#thinkin back to how my psychiatrist said that it looks like the only reason i was never hospitalized was bc i didnt try to kms-

[gayjunebug]

I think at this point it's a given that I have a personality disorder or sth because jesus christ, ptsd and depression are NOT enough to describe whatever my brain has going on

[sohotthateveryonedied]

When Everyone Who Loves me Has Died

Read here on AO3!

Summary:

"Everything is as it should be, yet here I am, still feeling like I’m missing something.”

“Like what?” Tim can’t remember the last time he saw Harley sit still and listen for so long without getting fidgety. Either she's learning self-control, or Tim's life is just really fucking depressing.

“Like...I don’t know.” Tim scratches his thumbnail against some dried paint, unable to feel the chill of the metal through his glove. “Everyone is back, but that doesn’t erase the fact that they were dead. That part still happened, regardless of whether they came back or not. It’s like—like burning a hole in a piece of paper and covering it with tape. It doesn’t heal anything.”

Whoever came up with the concept of mind over matter should be imprisoned for false advertising. Tim has been trying to get his mind over the matter for months now, and the matters are still very much gripping the steering wheel. If anything, his mind gave in and slid into the passenger seat, going along for the ride. Tim is sitting on a billboard platform, Lex Luthor’s ginormous bald self providing a nauseating backdrop as he advertises whatever world domination kick he’s on at the moment. Tim watches the cars go by on the highway, utterly indifferent to the tiny speck of a vigilante watching from above. His cowl is down, but he isn’t worried. It’s unlikely that anyone will be able to spot him up here, civilian or otherwise. Besides, it gets harder and harder to breathe under the weight of the mask these days. He was supposed to be getting better. The days are coming in at longer intervals, which should be a relief. Days when he gets “dark and twisty” as Jason lovingly calls it, which isn’t too far off, Tim supposes. Something inside of him is definitely twisted, coiled into a furl of darkness where there used to be light. God, he needs therapy. He should be getting better. There is no logical reason to be feeling this way. Not anymore. Not when things are finally back where they should be after years of grief. Maybe something has been knocked loose in his brain, keeps him on this brink he can’t seem to sway to either side of. He’s not happy, but he’s not completely sad either. There’s no logic to it, no reason. No closure. Is this how ghosts feel? Like they’re straddling the in-between, stuck feeling like everything they have is just slightly out of reach? “Why the long face, kiddo?”

Tim is up in an instant, fumbling to pull his cowl back over his face. He raises his bo staff at the prowler, only to find Harley standing at the other end of the platform, her arms packed with reusable grocery bags. She’s wearing civilian clothes: a Nightwing tank top and leather pants that look like she doused them in glue and rolled around in a kiddie pool filled with glitter. Tim relaxes. He lowers his staff. “You shouldn’t do that. I could have knocked your head off.” “Nah, I’m too good to be taken down by a twelve-year-old.” “I’m eighteen.” “You sure? ‘Cause I could have sworn you were still in middle school.” “Hilarious.” “Thanks, I’ve been thinkin’ about doing some comedy on the side to pay the bills. Eddie says I’ve got a real knack for it.” Harley sits on the edge of the platform beside the spot where Tim was before. “I asked you a question, by the way.” “Bruce is going to kill me if he finds out I’m hanging out with you.” Fine, so that’s a minor exaggeration. Bruce will always have beef with Harley regardless of how many good deeds she does. Dick’s theory is that Bruce has some lingering bitterness from his and Harley’s rivalry from med school, and he probably isn’t too far off. The rest of the family is far looser when it comes to trusting Harley; Alfred even sent her a Hanukkah gift last year. “You and I both know Brucie is in Metropolis this week.” At Tim’s inquiring look, she explains, “My mom is friends with him on Facebook. So, are you gonna spill or what? ‘Cause I’ve got ice cream here and I swear to god I’ll fill your nostrils with tapioca if it melts.” Tim rolls his eyes. He lets his cowl fall back against his neck and sits beside Harley. “I’m fine.” “And that’s why you’re hanging out here all angsty-like?” “I’m not angsty.” “You’re the angstiest person on this fuckin’ billboard.” Which, fine, that’s probably true. “I don’t need a PHD to tell that something’s eating ya, kid. Which I do, by the way. Got the certificate and everything.” Tim gestures to her grocery bags. “I thought you had somewhere to be.” “What, these ol’ things? Nah. I just have a date with Pam-a-lamb tonight and had to borrow some supplies.” “Borrow?” “The manager there was a dick, anyways. He’s the one who got all snappy when I ate all the free samples, so trust me. He deserved to get his stuff stolen.” “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.” “I’ll go back and return the thirty-seven scratch-offs I took if you tell me what’s bothering you.” Tim looks out over the black horizon, the moon barely visible behind the clouds. “It’s nothing.” “Everything is something. Gandhi said that.” “Pretty sure he didn’t.” “What, did you personally know the guy?” She nudges Tim with her elbow. “Well? Spit it out, Timberlake.” Tim lets out a breath. “It’s just...you know when you lose something really important to you? And you miss it, but after a while, when you’ve already accepted that you’ll never see it again, you find it? And you’re happy to have it back, but there’s still...something is missing. Almost like you never found it at all, you know?” “Not really, no.” Tim’s mouth twitches upward. “I’ve spent the past two years in mourning, but now I don’t have to mourn anymore. Everything is perfect again.” Harley arches an eyebrow. “Lemme guess, you don’t know why you still feel like you’re grieving?” Tim nods. “Small fry, that’s not a symptom. That’s normal for someone in your situation.” “No, it isn’t. I should be happy right now. I should—I should be the happiest I’ve ever been. I spent so long trying to make everything right again, and I did it. Conner is back. Bart is back. Bruce is back. Everything is as it should be, yet here I am, still feeling like I’m missing something.” “Like what?” Tim can’t remember the last time he saw Harley sit still and listen for so long without getting fidgety. Either she's learning self-control, or Tim's life is just really fucking depressing. “Like...I don’t know.” Tim scratches his thumbnail against some dried paint, unable to feel the chill of the metal through his glove. “Everyone is back, but that doesn’t erase the fact that they were dead. That part still happened, regardless of whether they came back or not. It’s like—like burning a hole in a piece of paper and covering it with tape. It doesn’t heal anything.” “Well, of course it doesn’t.” Tim looks at her, surprised. Harley’s eyes are serious for once, void of humor. “Having all your folks back doesn’t erase the fact that they were gone. Grief is what makes us human. Still feelin’ bad after everything is fixed just means you’re still working on it.” “That’s it?” Harley’s eyebrows furrow. “What’s it?” “I thought you were going to...I don’t know, crack open some huge revelation and make me realize it’s all in my head or something.” “I mean, it kind of is in your head.” Harley tugs on one pink pigtail. “Grief doesn’t come from your feet, Timantha.” “So...how do I fix it?” Harley shrugs, sitting back and swinging her legs in the air. “Fuck if I know. Go see a therapist or something?” Tim snorts. “I’d rather not.” “What, you got a prior engagement? Too busy for psychoanalysis?” “I can’t exactly go to a normal therapist and explain to them that all of my friends are superheroes and my dad is Batman.” “Hm. Point taken, bird boy.” Harley goes to boop his nose, but Tim swats her away. “Talk to me then. I’m a dandy good listener.” “Thanks, but I’m good.” “I’m serious. Got the license to practice and everything.” “I’m pretty sure psychology licenses expire once you’re imprisoned for terrorism.” “Well, jeez, go and insult me, why don’tcha? And after I offer my help like the good citizen I am.” She stands, picking up her shopping bag. Then she digs around in her pockets and comes out with a small white card. She hands it to Tim. Harley Quinn — hit(wo)man, psychiatrist, bounty hunter, dog walker, mercenary, finder of lost things, life coach. “And that’s just the tip of the iceberg,” she says with a wink. “I’m also considering goin’ into doggie makeovers.” “I don’t know,” Tim says. “I won’t go blabbing your information to Croc or no one, cross my heart. I strictly abide by the doctor/patient confidentiality rules.” A pause. “Most of the time.” Then she looks back at the billboard of Lex, looking for the world like a vengeful Mr. Clean god. “I’m sure he won’t tattle.” “I don’t think the Justice League would think very highly of one of their own getting therapy from an ex-supervillain.” “So? Fuck them, they’re a bunch of crusty old people anyway. Come on, think about it, Timberly. I’ll even give you the friends and family discount so long as you bring doughnuts when you visit. Teen angst makes me hungry.” Tim considers it for a moment, then sighs. “I’m free on Thursday afternoons.” Harley grins. “It’s a date, bird boy.”

[lovemesomerafael]

It’s Complicated                    Chapter 1:  Don’t Get Me Started

Source:  @repls

How does “Hate at first sight” become “Where have you been all my life?”

Rafael Barba did not make a good first impression on Francisca Rojas.  At all.  In fact, she found him to be an insufferable ass and hoped never to have to work with him. Unfortunately, given her new job, that was not going to happen.  Well, she was an adult, and a Forensic Psychiatrist, and realistic enough to have known that she wouldn’t like everyone she met at NYPD.  She could deal with Barba.  Frankie wondered whether her friend George Huang had ever met him.  If he had, it seemed like he should have warned her when she told him she had accepted his former position with NYPD.  

Mark Stephens was not their rapist.  Barba wanted him to be.  Frankie could understand wanting the guy they had in custody to be the doer, but he wasn’t, and Barba was just going to have to deal with that.  She wasn’t particularly impressed with a Prosecutor who wanted to take the easy way out.  A guy as arrogant as Barba needed to be able to back it up and, so far, Barba was looking like he might be all hat, no cattle.  

Francisca Rojas made an even worse impression on Barba.  He had been a Prosecutor for over twenty years.  A bunch of fancy diplomas and an FBI pedigree didn’t hold a candle to that kind of experience.  He knew what the hell he was doing.  She clearly didn’t.  Yet there she’d been, parading her ignorance before the entire squad, telling them that Stephens wasn’t the rapist because he didn’t fit her profile.  In what universe was that evidence?  

Olivia Benson was concerned. The Forensic Psychiatrist and the A.D.A. assigned to SVU needed to have a good working relationship.  She couldn’t have them disagreeing on something as basic as whether their prime suspect was the one.  She sure as hell couldn’t have them at eachother’s throats.  Liv kind of had to side with Barba on this one – Stephens was caught on the scene of the latest rape, and he had scratches on his face consistent with the size of the victim’s hands.  Even he admitted that the tests were going to show that it was his DNA under her fingernails.  A profile was only good to let them know who to look for – it was useless once they’d found the skel who did the crime.  Was their new Forensic Psychiatrist so conceited that she couldn’t admit she was wrong in the face of the evidence?  This could be bad.  

“Hey, Doc,” the tall, gangly, ridiculously pretty detective called to Frankie.  What was his name again?  Something Italian.  He caught up to her at the entrance to the stairs.  “Hey, um…  I’m interested in your thoughts about Stephens.”

Frankie took a few seconds to breathe.  She strongly suspected that the correct translation was, “I’m about to call bullshit on your theory.”

“What is it you want to know, uh… Detective?”

“Carisi.  Call me Sonny.”

“Detective Carisi. Sonny.”

“Well, you seem pretty, um, sure that Stephens isn’t our guy.  And Barba seems pretty sure he is.  I’m an attorney, so I’d like to understand why the evidence we have isn’t doin’ it for ya’.  Because I’m thinkin’ if you’re not convinced, a jury might not be, either.”

Frankie blinked.  He seemed sincere.  “Well, thanks for that.  I appreciate you asking, rather than just deciding I’m wrong.”

“Don’t worry about the squad.  They’re not closed-minded.  They’re just going off of what they see in the evidence.  If it goes in another direction, so will they.”  

Frankie laughed humorlessly. “And Barba?”

“Barba’s… Barba.  You’ll get used to him.”  

“Well, he’s wrong. And here’s why.  It’s a couple of things, actually.  First, Stephens’ story makes sense.  A woman who’s just been raped and beaten sees a man bending over her? She could react violently, just as he said.  She could misinterpret an attempt to help her as an attack.  And she’s not telling us differently, because she doesn’t remember anything.  Second, Stephens is talking to us.  He won’t shut up.  He’s doing everything he can to help.  Our guy, he won’t be like that.  He does everything he can to humiliate his victims.  He taunts law enforcement.  He thinks he’s smarter than anyone and can just play with us.  So in an interrogation, he won’t be talking.  He’ll be mocking.  He’ll be disrespectful, angry and superior.”  She smiled.  “Like Barba.”    

  Frankie’s shoulders slumped when her assistant told her that A.D.A. Barba was holding on Line One for her. She knew it.  She’d known very quickly after meeting him that he was going to be trouble.  He was the exact type that always was.  She looked up to the ceiling, shook her head, and sighed, “Put him through.”

“Dr. Rojas.”  

“Mr. Barba.  What can I do for you?”

“You can tell me what the hell that was back there at the station house.  How do you justify ignoring the facts in favor of a theory that doesn’t fit them?”

“I’m not ignoring the facts, because the facts do fit the theory.  You just don’t like the way they fit.  I wish I could agree with you.  I wish Stephens was the guy.  But I don’t think he is.”

Barba massaged his temples with his hand.  “Well, you aren’t afraid to stick to your position, I’ll give you that.”  

“Did you call to try to browbeat me into your way of thinking?  Because that would be a waste of time.”

Rafael wasn’t quite seeing red yet, but he hadn’t wanted to make this call in the first place, and that comment definitely made him mad.  “No.  I do not intend to ‘browbeat’ you.  I thought I would take an opportunity to try to discuss this case one-on-one, like adults.  But I appreciate you letting me know that would be a waste of my time.”

Really?  This overbearing troll was calling her a child? For standing by what all of her training and experience told her?  Frankie tried hard to hang on to her temper.  “Mr. Barba, I did my research.  I know who you are.  Your resumé is as impressive as your attitude would suggest, and so is your record in court. Your peers talk about you in superlatives, nobody wants to see you on the other side of a case, and the NYPD holds you in especially high regard.  I’d be an idiot to take a position counter to yours without damn good reason, and I am not an idiot.”

“I suppose that ‘fountain of praise’ technique usually works fairly well for you?”

Frankie, had she known it, mirrored Barba’s position at her desk, her hand massaging her temples.  “There’s always one,” she sighed to herself, before responding.  “Look. Stephens’ DNA will either match the rapist’s, or it won’t.  If it does, I’m wrong and you’re right.  You put Stephens away and you get bragging rights.  I can live with that.  But if it doesn’t, we still have a rapist out there.  And that is honestly all I care about.  This isn’t about ego for me.  It’s about stopping a rapist.”

“You expect me to believe that.”

“You know what?  I actually don’t.  Lucky for us, it doesn’t matter whether you believe me or not.”

“Doctor, we are going to have to find a way to work together.”

“Yes, we are.  And you may be surprised to learn that I’m sure we will.  This is not new territory for me, Mr. Barba.”

“Meaning what?  Everyone finds you difficult to work with?”

“Not everyone.  Just a certain kind of man.”

Rafael was certain he wasn’t going to like this.  “Enlighten me.”  

Frankie could hear the sneer through the phone.  Self-righteous prick.  What a piece of work.  At that point, despite her hard-won self knowledge and the many techniques she’d learned to control it, her temper pushed all her higher instincts out the window. Again.  

“You did your due diligence on me, same as I did on you.  And you’ve decided I’m a dilletante.  You know I’m Salomon Rojas’s daughter and you think daddy bought me some degrees so I could dress up and play FBI Barbie.“

Rafael said nothing.  She was uncomfortably close to the mark.

“I’m used to it,” she continued.  “So go ahead and discount me all you want.  And you’re welcome to set up whatever hurdles and challenges you find necessary.  They all do.”

“Well, thank you for reducing me to a cliché.”  

“Look, let me just save you some time.  I’ve been set up to fail by the best.  During medical school, during my residencies…  It didn’t get me to quit, Mr. Barba.  It made me a better doctor.  And you don’t want to know what I went through my first few years in the FBI, but suffice it to say that you will not be able to best those guys in either ingenuity or cruelty.  So bring it on.  The sooner you figure out I’m the real deal, the sooner we can get to work.”

“Thank you for sharing that poignant slice of your life with me, irrelevant though it was.”

“Was it?”  Rojas’s voice dripped meaning.

“You are a psychiatrist, aren’t you?  Next you’re going to ask me how I feel about my mother.”

“You adore your mother. And she adores you.  I’m not getting much of a father figure in your life, though.  That may be behind some of the attitude.”

It wasn’t often that Rafael Barba was at a loss for words.

Frankie stepped into the silence.  “When the DNA results come back, we’ll know.  And we’ll take the next step, whatever it is.  If Stephens is the rapist, I’ll be the first to acknowledge that you were right and I was wrong.  If he isn’t, I hope you’ll let me do my job and contribute to planning the team’s next move.”

“Well.  I thought I just heard you acknowledge the possibility that you might be wrong.”

“See?”  Frankie’s voice was all sarcasm.  “Your preconceptions are crumbling already.  Anything else?”

“Just…  Try to disagree with me a little more discreetly in the future.”

They both slammed down the phones at the same time.

Frankie cradled her head in her hands and groaned.  She’d done it again.  Barba couldn’t help it if he was the exact type of asshole who instantly got under her skin.  And she should be far, far above this kind of thing.  She was a damn psychiatrist, for fuck’s sake!  And she’d just set a land speed record for letting her temper take control of her big mouth.  She wondered how hard it would be to get her job in Quantico back.

The groan Barba uttered as he got up from his desk to refill his coffee cup was very similar to the one Frankie had just made.  She had an answer for everything, didn’t she? Rafael did not appreciate being pigeonholed or labeled, and he saw right through that tactic.  She thought she could dismiss his misgivings about her as part of some macho, “elite of the bourgeoisie” flaw in his character, turning any questioning of her into proof of his own inadequacy.  Clever. And annoying as fuck.  Rafael understood how she’d ended up in the FBI; he only wondered why she wasn’t in Psy Ops.  He couldn’t wait to see what happened when the DNA came back showing Stephens was the rapist.  

Only it didn’t.

The DNA under the victim’s fingernails was Stephens’s, as he’d said it would be.  But his DNA did not match the rape kits of any of the three victims tied to the Pattern 20 rapist.  The squad took it in stride, Lieutenant Benson was intrigued, and Barba was annoyed.  He could see absolutely no indication of gloating or superiority in Dr. Rojas as the team settled in around the SVU conference table at the station house.  Which was surprising, because he was watching for it. He knew it would come out eventually.

Amanda Rollins had been the one to state the obvious.  “Well, you were right.  Stephens isn’t our guy.”

“I wish he was,” Rojas had said, sliding a thin laptop out of her leather carryall before stuffing the carryall under her chair.   She hoped that was all she would have to say about it.  

“Sorry if it seemed like we doubted you,” the sexy black detective with the weird name said.  

“Don’t be.  We need to be candid with one another.  When you think I’m wrong, say so.  Trust me, I’ll fuck up,” she responded, lifting a cup of coffee to her lips and making a dismissive gesture with her other hand.  

“Fin, you want to start us off?”  Lieutenant Benson asked, beginning the briefing.  

Fin, that’s right. And his last name was…  Tortuga, Tutahkhamen, something like that.

Frankie was intrigued to see what Barba’s attitude would be. As Carisi had predicted, the squad seemed perfectly willing to follow the evidence wherever it led, but they hadn’t seemed to put their own credibility on the line as to whether Stephens was the rapist.  He had.  She was actually relieved when he said nothing about having been wrong, and gave no indication that there was anything to say.  Sometimes egotistical blowhards like him could be even more insulting when they tried to be polite.  

The briefing was fairly routine.  Having gotten through this first hiccup, Frankie hoped things would run more smoothly with her new team.  She couldn’t help feeling like she’d dodged a bullet in being right about Stephens.  Barba and the SVU squad all knew each other.  They’d worked together for years.  They could make all the mistakes they wanted at this point, and it wouldn’t change their baseline impressions of each other.  But if she’d been wrong, their first impression and permanent impression of her would be – well, it would be what Barba’s was. That she was a pushy know-it-all who couldn’t stand to be wrong, even when the evidence made it clear.

What she’d said to Barba was mostly true; she didn’t have much of an ego.  But she did have a tendency to say what she thought when keeping her peace might be a better choice, and when the team had looked to be concluding that Stephens was their rapist, she had been sure they were wrong, and had said so before she could think better of it.  She cursed herself, for the billionth time, for making such a stupid mistake, especially in a new job.  As she’d told Barba, she knew what people tended to expect when they first met her.  So why couldn’t she have kept her mouth shut?  It didn’t matter what she thought – the DNA was going to tell the truth, anyway.  She’d never learn.  Sometimes she thought her life would be easier if she’d been born mute.

When the briefing was over, the team all had assignments, including her.  She re-packed her carryall to return to her office and get to work re-analyzing the victim and witness interviews.  Seeing Barba waiting for the elevator, she headed for the stairs.  

“Avoiding me now?”  He caught her just as she entered the stairway.

Frankie turned around to face him.  “Of course not.  I just like to take the stairs.”

“Don’t you want to hear me say that you were right and I was wrong?”

“To tell you the truth, not particularly.  I actually find that more awkward than the other way around.”

“That’s odd.  I don’t.”

It took all Frankie’s self-control not to make a snarky reply.  Of course this man didn’t mind hearing he was right.  “Well, I’m sure you’ll have that opportunity, Counselor.  Will you excuse me?  I’d like to get back to work.”    

“Not before I apologize and acknowledge that you were correct.”

“Right… um…  it’s all good.  Apology accepted.  I appreciate it.  I’m gonna just…”  Frankie pointed to the stairs and began to descend, deeply uncomfortable and desperate to get out of this situation.  

Barba shook his head as he watched her basically run down the stairs in her pumps.  Normally, he would have wondered how someone that amateurish had achieved the things this woman had.  But in the case of Francisca Rojas, he had a pretty good idea.  She’d said it herself.  She was a rich girl whose father had undoubtedly bought her way into Texas A&M, and all the way through medical school.  She hadn’t mentioned her looks, but Rafael had no doubt that all she’d had to do was shake that long, black hair and bat those dark eyes to get wherever she wanted to go from there.  FBI Barbie.  She had no idea how accurate he found that description.  

 “Hey!  Doc!”  

Frankie turned around to see Carisi standing in line at the coffee cart outside the station house.  He must have made a beeline from the briefing to be there already.  

“Detective Carisi.”

“Sonny.”

“Is ‘Sonny’ short for something?”

“It’s Dominick.  But my father is Dominick, so…”

“Got it.  Sonny.  And I’m Frankie.”

“Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”

“I’d love it.  Thanks.  I’m addicted to the stuff.  Double-shot skinny latte.”

“Hey, that’s what Barba drinks.”

“No kidding.  You’re clearly a great detective.  You may have just found the one thing he and I have in common.”

“You two don’t seem to have gotten off to a very good start.  If you don’t mind my saying so.”  

“I don’t mind you saying the sky is blue, either.  Some things are just true.”

“So what’s the problem? Still the Stephens thing?”

“It’s nothing.  We’ll work it out.  We’re both professionals.”

Sonny knew a conversation diverter when he heard one. “Rojas.  That’s Mexican, right?”

“Right.”

“When I heard your name, and that you were from Texas, I wasn’t sure what kind of accent to expect. But I don’t hear one at all.”

Frankie laughed.  “Would you believe me if I told you I speak Spanish with a Texas twang?”

“Is that a thing?” Carisi smiled, which made his blue eyes crinkle in a way Frankie found endearing.  

“Actually, yes.”

“Barba speaks Spanish.”

Frankie tried not to show her irritation.  She really wanted to get off the subject of Barba.  “Great.  Then he can hate me in two languages.”  

They reached the front of the line and Carisi ordered their coffee.  “He’s a good guy, you know.  Really. Kind of a sharp tongue, but when you get to know him, you’ll see that’s just the way he talks.”  

Frankie didn’t believe him, and she made another attempt to change the subject.  “Speaking of accents, would it be rude for me to ask about yours?”

“Staten Island.  Born and raised.  Where are you from in Texas?”

“Just outside of Austin.”

As the conversation turned to more pleasant subjects, Frankie started to enjoy the opportunity to spend a few minutes outside on this sunny spring afternoon, having a calm, enjoyable conversation with one of her new coworkers.  It was even better when Amanda Rollins came out to join them, soda in hand.  She suggested they take a short walk to stretch their legs, which Carisi declined, saying he had some calls to make.  

“Is Sonny really as nice as he seems?”  Frankie asked as she and Amanda set off down the block.

“Unbelievably, yes.  He can also toss a perp against a car with the best of them when the situation calls for it.”

“Nice combo.”

“You know, I couldn’t help but notice things aren’t starting out so well with you and Barba.”

“Shit.  Sonny was just telling me the same thing.  I’m embarrassed.  I can actually behave like a professional, believe it or not.”

“But can you toss a perp against a car when the situation calls for it?”

“Probably not,” Frankie laughed.  “Although I’d like to try it with Barba.”

“Yeah, what’s up with that?”

“It’s more me than him. I just have a visceral reaction to his type.  Arrogant, snide, macho, chauvinistic, you know.”

“You might be surprised to learn that Barba’s none of that,” Rollins noted.  “OK, arrogant and snide, maybe.  But in a good way.”  

“You can’t be serious.”

“I am totally serious. But in your defense, I thought the same thing about him at first.  Except I thought it was hot.”

“Hot?  Barba?”

“Of course.  Even if you don’t like him, you have to admit he’s got that whole green-eyed latin thing happening.  And the way he dresses…”

“Ugh.  Sorry.  I can’t get past the personality.”

“I’ll make you a bet. In a month, you’ll like him a lot better than you do now.  And you’ll agree with me that he’s hot.”

“I’ll take that bet.  What are the stakes?”  

“Well, I’m a compulsive gambler in recovery, so we better keep it to something in the realm of foods that aren’t good for us.”

“I’m a total sucker for anything with frosting.”

“Oh, well that makes it easy.  Patsy’s Cupcakes on Church Street.  Loser buys a dozen for the winner.”

“You’re on.”

[winteriron-trash]

Okay okay... How about WinterIronQuinn where they're (relatively) long established but Steve has never understood orbis jealous for some reason. So Steve ends up going off on Tony and Harley & Bucky defend the fuck outta him. Also the Avengers being baffled by Harley's skills would be awesome!

I couldn’t decide which I wanted to do, so I did both. I regret nothing.

Tony pretended not to notice the glares and side glances he got daily from Steve. He really, honest to god tried not to think about the patronizing, all American national fucking icon. Tony got the looks from Steve anyway, it was something he’d grown used to.

What he didn’t particularly like though, was the significant increase in looks that Tony got whenever he was flirting, kissing, or just being a damned human being with Harley or Bucky.

Especially Bucky.

Well, Steve’s scorn was slightly different, depending on if it was Harley or Bucky.

With Bucky, it was an outright glare. Twisted pucker, narrowed eyes, tight posture. His entire demeanour screamed of jealousy and just a general anger towards Tony whenever he and Bucky were sharing a moment.

Whilst with Harley, it was more so… distasteful confusion. As if Steve still couldn’t quite figure Harley out -though honestly, who could- and couldn’t begin to understand why Tony would bother with her.

Or why she would bother with Tony. Whichever, really.

And then when all three of them were together, having a moment, Steve’s expression was just general exasperation. Like he was sick of it. Sick of the PDA.

Not the PDA, specifically. Steve had nothing wrong with the touches and smiles Vision and Wanda shared, nor the quick pecks and lingering touches Natasha and Pepper shared whenever they had the brief moment together in the Tower. Even when it was just Bucky and Harley kissing, Steve didn’t look angry, but rather longing.

No, the resentment was towards PDA concerning Tony specifically. Like he had a fucking vendetta against Tony.

What else was new?

But in the end, Steve was a very polite person and Tony fully expected him to keep his angsting to himself. And maybe Sam, but that was behind closed doors.

Tony did not expect the sudden callout at breakfast before he was even awake enough to comprehend it.

“Really, Tony,” Steve said, voice sharp as he made eggs. “Shouldn’t that be saved for the bedroom?”

Tony blinked. “What?” God, he hadn’t even had coffee yet, what did he do now? He was wearing pants, right? Boxer briefs. Close enough. No worse than the time Clint had come barreling into the kitchen in nothing more than a speedo.

Steve rolled his eyes. He even managed to make that look righteous. “Kissing both Harley and Bucky? It’s unsanitary, at best.”

“Cap, I’ve ridden Bucky’s dick and ate Harley out in the same night. I think we’re all well past that,” Tony said with a yawn, going for the coffee.

“That’s not the point.” Steve sighed with a tight jaw.

“Then what is the point, hm?” Harley chimed in as she sat on the big freezer, pulling curlers out of her. “That you’ve gotta crush on ‘im? And ya don’t like seeing him kissing and tellin’?” She glanced up, gaze so perfectly innocent.

Steve froze, jaw working.

“That’s it?” Bucky asked incredulously. “That’s why you’ve been so pissy around Tony? You fucking like him?”

“I don’t-” Steve’s grip on the pan’s handle was so tight Tony could see the imprint beginning to form.

“Because that is so fucking childish.” Bucky shook his head. “Especially since everybody knows you’re shacking it up with Sam. It doesn’t give you an excuse to treat Tony like shit just because you won’t confront your feelings.”

Steve scoffed. “That doesn’t make sense, Buck.”

Harley’s smile told Tony that Steve had already lost the battle before she opened her mouth. “Sure it does. You want him, but ya know you can’t have him. So you have built up bad feelings,” she batted her eyelashes, “about it all and ya direct those feelings towards Tony ‘cause it’s his fault in the first place, right?” She finished twisted the pink side of her hair into a pigtail and moved onto the blue. “But ya know, what would I know, I was only the best-damned psychiatrist at Arkham.” She glared up at Steve.

“I just think it’s a rash assumption,” Steve held his ground, arms folded.

“Rash assumption my-”

“Harley,” Bucky warned, and she calmed down a bit.

“You jus’ don’t wanna admit the truth.” She jumped down from the freezer, marching over to Steve. She was easily a half a foot shorter and a hell of a lot smaller than him, but still as menacing as she could get, hands on her hips. “And you listen here, Rogers. Don’t you ever go around thinkin’ you can mistreat Tony just because you can’t handle your feelings.” She took a step forward, eyes narrowed. “And don’t you dare think you can steal him from me or James. Got it?”

Steve blinked, taking a subconscious step back. He looked to Bucky for guidance.

Bucky only arched an eyebrow. “What? I agree with her.”

-

Aliens. It was always aliens. Or gods. Or HYDRA. Or AIM. Or-

Well, it didn’t really matter who it was. All it matter was that Tony was having a perfectly fine afternoon with minimal Avengers incidents and then some scaly ass motherfuckers blew a hole in Tony’s wall.

A waste of a perfectly good afternoon. And a perfectly good wall.

“Avengers assemble!” Steve shouted.

“We’re all already here!” Clint shouted back, punching an alien.

Steve actually paused for a brief moment. “I’m sorry, habit.” He shrugged and offered a dorky smile. Tony rolled his eyes as his armour wrapped around him.

Tony got a bit too lost in the fight of kicking alien ass -and getting just a bit too covered in alien goo- before he realized Harley had found her way into the now half-destroyed living room. Brandishing a frying pan and one of Natasha’s guns that Tony didn’t even want to know how she got.

“You handling yourself, sweet cheeks?” Tony asked, blasting an alien in the face as Harley whacked another’s head clean off with the pan.

“Of course.” Harley grinned, that bloodthirsty glowing little grin Tony lived for. “Why didn’t ya invite me to the party?”

“Was a bit busy,” Tony grunted.

Harley laughed. She spun around, setting her eyes on Steve, who was tackled to the ground by an animal. “Batter up, Rogers!” Harley warned, then slammed the alien on the head so hard it’s entire body rolled off of Steve.

He sat up, staring at Harley with the most amusing face Tony had seen all week. “Thank you?” Steve got up, dusting himself off.

All of the other aliens had been taken care of, and they were all left surrounded by dead bodies and way too much fucking goo.

“Is that my gun?” Natasha asked eyes narrowed.

Harley smiled, stepping over a body and handing Natasha the gun. “The grip’s a bit too weighted, you should really fix that.” She flashed a courtesy smile.

Natasha took the gun, studying Harley as she walked over to Tony.

“You alright in there?” Harley knocked on Tony’s closed faceplates.

Tony opened the plates, smiling as he glanced around at the shocked looks on the Avengers' faces. “Perfect.”

[killtcmcrrcw-a-blog]

              mike harmon often looks troubled.  it’s why black hands is easily able to detect the dip of his brow and the tight fold of his arms from the next room, eyes peeking over the cusp of the doorway to peer at him in a way he thinks is discreet.

              ❛ i can see yyyou, y’know. ❜

              a guilty grin stretches across black hands’ face before he wanders closer to the man, sitting on the couch with him.  things have been quite tense recently, though for reasons unknown.  mike hasn’t spoken much, to anybody, and in turn has black hands been waiting to hear the sound of his voice.  he doesn’t look upset.  just thoughtful.  as if he’s never thought this hard a day in his life.

              ❛ what’cha doing? ❜        the eyeless asks, tilting his head innocently, body arranged so that he fits into the corner of the couch with his knees to his chin, arms wrapped around them loosely as his back melds with fabric warmly.        ❛ are you okay? ❜

              ❛ ‘m fine, ❜        mike replies, running a hand slowly over his face.        ❛ there’s just… a lot on my miiind, recently. ❜

              black hands blinks, remaining in silence, before he loosens his grip on a leg and lets it slowly stretch across the couch.  the man’s gaze shifts to lock onto the approaching foot, watching intently as if the appendage is moving in slow motion, indented tips gently poking his knee.  plainly:        ❛ you should talk about… these things, mikey. ❜        an uncertain pause.        ❛ is it the shadow business again?  crow?  did you figure out who any others were? ❜

              ❛ no…no.  nothin’ like that, ❜        the human replies, a hand moving to gently wrap around black hands’ ankle.  foot is shifted into his lap and fingers toy with the bumpy edges curiously.  he’s always been inquisitive about the other’s form, and his feet are no exception; he doesn’t possess toes, though the ends of his feet are indented in a way that looks like he does from a distance.  it’s amusing to run his fingers over the bumps.        ❛ i was thinkin’ about shit that actually happened.  the fuckin’… shiiitshow that went down with that dylan guy. demon.  whatever. ❜

              the eyeless has slowly shuffled so that his back meets the cushion he was previously sitting on, more than happy to let mike toy with his foot as he stares vacantly at the ceiling. realistically, he’d known that it was only a matter of time before this came up.        ❛ what about him?  he’s gone now, you know… no need to spare him a thought. ❜

                                          ❛ what’s noname told you about demons? ❜

              the question is sudden.  the entity picks up his head, eyes blinking at the man even though he isn’t looking back at him, before he slowly lays back again.

              ❛ not a lot.  it’s okay though-- i already knew a lot of things about demons, though not all of them from noname’s direct line.  and anno knows even more, particularly about older ones. ❜        there's a pause, as if he’s sucking on a candy, tongue clicking after a few seconds of silence.        ❛ but as far as noname’s line, they all have individual purposes, save for a special few.  there’re only a couple that can feel anything.  rares.  they can only be hurt by their own kind.  despite what they think, they’re a dwindling breed. ❜

                    mike shakes his head slowly.        ❛ that… that’s what’s on my mind. ❜                     the eyeless’ gaze narrows.           ❛ …that they’re rarer than before? ❜                     mike groans slightly.                      ❛ no, dummy.  that i hurt him. ❜

              understanding gradually spills onto black hands’ face.        ❛ ah… i see.  you want to know how, right? ❜        a slightly displeased sound is made when mike’s fingers leave his ‘toes’, and the man instantly puts them back-- as if trying to gently coerce him into talking.  as if he’d need the push to be compliant.        ❛ lucky for you, i know!!  you should ask me!! ❜

              the man stares at nothing for a few seconds, then reiterates:        ❛ how? ❜

              black hands grins, and all at once does he pick himself up from his position, sitting cross-legged in front of the other man with a knowing aura surrounding him.  just looking at him, mike knows that he’s about to drop some heavy information on him.

              ❛ i’ll be as gentle as possible, but technically your brain… already knows. ❜               ❛ knows what? ❜

              ❛ your right arm, mikey.  we share that arm.  ever since i decided to come out, in my own form, rather than sticking to your mind, my point of entry - and thus, my point of exit - has been that hand.  i can come and go in and out of you and your mind as i please.  it’s been like that since you were younger.  do you remember how i first came to be in your head? ❜

              a strained look crosses mike’s face before he shakes his head.       ❛ …no.  i’ve forgotten most thiiings from when i was that young. ❜

              sympathetic smile stretches sweetly across black hands’ face.        ❛ as i thought.  i always hoped you remembered, but i knew it wasn’t fair to do that.  it was a bad time.  i swallowed it whole for you. ❜        he notices the look on mike’s face, steers the conversation the way he wants before they can get into the ins and outs of their bond, and all that he resembles.  what he is.        ❛ don’t you remember we made a deal? ❜

              silence.  a shake of his head.  then:        ❛ …how is this relevant to me punching dylan in the face? ❜

              ❛ i’m getting there, ❜        the eyeless replies.        ❛ anyway.  when you were seeing that mean psychiatrist, when you were… fourteen… do you remember him?  don’t answer that-- when you were seeing him, you were terrified.  when he would beat you, he would threaten you with the pen, and you said that you always kind of knew you were going to go.  that at some point or other, he would send you, and that would be it.  i asked you if you wanted me to help you-- that if we struck up a bargain, i could stay with you and keep you safe.  you agreed.  all i asked for in return was to be able to use you as a host, because i’m a weak little thing, while you asked me to keep you alive.  you were so scared that you were going to die in this pen place.  you begged me to keep you alive.  so i shook your hand and in i went.  think of me as a parasite-- a parasite that directed you out of harm’s way.  that gave you information.  that, at times, took the wheel when you were going to drive yourself into a ditch. ❜

              this information is so heavy mike feels he can taste it.  wide-eyed stare is fixed on the entity, confusion clouding grey as his lips part and meet several times.  he, begged someone else, to keep him alive?  he, the very man who is married to the idea of self-destruction, who idolised suicide in between feverish naps and midnight breakdowns, who swore up and down that he would be buried alive because the ground seemed to be the only place he belonged, begged to stay living?

              ❛ and i did, you know.  i did.  and up until your natural… end… until your body can’t sustain itself any more, and it’s useless to be alive, will i let go.  you will die when you are supposed to-- not because you see your name in flame. ❜

                  is he talking about hell?  mike harmon was always told he would go there.

              ❛ and now that you know, i feel it’s safe to confess.  you had the power to hurt dylan because you and i share more than you think.  so long have i been a part of you-- since you were a young teenager-- that i have grown with you, and our genetic makeup, to some degree, has mixed.  you share your memories with me.  you share time, and pain, and life with me.  and i share, to some degree, my abilities.  that’s why-- when i saw him confronting you, i knew what i had to do.  i scanned his data and copied it to myself.  only took a second.  and because i held that information, had mimicked his genetic makeup, so had you. ❜

              mike’s face is pale.        ❛ i don’t… understand… that’s not... iii can’t do that... ❜

              ❛ eyeless aren’t supposed to be amongst the living, mikey.  we are supposed to feed on them, devour their knowledge, and move on.  but i couldn’t do that to you.  i couldn’t do that to anyone for such a long time… so i definitely couldn’t do it to you.  i allowed my genetic information, as an eyeless, to mix with yours, as a human.  because i hate being an eyeless.  i really, really do.  of course, i didn’t link myself to you so that you could… punch otherworldly creatures… ❜        there’s a moments pause, a quiet chuckle granted.        ❛ …it just happened, because we’ve spent so long together.  i’ve spent so long being you, insid-- stop it-- ❜

              the man covers his immature snicker with his knuckles, face turned downwards to avoid eye contact with the creature opposite him.

              ❛ --inside you, that we mixed.  we really are now, to some degree, sharing a vessel.  i have my own, and you have your own, but we can come together and borrow one another’s too.  do you understand? ❜

              smile has long since faded.        ❛ …not really.  this is aaall one big mess.  but maybe, a little bit… all i really need to take from this is that i punched dylan and hurt him because we share power, right?  you translated it to me when you saw that i was iiin danger, right? ❜

              black hands nods slowly.        ❛ …don’t fret over it now, but at some point we have to talk more about this.  there’s so much… you have the potential to do now that our genes have touched.  we are potentially… able to be the same, just as we are able to be individuals. ❜

              ❛ that sounds fuckin’ ominous. ❜

              ❛ don’t worry about it now.  i have already told you quite a dangerous amount.  it would be… unwise to spill much else, for the meantime.  i promise it’s not by choice that i leave you in the dark. ❜

      ��       mike chuckles, though a smile doesn’t reach him.  all of what has been said sounds insane.  the fact that he shares genes with an eyeless, to whatever extent, is cause for concern… not to mention the idea that he had begged for black hands to save his life.  is that why all of his suicide attempts had been for nothing?  

                                                                         his head is beginning to ache.