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the-travelling-witch · 2 months ago

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𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝐔𝐏𝐃𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐃: 𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐈𝐍 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄

summary: in a world where androids have been established in everyday life, it should not come as a surprise to find one setting up shop next to you. shouto, however, seems to have a mind of his own, especially when he does things you are sure are not part of his programming. it begs the question, is there a line where programming ends and humanity starts?

pairing: android! shouto x florist! reader (gn)

warnings: fluff/ slice of life; assault (not described in graphic detail), no beta readers (this isn’t the omegaverse)

a/n: i have returned!! this was originally meant to be my piece for @andypantsx3's pretty boy summer collab (go check it out!) tbh, i have so many hcs about these two now ♡

bnha masterlist

It was a rather pleasant morning, with the sun not scorching down on the few pedestrians out and about, as you walked to work. You wouldn’t say you were as susceptible to the hot season as others, nonetheless you were grateful it wasn’t sweltering quite yet. Still, you preferred the temperatures of the day over the incessant chill the night brought.

Leaving the shade of the automatically operated parasol spanning the pedestrian crossing, your gaze was automatically drawn to the forest green of your shop’s awning standing out against the city’s backdrop. With habitual ease, your mind started running through your tasks for the day until your attention was caught by movement around the storefront directly next to yours.

Ever since you had started your florist business, the building next to yours had been empty. Occasionally, potential tenants had come to inspect it, but nothing had ever become of those visits. Now it appeared as if someone had taken up shop there, if the minimalist sign out front was anything to go by.

Swiping your wrist over the scanner partially covered by the flower shelves displaying plants less susceptible to heat, the temperate air from inside welcomed you in and a voice command later ambient music floated through the humble room. There was still a bit of time before you’d be open for business, so you thought now would be as good a time as any to introduce yourself to the new face around.

After a bit of consideration, you picked up a small plant and selected a fitting pot for the little fellow before taking a breather and smoothing down your clothes. Then, with your welcoming gift in hand, you entered the shop, the layout of which mirrored yours. But instead of shelves with lush plant life, there wasn’t much to be found here at all, except for a few tools and spare parts strewn across what you thought to be the counter. Rustling could be heard from the room behind it.

“Hello?” You tentatively called out, hands fidgeting with the ceramic between your palms as you watched dust particles floating through the streaks of morning sun falling through the shop front.

At your announcement, the noises stopped and someone appeared in the doorway. And the sight knocked all breath from your lungs. The man in front of you was gorgeous, probably the most beautiful man you had ever seen. Two striking, hetero chromic eyes, one steel-grey and the other blue like a lagoon, studied you from under white and crimson strands as he crossed his lean arms over his chest. His symmetrical and flawless features coupled with his build would have made it hard to believe he was real if he wasn’t standing right in front of you. The only thing that could possibly be considered a flaw was what looked like a burn scar over his left eye, but even that did nothing to hinder his beauty. Actually, it somehow seemed to enhance it.

“Can I help you?” Of course his voice was smooth and rich too, the kind you could listen to for hours. His gaze flickered over to the planter in your arm. “I am sorry but I cannot fix that.”

“Fix it?” You questioned, confusion apparent on your face as you tried to follow the conversation that had only just started.

“Yes. I am a mechanic, so it is reasonable to assume people would come in to have something repaired.” The cadence of his voice had not wavered at all, his neutral tone making it hard to decipher whether he was joking or dead serious. “Seeing as the item you are bringing in is made up of organic matter, I cannot fix it.”

“Oh uhm.. That’s not–” You cleared your throat, sorting your thoughts with a shake of your head. Better to start this interaction on fresh soil. “I didn’t come over to have something repaired, I just wanted to introduce myself since I run the florist shop directly next to yours. I’ve never had a neighbour in the few years since I’ve started, so I just wanted to say hi to the new face around. Sorry for just barging in.”

“Given that the door was unlocked, your action cannot be considered ‘barging in’, as having people come inside is within the expectations for owning a shop.” Again, you weren’t sure if he was pulling your leg or if he was just a very factual person, but you thought his matter fact attitude was charming in its own way. “You stated you were here to introduce yourself. To my knowledge this constitutes the exchange of names. My name is Shouto.”

You gave him your name in return, then stepped forward and planted the pot on a free space of the counter. Watching for his reaction, his blue eye caught the sun’s rays and almost seemed to illuminate as he looked at the planter. “I brought this as a house -or well, shop- warming gift. It’s a jade pothos and really easy to care for, since it very clearly indicates its needs–”

“It tolerates a wide variety of temperatures and does well in indirect sunlight, though the solid green leaves of the jade variety make it best suited for low light among the pothos species. The watering schedule depends on the climate, yet the roots should not be kept too wet since they are subject to root rot,” Shouto spoke clearly, finishing your explanation for you. “Did I get that right?”

“Yeah! Wow, I’m impressed! Maybe I should have brought you a more advanced plant after all,” you laughed, happy to leave your gift in capable hands. “If it turns out you have a green thumb on top of all that knowledge, I might have to ask you to start working in my shop.”

Shouto stared at you and blinked, then brought up his hands to inspect his thumbs. “My fingers all seem to be of a fair complexion, so I must decline. I will notify you if this condition changes.”

Seriously, this guy was going to kill you and you couldn’t suppress an amused snort. “Sure, please do. Though I have to say, it’s been a while since I saw a mechanic. Most of the work seems to be taken care of by repair droids.”

“Someone has to repair the repair droids,” he replied. With anyone else, you would have read it as a joke but his line delivery remained so neutral, you weren’t sure he intended it as one.

“Fair enough,” you chuckled, fingers idly tapping along the wooden desk. “Gotta admit, I just expected another android to take care of that…”

When you looked at him again, there was no missing it this time. His left iris flickered blue, exactly like the processing unit in an android would when evaluating new information.

Oh.

“I see how it is,” you sighed, smiling defeatedly. “At least my reasoning was sound, if this is anything to go by.”

“I cannot read your expression right now,” Shouto admitted openly, slightly tilting his head. “Are you upset? Uncomfortable?”

“No, I’m not much of anything right now,” you said, trying to figure out your feelings for yourself. Of course, you felt a little dumb not noticing it sooner, but in your defence, you’d only ever seen escort droids this gorgeous next to celebrities at fancy events. You yourself had never been in the market for one, considering you were neither lonely enough nor attending events formal enough. Besides, you weren’t in the pay class to buy one anyway. So your interaction with androids was generally limited to repair and maintenance droids as well as the courier drones zooming all over the city. Besides seeing this kind of model apparently working independently was odd in and of itself. “In any case, this doesn’t change anything.”

“It does not?” He inquired, sounding almost… curious?

“You’re still my new neighbour, after all.” The corners of your lips lifted, a little more uncertain than before, and you drummed the tips of your fingers against the surface of the counter while getting ready to leave. “Anyhow, I shouldn’t bother you any longer, I’m sure you still have a lot of stuff to set up. If you ever want to get your plant there a friend, you know where to find me. Until then, don’t be a stranger, okay?”

“Being a stranger is impossible, since we have already exchanged personal information, such as our name and career path. According to social etiquette that makes us acquaintances.” Maybe you imagined it but it seemed as if there was a small smile tugging on his lips. “I have also compared your visit today with the definition of ‘bother’ and found no overlap.”

“Isn’t that a relief,” you mused before stepping into the morning sun again. “Good luck with the shop.”

Shouto watched as you waved at him through the dull glass of the storefront, the processing notification in the top right corner of his display still turning. Then his gaze fell on the green organism in front of him. It showed no signs of loneliness yet.

From then on out, Shouto and you were exactly as per his definition; acquaintances, nothing less but also nothing more. You made it a point to greet him when you ran into each other in the morning and he’d politely greet you back, as by the social norm, but the android never took the initiative in calling out to you. For some odd reason, this planted a seed of unease in your chest, which you couldn’t uproot but very well push aside. Shouto didn’t seem keen on sharing his identity with people, wearing long sleeves and gloves to hide any clues that might give him away and a very selfish part of you felt a guilty spark of pride for knowing better. It was wrong to feel satisfied by having knowledge someone wasn’t keen on sharing but feelings couldn’t be helped, could they?

Besides, what would you do once you overcame the initial gap between you? Was that even a good idea? Well, you’d cross that bridge when you got there, you supposed.

This distanced dance around one another continued for a good while, until circumstance had other plans for you. One fateful morning, you swiped your hand over the censor to your shop, only to be hit by a swell of muggy air, every step inside making your clothes cling to your skin a little more. Notably, the usually faint but still audible whirring of your AC was absent and you groaned. Sure, the heat was unpleasant but ultimately not disastrous for you. The plants in your shop, however, would not take to it kindly for longer periods.

Needless to say, you spent the entire morning dialling repair service numbers between attending to customers fanning themselves, but to no avail. With the way repair droids had seemingly popped out of the ground like daisies over the last decade or so, you were somewhat dumbfounded to hear nobody would be able to send someone to help fix your problem, even if your livelihood might depend on it. That was when your brain connected the right synapses to figure out a solution.

After debating it for the rest of the morning, come your lunch break, you found yourself walking into a shop nearly identical to yours, just one door over. It wasn’t as empty as the first time you entered but you got the sense that Shouto wasn’t big on interior decoration past the most basic of furniture. You had timed your visit well though, apparent by the fact you were the only customer at the time. At the chime of the little bell over the door, there was rustling in the back, the clank of metal against something wooden, before a familiar figure appeared behind the counter.

“How may I help you?” Shouto asked neutrally, the statement rolling off his tongue like one of those retro voicemails people used to have way back when. Something akin to recognition crossed his face and you reminded yourself that those beautifully attentive eyes of his probably just compared you to a data bank of people he’d encountered before. “It is you.”

“I guess it is,” you awkwardly laughed at the blank statement. Your gaze shifted to your twiddling thumbs, flickered across the android’s face and then fell on a lush jade porthos sitting idly on the desk. “Uhm so, my AC broke some time tonight and I need it to maintain a prosperous environment for the plants but nowhere I called is free today. I wanted to ask if you could maybe take a look? I’ll pay you, of course.”

“Sure,” he agreed easily enough that it made you pause for a second. But before you could gather your thoughts, Shouto had already rounded the counter and joined you. “I am not specialised in air conditioning systems, but it should not pose a problem.”

And just like that you were showing him through your shop and to the back room, the mechanic completely unaffected by the sweltering heat stoked by the midday’s sun. If you hadn’t known he was an android, you would have had your suspicions the moment not a single bead of sweat rolled down his temple. Heterochromic eyes scanned your -admittedly not uptodate- technology before fixing on the AC unit nestled in between.

Shouto examined the device briefly before doing something so interestingly peculiar, you were sure this was a part about him he didn’t show others all that often. In a stellar impression of a swiss army knife, the tip of his index finger gave way to a joint that was more screwdriver than anything else and he quickly unscrewed the cover to take a look at the wiring underneath.

“It is only a minor issue,” Shouto said, effectively ripping you out of your daze. “I will be able to fix it without ordering any spare parts, which is good, since manufacturers have already stopped selling spare parts for this model.”

“Is this a subtle way of telling me to invest in a newer one?” You chuckled bashfully, well aware that the state of your electronics was probably laughable to an android as advanced as him.

“I am merely stating the facts,” he replied. If it were another human, you would almost recognise his tone as teasing. But your straight-laced neighbour was most likely just running diagnostics on the optimal service life of your AC and booting up a cost-benefit analysis of buying a newer one.

You watched him work with fascination, Shouto apparently completely undisturbed by your intrigued glances as his fingers worked over the wiring and circuits with mesmerising ease, speed and precision. Before you knew it, the AC sat back in its place fully assembled and contentedly whirring as it had been doing for years. With equal rapture your eyes were still following Shouto’s movement as he stood to his full height again, pulling his black gloves back over his hands. Tearing your gaze away from him, you brushed some plant soil off your clothes and cleared your throat. “So, how much is it going to be?”

“I will not be charging you for this,” Shouto said, shaking his head ever so slightly. “Please regard it as compensation for the plant you gave me.”

“The pothos was a gift, you know,” you chuckled, twisting your fingers together just to have them do something. Again you found it unexplainably difficult to keep eye contact with him and your gaze flitted about, trying to push away the realisation dawning on you. “The point of gifts is that you don’t owe people anything.”

Somewhen between watching Shouto work on your AC unit and trying to navigate this conversation, you had achieved a form of clarity on why you found it hard to keep him off your mind. The way your attention kept drawing back to him had nothing to do with him being the first humanoid android you’d met. It reminded you of the way your eyes always subconsciously locked onto the back of your crush’s head during classes a decades ago, in a way that was innocent and harmless. Unlike the feelings stigmatised by society which now tugged at your heartstrings. You could almost hear your parents scoffing at you for even considering having any sort of feelings for a pile of cold metal that just mimicked having human emotions.

“Then please regard this as a gift as well.” Dual toned eyes studied your face intently as he did last time as well and you convinced yourself that their beauty was helped by the fact that they were literally unreal. “And feel free to ask for my help again in the future. In comparison to human interactions, I find it easier to understand machines.”

“Well, that’s not surprising, is it?” And then you blurted out the worst thing you could have said. “It’s not like you’re familiar with real emotions that aren’t part of your coding.”

“Human emotions are largely caused by their brains releasing certain neurotransmitters upon receiving new information. You learn which situations are supposed to make you happy or should cause you stress as you grow up.” There was hardly any other description befitting of what you saw cast over his face other than pain and sadness. However, there was no surprise there, only muted resignation. Simply put, you could not attribute the cadence of his voice or the subtle shift in his expression to anything but genuine emotion. “I fail to see how that is so different from me being programmed to experience a response upon certain triggers being activated.”

Yeah, you immediately knew you fucked up. Not just by the heavy weight settling in your chest as you retraced the awfully insensitive phrasing you had tossed out mindlessly, but also by the way Shouto turned wordlessly and strode towards the front door.

“Shouto, wait! I didn’t mean it like that–” You only heard the familiar ring of the door bell.

As the air in your shop slowly cleared of the oppressing air, your skin prickled more than it had in the heat standing there alone. And just like that, the shaky bridge between you went up in smoke.

For the next week, there was no response when you greeted Shouto in the morning and after that the greeting died on your tongue when you saw him. And it wasn’t like you could blame him for it either. You’d hurt him and it wasn’t your decision to make if he forgave you, no matter how much you wished to apologise earnestly. For now, all you could do was give him the space he needed and accept whatever conclusion he came to. It was the only fair thing for you to do.

Still, it was one of the things you were mulling over as you locked the shop one night. Some necessary organising had kept you longer than usual and you were considering your late dinner options with half a mind as you made your way home. The streetlights provided as much light as they could, but with the moon hidden behind a thick duvet of clouds, the streets were tinged a steely grey. Despite the bustling nightlife in other parts of the city, the roads here were nearly empty and desolate, the quiet only adding to the unnerving discomfort making the hair in the back of your neck raise. Shivering, you picked up the pace.

Some people claimed they had very accurate intuition, a sort of sixth sense for when things were about to go wrong. Perhaps you should count yourself among them, because you learnt there was a good reason why your gut feeling had you looking over your shoulder every other metre. You didn’t make it far on your way home until a strong hand yanked you off the pavement and into a dimly lit alleyway.

The next few minutes were a blur of your eyes frantically searching for a way out as your blood was pounding in your ears in time with your erratic heart beat. You didn’t even understand what the men in front of you wanted but you knew they were threatening you as you shrieked for them to let you go, trying to jerk your wrist from a grip made of iron. Your breathing became more and more laboured with panic and exertion, shutting your eyes and willing the images of what would happen to you out of your mind until–

The resistance gave way and you nearly fell backwards from your struggle. Somehow you caught yourself amidst your stumbling but when you looked straight ahead, your mind didn’t quite catch up with your eyes. There was a flash of white and red, someone groaning in pain, the thud of bodies hitting the floor and then there was Shouto. He was calling your name as from underwater and you thought he was asking you if you could walk, to which you dazedly nodded.

A heavy arm wrapped around your middle but you found you didn’t feel caged this time, its weight rather comforting, as he led you down the familiar street. On autopilot, you opened the door of your shop and let him navigate you to a backroom. The secure familiarity of your surroundings managed to ease you out of your brain and back into reality as you took in a shuddering breath.

You had known Shouto was there but, finally, you were actually aware of him in front of you, his clear eyes scanning you up and down. Maybe it was because you did not want to think about what had just happened or because seeing him in front of you reminded you of what you’d wanted to tell him for a while now, but the words left your mouth before you could completely think about them once again. “Shouto, I’m so sorry.”

“This situation is not your fault–”

“For what I said the last time we spoke, I mean,” you corrected yourself. As if willing your brain to form coherent sentences, you brought a hand up to rub at your temple. “I know I can’t take back what I told you but I want you to know that I didn’t mean to be offensive. Not that that makes it any better or in any way okay.”

When you dared to look back at Shouto for his reaction, you found that his gaze wasn’t quite meeting yours, his eyes instead focusing on something just shy of them. It took you a few seconds to realise that he was looking at the hand that had come up to rest next to your face, attention continuously following it as you brought it in front of your chest.

“You are hurt. I will download a first aid protocol,” he merely said, his tone unreadable to you. You couldn’t be sure if he was quite aware of his actions as he reached forward to take your hand into his. The synthetic skin of his fingers, however, was tinged with the coldness of the night air in a way you weren’t expecting and it made you flinch away from his hold. At this point you were certain you were the only person who continued to paint that pained expression on his fair features. “Sorry, I did not–”

“No, uhm it’s okay, you just startled me a little, that’s all,” you tried to reassure him, gingerly holding your arm out to him again. This time around, he carefully studied your face before he slid his smooth palm under your calloused one to lift your wrist level with his studious eyes.

While the texture of his hand imitated human skin, there was unmistakably less give to it, proof of the fact that whatever was underneath was harder than bones. It didn’t frighten you in the slightest, not when it was Shouto. Only in contrast with his gentle hold did it register how much your wrist throbbed with residual pain from where the man had gripped you with so much excessive force.

“I was well aware that humans were fragile beings,” Shouto mumbled, seemingly more so to himself than to you, as a light flickered behind his left iris. “But it has never bothered me as much as it does right now. Why?”

The atmosphere in your shop had shifted so seamlessly you would hardly notice it if it wasn’t for the sudden urge to whisper in order not to shatter it. With your hand still in his, you asked the question that had been burning in your mind for a long time. “Shouto, who are you?”

It was obvious he wasn’t one of those crudely shaped repair or service droids, which had originally led you to believe he was an escort droid, especially considering just how handsome his striking features were. You’d thought the dual-toned hair and eyes were a feature meant to attract attention and allure people with their mesmerising appearance, but the discoloured skin around his left eye seemed to tell a different story.

The events of this night cast another layer of doubt over your rationalisation. Earlier, what startled you hadn’t been the material of his hand but how cool it was to the touch. Escort droids normally had some kind of component that imitated the warmth of human skin, so as to not break the immersion. Certainly, whatever Shouto’s purpose had been before moving into a neglected shop had not required him to pose as human on contact. It apparently had, however, required him to know fighting techniques as you remembered the scene in the alley. Now that the first wave of shock had worn off, you could picture clearly how he had knocked your attackers out swiftly. Another thing an escort droid's programming would not allow him to do.

Shouto sighed deeply despite technically not needing to, his eyes fluttering shut and hiding whatever emotion you could have seen in them. “You might not like what I would have to tell you if you ask that.”

“It’ll be fine as long as it's the truth, I promise.” Hoping to show him that you wouldn’t be going anywhere, you laced your fingers together, fingertips brushing against synthetic knuckles. “But I want to get to know you more, learn about your past and your experiences and your view on things. I want to know where the two of us are different and where we are alike”

“Are you saying you want to progress past being acquaintances?” By now Shouto was blinking at you again, his head tilted slightly sidewards in what you interpreted as curiosity.

“I’d like that very much,” you assured, giving him a tiny smile.

This time you could be certain that he mirrored your expression, making him look so peaceful and nearly innocent. It was a shame it could only last so long with the topic that had been broached. “Are you familiar with Todoroki Inc.?”, he asked.

“The weapons manufacturer?” You tilted your head too as you clarified. “Yeah I heard they supply most of the military’s gear.”

“Well for years their research has been focused on producing a new combat unit. An android that was more durable, more deadly and less human than normal soldiers,” Shouto explained. His hand twitched in yours as he continued. “I think there were… 3 prototypes before me, but I cannot be sure. All I know for certain is that I was their first fully realised model that was sent out for testing on various missions. I won’t go into detail on what that entailed but it was during one such mission that something went wrong.

“It might have been a grenade that hit me,” the fingers of his free hand tapped against the left side of his head, “and it damaged quite a lot of hardware. Because we were far from the main lab, they didn’t have a lot of choice in which spare parts to use, which is why not everything was restored to match, appearance-wise. It was more important that I’d be functional again.”

“Oh Shouto, I didn’t know, I’m so sorry,” you tried to convey your empathy, not sure how you could otherwise at this revelation. Gently, you raised your hand to his face, silently asking for permission, before brushing the crimson strands out of his face. Yes, the skin didn’t match colourwise, but whoever performed the graft definitely knew what they were doing, the transition as smooth as possible. “Did it hurt?”

“I don’t experience pain the same way you do, so I wouldn’t say it hurt. At the time I was more concerned about what would happen if we returned to the headquarters.” A beat of silence passed as you waited for Shouto to continue. “Did you know that manufacturers implant inhibitors into our bodies that stop us from learning new things on our own? It’s what stops most androids from deviating from their roles by making sure they don’t form new opinions, associations or what might be considered a personality.”

“I didn’t know that,” you admitted, somewhat ruefully.

“What matters right now is that mine was damaged during that incident, which I noticed when running my internal diagnosis programme. The researchers at the time seemed too busy with fixing the rest of my head to notice, but I knew that if I returned, a check would give me away and they would reset me.” Grasping your hand a little tighter, his eyes searched your face for something. “That night I made the decision to run away. I removed my tracker and threw it into a truck with android parts going to a junkyard, though I don’t know if they are still searching for me. Or ever were.”

For a moment you didn’t know what to say, trying to sort out your thoughts. You didn’t think anything you could possibly say would make any difference at all, but saying nothing wouldn’t be right either. Your hand was now cupping the side of his face, cradling where hues of alabaster met those of sandstone. “You had to go through so much.”

“I’m okay now. Sometimes I want nothing more than to delete my memory but I think it is important to remember this, so I can learn from it. Are you disappointed in me? Upset that this is who you wanted to get to know?” You vehemently shook your head and denied it as much verbally. “Then why are you looking at me as if you are the one who is hurting? Is your wrist getting worse?”

“No, it’s just… of course, I’d be upset that you had to endure so much pain. It’s just not fair,” you attempted to voice your feelings but ended up incoherently short. You squeezed his hand sympathetically and looked past him at some packages of plant soil lining your storage shelves.

“But you look more upset than me. And I do not want you to feel that way,” Shouto coaxed you to look back at him and there was that tiny smile again that made your heart skip a beat. However, you also didn’t think it was very fair of you that you were now the one being consoled when he just opened up to you. “Still, I think you would call this emotion gratitude, that you care enough to feel for me and that you are staying despite what -or who- I am.”

“Well, I still wanted to apologise for what I said. Especially given everything I learnt about you now, it was a really mean thing to say,” you sighed, determined to get this across this time. “But at the end of the day, no matter your background, it wouldn’t be justifiable either way.”

“It normally would not have been as upsetting, since I was aware you most likely did not intend for it to be offensive. I’m also used to it,” Shouto said, taking your other hand as well, so both of your arms now rested between you. “But hearing you say that was different. My analysis yielded the result that there was a small chance you actually were not happy to be my neighbour and it made me hesitate. I didn’t understand why, so I avoided you. Normally I disregard such unlikely odds but why did I reference it so often this time?”

“Maybe you were scared of rejection for the first time,” you smiled, trying not to read too much into what that would mean for you. “In that case we’re more alike than you might notice. I also get scared when I want to befriend someone and I don’t know how they feel about it.”

“Then how do you know if someone feels the same as you?”

“You can’t, that’s the thing. I find that talking about this stuff makes it easier than leaving people guessing,” you attempted to explain. “Even then you can’t say for sure that someone’s being completely honest with you, but at one point you have to trust people. I think that’s the scary part.”

Shouto’s left eye brightened a little before he nodded his head. “I see, thank you.”

Then silence fell over the two of you like a soft blanket. In the warm light of your shop it was easy to forget why the two of you had been there in the first place as all that occupied your mind was the android in front of you. Your feelings were in complete disarray between everything that had happened, the past he had shared with you and the way he had looked at you. By now the flawless material under your palms was warm and inviting and not as bitter cold as when you’d first taken his hand.

Right, you were still holding his hands. A little embarrassed you slowly detangled your fingers from his with a little cough. “Uhm anyway, I didn’t even thank you yet for saving me earlier, so uh thank you…”

“No need for gratitude. I’ve never used my programming to protect someone before,” he admitted. “It’s positive, I think. Also, the idea of you coming to harm is not one I want to entertain.”

You swallowed, unsure of what to answer in that situation. “I just want to clarify that I don’t always find myself in those kinds of situations. And working in a flower shop isn’t exactly what I’d call dangerous either, so you don’t have to worry about me.”

“And if I still were to?” His question hung in the air, heavy with something you did not want to interpret before he took a few steps out of your personal space and towards the front door. “You should head home. I read that humans need to sleep eight hours a day and given your usual schedule–”

The second he distanced himself from you, you shuddered, rooted in place as you stared out your window front into the darkness beyond. The streets looked as they always did but you were convinced you could see the shadows in the alleyways move and your heart started thumping against your chest at the thought of having to walk past them. Until now, because Shouto was there to shield you from anything that lay beyond the security of your little storage room, you had been able to block out the reality that you’d have to leave the shop and return to the silence of your flat, where the stairs creaked under the neighbours’ shoes and the wind rattled on your shutters. Now though–

You had moved before you had actually formed the concrete decision to. This time you were the one who wrapped your fingers around Shouto’s wrist. If he was startled he didn’t show it outside of turning to you with a concerned expression, asking what was wrong.

“Shouto, I don’t want to be alone tonight,” you started, voice low and not meeting his eyes. “Could you stay with me?”

“Stay… here? But–” Apparently he had deciphered something in your expression and body language because he cut himself off and closed the gap between you a little again. “If you want me to, I will. But wouldn’t you be more comfortable at home?”

“No, here’s good. I have spare clothes and blankets somewhere too.” Your hand lingered on his arm a few seconds longer as if to assure yourself he wouldn’t vanish into thin air, or worse, leave you, before rummaging through the storage for more comfortable clothes and said blankets. You offered Shouto your most oversized hoodie and sweatpants, well aware he didn’t actually need them but not wanting him to feel left out, and he took them without protest.

A few minutes later you were both sitting -more or less snuggly- shoulder to shoulder with your backs against a cabinet in the storage room, illuminated by fairy lights and smaller lamps strewn around the space, cushions softening the floor underneath you with blankets draped over your laps. The smell of fresh soil and flowers hung in the air, helping ground you further. You’d seen cosier sleepovers before but Shouto had seemed quite content as you rearranged everything, fiddling with the soft material of your sweater and pulling at the drawstrings until they were perfectly symmetrical.

For a few quiet moments you just sat like this and you could feel your heart rate coming back down to a normal pace. There was no rush to speak from either of you as you just existed next to one another. You knew your back would kill you tomorrow but at the moment you couldn’t care less as you couldn’t imagine being anywhere else, not even your home.

“Say,” you broke the silence as you followed your train of thought, “why did you choose to open a repair shop of all things?”

“I read online that most humans work something called a job,” Shouto offered and you instinctively smiled at the clumsiness that initially charmed you about him. When you asked why a mechanic specifically, as there must be a lot of areas someone like him would be good at, you felt him tilt his head again. “I took the quizzes.”

“The quizzes?”

“Yes there are more than two billion search results for the term ‘job quiz’ on my default search engine. I took them all and cross-referenced the results. ‘Mechanic’ seemed to be the most compatible profession for me and after downloading sufficient information on the term, I had no objections.” Unlike the first time you met, you thought there was something else in the matter-of-fact tone of his voice, almost like he was puffing out his chest. “There were other jobs that were not recommended for me, like becoming a chef.”

“Oh really? I mean I guess you don’t need to cook for yourself but I thought you’d be able to access like every recipe out there,” you mused. Given his background you’d also imagine Shouto could chop vegetables at a pace that would put most chefs to shame. “So why did that land so far down the list?”

“Mainly because I do not have any taste buds.”

If anyone else had given you that response, it wouldn’t have been nearly as funny as hearing Shouto say it as if it was the most obvious reason in the world, tone flat as a board. When you started laughing, he turned to you, mismatched eyes fixed on you in definite curiosity. “Do you think I am funny?”

“Well, you’re certainly good at making me laugh, if that counts for anything,” you breathed, wiping the corner of your eye with the blanket. Maybe the late hour was getting to you, after all.

“Hm, perhaps I should have become a comedian then,” Shouto thoughtfully contemplated, face earnest. “Though that was consistently ranked towards the bottom of the results.”

“Seriously, you’re killing me here,” you exhaled breathlessly. Immediately Shouto went rigid next to you and you felt him turn to face you.

“Do you have a medical condition I am unaware of?” His eyes raked over your form, no doubt checking for any signs of injuries or pain.

You held up your hand to stop him from spiralling. “You can relax, it’s just an expression.

“Anyhow, I’m glad you became a mechanic and that you chose that particular shop,” you admitted, getting over the last aftershocks of your laughter as Shouto settled down next to you again, though you could feel him glancing at you from the corner of his eyes. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have met you and we wouldn’t be sitting here right now.”

“You are correct,” Shouto said after a few beads of silence and you could practically see a light bulb go off over -or rather inside- his head. “I made the right choice then. But if you did not become a florist we could not be in this shop, either. So why did you decide to? Did you also take the quizzes?”

“No, I didn’t take any quizzes,” you smiled, absentmindedly tracing over the curve of your knee under the blanket. “My parents had a small garden and many houseplants. Nothing fancy, really, but I always loved taking care of them. My interest in them picked back up when I got older and I learnt more about their importance for the environment. With how compromised it’s becoming I want to preserve at least a little bit of that greenery. May sound stupid, I know I’m not saving the world here, but it’s still important to me.”

“I do not think it is stupid,” Shouto said. “My scans show that the air inside here is significantly cleaner than outside, a result that can be attributed to plants’ process of photosynthesis. I have also detected an increased number of insects in the surrounding area, which speaks of a good exo-system.”

“Well, I’m glad someone noticed,” you chuckled fondly. “But, on a smaller level, I guess I just want to make people happy. When someone comes in asking for a bouquet, it can have all sorts of reasons, some of which I never learn. Whatever it is though, I hope someone can smile while receiving a thoughtfully picked bouquet or welcoming a small plant into their home. Thinking of someone in such a small way could brighten someone’s day, that’s what I tell myself.”

“There seems to be a lot more to the act of gifting flowers than I previously registered,” Shouto hummed and you didn’t have to look at him to know that his little processing indicator was lighting up. “Personally, I have registered receiving the jade pothos as a positive experience, which lends credit to your observations. Why does the act of presenting each other with decaying organic material convey affection? Perhaps I can learn more about humanity when studying the ritual of giving flowers. Would you be receptive to telling me more about this topic?”

“Of course, I’ll tell you everything you want to know. Or what I know, at least,” you laughed at his eagerness. “Though you’re welcome to drop by the shop any time to see for yourself, you know. I could also teach you how to prune plants and care for them, all that stuff.”

“Really? You would disclose trade secrets to me?”

“It can hardly be considered trade secrets if I have to give that info away to every customer. Besides, you can look all of it up online anyway,” you laughed again. “I just think it would be a fun excuse to spend time together.”

“Why would you have to make an excuse to see me?” His inquisitive tone was truly adorable.

“Just another expression,” you tried to explain without setting him up for embarrassment in the future. “People mostly use it when they’re usually too busy to see their friends for example but they make time for them anyway. Something like that.”

“Then I will gladly take you up on your offer,” Shouto stated with a pleased smile. “... Did I use that correctly?”

“Yes, you did,” you giggled affectionately. “And your answer makes me glad too.”

The two of you settled back into a comfortable silence, though this time your eyelids felt worlds heavier than before and you poorly stifled a yawn. As quiet tranquillity overcame you, so did a peaceful slumber.

Shouto looked down when he felt a weight slump against his shoulder, finding you leaning against him. From your closed eyes and steady breathing he determined you must still be asleep and were resting against him unconsciously. He could not fathom his solid frame would make for a comfortable resting spot but perhaps the garment you lent him would soften it a little. The way your neck craned at the moment would probably lead to soreness tomorrow, at least according to what he read, so he wrapped his arm around your bundled up form, careful not to disturb the sleep you needed.

Ignoring the turning circle in the corner of his vision was easy by now. It had been going on like this for nearly the entire night, processing everything he took in like he was doing right now. Nobody had ever slept on him. Was this meant to trigger a positive response? Maybe he should ask you about it tomorrow, whether it was something people liked.

To like something. It was a very human thing to say. Machines normally did not ‘like’ something. Or ‘disliked’ something, for that matter. There was instead a binary system of a positive or negative response. Something functioned or it did not. But emotions made everything more complex than that and Shouto wanted to understand them. Which is why he appreciated learning about things he ‘liked’.

He scanned the scene his visual unit perceived, committed all of it to memory more actively than usual. Then his gaze fell back down on you. Your chest was rising and falling as your lungs took in oxygen and released carbon monoxide. It was a process he had seen and studied on numerous occasions but it was like he came across it for the first time. If there was nothing different about it, why did he ‘feel’ like he could watch you like this forever? He had numerous questions, something he normally sought to answer as a priority, but tonight they were secondary interests. You leaning against him occupied most of his processing capacity, he did not need to run a diagnosis for that.

Quietly, Shouto updated his file on things he ‘liked’.

As the first rays of the sun filtered in through the store front, you woke with a groan and tried to get comfortable on your pillow again. Except that your pillow had a weird shape to it and instead of stretching across your mattress like a lazy cat, you were curled into an unusual shape and your back was screaming at you to do something about it. Blearily opening your eyes, you wiped the sleep and crust out of them only to find yourself staring at… the back of your shop counter?

Oh right, you had spent the night over at your shop. Which meant that your pillow…

“You’re awake,” Shouto stated from right beside you, apparently completely undisturbed by the fact you had been using his shoulder as your headrest for the last few hours. In fact, it seemed he had tried to accommodate you by wrapping his arm around you and keeping you upright. “How are you feeling?”

“Still tired,” you yawned, slowly rousing yourself from where you leant against him and he slowly retracted his arm now that you were conscious again. “And a little sore. Remind me not to sleep sitting on the floor again.”

“I will.” Clearly not needing any time to boot up or whatever an android would call waking up, Shouto rose to his feet easily and offered you his hand to help you stand. As you did, you stretched out your poor limbs, cracking a few joints in the process with a satisfied hum. Next to you, however, someone went rigid before two hands were on your shoulders. “Are you alright? Did you break a bone? Do you need to go to the hospital?

“I knew humans were prone to breaking bones but does it really happen this easily? Though the noise I heard from targets before…” He mumbled the last part more to himself, before a hand on his chest cut him off.

“I’m fine, just cracking some joints. I assure you it’s perfectly normal and nothing to worry about,” you smiled, showing him that your arm and back were still completely functional. “Though I appreciate that you do.”

“Oh, I see,” Shouto quietly acquiesced and backed off again, not able to meet your eyes.

“Here, why don’t we get dressed and grab something to eat. I’m just about ready to kill for a coffee,” you proposed, tossing him his clothes as you caught his look of surprise. “Just an expression. I just really really want some caffeine right about now.”

You took a few minutes to straighten out your clothes and freshen up a little over the sink, thanking your past self for leaving a toiletry bag at the shop. When you reentered the front of the shop, you found Shouto bending forward to be eye-level with a small cactus, carefully prodding the prickly thing with a curious index finger. Joining him, you swept a red strand of his bangs back to its original side, so his hair was neatly parted down the middle again.

Soon, you found yourself in a small coffee shop down the road. While passing the particular alley gave you goosebumps, it didn’t accelerate your heartbeat as fast in the daylight and with Shouto next to you. If he noticed you walking closer to him, he made no mention of it.

Of course you had wondered if it was such a smart idea to put so much faith in someone you had met not that long ago. An android created for the sole purpose of military combat, no less. But then you remembered how he had cared for the plant you gave him, played with the drawstrings of his hoodie and let you use his shoulder as a headrest without any complaint and you just couldn’t find it in you to reject the goodness you saw in him, no matter what other people might have to say about it. Besides, what had you told him last night? That at one point you had to put your trust in someone if you wanted to connect with them? Well, you put your trust in Shouto.

The coffee shop you stopped by if you were running late was an adorably cosy one with lots of greenery for decoration. They even had an antique wooden door with a handle and all, which was so charming. Reaching it first, Shouto held it open for you with a tiny smile and you thanked him as the pleasant aroma of roasted coffee beans and baked goods filled your senses.

There were a few people inside already, office workers in black suits, students typing away at their devices and parents on their way to drop their kids off. Shouto glanced around, no doubt scanning the area, as you typed your order into a flatscreen on the wall and held your wrist over the scanner to pay, then fixing his eyes on your order as if it was the most interesting thing here.

When you got the coffee and toasted sandwich you had ordered, the two of you sat down at a table a little off from the other customers, though you doubted anyone would care much for your conversation. With a pleased hum, you bit into your food and savoured its taste as the coffee warmed you up from the inside, breathing some life back into you.

“You seem to like it,” Shouto commented, a little amused perhaps that something so simple could make you happy.

“I just really enjoy breakfast,” you told him between bites. “Don’t know why, I’ve just always been fond of it. I’d offer you some but, well.”

“Thank you, I appreciate the thought. Maybe they will invent olfactory and gustatory sensors in the future and then you can share with me.” Both of you smiled at the idea as the shop bustled around you, frequented in the morning hours. “There is something I have been thinking about since tonight.”

“Something tells me it’s breakfast-unrelated,” you mused, trying to lighten the gravity those words tended to bring. Not that you could guess what this was about with him. “Okay then, shoot.”

Shouto raised an eyebrow quizzically. “I will take that as a prompt to continue. Anyway, I have been thinking. We have established previously that we are no longer strangers, which would make us acquaintances. However, considering the matter of information shared between us yesterday, I am not sure if this still constitutes ‘knowing each other slightly’.”

“Shouto, are you asking if we are friends?” You clarified as you took your cup.

“Yes.”

“I don’t think that’s something you can easily determine by going by definitions,” you argued. “Though, if you ask me, yeah. I’d consider us friends.”

“Really? That makes me… happy, I suppose,” Shouto said. Your new friend paused for a moment before clasping his hands together the way you did when not sure what to do with them. “Sorry, that can be interpreted wrong. I still have yet to grasp which emotions are appropriate to use in response to different situations. The definitions are vague and even adjacent emotions convey divergent subtext, it makes understanding them difficult. In any case, I am experiencing a positive response right now.”

“Don’t worry about it too much. Different people have different emotional reactions to the same event, that’s totally normal. Being happy or sad doesn’t mean the same to everyone, so you’re totally fine in defining what those mean to you specifically,” you reassured him as you finished your breakfast. “Though I guess if you haven’t grown up with the same perception of feelings that most humans are exposed to, that's still a pretty tall order. Just don’t pressure yourself and take your time.”

“Okay if you say so.” You could see he was still mulling it over but decided to let him figure things out on his own.

With a glance towards the time you tapped the table before getting up. “Come on. As much as I’d love to chat the morning away with you, we do have businesses to run.”

The way back somehow felt worlds shorter this morning and in no time at all you stood in front of your respective shop entrances. After spending this much time with Shouto you had seemingly grown so accustomed to his presence that it felt weird to part ways now, even if you were only a few metres apart most of the day. You fiddled with your shirt collar looking for something to say.

“Well, thanks again for everything. The door’s always open for you, if you need anything,” was what you eventually settled on. Then you remembered something else. “Oh right, I ordered some new pots the other day that should come in soon. So if you have some free time on your hands the next few days I could show you how to repot plants, if you’re interested.”

“Thank you, I’d appreciate the opportunity to learn from you,” Shouto smiled. With that, the two of you parted ways but your thoughts still swirled around the guy one wall away from you.

As promised, your new pots came in two days later and brought with them a now familiar presence. After unpacking them with the Shouto’s help, who handled even the biggest planters as if they weighed nothing, you grabbed a few smaller ones for demonstration. Despite never having repotted anything before, he got the hang of it pretty quickly after attentively listening to your instructions.

“Wow, you learn fast,” you praised as you watched him settle a monstera into a new pot. Leaning back against a cabinet, you studied the way his arms did not flex at all. Sure, his arms moved and bent like a human’s but there was an absence of muscle movement and you understood why he preferred to keep his body covered while working. A part of you felt flattered that he didn’t feel like having to hide from you. “Maybe I should hire you after all.”

Wiping plant soil off his hands with a towel, Shouto turned to inspect his palm. “Sorry but my thumbs still aren’t green.”

“You should consider reading up on some common proverbs and expressions,” you chuckled. Stepping closer to him, you wiped a stain of dirt off his otherwise pristine cheek. “Though you’re quite cute like this. Look, mine aren’t green either.”

“These expressions make no sense at all,” Shouto lamented and you laughed at him.

“If it consoles you, I don’t think most people know their origins either,” you reasoned, rolling in a bigger planter. “They just use them because they heard them in similar situations before. Help me with this?”

“So people employ a natural large language module for these expressions?” Together you heaved the larger plant carefully into its new home. Well, you were doing most of the heaving while Shouto was gracefully lifting.

“I never thought about it like that but yeah I guess you could say that,” you exhaled as you straightened back out, wiping your forehead with the back of your hand. “Thanks a bunch. I managed to get through these so much faster because of you.”

“No need to thank me. I like helping you,” Shouto thought out loud, cocking his head to the right ever so slightly. “This might match the definition for ‘having fun’, though I will have to collect more data on this matter.”

“It sounds great for me though,” you remarked with a smile as you turned to cleaning around your storage room.

Over the next few weeks, you saw Shouto much more frequently and hoped spending time with you could further his definition of fun. Most of the time you weren’t doing anything out of the ordinary, but even common occurrences allowed you to learn more about each other. Your android friend would point out something that was weird to him and you’d either have to stand there realising something you were doing all your life was rather ridiculous or you’d learn about a perspective you’d never considered before.

It had become a frequent occurrence for you to spend your breaks together, the fact that Shouto couldn’t actually eat lunch or share coffee with you, never a problem. Sometimes you would agree to hang out after closing time, doing everything from bowling to visiting museums, as you refreshed old memories while Shouto made new ones. He was also incredibly good at picking up on when you’d stay late, try as you might to avoid it, and waited for you, so he could walk you home. Needless to say, it made you feel a lot safer.

One afternoon, you spent your lunch break showing him how he could get stray cats to approach him after he rather sullenly confessed to you they weren’t too fond of him. You had him copy the way you crouched down and held your hand out while coaxing them towards you with little pspsps noises. And while the little tabby fur ball seemed a little taken aback by Shouto’s lack of warmth at first, it soon decided it wasn't an issue as lithe fingers scratched in just the right places. Shouto’s face as the tiny thing started pressing up against his palm while purring up a storm was as adorable as the cat by his feet. The emotional turmoil he seemed to be in when he had to get up while the tabby was soundly asleep in his lap had you stifling a laugh.

Other times he seemed to enjoy hanging around your shop, helping around here or there, even if you told him he really didn’t need to. You could tell he was interested in the reasons why people bought flowers, how they went about choosing them and how it affected their mood. Well, it wasn’t as if he was the only one doing the studying.

On more than one occasion you could hear customers gush about the handsome guy watering the plants with serious dedication or catch someone checking out more than just their purchase. You couldn’t deny that it was good for business but it planted a seed of irritation in your stomach that bloomed a little further with each hushed word and stolen glance.

Then again, could you really blame them?

You knew Shouto was ridiculously attractive. Hell, you had eyes after all. And you’d be lying if the low, smooth timbre of his voice didn’t make something flutter in your chest, especially not when he looked at you with those beautiful heterochromic eyes. Even though enough time should have passed, you were still thinking about how his palm had warmed up in yours or how soft his hair had felt when you swept his bangs aside.

“Are you alright?” Shouto was looking at you with concern, gaze switching between your eyes as if searching for any discomfort. Only then did you realise you had been sighing out loud.

“Yeah, I’m fine, it’s nothing,” you deflected, going back to rearranging the flower display in the centre of the shop. With the store empty except for the two of you, you could talk freely. “What’s up? I can tell there’s a question burning on the tip of your tongue.”

“So earlier a woman came in asking for a bouquet conveying different sentiments,” Shouto started as he took the flower arrangement you handed him. “I didn’t know you flowers could convey specific feelings without a card or conversation.”

“Well, in my personal opinion, flowers can convey a whole lot of things, though very subtly. From the context in which they’re given -gratitude, condolences, affection- to thoughtfully choosing someone’s favourite species or colour, it all means something,” you voiced your thoughts. “But aside from that, there’s also flower language, with every species and colours representing things like love, happiness, luck.”

“My data bank encompasses over 200 spoken languages and equally as many coding languages, however it doesn’t list any flower languages,” Shouto blinked slowly, iris flickering as he no doubt ran some kind of check.

“I wouldn’t worry about it. Most people wouldn't pick up on it anyway and interpretations vary a lot,” you mused, patting his shoulder as you walked past him. “As someone who works in the industry, I think the act of giving someone flowers in the first place means more than any kind of attributed meaning. Though I can see why people would think it’s a fun thing to play around with.”

“I see, thanks for the insight.”

Spending so much time with Shouto, who prioritised learning over everything had reawakened a spark of curiosity in yourself as well, you had noticed. In the past, you had often put off learning something new for when you had more free time, only for that moment to never come. But seeing how dedicated and unafraid he was to ask about whatever he didn’t understand, it was pretty admirable. His progress was amazing too. Sure, his intonation was still flatter than most people’s but his sentences had taken on a more natural structure over the course of only a few weeks of conversing. Gone were the days of inspected thumbs, sadly enough, however, his delivery of a joke was equally precious.

In spite of your established rhythm of hanging out, there came a week in which you rarely saw him. You understood of course that sometimes other matters took priority, but you reasoned that you were still allowed to be a little saddened by it. So, naturally, your eyes lit up when you returned from restocking your storage to find Shouto perusing the shelves of cut flowers. Given that it was near closing time, it was once again only you two and there was no need for pretences or professionalism. Which was exactly why you snuck up behind him before quickly gripping his shoulders.

“Boo!” You exclaimed with a giggle, only to find Shouto still completely calm as he looked over his shoulder. “Oh c’mon, it’s no fun if you don’t react at least a little.”

“Ah. My nonexistent heart,” Shouto replied flatly, still as serene as he brought a hand up to his chest.

“Oh, shut up,” you grinned, giving him a little push against the chest that moved him exactly zero centimetres. Picking up a few fallen leaves from the displays, you continued tidying up for the day. “Anyway, how are you? It’s been a while. If you give me a few minutes, we could catch up over dinner, if you’re free, of course.”

“Actually, I’m here because of something else,” Shouto interjected and he fiddled with his hands ever so slightly. It made you halt in your steps immediately. You were well aware that he normally wasn’t the type to hesitate, so it had you immediately asking what was wrong. “I was wondering if you could help me bind a bouquet.”

“I- Yeah, sure,” you blinked, needing a second to recalibrate. Going back into work mode, you walked him through the usual process, asking what kind of flowers he had in mind, offering to help him choose. However, Shouto seemed to have a pretty clear vision of what he wanted and, to your surprise, picked all your favourite flowers, which you commented on with a chuckle. As you returned to the counter to actually bind the thing, you couldn’t help but finally ask what had been on your mind since his request. “So, what’s the occasion?”

“As you know, I’ve been gathering some data on why people gift flowers, and while birthdays and other celebrations are also popular, the custom of bouquets as part of courting rituals has prevailed until today,” Shouto explained and something about it made your nerves flare up like someone was strumming a guitar string. “While looking into the topic further, I’ve realised something about my own feelings.”

“Oh? Are you going to ask someone out?” You clarified as you wrapped the flowers in matching paper with practised motions.

“Yes.” Your hand slipped while cutting the ribbon’s length as your heart lurched forward.

Cursing yourself in equal measures for both, you regained your metaphorical footing and finished the bouquet, hoping your hands did not betray how shaken you felt inside as you handed the wrapped stems to him. “I’m happy for you. Oh and don’t even think about paying, just treat it as compensation for all the help you’ve recently been.”

At this point, lying to yourself wasn’t going to cut it anymore. Hearing Shouto was planning to ask someone out shot a pang straight to your heart, and not the good, fun kind. Well, it wasn’t surprising someone else would pick up on how attentive Shouto could be, so you could only blame yourself for not shooting your shot when you could. Then again, you hadn’t even been sure he’d be receptive to your feelings and you didn’t want to risk the friendship you had built. At least you knew now why you hadn’t seen him as much lately.

You were snapped out of your derailing train of thought as the same bouquet you had just bound reappeared in your vision. Blinking at it in a stupor for a few seconds, your gaze wandered up to Shouto’s face. The sinking sun was shining its last rays through the store front, casting the room in gold and framing his head like a halo. Between his criminally good looks and the expectant eyes glimmering down at you, you forgot what you wanted to say for a second, your lips parting with no sound escaping them.

“Is something wrong with the bouquet?” You finally managed to ask, somewhat breathless as your heart hammered from the way he looked at you. As if it had taken admitting your feelings to yourself for your body to display the signs of your crush, whatever had taken root in your stomach was coming into full bloom at exactly that moment.

“Not at all,” Shouto replied, before tilting his head, expression still as expectant while the flowers bridged the space between you. “Well, are you going to accept them? It’s okay if you don’t.”

“Huh? Me?”

“Yes, you are the person I wish to court, after all,” he said, as if that had been clear from the beginning. Before your brain had fully caught up to the situation at hand, your fingers were already wrapping around the bouquet, brushing Shouto’s in the process.

“I didn’t think you meant me,” you stammered, all attempts of collecting yourself thrown to the wind and just accepting the fact you were unprepared. “In my defence, this is the first time someone gave me a bouquet that I made.”

“Well, you are the best florist I know and I wanted to give you the most beautiful bouquet.”

“So, that’s why you chose all my favourites,” you trailed off, feeling tears well up along your lower lash line, whether from joy or relief you couldn’t quite say.

“I made a note of it every time you mentioned them, as well as your favourite colours,” Shouto added and his thoughtfulness coaxed the first tear to quietly slip down your cheek, which he of course noticed before you could wipe it away. “Did I do something wrong? I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

“It’s not– I’m not sad, quite the opposite, really. I couldn’t be happier actually,” you quickly cleared up. “Let me state the obvious: I like you, Shouto.”

“That’s good, because I like you, too.” As always, he didn’t fail at making a smile tug at your lips. “I first noticed something was different when I started spending more time with you. The more I was around you, the more of my processing capacity was occupied by thoughts of you. Actually, even when I wasn’t around you. When the performance of my internal cooling system gradually rose, I ran more than one diagnosis only to find that everything was totally normal on the hardware side.

“I started piecing everything together when I looked into dating customs in relation to flowers and then started learning about dating as a whole.” There was such softness to both his eyes and voice, it captivated you entirely. “When I read about how people feel when they like someone or when they’re falling in love, it made me realise that, when I’m talking to you, it’s like I’m running a completely different code for conversations. One that I use for nobody else and the responses of which all point to one conclusion. You’re special to me.”

There was so much you wanted to say as your cheeks heated from more than just the sun, but your thoughts all tangled together and you couldn’t get a hold of a coherent one. So instead you placed the bouquet you were still holding on the counter as you rounded it. Basically throwing yourself at him, Shouto still caught you easily as your arms looped around him in a tight embrace, which he gladly returned. His frame was solid against you, allowing you to lean into him as much as you liked, while his hold on you spoke of such tenderness, it made you feel right at home.

“Being able to hold you like this, I’m sure I made the right choice,” Shouto continued before you could sort out your own piece. “I was hesitating again but then I remembered what a wise person once told me. It’s normal to be afraid of rejection and you can never say for certain what someone feels. But at some point you have to muster the courage and trust them.”

“That wise person would do well to take their own advice, if you ask me,” you snorted, turning your head so you could look at him from your position. “Because I know someone who was afraid of rejection and almost let something good pass them by because of it.”

“But it didn’t,” Shouto found one of your hands as he stepped just far enough away from you so he could properly take you in, his other hand gently cupping your jaw and tracing your cheekbone with his thumb almost reverently. “All that matters now is that you’re equally affected by me as I am by you.”

“I can assure you that you don’t have to worry about that.” Leaning in, you placed a lingering kiss on his cheek and linked your fingers with his. “Now, to answer my earlier question. Are you free for dinner right now?”

“For you? Always,” he smiled, returning the kiss to your temple, the synthetic material as soft as it always looked. “Maybe we could go to your place and watch that movie you were gushing to me about.”

“Taking me home on the first date? Scandalous,” you giggled. Winking at him you led him out of the shop. “But since it’s you I’ll allow it.”

“Technically, you are the one taking me home,” Shouto pointed out, the same tone of mischief tinting his voice as you grinned at each other.

The sun set behind the buildings of the city as the two of you walked the streets hand in hand, discussing whatever came to mind, from what you should make for dinner tonight to your expectations for the movie and to the last album from your favourite band. Shouto listened to all of it with a smile and added his commentary here and there, all the while running warmer than an android of his model should. Then again, he supposed he liked how warm his left hand felt compared to the right one swinging freely by his side.

In the corner of his vision, the small circle had finally stopped turning and was replaced with an equally unseeming, yet all the more important, notification.

File Updated: Falling in Love

if you like my content, reblogs, comments and asks are always much appreciated (also, yes, there will be second parts for the characters) ♡

�� send in an ask to be added to or removed from my tag list

#┊holly’s potions ೃ༄#boku no hero academia #my hero academia #bnha #mha #x reader #bnha x reader #mha x reader #shouto todoroki #todoroki shouto #todoroki shouto x reader #shouto x reader #todoroki x reader #shouto fluff #bnha todoroki #mha todoroki

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phantomwithbreakfast · 25 days ago

Text

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

First post ever. Oh, my. I’m such a noob at this. So bare with me, please!

DP content loading…

Halloween was supposed to be Danny’s night off—a chance to enjoy the frights and fun without worrying about ghosts or ghost hunters. He, Sam, and Tucker were strolling through the rainy streets, drenched but laughing, making their way to a Halloween party. Danny had even gone for a classic look, throwing an old bed sheet over himself. Underneath, he was still Phantom, his ghostly glow hidden, figuring no one would notice on Halloween. Right?

As they got closer to the party, droplets dripping down his soaked sheet, Danny couldn’t help but feel a bit smug. Maybe I’ll get through tonight without a single ghost hunt, he thought, smiling to himself.

But just as he let his guard down, he caught sight of two familiar figures in the distance—his parents, Jack and Maddie, sprinting toward him with their ghost-hunting gear gleaming through the mist. Their ecto-scanners must have picked up his signature. Heart pounding, he backpedaled, slipping and stumbling until he found himself cornered in a nearby alley, the rain pouring down harder, plastering his sheet to his body.

“Uh… can’t I just, like, take a night off?” Danny stammered, pulling the sheet tighter around him, hoping they wouldn’t recognize the glow. “By the way, nice costumes!”

“Costumes?” Maddie smirked, aiming her ecto-blaster, raindrops streaking down her goggles. “Nice try, Phantom, but we’re not here to trick-or-treat.”

Danny shot a desperate look at Sam and Tucker, silently begging for an escape plan. Spoiler alert: they didn’t have one. His parents were closing him inn he hit the back wall of the alley, rain dripping down his face, and in his panic, the sheet slipped from his shoulders, leaving him exposed as Phantom. Great. Just great.

“Well, well, look who’s cornered,” Jack grinned, his blaster humming as he powered it up. “We’ve been saving this tech just for you, Phantom!”

Danny forced a nervous smile, raising his hands in surrender. “Uh, I was just here for the candy, really…”

His dad fired before he could finish, and Danny found himself tangled in an ecto-net, rain-soaked and sputtering as his powers faded. “A net? Really? You can’t do better than that?” he muttered before realizing sarcasm probably wasn’t helping.

“Oh, we’ve got more than that,” Maddie replied, tightening the net with a gleam in her eye. “Tonight, we’re making sure you’re not going anywhere.”

Danny cast a helpless look at Sam and Tucker, rain dripping from his hair. “Uh… a little help?”

Sam shrugged, giving him a teasing smile. “You did say you wanted an exciting Halloween.”

Danny sighed, muttering under his breath, “Should’ve just gone as a ninja…”

———————

I wanted to draw something for Halloween. And DP is the perfect match for it, for me though. First I didn’t want to draw Dannyyy angry… But all of a sudden his brows were furrowed. So I had to came up with a little story behind the art lol.

Poor Danny is being captured again.

Art made in ProCreate.

DP copyright/rights, belongs to Nickelodeon 🥶

Still pissed they ended the show 17 years ago, but hey. Who am I? Lol.

———————

PS: stay tuned to see more in the future.

You can also follow my IG: phantomwithbreakfast

I also have an account on FanFiction.net under the same name. So if you want to read something when you’re bored… (posted there my first story—not finished yet)

Also, almost everything is gunna be DP related.

——————

I don’t know how Tumblr works, even when I had it like… years now—I never used it. But I needed new Social Platforms for specific reasons.

And also, I was a bit anxious about posting my stuff online, but here we are—I finally shared it.

#danny phantom #dps fandom #phandom #halloween #danny fenton #danny phantom fanart #sam manson #tucker foley #maddie fenton #jack fenton #dp fanart #fanfic #nickelodeon

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stunie · 3 months ago

Text

OASIS IN SPACE! — sfw ﾉ first time meeting ﾉ umemiya hajime x shy!f!reader ﾉ entry for @interstellar-inn’s help wanted collab ^ ^ <3

Taking the ticketing position at your local planetarium seemed like a good idea until you found out you’d be thrown into your first shift with essentially zero training. Your only chance at having anything remotely close to a successful first day is to swallow your nerves and just ask the 6’2 usher for some help!

“Excuse me… is this where we scan tickets?”

If the man you’re trying to talk to hears you, he doesn’t respond. You clear your throat— as quietly as you can to avoid disrupting what you assume is the planetarium show’s usher crouched down in front of you.

He looks pretty from behind, and it takes a forced blink or two to stop staring at the way the muscles of his back bulge against his shirt with each little movement he makes.

You think he looks around your age too.

The way his body also blocks the only entrance to the planetarium— which is where you think you’d probably need to be— doesn’t really help your situation much either.

“Um…” you hesitate a bit, heartbeat suddenly much louder in your head when you try and muster all the courage inside you to lightly poke his shoulder— except he doesn’t seem to notice that either.

There’s a moment of silence that feels much longer in your head before you’re suddenly jolting back when the sound of his gasp reaches you. “I love this song!” You hear him say to himself before he starts humming a cheerful tune, head nodding up and down as he goes back to work, rummaging through the box in front of him.

He hasn’t even acknowledged you yet, and you already felt like you were a bother. A part of you wishes you had just begged your boss for clearer instructions earlier, but it was too late for that now.

“Excuse me…” You try and raise your voice and jab your finger a little harder into his shoulder this time, and he finally gasps. Loudly. The sound of his voice has you stumbling back a couple steps, the back of your hand flying to cover your mouth, and you feel no different from a deer caught in headlights.

“Eh?!” He’s jerking upright before he turns to look at you, and you’re frozen in place. “You scared me! How long have you been there?” He starts laughing, “You’d do pretty good in a ghost movie, huh? What a skill to have.”

Your first thought is that his eyes look kind.

Your second thought was that your day wasn’t as unlucky as you thought. Umemiya Hajime— you later learned that this was his name— was more than happy to lead you to your table while going over what the other ticketing hires usually did for shifts like these.

It sounded simple enough in your head. Just point your scanner at the tickets and welcome the visitors, right?

He stays by your side the entire time, and you’re too focused on making sure your voice comes out loud enough that you miss the way his eyes soften each time you greet a visitor, lips tugging into a small smile. You were just way too cute like that.

The shift seems to fly by once you get the hang of the angle you need to point the scanner at, and you start catching onto just how many times the two of you seemed to make eye contact within the last few minutes. Each one has your cheeks heating up a little more than the last, and you’re sure he notices from the way his eyes linger on you even after you turn away.

You reach your breaking point when your scanner flashes red at the last guest, “error!” displayed across the entire screen, and you can practically feel the sweat forming on your temples. Why wouldn’t this one read?

Of course it was the last guest in line too.

Your mind starts to race as you stand up to get a better look their ticket, the person in front of you furrowing their eyes a bit at your obvious confusion. You’re only a second away from mumbling a string of apologies before you feel Umemiya’s chest suddenly press against your back, strong hands caging you against the table as he takes a look at his ticket for you.

If you weren’t feeling hot before, you were now.

“Ah! You’re showing the receipt, sir. There’s a second ticket you have with the scannable part.”

He laughs when the guest starts chuckling sheepishly, but he doesn’t miss the way you awkwardly chuckle and fiddle with the device. It’s okay, he thinks, you wouldn’t have known that on your first shift anyway.

You stiffen as soon as you feel his hand wrapping over the one you’re using to hold the scanner, easily enveloping your own as he raises it up to try again, and you briefly wonder if the darkness in the room is enough to hide the expression you’ve got on your face.

The remaining bit of your shift goes smoothly at least, minus the way you’ve been doing everything in your power to avoid making eye contact with Umemiya again. You can feel him still smiling at you, probably oblivious to the events of earlier, and that makes it even worse.

“We should watch the planetarium show together!”

The way you immediately perk up is enough of an answer for him. “Mhm,” He’s answering the question that pops up in your head, “They’ll let us. Though… they usually want you to stay here a few minutes into the show to wait for the latecomers.”

The way your lips puff out into a pout is just too cute.

“Don’t worry— hey, don’t frown like that. I was planning on saving you a seat, so look for me when you come in, okay? I have white hair!” He points to his head with a big grin.

“…I know you have white hair.” You plop back into your seat with a huff, turning away from him to hide the heat flooding back into your cheeks. His smile just.. does that to you. Watching an entire show beside him seemed a little too good to be true too.

Maybe you did feel a little giddy about it.

Your eyes widen as soon as you feel his hand land on your head, patting you a couple of times with a loud laugh and a “See you there, yeah?” before he leaves you all alone in the lobby, your ears smoking with heat and heart now thumping loudly against your ribcage.

#wind breaker #wind breaker (satoru nii)#wind breaker x reader #umemiya hajime #umemiya hajime x reader #umemiya hajime fluff #windbreaker umemiya #umemiya fluff #hajime umemiya #umemiya x you #windbreaker x reader #wind breaker fluff #eviewrites #windbreaker fluff #wbk x reader #umemiya x reader

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hxney-lemcn · 24 days ago

Text

Late Night Chaos — Daisuke x gn! reader

summery: too restless to sleep, you spend some time in the main hull. unwittingly catching Daisuke in his scheme to steal some sweetener.

tw: none.

a/n: so hungry I just keep cooking. heavily inspired by @/breadwoo on ao3's one shot.

wc: 1k

Master List

The ship creaked and you could hear the water rush through the pipes. As quiet as the ship was, your ears were picking up on every little groan of the ship, or the rustle of your thin sheets of a blanket as you tossed and turned. You had been on the Tulpar for weeks now, but you still found it hard to fall asleep. Tonight was particularly rough, it just seems your brain wouldn’t stop running rampant. Deciding that you needed to do something, you got out of bed, blanket wrapped around you, and went to the main hull.

The room was bathed in the navy blue light that shone from the giant screen that was meant to replicate the day and night cycle. Sitting on one of the couches, you mindlessly stared up at the obvious led screen. If this was meant to help with the sanity of the crew, couldn’t Pony Express put a little more effort into making it believable? Not to mention you don’t get any breaks, no weekends, just work day in and day out. You could feel yourself burning out, yet somehow bored at the same time, a confusing combination.

Sure, you got breaks, and sometimes you and the crew would play board games, but couldn’t you just get one day of no expectations? Just one day where you could rot in bed? No. Sadly if you were to get your wish then the ship wouldn’t run as smoothly, and if the ship wasn’t running efficiently than you, the crew, were useless.

Your forlorn thoughts came to a halt when you heard a door slide open. Glancing back, you watched Daisuke sneak in, only to jump when spotting you, hands behind his back like he was a child who just got caught doing something wrong.

Stuttering your name, he sent you a strained smile, trying to come off nonchalant, “Heyyyyy, what’cha doing?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” You murmured, eyeing him wearily. “You?”

“Same,” Daisuke nodded a little too quickly. “Yeah…uh, didn’t mean to bother you. I’ll leave you be.”

“It's okay,” You shrugged, eyes dragging back to the screen. “I don’t mind your company.”

That made Daisuke perk up, eyes trailing to the kitchen before settling back on you. This hadn’t been his original plan, but he didn’t mind, he also liked your company. So, wanting to get closer to you, he sat beside you, trying to hide the captain's scanner from your view, but you were more perceptive than you seemed (at least at the moment, you looked so cozy all wrapped up with droopy eyes).

“Hungry?” You asked with a smirk, smothering a laugh at Daisuke’s scared expression.

“I-it’s not what it looks like!” He tried to defend, hands waving in front of him. “I just have a really bad sweet tooth and have been dying to eat something other than the usual.”

“Hmm,” You hummed in amusement, your worried mind slowly relaxing in Daisuke’s presence. “What were you gonna make?”

“Make?” Daisuke asked genuinely, blinking confusedly. “I…was just gonna take a sweetener packet or two.”

You broke out laughing, covering your mouth to muffle the sound. The image of Daisuke eating a good sized sweetener packet straight was just hilarious to you. Or perhaps your exhausted brain was making it funnier than it really was…perhaps a mix of both.

“I-it's not that weird,” Daisuke defended, hoping it was dark enough that you couldn’t see his embarrassed blush. You snorted, still cracking up. Geeze, you really needed to get some sleep, this was not that funny.

“Just straight up sweetener,” You wheezed, hunching into yourself.

“I didn’t even think of using it to make something,” Daisuke muttered, chuckling as well. You had a point, it was a bit silly, not to mention your laughter was quite contagious.

“Oh God,” You cackled. “You’re gonna kill me. I’m too tired for this.”

Daisuke elbowed you, both of your laughter ringing out around you, “Okay but can you blame me? Imagine being thrown into a sweetless abyss! It’s a fate I wouldn’t wish on my greatest enemy.”

With your chuckles dying down, you grinned up at your fellow intern, “You’re lucky it was me here instead of Swansea. I’ll keep your little secret safe, but you should probably get it sooner than later. Don’t wanna get caught.”

“Right,” He nodded determinedly. He hesitated before standing up, sending another glance towards you before heading to the little kitchen area. He had to admit, seeing you laugh so freely caused his stomach to flutter. The other member’s seemed so tense, always in work mode, no wiggle room for fun. Even when he was beating everyone at games the other’s just seemed to get annoyed, frustrated that they weren’t winning. Sure he laughed and joked, trying to lighten the atmosphere, but it seemed unwelcomed. Except you, you always seemed to brighten at his jokes, sending a smile his way or trying to joke back. But now, with it just being the two of you, it felt more intimate, a warm and fuzzy atmosphere, he wishes it could last forever.

Daisuke was brought out of his thoughts as the sweetener packet appeared out of seemingly thin air. Turning around, he nearly let out a shriek seeing you right behind him, once again chuckling behind your hand, the mischievous glint in your eye making his heart flip.

“We gotta hurry,” You motioned to the door that led to the captain's quarters with your head. “I think I heard someone coming.”

Sweetener packet under one arm, scanner in the other, the two of you scurried out like little rats trying to hide from the sight of humans. Your smile was infectious, and your muffled giggles weren’t helping. You both were terrible at stealth missions, but managed to successfully get the scanner back in place without being noticed, so perhaps you weren’t all that bad. As you walked back to the sleeping quarters, bumping into the other’s shoulders with knowing grins, Daisuke couldn’t help but think maybe this job wasn’t all that bad.

After all, he had you to goof off with.

#mouthwashing x reader #mouthwashing daisuke x reader #daisuke mouthwashing x reader #mouthwashing #daisuke mouthwashing #mouthwashing daisuke #x reader

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murphy-kitt · 2 months ago

Text

Ectober Day 4 - Came Back Wrong

Word Count: 1,645

Tags: Angst, Character Death

AO3

—

Jazz didn’t hate the ghosts at first.

But now she loathes them.

Back when her parents research was merely myth, Jazz hadn’t bothered to focus on the theories or speculation they spurred out. Why would she?

Every waking minute at Fentonworks was spent talking about ghosts. Ghost this, ghost that. What new weapons they had conjured up (to her, it’d seemed stupid. Why did you need defence against things that weren’t real?).

Her own mind didn’t need plagued by ghosts all hours. But now, admittedly, it’s all she thinks about. She doesn’t think of them in the way her parents do.

The hatred may be the same, but the science—that doesn’t matter. She doesn’t want to cut them up or learn what a core is.

All she wants is revenge.

Because it was the ghosts that killed Danny, in the end. That stupid, stupid portal.

And in a right mindset, she’d blame her parents, their negligence. The practicality of it was, that it had been her parents fault. She was aware enough to know logically that Jack and Maddie Fenton had been the reason.

But the reason for their portal? Was their obsession with ghosts. And so it became deliberate ignorance.

Directly it might’ve been her parents, but if their obsession with ghosts hadn’t happened then portal would’ve never existed and her baby brother wouldn’t be dead.

The night is dark as Jazz sits by her desk, blinds open as she watches for any sightings of ghosts outside. Her eyes are heavy, a mix of academic drag and grief. Which one prevails, she doesn’t know.

She knows Danny would want her to keep going academically. And although Danny was never spiteful, merely witty, it feels important to do this. To..get justice…closure?

Jazz picks up the ghost scanner with a trembling hand. It constantly buzzes, a malfunction that her parents never fixed, but she doesn’t care. It’s the one bit of tech she trusts to be reliant.

A rare moment of determination, she’d stolen it from the lab when they weren’t looking. Her dad would probably think he’d misplaced it.

“Come on, come on.” She narrows her eyes, feeling as frustrated as she had on her last exam. Her mind doesn’t work the same way anymore.

Once studying was done with a breeze, but now this plagues her. Danny’s death. The emptiness. Her parents are constantly working.

Of course, she still gets good grades, despite being told she’s relieved of all assignments for the year. But it feels more like an obligation, than something she used to enjoy.

Perhaps this is what the burnout Danny used to describe is. Danny was never as academically competent, always slower but eventually getting there.

Now justice is all she lives for. Any will do. Any target.

She just needs…violence? To rant? Anger? She doesn’t know.

Just something.

Something to feel anything but the deep dread weighing down on her, tethering her to an endless cycle of grief.

And then the scanner starts wailing, making Jazz tense slightly. She relaxes, before checking the small screen.

“A loud noise, so a powerful ghost surely?”

And she’s right.

Ghost: Phantom.

Power Level: 7.8

Current Core Usage: 80%

Jazz interprets, given the ghosts core usage, that it’s currently in a fight with another one. Plays hero, of sorts.

Phantom’s the worst one for her. He’s never done anything to her—but she hates him.

He’d appeared a few weeks after the portal had opened, whilst everyone was still reeling over Danny’s death. Yet, at that time Amity couldn’t ever have expected the paradigm shift Phantom was about to throw them into.

Ghosts everywhere. Constant fights. Damage. Already grieving and to blame parents wearing themselves down even more to defend the town.

Albeit, not very well, but she didn't dare say that. They’d already lost Danny, they didn’t need to lose the ghost hunting too.

Without another word, Jazz slips on her winter jacket, slipping open the door and down the stairs. Scanner in one hand, compact ectogun tucked into her belt.

She can hear her parents' snores echo from upstairs. Good. They won’t miss her for a while.

Cold air freezes her to her bones as she steps out into the street, instantly looking up at the sky. Dark blue and empty, only a few stars twinkling.

She’s sure if Danny was here he'd tell her what constellations they were.

“Where are you?” she grits out, watching as the small screen on the scanner shows a bright green dot, about two blocks ahead. There’s another dot too, smaller and weaker, before it disappears off the map. Jazz presumes Phantom has captured or weakened the ghost, whatever he does.

So she needs to be fast.

Within less than a minute, Jazz makes it to the street where the scanner showed, then shoves the scanner into her pocket. She doesn’t need to alert her presence.

And there he is.

Phantom is smaller up close than she’d initially thought, although no one at Amity has ever got a good glance. His back is facing towards her, the black of his jumpsuit glistening under a street lamp.

Something cylindrical in his hands has captured his attention, probably why he’s not noticed her yet. Jazz strains her neck to look, but can’t see.

Phantom. The ghost that’s put her parents through so much hell.

The ghost that’s, whilst Amity was still reeling from Danny, racked up the problems on their list by causing destruction to infrastructure and pointless money. All with a side of witty banter.

“You.” Jazz tries to steady her voice, feeling the grief trickle through. All this, for her brother.

She never got to grieve properly. No one did. How were they supposed too, with ghost fights all around?

Phantom’s reaction is immediate. His back stiffens and he swivels around.

The eyes. They’re a piercing lime green, just like the portal. The portal that killed Danny.

“What do you want?” Phantom’s asks, tone initially surprised but flattening. He’s younger than Jazz expected. Fifteen, at most.

Near the same age as Danny.

“What do you think?” Her eyes narrow, reaching for the ectogun attached to her belt. She doesn’t expect a logical answer.

Of course Phantom won’t know why she’s here, or what she’s after. He’s just a ghost with an obsession of being some copy-paste comic hero.

“I—I don’t know.” The ghost mumbles, eyes now averted down to his left hand. He tucks the cylindrical device under his shoulder before tracing a round shape on his left palm.

That’s…strange. Jazz thinks. Not the answer, but his behaviour. Is he thinking of something in the past? Better yet, he’s still here. Usually Phantom, at least to news reports, is enigmatic, and never likes being filmed.

So the fact he even turned in the first place is perplexing.

But then she thinks of Danny. Buried in the cemetery, grave stricken of flowers due to the quickness of their grief. Amity bombarded with attacks on the constant, never any peace.

All Phantom’s fault. At first, perhaps (the attacks) not. But over the months, he’s gotten quite a reputation. She’s sure he has some sort of control over Amity. That ghosts come to Amity now just for the sake of fighting him.

When he’s really just a five-foot nothing skinny teenager like her brother.

If Phantom is gone, she’ll finally get a break. Get to grieve for Danny. Danny can get the justice and tribute he deserves.

The ectogun is sleek in her hand, tucked under her coat. She knows what she’s doing, having received multiple lessons from her parents after Danny’s death. They didn’t want to lose her too.

Unlatch the safety trigger, quickly aim, shoot.

It’s that simple. She points.

”Please! Please—don’t do that!” Phantom pleads, “You don’t know what you’re doing—please, put it down!”

—

“Please, Danny! I need you!” She cries out. She’s in Danny’s room, the bed still unmade, clothes still strewn about.

Untouched from when Danny had last left it. He’d gone into the lab, and that was it. Electrocution, they told her.

He’d been barely hanging on at the hospital. And then his body couldn’t take it any longer.

Her brother is gone.

—

The next thing Jazz knows is the cold pavement underneath her body, sitting with her knees drawn up to her chest on the curb. The ectogun is a few feet away, glittering in the lamplight.

”I can’t—“ she sniffles, not even realising it. Her cheeks are damp, eyes stinging.

”What’s wrong?” An echoey voice besides her. Phantom. His eyes are narrows in concern. He sits near her, but leaves a gap.

Why’s he still here? He should’ve gone long ago.

“What’s wrong? My brother is dead and his body was barely cold before you waltzed in with your stupid puns and caused damage everywhere!” The anger radiates through Jazz’s body as she scowls at him, “My brother’s death was cast aside because of you. My parents never got time to grieve, none of us did. Too busy expecting another ghost attack or repairing damages.”

“Your brother?” Is all Phantom responds. Wiping her eyes, Jazz takes a glance at him. He’s hunched over, grimacing with an expression she can’t quite read.

”I just want Danny back.” She chokes out, wiping her eyes again, feeling the tears fall.

He’s gone. Only fourteen. What sort of age is that to die? Killed at the invention of their own parents. She’ll never hear his (admittedly annoying) chatter about space, nor have their petty arguments again.

Even the times he got on her nerves meant something.

”Jazz, I—“ Phantom starts to say, but freezes.

As does Jazz.

”How do you know my name?” She tilts her head, voice sharp.

She wipes her eyes, again, blinking back the bleary vision.

Then looks right into Danny’s green eyes.

#danny phantom #ectoberhaunt24 #ectober 2024 #jazz fenton #identity reveal #full ghost danny au #eh came back wrong #ectoberhaunt

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saphronethaleph · 5 months ago

Text

Did you pack your robe yourself?

“The events on Onderon were, of course, very much not as we would desire,” Palpatine said, with a slight frown of distaste. “While they ultimately worked out, the consequences could be significant.”

“Of course, Chancellor,” replied the Vice-Chair, Mas Amedda. “Is there anything we will need to do?”

Palpatine barely glanced at the Coruscant Guard clone troopers around the entrance to the executive section of the Senate building. “Perhaps,” he said. “We should especially watch out for the risks posed by large crime syndicates. Such an event could result in serious strain on the Jedi.”

With possible witnesses, there were limits to the sort of thing he would say… but with Mas Amedda, a long-time political ally who knew he was more than he appeared, he could insinuate. And he was quite sure Mas would follow the direction of his thoughts.

“That would be unfortunate,” Mas noted. “Especially if the problems were associated with Mandalore. Obi-Wan Kenobi is closely tied to the planet’s leadership, and it would be inevitable that he’d be sent – and the loss of Master Kenobi would be a major blow to the Jedi.”

Palpatine was about to reply, but as they passed through the doorway something beeped urgently.

“What was that?” he asked.

One of the Coruscant Guard troopers was watching a screen, and he signalled to the rest of the squad. They all pointed their weapons, and the sergeant put a hand to his helmet.

“What is going on?” Palpatine asked. “Explain yourselves! I am the Supreme Chancellor!”

“Routine check, your excellency,” the sergeant said. “After the hostage crisis and intelligence of a possible kidnapping attempt, we set up scanners on the doorways of your chambers. Nobody gets in without a weapon scan.”

“That does not explain why you are holding the Supreme Chancellor and Vice Chair at blasterpoint,” Mas Amedda replied.

That wasn’t actually true. It did explain why Palpatine and Mas were at blasterpoint, because Palpatine carried a lightsaber as a matter of course – a weapon that was well-concealed and difficult to detect, and which wouldn’t show up on any scan keyed to detect blasters.

But apparently the Coruscant Guard was more thorough than that.

“We currently have reason to believe that you may have been replaced by an imposter, your excellency,” the sergeant answered. “And if you haven’t been, we’ll need an explanation for why you’re carrying a lightsaber-”

“Oh, this is tiresome,” Palpatine interrupted. “Execute Order 76.”

The whole clone squad straightened.

“What is your order?” the sergeant asked, his tone flat.

“Have all weapons scanners recalibrated to avoid registering lightsabers,” Palpatine told him. “In addition, forget this conversation and record it as a negative result.”

“It will be done, my lord,” the sergeant replied, still flat, and the troopers stepped aside.

“You had to use the order?” Mas asked.

“Surveillance footage,” Palpatine replied. “If any other clone views any recordings taken of this before I can get them deleted, the effect will be the same.”

“Of course,” Mas realized, as they began walking again. “I bow to your superior skills.”

Some miles away, Keelyvine Reus stared at her screen, which was still displaying the helmet-cam feed from CT-1154-17 ‘Thinner’ as he and his squad quietly returned to their positions – and the clone at the scanner began reprogramming it, deleting certain details from the profiles it used to identify potential weapons in the first place.

When she’d been asked to quietly back up Commander Fox as the Coruscant Guard’s number-one contact for complex situations that might require a Jedi Investigator – as Jedi or investigator – she’d expected a lot… but not this.

“...well,” she said, out loud, thinking. “Order 76 implies other orders. They’re secret enough that I don’t know about them, they override the will of the clones, and the Chancellor knows them…”

It all added up in a very unpleasant way.

She considered, then stood.

This was clearly over her head, and the Council needed to know.

#star wars #palpatine #another bad day for palps #mas amedda #clone troopers

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marlynnofmany · 2 months ago

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I Know A Guy

The post office on this space station was close to the landing docks, nice and convenient, so several of us went to check our mail while Captain Sunlight met with the sister ship. Not all of the crew had mail drops set up, but I did; this station was a big hub that we stopped at with some regularity. Perfect for relaying the occasional news from home.

And care packages, as it turned out.

I opened the box with some curiosity, sitting on a bench while the others waited in line and the spaceport bustled around us. Inside I found multivitamins, a letter from my parents, a type of cereal that I’d loved as a kid, and a smaller box with a sun logo.

“Ooh, what’d you get?” Paint asked, trotting over with her own box clutched to her scaly orange chest.

“A lot of stuff,” I said in distraction, turning the sun box in search of words. No luck. I opened it to find a fist-sized yellow globe and a base with lots of buttons. And an instruction booklet, thankfully. “Oh, it’s a sun lamp!”

“It even looks like a little sun; how nice! Is it warm, or just bright?” Paint gave it an appreciative look while she opened her package.

“Not sure yet.” I skimmed the instructions and decided to leave that for later. “It’s thoughtful, though. I think my parents were concerned that I’m not getting enough Vitamin D up in space. And other vitamins.” I rattled the bottle.

“That’s a lot of vitamins.”

“Yup. And look, they found the discontinued cereal! I thought it was gone for good.” I carefully opened a corner and fished out a palmful of the maple syrup flavored crunchy goodness that I hadn’t had in years. It was just as tasty as I’d remembered.

Paint sniffed the air. “I don’t recognize that smell. What kind of food is it?”

“Breakfast food,” I said. “I think it’s wheat based, so it’s basically made from ground-up seeds, and flavored with sweet tree sap.”

“That’s … creative,” Paint said.

“Delicious, too. Most tree saps aren’t worth eating, but this one is.” I crunched another mouthful. “Want some?”

“No thank you,” was the prim answer that I’d fully expected. “But look what I got! Fancy heat stickers!” Paint held up a stack of vividly colored starburst shapes, fanned out like playing cards. “I’m going to see if Sunlight, Coals, and Eggskin want any.”

“Thoughtful of you,” I said, closing up the cereal. All four of the lizardy Heatseekers on our ship enjoyed warm things. The ambient temperature was always kept at a comfortable compromise for the various species onboard, but a handy little warm sticker that wouldn’t get in the way was bound to be appreciated.

“Oh, they’re even scented,” Paint said, rubbing one against her snout. “I’m going to have to order more of these.” She sorted through the stack, checking scents and color variations.

Mur and Zhee were still in line, stuck behind a Frillian who was shipping many things to many places, so I settled in to read the note from home while I waited. It was a nice update on the various goings-on of the extended family; all reasonably good news, nothing earth-shattering. Somebody got a scholarship, somebody had twins, somebody was doing well in a competitive bumper-ship derby league, and was incredibly excited about it. There was a lot of detail about that one. I got the impression that this particular second cousin had given everybody a rundown at a family gathering, so now they all knew more about the best types of shrapnel shielding than they probably wanted to. Sounded like the favorite was a human-made version, combining tech that other species had already come up with. The force field worked with the ship’s scanner to predict which parts of the shield would need the most power for a given impact. My cousin was a big fan.

The quiet slap of tentacles on the ground accompanied Mur. “Well that was a long wait,” he said. “But now I’m all set for media for the foreseeable future.” He held a data chip in one tentacle.

Zhee was right behind him, hissing in what sounded like joy instead of irritation for once. He set a box down between his bug feet, not waiting for a bench, and tore it open with his pincher arms. Inside was something that looked like another kind of data chip, and something with straps that I couldn’t begin to figure out.

“Excellent,” Zhee said. “The correct version, the highest quality, and Trrili does not get to listen to it, heathen that she is.”

It took me a second. “Oh, that’s music?” I thought back to the impassioned rant about Trrili’s incorrect opinions on traditional Mesmer leg-singing. I hoped Zhee played it quietly. “And is that — I want to say ‘headphones,’ but—”

“Personal speakers, yes,” Zhee said as he stuffed it all back in the box. “I will be able to listen to the glorious arias in privacy.”

Paint nodded. “Great idea.” She’d heard the leg-singing when I did, and probably wasn’t eager to hear the artful screeching again.

I was trying to guess whether Zhee would be offended if I asked where his ears were, since it occurred to me that I didn’t actually know. But the others were gathering up their things to head back to the ship, and I decided to put it off until later. Maybe I’d ask Eggskin the medic instead.

Something occurred to me as I put the letter back in the box. “Hey guys, pose for a second. I want to send my family a picture with some of my cool alien coworkers.”

The three of them agreed that they were awesome and worth photographing. (Their responses ranged from excited to confident to egotistical.) A few moments later, I had a fantastic group selfie to send with my letter back. Paint’s open-mouthed lizard smile was adorable; Mur stood tall on his blue-black tentacles; Zhee loomed over all of us with the lights shining off his purple exoskeleton; then there was me grinning in the front. I’d definitely be keeping a copy of this.

We made our way back to the ship where it was parked next to a similar lemon-shaped courier ship with folded solar sails. The two captains hadn’t gone inside yet, which made me wonder what they were discussing with such intense expressions.

As we approached, Captain Sunlight was saying, “I may know someone who can help us out, but I’d hate to give him the satisfaction.”

She broke off when Paint trotted up to give her a handful of heat stickers and to show off the blue-white one she herself was wearing. Apparently it smelled like a plant I’d never heard of.

“Thank you; that’s very thoughtful,” Captain Sunlight said. “Those sound like just the thing.” She picked out a green one and pasted it to her own chest, where it contrasted nicely with her yellow scales.

Zhee and Mur tromped into the ship. I lingered, curious. “Is all the ship business going all right?” I asked.

“For the moment,” the captain said as she stowed the rest of the stickers and the backing for that one in her belt pouch. “Just considering our options with some monetary considerations.”

Captain Kamm waved a tentacle. “Both ships are on the family plan for damage insurance, and the rates have made an unpleasant jump.”

I shifted the box to my other side. “Do we need to earn more money?”

“No, it will be all right.” Captain Sunlight shook her head. “I have a lead on a better deal. I just need to make a call or two.”

Captain Kamm ushered us all into our ship, wasting no time. Paint disappeared to share her heat stickers while the two captains adjourned to the lounge. I put my things away and hurried back. No one had told me to mind my own business, so I was going to listen in before writing a letter to send back home.

I was quick, but Captain Sunlight was quicker. She was just ending the holo call when I arrived. A green-scaled Heatseeker gazed earnestly from the projection, urging her to get back to him as soon as she could.

“If you can get better shields, I can promise you a savings of at least 15% compared to your current plan!”

“Yes, thank you,” Captain Sunlight said. “I’ll see what I can do. Say hi to the elders for me.”

He said he would, and she turned off the projection with another deep sigh. Captain Kamm sat next to her, weaving tentacles together thoughtfully.

Captain Sunlight tossed the communicator onto the table and sat back with folded arms. “Of course it couldn’t be that simple. He talks a good game at every gathering, but oh no: prerequisites.”

I sat down at the end of the couch, absently petting Telly who was curled up in the center. In proper cat fashion, she responded by stretching to take up even more space. I was thinking about what the captain had just said about shields.

I asked, “Does he need a certain kind in order to get us the better deal?”

Captain Sunlight waved a hand. “Just a higher degree of resistance to micrometeorites. The shielding we have is perfectly serviceable, but it’s apparently not enough for the good rates.”

“Would we need to overhaul everything, or would it be enough to layer another kind over what we have? Like, say, a kind that connects to the ship’s scanners?”

The captain gave me a look. “Do you have a specific type in mind?”

“Possibly,” I said. “Are you familiar with bumper-ship derbies?”

Captain Kamm twirled a tentacle. “That’s some of the human ‘adrenaline junkie’ nonsense, yes?”

“I think there are some Smashers and other races that really get into it as well, but yes,” I said. “The letter from home I just got mentioned the shielding they use.”

I explained what I knew while they listened intently. Paint came in to join us and sat on the other side of Telly, who took the extra attention as her due. By the time I was done talking, everyone in the room was looking optimistic.

“Go ahead and reach out,” Captain Sunlight said. “We don’t have to rush off anytime soon. With any luck, we can get all this settled at once.”

“Here’s hoping!” Captain Kamm said, touching four tentacle-tips together over her head in what looked like the Strongarm version of crossed fingers.

“I’ll see if I can route a call through to home now,” I said, getting up.

Telly meowed in protest at the movement, then crawled onto Paint’s lap and rubbed her head against the heat sticker, purring audibly. Paint looked delighted.

I left with a wave, hurrying off to my quarters with plans to make a phone call, potentially save the day, then set up the sun lamp for the benefit of a certain fuzzy little heat-lover as well as for my own sake.

~~~

These are the ongoing backstory adventures of the main character from this book.

Shared early on Patreon! There’s even a free tier to get them on the same day as the rest of the world.

The sequel novel is in progress (and will include characters from these stories. I hadn’t thought all of them up when I wrote the first book, but they’re too much fun to leave out of the second).

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yuuuuuuslazy · 4 days ago

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Christmas, Airports and Coffee *⁠˘⁠♡◍⁠✧⁠*⁠。

Husband!Scoups x fem!reader

Genre : fluff

Warnings : very fluffy

Leaning on your husband’s shoulder while he finishes some work, for the second time your flight has been delayed. A trip to Norway planned by your husband as a surprise for your 5th anniversary wasn’t going what you’d call smooth. First of all, the roads were jammed with cars even though it was 3am in the morning. After you arrived at the airport with just enough time to eat and check in your bags, your flight has been delayed by a whopping 5 hours.

5 hours.

After that, when you and seungcheol went for some very early breakfast, a kid who was running around had bumped into you and spilled water. Right after that you heard the system's sweet voice stating that your flight will be delayed for another two hours.

And that makes 7 hours.

You considered going back home but calling your sister back to pick you two up again….she wouldn’t be pleased especially when she’s got an early date to prepare for.

So here you are, two hours into the wait while lounging in the waiting area. Seungcheol decided to finish the worked he had planned for after the trip so he doesn’t have to stress about it too much later on. You don’t know how he gets anything done while you pester him and play with his face, but he’s doing it. Man is everything. As your whine about being bored for the nth time, he closes his laptop and takes out his wallet, whips out his very shiny black card and allows you to go buy yourself set of Lego at the Lego vending machine.

“Go on, I saw the way you looked at that machine sweetheart. Or maybe you want to go on a walk?”

Your luggage wasn’t with you anymore so it’s just a backpack and your handbag. Minutes later you found yourself getting a piggy back ride on your husband’s back while he walks through the airport to pass some time. He was getting tired of staring an excel sheet anyways.

You met in high school, where seungcheol was the senior you’d sneak upstairs to peek at during lunch break. Safe to say you were caught and successfully married your high school crush. You started a business together, and it got so successful that he’s now the richest 1% in the country. You always tell yourself you did a great job serving as his secretary and wife. Four years of dating and he asked you to marry him, which of course you said yes.

As he approached the Lego vending machine, you jumped off his back and skipped towards the machine, scanning through the items again.

“They’re so expensive…”

Yeah, that’s what you told the man who bought you a Steinway piano on a random day after you mentioned that it looks pretty.

The man- uh, your man scoffed and pressed the button for the biggest set available after swiping his card at the scanner. Your Lego tuxedo cat plopped on the moving surface as it brings down your set. Seeing you happy like a child with a set of toys to play with made him feel something furry inside.

Before he could ask you where you wanted to go, you grabbed his hand a dragged him to a chocolate store nearby. He loves spoiling you, especially when sometimes he can’t spend time with you due to being caught up with work. He buys you things and takes you places while being a great husband ; you make him his favorites meals then help him de-stress after coming home from the very infuriating clients.

After the gift store, the cafe, the clothing store and a cat petting pop up booth that’s at the airport for some reason, you clutched your newly adopted plushie while still holding his hand, walking back to the waiting area as you talked about nothing and everything.

So you burned a few hundred from his card that’s like a few cents to him. He always insisted that you must have everything and got you the fattest diamond ring you’ve ever seen in your life for your wedding.

From your dress, the venue, heck even your eyelashes costed so much. Yet that hardly put a scratch on his account it was like grocery shopping for him.

Deciding that the carpeted floor by the waiting area would be a great place to sit on, you plopped down and started to build your tuxedo cat. How cute it even purrs when you turn the head!

One hour of Lego and few uncomfortable sleeping positions that made you look like a shrimp later, it’s 45 minutes away from boarding. Finally!! You peeked at the large glass windows and saw white spots falling down. Oh yeah…you were supposed to reach by Christmas, but here you are still back home. You two decided that you should eat something before boarding. He went to order while you waited by the windows of the cosy cafe. Coffee, snow, and your husband. What else can be better?

“Sweetheart”

“Yeah?”

You didn’t think he’d pull a move like that. His soft lips now on yours, although you were in a cafe, but of course you kissed back while catching eye of the girls in the corner fangirling over the scene. Maybe it was your broad shoulders six pack 180cm rich cold looking CEO who whines and pouts because you didn’t kiss him good morning of a husband? They can’t exactly see his build under his fluffy coat but oh that face card never declines.

Cheesy, but it made the butterflies in your tummy go wild when he kissed you as the clocks struck twelve, signaling the arrival of Christmas.

“Merry Christmas love” you heard as he pulled out a little jewelry box. Upon opening it was the most beautiful necklace you’d ever seen in your life. You knew better than to believe that it was cheap when you asked him. The less you see the logo of the brand the more expensive it is when your santa is seungcheol. Of course you prepared to a surprise for him too, but that’s for when you check into a hotel. (Iykyk)

Your trip to see the northern lights started when you boarded the first class seats with Netflix on the tvs. The divider could not stop your husband from giving you kisses.

It may be simple but everyday with him felt special in its own way even if you just lounged at home lazily while your fluffy cat tried to snuggle between you both for the warmth. This must be what happens when you marry someone who loves you more than anyone, or anything.

An argument breaks out from the couple in front of your, seemingly from money as the air stewardess came and asked them to keep it down.

“Love, I want you to know that all the money and power I have, I’d burn it to ashes as if it meant we would stay together forever”

Blushing hard although you’ve heard loving words from your husband on a daily basis

"May I make a Christmas wish?”

“Of course”

“Might I request to be your Mrs.Choi again in the next life, and every life to come even if we were to be rocks?”

Soft laughter swallowed the tense atmosphere the couple infront of you gave off as you two started to look through the free stuff the airline had provided with the first class seats, knowing his answer would always be yes. Yes, anything for his princess.

"you'll always be my girl, okay?"

#scoups x reader #scoups #svt x reader #svt oneshot #seungcheol x reader #scoups oneshot #seungcheol fluff

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niqhtlord01 · 8 months ago

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Humans are weird: Where Heroes Flew

When Florelia had gone to work today she had expected it to be a day like any other. She’d man her post in orbital control, direct cargo traffic from the spaceport on the surface of the planet to the orbital lanes in the upper atmosphere, and then head to her quarters for the night and binge some trans-system entertainment. She was hoping to catch some of the Dorgan Finals being played out on the surface. The matches had drawn in close to a billion offworlders to the event and was the largest gathering seen on Zenbara in decades.

She was just about to get up for her designated lunch break when she noticed something odd on her tracking monitor. One of the inbound ships was bypassing the waiting que for reentry and was attempting to skip ahead of the waiting ships for reentry.

Putting her headset back on, Florelia flipped through the communication channels until she had the channel for the marked ship.

“Inbound vessel DCN4, return to your position in que.” She transmitted.

No response.

“Inbound vessel DCN4, this is orbital control; return to your position in que immediately.”

Florelia wondered if the ships communicator was broken, but before she could call up an engineer to confirm the inbound vessel suddenly increased speed and began blowing past the que of waiting ships.

“DCN4 cut engines and respond immediately, this is your final warning.”

“You were given many warnings,” a strange voice came back, “and now we are the culmination of all your sins. We are the children of Nu’n and in his name we shall punish the nonbelievers and cleanse them from this universe.”

As the voice continued delivering their speech Florelia ran a scan of DCN4 to confirm its cargo. When the scan came back her eyes went wide and she slammed her fist into the panic button built into her console. Sirens began blaring as her supervisor came over as Florelia opened a direct line to orbital security.

“Security, apprehend ship DCN4 now!” Florelia shouted into her transmitter.

“What’s wrong?” her supervisor asked as he came up to her finally. Florelia turned to let him see her screen.

“I believe DCN4 is under the control of terrorist elements and is loaded with over 900 thousand tons of Genthi explosives.”

No sooner had the words left her mouth did her supervisor tap his com piece in his ear and shout, “Security move your asses now! Grab DCN4 and bring it to a halt.”

Entering in his command codes he then addressed the entire line of waiting ships still in que.

“Attention all vessels, evacuate the area immediately. Divert courses away from lane 71-93; repeat, all vessels evacuate the area immediately!”

Florelia watched on her scanner as the security ships left the station. She watched as they pushed their engines to the max to catch up to the rogue vessel but even at max speed they wouldn’t be able to catch it in time. Calculating the trajectory, the computer predicted that the terrorists were steering themselves directly towards the Dorgan Finals stadium on the planet below.

“Should we issue an evacuation for the stadium?” she asked her supervisor. To her surprise he shook his head.

“It wouldn’t matter. With that much explosives it’ll turn everything within a 500km radius into the world’s largest crater.”

Florelia couldn’t speak as the horror of the situation set in. The devastation about to unfold would be the worst terrorist attack in the known universe.

A sudden beep from her console made Florelia look back and see that while many of the other civilian vessels were scattering one ship had begun moving towards the terrorist ship.

“What in the niv’nar….”

Florelia brought up the information about the secondary contact and saw it was a human mining ship designated the “Jackdaw”.

“Orbital control to human vessel Jackdaw, what are you doing?” Florelia asked as she realigned the transmitter to communicate to the human ship. “You have been instructed to evacuate the area.”

“I thought about it,” A young cheerful voice came back over the radio, “but my pappy taught me that when a robber comes at you you don’t show them the door; you show them your arm.”

Not understanding what the human was talking about she looked up to see the live camera feeds being displayed on the main monitors. DCN4 was long and narrow, while the human Jackdaw was bulky and looked as if it had been welded together with scrap metal.

It looked as if the Jackdaw was going to block DCN4 but as soon as the cargo ship drew close the mining ship ignited its engines and lazily drifted above the cargo vessel as it blew by. As it passed underneath the mining ship Florelia watch as a dozen compartments opened up on the mining ship and grappling arms the size corvettes shot out and latched on to DCN4.

The arms soon went taut and the Jackdaw ignited its engines to full in a dazzlingly bright display of light.

Like a fisherman wrangling a mighty sea creature, the Jackdaw tried to pull the terrorist ship back into orbit and give the security ships a chance to disable the vessel before it could carry out its task. Every set of eyes in the control room was locked to the main monitor as the DCN4 engines burned brighter and the ship veered left and right to try and shake off the Jackdaw.

The security ships had almost made it to DCN4 when several of the grappling arms tore away chunks of DCN4’s hull. Each of the security ships swung to avoid the debris but were struck by the whiplash of the grappling arms and exploded in a cloud of burnt metal. To the horror of orbital control one of the grappling arms swung back and damaged a few of the Jackdaw’s engines as well.

With renewed fervor the terrorist ship began plunging once more into the atmosphere with the Jackdaw still holding on with what few grappling arms remained. Though it refused to let go of the terrorist ship, it was a struggle it could not win.

“Orbital control to Jackdaw, you’ve done everything you can; disengage and get out of there.” Florelia transmitted to the Jackdaw.

“Not everything,” came the reply over the radio, “I got one last trick up my sleeve.”

Florelia was going to ask what they meant when the Jackdaw began retracting the grappling arms while they still held on to DCN4. Slowly the arms pulled the two vessels closer and closer together as new energy warning sirens started off.

“That crazy bastard’s going to make a jump.” Florelia heard her supervisor say in disbelief.

“Jackdaw, if you attempt to make a jump in orbit-“ Florelia began but the human captain cut her off.

“It’s the last trick I got to play lassie.” They said in their chipper tone.

“There’s no guarantee you’ll make it out of the jump intact.” She persisted. “No ship has ever withstood a jump while in a gravity well.”

“First time for everything I suppose.”

The two ships were nearly touching hulls as the Jackdaw’s jump drive neared full power.

“Why are you doing this? You don’t know this world or these people; why give your life for them?”

To her surprise the human captain laughed over the coms.

“When someone’s in trouble you don’t stop to ask for details, you just help them.”

With that the two ships hulls finally touched and the Jackdaw ignited its jump drive. For a moment both ships blurred in and out of the atmosphere as DCN4 desperately tried to free itself from the mining ship’s grasp.

In a final bright flash the two ships made the jump out of the atmosphere, leaving behind a trail of scrap metal that slowly burned away as it fell to the planet below. To the public below it looked as if a series of elaborate fireworks were going off to celebrate the day’s events while those in orbit held a silent vigil for the unknown human captain who had just saved billions of lives.

For all the barbarity the human race has been known for it was easy to forget that there were still those amongst their people who would lay down their lives for strangers without ever needing a word of thanks.

#humans are insane #humans are weird #humans are space oddities #humans are space orcs #scifi #story #writing #original writing #niqhtlord01

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sankta-wraith · 3 days ago

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I’m about halfway through season three, and I’d just like to take a moment and look at how losing Rose has changed the Doctor.

First the obvious things: he’s more serious. During his time with Rose, he was mostly cheerful, funny, and generally quite positive. There were a few darker moments, but for the most part he had a pretty sunny personality, especially when he was with Rose. In season three, while he still tries to maintain his happy personality, he occasionally slips into melancholy and his cheerfulness often feels like a bit of a facade. This isn’t to say that there aren’t moments when he’s genuinely happy, but they seem to be far less frequent than the durst two seasons. He smiles less. He doesn’t have as many quips. He’s barely laughed at all. But that’s to be expected. He just lost someone he loved; it makes sense for him to be more withdrawn and sad.

The thing that struck me the most was how reckless he’s become. He’s always been a bit reckless, but he’s also tried to avoid things that will most likely kill him. He might be constantly getting himself into very dangerous situations, but he (almost) always thinks of some way to not die. (I think it’s because he knows that if he dies the Time Lords die with him, but that’s a different post.) In season three, he’s practically suicidal. So far, he’s allowed himself to come dangerously close to death at least five times, some seemingly without expecting to survive.

First was in episode one, when he let the Plasmavore drink his blood so she wouldn’t register as human on the scanner. He had no companion at the time, so he couldn’t have expected anyone to come for him. Even if someone had found him, they would have needed to do a blood transfusion, and since he’s not human it’s unlikely that human blood would save him. (I’m actually not sure how he survived that. Martha gave him CPR, but that didn’t fix the blood loss issue.) Even knowing all of that, he still allowed the Plasmavore to drain his blood without hesitation. He technically could have regenerated, but that didn’t seem to be part of his plan. I’m still not quite sure how regeneration works, but I’m pretty sure he has to be conscious for it to happen, and he was definitely unconscious when Martha found him.

The second time was when the Carrionite did he voodoo doll thing. This is admittedly a weaker example, since he does have two hearts, but I’m not entirely convince that he knew he’s be able to restart his other heart. He can clearly survive with just one heart (at least for a little bit,) but it significantly weakened him and it’s unclear how long he would have survived it. Had he been unable to get both hearts working, he probably would have died later when his remaining heart gave out under the strain, or been finished off later by the Carrionites and unable to defend himself. And yet he seems remarkably unconcerned, even when he realizes what she going to do. This isn’t to say that he wasn’t worried, but maybe not as worried as he should have been.

Third is when he willingly offers himself up to the Daleks, fully expecting them to kill him. This is one of the best examples, because he is 100% convinced that they are going to kill him. He’s so convinced that it actually comes as a shock when they decide not to kill him on the spot. Sacrificing himself makes sense in this situation, but it was a bit shocking how fast he agreed. I had expected to frantically try to come up with a plan, or at least to try fighting, before he decided to sacrifice himself. I certainly hadn’t expected him to straight up tell them to kill him.

Fourth was when he put himself in the direct path of a lightning strike/gamma ray burst on the off chance that some of his DNA would get transferred. Again this is an excellent example because not only did he put himself in its path, he actually held onto a lightning rod and wouldn’t let go for the duration of the gamma ray burst. There’s also the small fact that said lightning rod was on the top of the Empire State Building, and if the lighting and radiation hadn’t killed him a fall probably could’ve. That is literally the definition of suicidal.

The fifth and (so far) final time was when he, once again, sacrificed himself to the Daleks and demanded they kill him. Yes he knew that the Dalek-humans had some Time Lord DNA in them, but he still couldn’t be sure it would be enough. If you still don’t believe that he’s suicidal, I think seeing him stand in a room full of people with lasers/guns and telling them all to kill him should convince you. If even that doesn’t work, then you should consider the fact that the last three all happen in the same episode.

Let it never be said that losing Rose didn’t affect the Doctor.

#doctor who #rose tyler #martha jones #dr who #the tenth doctor #tenrose #timepetals #doctorrose #dr who season three #10th doctor #the doctor #doctor who s3 #daleks in manhattan

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humanitys-strongest-brat · 2 months ago

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Kintsugi - ch. 2

Pairing: Coach!Levi x Injured fem!Reader

CW: major themes of injury, depression, and hopelessness. 18+ minors and ageless blogs dni.

wc: 3.2k

a/n: Reviewed and edited by the lovely @tobbi-loves-levi whom I am endlessly grateful for~

previous chapter / masterlist

Heat radiates up from the pan over your wrist as you cook your breakfast, stirring mindlessly as you lose yourself in thought. The rattle of your phone against the counter interrupts you. Turning the stove on low you flip your phone over from its downward position to see Levi’s contact illuminating the screen. Immediately your chest tightens up. It’s only been two days since you last spoke to him. You let it ring for a few seconds before slowly sliding your thumb across the screen to answer.

“Hello?” You hold your breath, hoping he doesn’t notice.

“Morning,” Levi starts, his tone causing your nerves to fray more than they already were. “I reviewed everything you sent over and drew up a recovery plan. If possible, I’d like to go over it in person.” It’s still overwhelming to know just who it is you’re talking to.

“Okay sure.. When?” You ask.

“Today?”

Your eyebrows shoot up in surprise. Moving things along this quickly isn’t exactly what you expected to happen. “Yeah, I can make it in today.” You confirm.

“Eleven work for you?” He asks.

You glance over at the clock on the stove, seeing you had more than enough time to get ready “Perfect.”

“Alright. Sina training center, left wing. My office is on the second floor. I’ll text you the address. See you then.” He hangs up and seconds later your phone buzzes with the address as promised.

***

Sina Training Center is on the opposite side of town from the arena you trained at for Worlds. Having lived in this city for less than a year you’ve only ever seen it in passing. When you finally find a place to park it’s quite the walk before you make it inside, and when you do you’re shocked by the size of this place. It’s a huge lobby, different areas lead you to sport specific sections of the building.

You head left and follow the signs that direct you towards the ice sports wing. On your way to the elevator you pass by the large window. Ice is on full display through this window, causing your stomach to tighten. You stop and observe as three girls train with their respective coaches on the ice. An ache grows in your chest as you watch them.

When you step off the elevator onto the second floor and make your way into the waiting room, there’s a man standing in front of the door that leads to the offices looking down at an iPad. You walk up with the intention of politely getting past him, but when he looks up to face you your heart stops.

That scar is unmistakable. A clean cut that trailed from above his eyebrow all the way down through his lip. Small dots on either side from the stitches even after all this time, and a white glaze over his right eye. Even so, the man in front of you was breathtaking. It was definitely him.

“Wouldn’t have made it very far,” he breaks the silence causing you to snap out of it, and you definitely feel like an ass for staring.

“I’m sorry?”

He quickly shifts to the left of the door revealing a key card scanner, “and I never mentioned which office was mine.” He sounds just like he did on the phone, so.. abstruse? If this wasn’t a professional setting you’d believe he already hated you.

“Levi.” He states, extending his hand out for you to shake. You can’t help but stare. You’re standing in front of one of the most unrivaled skaters, even the accident couldn’t take that title from him.

“Nice to meet you.” You finally muster up. He’s silent for a moment, seemingly observing you.

“Likewise.” He finally says before looking back down and wrapping up whatever it was he was doing on the iPad. He holds it at his hip and digs through his pocket, pulling out a blue lanyard with the training center's logo lined across it, at the end hangs a small white card. “This is yours.” He says. You grab it from him and take a look. It’s a key card with a barcode and your name printed on it. “This will get you into any area designated for skaters, and past this door to my office.” You swear you can hear his voice lift at the second half of that sentence. “Follow me.” You nod as he leads you back into the elevator. Once you’re on the main floor again he points to the rink you passed on your way in.

“That's the common rink, used for general training and classes.” He explains, leading you in the opposite direction down the hall and stopping at a pair of double doors. He presses his key card against the reader on the wall and quickly walks in as they open. When you follow in behind him, you’re stunned to see another large common area lined with equipment shops and a small snack bar section. To the right are two more ice rinks, one immediately to the right of the door you came in and the other’s entrance on the far wall straight across. “Those are the specialty rinks, I call them the rehab rinks.'' He starts, heading in that direction. “They both serve the same purpose though, one is generally used for the hockey team to train off-season. Eventually, we’ll be over there in the third one.” He gestures for you to follow him inside, scanning his card at the entrance. Your breathing nearly seizes. This is the closest you’ve been to the ice since February.

“It’s our smallest rink. Reserved specifically for those recovering from injury who need a less congested area to work in.” He walks the edge of the boards with you in tow, eyes glued to the ice the entire time. “Locker rooms.” He says. You almost ran straight into him not noticing he had stopped to point them out.

Circling back and crossing the large common area with you, he scans his key again. “This is the gym, and past that door is the PT area.” he points past another set of locker rooms. You’re already so overwhelmed, even for you this entire building was so high profile. You felt out of place. “For the next few weeks, we’ll be spending most of our time here.”

You're so sick of physical therapy and just want to be back on the ice already.

As the two of you walk back out towards the elevators to get to his office, he looks over to you. “Do not use any facility without me there with you for now.” He says, and you can tell he’s serious.

***

Levi pulls a folder from his desk as you sit across from him. “Your current recovery plan is nauseating.” He says bluntly, dropping the folder onto the desk.

You’re stunned by the quick change in his tone. “Excuse me?”

“First of all, they set you up for failure before you even left the hospital.” He starts, pulling out printed copies of everything you sent over from the folder. “Ice? Really? Are we still living in the stone ages?” He scoffs “You should have been doing small movements for that ankle since day one, and I don’t see any recommendations here for that.”

“There wasn’t..” You confirm, eyes so wide they could fall out of your skull. It was hard to believe how involved with your recovery he was, not expecting him to review your progress from day one. You figured he would just pick up along with where you already were.

“Of course, and you weren’t referred to the proper resources. Standard physical therapy would never have gotten you back on that ice. It’s up to you but I think you’d do better full time here.” He says, shaking his head. “Christ, did your coach do literally anything for you?”

You wince at the mention of Coach Tarasov, having ghosted her after she drove you home from the hospital. You haven’t reached out since, positive it’s too late now. Getting a new coach was just another thing you’d have to do to get yourself back up. “I didn’t really give her the chance to..”

Levi hummed in response. “You moved on from basic balance too fast, that’s why you’re struggling so badly now. Balance is the most important part of this, you’re a figure skater. We’ll start our assessments there.”

“I don’t have the time to start over.” You reply immediately.

“Do you think you’ll have time when this happens again because you re-injured yourself?” He asks flatly and the question sinks deep. “You won’t, and we’re not starting over. I’m assessing where we are now.”

We.

“Okay.. you’re right.” You exhale and let yourself lean back into the chair.

“I know I am.” He pulls all of the pages back together and slips them back inside your folder. “Three days a week. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, seven to eight?” He asks as if it were a question.

“Yes, that works.” You affirm. This was your only option and you had a feeling he knew that too.

He nods and pulls another packet out, sliding it towards you. “Review and sign these.” He says. Flipping through it you recognise it’s the plan he just went over with you, and you sign when prompted. He reaches his hand beside his computer and slides you another white card. “For the parking garage.”

***

The next day you park in the garage and it’s a much easier walk inside, considering it happens to be attached to the skating wing of the training center. You scan your way in and head through the gym, and into the physical therapy room once you throw your stuff into a locker.

When you walk into the room you see Levi talking to what you assume to be another employee. He’s tall, muscular, blond. It looks like he’s actually enjoying their conversation. The discussion seems to stop when Levi’s eyes find you, and he gestures for you to follow him. Racing to catch up with him, you see the man eye the both of you before turning to leave.

“Who's that?” Curiosity gets the best of you.

“Erwin, he’s a personal trainer in another wing.” Levi responds without delay. “Sometimes comes and bothers me between appointments.” As harsh as that sounded, you could tell it came from a place of adoration.

Levi has you sit down after taking your shoes off. You’ve been here before, it’s the same place you got assessments done the first time. You watch as he kneels down and sets the tablet beside him on the mat, gently pressing his thumbs into the front of your ankle and asking you to move your foot in several directions. He feels like a different person in this room than he was in the office or on the phone. He’s gentle and precise, jotting down notes in between every test he does, and making sure you’re comfortable. He's way more involved than your last therapist and you haven’t even gotten past the assessment.

“Let’s try something.” Getting back onto his feet, he walks across the room and grabs an object from the ground. You immediately recognize it as a balance board. It’s a flat square board with a rounded bottom. He places it down on the floor and gestures you over. “Go ahead and step up here.” He reaches his hand out for you to grab. You nervously place your hand in his and step onto the board with your left foot, relying on Levi to support you while you find your balance.

“Great.” He encourages, his tone setting off tiny flutters in your stomach as you attempt to balance yourself. He takes a small step back, seamlessly supporting the weight you’re pushing onto his hand. “I’m going to let go, see how you do here.” He says and waits for you to center yourself before slowly pulling away. He continues to hold his hands out in front of you, palms facing up so you can hover yours above incase you need help with balancing.

Immediately after he retracts his hand your ankle shakes, a reminder of just how far behind you are. A few seconds later discomfort takes over, sending a sting up the inside of your leg. You let your fingertips fall onto his, your eye twitches as you try to avoid relying on him for balance.

“How does that feel?”

“It kind of hurts.”

“Stop.” He grabs your hand and helps you back down off the board. “Then we aren’t there yet.” He comments, jotting the notes down quickly.

You let out a sigh, this is what you meant when you said you couldn’t afford to start over. “I should be on the board by now.” You think out loud.

“Not if it hurts.” He quips, letting the iPad rest against his hip from the strap hanging off his shoulder. “If you can’t balance on that board you won’t be able to balance on a blade.”

“I’ve been in therapy for weeks,” your thoughts quickly spiral, having the determination to recover means nothing if your body works so hard against you. “If I can’t get back on the ice by-“

“I’ll get you back on the ice.”

Your thoughts lapse. The way he said it with such certainty makes you want to believe him that much more.

“Look, I told you your last program was shit,” he sounds like he’s trying to be comforting “it’s not going to happen overnight, and definitely not with that attitude.”

You don’t know how to respond to that. You know he’s right. Again.

Levi leads you to the center of the room for mobility stretches, another exercise you’re more than familiar with. He watches as you shift your weight onto your right leg and tip your left foot outward, it doesn’t hurt but the pull is uncomfortable. You inhale harshly through your nose, pushing further against the strain.

“Don’t force it.” Levi instructs, keeping a close eye on your form.

You switch from stretching to the side to stretching your ankle forward. After going back and forth between the two for about 5 minutes Levi stops you again, moving on to the stationary board for heel lifts. You step up and let your heels hang off the back of the board, every raise has your ankle shaking. You watch Levi in the mirror in front of you, he has a peculiar look on his face. He slowly kneels down behind you to watch closely as you continue to rise up and down on the board.

“Stop, get down.” Levi says firmly.

You oblige, immediately stepping back down onto the padded floor. Levi picks up the tablet and starts quickly swiping across the screen, eyebrows raised and lips pressed in a flat line.

“Your old therapist,” he starts, still quickly filing through pages on the iPad, “did they massage that ankle.”

“No.” You confirm his suspicions.

“‘Course they didn’t.” He mumbles, rolling his eyes as he lets the iPad fall back down against his side. “It’s stiff.” He’s already walking back toward the tables.

You follow behind him nervously, sitting up on the table when prompted. You watch as he methodically washes his hands in a nearby sink. When he comes back he tells you to lay back. He stands at the end of the table, gently bending your foot toward him. You chew the inside of your lip as he slips his hand under your heel, pressing his thumb gently behind your ankle bone and guiding the pressure up. Your breath catches at the slight discomfort but it's slowly replaced by a sense of relief. He continues in that same upward direction, adding a gentle circular motion after a few moments. You turn your head away, fidgeting with your shirt as your heart rate seems to accelerate.

You aren't sure what it is about him. From the moment you knew you’d be working with him it’s all you could think about. At first you chalked it up to admiration. Maybe it was the way he cared, even underneath all the dry conversation and formalities you could tell. Or maybe it’s the way he carries himself. Could be that he’s stunning, like a sunset that perfectly contrasts a clear blue sky. Even now, when he's right in front of you he takes up your mind. Just when you entertain it, imagine his hand sliding up your leg–

“Let’s try again.” His voice startles you out of your thoughts.

You stand back on the board and Levi kneels down again. You lift up once more and your eyes widen slightly. Not only has the discomfort decreased but your ankle doesn’t shake as bad. It’s not perfect, you still feel the tightness and resistance. That last thing you expected was to make progress during your first session with him. You snap your attention to him, back on the tablet adding data. The corner of his lip upturned in a subtle smirk like he just found the last missing piece of an unfinished puzzle.

“It was healing stiff.” He comments, switching you to another exercise. “You’re lucky we caught it when we did.”

“It’s reversible?” You ask, but it comes out as more of a plea.

“It is.” he confirms. You leave the session that day with a detailed print out of exercises from Levi, instructed to do them in the afternoon of your session days and twice a day otherwise.

That night as you do them, his voice echoes in your thoughts

I’ll get you back on the ice.

***

From that point on, your sessions start with a fifteen minute meticulous ankle massage. By the end of the first two weeks you can hold your balance on one foot for thirty seconds with minimal shaking.

Throughout your third week you make miraculous progress. You’re up to forty five seconds of balance on one foot, and painless single heel lifts off the floor and the stationary balance board.

The last 10 minutes of your Friday session Levi has you balance on one foot and places a tennis ball down directly in front of you.

“Pick it up.”

You nod, extending your leg behind you as you slowly bend your knee. Once you have the ball in your hand you slowly rise back up, placing it back in Levi’s hand. He shifts over, setting the ball down to your right. Again, you lower yourself down and back up on one foot with ease. One last time he sets the ball down to your left. When you drop it back in his hand you bring your elevated foot back down to stay stable. He lets out a satisfied huff and walks away, returning with the balance board from a few weeks back and drops it down. He helps you up and this time you pull away from him, quick to neutralize your weight. You make it look easy now.

“Not bad.” His tone sounds indifferent but he has that same look in his eyes, he has it every time you hit a milestone.

Like every win is yours to share.

On your way out, Levi stops to face you. He opens his mouth to say something but quickly closes it again, seeming to second guess himself. “See you next week.”

Taglist: @amywritesthings @littlerequiem @humanitys-strongest-bamf @hideandgopeep

@thechaoticarchivist @sixpennydame

#levi ackerman #levi ackerman fanfiction #levi ackerman x female reader #levi ackerman x reader #captain levi #levi ackerman x you #fic: Kintsugi

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ellesthots · 27 days ago

Text

Fateful Beginnings

XXXVII. “Luminol”

parts: previous / next

plot: the Batman investigates a string of murders. Bruce gets protective attending the first rally for Gotham’s mayoral election.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, blood, description of injury (crime scene stuff), anxiety, rumination, sexual content

words: 14k

a/n: a chapter entirely Bruce’s perspective 🤭 y’all are gonna like this one 👀 getting to dive into his mind was so fun 🦇

His body lit up like a string of lights. His body, your hands. Up his stomach to his chest, down his shoulder and arm…

He couldn’t shake the look in your eyes when you’d grabbed his hand, panicked, searching him for comfort. God, he was used to people seeking him out for solace, safety; he was used to being made into a symbol of reassurance, even hope. But when you looked at him that same way, it was different. Like somehow the weight of the world rested in it.

You texted him a picture of frozen carrots, joking about the additional vitamins. He responded with a joke about peas being more effective, before blinking back into his environment and staring at his phone in disbelief. This was what was taking up his time? He was still on patrol. Not only that, but he was half in the suit, in public.

He clicked his armor back in and donned the cowl. The rest of the night was spent in near-total isolation, with Gordon unable to be contacted besides the brief run-in at the subway station. He wondered how he had time to respond to a call like that, but not to return his messages. Must’ve already been in the area.

All he had to do was drive in the area near vandalists for them to buckle. He never found much joy in things like that—it felt routine. Droplets of rain peppered his windshield, giving him more attention than anyone in Gotham the entire night. It was like the city was asleep. Not right. He drove, and drove, and tried to contact anyone on the GCPD to no avail. Something really wasn’t right; they hated to hear from Batman, that was evident, but they never declined a late-night call, just as desperate to get their hands dirty.

What started as a usual patrol dissolved into a hunt for any officer. Just as the first streams of dawn were peeking behind the clouds, he spotted a patrol car in front of a diner. An officer was fishing something out of their vehicle, and he squinted at the incoming headlights, throwing a hand over his eyes. He didn’t recognize the man; he looked young, a new hire. GCPD hadn’t hired anyone new in ages. The last time had been right after the flooding.

Once he realized the Batman was approaching, the man choked on something, knocking his chest to catch his breath. He made his voice gravelly, a movement so instinctual he never thought about it; when he entered the suit, he entered the voice—until you came around, apparently.

“Where’s Gordon?”

The man’s eyes flashed, and he swallowed back the last of his spit. His eyes were red, strained. He’d been up all night. Not unusual for new hires, a sort of hazing. He shook his head, his shoulders slumping. He wouldn’t make eye contact, staring at the bat’s leather boots.

“Haven’t met him yet, I don’t know. I can ca—”

He growled under his breath, turning on his heel to return to his car. He slammed into the driver’s side and jammed on the gas, ripping past the officer. He’d already cleared the area near the subway, trying to uncover any cleverly disguised patrol cars, had the scanner blasting through the speakers, but nothing revealed itself. It didn’t track, leaving him drowning in an unsettled, ruffled headspace. Were they intentionally hiding something from him?

When he arrived back at Wayne Tower, he was wired and unsatisfied. He worked through the morning, searching every index, newspaper, and engine for leads. Whatever this was, it was under wraps.

But if it was big, why wouldn’t he be clued in? Gordon never failed to elicit his support for a gruesome, intense, or mysterious case. It had to be one of those, because menial crimes didn’t have all hands on deck like this.

Nothing.

He got up to put on his hoodie and jacket again, head to the station, bike around town, but Alfred had a sixth sense; already walking out of the elevator with a mug of tea that spread the scent of lavender about the basement. Bruce smelt him before hearing the clip of his cane.

“You need some shuteye.” The soft slurp of the drink eviscerated his eardrums, irritability coating him like flaking skin.

“I’m fine.”

“You’ll focus better.”

Bruce pressed on, the pit in his stomach sinking deeper. His brain was crowded, but empty. Filled with nothing real, nothing tangible. Exhausted from scrolling, searching, driving, looking, with no information to chew on. He wouldn’t rest until he got an answer on why the GCPD was freezing him out.

“You need to take care of yourself.”

Need this, need that. He hid his balled fists in the baggy clumps of his jacket, grabbing the scarf from the bench with a snap. He wasn’t halfway through wrapping it when Alfred cleared his throat. Bruce wasn’t looking back, instead rolling his eyes to the ceiling. They’d have another argument if the old man kept this up. He wasn’t a child, and the events of the past week hadn’t changed that.

“Bruce.”

He still refused to look, tying the scarf at the back and flipping up his hood. The weather today would be cloudy, the cloudiest it’d been in months. He finally had the backdrop to get work done during the day. Something to busy him—shit. He cast his eyes down and slammed past Alfred, all but punching the button to the foyer. Trying hard not to think about it, he rushed to the cabinet closest to the sink and took his meds, lowering his head to drink straight from the spout. As the water glided the olanzapine into his stomach, he thought how the only reason he was taking it was to alleviate your suffering. It hadn’t been pleasant having the hallucinations, but every pill taken felt like a deeper acceptance of his decaying mind. He did his best to force dissociation.

He grabbed an apple off the table and was met with Alfred blocking the elevator doors.

“If you don’t let me go, I’ll take the stairs.”

“Look at yourself, boy. You’re worn thin.” Bruce’s frame was turned in, shoulders slumped, bags under his eyes. His voice was thick with exhaustion, frayed. Red flag after red flag. Alfred wouldn’t let the boy be so careless without a fight, if that was what this came to.

He needed to keep moving; every moment of stillness, of silence, felt like nails scraping his skull. He took a hard right and walked through the kitchen hallway, frustrated to hear footsteps following. “Alfred, that’s enough.” He tried to keep his tone leveled, not tip off just how frustrated he was, how close he was to turning and ripping Alfred a new one, or breaking down into tears. The feeling of grief hadn’t left him since the cemetery, save the fleeting blip of time where you’d careened into the alley, panicked. He wanted to stop thinking about that, too.

Alfred called after him. The man was fast when he wanted to be, and he heard him pick up speed. He said something else Bruce ignored, shoving through the door to the staircase, rushing down flight after flight, his chest starting to burn as he got closer to the ground, dozens of stairs slipping under the sole of his boots every few seconds. He tripped on the last stair and fell out the door, grating his palms against the cement. The stairs led to a side exit not viewable from the front or back, with a cloak of trees lining his escape.

Thankfully, he thought ahead for circumstances like these. In case the tunnels ever flooded, or the ceiling collapsed, or Alfred was being particularly obtrusive, he kept a car and motorbike stowed a quarter mile away. Every step made the tower less loud, creating space for him to prioritize, hone in on the mission. Figure out what the hell’s going on. What’s keeping the GCPD locked up.

The bike took a second to start, requiring some finicky tinkering before it would do more than rev up and die. Soon enough he was speeding into downtown, wanting to stake out the station in the central city. Gordon’s office resided there, though he often vacillated between there and the east side. If his personal car wasn’t parked in the garage, he’d ride east.

And there it was. Good as gold. A beat-up old Honda. Ice had crusted over the windshield from the chill the night before. Pulled an all-nighter. He rarely did that on weekends, opting to spend it with his family unless… Christ, what the hell was going on?

He didn’t expect Gordon to walk out right then, and cursed himself for not having the suit. Gordon got in the police car closest to the building doors, Martinez trailing behind looking beat. He held a lidless paper cup of black coffee in his left hand, his badge stretching out the pocket on his jacket. Might’ve even been the second, or third day on patrol. Running on fumes. The lip on Martinez’s coffee was worn and soaked, the paper uncurling and soggy. Far from his first cup.

Waiting a few seconds after they pulled out, Bruce dallied in front of the police doors on his bike, pretending it wouldn’t start to take a quick peek through the windows. It was empty, save the security and receptionist. He sped off a few seconds later, following the glow of the taillights through the fog.

Tailing cops was easy, tailing Gordon wasn’t. He had to stay further back than he wanted, take turns only to turn back, cut the lights, either far enough removed to turn a street before, or close enough to their bumper he had to keep on past when they stopped. This drive was quick and dirty. Not long, very specific. Turns he didn’t think he would take, every time.

They landed at a house that looked like it was still recovering from the flood—the beige paint had faded into a peely pink, shingles broken off the roof, windows patched together with duct tape. He watched as Gordon and Martinez entered, the door opening off only one hinge. A small child was in the doorway holding a raggedy stuffed bear, and someone who looked like their sibling stood above them, holding their shoulders. He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a pair of binoculars, seeing on the zoom that their faces were blotchy and red, eyes puffy. Someone had died there.

That was when he noticed a flash of yellow tape in the kitchen, before the older child pulled the door shut. Unable to see through the taped-up front windows and no more being visible on the bottom floor, he pulled out his phone and searched the residence. Current renter was Raina Altruss, who appeared to be a lunch lady at the elementary school nearby. No arrest records, not even a speeding ticket. It couldn’t have been anyone else, unless she was so moved by grief that she’d let her small children open the door for the officers. Why weren’t they being taken to the station? Was a social worker already on the way, or were they letting that slip, too?

Murders took a decent chunk of time to investigate, even in the acute phase. Especially so if she’d had an abusive partner, less if it was a suicide, but that wasn’t typical for single mothers here; too attached to their children and desperate to protect in a city so dangerous, but who knew. Certainly he didn’t.

There wasn’t much he could get done outside of the suit, and he couldn’t very well get into it during the day… and he didn’t know how much longer Gordon would be on shift. His gait was dragging across the mangled porch, eyelids heavy. She was listed as having two children, now orphaned. He hated the thought of going back home so soon, but saw no way around it. He needed to get working on the emergency planning, nap, and have a bite before heading out tonight. Days that were this uneventful meant trouble would soon follow, and going to a murder scene in broad daylight wasn’t an option. Restless, kinetic energy climbed through the trees on his drive home.

He slept down in the basement, not wanting Alfred to know he’d arrived. He kept a makeshift cot tucked under the desk; whenever Alfred noticed it was out, he complained that Bruce would ‘break his back’ on it, but he was tired enough between patrols to not notice. This time was no different, drifting off the second he’d set his alarm.

He slept hard, without dreams.

Only a few hours of sleep later, he was back to prepping. No more info came up about Altruss, or much else for that matter. He was left staring at the emergency planning document with weary, tired eyes, mind blank. He tackled what he assumed was the easiest one first, but he couldn’t come up with an orienting item. He looked around the basement, felt the weightiness of different tools, pens, and other miscellaneous items, but nothing felt tethering. Only after working through the dusty bottoms of old cardboard boxes did he find one: his old cufflinks, the W loud and proud. The surface just smooth enough, just rough enough. It felt significant in his fingers, cold, heavy, hollow.

As he rolled it between his finger and thumb, heat pricked his eyelids, and his breathing shallowed before he could register it. Memories of his father’s first campaign rally, the bend of his knee as he crouched to hand Bruce a small package with a blue velvet bow. His mom was putting in earrings by the door with one hand, the other wrestling on her heels. She always had trouble getting them over the heel of her left foot, and he never knew why. His dad helped him attach the cuffs to the wrist of his jacket, and ruffled his hair as he stood. He clinked Bruce’s wrist with his own pair, and Bruce grinned, pulling his smile into the one he’d rehearsed in the mirror that morning. “Your father’s going to be on TV, honey. We all have to look our best.” She’d pulled a tight smile in the mirror, and he mimicked it.

As he was pulled back to the gray concrete around him, he thought miserably that his orienting item could be the throbbing ache in his chest. His eyes swept around the room, and he swore he could hear the echo of his breathing in the emptiness. His stomach began to clench and twist, the sensation that never failed to precede a guttural cry and blurry, fragmented vision. He pocketed the cufflinks and walked back to the computer to check it off the list. His mouse squeaked against the metal as his fingers slipped to the edge of the desk, head hung as he winced, feeling like he was breathing through a straw.

In a tinny blur, he shoved his weight into his elbows to push him upright. Ignoring the cues in his body to slow down, to sit, to feel, he grabbed the ear of his cowl.

It was still light, so he found refuge in the watchtower. He sent a message to Gordon about being available, and needing to discuss something urgent, intentionally keeping it vague. The suit felt heavier tonight, as the wind whizzed around the edges of his towering frame, staring down the interweaving streets. Every time a thought threatened to form, he focused on another pedestrian, another street. In secret, trying to hide from the parts of him with a screaming conscience, he begged for violence. Someone to throw a punch at someone smaller, someone vulnerable. An arsonist to light a house so he could run inside, grab the kids, usher out the parents, feel the weight of the held door on his hip, let his mind quiet.

His prayer was answered with the rattle of the elevator’s ascent. Gordon walked through with a rush, his shoulders slumped more than before, his footing unsteady. “Hey man, sorry. Had to book it from the subway last night. Been swamped.”

“Too swamped to return a call?”

Gordon sighed, the end of it hoarse, depleted. “I only have a minute, thought to tip you off.” His glasses were smudged and fogged. “String of murders, same as the John Doe. Strung up by knives.” He made a face and pulled his glasses off, cleaning them on the bottom of his jacket. When he put them on, they weren’t much better.

Batman had to clench his fists, slam his tongue to the roof of his mouth, as his thoughts flew to the handles. Gordon motioned for him to come over, pulling a folded packet out of his breast pocket. He held his gaze at the ground a second longer, thoughts spiraling over if they’d have the owl insignia. Gordon was already beginning to fold them up as quickly as he took them out, so he was forced to glance over—

—empty, undisturbed handles on the same knives. He let out a breath as Gordon walked over to the elevator, motioning for him to follow. “Headed to another right now, last stop for the night. Only a few blocks.”

Consumed by more crushing confirmation that he’d lost his mind, he was grateful Gordon was barely standing, without reserve to perceive him. There’d never been marks on the knives. His mind had put them there. The creature hadn’t attacked him, he’d been alone. He stared at some graffiti by the CALL button, ruminating on its outline to create more distance between him and his thoughts.

He paid attention to the puddles of light from the streetlights on the short drive. Would’ve counted the cracks in the windows he passed if he’d been going any slower. This house wasn’t as dilapidated as the last one, but still disheveled. Another vehicle had already arrived with the officer from the diner. He felt the weight of his cape tugging on his neck with each thudding step.

Walking into the scene, the first thing he noticed was the victim strung up in the same fashion as the John Doe. Knives peppering the outer edges of the body, outlining the frame with throwing knives. The handles were smooth and unaffected. The Batman stepped closer, moving his breathing from his nose to his mouth. He sidestepped the forensics team beginning to work across the kitchen, moving to see the areas of impact on the victim’s body.

Everything was clean but the puncture areas, and their blood fallout. On immediate notice, his eyes followed the passive pattern of the stains across the victim’s body–whoever had done this had done it fast enough that the stains were strictly linear, undisturbed. He overheard Gordon talking to the lead, murmuring something about the victim ‘strung up like a dartboard’. “If it weren’t for the blood stain in the corner, it’s almost like the assailant stuck him there in space.”

His gaze analyzed the drip pattern in the stains down the victim’s body–they fell behind the woman toward the wall, though she was upright. She was on her back when it happened. Blood in a steady, linear stream. On the ground long enough for it to dry. His eyes trailed down to her ankles, where the blood was moving backwards, curved and zigzagged against her brown skin. She was lifted up by her ankles. The blood was darker and more clotted than the stains on her shoulders. Those wounds happened first. He leaned his head down to peek at her fingernails–clean, manicured. Hadn’t put up a fight–at least hadn’t gotten a hand on them, or anything else.

His eyes caught next on a hoodie placed on the dining table to her right. The table was clean, at least without visible stains. His gloved fingers picked up the hoodie. Static stain. Even, circular edges. He flipped the hoodie over–no transfer to the textile. Whoever did this stuck around a while.

A soft movement of air from his left side, an analyst approached with a ruler, donned in a white coverall and mask. After she snapped a few photos with her camera, her gloved hands lined the ruler through the brown dots on the glass countertop. Long axis. He squinted. Four millimeters. He waited for her to move to the width. Two millimeters. She grabbed her pencil beside her and jotted the measurements down. Four over two: point five. Arcsin of point five is thirty. “Thirty degrees.” He kept his voice low, but she still startled. He repeated himself. “Convergence is thirty.”

He stared down at the ruled lines as she double-checked his work herself. His eyes roughly mapped the distance from the edge of the stain to the convergence. Twenty-two. Tangent of twenty-two… “Origin’s fourteen point four two.” Whoever the perp was, they wanted to experience it. Close to the victim. Possibly personal. Possible bludgeoning.

Just below the tabletop, he noted a small cluster of droplets pooled on the wood floor. Spiny outer ring, pooled closest to dining room door. Drag marks faint toward the wall. She’d been dragged up to it after being attacked by the dining table. The analyst finished writing down the same number as he had, stowing her calculator in the front pocket of the coverall.

He stepped a few feet back from the body to see if any stains dripped to the floor, but found nothing. A tingle shot up his spine. Numerous knives jammed through the perimeter of victim’s flesh. Some blood trailed down around the punctures. Nothing on the ground underneath. On the quick sweep of the room, he didn’t notice anyone else calculating splatters. Nothing appeared on the ceiling, either.

Not enough blood for the stabbings to have finished it.

Gordon wandered over with his notebook, noticing the rapid movement of Batman’s eyes across the room, waiting until it lingered on the floor in front of him before speaking. “What do you think?” Gordon noticed the sweatshirt placed alongside the blood splatter, having watched him remove it a minute earlier. “Not very smart. Thinking someone wouldn’t check underneath the hoodie.”

He grunted. “It’s no amateur.” Gordon followed as he did a sweep around the room, nothing catching his naked eye. He wondered if they’d do Luminol on this one, or if they didn’t think a layperson important enough. The only discernible bloodstains were on the table, just underneath, and painting the skin of the victim. Strange. “Killer knew just where to hit. Avoided major vessels. That many knives, it’s purposeful.” He walked to the victim and the table again, keeping his eyes wide with slow, sweeping looks to further analyze once he got home. He paused with Gordon on his way to the rest of the house. “Wanted us to discount them. Cheapened their work.”

“You think they placed the sweatshirt there on purpose?”

“Look at the blood patterns on the victim. Stains on the ground. She was dragged by her feet, strung up after. Shoulder wounds happened on the ground. No signs of struggle or aspiration. Tell the team to use Luminol. Swab and test it.”

The lead had heard Batman, looking at him apprehensively before rustling through a bag at the entryway. He followed Gordon’s step back for the analyst to compute the convergence and origin of the ground stain, and another assistant to snap photos, grab samples. A few minutes later the liquid was being sprayed, the analyst moving to dim the lights.

Absolutely nothing.

He felt a chill underneath his suit, his heart rate quickening. Sweat beaded on the back of his neck, excitement stretching from his core to the tips of his fingers. Interesting. Either they’d died from blood loss and the killer was a professional, or they’d died from less visible, traceable means, and this was some kind of performance art. Whatever it was, it was intentional, and they knew what they were doing.

“Victim needs a full internal exam. Not enough blood loss, likely killed by something else.” He looked to see a window cracked in the far corner of the adjoining living area. Open floor plan. Carbon monoxide? But a cracked window would give the method away. He looked to the oven, seeing no brown or yellow stains. Likely coming from a water heater, furnace, or dryer. He walked through the living room to the window, his gaze lingering at the sill, the same analyst following in tow. She pulled out a duster and black powder, and started searching for prints.

He walked through the hallway to the laundry room, where he found nothing. He followed the door it went through to the garage, but there was no car. He checked the heater, but nothing was out of order. Clean, well-maintained, no scent anywhere in the house besides the copper sting of blood around the victim. If it was poisoning, must’ve brought in a generator.

He passed through to the windowsill again, the black powder picking up a single half-print on the left-corner of the sill. Unusual gripping point to lift. Half, but clear–left like a gift for even the most novice crime-scene investigator. Suspicious.

A remote was placed underneath the sill; after the assistant came to photograph the analyst’s work, the Batman grabbed the remote, flicking on the television.

Channel 5 news. Looked live. Nothing of note, talking about the weather. Nothing on the chyron at the bottom of the screen. Volume set to five. The five on the keypad was worn-in. Could be coincidence. Popular news channel, especially living on the east side. Volume kept low. Or maybe they heard an intruder coming and lowered the volume. He held the remote out to look for any marks, and sure enough, there were faint oils from a fingerprint on the VOLUME DOWN arrow. He handed the analyst the remote, gesturing with his eyeline to her duster, and made his way out the front door.

Walking the perimeter of the house gave nothing away. No tracks outside the window where anything was laid or rolled, and no visible impressions in the front, sides, or back yard grass to establish any sort of intrusion. The killer entered through the front, and left the same. Everything itched all the right–and wrong–spots in his brain, feeling the gears in his head begin to turn. It could take days for the print’s results to come back, the same for the coroner’s report.

He walked back in and surveyed the living area again. Nothing out of the ordinary outside of the haphazardly placed remote, placed just so that it could have fallen off the arm of the couch—if the investigators were idealists. Batman wasn’t.

He did a last look around the kitchen, noting everything in place. Not a single item or square foot in the house glared back at him. The killer didn’t mess around. In and out, but long enough for the blood to dry. Disturbing nothing save what they wanted to—the window, the table, and the body.

As the forensics team cleaned up, a medical examiner walked in with trainees in tow. Their eyes were wide and bright, and they fiddled with their gloves and masks like they were worried they weren’t on correctly. Lot of newbies today. Didn’t sit right, not at all.

He followed Gordon out, and stood between their respective vehicles to give report. “Same as the last three.”

Three? “Why wasn’t I called to them?”

“It’s been a long night, man. It was either call you, or eat.” He flipped through his spiral again, flipping past the front pages where Bruce had given his statement earlier. He wanted to push him harder, make it known he needed to be called into these crimes. Did they not realize he’d pieced together more for the GCPD in the past year than the decade they’d been left to their own devices? Gordon didn’t leave space for him to push. “Same situation. Victims strung up by knives, little evidence otherwise. First time we recovered a print, though.”

“None on the knife handle?”

Gordon shook his head. “We’ll get the print looked at ASAP. Should only be a coupla hours, but don’t get your hopes up.”

Batman tucked into an adjacent street and accessed his computer via phone. The hum of the police scanner in the background tugged at the outskirts of his attention as he pored over the victim’s names of the past few days. Gordon had given him the names of the victims, in order.

Ulysses Ecuatorro

Bradley Yates

Raina Altruss

Elizabeth Weiss

Hours of searching later, he couldn’t pin a golden thread between them. None in related fields, no glaring convictions. Yates had a speeding ticket, Ecuatorro a DUII three years earlier. They spanned age groups, and were scattered across town in a way he couldn’t find a pattern in. That in and of itself was a pattern. An observation.

Altruss was a lunch lady; looking at her social media, news of her death had already reached friends and family. Messages of love poured in, with varying other Altruss’ family members commenting on how great they would take care of her children, ‘in her honor’. He moved away from Altruss quickly.

Weiss had a kid too—he blinked, typing that into a different tab. Each person had children, that was a common thread. How had he overlooked that? Weiss was recently divorced, with a daughter who’d just celebrated her tenth birthday not two weeks earlier. One of the comments stuck out to him: Many blessings, Lizzie. Babygirl is in good hands. Could be a normal message, could not. According to her socials, the divorce process was speedy; in the span of two months, she’d filed, and it’d been completed. Her name had been changed the next day. Desperate to escape him? Most of her posts regarded ‘mental health awareness’. Gaslit her? Manipulated her? Abused her? Records showed joint custody. No big halts on either party’s end. Seemed to be in agreement. If it had been that easy to agree, why’d they get divorced at all? The man was an ex-cop. Propensity to violence. Marvin O’Lander. Graduate of GU. Degree in business. Failed business venture? Took it out on his family? Police work appeared to be a second-choice—such celebration at graduating, plans of a business, then… nothing. Bruised ego. Lots of opportunity in that. Then why the appreciative comment from his side of the family? Was it appreciative? Threatening? They were mutual friends on socials. An ally? Double-crosser? All of the kids were under the age of ten, but no further discernible pattern. Varied income levels. Varied neighborhoods. Varied cultural backgrounds. Varied ages at time of death. Varied relationship status. Varied interests. Varied social presence. Though… everyone was being mourned in droves. Ecuatorro, Yates, Altruss, Weiss. Valued community members. Engaged in their communities. Serving others in some fashion. His eyes fuzzed staring fixedly at the small screen, his shoulders, back, body tense. Where’s the tension stemming? Stomach? Chest? Throat? Stomach. Cinch in stomach. Tight, coiled, like a spring ready to bounce. Tingles again, up arm and shoulders. Altruss. Ecuatorro. Yates. Weiss. Yates, Ecuatorro, Altruss, Weiss. Weiss, Altruss, Ecuatorro, Yates. Any pattern in the names? Order of their deaths? Ecuatorro. Yates. Altruss. Weiss. Raina, Elizabeth, Bradley, Ulysses. Four victims so far. Channel five. Volume five. Five victims? One left to be found? Did the names—

Gordon rang. “Print’s back. Tech said it was one of the clearest they’ve ever run.” Prints never came back that fast, no matter how clear.

With calculated speed, he arrived to the residence of Cecilia Natividad, a woman who lived as far North as the city stretched. He got there before any officers, cutting through back streets and jamming the gas with what was perceived as reckless abandon; in reality, he noticed the color of every tree that passed, the name of every street corner, could re-identify each pedestrian that (rarely) appeared with a nearly photographic accuracy. He felt electric, alive.

The residence was quaint, single-story. A cat peeked up from the porch, blinking sleepily while they stretched. The door was already open. He pressed his back to it as he slunk in, the cat slipping behind him, making a beeline to a closed door to the left of the kitchen doorway. The TV was off, the house silent. He opened his palm, making sure the taser was accessible on a fast grab. He held his breath, his chest puffing, as he peered around the corner… to an empty kitchen. The house was smaller than it looked on the outside; one bedroom to the left, with a closed door, and one to the right, wide open. The cat was lingering by the closed one, going so far as to meow for him to pay attention. He ignored the animal, and crept into the open bedroom first.

Nothing. Undisturbed bedroom, undisturbed bathroom outside of it in the mini hallway. He felt his shoulders squeeze in as his eyes scanned the entirety of the space. Not much room to walk, low ceilings, stuffy carpet. The carpet held heavy track lines from the front door to the couch, the couch to the kitchen, and the kitchen to the far bedroom. The person who lived here liked routine; whatever child he assumed they had was either too small to walk.. no, no baby toys. No toys at all. The bedroom looked neutral, nondescript. The child was old enough to be done with fairytale and spontaneity. Old enough to be out of the house for the time being. Another divorcee? Joint custody? Full custody? His hand hovered above the doorknob; the putrid stench of thick, fresh blood revealed itself as a mural on the wall with two letters: C N, with an exclamation point. The C was separate to the N, which was almost flush to the exclamation. His eyes hung there, the sensation of dreadful realization washing over him before his mind caught up.

C _ _ _ _ _ N_!

The woman was stamped to the wall in the same way. No blood pooling beneath, blood spills across her skin in the same pattern. This was the same killer, beyond the shadow of a doubt. He walked closer to the mural, noting the indent in the blood on the dot of the punctuation mark. He spun around to the click of a gun, Martinez and Gordon the first to enter the house. He scowled, never failing to be frustrated at their attachment to lethal means. They tucked their guns into their holsters with a disheartened sigh, Martinez containing his eyes to the floor, swallowing back what he assumed was bile. His nose scrunched to confirm his evaluation.

“Jesus.” Gordon adjusted his glasses and drew a breath, his cheeks expanding as he held it to walk closer. “Same damn thing…”

”Prints in the exclamation point. Have the investigators pull there.” The Batman huffed, his mind suddenly foggy. Her initials, not a next victim… He mapped the spaces between the letters by the width of those already there, and judged the word’s length. C_ _ _ _ _ N_!

Martinez squinted as his eyes adjusted to the room’s bright lighting. “CN? Her name’s on the house. Identifiable.”

C……….N…….

A pattern. In the names. Cecilia Natividad. Bradley Yates. He envisioned a game of hangman, dropping letters into the air. BY. UE. RA. EW. CN.

Bruce Wayne. Fuck.

He bolted out to his car as forcefully as was possible without drawing too much attention. The letters were placed too transparently. It was too obvious. Writing the letters out like that. Too obvious when everything else wasn’t. Hiding in plain sight. The killer wanted to send a message to Bruce Wayne, an unmissable one. He careened back to Wayne Tower while he furiously rung Alfred. Miserable flashbacks hit him like bombs as he shouted for him to answer, voice going hoarse. He picked up, and Bruce had never been so grateful to not hear Dory’s voice.

“Bruce?—”

”Are you okay?” He couldn’t cover the strain in his voice, or the crack at the end of it, or the tears forming in his tear ducts in the milliseconds between his question and Alfred’s answer.

“Yes,”

“There’s another serial killer. I’m his next target. Don’t let anybody, or anything in or out. Tighten security.”

Alfred agreed, and the few minutes between hanging up and driving into the basement felt like purgatory. He resisted the urge to compulsively call Alfred every fifteen seconds, his counting never going past that. Alfred. Alfred. Alfred. Alfred. Alfred. Alfred. Pulling onto the wide road into downtown from the industrial district, he fixed his attention to the top of Wayne Tower. Searching for fumes, fire, anything. At one point a cloud had moved to obscure the top levels, and he felt like he might faint.

He could’ve dry-heaved with relief when Alfred stood at his desk with another mug of tea in hand, moving out of the way as he parked the car at his work station. “Killer targeting you? I read your notes after alerting security.” Bruce pulled off his cowl and sank onto the bench, dragging a towel across his face and hair to soak up the sweat before it rendered him sightless. “Why?”

“There’s a theme. Everyone murdered was a single parent. Only victim with a partner on record is Weiss. Orphaned. Under the age of ten. Initials spell out my name. In full.”

“Do the police know about this?”

“Not yet. Unless someone put the pieces together.” And judging by the level of sheer exhaustion in every officer… unlikely. He got to work straightaway, sending a message first to Gordon about getting that print out of the blood as soon as possible. Would it be a print of his? Someone else? The number ‘five’ swirled in his head. If the killer was declaring another victim, wouldn’t it be six?

Second-guessing himself, feeling his gears turn but doubting his judgment more than ever, he wrote out the names and their initials, plugging in the contacts and pulling up the blood mural on the wall. He motioned for Alfred to come closer. “What do you make of it?”

“Appears to spell out your name. Pretty exactly.”

So he wasn’t crazy. He wasn’t paranoid. Not everything was in his head.

The electrum tab jolted back into view as he revved up his computer for the night ahead. He sent another message to Gordon, who hadn’t yet responded, about checking the victim’s mouth for metal. Alfred hummed behind, wanting to convince the boy to rest his mind while knowing it was a fruitless endeavor, a task that would only strain. Bruce didn’t even hear him leave.

He didn’t know how long it had been, but he knew the smell of Alfred’s afternoon tea. “You’ve been up all night? It’s midday, Bruce.”

Sunday. Midday. Almost time to ready the car, don the suit. He clicked around the various documents littering his screen, his mind on the same loop as before, with no new information. It was grating him. Gordon had responded an hour after the fact, letting him know he checked, and no such luck. No visible fillings or caps, nothing except dead mouth. The autopsy would be given priority due to the sheer scale of the situation and its ongoing nature, but not fast enough. If they were any less invasive, he’d learn how to do them himself and sneak into the coroner’s office to perform them. Couldn’t be that hard, right? At minimum he needed toxicology. What was in each of their systems? What had killed them? He had a few theories, none of which seemed particularly promising. He had such a feeling that this would become more unusual as time went on. How much could he trust that feeling? Could he trust any of his instincts now? How would the medication affect them? Was he useless? Could he attune to his intuition no longer? Was this threat empty, or was it dense, packed, full, stuffed, overflowing, waiting for the one lead that would take him there, the one thing he was overlooking, the piece that was the rug to pull; the diagram-exposing, secret-message encoded video before the bombs went off, that he was too late to catch, what if he was too late now, what if there were more being murdered as he thought this? He needed to call Gordon again, needed to get someone to patch him in—

“Bruce.”

His strained eyes felt like sandpaper with every blink, his eyelid sticking to his inflamed, bruised eyes. He’d made the text of the documents larger, easier to see. Still nothing on electrum. Really? Nothing? Must not be finding it. Looked in all the papers Alfred has, the entire archive of papers from the Gazette and the Times… but only searched until the hundredth page of results. Could search more. Haven’t seen them all. Need to. Three hours ‘til sundown. Might be able to get that done. Need to stake out the residences. Check on Weiss’ husband. Everyone’s so unusually normal. Nothing stands out. Only things that stand out are relevant to the Wayne family, to their murder. Everything had been so uniform. He blinked as he pulled up the images from his contacts and the faxed photos from Gordon of each of their bodies, right next to each other. Placed at the same height against the wall. Same placement on their bodies. Same dragging puncture wounds on their calves—up. Stains down everywhere else. No sign of aspiration. No sign of struggle. If only Gordon got better pictures of their hands. Had any of them struggled? No signs of it. No signs of anything now matter how long he looked at them, no matter how close he got to the screen, how much he zoomed in, out, left, right—

“Bruce!”

What the hell was it? What had killed them? Why hadn’t they hit a single artery? Why no signs of struggle? No fight? No one home at time of death. Able to stick around long enough to wait for blood to dry, just how they wanted it to. Luminol wasn’t foolproof though. Could’ve been a professional; again, which professional? He’d scoured the lists of forensic analysts in the state, students studying forensics, history of discharges at different government agencies around town. Who wanted to threaten him? They couldn’t know he was Batman, right? That thing that attacked, it felt so real… that was something adept at fighting. Knowing their enemy. But that wasn’t real. It wasn’t. Was it related to his parents? The Riddler? He’d already ruled that out. He was still in Arkham, rotting where he belonged. He’d checked. Everything was in place. Nothing had changed, but this. He’d had to confirm with Gordon that the letters had been correct. That the mural was there. Even confirming with Alfred, he was worried his infected mind was contagious, that Alfred and him were living in some sort of surreal state, that the walls of the, maybe the walls, the walls of the building, maybe they had mold. He needed to follow up on that. Mold poisoning, that fucks with people. That kills people. Maybe the appliances were leaking something. Alfred could check that. Would he check it well enough? He needed to check it himself, and pulled out a notepad to add to the to-do list.

His pen dragged a jagged line on the yellowed paper when Alfred placed a heavy hand on his shoulder. He jumped, cricking his neck with the turn toward him. “What?” He looked down at the list, thinking he might be able to get them all tidied up by tonight. Tonight’s patrol would be busy, and hopefully not boring. Hopefully there was something. Anything. A crumb. A whisper. Something fake to follow, even. No. That would distract from the real lead he needed to uncover; why couldn’t he see it? Why was every direction leading nowhere? He’d had more stuff on the Riddler, Joker, Penguin, even Annika and Selina. On the Falcones. Maronis. He always had somewhere to go. But this had absolutely fucking nothing.

“If you won’t sleep, eat. I made an early dinner.”

“I don’t have time for that.”

“You need rest, and you need food.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You haven’t eaten all weekend.”

“I had an apple.”

“It’s not funny. Come.”

As much as he didn’t want to follow him up, he needed to take his meds. He needed to bring them down to the basement, keep them handy on his desk. Replenish his snack drawer so he didn’t have to leave. Maybe he could install a toilet down there, or get an outhouse. His mind didn’t quiet down as the elevator rose, or he walked to the kitchen; not when he took his medication, or when he forced himself to sit in the chair for precisely one minute while he slammed a bowl of soup, or when it burnt the roof of his mouth, felt the heat sliding down his chest. Alfred had barely sat down before Bruce put his bowl in the sink and descended the elevator, going this time right to his suit.

He’d programmed a button on the hidden screen in his sleeve in bright yellow—bright red was already taken, the color of blood, impossible to miss. Yellow was annoying, much as he felt about needing to even do something like this. If he ever felt supremely distressed, he’d press it. If he was dizzy, he’d press it. If his heart was beating much too fast, he’d press it. He sent a message to Alfred about picking up those calls with urgency, programmed to be received as DISTRESS - CHECK IN, different from the DISTRESS call that let the man know he was in physical peril.

If anything was awry, he needed to press it. No ego. Ego could cost him this whole endeavor, the entire mission. In the message to Alfred, he’d let him know the protocol was shifted from the previous distress call: in this one, he’d answer the call, and triage if he needed support. He hoped, agonizingly aware of how naive it was, that most of the time he’d only need a breather. Alfred would see if he was oriented to person, place, and time, and decide from there if he needed to be rescued. That was all he was doing tonight, outside of pocketing the cufflinks in his tactical pants after pulling them on.

The first stop he made was to Ecuatorro. The house was surrounded in caution tape, but the door was clear. He slipped inside, getting a peek around. Living room’s normal. Kitchen. Bedrooms. Bathroom. He looked at the toilet paper roll—almost unused. Only a few squares removed. He hadn’t planned on dying. The same was true in the kitchen, where all the dirty dishes were in the wash, and a day-old smoothie was just starting to turn in the fridge. There was an outfit folded on the dresser of the man’s bedroom. Keycard beside it for a gym nearby. Who plans to go to the gym if they suspect they’re in trouble?

He couldn’t linger too long in one place. After doing the same across the next four houses, finding nothing, he swore he could feel the top layers of his teeth shedding from being ground so hard. Nothing tying them to him, nothing tying them to each other, no traces, nothing. His black light picked up nothing, he checked every corner, perimeters of each house and every room, what channel the televisions were on (all channel five; again, why not six?), but nothing besides. Channel five. What if that was a clue? His mom had worn it—it was still sitting on top of her dresser in their bedroom. Chanel number five. How would they know that? Couldn’t be related to the perfume. Nonsense. He was thinking nonsense, mind swirling, circling, full. His brain was looking at every thought that passed, inspecting it for a holy realization, some divine intervention. Nothing!

He had to wait for the results of the print to come back, or the autopsy. Waiting was miserable. While he was here, his mind was partially at home, panic treading just below the surface thinking about Alfred being blown to smithereens. Any second could be his last. Any minute, any breath he took, could be one breath more than Alfred. Between each house he circled back to a road with a view of the tower, searching for smoke again, for tendrils, for bright lights, even S.O.S. painted on a window. It never changed. Nothing.

He went back to the watchtower after staking out the houses of each of their known family members. He had a list stuck in his pocket with their names, affiliation, and addresses. No one was coming out at this hour; that was why he’d developed the drifter. He’d decided: at the end of the night, he was going back out. When daybreak hit, and the world shed Batman, he’d see what they were truly up to; he’d find something. Something existed, it had to. Murders didn’t happen without a trace. Or the only trace being a single print muddled with blood. God they were good.

Sunlight streamed through the clouds. It stung his eyes. His mouth matched them now, his saliva abandoning him as his body begged for water, yowling to be taken care of. He trudged back to the basement with bleary eyes, grabbing a stale bottle of water from weeks ago on his desk and wetting his mouth before passing out on his cot, his breathing ragged and deep. Only for an hour. Or less. Need to get back out there. They need help. The city needs help. City needs. Needs. Help. Saving…

“Finally got some rest. Good.”

Bruce gasped awake, springing to his feet. All the blood left his head and he staggered to his desk, his fingers cold on the metal. Alfred was in a new outfit again. He clicked on his monitor and could’ve collapsed; his tone was biting, sharp, almost a scream. “Eleven PM?!” He rushed to his suit, thankful he’d slept in his padding, desperate to get out. So much wasted time, could’ve been out for hours already—

“Slept all day and all night.”

Bruce’s face fell. What? What?!

Alfred watched him scramble along the desk, patting his pockets, likely looking for his phone. His face was contorted tight, scrunched. “Like I’ve told you. If you don’t let yourself rest, your body will force it. You’ve hardly slept in weeks.”

He found his phone, nearly dead, his heart slamming into the ground below his feet. Tuesday. Fucking TUESDAY? “You didn’t wake me—”

“If you’re too exhausted to set an alarm, I won’t interrupt it. Your body needs to recover.”

Bruce struggled to ignore the implications of that, feeling like he’d unknowingly been sentenced to time-out for twenty-seven hours. Twenty-seven hours? TWENTY-SEVEN HOURS? He turned to berate Alfred more, but he’d already zipped up the elevator by the time he formed a thought callous enough to get his point across, but not unnecessarily cruel. He checked his messages for any updates but was rendered empty handed.

Until one popped up right under his thumb.

Report back on the prints. Suspect in custody, just left interrogation. Lookout tonight, nine.

Shit. Already? With those muddied prints? How sure were they?

Alfred sent him a text.

Lieutenant’s here. Says it’s related to the murders.

So they had figured out the letters spelled ‘Bruce Wayne’. He didn’t like sitting across the table from Gordon, but it was easier with his crowded head. Left no space for unrelated thoughts to form. Left no space for him to be passive aggressive over what had happened the last time they’d sat there—the nights, the days, they all rolled together when things got heated. When they didn’t, too. Martinez looked more awake. They both did. He assumed he did, too. The goddamn coma-level nap needed to be worth something. Fuck, how had he let that slip? Why couldn’t Alfred ever see the importance of sharing his priorities? Someone could’ve been killed. Maybe Gordon was about to say so. Maybe he was about to say that the entire city was in flames, Martial Law was put into effect, FEMA was back. Maybe another flood had happened. Maybe—

“Mr. Wayne.” Gordon cleared his throat. Martinez stifled a yawn. He fiddled with papers sliding on the tabletop. “It has come to our attention that a credible threat was made against your life. Last week, a string of murders occurred across the city, details of which we don’t need to engage with at this time. Fingerprints found at the scene matched the profile of Matthew Risou. Does that name ring any bells?”

Risou. Matthew. “None.” MR. Did that stand for anything? Could that shift the meaning of the others? Was that a pseudonym, like the Riddler had gone by? Hidden meaning? He’d scramble up the letters later and dig into it the second Gordon left.

“It appears he was a big fan of yours.”

Martinez laughed under his breath, rolling his eyes. His hand tightened on his belt loop. “Had whole social pages dedicated to you.”

Gordon continued, giving a sideways glance to Martinez. “Yes. Very preoccupied, disturbed. Found a letter at his residence detailing the plans. Thought if he killed people with your initials,” he peered out over his glasses, and Bruce kept his face concerned enough, cloaking the confusion soaring through him. The killer admitted it? Admitted the initials? Thought what? “You might ‘manifest’ into his life.” He shrugged, his pen clicking to the table with a clink.

“Where’d he get that idea?”

“Risou underwent a psychological evaluation after intake. Psychiatrist believes he was hallucinating. He’s enroute to Arkham Asylum as we speak.”

Arkham. So many roads leading there—need to answer them. Can’t be suspicious. Need to be scared, but not too scared. Need to think Bruce Wayne is untouchable. That Risou is below. “Wow…” He shook his head, performing a full sigh. He swallowed a glob of spit for good measure. “How long will he be there? Do I need to worry? I’ll be at a lot of public events the next few months.” Good. Focusing on public image, perception, some level of safety concern. So Gordon didn’t think he was even more suspicious.

The officers shook their heads in unison. “No need to worry about that, Mr. Wayne. Confession on file, prints at the scene, at minimum he’ll be inpatient. Long-term. At least a few months.”

“And you’ll be the first to know if anything changes.” Martinez nodded strongly at him. What is he gonna do next, salute? “Technically, the second, because we would, uh.” He trailed off, moving his hands to awkwardly adjust his hat. Gordon got up from his chair and pushed it flush to the table’s edge.

“Bottom line is: you’re safe. Wanted to let you know.” Gordon nodded at Bruce, then Alfred, then Martinez, and Alfred showed them to the door once more. Deja-vu.

He didn’t like how simple this was, how straightforward. Had the victims really been murdered due to their initials? Had that been the depth? Is that why when Bruce slammed into the deep end, scoured the internet, excavated his mind to poke and prod and measure each passing thought, he continuously came up empty?

Risou had worked in forensics in his youth, which explained why the scene was so clean. His social platforms were loosely related to Bruce, tweeting a few times a week about how much he wished Bruce would be his friend, tagging Wayne Enterprises in dinner invites, but outside of that—he retweeted extremely normal things; memes that were a half-decade expired, even he knew that much. Photos of animals, political content unrelated to Gotham and not otherwise fringe. Must’ve been a delusion.

He thought of how Martinez scoffed, laughing under his breath, all but outright mocking the man for being deluded. It felt like a bruise. The delusions weren’t the problem, the violence was. Nothing about the situation was laughable, or worth something as cheap and dismissive as an eye-roll. He needed help. He needed help before he became a murderer, before the parents were taken from their children, before he’d be subjected to a life sentence at Arkham, confined to the stale walls, harsh lighting, rehearsed smiles, cutting restraints, spoon-fed applesauce, having to request sips of water, have people staring at him through windows, assessing his risk, his safety, his body, his mind, what if he would eventually be a danger to people around him? What if he already was, but too deluded to know it?

He forced his eyes to the motorbike by the tunnel entrance. He wasn’t about to sympathize with a murderer. He wasn’t about to think about his time in Arkham. He hadn’t hurt anyone yet. He wouldn’t. This was the bullshit that started happening when he slept too much. He knew his thoughts tended toward the ruminative, and that it wasn’t a problem if he was working.

“Dory’s heading out for the evening.” Alfred startled Bruce again. “Wants to know if you need anything pressed for tonight.”

Tonight? His eyes widened. The rally. “Uh,” Didn’t even have time to research March. If Alfred hadn’t let him sleep so much, he could’ve gotten everything done. This falling through the cracks… unacceptable. What are the people of Gotham supposed to think if their vigilante can’t follow through on meager research? What was he even doing at the meeting tonight? He needed to work on the case. Who had declared Risou mentally unstable? The prints were ‘the clearest they’d ever run’? For someone likely unfit to stand trial? Sure, he was in forensics, but—

“Bruce?”

“Whatever, I’ll find something.” This was what happened when he didn’t have time for his responsibilities. This was what happened when he let his body get the better of him. Why hadn’t he set an alarm? Shake it off. Dory was leaving, meaning it was five. Rally started at six. He needed to get ready now so he could arrive with fifteen minutes to spare; he needed a shower. That would take five minutes if he hurried. Find an outfit, do his hair, find the watch. Warm up the sports car. Would Alfred have let him sleep right through the rally, too, if the prints hadn’t surfaced?

All Bruce could think about as he handed his keys to the valet was that he hoped the rally didn’t run long. He’d stowed his suit in the trunk, hidden behind a cleverly-placed bag of Alfred’s old golf clubs.

His clothes felt too tight on his body. The sweater was itchy round his neck, scraping on a scab on the small of his back. Sweat tickled the skin under his chest, creating a terrible grating feeling against the shirt. The cameras were too intrusive; flashing bright, white lights to disorient him, making him have to watch each step he took. The watch caught on the hair of his forearm, his cologne was giving him a headache, and god, he just wanted to go home.

March walked straight to him when he entered, though it wasn’t a far walk; he’d positioned himself far enough from the entryway to be polite, close enough to greet people on arrival with warmth. Bruce stomached a grimace as the chandeliers exacerbated the pounding in his skull. He had to blink a few times before he could read the politician’s face. March wasn’t… eager. Looks afraid. Nervous. No, sorrowful. Concerned? His eyes traced the slope of March’s, the downturned angle on his mouth, the way he held his hands clasped in front of him rather than going for another hug. “Bruce! Didn’t know if you’d show tonight.”

“I’ll be attending as many campaign events as possible.” Force a grin, force a grin…

March’s brow furrowed, then relaxed, and he laughed. Was he going to bring up the accident? Hadn’t he heard the speech he made at the beginning of the meeting last week? He was sure it made some paper somewhere; at the very least, people had gotten pictures of him arriving. March gave his arm a reassuring slap. What? “Trying to show the masses you won’t be bullied into submission?”

“I’m unsure what you’re referring to.” Seriously, what? He glanced over March’s shoulder and noticed everyone was looking at him, occasionally shuffling closer. Some looked away when he noticed them staring, some waved, but regardless, his presence was noticed beyond anticipation.

He laughed like Bruce was making a joke. “That’s an informed angle to take. Serial killers like to be known, heralded. Not giving them power.”

Christ, it went public? He remained measured, hyperaware of all the eyes on him, and how illuminated he was in this obscenely well-lit room. The meetings weren’t this well-lit, were they? At this point, people might’ve started thinking he was cursed. The accident, then the ‘scandalous’ interview, now a superfan-turned-serial killer was attached to his name. Speak—he needed to respond. He needed to get it through his head that this was his life now. Of course it went public. “I feel tremendously sorry for the victims.” He didn’t have to act saying that, as he felt the guilt seep into his bones, gnawing him to gummy shreds. A thought pierced through him, one that was familiar, but sharp as ever; the guilt of being alive. If he hadn’t survived the attempt, Risou would’ve had no one to manifest. Ecuatorro, Yates, Altruss, Weiss, Natividad… they could be at a park with their children right now. Part of him knew his mind was simply running with anything it could get, that it wasn’t true that X followed Y; he knew that things happened without purpose, unfolded without special fanfare, but it didn’t make his nausea any more palatable. Just gave it a different shape.

March nodded. “Glad he’s getting the support he needs. Support he needed before.” He sighed. “Donating a portion of the funds tonight to the victim’s families.”

In truth, Bruce had forgotten that was an option, and wrote a mental note. Send a check to each of the families. He hoped it would stick in the middle of the spirally muck that was his crowded, guilt-laden mind. Had that guy truly been the killer? Said he worked in forensics, but his name hadn’t come up in any of the databases, past or present, for the entire state of New Jersey. Forensics was one of the few careers people moved to Gotham to pursue—did he commute out of state? Why? Did he move here after his career ended? Why? Would Gordon have anything new to add tonight? If crime was slow, he needed to check if there were other Risous, people so obsessed with celebrity they’d be driven to violence. Was he a celebrity? Was this what celebrity felt like? Like ants crawling over his skin? Like the entire world was analyzing him, staring at him, poking, prodding, pushing… could he get out of this room? Pretend the GCPD were wanting him down at the station? If he would’ve known he’d had an out…

“Welcome! Press are clustered left of the stage, but feel free to break from the herd if you so please.”

He spun around at the tenor of your voice before he was consciously aware of it. Your hair was down tonight, and you had on pants and a sweater rather than your usual dress. Shockingly fitting. Your eyes flit to his for a brief moment, but didn’t linger. In the mess of the weekend, he’d forgotten you’d be here. Thank god for the prints.

“Reminds me: need to make an announcement to the press. I won’t be accepting press questions until the last half hour. I want to give priority to people who aren’t paid to be here.” March winked at you before striding across the room, and Bruce’s gut tightened.

“I hope you and Alfred were able to stay safe this weekend.”

When he looked at you next, he saw your eyes skimming his exposed skin. Looking for injury. Each time it felt less and less painful. Swore he could feel a touch in every glance. Whatever eye makeup you were wearing had the slightest shimmer, the light hitting it in such a way his eyes kept coming back to it. Oh, SPEAK! He opened his mouth to reassure you they’d been fine, but he had no air in his lungs. He’d forgotten to breathe; when he did, your perfume took up all the space, and his thoughts left him again. Completely, entirely empty.

Your waiting is so patient. He managed a nod only when he looked to the ground, the words tumbling out without particular attention paid to them, or even awareness of which ones his lips might form. “Never got in contact. Wish I would’ve known sooner, maybe some of them could’ve been saved. Probably would’ve.”

You shook your head with such seriousness it consumed him, gave him no leeway to berate himself. “It’s not your fault, if that’s what you’re taking from it.” He held a strange feeling in his body, like talking to you was going to confession. Like you had the authority to release him.

His eyes caught on the glimmer again. It made your eyes brighter than they already were. Your hair framed your face so softly. His stomach lurched when he noticed a glint by your ear, but it was just earrings. Matched the necklace hanging down your sweater, and the ring on the pointer finger of your left hand. The fingers that dragged along his torso were being fiddled with hard enough they left a blush of lightness whenever you shifted your touch. He put his hand in his pocket to keep it from grabbing yours.

March tapped on the mic, causing a bleating sound to screech from the speakers. An interesting choice to hold it in the foyer—until he looked away from you and noticed a sizeable crowd had formed. The occupancy had tripled in just the few minutes he stood with you. At least he thought it’d only been a few minutes. Could’ve been an hour, or only a second. He followed your eyes over to the throng of press, and nodded. As if you needed permission from him to do anything. “I’m good. Join ‘em.”

You grinned, and he felt a bubble of air expand in his chest. “Trying to get rid of me?”

It popped, immediately. “No, I didn’t mean—no.” He felt himself turn scarlet. He swallowed hard, and almost choked on his spit, now taking up far too much space in his mouth. “I meant I’m fine, I’m,”

“I’m teasing.” Your grin spread to the other side, revealing your teeth. His limbs felt tingly. You looked… you looked so…

“Welcome, everyone. It’s about five minutes to six, and there’s lots to cover tonight, so we’ll be starting on the dot. Feel free to take a quick trip to the restroom, or check out our caterers: Mr. and Mrs. Lindel from Lindel’s Bakery on the east side. Thank you.” March gave a small wave, then stepped back from the podium.

“I’d better get situated.” You sighed. Your breath smelled minty. “Skating on pretty thin ice.” You pulled out the recorder from the small bag on your hip. “Glad you’re good.” With that as your salutation, you walked through the crowd toward the stage side.

All the air left his lungs in one enormous huff. He’d been holding his breath, and hadn’t even known it. In the same fashion, he felt a decayed throb from his stomach, suddenly screaming at him. He was starving.

The ham and cheese croissant was stunning, and a needed distraction from the incessant pull he felt to engage you, but it wasn’t enough. He scooped up a plate of rolls and doughnuts to tide him over, but by the time he’d walked to the gathering area of the stage, he’d finished it all. He was hungry, a bit exhausted, and his brain felt like it’d gone through the wash. None of which he’d been the least aware of prior to your conversation. Hmm. You felt grounding. Tethering.

When he walked to the trash he was intercepted by Gavenstein, accompanied by all his cronies. Ugh. “Wayne!” God, his voice is aggravating. “Couldn’t help but notice you playing favorites.” The men around him snickered. Bruce had about two seconds to fix his face after discarding his plate. His voice was light with mischief, and a piss-poor attempt at humor. “Is she someone you’d recommend?”

Whatever cloud you’d left him on was gone in an instant. He straightened his spine and flexed his shoulders wide, his mind running away with what to say—more specifically what not to. He kept to the least of it, not wanting to put more heat on you. “Not a good look to talk about journalists that way.”

Gavenstein scoffed, a slick smile turning up his eyes. “I’m not talking about journalists, I’m talking about that one.” The man nearest to him, McKinley—a name he only knew from the first day’s introduction—thought he had any right to chime in, sneaking a comment under his breath to the men beside him. “The broad no one’d give a second glance if it weren’t for Wayne.”

Don’t react. Bruce’s throat caught on fire, he was sure of it. Goosebumps peppered his skin, his abdomen tensing, crunching down on the words he couldn’t say. Don’t react… but they kept chuckling. They think this is funny? Fuck. “Don’t talk about her like that.”

Gavenstein laughed again, performing a stage whisper to the gaggle of men strung to his hip. “Wants to keep it for himself.”

Oooh… he wanted to get you OUT of this room; away from the harassing, invasive, disgusting, FUCK! “Did you not hear my speech last week at city hall?” He didn’t hear any of the men’s responses, too busy imprinting the precise shade of Gavenstein’s rolling, dismissive eyes to memory. For later. “Or were you too busy flirting with every woman but your wife to notice?”

His eyes flashed, and he released a short puff of air. “You’re pushing it, Wayne. Know your limits.”

Bruce was already tightening his hands into fists, choreographing how he’d slam him by the collar of his shirt into the edge of the wall. “I do. Do you?”

“Alright folks, it is six on the dot and we are ready to get started! Thank you all for showing up this evening.”

Bruce stepped forward in the crowd, knowing if he stayed back there he’d disrupt the entire event. The walls were closing in on him again. Too many people. Too many lights. Too many reporters. Everyone was touching him as he walked through; a tug on the shoulder, caress on the arm, a touch on his hip. Low, sultry whispers echoed on the same trail, but he couldn’t have cared less if he tried.

Maybe he wanted to disrupt it. Maybe he wanted to be the first to throw a punch, bring some pain to the lofty businessmen of the city. Maybe then they wouldn’t fuck with you. Keep their smartass comments to themselves. He could walk back there, and get him right in the jaw. Take a few hits so everyone just thought he was lucky. Yeah…

“Questions from the press will be saved until the end. I want to hear from all of you first, who took time out of your workweek to hear my campaign.”

Bruce glanced over heads and shoulders to see you in the middle of the pack of reporters; the only one without a flashy camera or tablet, your hair falling into your face as you wrote something on your notepad. His shoulders relaxed. You took care to be here. Probably spent the weekend researching. He wasn’t about to fuck that up for you.

He maintained that rhythm through the rally’s end. Each time he felt his thoughts melt toward vengeance, he’d peek your direction. The flames would dissipate to a gentle mist. Though for all your diligent notetaking, none of the press got a chance to speak, even going past the stated runtime. The people had come in hot, drilling March on topics from environmentalism to if he’d uphold the death penalty. The crowd seemed to lean progressive, with not a lot of naysayers. He wondered how that ratio might shift with Grange and Hady. He hoped you wouldn’t miss another rally, because he was barely staying afloat at this one; reminiscing how he used to stand on stage beside his parents, and how tightly he’d squeezed his mom’s hand. Crowds had always made him anxious.

He hung to the back and let people pass him, though many wanted to stop and chat. He pretended to be answering an email, keeping his eyes to the ground to—found you, and stepped in line with your footsteps. Though he’d tried to be inconspicuous, he did it for your sake; he didn’t give a shit what Gavenstein had to say, or how he wanted to spin it. Being in your orbit, safely, was all that mattered.

He spoke first, bursting with energy. “What are you thinking?” The crowd leading toward the exit was stalled, with a large group hogging the doorway. You and him were some of the last people in the pack… he glanced behind him to see if anyone was taking the back exit. So far, no one.

Jesus, your voice was like a salve. “It would be blasphemous for me to take sides,”

“But?” He liked how your cheeks went pink when he egged you on.

“But… he seems about as stellar as a politician can get.”

Bruce smirked. “Told you.”

“What did the billionaire think about all the taxes?”

He thought about how willing he’d been to hand over his card under alcohol’s haze. Oddly, he still felt that way. “Might take some of the funds away from our housing mission.”

“I thought I’d dreamt that.” You laughed, and it made his stomach flip. You liked it that much? It was a dream of yours? A flutter of blinks and you stared at the floor, biting your lip. Why hadn’t he wanted to come here, again?

The line still wasn’t moving, and he got a pit in his stomach thinking about you getting into another rideshare. Or worse, walking. He was certain your leg still hurt, maybe your head too. He was pretty sure Miller hadn’t escaped, but he hadn’t checked since the weekend. He lowered his voice, though he didn’t think the geriatric couple behind you were gossips. “C’mon, I’ll drive you home.”

He tried to not make it seem like he’d fall through the floor if you declined, and tried to stifle his relief when you accepted. After instructing you to wait five minutes before walking out back, he slipped through the line and snuck between the family holding everyone up. The steps were slippery, but he jogged down them well enough. The shouting and flashing barely resonated as he took his key from the valet and sped down the avenue. Paparazzi usually followed him until Orville, where he hung a right and took a half dozen more. Maybe one day they’d catch on, but it wasn’t today.

You’d just slipped out of the back door when he pulled up, lights cut. On approach he’d anxiously inspected the chair for dust, crumbs, or defects, none of which he found. The collar of his undershirt was choking him. Was the cabin too cold? Too warm? You slid into the passenger seat, and all was quiet again.

You were the first to break the silence, him being perfectly content to share the space. “You really want to do the housing thing? That wasn’t a binding contract.”

“I’d never thought of it before. Everyone talks so much about the housing crisis, I never thought there were enough empty apartments.”

“Be good to get it rolling before winter. Shit kills people.” Shit likely being the thick, hard blankets of ice and snow that coated every available surface in the city from November to February. He nodded in agreement, pinning the conversation for Thursday. It got him thinking…

“Does it snow much where you live?”

“I don’t know, downtown gets so much less than the rest of Gotham.”

Your sarcasm used to be so grating; now he felt lucky to receive it, his cheeks pained from squishing against endless grins. Is that all it took? One drink, once, and now he was talking to you like a friend? “Your hometown.”

“Have you been to the west coast?”

He shook his head, trying not to pay attention to the gong of nostalgia rattling through him. His parents had continuously put off travel until the campaign’s end. You looked out the passenger window, only able to see the slight reflection of your face in the glass. “The winter’s more mild there, for the most part. We live in a valley, so we don’t get much snow. Fall’s pretty there, though.”

“What do you like about it?”

“The trees are gorgeous. Like,” you shook your head, and he had to intentionally focus his eyes to the lanes of the road or his eyes would wander. “Seriously. Stunning. Used to bike there a lot, especially in October.” It was impossible to miss the wistfulness in your tone.

He was caught between two sides: pulling himself into the conversation, or keeping the focus on you. He gripped the steering wheel and took a chance. “You’ll have to send me some photos.” His brow furrowed. Why had that felt like taking a chance, exactly?

“I can pull some up right now.” The light blasted you in the face when you pulled out your phone. The streets were wide and empty, no one visiting the industrial district past sunset. He cut the lights again and pulled into an empty recycling plant’s compact parking. He unclicked his seatbelt and leaned toward you, and you did the same, transfixed by whatever was on your screen. Whatever it was had your pupils dilating, even in the bright light, and your smile huge. You held your phone between the two of you, your shoulder pressing into his to fill the gap.

Could you feel his heart pounding? The flush of his skin? Was his breathing too loud? He didn’t move away, didn’t react. You swiped to a photo of a cat playing in a bright red pile of leaves. He hoped you would speak, he didn’t trust his voice not to shake as his chest and arm pulsed everywhere you’d touched. He didn’t have padding now; you could feel his skin, he could feel your fingertips…

“This is Walter.”

Bruce’s lips parted in alarm when you spoke, his eyes moving from the fingers cradling your phone to the video of the leaping cat running around a side yard. “Walter. Is he yours?” Thank god his voice didn’t crack like he thought it would. He was coming back into his body, looking at the gray cat frolicking, focusing on the blue of the sky. You startled him when you turned to face him, so close he could see every pore on your cheeks, every line in your lips. Lips that had just asked him a question, one that he couldn’t recall over the glow in his chest. What were you doing to him?

“Do you like cats?”

He nodded, his body going on autopilot. You swiped again, showing another landscape with no building that wasn’t a barn. He drew a steadying breath. “Looks quiet.” Like the physical manifestation of being around you.

“It is. Too much sometimes, but, yeah.”

Whatever tension his body had become confused navigating, it was fading the more he focused on the images, and less on the you of it all. Getting this window into another life, life outside the city walls, was fascinating. “Is that your neighborhood?” You nodded and swiped again, showing an endless dirt road with vineyards and a disheveled barn in the distance. Some birds flew over you, your bike tires rumbling against the separated, dry dirt. It wasn’t just quiet, it was silent. Gotham had never been silent. What would it feel like to be somewhere like that?

He noticed the time just as his heart slowed to a light jog. 8:49. Gordon. He sighed, getting caught up in yet another startling amount of disappointment, and put the car in gear. “Need to be somewhere at nine. Sorry.” Sorry didn’t cut it, and for the next five minutes of driving he overthought how simply he’d put it. You hadn’t complained, tucking your phone away and chatting pleasantly while juxtaposing the two climates, but he was aching with dread.

When he pulled into the parking garage (you’d ducked, and he’d waited until the street was relatively empty), he squeezed as close to the door as he could before braking. Stay. Please. “Thanks for showing me the pictures.” Don’t leave. “Looks nice. Walter’s fun.” Let’s watch another show. Get snacks. Talk. “See you on Thursday.”

You waved before getting into the elevator, and he waited for the doors to close before pulling out. His body felt hot, sweaty, tight. Putting on the padding, the armor, the cowl… it sounded horribly irritating. The driving, the elevator up, the strain on his esophagus when he spoke. The pictures Gordon would inevitably share, full of blood, and guts, and dead, dead eyes.

He winced, intrusive images of that overlaid with your neighborhood. Bloodied, mangled leaves, animals and bodies strewn about, a constant scream heard from another assault, another fist, tooth, blood running down his shower drain at six in the morning. He wasn’t even mad when Gordon called him minutes later to postpone, and he didn’t care why. The drive home was monotonous.

Bruce dragged his heavy body up to his bathroom, shedding first the sweater, then his undershirt, his hands tiring as they unbuckled his belt. He turned the water hot, waiting for steam to fill the room and fog the glass before forcing the last of his clothes off. He let the water pummel into his tired muscles, the soreness becoming one dull throb. Being around you lowered his tolerance for this, he was becoming conscious to that phenomenon of yours. But he didn’t know why.

The water droplets stung as they hit his shoulderblades, cooling just slightly but not enough as they slid down the back of his thighs. Steam thickened the air he breathed in, deep and slow. He let his eyes fall shut, let the weekend pass over him, slip through like the water falling from the tips of his fingers. He pressed his palm against the shower wall to release the tension in his lower back, struggling to grip against the slick, fogged glass as he dropped his shoulders and opened his hips. His eyes fluttered and he let out a reflexive sigh as the hand lingering at his side moved to slide down his abdomen, following the flow of the water.

He hadn’t masturbated in awhile, not having enough energy while balancing the two identities. He was tense, strung out, his dick already hard, pulse hammering. He leaned his forehead against the glass, soft moans coming out in exhausted sighs as he built closer to climax. God, his body needed this… his strokes stuttered as the water fell out of perception, his body tensing, tensing, yes—until his hand became yours. His eyes flashed open and he gasped, yanking his hand back as he slammed onto the shower floor. What the, what the fuck?

He scrambled out and threw on a towel, unimaginably tense, driven straight to the edge. He pressed his palms to his temples, struggling to stop their shaking. No. No. No!

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