, but only once Alfred has come to his aid and gotten the machine going again. “I’m at Travis Lee’s house. Working on a class project.”

“Oh really?” Dick’s voice is all amusement.

“As far as any commercial phone tracking software can tell,” the kid says, like that’s a normal sentence people can string together while looking like a sleep-deprived zombie. He finally cracks his eyes open long enough to acknowledge Clint’s presence. “Who are you?”

“Clint,” Clint says. He doubts the guy is in any state to handle the full story right now. “Are you guys all… cousins?” He can’t really work the age differences out in his head, but the kid has the same black hair and blue eyes as Bruce and Dick. Bruce and Dick, who both chuckle at the question like it’s a ridiculous idea.

“You should take that as a compliment, Tim,” Dick says, and Tim ignores him in favor of inhaling the scent of coffee wafting from his new cup. “No,” he turns to Clint then, still looking entertained by the concept. “We’re definitely not related.”

“Oh,” Clint says, because that doesn’t sound right. He wonders if everyone in this universe just looks vaguely similar. He tries to remember if any of the gangsters were blond. Is he just a freak of nature here? Should he dye his hair to fit the noir color scheme?

“When’s Steph coming down?” Tim asks. He’s downed half his mug of coffee and looks marginally more alive.

“Steph’s here?” Dick asks, and Clint has to wonder what life must be like living in a house so big you can miss your own family members. Or, whatever these guys are. Tim shrugs.

“Alfred’s making waffles, so I figured. He only does that when Steph’s here.”

“Alfred can make waffles for lots of reasons. He could be making them because I’m here.” There’s a note of hurt in Dick’s voice.

“Nah,” Tim says.

“These are waffles for Steph,” Ghost girl confirms. She’s perched on the counter next to Alfred, sneaking pieces of food every time his back is turned. Tim aims a nod of acknowledgment at her.

“Cass gets it. Steph is his new favorite child, right Alfred?”

“The identity of my favorite child is between me and Miss Stephanie,” Alfred says, and if this isn’t sibling banter, Clint’s really not sure what the fuck is happening.

“I knew it!” someone shouts from the doorway, and Clint turns to watch dramatic entrance number four make her way into the kitchen. Steph is considerably brighter-eyed and bushier-tailed than her non-siblings, and Clint notes with relief that she is very blonde.

“Batman,” Clint stage whispers as Alfred starts to serve breakfast. “Why are there so many children in your house?” Cass follows Alfred dutifully, her arms stacked high with plates that she has no qualms stealing from. Clint carefully relieves her of an untouched stack of waffles.

“Careful,” Bruce answers, winking conspiratorially. “These children could beat you in a fight on your best day.” Clint snorts.

“Doubtful.” Something about Bruce’s words catches in Clint’s head. “Wait,” He says as a thought clicks into place. “Do these children fight crime?” Bruce blinks at him.

“We’re not children,” Steph says defensively. Clint rolls his eyes.

“Uh huh. I’m sure you’re all of legal drinking age. You want more syrup for your waffles?” he pushes the syrup towards her plate. Steph glares at him but picks up the bottle anyways.

“I do want more syrup for my waffles, but that doesn’t mean you have a valid point.”

“They’re skilled fighters, and they understand the risks of the job,” Bruce says, staring at Clint. There’s a heavy finality to his words, like that should be the end of the conversation.

“They’re children.”

“They’re still in the room,” Tim adds, stealing a bite of Steph’s waffles. Cass is staring at Clint in her solemn, unblinking way, so he turns to her instead.

“Okay, you understand the risks, then. Sure. What are the risks?”

“Death,” Cass says simply, which, yeah.

“We all face risks, Clint,” Bruce says. “What do you do with the younger people that want to follow in your footsteps? Turn them away? Ground them? Kids are stubborn. You can’t talk them down from something unless they let you. They’ll always fight their own battles. You might as well give them the tools to win.”

“Nobody wins in a war that children have to fight,” Clint says, and he’s outnumbered here but something about the condescension in Bruce’s voice has set his blood boiling. “You risk a lot worse than just death.”

“The world’s falling apart,” Tim chimes in again. “Kids live in it too. Why should adults be the only ones allowed to save it?”

“Because kids are who we’re saving it for,” Clint says, and he knows it’s a losing battle. “Knowing the risks is nothing next to experiencing them.”

“There are no younger sidekicks in your universe?” Batman asks. “No protégés? No trainees?”

“Not ones that are children. Or, not if I have anything to say about it.”

“Not a single one?”

“There was one, sure,” Clint spits out. Bruce waves his hand, like his point is proven. End of discussion, but Clint’s not going to leave it at that. “I said was. Bucky Barnes, heroic teen sidekick to Captain America himself. They fought side by side through World War II. Led us to victory and everything.”

“And I’m sure the death of one soldier didn’t outweigh the people he saved.”

“Oh, I never said he died.” There’s an uncomfortable hush falling over the room, but Clint plows right through it. “He was blown up, kidnapped, tortured, mind-controlled. Forced to kill for the side he always fought against. They stripped him down to nothing, kept him on ice in between missions so he couldn’t rebuild his humanity in the downtime. He spent seventy years as a puppet. He was a trained dog they sicced on anyone they wanted. We only got him back when they made the mistake of sending him to kill Captain America himself. If there’s one hill Steve Rogers will die on, it’s that no single person should have to be sacrificed for the good of everyone else.” There’s actually a lot of hills Steve Rogers will die on. Clint could name a whole mountain range after Steve Rogers’ opinions, but Bruce doesn’t need to know that. “If kids fight so often in this universe, I’m sure they die often, too. You’re telling me there’s not a single one you would save if you could? You can’t think of one kid who you would’ve turned away if you knew what their fate would be?”

Clint can feel it when he strikes a nerve, the air in the kitchen turning like a flash freeze. Tim suddenly looks wide awake, and Bruce’s jaw is set. Dick looks like he’s forgotten how to breathe. Clint feels his words hanging heavy in the air, and suddenly the waffles don’t seem worth finishing.

“I’m, uh. I’m going to get some air.”