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that-one-fandom-vore-blog · 5 years ago

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chained and bound (to this hopeless town)

Ch. 1 | Ch. 2 | Ch. 3

Ao3 Link

Good things happen to bad people. Bad things happen to good people. Which must mean Anna Shephard must be the best fucking person to have ever lived, or, at least, the best person left alive. Lucky her. To be fair, she hasn’t got much competition. As far as she knows, she, Steph, and Nick are the only people still alive. After a year of fighting off the undead, struggling to come to terms with her new reality, Anna is suddenly thrown back into the midst of her past without so much as a warning. Old friends, old faces, and old fears all resurface, along with zombies that seem to be getting smarter with every new day. So much for a warm welcome...

Co-written with the wonderful @thebadhalfofafandom! Warnings up here for: Flashbacks, panic elements, gore, swearing, zombies, and vore.

“Out of all the places for the damn engine to freeze up, it’s here?!” Anna shouted as she swung herself out of the car, slamming the blue painted door shut behind her for good measure. She could practically feel Nick and Steph looking at her as she stalked to the front of the car, looking helplessly down at the blue hood as if she could convince it to start up with a glare. It had been running just fine— fine enough, for the clunker it was— three bloody seconds ago, but now, fucking now, the engine had finally quit.

Anna scuffed a shoe on the ground before delivering a swift, sharp kick to the blasted thing’s tire, hard enough to send a jolt up through her foot. “Fuck,” she hissed under her breath, then again, louder: “FUCK!”

Drawing back her foot, she kicked the vehicle again. Harder, this time, squarely on the side of the door with a dull thump with enough force to chip the paint.

“You don’t have to blame the car,” Steph huffed, coming to stand beside Anna with her hands stuffed firmly in her pockets. “Blame the snow— or the idiot,” she paused, giving Nick a pointed glare, “who was driving.”

The glare she earned in return was almost as heated. “Oh, fuck off, Steph,” Nick shot back, “s’not my shitbox that got us stranded, anyway!” His volume rose dangerously at the end of his sentence, the words coming out in a near bark.

Neither of the others dignified him with a response as his boots crunched in the snow, grumbling under his breath. It wasn’t worth trying to decode anything he said— Anna had dated him before, and if she was being honest, she’d rather date a zombie. He practically was one, anyway.

...he’s gotten better.

A year of travel had done the tensions in the group good, and besides, he didn’t eat brains.

Though… as Anna watched him pace in a circle around the hood, she was beginning to doubt he even had one in his thick skull. She’d definitely rather date a zombie, and where better to find one than Little Haven? That, as far as she knew, was where it had all started…

Out of all the places to break down, why did the little blue shitbox have to pick here?

Anna’s gaze drifted from the sight of Nick and Steph glowering at the engine, which was now starting to let off a good amount of smoke, to the surrounding countryside. There wasn’t much there to see, not really, but Anna didn’t need the visual. She could see it so perfectly in her mind’s eye, the snow stained with blood, the smoke rising in the horizon. She could feel it, too, feel raw terror curling in her chest like a poisonous snake and the feeling of another hand locked tight with hers, but then it was being pulled away and she was screaming, screaming with a voice that splintered and broke—

“JOHN!”

Her grip on the candy cane she called a weapon tightened. Her heart started to beat harder in her throat, like when she’d watched— she’d just watched— as her best friend was—

Do. Not. Think. About. That.

Snapping back into the present, trying to force those thoughts out of her head— thoughts of gentle eyes and bloodied screams— Anna crossed her arms and watched with a clenched jaw as the other two bent over the hood. Steph had popped it open, and although Nick looked like he wanted to help, Anna knew Steph wouldn’t be letting him anywhere near the engine.

Sucking in a breath through her teeth, she began to saunter over. She held the plastic candy cane in a too-tight grip, though, managed to look as casual as she could. Her breath formed a cloud in front of her face as she carefully stepped closer, squinting over Nick’s shoulder to see what the problem was.

...whatever the problem was.

Was a car’s engine supposed to look so black?

The whole thing smelled like gasoline, though, and she was quick to cover her nose against the stench.

“Fuck,” she intoned again, slamming one hand down on the hood for good measure, loud enough to make Nick jump back in fright. “Fucking— god— how come it had to be here?” She moaned, unable to keep her voice from sounding far too sharp. “This has got to be the WORST place on earth—”

“Yeah, and screaming about it when there could be zombies around is a great idea!” Nick cut in, shuddering violently in the cold. “S’fucking freezing, Anna, and there’re more important things to worry about than the fact that the ruddy car broke down, alright?”

"What? Am I not allowed to be upset that the moment we get back into this shitty little town in the middle of winter, we get stranded. And now you're just standing there!” Her gaze flicked down to the weapon hanging loyally at his belt, and she gestured blindly at it. “Being all 'at least I got a cool gun now' as if that'll help us! News flash, asshole, it won’t! Not unless it’s loaded with screws!”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Steph flinch.

“It’s like you’ve never even seen a car before—” she tried to joke, though, Nick’s voice was louder.

"At least I'm not screeching about it!" He hissed at Anna, who looked like she was going to beat him with her candy cane as he stalked closer. She felt like beating him with her candy cane, come to think. It’d be satisfying to just bash his head in and—

She barely realized she was raising the lawn ornament until Steph stepped between them and raised a hand in Anna’s direction. Her eyes were narrowed in a glare, and although her tone was light, there was anger flickering just beneath its surface.

"Hey ladies, why don’t we just focus on finding a place to stay rather than arguing who's being the least productive?” She asked, seemingly immune to the glare Anna shot her way. Instead, she locked eyes with the taller girl. Her hand came back to rest at her side, though, not before scrubbing over her face. “Look,” she started, taking a step back to stand before them, “this is ass, but you don’t have to be assholes about it, okay? So shut the fuck up, let’s ditch the car,”

“Shitbox,” Nick corrected.

Steph pinched the bridge of her nose and inhaled sharply. She looked almost ready to snap, though, as the engine belched out another thick plume of smoke, she sighed. “Shitbox…” she corrected, glumly, turning her eyes to the still-steaming engine as she continued, “and find somewhere where we won’t get eaten alive, okay?”

Anna didn’t answer.

Nick shuffled his feet.

Again, Steph sighed, heavier and harsher. “Okay?” She tried again, elbowing Nick hard in the ribs for emphasis.

“Fine, fine, okay— just keep your hands off me!” He sputtered, annoyance written across his face. The snow crunched under his weight as he stepped to the side, crossing his arms tightly against his chest. “So what’s the plan, then?”

All eyes turned to Steph.

The silence that fell was somehow worse than the argument. It was awkward, broken only by a few little sputters from the shitbox’s engine trying dogeddly to start.

“Don’t fuckin’ look at me like that!” She protested, though, after a moment of silence and a kick delivered to the ground, she exhaled heavily. “What about the school?”

Anna stiffened, but before she could speak, Nick shook his head.

“No. Too risky. After Savage let those fuckers in, they probably got stuck inside,” he explained. “And voila, zombie motel.”

Steph set her jaw. “What about an actual motel?”

A snort escaped Anna. “A literal zombie motel. Check-in at the front desk, gotta be out by ten, don’t mind the bellhop, he bites.”

It sounded funnier in her head. It came out too sharp, too sarcastic, and was met with an awkward sort of silence.

She coughed and looked up at Nick. “This whole town’s gonna be completely infected.”

“It’s been a year,” he returned, evenly.

“Great.” Anna’s cold glare only intensified as she started speaking again. “A year for all those things to get hungry and fester. You’d need a bunker if you didn’t want to—“

In a flurry of motion, Nick gave a shit-eating grin and snapped his fingers. “A bunker!”

Anna couldn’t help but snicker. “What, you know where one is? Got one in your backyard?”

Nick’s grin only grew. His chest puffed out with pride and as Anna watched, he put his arms to the sides. “The military base! It probably has backup generators, or at least of a lot of stuff that we can burn. Won’t smell great or anything, but the army’s fucked off from there, so the place is ours.”

"Holy shit, you're right!" Steph exclaimed. Nick’s enthusiasm was contagious, apparently. The short blonde gave a laugh of disbelief. “We could probably get there before dark, if we really hoof it.”

Anna looked up to the sun where it sat in the sky and squinted for a moment through the clouds before giving a small, apprehensive nod. “Okay,” she huffed out, before giving a soft snicker. “Can’t believe we forgot we had an airbase. It’s practically on our doorstep.”

Steph’s nose wrinkled. “It practically was on my doorstep,” she grumbled back, though, any irritation was masked with a crooked smile. “Military assholes had no concept of when was too early to be practicing their shooting.”

As the trio began to march forward through the snow, Anna gave a snicker. “Yeah, reminds me of our asshole, here.”

“Hey!”

Steph exhaled a laugh and shook her head, once again, moving to jab Nick in the ribs. “Quiet, remember? Don’t wanna attract any zombies.”

“Yeah,” Anna agreed with a cheeky grin, “‘specially not because you’re firing that thing at the ass crack of dawn.”

The three fell into an easy step together. If Anna squinted, she could almost pretend things were back to normal. It was just like they were hanging out during a snow day, really, with the small flakes that were beginning to fall and their breath fogging up the air. The snow had masked the town Anna remembered as Little Haven, masked the carnage and blood that had been there as they’d sped off in Steph’s bright blue shitbox.

They didn’t talk much, though, they didn’t need to. The place was a ghost town. Nothing seemed to move, not a zombie, nor another group of survivors. Little Haven had never been much— it was Little Haven, for fuck’s sake— but it seemed so much more barren than she’d remembered.

Because you’re remembering it before everything went to shit.

Those memories were getting blurrier. With everything she saw, every broken window, every unhinged door, they began to replace the thoughts of riding her battered bike down the streets. When things were better. Back when her and her father would make snow angels on the lawn, and John would be over, smiling that crooked smile and—

Don’t.

She quickened her step. That was the last thing she needed to be thinking about. He was the last thing she needed to be thinking about. She didn’t need to think about his dreams, or how she felt when his arms were wrapped around her and the horde was converging, grabbing at him with their spindly fingers and—

Fucking don’t.

Setting her jaw, Anna lowered her head and tried to focus on where they were going.

“This place gives me the fucking creeps,” Steph commented, breaking the silence that had been steadily growing around them.

Nick scuffed a boot against the snow. “Yeah, ditto,” he agreed.

There was an awkward silence where Anna should’ve spoken, but instead, she slung her candy cane over her shoulder. The hard plastic resting on her shoulder was a small comfort. It kept her grounded, reminding her of the fact that Little Haven as she knew it was gone. She bumped it up against her shoulder between steps, harder with every second

The sun had just begun to set as the group finally found the chain-link fence that surrounded the base. That sinking feeling that had accompanied Anna right from the start— that feeling she could only describe as Little Haven dread— had only gotten worse, and it intensified when she looked upward at the cold steel.

“Shit…” She mumbled.

She knew it wouldn’t be easy— it was a fucking military base, for Christ’s sake, it wasn’t going to be a cakewalk.

Out of the corner of her eye, she watched as Steph took her pack off her shoulder and began to sift through its contents.

“I can’t fucking see anything,” Nick grumbled. “How am I supposed to—“

Steph hit him in the back of the head with a flashlight, ignoring the sharp yelp of protest she earned in response. “Here.” She snapped, passing another to Anna without making eye contact. Her gaze was fixed upward, and as Anna looked up as well, she saw what Steph was looking at.

Sharp spikes of barbed wire lined the top of the fence.

“So we’re not climbing,” As she spoke, Anna’s eyes began to travel along the length of the chain link, looking in vain for any sort of opening. Zombies wouldn’t be able to get in, she hoped, but neither would they…

The snow was piled high beside the posts, and just as Anna was trying to figure out if it was worth trying to climb—

“You just gonna stand there looking pretty?”

Anna flinched. Her gaze shot to where Nick had been standing moments ago, though, as she flicked on the light, her brow furrowed.

Where—

“Over here,” his voice came again, and as Anna tried to locate it, she turned her head back to the impossible fence—

To meet Nick’s gaze and cheeky grin from the other side.

“Gate’s open,” he remarked, gesturing over to his right with his flashlight beam, swinging it at enough of an arc to momentarily blind Anna.

Swinging one hand up in front of her face, squinting through a scowl, Anna managed to focus on the fence once more—

Oh for fuck’s sake.

—and the obvious gap in it where the gate began.

“You snuck in here, before?” Steph questioned, beginning to trudge forward with Anna behind her. Her pack jingled with every step, punctuated by the crunching of her boots and the steady swaying of her own, heavyset flashlight. It cut through the darkness with a wide beam that made the snow glitter.

“No,” Nick returned, “I thought about it, though,”

“Should’ve,” Anna fired back, her shoulders tensing further with each step she took past the gate, “they would’ve turned you into swiss cheese.”

The noise of mock protest she earned from Nick hit her with a wave of familiarity so sudden that it hurt. Swallowing hard against a sudden knot in her throat, Anna pushed ahead, reaching the door in a matter of minutes.

The door, like the fence, was unhinged and hanging loosely open. Anna shared uneasy glances with the other two, but not a word was spoken as she pointed her flashlight beam into the dark interior.

Rank air wafted out to greet her, sending a cold chill down her spine despite the warmth of the building. They filtered in single-file, Anna with her cane raised in one hand, Steph with her flashlight ready to bludgeon anything in the way, and Nick with his hands shakily clamped around his gun.

Their beams, minus Nick’s, which only illuminated his pocket, shone outward in a wide fan, casting long, humanoid shadows that seemed ready to come off the walls and grab them.

Anna shifted her grip on her cane. "We should split up,” she hissed out in a whisper, “cover more ground. Maybe if we're lucky we can find a new engine or car, and hopefully, get out of here as soon as possible." The last part of her sentence was lost in a whisper, more to herself than either of the others.

Get out.

Like John never did, because he’s dead— he died here, did you think about that, Anna—

“Sure,” Nick’s voice cut in, breaking her out of her thoughts, “I’ll take…” He looked to Anna, who shrugged.

“Doesn’t matter to me,” she shifted her weight before turning her light to the nearest hallway, “you can take that one, I’ll…” She hesitated, before turning right. “I’ll take this one. Steph, you can take the one on the left. Meet back up in… an hour?”

She shone her flashlight back toward the group in time to see them both share nods. She found herself bobbing her head in agreement as well. For a moment, she wanted to say something else. The air was charged, not tense, mind, but there was an energy that couldn’t be denied. She could feel it— feel it in the tight feeling in her chest and the fact that she was digging the plastic hook of her cane deep into her shoulder.

“An hour,” she said, uneasily, and before she could try saying anything else, she turned sharply to the right and disappeared down the hallway.

Her footsteps seemed far too loud. Anna trudged through the halls cautiously, trying to see with her barely working flashlight in one hand and candy cane at the ready in the other.

It didn't take her long to stumble upon a barely-open door. She quietly opened it with her shoulder, clutching both items tightly. The light weakly shone on the room’s contents, only illuminating a few feet before her. She squinted, daring to stick her arm into the room a little farther in and shining the light from side to side. It was reflected on a few objects she couldn’t make out, and for a moment, it looked like eyes—

Remember when you thought it was safe and it wasn’t? Remember who paid for it?

—it wasn’t eyes.

She knew it wasn’t eyes.

Inhaling through her teeth, Anna squared her shoulders, and stepped inside.

It wasn’t what she was expecting. As she swept the light’s flickering, shaky beam around in a wide circle, she was made aware of shelves surrounding her in neat rows, and their contents. Vials upon vials of contents. Their labels were scratched and worn, and as Anna squinted at a vial containing a bright, ugly yellow liquid, she felt a chill wind down her spine.

It was weird, how everything was just… left like this.

Some places looked completely fine, like the untouched vials. It was nothing new, truly, everywhere was a ghost town now that everyone was dead, but it still made unease creep across Anna’s skin like a cold wind.

Shuddering, she began to walk down the rows of shelves, paying less attention by the second to the vials decorating them. What use were a bunch of random chemicals, anyway? What use were—

The hook of her cane bumped against a shelf with a sharp clang, causing Anna to let out a sharp yelp.

“Shit!” She hissed, swinging her light around in time to see a vial wobbling. The liquid inside it was red, and although it quickly settled back down, she didn’t move the light away. Beside it lay a stack of papers. They were tucked messily in place beside it, dog-eared and yellowed, but still intact.

Carefully, Anna reached forward and took the packet in her hands, carefully setting the cane up against the nearest shelf to better leaf through the hand-scrawled notes. Her breath stuck in her throat when she finally managed to decipher what it said.

UNIDENTIFIED PATHOGEN CURE PROTOTYPE TESTING: TRIALS 1-10

“I knew they were working on a cure,” she whispered to herself, both excitement and anger filtering through her voice.

Dad could’ve made it.

John, too.

Nobody would’ve had to die… not Chris… not Lisa…

Even thinking their names made her heart sink.

Anna grabbed the packets, already planning out how to best tell Steph and Nick what she’d found— how maybe, maybe things could finally go back to how they’d been— when something cut through the noise of her thoughts.

A clumsy, sluggish shuffling cut through the silence, followed by a low, feral growl.

The papers tumbled from her grasp before she could stop them, though, she barely noticed. Already, she was shoving her flashlight in her pocket, grabbing her weapon, and beginning to raise it. Her steely gaze was fixed on the door she’d come in through, listening in tense silence as the shuffling drew closer… and closer…

When it finally entered her line of sight, it was alone. Just one. Nothing she couldn’t deal with. Already, she was readying herself to swing, but—

Recognition flashed across her face.

Her stomach dropped.

No.

It was wearing a tattered sweater, smeared with blood and torn in spots, but—

No, please, no...

If the brown hair and soft face didn’t give it away, that Christmas sweater with the tree and lights did.

Her best friend.

One of her only friends.

John. John Pine. Still wearing that sweater he’d been so proud of, the one that devoured batteries by the dozen. His head was cocked harshly to the right, though, as Anna tried to back away, it began to straighten out.

The second those eyes— deep brown, just like she remembered— met her own, the creature gave a little snort of excitement and began to stumble in her direction with its— his—deadened gaze fixed on hers.

“No…” Anna’s voice was soft and shaky. It felt like there wasn’t enough oxygen in the room— like it had been sucked out entirely. Her hands felt clammy. Her heart was beginning to beat like a kickdrum, thumping through her veins at a rapid tempo. “No, please, John… don’t do this,” she begged, trying her best not to let her voice break.

John didn’t register anything she was saying. If anything, he was growling louder by the second, an awful, grating noise that rose above the panicked rushing of blood in her ears. It was barely human— hardly a noise she could ever picture him making— but it was escaping his throat regardless as he shuffled closer and closer to his potential meal. His gait was shambling, closer to a limp than the goofy stride Anna remembered—

He was limping before it happened, don’t you remember? He fucked up his leg and then—

Anna gripped her candy cane tighter. She had to kill him. If she didn’t, then he’d rip her to pieces. Zombies were vicious— all of them were vicious beyond repair, they were hardly human anymore—

But John isn’t—

The creature before her gave another throaty growl. His whole body seemed to wobble unsteadily, as if he couldn’t decide which direction to walk, or if he could even walk at all. Everything about him was wrong, clashing so horribly with how she remembered him. She was frozen to the spot, looking into those eyes that were so familiar it hurt, those same eyes she’d looked into before the horde had converged on him and she’d screamed, screamed so loud her throat had hurt—

“JOHN!”

Struggling to inhale, Anna began to back away. She kept her weapon raised, the wicked, plastic hook up over her shoulder, trying to ignore the way her hands trembled and the fact that the memory was rising in her mind faster than she could hope to block it out.

“LET GO! L-LEMME GO—”

Another set of arms wrapped around her. She tried to beat them back, her body shaking. Her hands were clenched in tight fists. Her legs kicked out wildly as she tried to get her footing, broken, terrified sobs catching in her throat.

Nick’s voice was loud, but not louder than the noises, the sounds of a horde beginning to feast— “No, Anna, no! Leave him!”

Her eyes welled with tears. She had to kill him. He wouldn’t want to live as a zombie. Living as a zombie wasn’t living at all, surely he’d known that, he’d had to have known that. Her only option was to swing but…

“Leave him.” Nick had said again, ignoring the way her hands beat against his side.

She couldn’t. Her grip loosened as she backed away at a faster pace than before. Fuck, she was useless.

She could feel her throat closing up as she tried to find an exit, not taking her eyes off the creature— it’s not John, it’s not, stop pretending— shambling toward her. His head was cocked to the right, mouth slightly open, glossy eyes boring into her own. She felt her stomach lurch at the sight of dried blood smeared around his mouth, her insides turning to water. Bluish, broken veins decorated his cheeks, and when he gave another lurch, right hand swinging downward, her gaze tracked automatically to the vicious bite embedded in the back of his hand.

The same sort of bite that he’d use those crooked teeth to give her.

“John?” She choked out in a whimper, frantically searching his eyes for any recognition. He was closer. There were only a few feet between them, and that distance was closing fast.

“Please, you don’t have to do this, please...” Tears threatened to spill from her eyes as she gathered what little courage she had left and screamed: “JUST GET OUT OF HERE—“

Anna’s back slammed against one of the shelves before she could process what was happening, barely having enough time to register, the various glass vials on the shelf began to crash at her feet. Chemicals splattered across her coat and shoes, and as she tried to stumble away, momentarily forgetting the zombie—

Something crashed against the back of her head. Things went dark immediately.

They were quick to flicker back in a mess of disjointed sounds and messy colours that blurred and spun drunkenly around her. Spots were dancing across her vision, and as she blinked blearily and tried to focus on the overwhelming, dizzying sensations, she was made vaguely aware of something pooling around her.

All over her, actually—

Shit, my head—

Everything was too slow. Raising one hand, frantically feeling her hair, she gave a sharp gasp as the feeling of something liquid—

Blood or chemicals—

Shit, both are bad—

And if the shelf fell—

With a wince, Anna struggled to get to her feet, feeling as though she was forgetting something, addled mind fighting to put it all together and—

Wait, what about—

“SHIT!” Anna’s eyes snapped open remembering the zombie in front of her, but she wished she never opened her eyes. Everything was… wrong… horribly wrong. Her frantic eyes shot to the shards that were around her feet— should’ve been around her feet— and the puddle that looked more like a small lake than anything.

Her heart leapt into her throat.

The shards littered around her, their wickedly sharp points glinting in the low light, were longer than her arms. They were longer than she was tall, which was impossible, and how—

How much had been in those vials?

How hard had she hit her head?

This CANNOT be happening.

I can’t be—

A sudden sound from above caused her blood to run cold.

Shit.

Her hands felt clammy.

Shit, shit, shit.

Frozen in place, whole body trembling, Anna shakily began to look up… up, up, up…

Her heart plummeted to her shoes. Her grip on her plastic cane suddenly felt weak—

At least I got something my size...

She managed to think through her panic. Her face paled exponentially, all the strength she had draining from her in one fell swoop. She tried to open her mouth, to scream, to cry out, to beg for her life— anything— but no sound escaped her lips, save for a strangled squeak.

This can’t be happening.

He was huge.

John had always been taller than her, that much was true, but the zombie before her was easily a giant. He didn’t seem to be looking directly at her, though, and as Anna watched, paralyzed by fright, she realized he didn’t seem to see her. His glassy eyes were out of focus, trained on the shards around her, and although he was growling— a horrid, awful sound that shook her to her core— it was quieter than before. Confused.

Hope flickered to life in her chest.

Maybe he can’t see me.

Was it possible? Maybe his eyes had decayed enough that he wouldn’t bother with her, or maybe she was too small for him to care. She just had to get out of his way and then—

Another growl shook through her. Louder this time.

No—

Her small victory was quickly cancelled out as suddenly, John’s eyes locked onto her form. His lips began to curl back in a snarl, showing off a dizzying array of teeth that used to smile the sweetest, most crooked smile—

A snarl vibrated through her chest. Panicked, Anna tried to stumble away, her fight or flight instinct finally kicking into high gear. Her little body chose flight.

She stumbled forward, boots slipping in the puddle surrounding her. She skidded, terrified at how quickly the tables had turned— she’d been bracing herself to kill him and see his blood speckle the floor but now—

Anna tried to tighten her sweat-slicked grip on her weapon. Her vision was blurred, though the panic coursing through her veins was making things sharper. Everything was picking up to speed with her racing heart, and as she helplessly skidded, she could feel him getting closer.

No, no— NO—

She couldn’t outrun him. She was too small, now, and her head was pounding with every second that passed.

Panicked beyond belief, voice shaking, Anna forced herself to meet his gaze, looking in vain for anything familiar in those hollow eyes. “John—”

That’s not John, he’s gone, he’s not there—

“—p-please!” She stammered, “I-It’s me, it’s— it’s Anna! You— W-We— We’ve been friends for— for years, years, John, PLEASE—”

Her words broke into a scream as John lurched forward. Stumbling backward, brandishing her weapon as though it would help, Anna let out another broken plea.

“NO! P-Please, John— you— you have to remember me, I— You— You were going to go to art school, a-and I was gonna go to Australia—”

It seemed like a distant dream. Australia. Art school. Things that had mattered before the world as they knew it had ended without any warning.

Her throat began to close up. She sucked in a sharp, frantic breath through her teeth, trying to say something— anything— that wouldn’t end in her demise—

He reached forward. That hand— that monstrous, discoloured hand riddled with bluish veins— was inches from her, and the distance was closing.

“Y-You jumped in front of a horde just to save my life!”

Do you remember his hands around your waist? When you were calling to him? He wasn’t answering.

The hand less than a centimeter from her face. Instinctively, she put her hands up to her face and gave a sharp, guttural cry: “PLEASE DON’T KILL ME!”

He would rip her to pieces in seconds. He’d use those same clumsy hands she knew so well to tear her from limb to limb, those teeth would pierce her, and her blood would speckle the floor and—

She screwed her eyes shut tight for good measure at the crunch of glass under one of his feet coupled with the sliding of fabric across the floor.

He’s kneeling.

Her stomach twisted in a knot. She had seconds left to live, seconds left to muster a final plea, or an attack, or even an escape, but—

A soft, rumbling noise rolled through the air, close enough to make her whole body buzz with the sound, then…

Then, nothing.

Nothing at all.

...what?

Anna slowly lowered her hands, after a few quiet, tense moments. Her breathing was quick and sharp. Why… why was she still alive?

Why hadn’t he killed her?

His hand was still there, his huge fingers poised and ready to snatch her up without a second thought, but—

They hadn’t.

He hadn’t.

Questions began to swarm in her mind, but above them was one desire: to get away.

Stumbling under her own weight, Anna made it about three steps back before a shard of glass met the bottom of her boot. It skidded along with her, prying a startled yelp from her throat and prompting her to swing her arms out for balance.

John flinched. That hand that had been so close to brushing her skin shrank back.

Anna’s mind was beginning to race as she looked into John’s eyes, her balance still somewhat wobbly. Her confusion was clearly written across her face.

It didn’t make sense.

Is he—

She couldn’t let herself hope.

No.

Impossible. He’s probably just wondering if a small human is just as satisfying as a normal-sized human.

She didn’t want to believe it. Those eyes seemed lucid— they looked so much like his that it hurt. A knot formed in her chest. Her legs wobbled like those of a baby deer as she forced herself to keep her eyes locked on his, ignoring the fact that his veins were too prominent, his teeth almost unnaturally sharp.

He’s just sizing me up.

A cold chill spread across her body. Her instincts were screaming at her to run— he was frozen, for fuck’s sake— it would be easy enough to make a mad dash for cover, but no matter how she tried, she couldn’t force herself to move. Her fingers weakly twitched at her sides. She felt like she was going to throw up.

Trying to stand, sitting up as well as she could, Anna felt her whole body sway unsteadily. The room spun in a nauseating fashion, everything around her blending in a mess of nonsensical swirls that immediately brought her back to her knees.

Shit, definitely concussed.

That was the last thought Anna had before that hand reached out to her again. Accepting her fate, Anna looked down, closed her eyes and hoped it would be quick, but… that moment never came as she noticed. She gave a small gasp at the feeling of something touching her, something cold and almost clammy that started at the top of her head and trailed its slow way down her back. She held her breath as it stopped, then repeated with a tad more certainty.

It took several seconds for her to realize he was petting her.

Petting?

Why would a zombie—

Why hasn’t he hurt me yet?

Daring to hope, Anna looked up, trying to get her vision to focus on the soft, concerned eyes of her friend. It seemed so familiar. She wanted so desperately to believe that he remembered her, but it was impossible… right?

Struggling to find her voice, Anna managed to quietly, incredulously ask: “Am I dead?”

The petting stopped. Those eyes she knew so well were hidden by a slow blink for a moment, and then John did something that made her heart skip a beat. He shook his head. Like a human would. Like he was alive.

Anna’s eyes widened. “Wha— c-can you—

Slow down.

Taking a deep breath, she tried again. “—do you remember me?” She asked him, hardly daring to hope. It was probably just a twitch, and her size had distracted him from thoughts of eating her, that had to have been it—

He nodded. That soft face she remembered sported a small, crooked little smile that she could recognize anywhere. Twitchy and uncertain, sure, but there.

Before she knew it, she was sobbing. All of the anger, sadness and regret she held for the past year overwhelmed her. Her throat ached from having shouted at the creature before her, her sobs coming out in hoarse sounding barks. Her tears ran down her cheeks faster than she could try to wipe them away. She was vaguely aware of a soft, concerned grumble and forced herself to look up again through her tears.

“N-No, I— It’s not your fault, I— oh my god, John—”

Another bout of wracking sobs made her chest ache, causing John to pull his hand away. His brow was furrowed, his eyes tracking her every move.

Anna tried to wipe her eyes and gave a broken laugh. “I-I’m just so glad to see you again after all this time!”

Glad was an understatement. Her legs wobbled as she forced herself upright, stumbling toward his hand unsteadily. “A-And you— you remember me, you— it’s really you, I—” She swallowed hard against the knot in her throat. “—I can’t believe this, I— what’re the odds?”

One in a million. One in a billion. Less, even.

Laughing again, close enough to his hand that she could’ve reached out for it if she wanted, Anna finally caught her breath. The adrenaline— that giddy rush that had surged through her— was fading. “The only thing that could make this any better would be if I… was…”

Wait—

“Normal sized!?” Her voice took on a sharp lilt of confusion as, yet again, another reality crashed down on her like a ton of bricks. “Holy shit, what the fuck happened to me?!”

She watched John’s shoulders give an unsteady shrug.

“I— How—”

It must’ve been that cure. The vials she’d knocked over her had done it, but how it had happened was beyond her—

She was snapped out of her thoughts by the sensation of John’s fingers curling around her waist. A breath caught in her throat. She gave a sharp, frightened gasp and clung tight to her weapon, the ground suddenly so, so small. His whole body swung uncertainty, and although his fingers weren’t too tightly clasped around her, Anna’s chest felt too tight. Her head was still throbbing away. She couldn’t find her voice.

Shit, no—

He wouldn’t. John wouldn’t—

But a zombie would.

Fear began to spike through her, but she managed to give a small whimper of: “J-John?” Using her free hand to bat at his fingers, she tried to grab his attention, but all she earned in response was a little grumble. Her whole world pitched dangerously as he stood, causing her to squeak. This was terrifying. She was so high up— John had always been tall but this was taking things to a new level. One hand wrapped tight around her cane, the other in a tight fist, Anna felt her stomach lurch as he got to his feet.

Christ, they were high up.

Anna managed to get in a sharp breath before John’s grip on her abruptly switched, depositing her on the surface of his palm. A small rumble shook through her, and as she looked up, she nearly yelped. He was so close, close enough for her to feel his breath.

Zombies breathe?

She’d never been close enough to find out— nobody ever had, without getting bitten or ripped to shreds, but as the seconds ticked forward, she realized that John was just… watching. He didn’t blink, but his warm eyes were trained on her, his brow slightly furrowed.

She exhaled.

It’s fine.

You’re fine.

“Right, o-okay, I—” Shakily, standing as well as she could, she turned her head and forced herself to look down at the mess she’d created. The liquid looked almost like blood puddling around his feet, and as she squinted—

Wait—

The papers she’d dropped weren’t soiled by the puddle. They were a little crumpled, splashed in spots, but otherwise fine.

A cure. They were working on a cure.

Turning back to face John, she gestured down to the papers on the floor. “Can you grab those papers?” She asked him, continuing to explain as he tilted his head and focused his bleary eyes down where she’d pointed. “Th-They were testing all this shit so it’s gotta be recorded. There’s gotta be a way to reverse this!”

Both the zombie thing and her reduced height…

Clinging to John’s thumb for balance as he bent over, Anna watched him fumble with the papers for a moment before—

A growl shot through the silence, followed by another.

John’s hackles raised near instantly and he stood back up with the papers in his grasp with a sudden, jerky motion that caused Anna to yelp.

“Shit, the vials!”

Of course they’d heard the crash— fuck, she was an idiot— and now they were going to come and rip them to shreds—

Would they attack John? He was one of them, and maybe that would keep him safe, but Anna certainly wasn’t, and now that she was bite sized—

Shit.

“We gotta go!” She urgently instructed, earning herself a nod from John.

She didn’t do a thing to protest as he carefully drew her closer to himself and began to take one limping, shuddering step after the other. Was it fast enough? Her mind was racing from one panicked thought to the next, and the speed of them only intensified with every step he took toward the still-open door.

Please, please, c’mon…

She inwardly begged, holding John’s thumb in a deathgrip, trying to see if anything was coming their way.

They were mere inches from the door when the first zombie made itself known, lurching so suddenly into their field of vision that Anna let out a shrill scream and shrank backward. Its lips were pulled back, thick, black strands of drool oozing from its open jaws, and it wasn’t alone. More and more began to pour through the entrance in a swarm, some of them still sporting military garb.

No, no, please—

John began to growl, the noise low and grating, making Anna’s ears ring and her headache thump harder. His grip on her shifted.

Hundreds of scenarios began to race through Anna’s mind, each one more brutal than the last. There wouldn’t be any escape, and they didn’t seem interested in John at all. She’d been reunited with him for nothing, and soon, she’d either be one of them or nothing more than a red stain on the floor, and nobody would ever know—

Before her thoughts could even finish, John’s fingers once again closed around her waist and she was suddenly lifted, that nauseating feeling of being picked up too fast causing her head to spin. Trying to focus, legs swinging wildly, cane nearly slipping from her hands, she realized she was being dangled above John’s face.

More specifically, his mouth. Her panicked gaze met his own.

“J-John,” she stammered, “what’re you—”

She was cut off by the intimidating sight of John’s mouth opening beneath her, those teeth that seemed inhumanly sharp mere inches from her feet. She barely registered the thunder of his voice, though, once his maw was closed, she processed the one word he’d managed to wheeze out.

“Safe…” Even though voice was thick and gravelly, like he had just had woken up dehydrated, she understood.

But… what did he mean, “safe”?

Heart lurching into her throat, Anna struggled to cling onto his fingers. “Wait, wh-what are you talking abou—” Anna didn’t have any time to wonder what John meant before, without warning, his loose grip on her was gone entirely.

Down she plummeted.

A strangled scream escaped her throat. She looked down, and as she was being dropped—

His jaws opened to greet her, wider than before, displaying in horrific detail the inside of his maw and his pink, quivering tongue.

“JOH—”

The rest of her protest was lost in a wheeze as her little body hit a slick, foreign surface. She hardly had time to register what was going on before her surroundings went dark with a snap that caused her to let out a shriek and ball up. Her body was shaking, and as she forced herself up onto her hands and knees, she nearly lost her balance. The ground below her—

That’s not the ground, that’s his tongue, you’re in his MOUTH—

—shifted and slid as she frantically tried to process what had happened. There wasn’t much light, but it filtered between his lips enough for her to see the faint, pinkish tongue beneath her and the terrifying, pointed shapes of his teeth fencing her in. Her heartbeat was rapid, her breaths short and laboured.

Why—

Why did he—

I thought he wouldn’t—

Was it a trap? Anna felt like she was going to be sick as the muscle beneath her shifted, sending her sprawling onto her front once more. Saliva was pooling around her little frame, and as she struggled to get up— to claw and punch and kick everything she could reach— an annoyed sort of grumble rang through the space, loud enough to make Anna clap her hands over her ears. The tongue beneath her curled slightly, the edges of it pushing on her sides and keeping her confined to the middle of his mouth despite her squirming.

The noises it made were making her repulsion grow by the second. The muscle squelched beneath her weight, and there was another annoyed little grumble before something smacked against her side. Something hard and plastic.

My cane!

Rolling sharply to the side, Anna snatched it up and moved to stab him with the sharpened end, trying her best to stand in the cramped space. She ended up bent awkwardly in place, her shoes sinking into the fleshy surface beneath her, her back pressed up against the roof of his mouth above her.

Bracing herself, Anna tried to force his jaws open from the inside to no avail. Saliva dribbled down her sides in thick strands, enough to make her shudder violently. She began to shove at the surface above her harder, digging her nails in—

Everything pitched hard to the right. Anna’s legs gave out from under her, and clutching her candy cane tight against her chest, she landed on his tongue with a squelch, giving a sharp gasp when everything turned to the left, then right again, almost as if he was shaking his head.

Shit, my head.

The throbbing feeling was getting worse by the second. Struggling, landing a good hit with her heel to the flesh beneath her, Anna moved a hand to clutch at her wet hair.

This concussion isn’t going to get any better if he keeps doing that, not that it’ll matter if he doesn’t let me out!

When she pulled her hand away, thin strands of drool connected it to her head. Her hair was practically slicked down to her, and as her eyes adjusted to the dim, faint light filtering through his teeth, she realized the rest of her was hopelessly soaked as well— her jacket, her shirt, her tie— covered in saliva.

What the fuck—

Is he—

Is he fucking TASTING ME?

Terror surged through her once more, though, it was quickly followed by a rage that bubbled over her and made her ball her hands into fists. “JOHN!” She shouted, bringing a fist down as hard as she could manage on the tongue beneath her, “LET ME OUT! I KNOW YOU’RE STILL IN THERE! PLEASE, PLEASE SNAP OUT OF IT!”

For a moment, everything stopped.

She lay there, panting, covered in spit and feeling absolutely disgusting as the surface beneath her curled over her side once more.

“John, please…” She whimpered, moving to crawl further toward the front of his mouth. All he’d have to do was open up his mouth, and she’d be home free—

Before she could say anything else, Anna was suddenly pressed against the roof of the mouth, squishing all the air out of her in a sharp wheeze.

No, NO, NO NO NO—

Everything tilted back. Anna dug her fingers into the surface of John’s tongue in vain, panic rushing through her veins. She kicked and squirmed wildly, though, with a soft squelch, she felt the muscles of his throat begin to latch onto her legs.

Her eyes widened.

A deafening gulp muffled her scream. She was forced back faster than she could grab anything. Her desperate, reaching hands skimmed one of his huge teeth before disappearing into his gullet entirely. The light disappeared instantly, and although Anna couldn’t see, she could still feel the powerful muscles of his esophagus engulfing her tiny frame.

“NO!” She was forced downward at a rapid, terrifying pace. Her arms were pinned up above her head, and with each tug from the slick muscles, more slimy substances connected with her body.

“NO, N-NO, JOHN—”

Another swallow cut her off, the muscles around her squeezing the air out of her lungs and making the panic coursing through her intensify. She could barely move. The darkness was smothering her, alive, squeezing her every inch of the way down—

Her legs were free.

Eyes widening, knowing what it meant but refusing to believe it, Anna tried one more time to claw at the walls of his throat, but it didn’t matter.

With a final squeeze from his gullet, Anna dropped onto a cushy surface. She managed to land on her knees, her panicked eyes darting this way and that in the darkness. Everything was eerily still and quiet, the only thing she could hear the quick pounding of her heart.

He couldn’t have.

Her chest felt heavy. Slime dribbled down the back of her neck, making her shudder violently.

Where else could she be? Her senses were on overdrive. She was painfully aware of the feeling of sticky saliva clinging to her body, but also aware of the noises surrounding her— soft gurgles and growls, uneven, shaky breaths, and—

A low thumping from above her.

His heartbeat.

He just put me in and…

God, she couldn’t even think it.

...like I didn’t even matter?!

Her best friend— someone she’d thought was dead, had eaten her. Whole and alive. Her days— her minutes — her seconds were numbered. How long did it take a zombie to digest? How long did she have to breathe the stale tasting air and wait for acid to melt her into nothing?

A gurgle echoed through the fleshy chamber, loud enough to make Anna jolt and grasp her weapon—

I still have it.

Without hesitation, she dug the pointed end of it into the stomach’s floor as hard as she could manage, standing on wobbly legs. She braced herself against it, driving it in deep before tugging it free with a sickening squelch.

“NO!” She snarled, stumbling forward, ignoring the dizzy feeling that came with standing up, “I am not dying in some SHITTY TOWN,” she punctuated those words by driving the sharp end of the cane into the closest wall, “in some BROKEN DOWN BASE,” she pushed it in further, “where NO ONE WILL KNOW WHAT HAPPENED!”

Running on sheer desperation, the shrunken survivor used what little strength she had left to drag the sharp tip through the wall of flesh, feeling her entire environment abruptly tense around her. A growl rolled through the space, making everything vibrate.

It only encouraged her to continue.

Removing the edge, Anna began beating him with the blunt end, hitting him over and over again as if the cane was a baseball bat.

“If you want me to stop” she hissed through her teeth, “then LET! ME! OUT!” She hit him with every word, choking up slightly as she did.

Those three words suddenly made it all real. Her whole world began to crash down around her, the realization coupled with the churning motions of the stomach around her enough to bring her to her knees.

She was stuck in this horrible small town. She was in a worn down military base. Her friends wouldn’t know what happened to her. She was tiny. And she was in the stomach of one of her closest friends.

Anna Shepherd was going to die.

Her grip on the candy cane loosened to a point where it slipped from her fingers, though, she barely noticed as it hit the fleshy floor beside her. Her eyes began to sting from tears. There was no joy in them. Not this time.

Alone in the dark, alone with the realization that John, her closest friend, the person she would feel safe to talk about anything around— the person who helped her through her mother’s death and always, always been by her side, the person she cared for the most—

Another organic rumble from the stomach around her sent a cold chill through her body.

John was going to kill her, and nobody would ever know.

As the adrenaline faded and her limbs grew weak and heavy, Anna began to curl into a ball, her hands shaking violently. She wanted to scream out to him, or hit him with the cane as hard as she could manage, maybe even carve her way out. If she just managed to claw hard enough, she could do it, couldn’t she?

All she did was let tears trickle down her cheeks and curl up tighter. What else could she do?

She was alone. Stupidly alone. Had Nick or Steph been there, they would’ve been able to bludgeon him and this whole thing never would’ve happened. They wouldn’t just give up, either, they’d fight with everything they had and then some, but…

She was so tired. Her head was pounding at a mile a minute, and her limbs felt so, so heavy. She was going to pass out, soon.

And I’ll never wake up again.

Before the darkness behind her eyes engulfed her limited vision of the soft walls surrounding her entirely, Anna managed to choke out a sentence so quiet, it sounded like a breath.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t save you…” She whimpered.

Then, there was nothing but the darkness and a low, slow heartbeat thudding above her.

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violetsmoak · 5 years ago

Text

Philtatos [11/?]

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20101543/chapters/47690671

Blanket Disclaimer

Summary: During a patrol where Red Hood and Red Robin cross paths, Jason is infected with the blood of the Eros, the ancient God of Love, who informs them that they must track down his missing bow and arrows, or Jason will go slowly mad with an obsessive desire–for Tim. Though overwhelmed by the sudden attention being paid to him, Tim sets to work trying to solve the case, before Jason succumbs to madness. In the meantime, Jason discovers that there’s more than godlike powers at work here, as well as a legacy that reaches back through the sands of time.

Rating: PG-13 (rating may change later)

Beta Reader: None at the moment.

JayTimBingo Prompts This Chapter: #amnesia #underworld #betrayal #gods in disguise

First Chapter

________________________________________________________________

It takes Tim ten seconds longer than he’ll ever admit before he understands what’s going on.

Even then, he almost allows himself to get lost in the moment as his awareness floods with unexpected sensation: the brush of lips against his, warm and unexpectedly soft, the scratch of day-old stubble against his chin, weird, but good weird; the smell of motor oil and smoke and generic shampoo.

His pulse thunders in his ears, lungs burning because he doesn’t trust himself to exhale. It takes everything he has to fight against the reflex to lean forward into Jason. He has to remind himself why this is the worst possible idea right now.

While his words remain locked in his throat, his lack of reaction must still speak volumes. Or maybe it’s just Jason’s own wits returning to him. Either way, he jerks back from Tim, expression morphing through several iterations—horror, confusion, and guilt.

“Shit,” he says, voice hoarse. He takes a step back, eyes wide with panic. “Shit. You don’t…you don’t want this.”

His wild gaze darts around, everywhere but Tim’s face, before settling on something behind him that makes the color drain from his face. He takes another stumbling step backward.

Tim whips around, hoping to hell it’s not Bruce behind them, and only feels a modicum less dismay to find Steph there instead. She’s frozen in mid-step, arm in a sling and mouth gaping at what she’s just walked in on.

“What the…?”

“Steph,” Tim warns, trying to ignore the way his own cheeks become warm and his voice mimics a croak.

There’s a muffled clatter behind him as Jason drops his helmet and practically trips over his boots backing away.

“I have to go,” he chokes, still refusing to look at Tim.

He’s already taken off by the time Tim manages to form the syllables of his name.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Steph calls after him as Jason vanishes into the garage. “You can’t leave!”

The only answer is a bike engine roaring to life, and the squeal of tires as Jason peels out of the Cave.

“Jason, no—!” Tim tries, knows it’s a bad idea for some reason, but he’s having trouble getting his thoughts to really connect. He can’t make himself move, legs seemingly bolted to the stone floor.

Jason kissed him.

It’s s something he’s only ever allowed himself to image in the farthest recesses of his mind, the place his thoughts wander just before he falls asleep and can’t control their destination.

If this had happened three weeks ago, Tim would have been elated. Surprised and flustered, no doubt, but cautiously thrilled at the idea of Jason returning any kind of interest in him.

The hard truth is that he doesn’t.

The kiss wasn’t the result of Jason liking him, or even wanting to kiss him at all. It’s the result of a poison swimming through his bloodstream, stealing his will and his judgment and forcing some pale imitation desire for Tim.

And Tim—

Tim is still revisiting the moment in his brain, committing to memory the sensation of Jason’s mouth on his. His heart is still racing, the way it always does after a first kiss. He’s had enough of them to recognize the feeling, but that’s normally followed by warmth and relief and happiness.

Right now, all he feels are the competing urges to either sob or vomit. It’s strong enough that he stumbles toward the stairs, past Steph’s shocked and questioning gaze, and Bruce who stands at the head of the stairs.

“What’s going on?” he demands.

Tim meets his gaze, wondering how he’s supposed to answer that. On the one hand, they need to know Jason’s condition may have progressed, but on the other, some part of him wants to keep what just happened as private as possible.

He shoots Steph a pleading look, and though she seems confused for a moment, it’s barely noticeable.

“Jason left,” she says.

“After all that, you allowed Todd to leave?” Damian demands, marching down to lurk behind Bruce.

“He didn’t like being benched,” Steph supplies. “Probably needed to go sulk.”

“If his condition is as serious as you all seem to think, he should not be driving,” Bruce warns. “I’m going after him, before he—”

“Oh, just let him go,” a voice interrupts, voice exaggerating boredom. They all turn to the containment unit, where Dick is standing in his underwear, arms crossed. “He probably won’t get himself killed. And hey, if he does, chances are he’ll come back again. Evil doesn’t stay dead.”

Bruce’s brows furrow. “Dick.”

“Bruce. Are you going to let me out, or am I supposed to freeze my ass here in my underwear the rest of the night?”

“Do you still have the sudden urge to kill us all?” Damian challenges, trying for bravado but unable to completely hide his real unease.

“’' 'Sudden’?” Dick replies. “You talk like it’s something I haven’t dreamed about since Bruce stuck some new brat in my family’s colors.”

Damian clenches his fists, and Bruce says, “There’s your answer.”

“Oh, come on,” the first Robin groans. “Like you haven’t thought about it once or twice. How much easier your life would be if it was just like old times. Me and you and Babs.”

The words hurt, but it’s dulled somehow, both by the fact Tim knows this isn’t Dick—not really—and by his own overwhelmed exhaustion. This whole situation is hitting him all over again and he’s just…

Done.

He doesn’t bother with explanations or excuses as he strides toward the rarely used elevator. He needs time. And space. To think.

Or not think, as it were.

Somehow, his thoughts remain blissfully empty and blank as he heads upstairs, tossing his gear on the ground once he’s in his room. He gets in the shower, turns it on as hot as it can go and just stands in the spray for a while.

As the aches ease from his body, he carefully allows his thoughts to trickle back in, and to look at the situation objectively.

Jason kissed him, true.

But he didn’t do it to hurt him, either intentionally—by doing so without his consent—or unintentionally—because he has no idea about Tim’s feelings. Probably, he’s out there somewhere panicking. Most likely there will be some time period spent self-flagellating before he tries to do something about the situation.

Hopefully, Bruce or Damian or someone has gone after him by now. If not, Tim will have to do it.

Just as soon as he eases a little more exhaustion from his bones and muscles.

When was the last time I slept? It might be going on two days now.

No wonder he was taken by surprise. Maybe if he had been well-rested, if his body wasn’t a giant bruise from their ill-fated encounter with Cupid, his reaction time would have been better. He could have cut Jason off before he did anything, and he’d still be here.

He needs to go find him. Needs to venture back down to the Batcave, might even have to have another argument with Bruce about his fitness to be involved in the case.

Finding the confidence for that—to even fake for that—takes longer than he’d like.

By the time he finally gets out of the shower and into some civilian clothes, a half-hour has passed.

He’s unsurprised to find Steph loitering against his bedroom door when he opens it, expression of determined concern on her face. He half-expected it to be Bruce—wonders how she convinced him to stay downstairs.

“I’m fine,” he tells her automatically, hating how it sounds like it’s being dragged from the depths of his throat.

“You’re not fine. This whole situation is the definition of ‘not fine’.”

“We’re all doing the best we can.”

“If that were true, you wouldn’t be hiding up here. He’s really messing you up, isn’t he?”

“It’s not Dick’s fault.”

“I’m not talking about Dick.” Steph pushes off the walls, arms crossed. “I know it’s been weird for all of us seeing the big bad Red Hood’s recent personality change, but it’s obviously different with him being so fixated on you. And now that it’s getting physical—”

“It’s not getting physical, that was just…”

He can’t find the words to explain.

“You weren’t expecting it,” she suggests. “It’s okay. Honestly, I don’t think he was expecting to do that either, considering how fast he ran out of there. But if that’s happening now, he’s only going to get worse.”

“It’s not Jason’s fault either.”

“I know that. But clearly things are escalating. I’m not always Batman’s biggest fan, but I think he’s right about this one.”

“Steph…”

“Or, at least sit down as a group and figure out what to do, instead of you two butting heads the whole time.”

“This is happening to Jason and it’s happening to me. We’re the ones who should get the final say on how to handle it, and it’s been working so far.”

“Yeah? Then why do you look like someone just kicked you in the guts repeatedly? I know you want to help him, but you don’t have to force yourself to be okay with everything. No one would blame you if you needed to take a step back.”

“I don’t need to take a step back.”

“Are you sure about that? From what I heard, this whole thing has been a gamble from the start. I’m still shocked Bruce let it go on as long as it has. It’s not fair to either of you.”

“Bruce isn’t letting anything happen,” Tim snaps with unexpected venom, irritation washing over him. “This is my choice and as much of Jason’s choice as it can be right now. What you saw was just a…a momentary lapse. I’ll—we’ll adjust.”

But there’s a painful lump in his throat as he says that, and his thoughts flicker through images of Jason at his worst, at his most hateful—and contrast them with the easy-going, open and semi-flirtatious man he’s gotten to see in the past few days.

The stark difference between the violent, brutal ways they’ve fought one another in the past, and the gentle slide of Jason’s fingers against his cheek when he kissed him.

How do I adjust after that?

“I’ve haven’t seen this much denial from you since Bruce’s not-death,” Steph says, narrowing her eyes at him. “Is there something else going on here that you’re not telling us?”

“No,” Tim says shortly and starts down the hall. “I’ve got stuff to do, so—”

“Oh, no you don’t, I’m not buying the whole stoic-wannabe-Batman routine for a second!” she trails him down the hallway. “You only get like this when you’re trying to keep people from noticing you’re hurting. And I get the situation is confusing and all—”

“Leave it alone, Steph!”

“—but why the hell would Jason kissing you hurt? It’d be weird, sure, but it shouldn’t bother you at all.”

“Steph—”

“You’re the one insisting it’s not his fault, that he doesn’t…really…feel…” Tim tries to keep walking, but then he’s being spun around by the shoulder, and forced to look into wide, shocked blue eyes. “Are you hurting because it’s not real?”

Tim clenches his jaw shut and does his best to meet her gaze—avoidance would just be a confirmation—but Steph’s always been intuitive about things like this.

“Tim, you’re not…you don’t actually have feelings for Jason, do you?” she practically whispers, like she’s afraid to say it too loud. As if that makes it real.

Story of my life there.

It would be so easy to deny it, to brush it off and tell Steph that she’s reading too much into things. To pretend like it’s just the situation that has him off his game. But today, he’s exhausted, and mustering up the energy required to sell the story seems like too much.

Against his will, his eyes lower, and Steph releases him with a gasp.

He closes his eyes, waiting for judgment.

Instead, he feels her move closer, linking her fingers through his and tugging them until he looks up at her. The only thing on her face is concern.

“Tim,” she begins, careful, “I know this is a bit of a head-trip, Jason being nice to everyone and all. Even I’m starting to like the guy a bit. But…”

“It’s not like that.”

“Okay then. What’s it like?”

Still no judgment, just Stephanie expecting Tim to explain it to her in a way she can understand. They used to have so many arguments that he withheld information from her, and in the end of them, he was doing his best to get in the habit of walking her through his thought process—even if he failed most of the time.

Just as he’s failing now in the oppressive silence between them.

He opens his mouth, tries to come up with the words, then closes it again because—honestly—he can’t even explain it to himself sometimes.

There’s a sharp intake of breath.

“Jesus.” Steph presses her fingers to her lips in agitation. “I don’t…I don’t even know what to say to that.”

“Don’t say anything,” Tim suggests, tired. “I’m well aware of the status quo and hoping for things to be different is a waste of time.”

“But, Tim—”

“No,” he cuts her off, and ducks away from her, suddenly needing to be away from the boxed-in feeling of her closeness. “It doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is saving Jason. Not just for me. This is—we have to save him, Steph. I can’t—we can’t lose him in his head again. Bruce can’t.”

And now Steph’s expression is no longer telegraphing shock, but also pain and pity. Obviously, she knows that everything Tim just said is true.

“Tim…”

“Let’s save the comments for after this mess is figured out, okay?” he suggests, trying for mild. He halfway manages it.

Steph looks like she’d like to protest, but instead nods. “Okay. I’m just worried.”

“You don’t have to be.”

“Bull. Whatever our issues, you’ve always been in my corner. I’ll never stop worrying about you.”

And that’s actually comforting.

He shoots her a tight smile of gratitude. “Come on. Enough moping, we’ve got two Bats that need to be helped now.”

“My thoughts exactly,” a gruff voice says behind them, and Tim winces, because he really should have expected Bruce to show up eventually.

Looks like Steph only managed to delay him a bit. God, did he hear any of that?

He starts to feel sick again.

“Lurk much?” Steph snaps.

“Stephanie, could you give us a few minutes?”

She makes a face and then shrugs. “You’ve got three before I go get Alfred.”

She disappears.

Tim and Bruce regard each other for a few seconds, both tense.

“How long have you been standing there?” Tim asks, trying not to sound as nervous as he feels.

“About thirty seconds,” Bruce replies, and Tim mentally revisits his conversation with Steph. He doesn’t think he said anything too incriminating. His stomach unclenches a bit. “Your concentration isn’t up to your usual standards.”

Tim’s mouth thins.

So, it’s time for the not so constructive criticism, is it?

But to his surprise, Bruce suddenly looks apologetic.

“Sorry. Given your concern for Jason…for me, I can understand it. I know you’re only trying to help as best you can. And I…” he hesitates, clearly chewing on something that’s difficult for him, “…could have handled my earlier reaction better.”

“You think?” Tim can’t help needling.

Bruce simply nods, doesn’t elaborate.

Of course, that’s as far as he’ll go. Still, for Batman, that’s a lot.

“Thanks,” Tim says after a beat. “And if you heard what I said—I meant it. I won’t let us lose Jason again. Or Dick.”

Bruce nods again and then squares his shoulders. “Barbara is on her way here.”

Awesome segue, Bruce…

Outwardly, he simply remarks, “That’s rare.”

“I contacted her. Since she wasn’t there when Dick was hit by Cupid’s arrow, he should have no problem with her. Chances are she can work with him to try to figure out a solution while we focus on Jason.”

“I bet she loved being relegated to babysitting her ex.”

“I would do it, but I need to keep Damian occupied,” Bruce says. “He’s taking Dick’s...current attitude…harder than he’d like to pretend.”

I get that. It’s not a great feeling when the mentor you’ve been low-key hero-worshipping looks at you like you’re dirt.

“She wouldn’t have agreed, but she has some information for Jason and can’t get in contact with him.”

Tim frowns. “His comms are off, then?”

“Yes. And he seems to have found and destroyed all my trackers. Do you have any on him?”

“No. It…felt like another breach of privacy, given the circumstances,” Tim murmurs, trying not to see the exasperation Bruce tries to hide.

“Trackers or no, Jason’s always had a tendency—or rather a talent—for avoiding Batman when he wants to,” he says after a moment. “Given his condition, he may not actively try to hide from you.”

It’s a reversal from what he was saying before, but Tim gets the sense that Bruce is trying here. Trying to trust him, despite his earlier misgivings.

What’s going on with Dick must be getting to him. He’s used to Jason being the one he has to worry about, but not anyone else.

Tim considers this. “Then I’ll find him.”

“In the meantime, we can hear what Barbara has to say.”

Tim doesn’t point out that the information was for Jason because on the off chance it helps Jason, it’s better to learn sooner than later.

Another thought occurs to him.

“Did Diana ever get back to you? When you were on your way back you said she hadn’t yet, but…?”

“No.” Bruce’s expression becomes shadowed. “I’m starting to think there’s a reason for it.”

“You think that’s tied in?”

“We’re dealing one Olympian god—possibly two. Of course, it has something to do with it.”

“Are Clark or any of the other League members dealing with wayward gods?”

“Nothing from what I’ve found out. The Titans?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Did you get in contact with Wonder Girl?”

“No. Not yet. I can do that now. Maybe she’s got some ideas about helping Dick, too.”

“Hm.” Bruce nods, and heads back downstairs. He pauses, then turns to Tim with an indecipherable expression. “I realize we haven’t been the closest in the past few months. But I…am available to you if you ever need to talk. About anything.”

“Uh. Okay?”

Bruce watches him another five seconds and then descends the stairs.

What’s that supposed to mean?

Tim really doesn’t want to think too closely about that right now, he has enough anxiety-inducing thoughts beating around his skull. Instead, he reaches for his phone and speed-dials her, flipping the phone around to face him.

“Hey, stranger,” she says as she picks up on the fourth ring. The screen wavers as she seemingly props it up on something, allowing her to keep eating; apparently he caught her in the middle of supper.

Breakfast? What time is it even?

“I thought you’d dropped off the face of the planet. Did you finally finish up that issue with Eros?”

“Not even close,” Tim sighs, scraping his hand down his face. He’s going to need to shave soon.

“Uh-oh. Why do I get the feeling I’m not going to like this?”

“You probably won’t. Please hold all well-deserved scolding until the end.”

“What happened.”

“So, we tried to get the bow and arrows back…”

“And it didn’t go as planned?”

“Worse. Nightwing kind of…got tagged.”

“You’re kidding,” Cassie groans. “Which arrow? Though either one has the potential to be horrible.”

Tim snorts. “As uncomfortable as it would have been, I think we’d all rather deal with overly amorous Dick Grayson than the asshole that’s down in the containment unit.”

“That’s the trouble when it’s someone you care about,” she agrees. “They always know exactly where to twist the knife. Or arrow, in this case. Speaking of, that’s what this is.”

“Huh?”

“The arrow he got stuck with? It has to be removed.”

“There is no arrow.”

“Well, you wouldn’t be able to see it. It exists on a different plane. Only Eros, or the person wielding his bow and arrow, would be able to see or touch it. It’s why even the gods could never stop him from making them fall in or out of love with someone unless they convinced him to do it.”

“That’s not encouraging. Only Eros…” Tim trails off, thinking of the winged terror in his base, and of the trouble he’s caused.

Of Jason moving into his personal space, pressing his mouth against his—

“What about someone infected with Eros blood?” he blurts out, shaking his face in an attempt to get his cheeks to cool off.

“I mean, maybe, no one’s ever tried, but—” Cassie cuts off and narrows her eyes at Tim. “What do you mean someone infected by Eros blood? Are you going to bring some civilian in and try to get them to fix Nightwing? Because that will only get someone hurt.”

Tim shifts, uncomfortable. “Okay, so…remember how I didn’t really tell you who it was?”

“Yes…”

“It…might have been Red Hood.”

Cassie lets out a string of curse words, some of which may actually be Kryptonian.

Looks like Kon’s rubbing off on her…

“Just because Batman doesn’t tell his team all the details until he’s ready, doesn’t mean you get to do the same thing!” she hisses. “This is serious!”

“I realize that.”

“No, you don’t!” That guy’s crazy!”

“It’s complicated.”

“Complicated?! I’ve seen the footage, Tim! When he came back and did his rounds messing with everyone in your family, he almost killed you! He injured and incapacitated our friends!”

“I’m not disputing that.”

“He doesn’t show restraint, just throws himself into things without caring about the consequences—”

“Debatable.”

“—and has already shown obsessive tendencies. I don’t even want to imagine what he’s like now that he’s been infected with…with erotic obsession for someone!”

“I don’t have to imagine, and it’s fine, we’re handling it.”

“You mean protecting some poor civilian from their brand new murderous stalker?”

“There aren’t any civilians involved, so you can relax.”

“No civi—you mean it’s a cape he’s obsessed with?” Her voice becomes suspicion. “Is it one of you?” When he still doesn’t reply, the suspicion turns to something dangerous. “Tim…Tim, please tell me that it’s not you that he’s focused on.”

“It’s not his fault—” he begins.

“That’s it!” Cassie throws up her hands. “I’m rounding everyone up and we’re coming to you.”

“No, you’re not!” Tim protests, panicking a little because he’s already got Steph who’s going to be watching him like something about to break. The Titans known him just as well, they’re going to figure out the truth just as fast, and he doesn’t want them preemptively crippling Jason.

Unless he can stop her, he’s going to have a lot of explaining to do—and not just to her.

⁂

Jason isn’t entirely sure how he gets out of the Cave, let alone without being tailed by anyone. His normally stellar senses are clogged instead by overwhelming guilt and shame, thoughts seesawing back and away from the fact he just kissed Tim Drake.

He had tasted like coffee and blood from a split lip, and damn it, Jason shouldn’t have done that when he was hurt—

I shouldn’t have done it at all!

The bike beneath him wobbles in a way it shouldn’t as he speeds down the deserted road without an actual destination in mind, just the persistent need to be somewhere that’s elsewhere.

The world around him flickers, substituting the damp and gritty pavement with a dark room then sand-swept stone walls and then an angry, roiling ocean and then a sunlit field. His head pounds with the high-pitched cackle of his nightmares, which morphs into the cheering of hundreds of voices and then screaming.

He feels the strain of his muscles as he swings a sword, the press of his armored back against that belonging to the man who is an extension of himself, tastes blood and dirt in his mouth and the furious joy of a good fight.

Bristol’s gloomy darkness flashes back and forth to a battlefield, bodies, and steel colliding, to the inside of a canvas tent and his hand is on Tim’s cheek, the same as it was in the Batcave.

“Noble son of Menoetius, man after my own heart,” he says, and Tim wraps his own fingers around his hand, brings Jason’s palm to his lips.

No, not Tim. That wasn’t his name, it was—

Jason only just comes back to himself in time to pull over on the shoulder of the road instead of plowing into an oncoming red pickup truck. He staggers from the bike, ignoring the thunk as it falls to the ground, has to put his head between his legs.

“Hey, buddy—you okay? You just came out of nowhere—”

“’m fine!” Jason gasps, backing away from whoever is trying to talk to him. His vision continues to blur and double, juxtaposing night with the day, present with the dream he can’t escape.

Moonlight over the city, the colorless adobe buildings illuminated in its path. Sounds of raucous laughter and music from the inside palace, but outside on the balcony, it is calm and he is at peace.

“I conquer everything, and it would mean nothing without you. In this world, you alone are the one I trust.”

“And you are everything I care for,” the dark-eyed man beside him replies.

“No, his eyes are blue,” Jason murmurs.

“What was that? Hey man, did you hit your head?”

He stares across the manor ballroom until it catches the strange kid’s attention, grinning when the boy’s eyes widen at him. Their color is startling, and they take up practically his whole face.

Jason’s about to motion for him to the edge of the reception area—hanging out with another kid, even a little one, would break up the monotony of the evening—when Bruce’s hand falls hard on his shoulder.

“Time to make an exit, son,” he says, and from the distracted way he’s talking, Jason doesn’t even need to look out the window to see the sky.

Jason gasps, clutching at his head as it throbs like it’s been trapped in a vice. There’s burning pain, not unlike being emerged in a Lazarus pit like something is being forced into him. Only this time, it’s not life, but—

A green dale, unnaturally green and clean, with flowers more vibrant than anything he has ever seen. Birds sing in harmonious tones, fly against the sky that is impossibly blue, perfect wispy clouds gathered around alpine mountains in the distance.

Sitting against a tree, familiar form cradled against his chest. He feels a wistful sigh. “I would spend eternity with you if I could.”

“I’m going to call for an ambulance,” the stranger says, and somehow that cuts through the whirlwind of emotion and image crowding Jason’s head right then.

“No,” he says, straightens up. “No…I’m okay…”

This time he manages to push back the influx of thoughts, seizing on every bit of training he’s ever had in clearing his mind. The images are still coming, but Jason can think around them now.

Not sure how long for, though.

He squints at the man, trying to assess how much trouble it will be if he has to knock him out and run.

Athletic build, blond hair in a brush cut, red tattoos all up his arms of sun and flames, which Jason can see because he’s standing there in nothing but a wife-beater in mid-November. In fact, he kind of looks like someone waiting around for the next Burning Man.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m fine,” Jason snaps and starts for his bike.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, what are you doing?” the guy demands. “You can’t just get back up on that thing, not if you’ve got a head injury or something.”

“No…”

“You’re in a bad way, man, take the help.”

“Listen, pal, if you don’t back off—”

Jason hears a motor revving up in the distance and tenses, visions of being followed by the other Bats. He destroyed the tracker on the bike before he took it, but that’s never a guarantee.

“Never mind,” he switches tacks. “You’re right. I need to go.”

He intends to go on foot, to disappear into the shadows and tree line, but the guy is pointing at his truck.

“I can drive you to the hospital if you don’t want to wait for an ambulance.”

“No hospital,” Jason replies, then forces himself to think past the blurring visions in his mind. “But…there’s somewhere I can get help.”

It’s the last place he wants to go, but he also knows it’s the only place he stands a chance of getting some answers. Even if there will be a lot of smug posturing beforehand.

“I need to get to the East End.”

“Hop in,” the guy says.

“Fine. But you try anything—”

“Relax, dude, you’re not my type.”

“Still. Full disclosure: if you try anything on me, I’ll stab you in the neck,” Jason says—or thinks he says. Everything has a decidedly dreamlike quality right now.

“Fair,” the stranger laughs. His sunny disposition should be raising flags right now, but Jason gets the feeling that’s genuine. “So, were you on your way to a costume party or something?”

Jason blinks, looks down at himself, and realizes he’s still in his gear, minus the helmet he left on the floor of the cave. The red bat seems larger, more menacing than it should be.

Instantly recognizable to the average Gothamite.

He pauses, one foot in the truck, narrows his eyes. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

“Nope,” is the cheerful reply. “Drove up from Florida to visit some family.”

“Right.”

“No offense, but so far I’m not impressed,” he goes on as Jason slowly eases into the passenger seat. “The sun doesn’t really show up here much, does it?”

“You want sun, go to Metropolis,” Jason mutters, as always a bit defensive about his city.

“Oh, I’ve been there. Big Superman fan.”

“Of course you are…”

“I’m Paul, by the way.”

“Good for you. Can we get going?”

“Point the way.”

As it turns out, he doesn’t actually do much pointing. Paul apparently has an uncanny sense of direction, because Jason doesn’t recall giving him any directions. Although to be fair, he doesn’t recall very much of the drive because the minute he’s sitting down and the scenery is flying past, his mind goes back to assaulting him with images and sounds and feelings he can’t explain.

Before, the dreams were like the distant recollection of feeling and sensation, but now they images won’t leave his mind.

“In life, I sought your heart and won—I followed you into battle, and into death—I follow wherever you will go here in this place that is no place. Do you truly believe that in any life, I would not find you? That I would not be drawn to you? That I would not love you?”

It’s him, he knows that much, and that’s Tim, but at the same time, it’s not. It’s like watching from behind someone else’s eyes and yet like long-buried childhood memories suddenly making an appearance.

Paul is humming beside him, unaware of the tumult in Jason’s mind. Something about all this should be sending alarms blaring in Jason’s head, but it just doesn’t register.

“Should the time come where the gods decree we return to the land of the living, it won’t matter if we return at opposite sides of the world, as a lowly servant to the stately king, as warriors from enemy kingdoms. We will always be reunited. And we will always be ourselves. And that is enough to make me confident we would be worthy of Elysium again and again.”

“We’re about to enter the Bowery,” Paul announces. “Least that’s what the sign says. I assume that means something to you.”

“Yeah,” Jason says, looking around in confusion. “That’s a lot faster than I expected.”

“What can I say? I got some powerful horses under the hood of this thing,” the other man says, patting the dash.

Jason finds himself nodding.

He has Paul drop him off a block or two away from Tim’s apartment, waves away any attempts to go with him, and at his first opportunity disappears into the familiar alleyways without a backward glance.

He doesn’t want to risk anyone knowing where Tim lives.

Normally he’s not bothered too much by anyone possibly recognizing him—no civilian identity means he doesn’t have to worry about his enemies tracking him down that way—but Tim’s been under public scrutiny enough in the past year or so without a known vigilante showing up at his front door.

It’s just the scoop old Vicki would kill for.

His lips curl in disgust, and he briefly entertains the thought of tracking the reporter down and teaching her a lesson about messing with his—

“Stop it,” he orders himself.

He finds his way into Tim’s place the same way as he did before, barely notices the trip down into the depths of chrome and computer. His fingers itch, wanting to reach for someone who isn’t there, and his mouth still tastes like Tim.

Or does it?

He’s not sure if this is from now, or from the—

Memories? Is that what they are? And if so, whose?

He shakes that off. All that matters is getting to the person that can answer his question, that can tell him what’s happening to him.

Eros is sitting cross-legged in his cell, using an empty Big Belly Burger cup to play Quarters with a gold coin. He glances up when Jason appears in front of him, and his eyes widen in appreciation.

“Oh, you are handsome under that ugly red monstrosity,” he purrs, gaze roving over Jason’s features without apology.

He ignores it, instead growls out, “Something’s happening to me.”

Eros freezes.

“It’s different from before, from the…from fixating on Tim. I’m seeing—I hear whispers, it’s like I’m remembering something. Another life. Lives. But they’re not mine.”

“Fucking finally,” Eros groans in unquestionable relief. He puffs his cheeks out in irritation, “I thought you were never going to wake up.”

“Wake up? What the hell do you mean?”

“I mean, welcome back to the land of the living, your highness. You took your sweet-ass time about it.”

Jason gapes, confused for a half-second and then hit with sudden clarity.

“Peleides.”

“I have to admit, for being the work of the only sculptor the king has ever trusted with his likeness—“

“All of us who stand here are kings and the vassals of kings—"

“You know that bastard Darius is holed up across the Euphrates trying to dictate to me?”

“Peleides.”

“—it doesn’t look a thing like him.”

“I was king,” he realizes dimly. “I was…”Achilleus. Alexandros. “…basileus.”

“Knew you’d get there eventually,” Eros nods.

It takes longer than Jason would like for him to navigate through the onslaught of memories, to parse what the winged-man is saying.

“You. You were expecting me to wake up?”

“Expecting? Darlin’, I orchestrated it,” Eros replies smugly. “You think getting tagged with my blood was an accident? That took exact planning and timing on my part.”

What.

“When my warehouse got broken into by those Russian ruffians and then you two muttonheads dropped in, I recognized your souls right away.”

“Right, because you’re a god,” Jason deadpans.

“That’s one reason,” Eros admits. “The other is that I was the one that brought you two together the first time around.”

“…What?”

“You really think the golden-haired, princeling son of a goddess would even look at some minor frontier king’s cast-off son without a push? It took preparation to put him in your path—and then, because you’re both always stubborn assholes about it, I had to bring out the arrows.”

“I thought you said people don’t need your help,” Jason says tightly.

“They don’t, normally. But with explosive chemistry like Achilleus and Patroklus, it would end up one of two ways: bitterest of rivals or greatest of lovers.”

And that…that tracks, actually. It doesn’t make it easier to process.

“And why the hell do you get to choose how that goes?” Jason demands. Somehow, it feels less like a violation being fated to be enemies with a person than to be in love with them.

“You know why. There were big things in the making. Things Achilleus had to be alive for, and if Patroklus became his greatest enemy, he wouldn’t have made it out of Phthia.”

“Bullshit.”

“Is it really?” Eros simpers. “Are you going to tell me if Patroklus—or whatever he’s called today—didn’t take it in his head to take you out, you wouldn’t be dead six ways from Sunday?”

Jason opens his mouth to tell him just that, and then pauses.

Because…

Tim was already a planner before he became Robin if everything Talia told him is true. He tangles with people like Cluemaster and fucking Ra’s al Ghul on the same level; the latter even puts his intellect and detective skills on the same level as Batman.

Hell, Damian’s been sulking for a while about some kind of hit-list for heroes and rogues alike.

If he didn’t religiously toe Bruce’s line, Tim could probably be as cold as Amanda Waller.

“Along with sending you off your head for bird boy, my blood also nixes that pesky little side-effect of you not being able to remember your previous lives,” Eros continues.

“But why?”

“I chose to wake you because of who you were. The strongest warrior of old. Determined. Reckless when it comes to the one you love. Those qualities don’t disappear when you're born into a new body, you know.”

“And obviously you want something.”

Eros’s entire demeanor shifts in an instant, going from smug pain in the ass to cold and dangerous. “I want my wife returned to me.”

Whatever Jason was expecting, it wasn’t that. There’s a beat where he repeats it again in his head, trying to make sure he heard right and momentarily thinking it’s such an easy request.

Until he remembers.

“You said she was dead.”

“In the technical sense, yes. The insecure drama queen that is my mother sent her on a quest to collect a container of beauty from the Queen of the Underworld. Someone replaced it with Stygian Sleep, which consigned her soul to the darkest, loneliest part of the Underworld.”

Jason stares, once again wondering if he heard right. “Are you shittin’ me?”

“I shit you not.”

“How the hell do you expect me to do that?”

“Funny you should mention ‘hell’,” Eros says with an unkind smile. “Obviously, you have to die first. A particular kind of dead. The kind that, under certain conditions, can be reversible.”

Conversations from the past days flicker in Jason’s memory and a particular sticking point that the Family has been very divided on.

“Stygian Sleep,” he guesses, a pit forming in his stomach.

“Exactly. And here I thought the pretty bird was the smart half of your little duo.”

Jason grits his teeth at the reference to Tim, the infection in his blood and a few millennia’s worth of latent and now remembered possessiveness boiling within him. He toys briefly with the idea of opening the damn cage and exorcising his frustrations on Eros.

The smug bastard must sense the intent because his smirk grows larger. “I’m game for a tumble if you are, sweetheart. But neither of us really has time for a quickie right now.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Jason bites out, breathing through his nose until he can get his focus back on target. The idea of messing around with Eros helps, actually; the raw disgust at being with anyone other than Tim is like a bucket of ice water, dampening his fury. “So, how does me dying bring your wife back?”

“Being exposed to the Sleep will bind you to the same corner of the Underworld as her. With the right talisman in your possession, you can switch places with her.”

“I switch places with her? Or my soul switches places with her?”

Eros honest to fucking god claps his hands in delight. “Hah! You catch on quick. Yes, she’ll need a body, since hers is long gone. With your soul no longer taking up space, the swap will be easy.”

The implication hangs in the air. Jason isn’t about to just leave it.

“And I wouldn’t be coming back.”

Eros shrugs. “Nope.”

“Then I’m not doing it. There’s no benefit for anyone else but you, and I don’t just do shit for free.”

“Ah, but you see, this is why I needed you to be awake,” Eros purrs. “Because the meathead you are now might not have anything he’d be willing to sacrifice his own soul for…but the meathead you were definitely does.”

Jason’s gut pulls tight; he suddenly knows where this is going.

“If you do this favor for me, a god, I can ensure that your beloved is guaranteed an eternity of bliss once he dies. Hades owes me a favor I’ve never cashed in.”

“If he owes you a favor, why don’t you get him to get your wife back,” Jason growls.

“You don’t think I tried that? Even the god of Death is bound by the Styx.”

Jason thinks that’s awfully convenient, but he also knows it to be true. His mother—no, Achilleus’ mother—taught him the strength and unyielding nature of the River. Even the gods are unable to break oaths sworn by that flowing water and considering the power they have—considering they can influence where a soul ends up after their human death—that limits them considerably.

Jason swallows.

“And if I still say no?”

The cold, forbidding glint is back in his eyes. “Oh, the possibilities are endless. Maybe I’ll weaken the bonds between the two of you and send your love into the arms of an enemy.”

Jason is hit by a rather chilling, nauseating image of Tim sitting at the knee of Ra’s al Ghul.

“I told you all I need is a certain chemistry between two people,” Eros goes on, “and I’m sure there’s someone out there that would be happy to take and twist Patroklus or Hephaestion or whatever he’s called now until he’s so sullied he’ll be sent straight to Tartarus. And there’s no reincarnating from there. So he’ll be in Tartarus and you’ll be pining away in the Mourning Fields.” He pretends to consider it. “Of course, maybe you guys won’t find my diviners before then. In which case, things get messy. Assuming the world doesn’t descend into a frenzy of fucking, I may just use him until the flesh falls from his bones and he’s too exhausted to take another breath.”

Jason slams his fist into the glass. “You touch him, I’ll fucking rip your head off.”

“No, you won’t. You’ll be dead by this point. And he still won’t end up in the same place as you when you both die.”

“If I kill you now, it won’t really matter.”

“Killing a god…another one-way trip to Tartarus, and you still don’t save him any pain. Face it, Helmet Head, I’ve got you by the proverbial balls. At least if you cooperate, you get something out of it instead of royally shafted.”

Jason’s hands twitch toward his gun holster, rage blurring his vision for a moment at both the implicit and veiled threats.

He’s stuck, and he knows it,

Either Jason accepts this, thus guaranteeing Tim a peaceful afterlife—which, given the amount of shit he’s gone through would be a hell of a reward—or Jason can tell the entitled god of Love to fuck off.

And then die an agonizing death from going mad or taking the easy way out by shooting myself. Neither of which is a good death, if there can be such a thing.

Neither option ends with Jason’s afterlife being anything resembling peaceful.

Not that he ever expected anything like that, even the first time he died.

Or third time, I guess.

If all of this only involved him, it would be an easy decision to make. He’s never had an issue with throwing himself off the deep end of a bad situation—in any life—but it’s not just about him.

“If we’re going to be separated anyhow, it’s no different if it’s in paradise or rotting on the side of the Styx,” he says dully.

“Well, if that’s what you want to consign yourselves to,” Eros allows. “Or rather, what you want to consign your lover to. Imagine, fair Patroklus wasting away his eternity as a shade, crowding for space along the river, his only highlight when some wet-behind-the-ears comes looking for council. Lapping up blood from the dirt like a dog.”

The metaphorical knife twists and Jason has to fight down the urge to vomit.

“No.”

“Then, there you have it. Easy choice then.”

Jason swallows.

Tim is innocent in all of this, in that he doesn’t remember any other life but this one. He doesn’t know what they once were. But when his life ends, whether in the pursuit of Batman’s never-ending crusade, or eighty years old lying in bed, he’s going to wake up in the Underworld and remember everything.

If Jason doesn’t help Eros, he’s in for an eternity of misery.

Imagining the destroyed expression on his face—on Hephaestion, on Patroklus—makes Jason feel as if someone has shoved a knife into his own heart. Neither of them wanted to be separated; an eternity together was the whole point of making their pact, of trying to achieve Elysium three times.

It’s a huge decision.

Thousands of years of a pact to be together, and he’s contemplating breaking it. He can’t just decide this for both of them without Tim—without Patroklus—knowing the stakes, and without hearing his advice.

“Is there a way to wake him, too?” he asks roughly. “To get his memories back?”

“Same way as you,” Eros replies. “Mix blood—you’ve got me in your veins now, so you can even do that yourself if it’s one of your kinks.”

Jason shudders, at the implication and the information. That would just put Tim in the same boat as Jason, losing his mind and bound for a grisly death.

“Screw that. I’ll just tell him,” he decides. “He’s heard stranger things than that. I’ll explain it all to him.”

It won’t be exactly like telling Patroklus, but they’re the same person deep down.

“Sure, that’ll work,” Eros muses. “Or he might think you’re so far gone into your obsession with him that you’ve become delusional. He might even lock you up in digs like this, and then you can be useless to everyone.” He shrugs. “He’ll still be of use to me, though. So do whatever you want. Wake him up, don’t wake him up, I’ll still have someone to offer my deal to.”

Jason’s stomach sinks, because it’s true.

Patroklus—Hephaestion—Tim; he’s always been a self-sacrificing little shit, especially when it comes to him. If he thinks it will save Jason—save Achilleus or Alexandros—he’ll throw himself on the metaphorical sword.

And Tim’s been stabbed enough for one lifetime.

The men Jason was before would hate him for doing this. He thinks they would fight the gods themselves, bank on pride and anger to enact their will. They were heroes in their own mind, not fearing mortal challengers or death itself.

It’s the fundamental difference between them; Jason didn’t grow up as a king that was never given limits. He was born in the dirt and has been kicked back there repeatedly in his life. It’s taught him exactly what situations are worth it—whether the collateral damage is worth it—and when to regroup, or retreat.

He can’t see a way of winning this one. And only one scenario has a half-way acceptable outcome.

“I don’t give a shit about what Achilleus or Alexandros want, because I ain’t them,” Jason snarls. “Barring a few surround-sound memories, they’re about as real to me as the kid I was before I died. A memory, that's it.”

Eros bares his teeth. “That your final answer?”

“I’ll do it,” Jason tells him at last. “I put that kid through enough. I owe him. At least if he checks out of this life early like I did, I’ll know he’s going somewhere better.”

Even if it is without me.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, darlin’,” Eros replies, striding over to the drawer where he’s been getting his food. He opens it, tosses something inside with a clatter. “Keep this on you. It has to be on you when you succumb to the Sleep, otherwise, you and Psyche will both be trapped there and everyone’s fucked. And not in the good way.”

Warily, Jason opens the drawer on the outside and picks up the small, flat gold coin.

“What is this? Drachma for the ferryman?”

He's only being a little sarcastic; at this point, he wouldn't be surprised.

“Sort of the opposite. Too complicated for your monkey brain to understand,” Eros dismisses. “Just don’t lose it. For your boyfriend’s sake.”

Jason’s fist closes around the coin.

He tries not to wonder if Tim, or the men he was before, will forgive him for this.

⁂⁂⁂

________________________________________________________________

I want to know what you think of my story! Leave kudos, a comment or if writing comments isn’t something you’re comfortable with, as many of these (or other emojis) as you want and let me know how you feel!

❤️️ = I love this story!

😳 = this was hot!

💐 = thank you for sharing this

🍵 = tea spilled

🍬 = so sweet and fluffy!

🚔 = you’re under arrest! the writing’s too good!

😲 = I NEED THE NEXT CHAPTER

😢 = you got me right in the feels

Next Chapter

#jaytimweek2019 #jaytimweek #jaytim #jaytimbingo2019 #fanfic #jaytim fic #batfic #tim drake #jason todd #stephanie brown #bruce wayne #eros (new earth)#angst #action #drama #betrayal #amnesia #underworld #reincarnation

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inevitablekickline · 6 years ago

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unnecessary tgwdlm “theory” that’s really just explaining why both my infected!Emma (on @ask-emmaperkins-imeankelly) and Nash’s infected!Paul (@kickitupanotch) have head injuries in the same spot

(aka steph only realized after filming that she had done the wound in the same spot and now she makes it sound like it was on purpose in retrospect because we love a good theory)

Well, both injuries are on the left side of the head, aren’t they?

(gif from @kickitupanotchbug)

Right. (Or, I mean...left? I’ll show myself out)

And what does the left brain deal with? Well...

Hmm, logic, facts, comprehension, reality, practicality, and risk avoidance. Sure doesn’t sound like the Hive. Actually, it sounds like the opposite of the Hive.

And the ability to use words and language? Well, the Hive certainly knows how to manipulate words to their own wants. Almost like it’s best to start reconstruction from that side of the brain.

What specifically is on the left side of the brain? Well, a quick search on Google produces this...

“Broca's area or the Broca area /broʊˈkɑː/ or /ˈbroʊkə/ is a region in the frontal lobe of the dominant hemisphere, usually the left, of the brain with functions linked to speech production.“

Speech production. Yes, like before, words and language. But Broca’s area resides in the frontal lobe, right by the temple. The temple on which that both infected!Emma and infected!Paul show wounds.

It’s almost as if the Hive knows just enough to get to what’s important first, and then they let the infection spread from there.

“But Stephanie, what’s on the right side??? Surely that’s what goes last!”

Right to ask!

Feelings, imagination, symbols, appreciation, fantasies, possibilities, risk taking, visualization...

All the things the Hive preys off of. They have to let the host feel they are still in control of these things at first...allow them to imagine...to wonder...to want. And then as they lose hope, or as they realize the better life is with the Hive...that’s when the infection has finally spread.

But...what if someone already had what they wanted? Or what if what they wanted wasn’t with the Hive originally?

Well...

That will have to be a question that must wait to be answered... ;)

#tgwdlm #tgwdlm theory #headcanon #steph rambles #the guy who didn't like musicals #emma perkins #paul matthews #hivemind #theory #tgwdlm headcanon #starkid theory #starkid headcanon #team starkid #starkid #kickitupanotchbug #steph pulls bullshit out of her ass and calls it a theory #or something #;)

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kathydsalters31 · 4 years ago

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Tetanus in Dogs: Overview as well as Causes, Symptoms, and also Treatment Options

September 02, 2020 1 Comment

Earlier this summer, we got a heartbreakinge-mail from a DJANGO Dog Blog visitor(transcript listed below). Jeanette’s dog, Sam, had regretfullysimply passed away from tetanus, a terrible yet rare disease. Jeanette reached out to us to share her dog’s stressful experience with tetanus as well as asked that we spread out recognition as well as share important information concerning the illness. In doing so, perhaps we could aid stop another pet dog’s fatality from tetanus in the future.

If I am being 100% straightforward, I (Steph) did not understand anything regarding tetanus in canines before Jeanette reached out. Sure, I had heard of tetanus in people and also received tetanus vaccinations throughout my life … but dogs? I never understood pets could be at risk to this condition. After some initial research, I recognized exactly how vital it is for us canine owners to be aware of tetanus in canines, the disease’s symptoms, as well as exactly how our four-legged pals can get the condition.

Because obtaining Jeanette’s heart-wrenching e-mail, I’ve done considerable research study on tetanus in canines. I additionally spoke in detail with Dr. Shadi Ireifej, the Chief of Medicine at Veterinarian Triage, who aided me additionally recognize risk aspects and therapy alternatives for this condition.

Below is whatever you require to find out about tetanus in pet dogs: the causes and symptoms of the illness, threat aspects, treatment options as well as prices, negative effects, and also tips for avoidance.

REVIEW AND CAUSES OF TETANUS IN DOGS

Tetanus is brought on by bacteria called Clostridium tetani (C. tetani). Clostridium tetani are primarily found in dust, dirt, and also feces.

When C. tetani microorganisms spores enter a pet’s body through a deep injury or open aching, they multiply. As the C. tetani microorganisms die, they create a neurotoxin called tetanospasmin. This neurotoxin binds to the pet’s nerves, eventually migrating to the brain as well as spinal cord. When this happens, natural chemicals that manage movement, touch, pressure, pain, as well as temperature level (glycine and GABA) can not be released. This results in convulsions of other signs and symptoms and volunteer muscle mass (more on symptoms listed below).

There are 2 kinds of tetanus:

Localized tetanus is one of the most typical type of tetanus and also has a 90 percent survival price. A dog with local tetanus might have muscle mass stiffness or tremors in the arm or leg closest to his injury. In many cases, local tetanus can become generalized tetanus.

Generalized tetanus occurs when tetanus spreads throughout the pet’s body. Generalized tetanus triggers the pet to shed his capacity to blink. The dog’s temple ends up being deeply old and wrinkly and also they ears become pulled back. His eyes protrude, as well as his lips curl back right into a ‘sinister smile’ called risus sardonicus. In more advanced stages of generalised tetanus, an affected dog may end up being so sensitive to appear that any loud sound such as hand clapping can trigger convulsions or seizures. The pet dog might not have the ability to bend his legs, causing what is called a ‘sawhorse stance’. The canine additionally might not be able to totally open up or close his mouth, and also his heart rate may drop listed below 60 beats per min. The survival rate for generalised tetanus in pet dogs is 50 percent.

SYMPTOMS OF TETANUS IN DOGS

Symptoms as well as indicators of tetanus in pet dogs can show up anywhere from three days to 3 weeks after the canine is wounded and subjected to C. tetani germs. Signs can be extreme or mild and also consist of:

Fever

Bowel irregularity

Drooling

Old and wrinkly forehead

Erect ears

Sunken eyes

Unable to blink

Clenched jaw (tetanus)

Smiling appearance (risus sardonicus)

Stiff and extended tail

Unbendable legs as well as an arched back (sawhorse stance)

Trouble consuming or drinking

Muscular tissue spasms set off by light, touch, or noise

Paralysis

Seizures

Difficulty breathing

“I think my pet dog is revealing symptoms of tetanus. What should I do?”

If your pet dog is exhibiting any kind of signs of tetanus, please see your veterinarian asap. Dr. Shadi Ireifej emphasized that canines that can not move or take a breath ought to be instantly rushed to the nearby emergency vet facility.

IS TETANUS COMMON IN DOGS?

Tetanus is luckily uncommon in pets.

Dr. Shadi Ireifej has actually operated in veterinary medicine for 14 years. He saw one instance of canine tetanus at Cornell University in 2004. According to The Canadian Veterinary Journal, equines, humans, as well as sheep are 600 times more susceptible to tetanus than dogs. Birds and felines are 10 times much more resistant to tetanus than dogs.

Some pet dogs are much more at risk of tetanus than various other canines. Larger dog types that reside on ranches or in the nation have a higher risk of contracting the illness. Canines that have accessibility to manure or are close proximity to dead animals are additionally far more in danger of tetanus.

Dogs that spend comprehensive time outdoors can obtain tetanus from foxtails, or yard seed awns. If not discovered swiftly, these can tunnel right into your canine’s vital body organs and also blood vessels. According to the UC Davis School of Veterinary Medicine, 27 percent of canine tetanus situations are brought on by foxtail burrs.

Newborn puppies can get tetanus via their umbilical stumps. Canines under 2 years old are likewise at greater danger of tetanus because they are extra likely to put dangerous, infected things in their mouth (unclean sticks, corroded nails, glass, etc).

HOW IS CANINE TETANUS DIAGNOSED?

There is no easy diagnostic test for tetanus. Blood tests aren’t exact since C. tetani does not live long airborne. A tetanus diagnosis is normally made based upon your pet’s appearance and the history of his injury. If you did not discover your canine’s wound 10 to 14 days back, your vet might get an urinalysis, electrocardiogram, and also chest X-rays.

THERAPY OPTIONS FOR TETANUS IN DOGS

Antibiotics. Penicillin and also Metronidazole are antibiotics made use of to deal with tetanus in dogs. They’ve no result on the neurotoxin yet can stop C. tetani from spreading.

Stablizing. Intravenous (IV) fluids are used to halt dehydration while oxygen is used to prevent respiratory failing. If your pet dog’s throat and also diaphragm are paralyzed, he requires an endotracheal tube or a mechanical ventilator.

Debridement. Dead cells is gotten rid of from around your pet dog’s wound to lower tetanus germs. It’s cleaned with light soap as well as water or iodine.

Sedation. Acepromazine and chlorpromazine are suggested to regulate your pet’s sensitivity to sound, light, or touch. He may also be infused with midazolam, phenobarbital, or diazepam to manage muscular tissue stiffness.

Equine antiserum. A debatable treatment, equine antibiotic may be an alternative if tetanus is caught early. Made from the blood of steeds, it can be provided by IV or infused under the skin or right into the muscle. It can use up to three days to destroy the tetanus toxin. Skin examinations are advised due to the fact that equine antivenin can trigger possibly life-threatening allergies.

Nursing treatment. Your dog might require around-the-clock treatment in a peaceful and also dark room for 7 to 30 days. He requires soft bed linens, constant rotation to prevent bedsores, hand feeding or feeding by a G-tube, and also assist expressing his bladder.

Just How Much DOES IT COST TO TREAT TETANUS?

Tetanus therapies can cost anywhere from $15 to $20,000. The price of treating tetanus in pets will depend on the severity of the situation and also needed treatment. Light situations of canine tetanus that only require a vet go to, wound cleaning, and anti-biotics might set you back approximately $200. Serious cases of tetanus requiring lasting sedation, stablizing, and round-the-clock nursing care can set you back well into the thousands.

Right here is a checklist of approximate prices for common tetanus treatments. Please bear in mind that costs can vary extensively based on your place as well as veterinary center (we reside in NYC so everything expenses more right here):

Antibiotics like Penicillin (take by mouth) – $15

Injectable Penicillin – $250

Sedation – $85 (lap dogs) to $100 (huge dogs)

Bloodwork – $90

Wound Repair – $135 to $335

Horse Equine Antitoxin – $3,000

SIDE EFFECTS OF TETANUS IN DOGS

According to the Journal of Internal Veterinary Medicine, 77 percent of dogs that endure tetanus have a REM sleep actions condition (RBD). This usually occurs 2 weeks after pets are discharged from the veterinarian.

Your pet may shiver, run, or gripe in his rest. While anti-epileptic medications will not assist, signs and symptoms ought to not get worse with time. RBD might solve after numerous months.

HOW TO PREVENT TETANUS IN DOGS

Because tetanus is fairly unusual in dogs, there is no vaccination presently offered for canines like there is for human beings.

If your pet dog has a wound without symptoms, Dr. Ireifej suggests immediately cleansing it with mild soap and also water, iodine, or thin down peroxide to rid the website of germs as well as protect against infection. Dr. Ireifej also recommends using Neosporin to your pet dog’s cleansed injury as well as bandaging it to stop the intro of extra microorganisms.

No matter just how the wound appears, place an e-collar on your canine and visit your vet immediately. Your vet will certainly be able to effectively clean the wound even more (if required), prescribe any type of necessary anti-biotics, and also apply any type of required stitches.

Sam’s Story

Right here is the heartbreaking email we obtained from Jeanette, a DJANGO Dog Blog reader and also pet dog mother to Sam. Jeanette connected to us to share her and also Sam’s heartbreaking experience with tetanus in hopes that we would share details regarding the disease with our viewers.

Sam’s Story

May 29, 2020

“Our pet just passed away from tetanus. I’m reaching out to you to ensure that our tale can bring awareness to this “unusual” condition that seems to impact a fair bit of pet dogs every year. We initially saw our pet Sam’s face was actually weird. It appeared like she was secured a smile (we later on found out the name was “the ominous smile”) however very uneasy. Upon taking her to a vet they diagnosed her as dehydrated and also prescribed prescription antibiotics, lots of water, as well as rest. However later that day her signs appeared to be worsening as well as she appeared to be extremely out of it. We made a decision that she was acting in a not typical and also really alarming means so we took her to a 24 human resources healthcare facility, California veterinary experts. From there we obtained the news that our pet dog had contracted tetanus, a terrible however extremely unusual condition. Simply like any kind of other millennial couple my partner and also I started our google research study to attempt and also discover as much information on this disease as feasible. However there was little to no valuable info on recouping from tetanus and also a lot of truly sad pictures of dogs that appeared like they were experiencing. 2 days later our canines signs and symptoms got so poor that she was incapable to open her mouth (referred to as tetanus) and was having a really hard time trying to find a good setting so her air passages opened to take a breath. The dr in that hospital recommended her staying in the hospital for 2-3 weeks, but perhaps over a month, in intensive care in order for them to try and also save her. Yet even then the survival rate they provided us was 30%. We did not have the money to spend for a months remain at a medical facility for a 30% possibility survival. We can’ve taken her home yet without the proper devices and understanding to take care of her it was very likely that she would certainly stifle because of the illness and also die at home. Our pup was enduring as well as we made the very tough as well as heartbreaking decision to claim good bye to her. I want to try to connect to as several animal blogs as I possibly can to spread out recognition and possibly encourage some young veterinarians around to push for some kind of vaccine for tetanus in canines. Or a minimum of for anyone to do even more research study for pet dog owners like us to make sure that we can maintain our pups risk-free.”

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from Lucky Dog Solutions http://www.luckydogsolutions.com/tetanus-in-dogs-overview-and-causes-symptoms-and-treatment-options/ from Lucky Dog Solutions https://luckydogsolutions.tumblr.com/post/628262750551932928

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poison-basil · 7 years ago

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Part 9: Baby Daddy

Prompt:

Well this is my idea: You could make Temperance sick to the stomach or something, but since it has many things to do ignore its illness, for a few days other people only see it vomiting, with dizziness and fever, and automatically think that it is pregnant, all enter panic, then they get excited and then they are disappointed to know that she is not pregnant. by MaldicionDeLuna on AO3

Summary - this wasn't what she was expecting on her bi weekly visit to Manor.

Temperance felt like heaving when she got out of her car. The motion of the car turning her stomach, it had been a battle to get to the Manor, however she couldn't miss this weekend. She had already missed the last weekend she was supposed to come down, due to this illness (getting slashed in fights and trudging through sewers was never a good mix, for anyone) she had been confined to her apartment for the better part of two weeks. Heavy waves of nausea and dizziness accompanying the massive ache in her bones made it impossible for her to patrol, she didn't want to tempt herself so she kept her com muted (except for the emergency line, there was nothing stopping her is there was something big going down) so she hadn't really heard from anyone in a while.

Dick, Jason and Alfred had all made sure to text and call occasionally, to make sure she wasn't out and about (like she would ever do that) and resting properly, though the calls that she was getting seemed to be getting more cryptic and rushed. Damian had popped down in the earliest stages of her illness, when she was mostly lucid and scowled at her while she threw up her breakfast. He had quickly left with a strange look about it, she let it be thought, when wasn't Damian slightly strange?

Now here she was feeling much better and not as though she was two foot from an early grave. Only slight waves nausea washing over her when she moved to fast or suddenly. She planned to be out on patrol tonight, mostly for stake outs and Intel, there was no way she was going to risk throwing up on herself while grappling (gross).

Temperance hoped to make a silent entrance into the Manor and quickly go put her stuff away before facing everyone, get set up and comfortable for her stay (or as comfortable as she could in the Manor anymore). As soon as she entered the main entrance she was accosted by bright pink and blue decorations everywhere. There were streamers on the chandeliers that she just knows Dick must have had a hand in placing with the haphazard way they were thrown around (if it were Alfred it would’ve look nothing short of perfect) which begged the question as to why she didn't know about this if Dick did. She had called him this morning to confirm that she was still coming over and he hadn’t mentioned a thing.

There were numerous balloons strewn about the hall. All announcing a congratulations on the baby. Pink ones for a girl and blue ones for a boy (they either didn’t know the sex, or there were twins on the way). Temperance stood in the place looking at all the baby paraphernalia wracking her brains over who could be having a baby. She hadn't heard anything about someone being pregnant. Steph would definitely tell her if she was and as far as Temperance knew Cass was still in Hong Kong, so this couldn't be for her… Temperance was so lost in contemplation that she didn't notice someone entering the room.

“Temp!” Startled by the sudden shout of her name Temperance looked to see Dick quickly making his way over to her, stepping around wrapped boxes that must be presents. When Dick had got close enough he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her closed and breathed her in. I felt so good to actually see Dick again, she hadn’t been able to feel him in a while, something loosened inside her she hadn’t even known was there.

She lifter her arms and put them around him giving him a squeeze, “Hey Dick.” God it really did feel like heaven getting her arms around him again and not be worried that she was going to infect him with what she had come down with (though her missing spleen didn’t help with how bad she got.)

Temperance felt him pull back slightly so she tilts her head up to see him smiling blindingly down at her. There was never going to be a time when that smile didn't send shivers and tingles down her spine (sometimes it was scary how much power he had over her with simple gestures like that). She couldn’t help but smile back in return.

His eyes crinkle at the edges, “You ok? Was the ride over ok? Sorry I couldn't come pick you up, I just had a few things that needed to get done…” She sees his eyes travel to the decorations surrounding them, “but I imagine you already figured that out.” His smile dampens slightly as though he thought this was going to go unnoticed by her somehow.

“I can totally see your handy work on the chandeliers,” She giggles nodding her head upwards, she paused for a second, creasing her brow slightly in thought, “Who’s it for?”

“Who’s it for?” He echoes.

Temperance quirks an eyebrow at him, tilting her head slightly at the look of confusion that had just crossed Dick’s face. His smile gone and replaced with a small frown. He unwraps his arms from her and takes a step back and stands slightly awkward. He brings a hand to the back of his neck and rubs it.

“Who's it for?” She watched as Dick’s brow creased further. “Who… I'll be right back!” He exclaimed. Before she can get in another word Dick is sprinting off further into the Manor.

Maybe Dick, in all his excitement, forgot who the party was for? Temperance thought that was a long shot, but it didn't really make sense for Dick to decorate for a party for someone he would forget so easily. She’ll ask Bruce or Alfred later when he makes her official appearance. Temperance made her way up to her room and pushed the door open, her room was filled with colourfully wrapped boxes of varying sizes. Closing the door and shuffling in she put her bag down by the bed before sitting on it, why were these in her room? She was getting more and more befuddled by second.

Suddenly her bedroom door is slammed open and a breathless Jason Todd is standing there, looking at her with wild eyes, on instinct she tenses up (it’s hard not to with the lifestyle and past history between them), ready for a blow, then slowly relaxes the tense muscles upon Jason taking no further movements into the room. She looks at him a moment more before piping up, “Hiya Jay, you alright there?”

He blinks owlishly at her for a moment, “I-- Yeah, I’m good Tee just, wasn’t expecting you to come up here right away…” She watched as his eyes darted over the presents before coming back to her. “Dick said he saw you, but when you didn’t come to the main room I thought I would look for you.”

“Well, I was just about to put my feet up and relax a little before coming down to see everyone, though now that you’re here, there is a question I want to ask you…” She trails off as she sees Jason’s shoulders tense a little. What was up with Dick and Jason today?

Jason cocks his leg and crosses his arms, “Shoot Tee.” She feels his eyes linger on her.

Temperance gestures to the colourful boxes, “Who are they for?” Jason looks like he is about to run from her. She sees him straighten up a little. “I don’t mind that there in here or anything, I just want to know what the fuss is all about with the presents and decorations.” The frown that overcomes Jason’s face is strikingly similar to the one Dick had earlier. As though they were both confused as to how she didn’t know (and frankly it was starting to annoy her, why wasn’t anyone telling her who it was?).

“You really don’t know?” Jason looked completely bewildered about this. “At all?” He pressed. She shook her head no a small frown on her lips. “Ok, either, there has been a huge mistake, or your lying.”

Temperance’s face pinched at the accusation. Folding her arms in front of her defensively she glared at him. Jason winced, damn, he thought today was going to go smoothly.

“No, I don’t know Jason,” Temperance pinched her eyebrows further, getting up from the bed she made her way to the presents and dodged Jason’s outstretched as he tried to stop her, picking up the closest and smallest one she could see, she flipped the label and saw ‘Dick’ neatly scrawled. (What the hell?)

“Dick?”

“Well you see --”

She interrupted him by raising the hand that wasn’t holding the box. Her mind was reeling, screeching at her, what the fuck? Quickly she looked up to Jason, he knew something and she was going to find out!

“Jason, you tell me whats going on here or I’m going to get nasty, I know Dick helped out with decorating and it makes no sense for him to pretty up his own party, and all the baby stuff--” Suddenly her eyes widened, her stomach sunk and twisted, “Has Dick gotten someone pregnant?” Her eyes start to sting and she quickly closes her eyes, scrunching them tight, Dick was sleeping with someone else? Her throat tightened with a lump of remorse, fuck, this was a shitty way to find out, why didn’t Dick tell her before she came over?

“Tee! No!” Jason suddenly has his hands on her shoulders, shaking her slightly and she looks up at him, slowly coming out of her head, his teal eyes pleaded her to listen to him. “It’s nothing like that!” The hands on her shoulders tighten, “It’s you.”

“Me?”

“Yeah Tee, we heard from the Demon that you were suffering from morning sickness…”

Temperance just stares at him for a moment longer, the words filtering through, her stomach slowly untwists and the lump in her throat dissipates. Me? She sees the truth pouring from Jason, his earnestness in getting her to believe him. “Why would he think I was pregnant?”

She feels Jason let go, and bring his arms behind his head, “He said he saw you get sick and that you mentioned dizziness…” Jason looks away and back again, his face sheepish, “We all just took it at face value and ran with it in our excitement, Dick thought that maybe you were keeping quiet so you could surprise him, so he wanted to do it first, hence the decorations and stuff…”

“He knew I was just ill though..?”

“He told me you were just trying to make excuses for the morning sickness, it sounded good at the time Tee!” Jason looks a little disappointed, “We were all really excited about the baby,” Temperance raises a brow at him, “Don’t look at me like that, we don’t get much good news ‘round here and this Tee? This would of been so good.”

She softens her look, she knows how much Jason loves kids. “Sorry to tell you man, but there's no baby in here.” She points to her belly. “Though, now I know if there ever is to be, I will send out a mass e-mail, so everyone knows.” She grins at Jason and it widens when he smiles back at her.

“It’s not me you have to apologise to sweet cheeks, Alfred has put a lot of effort into this, who do you think bought and wrapped all these presents?” Jason smirks and she knows she looks as dumb as she feels.

“I’m going to kill Damian for this!” She hisses and she hears Jason chuckle and gives him an exasperated look.

Temperance watched Jason turn and head to the door, he opened it and swept an arm in the direction of the hall, “Come on m’lady, we need to go break the news to the rest of them.”

She sighs and makes her way with Jason in tow towards the living room. (God this was going to be hell.) Jason leans down to speak quietly into her ear, “Just… prepare yourself ok?” She gives him a nod and they make the rest of the way there in a comfortable silence, as they approach the door, she can hear muffled voices behind it. Taking in a steady breath and straightening her shoulders she grabbed the handle and pushed the door open.

Lights in the room were suddenly turned on, with party poppers going off and spreading on fetti all over her and the rest of the room along with a chorus of ‘Congratulations’ being shouted at her from the many people in the room.

“I’m not pregnant!” She blurts, and damn, she was supposed to let it out all easy, let them down slowly, but this was overwhelming, there was a big sign hanging over fireplace, congratulating her on the baby with a load more presents.

“What?” Temperance turns to the voice and sees a rather stunned Dick limply holding onto a used party popper. A part of her wishes she was pregnant so that she wouldn’t have to witness all this disappointment from so many people at once. She quickly surveys around the room, taking in the people there, Bruce, Alfred, Damian, Stephanie, Cass (she was supposed to be in Hong Kong right?), Barbara and Jason and Dick, Damn, everyone was here.

“I-- I’m not pregnant Dick,” Dick looks like he is about to say something but she presses on. “Jay told me that Damian thought I was,” She gently places her hand on his chest, ”But Dick, I’m not…”

He grabs her in a hug a squeezes her hard and utters words she isn’t expecting. “Oh thank god,” She squeaks and he just holds her tighter, “I love you Temp, I do, I’m just not ready for kids, you don’t know how freaked out I’ve been these past weeks.”

Temperance releases the tenseness in her muscles and melts into his arms. That was so good to hear, she didn’t know what she would do if Dick was upset about it other than hold him until he was ok again. Suddenly there is a bubble of joy in her chest and she lets out a giggle that grows into a laugh. Dick unravels her from his hold and looks at her face and grins, suddenly he is joining her in the laughter, across the room she hears Damian, “Why are they laughing Father?”

“I love you.” She manages, through her laugh and Dick’s answering smile is blinding. They did all this for her, because they heard that she was pregnant and with no proof what so ever. The fact that Dick had pulled himself together even though he was panicking, just to make this a good thing, it warmed her heart, what did she do to deserve these guys? She leaned up and kissed Dick, his hands coming to rest on her neck. Pulling away she smiled up at him, hoping to convey all the love she felt for this man.

“Love you too Tempie, love you too.”

#Temperance aka Tim Drake #female tim drake #Temperance's Temptations #DickTim #Tim Drake #dick grayson

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georgegoreman · 7 years ago

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Rehab #4 (Whitsitt in Chestertown, MD)

Detox has been brutal, plus I had a million bumps and bruises and a UTI from drinking nothing but vodka and gatorade for like a week. I didn't meet anyone that interesting, these three girls that came from prison together hated me and security had to stay with me for 2 days (imagine Patrice O'Neil as a security guard, I loved him. He'd complain every time I walked anywhere or went outside like "what is you doin, plantin some kale, doin pilates, whatever you tattooed white girls do, just do it in one place because I'm sweatin!") and I had to be in a private room, caught the worst respiratory infection from this very sweet homeless girl who it turns out I went to middle school with and one of my cousins was also there, basically it was like jail, except you can smoke and hug your visitors. Most people in there had been homeless or locked up for years, so I had to keep all my "NO TOUCHING" Arrested Development jokes to myself. One of the girls that hated me got out at the same time as me and we are trying to be friends, but it's very uncomfortable. We've seen each other almost every day and have plans again tomorrow, so we'll see. Honestly, I might not hang out with her after the meeting tomorrow. One of the other girls stole someone's medicine, came in my room, showed me her teeth were fake (like took them out in front of me and I am a nice person so I just hugged her and was like sshh it's okay), wrote "bestie" on my hand and then was kicked out the next morning. It was sad, I felt like she wanted to tell someone all the stuff she said to me, but couldn't do it unless she was high. She's on the run now, but she has my info so I hope to hear from her again. The third girl was also kicked out for taking someone's medicine. Oh and there was a fourth girl that didn't come from prison, but was with those girls and she left, overdosed and died 19 hours after leaving. Sad, but that's what happens. It was definitely my worst rehab experience. I literally have no idea why those girls hated me in the first place. I've never experienced that before, but I didn't let it make me feel bad. Like we're all in a bad place in a bad situation, why make it worse than it has to be? But I was doing so well in groups and classes, my counselor said I could leave a week and a day early. I actually wish I stayed because of how I feel physically. Alcohol withdrawal is no fucking joke. I was seeing nurses and dogs (of course I would hallucinate animals lol) in my room and hearing music, it hurts to cough, it hurts to walk and I keep doing this thing where if someone asks a question on tv, I answer it. My biggest fear is wet brain, I've only seen 2 people with it and it's just terrifying. Every time I do this, it damages my brain more and I raise my risk of like the shittiest of cancers. Greg's finally had enough of me, he has Jada and the house belongs to him, so I'm back home with my parents. He says he'll let me see Jada sometimes. I still have to go get my stuff. I'm actually probably not even allowed to get it myself. Monday I'm going to send a package to all the girls still there and I'm very excited for them to get out and I hope the very best for them. It makes me so sad to think about the reality of it. Some of those beautiful women will die and leave behind their young children, some will be in and out of jails and institutions for years to come, but some will get better. After all those angry girls left, I got to have a roommate that was a girl named Ramona. She's been to 12 rehabs and her poor husband has stuck by her through all of it. She came in so drunk and she told me he told her he'll love her even if she never got better. Then we were both crying. All she wanted to do was color and talk about her husband, she was so sweet. Basically, most state run rehabs are getting worse and heroin isn't even heroin anymore. Girls should be nice to other girls. It took me two rehabs to kick heroin, I guess it took two rehabs to kick alcohol. I'm looking forward to making sober lady friends. I did meet a few men that I feel okay about. One I offered a job and one has been coming to meetings with me and Steph (the girl that was mean to me). Addiction is such an ugly disease and I've met so many beautiful people in the years I've been dealing with it. And who takes the brunt of it? Our loved ones. Recommend them to al-anon.org, alateen.org, the alanon subreddits or local church recovery groups. My addiction has ruined so much and I'm so toxic, my parents and Greg have all reached out for help and hopefully they're able to work through everything I've put them through. If I had the money, I'd build a rehab for the loved ones of addicts and alcoholics. Really, it would just be like a resort with counseling. No matter what, just keep trying. Even if you've been to 100 rehabs or detoxes! Look at everything you have, no matter how big or small it is and be thankful for it. It always can get worse and it can always get better. There are so many resources available and there are so many people that want to help. You have to take the suggestions given to you and you have to do some really uncomfortable things. I've never really been sober and single and I know I can't stay with my parents forever, so I really have to work harder and fix my credit. I also have to start taking care of myself, on the inside and out. I'm seeing a special counselor for addiction and childhood trauma. People tell me how I'm so pretty and nice or funny and I always think to myself, it's because they don't know the real you. I feel uncomfortable even repeating that people say that to me, like maybe someone would think I'm making that up. That's what I want to change the most. I'm so tired of feeling bad about myself. It literally makes my shoulders feel heavy. I guess it's hard to explain if you don't understand the feeling. Anyway.. I just needed a place to put some of my feelings!

#addiction #rehab #afwhitsitt #whitsitt #recovery #womeninrecovery #aa #na

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tabloidtoc · 4 years ago

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National Examiner, April 26

You can buy a copy of this issue for your very own at my eBay store: https://www.ebay.com/str/bradentonbooks

Cover: Queen Elizabeth's royal rage

Page 2: Playing House -- famous best buds who shared the rent -- Dustin Hoffman and Gene Hackman, Ryan Reynolds and Michelle Williams, Robert Downey Jr. and Kiefer Sutherland, Danny DeVito and Michael Douglas

Page 3: Justin Long and Jonah Hill, Ving Rhames and Stanley Tucci, Eddie Redmayne and Jamie Dornan, Jason Priestley and Brad Pitt, Holly Hunter and Frances McDormand, Rob Lowe and Tom Cruise

Page 4: Matt Damon's roles and costumes

Page 6: A Delaware state trooper went above and beyond the call of duty when he surprised a little boy with a brand-new pair of Steph Curry sneakers -- Trooper Joshua Morris and nine-year-old Ra'kir Allen got to be pals when they played basketball together, along with other youths in the area and when the good-hearted cop learned that Ra'kir thought NBA star Stephen Curry of the Golden State Warriors was his idol, he got an idea, and after running the idea past Ra'kir's mother, the cop presented the aspiring sports star with his own pair of shoes -- Morris says cops should never be strangers to the people they protect, and he lives his belief every day

Page 7: Screen legend Bette Davis believed she had psychic abilities, says her assistant Kathryn Sermak, who met the legend in 1979 and was hired within five minutes of meeting her -- as her personal assistant, she was at Bette's service 24 hours a day, but the star was also very generous like if they were going to a film set, the job was seven days a week, but when it was over, she'd give Kathryn a paid vacation anywhere she wanted for as much as six weeks -- few people know that the screen idol loved to pull practical jokes on people; for instance, at cocktail hour, Bette would serve drinks in gag glasses that dribbled, and then when the liquid would pour onto her guests' expensive dresses or suits, she would innocently ask if they were okay -- the assistant also knew Bette's only child, Barbara Davis Hyman, known as B.D., whose father was Bette's third husband, Grant Sherry. Bette and her next husband, Garry Merrill, her co-star in All About Eve, also adopted two more children, Michael and Margot Merrill, but diagnosed with brain damage at age three, Margot has spent her life in institutions

Page 8: Saving Face -- take years off with simple makeup and skincare tips

Page 9: Vax Reax -- prepare for possible COVID jab side effects

Page 10: Billy Adams really knows how to get his daily steps in as the software exec walks 12 miles around Washington D.C. every day, picking up trash by hand -- during the lockdown, Billy took advantage of working from home to find a daily routine that was good for his physical and mental wellbeing, and helps beautify the city he loves -- starting in June, he began to choose a different 12-mile route every day, no matter the weather, Billy crossed from his Maryland home over into D.C. for a three-hour loop, starting at 8:30 a.m., and he picks up trash along the way and dumps bags of it into garbage cans on his route

Page 11: Tips for getting a restful night -- some tried-and-true tips for getting some rejuvenating rest

Page 12: Olivia Newton-John knows a thing or two about survival: she's had breast cancer three times over the past 28 years and has worked tirelessly to save her own life and the lives of others with her extensive research into natural remedies -- the 72-year-old Grease star says she and her husband John Easterling, who founded the Amazon Herb Company to help the world recognize the benefits of the Amazon Rainforest plants, have developed an approach called integrative medicine. It's a mix of doctor-recommended treatments and those from their own research

Page 14: Dear Tony, America's top psychic healer Tony Leggett -- never too late for romance, it will take work

Page 15: Tom Cornish is 96 years old, but age hasn't slowed him down from knitting up a storm of kindness -- over the past year, the Minnesota World War II veteran has donated nearly 500 winter hats in eye-catching colors to the Salvation Army, where he does volunteer work, and he hand-made each and every one of them

Page 16: Keeping the Peace -- TV has its share of great cops, but here are the ten best TV cops of all time -- T.J. Hooker, "Pepper" Anderson, Joe Friday, Andy Sipowicz, Richard "Hutch" Hutchinson, Kate Beckett, Lennie Briscoe, Olivia Benson, Frank Reagan, Sheriff Andy Taylor

Page 18: When a North Carolina school entered custodian Raymond Brown in the state's School Hero Award, he lost to someone else, so they made their own ceremony and gave him $35,000

Page 19: A group of ATV riders got the scare of their lives when one of their dogs stepped off the edge of a steep cliff and kept going, according to Steven Hawkins, president of the Utah ATV Association, who call themselves The Wild Bunch -- they immediately swung into action action to rescue stranded pooch Summer and got together and each took a hold of a rope with Steven at the end, climbing slowly down the face of the rocks as the others held on while looking on in horror, but in the end, the group found the strength to pull man and dog from the cliff face to safety

Page 20: Cover Story -- Queen Elizabeth is on the warpath -- palace aides are walking on eggshells around Her Majesty ever since Prince Harry and wife Meghan Markle dropped the bombshell on American TV that the royal family is a racist mess who completely ignored Meghan's mental health problems, among other horrifying accusations, and the queen will never get over the fact that Harry, without warning, turned his back on his own country and the people Elizabeth has served every day of her 95 years and she's also terrified the royal family's circus-like antics will bring on the end of the monarchy

Page 22: A California couple who were just about to retire drastically changed their plans when they adopted seven children -- Pam and Gary Willis have five children of their own and have been foster parents to many others and just as their last child was about to leave home, Pam spotted a Facebook advertisement searching for a forever home for seven kids from ages 15 to 4 whose parents had been killed in a tragic car crash -- Pam says she couldn't stop staring at their faces, saying she can't explain it, but she just knew she was supposed to be their mom and when she told Gary, she thought he'd call her a wacko because they were just about to retire, but surprisingly he agreed and they both felt it was what God wanted them to do

Page 24: High school senior Dasia Taylor is only 17, but she's going down in medical history for inventing sutures that detect if a wound is infected -- the brilliant student was named as one of 40 finalists in the Regeneron Science Talent Search, the nation's most prestigious science and math competition for high school seniors -- Dasia's sutures, which took a year to perfect, work by changing colors if the patient's PH level alters and the level changes quickly when a wound is healing and goes bad, so she began experimenting with beets, and she found that beets changed color at the perfect PH point and that's perfect for an infected wound -- the color changes from bright red to a dark purple when a wound becomes infected so it's easy to see with the naked eye and Dasia envisions the stitches being used in developing countries, so that infection can be detected with no advanced equipment -- Dasia's goal is to attend Howard University and become a lawyer

Page 25: 4 signs you may have weak bones

Page 26: Sentimental baseball fantasy Field of Dreams hit a home run with its poignant story of second chances, and as the one-of-a-kind movie celebrates its 32nd anniversary, here are some of the secrets behind the classic motion picture

Page 28: Wisdom of the stars -- inspirational quotes to light your way -- Javier Bardem, Tom Cruise, Leonardo DiCaprio, Michelle Obama, Brad Pitt, Diana Ross, Justin Timberlake, Meryl Streep, Anne Hathaway

Page 29: Beyonce, Barack Obama, George Clooney, Sidney Poitier, Katy Perry, Taylor Swift, Rihanna, Will Smith, Matt Damon, Ariana Grande

Page 32: Get Insects to Bug Off -- save your picnic and your sanity with DIY tricks

Page 40: Chakras -- Your powers begin within -- what chakras are and what they do

Page 42: 10 facts about Law & Order: SVU

Page 44: Eyes on the Stars -- Blake Shelton says he's hoping for a summer wedding with fiance Gwen Stefani, Sylvester Stallone is writing a potential TV prequel to his Rocky film franchise, Tara Reid recently wiped out on the red carpet in six-inch platform heels, Evelyn Sakash who worked on art direction on Mermaids was recently found dead in her NYC home months after she was reported missing in September 2020, Dancing with the Stars pro Sharna Burgess recently made her red carpet debut in Malibu with beau Brian Austin Green, Jeffrey Dean Morgan admits he's still shocked about The Walking Dead coming to a close later this year, Martha Stewart made waves last summer when she posted a sultry selfie on social media and admits she got so many proposals and so many propositions

Page 45: Rita Moreno attends the SAG Awards via video (picture), Selena Gomez and Martin Short shares some giggles on a NYC set (picture), Mary Steenburgen playfully serenades husband Ted Danson (picture), Helen Mirren (picture), Joe Giudice recently met Luis "Louie" Ruelas who is the current boyfriend of his former wife Teresa Giudice, Salma Hayek has joined the cast of House of Gucci playing clairvoyant Pina Auriemma, Ben Affleck gushed over ex Jennifer Lopez in a recent interview

Page 46: Two best friends are even closer after one rescued the other using CPR, a single day after she completed a course on how to administer the life-saving technique -- Torri'ell Norwood, age 16, was at the wheel when a speeding driver rammed her car, sending it hurtling smack into a tree and the St. Petersburg, Florida teen climbed through the window to safety when her door wouldn't open, and two of her three passengers also managed to get out, but her BFF A'zarria Simmons was still inside the wreck unconscious -- Torri'ell had just completed her CPR training the day before and knew what to do so she pulled her pal from the vehicle and, when she couldn't find a pulse, administered 30 compressions and two rescue breaths until A'zarria regained consciousness and paramedics soon arrived and rushed the girl to a hospital

Page 47: Get out of the wind and rain, or just find some shade, while you wait for the next bus in these quirky, fruit-shaped sculpture bus stops -- the idea began in Japan and is now spreading to other countries, so don't be surprised to see a super-sized piece of fruit at the end of your block in the near future

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topmixtrends · 7 years ago

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I WENT TO LUNCH with Ben Loory a couple years back, and afterward, we walked to a gelateria. While I wolfed down gelato, he sat across from me, not eating, and asked how he should end a story about an ostrich and a UFO. He gave me the premise and the outline of the story so far, and I puzzled along with him, but mostly nodded with my mouth full while I watched him chase down his own neuron fire like some kind of fabulist Good Will Hunting. About 15 minutes later, we were talking about something else entirely when he announced that he had it: “The aliens put their head in the sand.”

It all made sense when I read “The Ostrich and the Aliens” in his spectacular new collection, Tales of Falling and Flying. As with all of his stories, I felt that satisfying click, the visceral understanding that the pieces locked together, even if I wasn’t quite sure how.

I asked Ben over email about his stories, his process, and other Ben Loory things. Here’s a look at the inside of his weirdo genius brain.

STEPH CHA: You have this distinctive metered style that makes your stories instantly recognizable as Ben Loory stories. How did you develop this style? Are there unpublished proto-stories where it’s halfway there? How defined are the rules? Do you have like a personal style guide?

BEN LOORY: It’s weird, you know, no one has ever asked me about that. I think most people don’t even notice. (Which is good, because if people started calling me a poet, I’d probably never sell another book.) Anyway, yeah, that just emerged gradually. Going way back: When I first started writing stories, I was really just thinking of them as story ideas — as outlines or treatments; I was brainstorming, hoping to find a good one to write a screenplay out of. It was only after I’d written maybe 15 or 20 of them that I started to think, “Hey, these are actually really cool as they are, as these very short, simply told, action-packed little stories.” They didn’t have a lot of extraneous description, didn’t rely on metaphors or similes (or anything people usually remark upon as “good writing,” really), didn’t have much internality or background characterization — it was all just pure story, pure happening, beginning to end. And I started to ask myself, “Why don’t people write stories this way?” I mean, this is the way people tell each other stories, if we’re all just sitting around talking, at a bar or a party or a dinner or something. So I figured that was the assignment I was giving myself, and I set out to write a book of these stories.

But then — okay, getting to the point now — after I’d been writing those stories for about a year, I remember there was one night — and I wish I could remember which story it was — but there was this one night where I was writing a story, and it ended, accidentally, in a kind of rhythmic half- or slant-rhyming couplet. And at first I was like, “Oh jeez, gotta change that”; but then the more I looked at it, the more I liked it; I liked the way it brought the story together at the end with this kind of bang, the way the rhythm of the prose told you the end was coming, and then the semi-rhyme made it feel complete. So then I started ending all the stories that way — sometimes with a full rhyme, but usually with a near-rhyme or half or slant rhyme, and always trying to get the meter of those last sentences moving that way to build up to it. I don’t even know how to describe it, really — I think it might be ballad form? But I’m not an expert. And then, over time, that rhythm that began in the closing paragraphs began to spread backward through the stories, it just started to infect my prose in general, until finally I just found myself writing in that meter, even when I wasn’t planning to. I remember the night I noticed that — I remember sitting there, thinking: “Be careful! This is what happened to Dr. Seuss!” But then I was like, whatever, Dr. Seuss did okay, so I just embraced it and have pretty much written in that meter ever since.

So yes, to answer your question, there were early versions, at least of my early stories, that were written before that meter emerged, and yes, I had to go back and shift those stories around in order to fit the “guidebook” — but that guidebook isn’t written down; I don’t even really understand it. I just kinda know when it feels right and when it doesn’t. I like the way the meter adds this beat, this pulse to the story, that propels readers along — I think it’s kind of hypnotizing.

I know you read widely, in pretty much every genre. I wonder if you ever think, like, “One day, I’m gonna write a dystopian trilogy, or a 600-page realist novel set in New Jersey.” When you sit down to write, is it always short stories that come out?

Well, yeah — so far! I’ve always said, “Hey, if one day I sit down and a novel starts coming out, so be it, I just do what I find myself doing.” (That’s my rule.) That being said, I did actually have a novel idea not too long ago — it came to me in the night one night sometime about a year ago. I wasn’t writing, I was just lying there, staring at the ceiling, and it came to me, just sorta crept on in, and very quickly I saw the whole thing spooled out — it’s this Jonathan Franzen–type multiple-perspective decades-spanning realistic novel centered around a thrash metal band, starting in the mid-’80s. It even has a title (which is a really good title!) and I know how the whole thing goes, even the last line. (I’m leaving out all the cool stuff about it — don’t worry, it’s better than it sounds here.) So then I spent some time thinking, “Well, do I write that?” I figure it would probably take me about two years. And I did actually toy with the idea for a while, and even wrote the opening chapter, but in the end (at least, so far) I decided it wasn’t worth it. That two years would be two years I wouldn’t be writing stories, and I could probably write between 50 and 100 stories in that time! And those stories would be good — or at least, I hope they would be — and they would be my stories, which I kinda feel like only I write. So do I really want to preemptively flush those stories down the drain in favor of writing a novel that pretty much any writer could write? I mean really, it might be good, but it would just be another realistic novel about some people in a band … only really differentiated by the specific flavor of my prose. Which just doesn’t seem like enough to keep me going. I don’t know; I might do it someday. Mostly because I really love the title.

I feel like when a reader picks up a book by an author she likes, the expectation is that it’ll be the same, but also different. How do you think your writing has changed since you published Stories for Nighttime and Some for the Day?

I don’t know. I don’t think it’s changed much; my hope is it’s just gotten better, more focused. This book does come out of a better time in my life, though; Stories for Nighttime and Some for the Day, I started writing when I was really at rock bottom; it was a scary and kind of terrifying time in my life, so the stories were pretty dark, pretty horror-based. The last few years have much better, so while there’s still a lot of (at least) existential horror in this book, I think a lot of it is more fable-y, fairy tale-y, maybe a little more fun? But I could be wrong. It’s hard to step outside and judge.

I noticed you wrote some stories in the first person this time. That’s new, isn’t it?

Yeah, first person was a bit of an experiment. I actually started doing that a long time ago — it was right after I’d finished (or at least, thought I’d finished) my first book … I’d been writing all these third-person stories where no one had names and they all took place in this kind of nebulous, cartoony otherworld. And when I finished that book, I got up the next morning and I was like, “Okay, what do I do now?” So I figured, well, I guess I’ll write some more stories. But when I sat down to do it, I suddenly felt like I was faking it, like I was just copying what I had done before. So I decided to switch it up and just do the opposite of everything. So I wrote a lot of stories (and I do mean a lot, probably around 200 [just first drafts, but still]) and they were all in first person and they were all about “real”-seeming people, characters with names who lived in the same “real”-seeming town. For a while, I was planning to put out a whole book of these stories, it was like Winesburg, Ohio, but in the Twilight Zone, was how I saw it. Anyway, that ended up not panning out, for a couple reasons (first off being that all the stories ended the same way, with the main characters either dying or leaving town, which got kind of ridiculous after a while). But I still kept writing the stories — I really liked a lot of them — and after a while I started going back and forth between those and the ones in third person. Now I just sort of indiscriminately move between them, whenever I start to get bored. It’s just become another arrow in the quiver.

I will say that first person was really hard for me at first. Coming from screenwriting, I tend to see stories from outside — as pictures, as people out there in front of me, walking around, doing things. First person is weird because now you’re in some character, and what are you doing there? You have this body, this mind, this whole past and language to deal with, and how do you stay in that and deal with the expansiveness of it all and not let the outside world just get completely washed away? In the end I think my first-person stories remain a little mysterious. The person at the center of them is always a little blocked out; it gives them an interesting feel, but they get a little claustrophobic if you read too many of them in a row. I was actually thinking of them recently when I was reading those new Rachel Cusk books. She does the same kind of thing, where there’s this big hole in the very center of the narrator, where you’re used to this grandly etched monument. It’s unsettling.

How do you start a story? Like the first story in this collection is about a dodo who hasn’t gone extinct with the others, and who wants to prove to himself and others that he is in fact a dodo. Where did that come from? I have about one good story idea every one to three years, which is why I write novels. Are you getting hit by new story ideas like every week?

I don’t actually have ideas, is the thing. People always laugh when I say that, but it’s true — I don’t even want ideas. In the past, I always sat around waiting for ideas, waiting for a “great story” to fall into my lap, fully formed, thinking then I’d go off and write it. And every now and then I would have what I thought of as an idea, but then I’d cling to it so tightly, so desperately, so carefully, that I would never actually do anything with it out of fear I might lose it or mess it up or something and never get another. So finally I decided to just let all that go, and now I don’t deal in ideas. Now I just deal in images and characters, I start simple and then just follow the characters and let the stories unfold.

So, for instance, in that story about the dodo, I started with just the “idea” of a dodo. It’s nothing fancy, a million people have done it. So whatever, a dodo comes to mind, so now I’m writing a story about a dodo. So I sat down and wrote that first part of the first line: “Once there was a dodo.” Then I looked at it and wondered what would happen next, and the first thing that came to mind was that he probably died, because they all died, and that made me laugh, so I wrote it down: “… and he died with the rest.” So then there I was, it seemed like the story was over? But how could it be over, it just began! So then I added: “But then he suddenly got back up again!” And then after that, the whole thing just flowed out, he’s running around proclaiming that he’s a dodo and no one believes him because the dodos are all dead and he’s trying to prove it but there’s no way to prove it — it all just follows inevitably. But that wasn’t the idea, it didn’t start with that — it just started with an image, a simple statement: once there was a dodo. That’s it.

I think a lot of people think about imagination as this kind of telephone that you pick up and then someone tells you what to do. But for me, it’s more like an openness, a determination, to just follow what you have right there on the page and respond naturally and honestly to what’s happening. It’s a matter of just trusting your instincts, all the time, and resolving to never turn away from them.

I know you work on some of these stories for years. When do you know that a story is done?

For me, there are two parts to a story being done. The first is the hard part, that’s getting the actual story right, which for me is mostly figuring out how it ends. Most of my stories tend to hinge on paradoxes or logical contradictions or impossible things like that, and so somehow managing to resolve those unmatchable threads in the end always throws me into a terrible brain pretzel. Usually what happens is eventually something gives and the emotional conflicts in the story come together and then the last line appears and at that point I usually burst into tears. Either tears, or I feel like a great big giant hole has opened up inside me and I’m falling down into it (those are the scarier stories, I guess). And it’s that moment, that point where the story suddenly surprises me with an unexpected emotional charge, that I’m looking for, and once I’ve found that, I know I’m at the end. It’s always an emotional thing — there it is.

After that, I leave the hard part and move on to the impossible part, which is getting all the words right, getting the whole thing flowing properly. That usually consists of me sitting in my house, reading the story out loud to myself over and over and over, making sure I don’t trip or cringe at any point, and then doing that again and again and again. And that work could go on forever and ever, because what seems perfect today is never perfect tomorrow. As a writer you grow and change and you’re always in different moods and different psychological/intellectual places and you’re always seeing the story from different vantage points in your life, so, whatever … long story short, you can never actually get a story perfect, I hate to say. So eventually, after straining for perfection for however long, eventually you just kinda get tired of moving the same couple of commas back and forth, or sticking a word in and taking it out, and at that point you just kinda say, okay fine, whatever. And then that’s the end of that.

This is a book of 40 stories in three parts — 13 each plus a bonus. I’m guessing this was deliberate, since your first book was organized the same way. How did you land on that structure? And how did you group/order the stories?

That structure just emerged during the editing of the first book. I’d started out with a manuscript of 101 stories, but Penguin asked if I could cut it down to 30 or 40 (they seemed to think a 500-page book of fables by a first time author was a bad idea). Of course I went with 40 because I didn’t know if I’d ever get a chance to put out a book again. My editor thought it might be helpful to divide it up into different sections, as a way of giving people guideposts, sort of rest stops along the way, so I just immediately split it into three, because I’m obsessed with three-act structure. That made 39 — three sections of 13 stories each (which I also found numerologically pleasing) — and that meant one story would be left over, to kind of hang out by itself at the end. That made good sense to me because that last story was the one from The New Yorker, which was longer than the rest of them and had been written in a slightly different style.

As for order, for the first book, I basically just put the stories in chronological order by when I started writing them. This was after months and months of trying (and failing) to make up a natural-seeming order for them. Chronological order worked out well, because there’s already a natural evolution to the stories; they start out kinda scary and about mostly unnamed people, and then slowly start to change, they get weirder and wilder and then animals start talking, and then all hell breaks loose. And at the end, in the last few stories, it contracts; the stories settle down into this strange, spooky, surrealist thing, and then it goes out on the explosion of “The TV.”

For the second book, I didn’t how to structure it, so I just went with 40 like before, and kept the three sections and that +1 at the end — I really like having that “+1” spot because it gives me a place to stick a story that’s a little different from the rest. In the case of Tales of Falling and Flying, it’s the story “Elmore Leonard,” which is longer and maybe a little more “real world” than the rest. I’ll probably do the third book the same way.

Did you write toward 40 or did you leave tons of stories on the cutting room floor? How did you decide what to put in and what to leave out?

Well, I did aim for 40, but it was more of a corralling and whittling down — I don’t leave anything on the cutting-room floor, exactly, it’s more like some stories just go back into the oven. I have hundreds of stories I’m working on at any given moment, and I’m always writing more and juggling them around and moving back and forth between them. So the ones that came together and really felt exciting to me come deadline-time, those were the ones that went into the book. The others will come together someday, for some book. I never give up on a story.

Do you have a favorite story in the collection?

No. They are all my favorites. But! There are some that I feel particularly attached to, usually because I worked on them for so long — they sorta feel like family members I lived with for years, trying to help them get on their feet. “Death and the Lady,” for instance, I think I worked on for 10 years (not a solid 10 years, but coming back to it again and again). “The Rock Eater” and “The Sword” and “Elmore Leonard” are in that group. And “The Woman, the Letter, the Mirror, and the Door.”

There are also those stories that still feel mysterious to me — the ones that I know feel done to me, but are still just slightly beyond my comprehension. Those I always love because I don’t really feel responsible for them; they feel like these gifts that sorta floated into my life and began to eat from my hand. So in this book, those are “The Fall,” “The Madman,” “Gorillas,” and to some extent “Picasso” and “The Ambulance Driver.”

And then, beyond that, there are the ones that just make me laugh, the ones that when I read them, I just feel like a little kid sorta discovering stories all over again, which is weird because they’re my stories, but hey, I’ll take what I can get. “The Porpoise” in this book is like that — I’m smiling now, just thinking about it — and also “The Cape” and “The Frog and the Bird.”

And fine, okay, “War and Peace” is my favorite.

You’ve done a lot of teaching since your first book. Has that taught you anything about writing? Any great advice you give to students that you don’t actually follow?

The main thing I’ve learned as a teacher is that what works for you as a writer is not necessarily what works for anyone else. You can’t just say, “Here’s the key, do this,” because the key to everyone’s personal creativity is different. So instead you have to come up with lots of different keys — even ones that you yourself don’t find even slightly useful — and just keep throwing them out there in the hopes that someone will catch one and it will work. Being a teacher requires a much more open mind; being a writer is just a matter of being true to yourself. They are related of course, because you’re dealing with the same field. But the skills involved are completely different.

As a writer, the main way being a teacher has changed me is that it’s made me a much better editor. I’ve gotten much quicker at zeroing in on story problems, whether in other people’s work or my own. Somewhere along the way, I developed a list of common questions — How does this character pay their bills? What does this character do when they’re not at work? Does this character have any friends? Do they like them? What are they afraid of? et cetera — that I find are usually pretty helpful for beginning writers. And hey, you know, they work for me too! You just get to know the territory a lot better.

Do you write for any particular kind of reader? What do you hope people get out of your writing? Like what’s the best kind of email you can get from a fan?

I don’t really think about readers when I’m writing (when the book is out, they suddenly become very real). I just figure that we’re all basically the same, so if it works for me, it’ll probably work for everyone. Sometimes I wonder if people will know some strange word, but in the end I just go with whatever feels right — that’s the only thing I can be sure of. I never know what people mean when they talk about writing for a particular audience; it just seems really condescending and bizarre — not to mention completely impossible. I have a hard enough time figuring out how the story goes, what the characters want, how the events are going to unfold — now somehow I’m supposed to change all that around to please some nebulous, generalized group of nonexistent people, based on how I think they’re going to react? Just seems like a cynical and doomed undertaking. If the readers like the story, then they become the audience — that’s about the best I can figure it.

As for what I hope people get out of my writing: basically, I’m just hoping for an experience! An emotional, experiential, hallucinatory one, and one they can’t turn away from. Ideally, I think a story should provide an experience that a reader’s never had — or even dreamed of! Both as a reader and a writer, I’m always hoping for a roller-coaster of the mind and the heart and the soul.

I’m always happiest when people just tell me they like the stories, or when they tell me they were moved by them, that they made them happy or sad, or made them laugh or cry. I’m always a little distrustful when people compliment the details; when they pick out a particular line or some specific image or moment. I feel like when you love something, when it really affects you, there isn’t a whole lot to be said. (Wow, thank you, that was great — that’s what I’d tell Tobias Wolff if I could.) Not that I won’t take any and all compliments! But it’s the emotional response I’m after.

What’s next for you?

Well, I’ll probably write some more stories. And one day maybe I’ll vanish into the night.

Steph Cha is the author of Follow Her Home, Beware Beware, and Dead Soon Enough, all published by St. Martin’s Minotaur. She’s the noir editor for LARB and a regular contributor to the LA Times. She lives in her native city of Los Angeles with her husband and basset hounds.

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