#this feels really short but maybe Gordon was way too long [at least they match the engines! lmao] | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

stillbandofbrothersthirsty · 3 years

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I feel like Harry doesn’t get enough love and attention in the fandom 🥲 and since it is The Summer of Harry, could we get a small fic or headcanons about being best friends with Harry and getting into shenanigans with him?

xoxo

Omg yesss I love Harry, I agree he does not get enough love!!!

Here’s my unsolicited preamble: I truly adore him. In all honesty he’s the character I relate to most, personality wise. SO I had to do both a few headcanon’s and then a short lil fic that played those out. Not sure if this was exactly what you had in mind but this is what I picture being besties with Welsh would be like :) (p.s. sorry for any typos, I didn't do a lot of re-reading and I'm dyslexic sooo free pass)

- I feel like Welsh would be a very affectionate and physical love kind of friend because he seems really sure in his body language and physical space.

- He would be the kind of bestie you could cuddle with without any sort of apprehension over it being anything more than friendship.

- Welsh is the kind of friend that will lead you straight into trouble but charm your guys’ way right out of it.

- Welsh is the kind of friend to give really good advice but never the kind to pressure you or judge you if you don’t take his advice.

- At the same time he’s a bit of a hot mess himself but in such a confident, surly way that keeps him from becoming a basket case. Which means he’s not an exhausting friend to have. He gives energy to his friends.

There was a good chance that those who didn’t know you and Harry well would assume you had a flirtationship. Everyone knew about Kitty, especially after three months of having Harry as an Easy Company officer. So a judgmental look from an onlooking stranger wasn’t uncommon. But those who knew you well knew things could not be more platonic between you two. You and Harry had bonded from the beginning; like long-lost twins. You filled in each other’s gaps. You met each other note for note in every situation, from teasing Winters to sobering conversations about core values. Most dangerously, you fed off of each other’s mischief (much to Winters’ chagrin). That night wasn’t much different from the many you shared with Harry. The difference was that it was preceded by a particularly terrible day.

You were exhausted by the day's work. You had had the privilege of being singled out by Sobel who had berated you at length without real cause. You had very little energy to do anything except take a shower and go to bed. But it was a Friday, and Harry wasn’t about to let you get away with that.

“Good evening!” Harry skipped through the doorway of your barrack. He was cleaned up and dressed neatly in his khaki uniform.

“Hi Harry,” you said unenthusiastically from where you were stretched out.

“What’s up, cookie?” he kicked the side of your cot, trying to elicit a jolt of action from you.

“Crappy day.”

“Well come out and we’ll at least make sure it ends well.”

“Not in the mood.”

“Aw come on,” Harry whined, “I want to go have fun.”

“I’m in a bad mood, Harry,” you protested.

“Who put the bee in your bonnet?” he sat down beside you.

You wriggled slightly out of the way to make room for him. “Sobel.”

Harry rolled his eyes, “the guy’s a yuck, don’t let him ruin your night.

“Too late.” You knew you were just being a brat at this point. But Harry knew he was going to win you over.

“Come on, you’re getting up and we’re gonna have a great night. Dick’s coming out for an hour or so, you can’t miss that.”

“Is he drinking?” you sat up in shock.

Harry huffed, “pff, no, of course not. Still, it’ll be good to chat with him. Come on, get up.”

The pub was full of soldiers from all of the Airborne companies. Harry was leading you to the bar when you spotted him, Sobel.

“The hell is he doing here?” You asked.

Harry followed your eye line. “Gross,” he muttered, “come on.” He pushed forward.

“Harry,” you said reluctantly.

“Trust me,” he grinned mischievously. You recognised that glint in his eye and you couldn’t help but smile in excitement.

“Captain,” Harry addressed Sobel formally as he approached. The haughty officer barely acknowledged them with a nod but Harry began to spin his web.

“So rowdy in here,” he leaned on the bar conspiratorially, “so much reckless drinking.” He paused to make sure you were in on the conversation. “We were just discussing how drinking should only be done in fine taste, with quality liquor.” Sobel seemed to be listening despite his silence.

“We were,” you jumped in, “the ability to appreciate quality is a mark of superiority.” You matched Harry’s buttery tone, careful not to appear too direct with Sobel.

“That’s why Colonel Sink has all those beautifully decanted scotches in his office! Have you seen those?” Harry directed to you, across Sobel.

“Beautiful!” you enthused.

You two let those words hang there. Sobel had obviously taken in your words, you wanted them to settle.

“Anyways,” Harry said cheerfully, “can I buy you a drink, Captain?”

“Oh uh-,” Sobel stumbled, “I uh-,”

“I’m gonna get your strongest scotch, neat please,” Harry grinned charmingly at the bartender. Then he turned to Sobel, “should I make that two?” There was a challenging look in your friend's eye. You suppressed a grin but relished in the situation.

“Sure,” Sobel said curtly, then as an afterthought he turned to you, “are you getting one?” Had it been anyone else it would’ve considered him thoughtful.

“Oh no,” you said you said nonchalantly, “can’t stand the stuff. It’s wicked strong.” You swelled with sadistic delight as you watched Sobel’s eyes widen in fear.

“Cheers!” Harry handed the officer the dark brown drink with a mischievous smile.

To Sobel’s credit, he did take a generous sip of the liquor with only the slightest of flinches.

The two of you posted up at a table with Winters, Nixon, and a few of the other officers who had distanced themselves from the enlisted men. You sat chatting and drinking and generally having a good time. After a drink or two, you spotted Joe Liebgott in the crowd. He smiled over his drink at you and you couldn’t help but smile coyly back. He always seemed to catch your eye on nights out. Though nothing ever came from it you enjoyed the attention from the handsome man.

Welsh caught the exchange between you and Joe. “That boy is trouble.”

“What? I thought you liked Joe!”

“I do, great soldier.”

“But trouble?” you asked jokingly.

“Yeah, part of why I like him. Why don’t you go for someone sweet?” Harry scanned the crowd, “like Carwood?”

“Lipton’s married, Harry.”

“Oh right, Shifty then!”

You sighed, “you know I adore Shifty but..”

“You’re right, he’s too sweet for you. Better stick with, Joe.”

You and Harry stared at each other until you both broke into laughs.

“Thanks for the romantic advice,” you teased.

“Anytime,” Harry laughed into his drink.

The night progressed. Winters left early and eventually, Nixon retired as well. Soon enough, you and Harry were left alone at a table playing tiddlywinks with coins. Between the alcohol and the company, you were feeling good. The pains of the day had melted away.

Smokey Gordon, with the assistance of George Luz, began to lead the crowd of soldiers in song. It was a darkly humoured Irish ballad that Harry seemed to know well. From beside you at your table he belted out the words off-pitch, a cigarette burning away between his fingers, momentarily forgotten.

“You’re shit!” you laughed over the music, “you’re a terrible singer!”

Harry paused quickly to say, “shut up, I’m singing,” before launching his voice back into the chorus.

You laughed as the Easy Company men wrapped up their song in cheers. You smiled to yourself, grateful to be a part of such a great group of men.

You were feeling intoxicated late into the evening but nowhere near as intoxicated as Harry. He had had a fair amount to drink but luckily he held his alcohol well. He wasn’t a sloppy, sick or angry drunk. The alcohol only exacerbated his most questionable traits; characteristics you had grown to appreciate.

“You hungry?” you asked him as he polished off another beer.

“I can always eat,” he responded.

“Do you think they’ll serve us something here?”

“I don’t know,” Harry said, “I bet they’ve closed the kitchen. Probably hours ago!”

You eyed the bar. Things had died down slightly. Many people had gone home and the patrons who hadn’t were losing their energy. Conversational groups furnished with half drunk pints peppered the pub. “I bet we can make them serve us something. Surely something!” you said.

Harry looked deep in thought before saying, “you know, you’re right.”

“What’s the harm in asking?” you said with an alcohol-induced sense of confidence.

“You’re right! Let’s go!” Harry pulled you up from the table and the two of you made for the bar.

Harry leaned across the wood counter. “Can we get anything to eat? One of those pies maybe?” he asked the bartender.

“Ooh or eggs and bacon!” You interject. The thought of breakfast made your stomach rumble.

“Oh yeah, that sounds really good! Good call,” Harry turned his attention back to the exasperated bartender, “can we can some eggs and bacon please?”

“You think I got bacon?” The bartender asked dryly. “It’s midnight…during a war,” he explained like he was talking to idiots, which he kind of was.

“Mm good point,” you were quickly defeated in your inebriated state.

“Ah come on, Fred,” Harry said, “I know you have food! Please, for one of your most loyal patrons.”

It was true, Harry was a loyal customer. He had quickly become a regular at this pub. You had dragged him off a barstool more than a few times when he was meant to be elsewhere.

The bartender Fred eyed the grinning, gap-toothed man. “Fine, but you gotta eat it in the back. I don’t want everyone seeing I’m serving food or they’ll all want some.”

“Ah thank you Fred!” You thanked him exuberantly. He shot you both a stern look as you scrambled around the bar.

You two of you waited patiently perched upon apple crates in the back kitchen as Fred fried you up a couple of eggs and slices of ham. It wasn’t exactly bacon but it hit the spot. You had never tasted anything so good in your life.

“I could eat this for the rest of my life,” Harry said through a mouthful of food.

“Mm s’good,” you responded with equal impropriety. You swallowed, “thanks for forcing me out Harry.”

“Aw,” Harry wrapped an arm around your neck and gave you a sloppy kiss on the forehead, “anytime, cookie.”

#band of brothers #harry welsh #the summer of harry #hbo war #hbo band of brothers #harry welsh x reader #besties

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hedwigstalons · 4 years

Text

High Expectations - Ch16

Gordon gets a little bit more fun in his life because I couldn’t crush the precious squid forever.

@willow-salix had been forever patient and has been wonderful putting up with me over this.

Earlier parts: One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten, Eleven, Twelve, Thirteen, Fourteen, Fifteen

AO3 chapter link

Chapter Sixteen

Gordon and Alan returned to the apartment, not to the usual sound of silence, but instead to music and the smell of fresh brewed coffee. Alan was plenty old enough to walk home from school by himself but more often than not Gordon found himself outside the gates in the afternoons and Alan seemed to appreciate the company, especially on Fridays where, without the pressure of homework Gordon would sometimes take the long route back and go via the arcades.

Today, however, Alan had been keen to head straight home although Gordon hadn’t known why until they reached the apartment. He should have guessed something was up, normally his younger brother was racing ahead to maximise his time on the games machines but tonight Alan had been itching to get back.

“Virgil? I didn’t know you were coming home.”

Virgil just gave a knowing grin and made sure his mug was out of harms way before Alan could send it flying with his exuberant greeting.

“I take it you knew about this?” Gordon received a matching grin in return from his youngest sibling who had finally released the family teddy bear.

“Yup. It’s been killing me not to let on.”

The older two couldn’t help but notice Alan’s eyes tracking round the apartment and attempting to peer into the kitchen.

“Sorry Al” Virgil said apologetically, “John’s flight from Boston got delayed so he won’t be here for a few more hours. Actually, it’s a toss up who will be next out of him and Scott now.”

“John’s coming? And Scott?” Gordon couldn’t help but look astounded at the revelations. It took a minor miracle to drag John away from his studies and a major one to get all five brothers in the same place at the same time. They hadn’t even managed it at Christmas after Scott got posted abroad, their eldest brother had only finished his overseas tour a few weeks ago. Thinking about it the last time all his brothers had been in one place had been just after his Olympic win and the day of celebration that had felt far too short. “What’s the special occasion?”

Virgil looked at him with an expression of soft affection.

Alan looked at him like he was an idiot.

“Erm...your birthday?” Okay, now he knew Alan thought he was an idiot.

His birthday. On Monday he would be turning eighteen. It was an important milestone but not usually majorly significant, not like turning 21 which had been the big celebration year for Scott and Virgil. Eighteen wouldn’t normally warrant the family converging together from their far flung parts of the country. The confusion must have showed on his face.

“We just thought, what with your WASP plans, we didn’t know when we would next get the chance to celebrate all together. Scott can get sent pretty much anywhere at a moments notice and you’ll be the same one you’ve enlisted.” Gordon noticed that Virgil never defined the ‘we’ who came up with the plan to get everyone together for his birthday but he had a suspicious feeling that the man in front of him was probably the key player in it all. He was also aware that his place at WASP wasn’t yet confirmed but Virgil was treating it as a certainty; he appreciated his brother’s confidence in him. “John and Scott are both due in at about 7 tonight.”

As it happened John made it to the apartment next but only because Scott stopped to get take out on his way from the airfield. The eldest brother arrived laden with cartons and accompanied by tempting smells that had his brothers launching themselves on the unfortunate pilot in their haste to reach the food. When Jeff finally arrived a short while later it was to find all five of his sons sprawled on the lounge floor, chopsticks in hand as they shovelled noodles into hungry mouths.

Five heads whipped round guiltily as he walked into the room.

“Sorry Dad, we should have waited for you.” Scott scrambled to get up off the floor but Jeff waved him back to his meal.

“No, no, you carry on. You must be hungry after your flights. There any left for me?”

Scott nodded and pointed through to the kitchen, his mouth already full again. Jeff went to investigate and soon returned with his own carton, retrieved from the warming unit. He settled into his arm chair rather than joining the huddle on the floor.

“So boys, everyone have a safe journey?”

There were mumbled answers to the affirmative and various nods and thumbs up signs given when mouths were too full to answer politely. The gathering was more subdued with Jeff in attendance, the random outbursts of laughter he had heard as he first unlocked the door fizzling away as topics of conversation stayed in the territory of the neutral and mundane.

“So what’s the plan for this weekend then?” asked Gordon once the topics of school, work and training had been fully exhausted. “Or aren’t I allowed to know?”

“We thought we would keep it just family” said Virgil. “I don’t think much is planned really, except maybe a meal out tomorrow night.” He looked over towards their father for confirmation.

“That’s right,” Jeff confirmed, “I’ve booked a table for us tomorrow but the rest of the weekend is your own. You still need to fit in your school work” he looked pointedly at Alan who groaned in response “but there’s no big party I’m afraid.”

Gordon was secretly quite relieved to hear this. Unlike Scott and Virgil who’d had hoards of school and university friends to celebrate their 21sts with he was acutely aware that his own social circle was practically non-existent. His classmates had been more acquaintances than friends as all his energies had gone in to swimming or looking after Alan, and anyway, most of them were off at university now. And although he was swimming again as part of his fitness regime he had been keeping his distance from the swim squad he had been so cruelly ripped away from, the memories there were still too fresh and raw.

“Suits me fine, I wasn’t expecting anything so it’s just nice to have everyone back.”

A badly stifled yawn from Alan put an end to the evening, giving the sudden reminder that it was late. Bodies began to protest at the foolishness of having a floor picnic after various amounts of air travel and the brothers hauled themselves up with varying degrees of dignity. The following night had the potential to be a late one and so, one by one, after clearing up the detritus of the meal, the family retreated to their private spaces to rest.

xoxoxox

Saturday evening found a flurry of activity in the apartment as six individuals all tried to get ready around each other. Bathrooms that were normally unused suddenly found themselves shared by far too many individuals all clamouring to use showers and mirrors at the same time. Bottles of shower gel were traded for tubs of hair gel as brothers found they had left various items behind.

“John, go and find out what is taking so long ” Jeff instructed when all but Scott and Virgil were gathered in the lounge. There was still plenty of time before their reservation but he abhorred lateness.

John rolled his eyes at being sent to play sheepdog but was careful to ensure he did it after he left the lounge, no need to direct unwanted attention to himself if their father was starting to get irritated. The voices issuing from Virgil’s room suggested both the missing brothers had ended up there; he stopped outside, rapped on the door, then strode in before waiting for an answer. He gave a little snort of laughter at the sight that greeted him.

Virgil’s room was strewn with clothes while the man himself was stood there half naked. A pile of discarded shirts was draped over a chair and John counted at least four pairs of pants strewn on the bed. Scott emerged from the closet brandishing two more sets.

“These are the last pairs” he waved the pants in Virgil’s direction, “but I think they are smaller than the last ones. Have you updated your wardrobe at all since high school?”

“Course I have. I’ve got smart pants, I just didn’t bring them because I knew I had stuff here.”

“Problems?” John smirked from his place in the doorway.

“Yeah, idiot boy over there kinda forgot he’s bulked up a bit. Honestly, some of the stuff here looks like it would barely fit Alan.” The last two pairs of pants joined the others on the bed after it became clear they would struggle to go past Virgil’s knees, let alone do up and be comfortable for a meal out. “None of my stuff fits him either.”

“Well you’d better come up with something soon, Dad’s starting to get impatient.”

“It’s no use I’ll just have to go in my jeans, it’s either that or no pants at all” Virgil sighed. He dug through the holdall he had brought from Denver, pulled out the most acceptable pair of jeans he could find and yanked them on. A pair of shoes swiftly followed and moments later he was as ready as he could be.

Trailing a few steps behind Scott and John as the trio made their way into the lounge he soon found himself subject to his father’s glare.

“Virgil, tuck that shirt in.” The order was barked out and he had no option but to comply. Unfortunately, stuffing the hem of his shirt into the waistband of the jeans only served to reveal the paint stain that marred the material. “On second thoughts…” Jeff glared at offending garment and Virgil sheepishly pulled his shirt back out to hide the stain.

“If Virgil can wear jeans, why can’t I?” whined Alan. Jeff didn’t dignify that with an answer.

“I presume you have a good reason for your...unorthodox outfit.”

“Dress pants don’t fit any more.” Virgil mumbled.

Jeff sighed. If that was the reason then it was far too late to go shopping to remedy the situation. While Scott and John could perhaps get away with swapping clothes Virgil was built on different lines to the rest of the family. He might have plenty of money at his disposal but what they lacked now was time, the jeans would have to do. At least he hadn’t chosen a venue that insisted on full evening dress in deference to the sons’ preferences; he knew they hated being overly formal.

xoxoxox

The Tracy name was well known throughout the city and securing the patronage of one of the wealthiest men in the country, if not the world, was not easy. Securing a repeat booking was known to be even harder and so if the restaurant itself had any issues with Virgil’s outfit then the management used their discretion and refrained from passing comment.

The top floor restaurant gave sweeping views over the cityscape from its panoramic windows but the family cared little for the view. Nor it seemed did most of the other patrons and the family felt uncomfortably under the spotlight as they were led through to a table near the back. A group of six was always going to draw attention on a night where every other table was a couple, it was one of the hazards of having a Valentine’s day birthday. A group of six comprised of the full complement of Tracy masculinity drew stares that bordered on rude and more than one man found himself being compared unfavourably to these most eligible of bachelors by his date. The family were used to attracting attention though, particularly when appearing as a unit, and the group successfully navigated the room seemingly unfazed by the other clientele. Appearances can be deceptive though and the family was grateful to be seated in a private alcove where they could relax out of the public eye.

The meal passed without incident but it wasn’t the most comfortable of experiences. For a start the food wasn’t really to any of their tastes. Gordon’s diet tended to lean towards carefully counted micronutrients with the occasional junk food binge and while this had eased now he no longer had a swimming coach analysing the composition of his plate he still wasn’t used to the offerings presented on lavish menu. In fact, despite the size of the family fortune only Jeff was really familiar with high end dining and that was mostly due to there being an expected standard at the business lunches or charity galas he attended. For the brothers all were in agreement that the Chinese take out of the night before had been the better meal.

As dessert drew to a close Jeff cleared his throat, drawing the attention of the rest of the table, although Alan still needed a swift kick under the table from Virgil to get him to sit up and focus properly.

“This has been a year of changes and I know there are many more changes yet to come. With Gordon turning eighteen I’ve been given the stark reminder of just how much he, and the rest of you, have grown up. I have every faith that Gordon will get into WASP and earn his place as one of the youngest officers in the history of the submarine service” he settled his gaze on his fourth son before continuing “You’ve shown me time and time again that you shouldn’t be underestimated but it’s a lesson that has taken me a long time to learn.” Gordon shifted uncomfortably at the attention and praise that was still so rare in his life.

“In just a few months time John and Virgil will both complete their postgrads and go on to Tracy College to further specialise in astronautics and aeronautics while Scott and Gordon could be posted to anywhere in the world to help protect our planet.” This earned John and Virgil a jealous look from Alan, there was no denying that the youngest of the family was following in the footsteps of his next but one older brother in terms of a passion for space.

“I want you to know that I’m proud of you. All of you.” Each brother felt the force of their father’s attention in turn as Jeff looked at the assembled company, pausing to make eye contact with each one. Jeff, seeing his sons all gathered side by side, found himself struck by just how blessed he was to have such an impressive family. Somehow his children had turned into talented young men, often without him realising it, and he reflected that the skillset around the table was truly exceptional. Scott’s leadership abilities, Virgil’s creativity, John’s intelligence, Gordon’s determination, even Alan was showing an unnatural talent in the air; his sons were a force to be reckoned with as individuals and potentially unstoppable if they pooled their collective resources. “But tonight is meant to be about celebrating Gordon’s birthday which I’m sure you will find much easier to do without me around so this is the point where Alan and I will say goodnight and leave you four to your evening.”

The four oldest brothers looked stunned as Jeff ushered an indignant looking Alan away from the table, the youngster clearly not happy about being excluded from the after party. As he passed Scott’s chair Jeff paused and handed something across to his eldest son.

“Now Scott I’m trusting you to take charge but just remember that Gordon doesn’t officially turn 18 for two more days and as far as the state is concerned John is also still under age. Don’t make me regret this.” The instruction was quiet but serious.

Scott looked at the small rectangle of black plastic in his hands and swallowed. “No sir.”

And then the youngest and oldest of the family were gone.

“What was all that about?” asked John.

“I think Dad just gave us permission to hit the town” he carefully placed the card on the table where all four could see it “and he gave me his credit card.”

The seemingly innocuous piece of plastic was viewed with wide eyed amazement by Virgil and John while Gordon just stared after the retreating backs of the two departing Tracys in astonishment, the words of his father’s little speech still replaying in his mind; for once he was being acknowledged as an adult and treated as an equal to his older brothers.

Scott settled the bill and the four brothers exited the restaurant into the chill February night, a city of possibilities open before them.

“So where now?” asked Scott as they walked along the sidewalk, skirting around the lines of people queuing to get into the various clubs and bars that dominated the district. “Where do the kids of LA go when they want a night out?”

Three sets of eyes swivelled towards Gordon.

“How should I know?”

“C’mon Gordo, you must know somewhere that’s lax on the IDs? Cos even if you can blag it Johnny boy there still looks every inch the freshman” Scott looked accusingly at John who was sporting a particularly preppy shirt and sweater combination.

“I’m only six months off 21,” there was defensive indignation in John’s voice, “what makes you think I couldn’t get in?”

“Six months? May as well be six years. Have you ever tried to get served?”

John wilted under Scott's gaze knowing his brother’s words were true, he was both baby faced and lacking in interest in the messier side of the social scene at university which meant he was more likely to be found propping up the library stacks than a bar.

“So,” Scott turned his attention back to Gordon, “where do you go on the weekends to get a drink?”

“Hmm...Croatia?” the sarcasm dripped off Gordon. “Yeah, Croatia was good; think you can fly us out there? The after party for the ‘59 World Championships was pretty sweet. Seriously guys, I’ve spent most of the last 5 years in training or away at competitions, the club scene wasn’t really on my radar.” After Scott’s derision towards John’s drinking habits, or rather the lack of them, he was feeling a little defensive.

“You weren’t away all the time though, there must be somewhere you go for fun.”

“Hmm...fun.” Gordon gazed up towards the sky, finger to his lips as though giving the matter serious contemplation. “Nope, not a lot of that round here. You and Virg might have been able to tag team and hit the bars back in Kansas but in case you’d forgotten there’s noone else here for Alan and he spends enough time on his own as it is without me sneaking out for the sake of a few drinks. And even if Dad didn’t notice my coach would have and I’d have been off the squad faster than you can scramble that jet of yours. Hitting the town the night after a competition is one thing but here in LA the best I got is taking Alan to the arcades.”

“Arcades you say?” asked John with a glint in his eye. “I’ve not been to one of those in a while and Virgil here owes me a round of air hockey.”

“What, you fancy losing again?” Virgil snorted at the idea of John being any sort of match for him at sports, even of the table variety.

“I did not lose, I was set to win ‘til Frankie barfed on the table.”

“When the hell was this?” Gordon asked, sensing the start of a heated debate between his next two eldest brothers.

“Seventh, maybe eighth grade. Me and Johnny both got an invite to the same party seeing as whizz kid here shared half my classes in middle school. The battle of the air hockey got cut short cos someone dared Frankie to try every colour of slushie except instead of mixing them he tried to force down a full cup of each one. Lucky escape for you, eh Johnny?”

“We’ll see at the rematch. And it’s John, thank you very much.” There was an arrogant confidence in John’s voice, coupled with mild annoyance over the repeated use of the nickname; Scott might have got away with it but he wasn’t going to put up with it from Virgil too.

“Seriously, you guys want to go to the arcades?”

“Sure,” Virgil shrugged “it could be fun. What do you say, Scott?”

The group looked to their de facto leader who shivered in the cold night air.

“Why not, if it’s still open. It’s either that or head home so lead the way.”

xoxoxox

A quick taxi ride later and the four found themselves outside a 24-hour gaming centre, the lights and sounds of the various machines spilling out into the night. John grinned at the sight of all the games on offer and even Virgil, the brother least likely to pick up a console, looked eager to get stuck in.

Scott led the group in, bought a load of credits for each of them, and disappeared with a quick promise that he would be back soon once he had located some drinks for them. A few short minutes later and he was back with an armful of bottles; he distributed two to each brother.

“Mountain Dew?” Gordon looked at the lurid coloured drinks with incredulous surprise; it wasn’t exactly what he had been expecting.

“Look, the liquor store over the road didn’t have a lot of choice and this place has a strict no alcohol policy. That being said,” he continued with a glint in his eye “go easy on the blue one and if you need a top up just ask.” He patted a slight bulge in his jacket that hadn’t been there previously.

Gordon cracked the lid on the blue bottle, noticing it was already unsealed, took a swig and instantly felt the tang of spirits hit the back of his throat with a kick that left him wondering how much of the bottle was actually still Mountain Dew. Whatever Scott had added to the mix was strong but then so was some of the stuff he had sampled after competitions, he held his brother’s gaze and swallowed without reacting, earning himself an approving nod from Scott and leaving himself with the suspicious feeling that he’d just passed some sort of test.

He’d always been a stage removed from his elder brothers. John might not be that much older than him but being bumped up two grades, or occasionally three for some subjects if it was true he had been taught alongside Virgil, had left a chasm between them even without taking their differing interests into account. Scott and Virgil had always been the cohesive unit, John had existed alongside them if the middle brother had been forced to join the crowds and he and Alan had always been the kids left behind. To cross the social divide was a new experience for Gordon but one he was enjoying.

The group worked their way through the banks of machines, settling old scores and generally slipping back to a more carefree stage of life. Battles were won and lost and the undisputed master of air hockey was unanimously declared to be Virgil, a decision that was greeted with a decided pout from the middle brother who’d had his eye on the title. It certainly wasn’t how Gordon had expected to celebrate his birthday but then he hadn’t really expected to celebrate it at all.

Thanks to Scott’s illicit supplies it was a slightly stumbling group that finally made it back to the apartment in the small hours of the morning, taking the exaggerated care of the drunk not to bump into things and risk waking the other occupants. After some hurriedly whispered goodnights Gordon headed off to his room, stopping only to grab some water to soothe the inevitable headache he would have in the morning. He was feeling happier than he had done in years and he was sure that wasn’t just down to the drinks; he hadn’t realised quite how much he enjoyed his brothers’ company or how much he missed them when they were away. He went to crawl in under the covers but couldn’t help giving a little smile when he realised he would not be sleeping alone as a significant heap of plushies now adorned the foot of his bed. John might not have been master of air hockey but even after so much to drink he’d practically needed to be carried home, he was definitely king of the claw machines.

#thunderbirds #Thunderbirds fanfiction #High Expectations #Gordon Tracy #all the family together #Happy Birthday Gordon

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blog-sliverofjade · 4 years

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Of Doms & Subs 8: What Could Possibly Go Wrong?

Pairing: Angus Hopper x OFC

Summary: What’s a submissive female to do when she fights her nature and goes on the run as a Lone wolf to avoid being assimilated into a pack?

Word count: 1346

Of Doms & Subs Master List

“Hey, Moira, would you take a short walk with me?” While I was still bearing a grudge against her mate, I genuinely liked the witch, who merely laughed at me for sniffing her and trying to figure out the strange new nose-tingling smell. She informed me that it was magic.

“Ok, spill it,” she whispered once we were out of earshot.

“Spill what?”

“I’m blind, not deaf, so don’t try to lie to me.” She poked me hard in the shoulder.

“I want to test something. I was wondering if we could wander up the main road,” I admitted.

“You’re trying to bypass the geis by having me act as escort,” she laughed. Obviously the rumour mill carried the tale of my misdemeanour to her. “Yeah, he didn’t word that one quite right, did he?”

“I figure ‘proper escort’ is subject to interpretation. A witch has got to count, right? Besides, if this doesn’t work, I’ll steal Ian’s Ford Escort,” I shrugged.

“If this loophole works, Angus is going to be pissed,” she warned.

“Just keeping my options open.”

“Is it really that bad?”

“No,” I sighed. “Angus wants me for the pack.” Ugh, that was weird to say. And I said so. “I don’t like to be tied down. Outside of the bedroom anyway.”

“Fyi, normal handcuffs won’t work now. Just saying.” A faint blush coloured her cheeks. “Wolves can be just as promiscuous as us humans, but once they start falling for something that’s it. Done. Game over. End. Finito. Do not pass go, go directly to mating.”

“Not helping, witch.” As a human, she couldn’t smell moods, could she? I was scared to ask how she knew or where she was going with this because I didn’t think I’d like the answer. “Out of control hormones are not good enough reason to jump into bed with someone. And certainly not after having known them less than a week.”

“Then try this on for size: you’re afraid to play bedwarmer. But you’re also too afraid to tie yourself to him in a non-sexy fashion. Maybe instead of worrying about what he wants, first ask your two halves what they want,” she suggested.

“It’s a little early for a verdict,” I frowned.

“The only two people I know whose wolves chose before their human parts knew within hours of meeting each other. Tom and I fell the first time we met.”

“I did the whole love at first sight bit, and have no desire to be that stupid again. Here we are,” I said when our path went from gravel to blacktop. I dropped her arm momentarily to step back and forth from the pack property to the road with ease. “Please don’t tell anyone about this.”

“I won’t lie, but I won’t volunteer any info either,” warned Moira.

“That’s all I ask.” I held my arm out to brush against hers so she could take it at her leisure.

“Tom’s going to ask what we talked about, so let’s get our story straight. Cop and wolf instincts, killer combo when it comes to interrogations. So how about that popular sports team?”

“When’s football season over again?” I asked mournfully.

“Superbowl’s in February. But that’s only a problem if you’re stuck at the house on game days. If you are, you’ll have to come kidnap me. I’d offer to come rescue, but for some asinine reason they won’t give me a driver’s license.”

“Hey, do you want to drive? You can take my Jeep for a spin in the driveway,” I offered.

“You’re kidding.” Dark brows rose over the sunglasses.

“I never kid when it comes to shenanigans. I take my shenanigans very seriously,” I swore solemnly while fishing my spare set of keys out from under the back bumper and unlocked the doors. “This is the ignition key.” I handed the ring to her with the one in question pressed into her fingers. “Let’s hop in and I’ll show you where to stick it.”

“Ooh, no one’s said that to me since high school,” she smirked.

After we both buckled up, I talked her through starting the engine and shifting into gear, guiding her hand when appropriate. After getting the pedals sorted out, we inched forward. Men were coming around the house, summoned by the sound of the engine.

“Turn the wheel a quarter turn to your right.” We slowly arced so that it was obvious to the spectators that the blind witch was driving. I blithely waved while continuing to give verbal directions, only guiding the wheel slightly once or twice. “Now gun the gas and turn all the way to the left.” We squealed with laughter as we spun around, gravel crunching and spraying under the tires. Instinct caused her to let off the gas before we continued to spin out and possibly lose control.

“Now put her in park and turn off the engine so your mate and my Alpha can come rip me a new one.” Even though he wasn’t officially my Alpha yet in any sense of the word, the words felt right, which was disturbing in and of itself.

“Should we make a break for it?” she asked.

“Eh, we’d have to return sometime. I don’t know you well enough yet to pull a Thelma and Louise.” I pocketed the keys and propped a foot on the dash.

“Is there a problem, officer?” Moira asked innocently as Tom approached her open window.

“What were you thinking?” Tom bellowed. At her, not me. My own personal bane was yanking my door open.

“Out,” he snapped. Oh, this was too easy.

“Yes, you are outside.”

“Get out of the car.” He bit off each word. He must have seen the glint in my eye because he added, “Now.” He slammed the door behind me hard enough to rock the poor car.

“You would have walked away if she’d managed to roll the Jeep, but she’s human,” he snapped. There was definitely something wrong with me because the danger and power that rolled off of him when he was mad did very naughty things to my body.

“A) I know far more about the fragility of humans than you do. B) We never went over fifteen mph. That little show was really just shifting the weight around. And C), at most it would have tipped onto the side I was on. We even wore seatbelts.”

“So instead you put yourself at risk for a little stunt?”

“Or maybe I understand what it’s like to be denied certain freedoms,” I said quietly, but with no less feeling.

“Give me the keys.”

“I already gave you keys. Check with Shane, he should have the original set.” I bounced the spares once in my palm before chucking them into the ditch full of murky water by the road. I could do this submission thing as long as I found enough loopholes.

After her little act of defiance, which had happened with the Jeep between us and the rest of the pack thus obscuring her actions, she mingled quite thoroughly. Somehow she’d picked up the trick of gauging distance and hearing so as to pitch her voice quietly enough to avoid being overheard. No one knew of our exchange. Too bad that she was adept at following the letter of the law if not the spirit. I’d have liked to punish her. Thoroughly and publicly.

I didn’t see what pathetic excuse started the fight. But I knew who started it. Ellie was standing with her back to Ian and Gordon, who had borne the brunt of Ian’s territorial aggression during the football match. The next anyone knew, Ian went flying. Shane had just enough warning to grab Ellie’s arm and try to drag her to safety.

Later, I realized I should have broken up the fight, immediately meted out punishment for putting others at risk. If I had, the two males might not have survived my wrath. But I would never regret running to Ellie’s crumpled body, surrounded by chunks of brick and blood splatters.

Note: I have let a blind person drive my sedan in an empty parking lot before, so it is possible with a lot of verbal direction and a ready hand to grab the wheel just in case. Jeeps are top heavy, although not as much as other SUV's, so at higher speeds on gravel there is a slight chance of tipping. However the parking area that I'm picturing at the Emerald City Pack's house in Issaquah is too small with all the other vehicles to get up to a speed that would present that risk. At least they didn't go mudding in the green space that the guys were playing football in.

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elareine · 5 years

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A fool to believe

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, mention of war and injury Relationships: Tim Drake/Jason Todd Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Regency, Alternate Universe - Jane Austen Fusion, Alternate Universe - Daemons, though they barely feature here tbh, Getting Back Together, Misunderstandings, mention of serious injury, but no details given, Fluff, the lightest of angst, Epistolary Series: Part 3 of foolish, perhabs AO3: /18771535

When Jason Todd is tired, frustrated, angry, happy - in short, when he feels any emotion at all -, he writes a letter. Here are six letters he never sent.

A letter that was torn up by the writer in disgust at himself:

Dearest Dear Tim,

I know what I’ve done will be a shock to you. I know you will be angry. So am I. As I write this, I am in London, waiting to be shipped out to France, maybe Spain.

However, what could you expect if your father tells me that your family will never accept me us and that we’re over? Of course you choose them. Why wouldn’t you? I understand. But you could’ve at least told me yourself, not through your father! He’s always looked down on me. I could tell he was utterly convinced he was saving you.

I expected better from you. I thought you would at least tell me yourself. Why didn’t you? I don’t understand.

Do you even remember what you told me? How it didn’t matter that I don’t have a family anymore, because we would make our own? Ha.

Was I just a diversion? An amusement because you were bored? Do you not love me?

Why? I just don’t understand

Damn it

A letter that was replaced by a terse note of acknowledgement:

Tim,

I see that I have my answer then. I was wondering - hoping, even - if it hadn’t just been a misunderstanding, your father testing me, perhaps, that somehow, you still loved wanted me. But no.

“It is obvious that our visions for the future do not match.”

What vision was that, then? A vision where I am somehow highborn, with rank and income enough to impress your family? Because it can’t be the future we have been talking about, with us together, come what may, for better or worse, in sickness and health, or you wouldn’t have had your father deliver the notice and only write me yourself weeks later.

Could you at least explain yourself? Tell me what made you change your mind? Was it really just the pressure of potentially losing your family? What did I do wrong? I love loved you so much; why wasn’t that enough?

A letter that Roy found and threw away because it wasn’t legible:

How is it that I still find myself talking to you in my mind? I want to tell you about the people I met here. About General Prince, who is the most amazing fighter I have ever seen and the best person, too.

It wasn’t her fault. Sometimes, the enemy is just too strong.

I made friends, you know. I talk to them. I’m not alone but for you anymore. One of them carried me out of that hell.

And still, I keep thinking I hear your laugh. Or, more likely here, your sarcastic comments. You would have had that coward cowing at his knees…

I’m not making any sense, I know. They fixed me up, we thought, but fever is setting in. My hands are shaking. I just wanted to say… I miss you very much.

Maybe your father was right. You would have been a widower within a year.

A letter that was thrown into the fire, unnoticed by cheering sailors:

Dear Mister Drake Wayne,

I would hereby like to inform you that I have just received my commission as an officer. I am navy, now. The General saw how I fought and gave me an opportunity to transfer and buy my commission. I must confess to being very pleased. Not only does this mean a much better income and chance to advance, but I have also always longed to see more of the world than an infantry soldier could.

My new rank also means that I was informed about your and your family’s activities for the Crown, by the way. I cannot escape you, it seems. So there is no need to keep that a secret anymore.

I suppose you wonder why I am writing to you, three years after we’ve broken our engagement. I must admit that there is some curiosity still lingering after that event, that I would hereby seek to satisfy.

Back then, you spoke of different visions for the future. My lower social status, in particular, was objectionable, as you insinuated. What do you think now? Would I fulfil your standards? Or would my birth still speak against me? Am I good enough now?

I am glad to inform you that others do not find me as repulsive. Now, if only I could stop comparing everyone to you and find them wanting. Hopefully, I will find myself married soon enough, so that we both may be spared any embarrassment when I return to Gotham eventually, as I am sure you have found another long ago. Is it the oldest Kent boy? Some wealthy stranger, perhaps, sweeping you off your feet, giving you everything I never could

A letter that would have arrived in Gotham after the writer did, anyway:

Dear Tim,

How are you? I’m doing well, thank you for never asking. It’s “Captain” now. Captured two ships, made money, made the General proud. I was even able to pay her back.

So now it’s back to England for us. I will not leave the navy - where would I go? - but we have accumulated many days of leave, and Roy Harper wants to go to his best friend’s wedding. That’s Sir Roy Harper, now, in case you are wondering, and that best friend is your brother. Small world, huh? He wants me to come along, and I have no excuse to give.

I suppose I should have known that I couldn’t avoid Gotham forever that this day would come.

You told me about Dick and Barbara Gordon. I remember the exasperation in your voice when you spoke of his puppy love and their inability to see how true it ran. There will be no way to avoid seeing each other at this wedding.

I don’t know how I feel about that. I miss you - I can admit that now - but I don’t want to see you. What if you are still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen? What if six years did nothing but make me love you more?

What am I saying? We both know that my pride and temper will prevail once I see you.

Hopefully, our meeting will show me that I have been holding on to a phantom all this time. My idea of you, that idealized memory tainted by nostalgia for peacetime, cannot possibly compare to reality.

A letter that the writer left on his writing desk, but that Tisiphone and Lachesis hid under Tim’s pillow for him to find upon waking:

Dearest Tim,

Do you know how many times over the last seven years I have found myself in this exact position? Sitting at my desk, thinking of you, writing a letter that you will never read… Yet today I write with the hope that it will be the last time, for tomorrow, I will stand in front of God and vow to be with you for the rest of our lives.

I do not kid myself that we will never be apart. You have your work, and I have mine. We are both quite stubborn about it, too, which I think we have adequately proved in this lifetime. But I swear to you that I will not let words go unspoken anymore. Everything I write here, I have told you or will tell you, if need be, again and again. I will not see us hurt for lack of communication again.

When I returned to Gotham, I was so angry to see you behaving as if nothing had happened. You introduced me to eligible bachelors - it seems so ridiculous now. What in God’s name ever possessed us to do such a thing?

Still, I knew you better than we both remembered, and I couldn’t understand how you could look so sad even as you were smiling and surrounded by your family. Yet something in me recognized that feeling and echoed it. It’s a loneliness that’s not borne out of a lack of friends or family, but out of want for a heart that calls to your own.

There is, simply put, no one else I could ever imagine spending my life with.

I know what marriage means. I know it means more than just declarations of love and long walks together; that there will be hard times. I swear to love you even when you are in a foul mood or withdrawn; when we fight again and again over the small and big things; when one of us has to leave for long periods of time, and we don’t know when we will see each other again; when one of us wishes the other would just go away for need of some quiet. I will even endure weekly dinners with your family. Yes, even Damian. There, that is a proper declaration of love, is it not?

I started writing this as a way to prepare for my vows tomorrow. Now that I think about it, though, I am reconsidering my strategy. As much as you’ve always secretly appreciated my letters (and you needn’t lie about that - Lachesis told me), public displays of affection still make you blush.

Well. With the notable exception of the day I proposed a second time, of course. You always know just what I need.

Still. Perhaps you would not appreciate it if I poured out my heart in front of everyone. I think I will keep my vows to the most crucial point, the one thing you need to know:

I love you.

Yours,

Jason

#jaytim #foolish perhaps #jason todd #tim drake #elareine writes #fanfic

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scapegoated · 6 years

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One Month [Chapter 2]

Chapter 1 HERE

-- Sleep In

Kaid’s eyes opened, with a sense of disorientation. He was lying in a bed… a very comfortable bed… and not on the hard ground in a somewhat cramped Tiny Hut. Three adventurers and a God do take up a fair bit of space.

However, this bed was only occupied by himself at the moment… he sat up with a start. What time is it…? A warm glow was coming in the window, so he assumed it was the Underdark equivalent of daytime. It was easy to lose track down here, but less so in the Crystal City with its multi-coloured, faceted and glowing structure. It was bright enough now that Oz had probably left to perform his clerical duties.

Gazing about the room he took in the simple but sturdy furniture, topped with various crafts and knickknacks. It spoke of a comfortable life spent mostly in one place. Even as a child Kaid and his parents were always on the move. As travelling merchants their life wasn’t unstable, but it also was less than stationary. That being said, they caravan was cozy, and his father especially loved collecting souvenirs—much to his more practical mother’s chagrin. Something about the room stirred a feeling of nostalgia in Kaid.

Hopping out of bed, he Levitated the bedcovers with a flick of the hand, easily tidying up, yet with a seeping thought in the back of his mind—did using his powers make the psychic beacon coming from him stronger?

Ah… where’s my stuff… he wondered, then realizing that he’d left his pack behind in his rush to escape that meeting the night before.

Shit… he pulled on the rest of his clothes, recalling his paper-thin excuse from yesterday. Kaid anticipated at least some teasing about that.

Heading downstairs, and upon entering the kitchen he spotted something shiny on the table, along with a note. A key…? Written on the paper was a short message,

Had to leave for work, but didn’t want to wake you. Here’s a key to the place. You can add it to your collection. See you later!

With a smile creeping onto his face Kaid untied the rope of the necklace around his neck and added the freshly made house key.

-- Dynamo, baby

Kaid’s walk back to the seat of the government was somewhat more leisurely than his dash to find Oz, but he was still in a bit of a hurry as he walked through the parks of the Sanctuary of Ermath—the temple district of the Crystal City. It was also a lot less frantic than the last time he was here. When the city was under attack by fanatical Crystal Cultists, things were understandably tenser.

Now he could see members of the predominantly Dwarven population out and about with their families. Playing, socializing, having picnics. It was, to put it simply, nice. He put a little more hustle in his step.

Back at the Seat of the Triumvirate, Hans and Charlie were already talking with the appropriate parties to make preparations for the coming plans when Kaid slunk into the chamber. Of course the hinges on the door creaked as he opened it, earning him an assortment of pointed and couple of perceptive looks before, mercifully, everyone returned to their discussions. Cringing, Kaid approached, trying to get a feel of the conversation before jumping in.

“Charlie, what’s the scoop?” he whispered to the Dhampir ranger.

“We just got Andre to hook us up with some more Dynamo Stones for when we leave. Plus,” he held out his hand, revealing two more detonator rings, “Now we can all set them off.”

“Damn, nice!” Kaid replied, taking one of the rings. “I’m pretty sure we can fit everything in the Handy Haversack…” he trailed off. “We took that with us to our room last night, don’t even worry about it. How was the library situation? Didn’t know it was open so late.” Charlie grinned, his one crystal fang shining as he gave Kaid a nudge in the arm.

“Uhh, yeah, learning never stops, I always say.” Kaid fumbled for a witty reply.

Hans was standing tall, arms folded across his chest, talking to Gordon, the head of the city guard and now one of the three Triumvirate members. “Aye, looking into these attacks on yonder Mushroom Folk is a wise idea, lad.” Gordon and Hans had had quite the buddy cop dynamic, and it seems they were slipping back into it with ease. “It may take, ach, two maybe three weeks ta comb that area, with the information ye provided. Will ye wait for the expedition ta come back or will ye lads be heading out?”

Kaid looked back and forth between Charlie and Hans, he knew they’d chomping at the bit to get on the road but… Please please let’s stay. For a little while. He had closed his eyes, and opening them again Kaid wasn’t entirely sure if he’d sent that out telepathically or not, from the way his teammates glanced back.

“It would be ideal to have that information before we resurface,” Hans declared, turning back to Gordon. The stout Dwarf reached up to clap the much taller half-elf Rogue on the back. Kaid’s heart did a flip flop with relief, and excitement, Two or three weeks!

“T’will be advantageous to have ye around again, von Panzer! The lads of the guard could do with a little training, can’t have us gettin’ lax just ‘cause you dealt with the previous threat. Best be on our toes.”

“Training, huh? I feel like I’m just about to break through to my next level of potential,” Hans von Panzer had a familiar glint in his eye, “Let’s get to it.” That red cape billowed impressively as he and Gordon strolled off, the Dwarf struggling just a little to match his stride.

-- Armor for Charlie

“Here’s your stuff, Kaid,” Charlie easily lifted the enchanted bag, handing it to the tiefling, “Don’t worry, we didn’t peek.” Kaid had to laugh at that, since it was mostly shared items; the Dynamo Stones, some gems they’d picked up, some chunks of mithril ore, their dwindling rations, various books. “That’s fine, I think you know most of my inventory already.”

“Speaking of, did you get some new bling?” Charlie nodded towards the freshly acquired key around his neck.

Shit. “Uh, yeah…” he wondered if there was any point in keeping up this pretence, after all he was only being evasive because he was shy.

“So, was thinking of going to the archery range, but I should totally look into getting that mithril armor made while we’re here. Been in touch with your Forge Cleric…” he coughed, “boyfriend?”

Kaid covered his face for a minute. Scratch that. There was absolutely no point in keeping up the pretence, “Yeah, I was there last night… I don’t think Oz makes armor, but he would definitely know someone who does. Can I get back to you with a recommendation?”

Charlie beamed—though it’s hard to picture a Dhampir beaming, Charlie is an expert—clapping Kaid on the shoulder, “Yeah, buddy! I’m gonna hit the archery range, then. Can’t let these arms get rusty!” he made his signature pose before walking off with a wave over his shoulder at Kaid.

-- The Library, actually

The Warlock didn’t have any books to return, but he did truly need to go to the Library. That at least had only been partially a lie. There were two pressing issues. First of all, they were slated to return from the Underdark to the topside of Cymmeria, which they’d left because it was infested with vampires. Thus, they needed as much information on the creatures as possible.

Secondly, there was the lingering prophecy that had been following him around—literally—most likely connected to the shadowy figures, and certainly connected to the Mind Flayers.

MADNESS WILL FOLLOW YOU WHEREVER YOU GO

YOUR SALVATION LIES IN THE UNBREAKABLE SPIRE

A comforting thought. Earlier communication with Kaid’s mentor, the Mage named Malfier, had revealed some details. Mainly that this “Unbreakable Spire”—possibly named The Temple of Cryx—was in the Underdark, but it was beyond The Abyss. Also a Shadow Dragon was taking up residence there. Oh, not to mention, The Abyss is Mind Flayer City. Of course.

With these two issues in his periphery, he found himself at the city’s Library. An impressive structure, found in The Arcanum, hub of magical research and arcane experimentation. There was also a library in The Temple district, but he figured with the sought after topics, The Arcanum was his best bet.

Kaid walked up to the front desk and leaned on the counter, whispering “Do I need to fill out a form to get a library card?”

An older Dwarven woman, red hair streaked with grey, peered up at him through thick glasses, “My, don’t ye look familiar? Aren’t ye one of the heroes in that statue in the park?”

Not really used to such notoriety, Kaid was a little startled but mostly pleased, “Uh, yeah! That’s me, Kaid Valvenom.”

“Right’ye are! Mr. Valvenom. Well don’t you be frettin’ about the library card, I don’t s��ppose yer settling down here? I’ve known a few adventurers in my time. Not much for settlin’ down.” She gets a misty look in her eye, and before Kaid can answer she starts up, “Well, look at me, talkin’ yer ear off. If ye need any help just give me a holler, Miss Yergi to ya. Jus’ don’t make me track ye down for late fees.”

“Just Kaid is fine—actually I have two topics I’m interested in, if you could help me out…”

It didn’t take Miss Yergi too long to locate some heavy tomes, most of which she carried to a little reading nook, carved out of the crystal. It had a small light, and some cushions. Kaid figured he would make a dent in some reading here, save himself some effort in carrying them back to... Oz’s. Lifting wasn’t his forte, and using Telekenesis was kind of overkill. Sinking into the cushions he tucked into the first book, “The Vampire, In Lore and Legend”.

Losing track of the time, Kaid’s notebook became filled with information about the various weaknesses and strengths of their foes above. Radiant damage, stakes, resting places, Holy water… The Temple of Cryx proved to be more elusive, but there was one text that seemed like it had relevant information, so that’s the one he packed up for further reading when Miss Yergi gently informed him that the library was closing for the night.

Not a 24 hour establishment after all; noted.

It was at that point that Kaid realized he had no idea what time it was, as well as no idea when Oz actually finished up with his Cleric work for the day. Better get a move on.

“I’ll bring this back soon!” he mentioned to the kindly librarian in a hushed tone, before heading off into the softly glowing city.

TO BE CONTINUED...

#dnd #Dungeons and Dragons #short story #tiefling #queer #romance #queer romance

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tb5-heavenward · 7 years

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flight hours

continuing from part 2, mostly concerns philosophical differences with regards to pacifism.

None of his sims have simulated the exit procedure from the interior of a cargo plane's cockpit while said cargo plane is in freefall.

Thankfully it doesn't take much theory to know that he needs to get the hell out of the cockpit, and then out of the damn plane. The forces at play are dizzying, both in theory and in reality, because the plane has started into a corkscrew dive, plummeting towards the sea below. John's already dizzy from the impact with the back of the cockpit, the way his head within its helmet had snapped back as he'd been thrown towards the rear of the plane. He at least seems to be dizzy in the opposite direction to the plane's native spin, so that's something. It almost cancels out. And it's put him closer to where he needs to be, as he peels himself off the back wall, hauls himself towards the cockpit door, the reinforced servos in the joints of his exosuit helping him to overcome the immensity of the G-Force, as he powers his wings back on.

Overhead, looking upward through the cockpit door, he can see the blown open hatch at the back of the plane and the infinity of bright blue freedom beyond it. The interior of the plane is dark, cavernous, a hollow space of bare metal, confining and claustrophobic. When he'd gotten aboard, the cargo bay had been filled with miscellaneous black crates, and now it's apparent what they had contained. Even in those first few moments, he'd gotten the sense that something was wrong, and wished he could've had more intel. Should've trusted his instincts.

Neither here nor there, at this point. At least he's got a straight vertical shot up and clear of the plane. As he pulls himself up through the doorway, John manages to find purchase on the bulkhead, levers himself to his feet, unfolding long limbs with the assistance of the exosuit. The suit is haptically controlled, and so flexing his back changes the positioning of his wings, and he extends his hands to wrap his fingers around the dual joysticks that control his thrusters. There's also a secondary switch for his comms, and he toggles this on, announcing, "Thunderbird One, I'm about ready to bail out of this thing. Am I clear?"

"Negative, John, there's about two dozen mechs out here, and they'll tear you apart. Kayo's en route. She'll be here in fifteen minutes. Stay where you are until I can---"

Where John is is in the belly of a cargo plane, spiraling towards the Coral Sea, and while he hasn't ever coded a simulation to match this exact scenario, he's still pretty sure that this is not really a situation in which one stays put. He's got maybe two minutes, tops, until splashdown, and that's presuming that the plane isn't rigged with any other nasty surprises. "...Until you can do what, exactly?"

"Until I can clean up out here!" There's a slight strain of effort in Scott's voice, the one that goes along with him throwing his Thunderbird through its paces, that sort of tactile physicality that John just doesn't share with TB5. He's not quite there yet with the exosuit, either, despite the intimacy of its very existence, and despite the fact that it's going to be the thing that saves him from crashing into the ocean aboard a falling jet plane.

There's an implication in Scott's answer, and it takes John by surprise, because it's not something he ever would've expected from his brother. In fact, it's something he'd have considered a stark impossibility, if it weren't for the situation they're currently facing.

It's a question they've all been asked, something they've all been offered, a choice they'd each had to make for themselves. Scott had made his own preferences loudly and clearly apparent, but even so, he hadn't done anything further to exert his will upon any of his brothers' choices. He'd left The Decision up to each of them.

So John has a question to ask, because the answer to it will change what exactly he does next. He's still hesitant, a little bit uncertain as he asks, "...did you take the upgrade to Protocol Theta?"

There's immediate hostility in the beat of his elder brother's silence, offense taken. And then, though by now John doesn't need the answer, a heated and empathic, "No. No way in hell, John."

And that settles it. John flexes his shoulders again, and engages his controls. "Well," he answers, bending his knees just slightly as he feels the jets at his back whine into life. There's already a countdown to launch running at the back of his mind, and in a second or so he'll be out there in the same deep blue as his brother, facing the same external threat. "I did."

And he launches himself out the back of the plane and into the fray.

As far as Scott knows, Gordon did, Alan didn't. Kayo already had, ever since their first run in with the Mechanic. He hadn't been sure about Virgil or John, but he would've bet no for both of them.

Theta is a weapons upgrade.

TB1 is not---and never will be---a weapon, but after what had happened with TB4 and the Mariana Trench, after the TV-21 and TB3---there'd been a family meeting, though it hadn't been called by a member of the family.

Well. Not a member by blood, anyway.

Brains had insisted that they all be there, and their grandmother too, probably for the benefit of her sage advice and wisdom, but also probably because he'd gone to her with the idea in the first place, to get her approval. It had been late and everyone had been tired, emotionally and physically. There'd been the uncomfortably prescient sense that what they'd gone through was only the start of worse to come. And Brains had brought up the Theta Protocol.

The most fiendishly clever aspect of the Mechanic's mechs is the fact that the weapons best capable of disabling them are some of the most illegal in the world. A simple electromagnetic pulse would make short, effortless work of any of his drones, but their usage is staunchly forbidden by the World Council.

It's still what Brains had offered. He'd put it in simple, purely practical terms, and said that the best defenses in the world could only go so far, and that this would be the only time and the only situation in which he would offer them the option to arm themselves. He'd put it on the table, and left it to the five of them to make their choices, said that they could each get back to him privately, and no one else ever need know what option they'd taken. Kayo had, rather darkly, hinted that it might be best if they kept their choices to themselves unless it became absolutely necessary. Plausible deniability.

Virgil had had his engines torn out from beneath him in midflight, been forced into the choice between ditching his bird in the ocean or crash landing it on the island. Gordon had nearly been crushed to death inside his ship, then seen TB4 ripped in half in front of him. Scott had nearly been murdered alongside his baby brother, burned away to atoms by one of their own ships, turned against them.

He remembers being hazy and exhausted in that specific aftermath, but he'd still stood up in the middle of the lounge, and made some righteously principled declaration about his own personal opinion on the subject. He'd announced the legacy their father had left them didn't allow him to take this option, that they were better than to need to stoop to the Mechanic's level. That he hoped his brothers would give the implications of the prospect some serious consideration, because they would be opening a door they couldn't exactly close again---but also that he wouldn't stop them, whatever they felt was necessary.

Because he couldn't in good conscience forbid his brothers the option to defend themselves.

And even with a swarm of drones bouncing off the hull of his 'bird, even with electrical interference starting to threaten his control of his ship, Scott still feels his jaw set like stone as he watches a blur of blue and goldenrod yellow come rocketing upward up out of the back of the plane, and knows that his brother's made a choice he doesn't agree with.

It's particularly galling as John gets some altitude, and at distance makes an assessment of Scott's current situation. His voice crackles over the comm, almost disbelieving, "Oh boy. You're just in a hell of a lot of trouble, aren't you? Sit tight, Scotty."

"Don't call me Scotty," Scott snaps, for lack of anything better to say.

Because John's currently in possession of an illegal piece of weaponry---has been this entire time---and he's rocketing in Scott's direction, grim and determined and apparently spoiling for a fight. Only about twenty minutes ago, Scott had been condescending to him about his skills as a pilot. Now Scott's in trouble, knows it, didn't need it stated. Realistically, he should be glad that he's got his brother for backup, glad that John has options available. Practically, there are about two dozen murderously dangerous mechs teeming around his 'bird, damaging his shields in quick, glancing blows even as he tries to evade them, and he's going to be in pretty serious danger if someone doesn't do something.

But this is still the last possible situation in which he wants to engage the worst pilot in the family.

Well, of course he'd taken the upgrade.

Gordon had too, that was a given. Virgil was resolutely, intensely private about his choice, and wouldn't say one way or the other. Alan had quietly wanted John's opinion on what he should do, and it had been John's opinion that it wasn't something Alan was ever going to need, and he'd been glad to watch his little brother gratefully decline another too-grown-up responsibility.

And Scott had felt compelled to set an example in their father's absence. As the eldest, that's probably his prerogative. John's the second-eldest, and needs to follow no such standard. In fact, there's probably an argument to be made for the merits of devil's advocacy, for offering an alternative to Scott's take on things. For John, it had been the simple consideration of better safe than sorry, and the practical reality that he was also the least likely to ever need to use a weapons upgrade, such as it was. In his opinion, the differences between what they already had and what Brains was offering were academic, anyway. It's not like TB4 doesn't have a nose full of demo charges. It's not like TB2 isn't equipped with some of the most powerful industrial grade lasers on the planet. It's not like Scott wouldn't level a grapnel at the face of anyone who threatened one of his brothers and pull the trigger, if by doing so he could save a member of his family from harm. Not like their father wouldn't have either.

And further to that point, at least in this specific scenario, it's not like they'd be hurting anyone by defending themselves. The Mechanic weaponizes drones, has a suite of mechs that seem specifically designed to disable aircraft; their aircraft. He remote pilots everything, has nothing at risk and nothing to lose when he goes on the offensive. It's an unfair advantage, and not one John believed they could tolerate.

So, carefully constructed and cleverly hidden, his exosuit contains a mini EMP device. Short range, limited output, single use and disposable. Usable directionally or in a radial burst, with only enough power for a limit of two minutes. Very, very illegal. A last resort, in case of emergency.

The sky full of insectoid drones menacing his brother's Thunderbird seems like it constitutes an emergency.

And surprisingly, bringing today's efforts around full circle, it turns out that flying is a great deal easier when it's obviously an emergency than when it is demonstrably not. Weaving in and out and around Brains' preprogrammed drones in their own airspace while Scott tells him that he needs to make his turns a little tidier is one thing. Negotiating his way out of a falling cargo plane and into a sky full of hostile mechs is entirely another. Apparently there are some actual merits to on the job training.

So John doesn't second-guess himself for a moment as he rockets a thousand, two thousand, three thousand feet upward, gets well clear of the plane falling away below him in case it decides to explode, and up above the swarm of drones that fill the air around Thunderbird One. He wouldn't have predicted it, especially after being harangued all day about the finer aspects of his piloting ability, but there's a weird sense of anticipation building up, as he peers down and clinically assesses the mess Scott's gotten into.

It's worse than he'd expected.

John can't help but be a little bit dumbfounded by the fact that there'd been two dozen mechs lying in wait for them, and they just hadn't had any way to tell. He'd known there were drones, had assumed Scott was exaggerating, and hadn't expected more than a handful, but this is a swarm. If he and Scott held slightly less disparate philosophical positions about the weaponization of Thunderbirds, then the current situation would probably be a death sentence for one or both of them.

"Oh boy. You're just in a hell of a lot of trouble, aren't you? Sit tight, Scotty."

His brother's voice is taut, irritated and tense in his ear as he answers, "Don't call me Scotty."

And John can't quite help a grin at that, as his hands tense around the controls again.

continued >>

#tag fanfic #john tracy #scott tracy #flight hours #some kind of creative doubt

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zombiesbecrazy · 7 years

Text

Five Times With Feeling - Part 4/5

Summary: It's the end of one era and the restart of another.

Or four times Dick and Barbara watched Buffy the Vampire Slayer together and one time they didn’t.

Written for batfamcontentwar‘s halloweencontentwar, however I’m not tagging it for the event because I think this part has content that might actually cross that genfic line. All 5 parts will be posted during the event.

ao3 Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 5

Part 4 - May 2003

Every muscle, and quite a few bones, in Dick Grayson’s body were screaming at him. The night had been hell, with Harvey Dent and Killer Croc somehow deciding that joining forces and trying to blow up the west side of Gotham would be a great way to spend a Thursday night. It was an all hands on deck type situation and it was Batgirl’s official first time back in the field with the entire team since her surgery to repair her spine. She had been out for a couple of weeks on her own, but this was her first true test of good old fashioned Gotham mayhem back in her cowl.

She had been magnificent all night and Dick had found himself haunted by her every move, not able to take his eyes off her.

Which in turn resulted in him not paying attention his surroundings, getting accidentally cornered, outnumbered, and Two Face attempting to remove his arm with a giant chain and hook contraption. He had gotten lucky because Batgirl had been keeping an eye on him as well and she had dropped from above, taking Harvey out with a well-placed kick the head.

It was still her signature move after all these years away. Flawless and effective. Knocked him out immediately. It was awesome.

Now, hours later and the city was safe again for the time being, they are sitting on the top of Brown’s Bridge, their pre-Joker-bullet usual post all-nighter hangout spot of choice, on a wide beam high above the street waiting for the sun to come up. Everything feels so familiar and new all at the same time. They haven’t done this in years, but it all falls back into a comfortable place. Babs sits on his left side, as she usually did. “How’s the wrist?”

He looks down at his right wrist and wiggles his fingers. “Hurts.” He’s not looking forward to seeing the damage when he takes the suit off later; he already knows it’s going to be all sorts of fun bruise colours where the hook had been secured. He’s been careful to not let on how bad the damage actually is; that it isn’t just his wrist, but his entire arm screaming at him. She hadn’t seen him reset his own dislocated shoulder while she was restraining Two Face, but he was pretty sure nothing was actually torn internally and the wrist was feeling like the worst of it right now. Grappling up to the top of their bridge had been agony on his shoulder, but he wasn’t going to miss it. Not tonight.

“Let me see it.”

“It’s just bruised. I’m fine.” Dick lies smoothly, but doesn’t think she’s buying it. Barbara takes his right arm gently and he tries not to wince as she examines the wrist, rotating it slowly and testing the range. Honestly he’s just glad it’s not broken again. “Stupid Two Face.” He lets out a small hiss as she presses down in slightly and she loosens her grip. “I want to hit him in the good side of his face again until it matches the burned side, but you know, wrist.”

“And that’s not how punching works.”

“That too.”

Apparently happy enough with what she’s seen with the wrist, or is at least convinced that it wasn’t going to fall off any time soon, she lets go of his arm slowly and Dick immediately misses her touch. Less than a second later, Dick has his good left arm wrapped around her and pulls her in close to him, holding onto her tight. She wraps her arm around him in response, giving a firm squeeze. For the first time all night, the pain in his body feels a little bit less urgent.

“How’s the comeback going?”

“Amazing. And hard. And terrifyingly brilliant.” She’s staring out over the city, and has a wistful look on her face. “I know I was important as Oracle, but something about being back out here just makes me feel… hopeful? It’s hard to put into words.” Her eyes are sparkling, not with tears, but with excitement. She’s positively glowing. “It feels like I’m flying.”

“Well, that is one thing that I definitely understand.” Dick’s moves his arm up to her shoulder and he gives it a small squeeze. “I missed coming up here with you.”

“Me too. I missed this part so much. Post battle beverages in the Clocktower wasn’t quite the same as being up here with this view.” Her grin is practically contagious. “I still can’t believe the implant worked. It’s crazy.” She points down and Dick follows with his eyes, the both of them staring at her feet as she wiggles them. “I can walk.”

“I can see that.” And he loved it. He really did. Seeing her up here on their bridge with him again made him so unbelievably happy. “We’re definitely going to struggle a little without Oracle in our ears every night, though.” In reality, she was going to leave a gaping hole in their operation by going back out on the streets instead of being behind the screens. Bruce and Dick had talked a lot about it between them since her surgery, but Dick knew Bruce hadn’t spoken to Barbara about his concerns yet and it wasn’t really Dick’s place to do it either. How could he when she was now able to get back out there and doing it so well? Not yet anyway. They were managing so far without her in the comms so Bruce had been letting it slide. “Now who’s going to tell me where the pop up food trucks are?”

“Or save your ass when you bite off more than you can chew?”

“When I choke on a churro or when I get jumped by too many gang members and need an escape route?”

“Either one.” Barbara sighs, and looks to the grapple strapped to her thigh, and Dick knows that she’s thinking about the choice that she’s made and what she’s left behind by moving on. About that conversation that she needs to have with Bruce; the one she has to know is coming. Because Barbara always knows everything. “Maybe I can do both somehow. Or find someone to train.”

“Change can be good,” says Dick noncommittally.

“Speaking of change, I’ve been meaning to ask; what’s with the red suit?”

If Dick had a hundred guesses about what Barbara would want to question him about, he would never had guessed that one. “Just wanted a change. You don’t like it?”

“It’s fine. I miss the old one. It was a nice blue.”

“I still have it. Maybe I’ll throw it back into the rotation.”

“Matches your eyes.”

“You can’t see my eyes with the mask on.”

“I still know what they look like. Those blues are impossible to forget.”

They’ve been doing this particular dance for a few months. This mild, tame flirting. It was nice and fun, but a little strange. They had been upfront with each over about their feelings, these sparks between them, ever since Dick had finally confessed his love not long after she had been paralyzed. Even when it hurt, they had talked about their relationship status, almost endlessly, but something was different now. Something had changed since Barbara’s surgery and Dick was pretty sure it was connected. Actually, he was one hundred percent sure it was.

Barbara was nervous about getting back together with him again. About being… intimate with him again.

They had tiptoed around the subject, but she was understandably shy about it. Her body was completely different than it had been last time that they had been together. They had both been nervous getting together the first time, trying to figure out what worked and what didn’t, but they had been young and awkward together so that had helped. Things were different now, they were older and with more experience but it was almost like starting from the beginning all over again. And while she was back to being Batgirl, Barbara Gordon just wasn’t ready for a physical relationship yet.

Just like she had had to relearn to walk and fight, she had to learn to re-love herself again in her new body before they could jump back into anything together. Dick wanted to understand where she was coming from, he really did, but at the same time he didn’t because it just didn’t matter to him. He loved her either way and she was the same girl to him, legs or no legs. And then he got annoyed with himself for being such a selfish jerk for thinking like that because it really had nothing to do with him and what he thought; this was all about her healing process and what she needed to move forward, with or without him. If Barbara needed more time, he was going to give it to her. As much as she needed. He’d wait. They would get there eventually. Hopefully. Maybe.

Timing. Not ever their strong suit.

“Are we not going to talk about it?” Barbara blurted out and Dick gave her a questioning look because he was a little lost in his own thoughts and he was pretty sure that they weren’t thinking the same thing, especially with the mischievous glint in her eyes.

“Talk about?”

“Earlier tonight! Super important life changing event!”

Dick is instantly relieved. This conversation was one that he could have. It was a milestone for them in another way tonight. They had sat on Dick’s bed earlier that evening, before everything had gotten all explode-y, and had watched the last episode of Buffy, ever. It was the end of an era, and for a guy who considered himself to be a pretty adaptable person, Dick was upset about this disruption to his life. “I can’t believe it’s just over. Boom.”

The Scooby gang had geared up, saved the world and now all Dick felt about it was sad. It made him wonder what he would feel like if all of Gotham’s problems were suddenly gone. Resolved in one grand finale. Where would they go from there?

“Seven years is a long time for a TV show, Nightwing.”

“Still.”

“Are you pouting, Short Pants?”

To prove his point, Dick stuck out his lip a little and she giggled. “A little.” He turned it into a sad grin and looked out towards the skyline. “It was one of the few constants in my life and now it’s gone. I know that sounds melodramatic, but I was attached. I’m still attached. We grew up with that show.”

“That is true. We’ve gone through a lot with it.” Barbara rubbed her arm up and down his side and he was having a difficult time focusing on anything else. “You knew it was the last season.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

“No, you don’t. You have to admit it was a good episode though.”

“I do. They saved the world. A lot. I’m a big fan of that.” He knew not everyone would like it, but in the end, the last episode came down to the things that Dick put first in his life. Family. Friends. Duty. Love. “You know what else I like? Being back here. With you.”

“Me too.”

Dick turned to her and her face was close to his, and they did what they always did when the inevitable pull between them got too great. He closed the distance between them and kissed her lips lightly. He grinned as she kissed him back eagerly. It wasn’t rushed or frenzied and by all outsider accounts would probably be described as a tame, but it was just right. When they broke apart, she rested her forehead against his.

Barbara kept her eyes closed, and Dick could almost count her eyelashes. “Let’s just watch the sunrise together?” she murmured quietly. He nodded, but didn’t turn to look at the skyline. He just kept staring at her. She didn’t move either, just smiled to herself.

All his aches and pains from the fight were suddenly gone. He could wait for her forever, but hopefully he wouldn’t have to.

#barbara gordon #dick grayson #batgirl #nightwing #batfic #fanfiction

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himbowelsh · 7 years

Note

For BabeRoe: Five times Babe caught one of his friends wearing his clothes and very much minded and one time he didn't mind at all.

AN: these five times prompts always take me a long time bc, well, i’m essentially writing six fics, but i LOVE them and i love writing them!

The fault might lie with Babe, if he'd been idiot enough to leave his clothes lying around where anyone could pick them up. The thing is, he didn't. Bill is anal about keeping laundry in its proper place -- “in your drawers or in the basket, the hell is this, rocket science?” Babe doesn't get the chance to leave articles of clothing lying around anywhere except his disaster zone of a room, and if he somehow manages to leave something behind, it never stays there for long.

When he traces it back, his friends’ awful track record of pilfering his clothes starts with Julian.

“What the hell are you wearing?” Babe demands, striding into the studio (their glorified term for the rec room they all spend their time in when they want to hide from their responsibilities). His question is accusatory; he doesn't care. There is no good reason for Julian to be sitting cross-legged on the couch, soaking wet, in nothing but a pair of boxers and a sweatshirt.

Neither articles of clothing belong to him. Babe knows this, because he is the house’s unofficial Laundry Guy. He's dealt with Julian’s mess of a wardrobe to recognize when his friend is wearing his own clothes and when he isn't. Right now, he definitely isn't, because that's the same sweatshirt Babe wore to the movies a few days ago.

And those boxers… also do not belong to Julian.

“Julian,” he repeats when his friend seems too caught up in his phone to look up at him. “Where did you get those?”

“Hmm?” Julian glances up, looking surprised -- as if he’s just noticed Babe’s presence, the faker. He shrugs thin shoulders concealed in Babe’s sweatshirt and leans back into the couch. “I got caught in the rain. These were the only dry things I could find.”

The storm outside is a killer. It swept in out of nowhere, while Babe was lucky enough to be inside the house. He heard Julian stumble through the front door a few minutes later, but he never considered the implications of his friend getting caught in the storm until now.

Staring down Julian, wearing his sweatshirt and his boxers, he's not sure what to say. A part of him feels defensive; another part feels a little violated.

“You're wearing my boxers,” he emphasizes, as if this justifies every baffled emotion swirling through his head.

Julian glances down at them, shrugs, and twists his pale legs beneath him before returning to his game. “I thought these were Bill’s, to be honest.”

Bill doesn't wear checker-patterned boxers. Bill wears solid colors, the Italian flag, and (on rare occasions) briefs. Babe would love to not have to know this, but now he kind of wishes Julian did.

“Am I…” He pauses, hesitates, wondering if he's breaking some sort of unspoken friendship rule. Or just a house rule -- no one wants Julian going commando on their couch. “Can I ask you to take off my underwear?”

“Sure. You can ask.” Julian sounds almost bored, but when he looks up at Babe, there’s a smirk on his lips. “Don't mean I'm gonna do it.”

Torn between defeat and fury, Babe styles for the least-offensive option and just stalks away. He doesn't want to throttle Julian, but if he has to look at him wearing his underwear anymore, he's not going to be able to be held responsible for what he might do.

He loses this round. At least, he thinks, it's just one (weird) isolated incident.

He thinks wrong.

He’s just stepping through the door when he comes face to face with a sight he could have gone his entire life without seeing. (Okay, maybe not -- he’s seen it before, and he’s not happy about it but he knows it’s inevitable that he’ll see it many times again before he dies.)

“Dammit, Bill, will ya put some pants on?”

Bill waves a hand over his shoulder, not even bothering to glance up at Babe. He’s laser-focused on running the vacuum back and forth over a particularly stubborn spot in the carpet. He’s been whining about that stain for weeks now, ever since Julian dropped a taco (and then picked it up and at it). Today, he’s finally decided to do something about it.

While dripping wet, wearing absolutely nothing.

Babe shields his eyes and walks straight into the coat rack, because of course he does. It’s that kind of day. “I don’t need to see your bare ass!”

“I didn’t need to haul your stupid scrawny ass up to bed when you got wasted on tequila bombs, tried to go skinny dipping, and hit your head in the pool. Did I? Fuckin’ no, but I did it, because I’m a great goddamn friend.” Bill leans down to train the suction right on the stubborn stain. Babe feels like he’s been dropped into a very screwed up production of Macbeth.

“I swear to god,” he says, still fumbling to figure out where the stairs are with his eyes closed. He’s touching something that might be a fur coat, but could also be Spina’s chest. “If you don’t put some clothes on now I’m calling Frannie.”

“She loves my ass.”

“I’ll take a picture and send it to everyone, then.”

“I’ll strangle you.”

Babe doesn’t even know where his phone is, let alone which direction Bill’s standing. He also doesn’t want something that horrifying on his phone. It might melt, or explode, and none of his awful friends will buy him a new one.

“Bill,” he finally sighs, slumping in defeat. “Just put some pants on. Please.”

Bill considers this question for a long moment (way too long, in Babe’s opinion) before snorting. “There’s a t-shirt and shorts in the bathroom. I saw them when I got out of the shower. Go get ‘em.”

He’s so eager to not have to stare at his friend naked any longer -- and, frankly, to have an excuse to leave -- that Babe scrambles to the bathroom. He doesn’t look at the clothes he grabs off of the towel rack. All he registers is that they’re a t-shirt and shorts, actual clothing for Bill to wear so he doesn’t traumatize the nice old couple that lives next door. (The curtains were wide open. How the hell could Bill be doing that in full view of the whole neighborhood?)

He makes it back to Bill in record time, and flings the wad of clothes at him like he’s scoring a winning touchdown in the Superbowl. He keeps his eyes screwed shut until he hears the vacuum switch off and Bill sigh.

“There. I’ve got clothes. You happy now, Heffron?”

Babe finally risks opening his eyes, and doesn’t bother stifling his sigh of relief. The shirt is too tight and the shorts are too short, but Bill’s full moon is no longer offending everyone and their mother. Babe is content up until the moment he realizes something that kills and buries his good mood.

“Hey, those are my clothes!”

Bill just casts a wink over his shoulder. “You gave ‘em to me.”

The vacuum switches on again, drowning out Babe’s groan of frustration.

Of all the people he expected to stab him in the back, Spina was the most unlikely suspect. Spina is the nicest of them all. He’s loyal. He’s a stand-up guy. He has a closet full of comfy clothes all of his own.

Babe doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve this.

“Spina! Buddy, you've betrayed me!”

Spina just shrugs, pulling Babe’s baggy sweater (which isn't quite as baggy on him) tighter around his shoulders. “It's freakin’ cold, Babe. Sorry.”

The heat has been off all weekend because someone (no one wants to say Bill, but two people pay the bills in this house and Fran has never missed one in her life) forgot to pay the company. This wouldn’t be such a bad thing, except it’s the middle of winter, and Babe is pretty sure humans need warmth to survive. If someone doesn’t get the heat turned back on soon, the rest of the house has made it clear that they’re going to murder that someone and use him as a human fire log.

So Babe can understand why Spina would be wearing a sweater, just not his sweater. “Come on. That’s the one Gene got me for Christmas!”

“Why d’you think I’m wearin’ it now?” Spina demands. “It’s the warmest thing in this goddamn house.”

Gene is from Louisiana, where the coldest they get in winter is still enough to melt ice cubes. His experience of northern winters have been nothing short of a horror story, so he’s become an expert in remaining a human furnace at all costs. He’s always wearing the warmest clothes, and he gives them as gifts too. Gene’s sweater might be the only thing standing between Babe and life as a human snowman, and currently that sweater is on Spina’s ungrateful back.

“Buddy, I love you,” he says, “but take off your clothes.”

Spina wraps his arms tighter around himself. He sees the glint in Babe’s eyes, and he’s ready. “I can’t do that, Babe.”

“Spina --”

“No!”

Spina lets out a yell as Babe tackles him. They both go tumbling off the couch in a ball of flailing limbs, hollering bloody murder all the way. When they hit the floor, it’s a wrestling match. Babe has got a good grip, but Spina’s not going down without a fight.

They wind up tearing the sweater, messing up the couch, and Babe smacks his head against the coffee table. When the stars clear from his vision, Spina is already sprinting from the room.

Well, at least they exercise is keeping them warm.

Just as Babe is starting to think he has the worst friends in the world, they still find a way to surprise him.

He steps out of his bathroom in full-on Spiderman regalia. He’s got the suit; the mask; even a tiny miniature “web shooter” that really sprays silly string everywhere. Smokey Gordon’s costume birthday bash is going to be wild, and Babe is ready for it.

He stops cold in the doorway when his eyes land on his two friends, clustered together in the middle of the kitchen. Liebgott is stooped over, his head buried in the fridge, muttering to himself as he paws through their leftovers. Grant has hoisted himself up on the counter, and is swinging his legs while munching on Bill’s favorite potato chips.

They’re both wearing Babe’s clothing.

Grant has stolen Babe’s favorite yellow and orange striped t-shirt, matching it with basketball shorts, with a bright red Phillies hat backwards over his messed-up hair. Liebgott is in a striped button-up, and wears a pair of skinny jeans that do not fit him at all. He has his hair slicked back, and looks all the more uncomfortable for it.

For a second, Babe can only gape. Then he tries to inhale, chokes on air, and remembers how to use his words again. “What the hell are you assholes doin’?”

Chuck raises a nonplussed eyebrow. “What’s it look like? We’re dressed up.”

If he’s being honest, Babe has no clue what the hell it looks like, but he knows one thing for sure. “You raided my closet!”

Liebgott emerges from the fridge, half a pickle hanging out of his mouth. “We’d agreed that we'd all go as each other. I'm Grant, can't you tell?”

“The correct question,” pipes up Grant, “is what are you wearing?”

Babe glances down at his (amazing) Spider-Man costume, then back up at his friend's again. His eyes are close to bugging out of his head at this point, but he doesn't care.

“If you're Grant,” he says to Liebgott, “why the hell are you in my shirt?”

“Because this guy wouldn't let me anywhere near his closet.”

“Do you think I'm an idiot?” Grant stares and Liebgott hard, daring him to answer. Liebgott opens his mouth, closes it again, then tries one more time before giving up. Grant smiles. “Not to mention, you're the one who left your door unlocked.”

“Yeah,” agrees Liebgott. Babe gets a very good view of the half-chewed pickle in his mouth. “Who's really at fault here?”

Babe gapes at them. His eyes swivel between Grant and Liebgott. He opens his mouth, makes some weird noises, chokes on his own spit, and realizes that nothing he says will make a difference. It's his own fault for agreeing to do anything with these two in the first place. Great as they are, Babe always winds up the butt monkey in their trio, and even though he doesn't like it, he also doesn't know what the hell to do about it.

Finally, he sighs. He's not going to argue; they've got a party to get to, dumb costume arrangement or not. “You like superheroes,” he says, pointing at Liebgott. “Now let’s move, I ain't gonna be late because of you idiots.”

He storms out of the house, Grant and Liebgott following behind him. Liebgott brings the pickle jar.

All he wants is a glass of water. A parched throat is the only thing capable of dragging him out of bed after a long, trying day spent learning to kickbox from Toye. (Babe relearned two things that he already knew: he is not made for kickboxing, Joe Toye is a beast.)

Swallowing stings, and his mouth is dry as the Sahara desert. When he finally manages to haul himself out of bed all his muscles protest. He knows he'll have one nice collection of bruises tomorrow, but he'll wear them like battle scars. They'll hurt like a bitch, but the defeat will just be a reminder of why he should avoid getting into the ring with someone who could probably benchpress him. (Not that Babe is one to shrink from a challenge, but Toye is his friend, thereby it's okay not to want to fight him.)

He stumbles out of his room on feet that feel like lead blocks, and is halfway down the hall when he realizes that he isn't alone. The hallway light is on, illuminating a figure standing in the doorway of the living room. A head full of curls is silhouetted against the dim light; a black t-shirt hanging just above to the middle of bare thighs. Babe blinks hazily for a moment, brain not quite registering what he's seeing, before he recognizes the person in front of him.

“Frannie?”

“Babe.” Fran’s silhouette is backlit against the dim hall light. She is frozen in place, torn between looking awkward and guilty. She does a weird side-step to block the living room doorway, which does nothing to disguise the oversized band t-shirt she is wearing. Babe’s eyes settle on the worn logo, and he feels a familiar exasperation creep over him.

“Tell me that's not my shirt.”

Fran hesitates for a moment before answering, “I’d love to.”

“Are you wearing anything under it?”

Another pause, too long to be interpreted as anything other than the negative that it is. Fran’s lips purse, and she tilts her head like she's considering the question. “Well...”

That's all Babe needs to hear. He holds up both hands, doing an about-face before he can see any more than he needs to. If Fran is standing there half-naked in the shirt Babe left lying around the living room this morning, chances are that Bill is just inside the living room -- probably less decent than Fran, filthying up the couch they all share.

It's par for the course for his friends at this point, but Babe is still disgusted.

“Oh my god. I'm moving out.”

“Good luck finding someone else who’ll take you,” Fran calls out to his retreating back. Then, after a beat -- “This shirt is really soft! What detergent do you use?”

Babe’s bedroom door slams behind him. He never gets his glass of water.

“Are you wearing my shirt?”

In the hazy morning light, it's hard for Babe to make out much; but the figure of Gene standing over the coffee maker, wearing nothing but an oversized Phillies t-shirt, is impossible to miss. For a second Babe isn't convinced he's really awake. It would be all to easy to dream of a sight like this.

Then Gene turns around, smiles at him, and Babe knows this is no dream at all. “Do you mind?”

In spite of himself, Babe feels a grin spreading across his face. He sidles into the kitchen, not bothering to flick the light on, and loops his arms around Gene’s waist. Gently, he presses Gene back against the counter and leans in to capture his lips.

Babe’s mouth is still dry. Crust stings the corners of his eyes. The both have morning breath, and Babe’s half-awake brain makes everything feel hazy and out of focus.

But he knows the contours of Gene’s lips as well as the back of hand. The taste of him, the hand cupping his cheek, the eyelashes fluttering against his own -- this is all very, very real. The best way to wake up is with Gene’s lips on his, Babe decides.

When they pull back, Babe can feel a small flush on his face. Gene’s lips are still quirked, like Babe’s told him a funny joke, but his eyes are gut-wrenchingly gentle.

“G’morning to you too, cher,” he mutters, and Babe grins.

His boyfriend can wear his clothes any time he wants.

#baberoe #band of brothers #my writing #babe heffron #eugene roe #Anonymous

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iv-kplpt · 7 years

Text

well that was easy

this one’s kind of hard to explain: basically one evening i came up with an idea for a college au for (telltale) oswald and charlie and (gotham) oswald and jim gordon. my gf told me to write it, so naturally... two cobblepots are cousins. their respective family tragedies never happened. this is a self indulgent base/skeleton text - an outline of sorts that’ll be expanded with some more detailed oneshots.

High above the streets of London Widowmaker was perched on a rooftop, looking for a blind spot in enemy's defenses, for a possible path for Tracer to slip through and make her way to Sombra who was hidden behind the enemy lines, waiting for her chance to disarm them, to render them helpless and defenseless.

„Try the right path.” she finally said. „I don't think they even remember it exists. Through the window and up the stairs. Mind the gap.”

„I'm there!” Tracer announced after a short while. „And I have my bomb.”

„And we all have our stuff, so let's go.” Gordon said, yawning quietly and making his Zarya jump a few times. „Hey, where's Mercy?”

„Safe and sound.” announced Charlie, who was sitting behind Louise's Widow. „And far away.”

„Then time to get our first point.” Louise said, taking a sip of her drink. „Let's go.”

Their plan worked – once Louise activated her visor, she picked the enemy team one by one, headshot after headshot, Charlie boosting her to speed up the process, making their Mercy waste her ult. Then the true fun began; Oswald jumped out of his hideout he was sharing with Vicki – they were dance emoting in the meantime – and EMPed. Gordon did his russian thing and Vicki and Oz ulted at the same time, laughing maniacally, as the enemy team was decimated.

„Works every time.” Vicki said cheerfully, dancing on the point. „Incredible.”

„Communication is the best super power.” Oswald announced, jumping around as Charlie kept trying to heal him.

It was a late Friday afternoon and they were all free, but too tired to actually hang out, so they decided to play some matches together, instead of just yelling at each other on their discord server.

(For once Oz was glad they can't hang out in person. He really didn't feel like bearing Gordon's company that day.)

At first it was just Oz and Charlie online – everyone else was either on their phones or finishing something else, so for a good hour it was just TheWizardOfOz and CherryGum.

„So, how's your week going?” Oz asked, as he was chasing down some unfortunate Genji who had the audacity to try and flank.

„Semi-decent.” she replied, damage boosting him. „I'm probably not going to sleep tonight.”

„Insomnia?”

„No, I'm home alone and I really don't like it.”

„Oh, why didn't you say so earlier?” Oswald chimed in; Oz could hear people in the background, meaning his cousin was probably still on the campus. „You should've come over!”

Yes, Oz thought to himself, she should've.

He liked being around her, seeing her, hearing her. Every little thing she did felt like magic and he loved when she'd come over to have a movie night with his cousin; because when he'd walk into the kitchen the next morning it usually meant she was there with a cup of coffee, still warm and soft from the recent sleep, her hair a mess.

(He never said anything. In fact, he talked to her way less often than he'd like to. She was his cousin's friend first, after all – and someone he was hopelessly in love with second.)

Being in love is nice. Being in love with someone who loves someone else is not nice. Being in love with someone who loves someone else who treats them like shit is fucking awful.

That was seemingly the only thing Oz Cobblepot and Jim Gordon had in common – that and great hair. And nice jawlines.

They were both in love and both of their love interests were already monogamously taken – even though it was a Pulcinella's secret of sorts that their significant others are not doing so great in terms of being decent human beings. One could even argue they weren't good at just being human.

Everybody kinda knew and everybody kinda cared – but when confronted about it, Charlie and Oswald would only roll their eyes and assure the other person everything is fine and that gossips are rarely true.

Or: that was what Charlie would do. Oswald would chuckle nervously and change topic. He was never smooth – he was the awkward Cobblepot. Oz was the charming one.

But no matter how charming he was it wasn't enough for Charlie to really open up to him – she would laugh at his jokes and reply to his messages and send him silly things on snapchat, but she never truly opened up. Never talked about anything substantial, never really talked about what's going on in her life – except for vague mentions of her boyfriend Harry being a-fucking-ok.

(Oz couldn't stand Harry. He couldn't stand him long before he met his girlfriend who quickly became the last thing on his mind before falling asleep and first thing after waking up. There were rumors going around about Harry – and Oz was smart enough to know rumors usually don't come out of nowhere.)

From what he heard, there were also rumors going around about his cousin's boyfriend, Nygma – but those rumors were going around in uncool, nerd circles Oz wasn't part of. Doesn't mean he wasn't concerned about his cousin's wellbeing – but he knew his cousin. He knew the Cobblepot blood. Despite being tiny, awkward and polite Oswald could hold a mean grudge and he sure as hell knew how to defend himself.

Or maybe Oz was just lying to himself, because he knew who's also interested in his cousin. Everybody knew Jim Gordon – a serious, utterly intolerable prep – has hots for the shorter Cobblepot. Not like Oswald's current boyfriend was perfect, no – he was weird and something about him always rubbed Oz the wrong way, but at least he wasn't Jim fucking Gordon.

Oswald's love life wasn't Oz's main concern. His main concern was his own love life – which wasn't heading in a direction he liked.

(If it was heading in any direction at all.)

They met during a lame party, one year earlier. Most of the people were either drunk or high or both and he was in the kitchen, sitting on the table and smoking a cigarette as she entered, her skin covered in glitter and her eyes oddly red.

(He knew this kind of red, he saw it a lot of times from his cousin. It was a sad kind of red. One that came with tears.)

„Oh.” she said after noticing him. „Sorry, should... Should I leave?”

„There's enough room for both of us. Are you... Okay?” he asked, staring at her face. „You've been crying. Do you need help?”

She looked surprised and he kind of regretted asking her that; maybe he shouldn't be so blunt.

„No, it'll pass.” she said finally, smiling lightly; even despite crying there was still a lot of glitter on her face and he could see a tiny foil heart on her pink bottom lip. „You can give me a cigarette though.”

He gave her one and lit it up for her, as her hands were shaking; up close he could see that her lashes were still wet and matted and that there was a small foil star on her left eyebrow. Glitter mixed up with her freckles and Oz thought – putting his lighter back in his pocket – it turns her skin into a painting of galaxies.

„So, what's your name, beautiful stranger?” he asked eventually, as she visibly calmed down.

„I'm Charlie. And you... Handsome stranger?”

He laughed and winked at her and she grinned in response. She had a beautiful smile, a very genuine, bright one that reached her eyes and lit them up.

„Oz.”

They almost kissed during their first meeting, but were interrupted by some drunk strangers. They shuffled away from each other, Charlie visibly more distraught than him; he wouldn't mind kissing her and taking her home with him and sneaking her into his bedroom and then maybe waking up next to her the next day, assuming she wasn't the sneak-out-early-in-the-morning type.

„I think I'll go home now.” he said and got off the table, stretching his legs. „You need a ride? I have a spare helmet.”

„That'd be great... My boyfriend was supposed to pick me up, but... He's not going to.” she said, averting his eyes and nervously toying with the hem of her dress.

So she had a boyfriend. That'd explain why she looked so terrified. Maybe it'd also explain why she looked so sad.

She didn't live anywhere near him and the trip was longer than he expected, but he didn't mind the time spent with her arms around him; he supposed that's the last time he's seeing her anyway, considering they didn't even exchange phone numbers.

(She did seem familiar though. Maybe she was a friend of a friend on Facebook? He couldn't tell.)

One week later his cousin Oswald – his flatmate – texted him after his cooking class, asking if he'll mind him bringing someone over for tea? Oz texted back saying no, of course he won't, as long as they'll stay clear of his bedroom.

He was sitting on the couch in a living room when the door opened and Oswald came in, excitedly talking about how good season 2 of House of Cards was.

„Well, I have to catch up then.” someone said cheerfully and Oz's heart skipped a beat as he turned around on the couch, to see the familiar mass of red waves covering the back of Charlie's head. „I like Kevin Spacey. He reminds me of my dad.”

She put her coat on a hanger and turned around and then she saw Oz on the couch, silently staring at her and her face lit up and it felt like a great weight was lifted off his shoulders.

„Small world!” she exclaimed, walking up to him.

When Oswald left them for a moment she turned around to face him.

None of them mentioned the kiss that almost happened; they did exchange phone numbers though, and Facebook accounts, and some other things.

(She was a friend of Louise. Naturally. That'd explain why she looked so familiar.)

Back to present day Oz kept mercilessly tracking down enemy team's Zenyatta and cornering him before he could do anything about the damage his team was receiving.

„Aw, let that Zen live.” Charlie said and he heard a quiet pop!, meaning she was chewing gum. „He's doing his best.”

„This map is not big enough for two good healers.” he said nonchalantly and she giggled and he could hear Louise and Gordon roll their eyes. „I'm earning you that post-game card.”

„I'm earning it myself, but thanks. Hey, Oswald, is our movie night still a thing?”

„Oh, it definitely is.” Oswald assured Charlie as he was gunning down enemy Hanzo. „Louise, are you still coming?”

„Yeah. I'll bring... Well, something.”

„Don't worry, I'll bake some muffins.” Charlie said, running – or rather flying – for her life away from Mei's Blizzard. „A lot of them.”

„Will there be any left for me?” Oz asked and he heard Vicki typing furiously and then his phone buzzed and a messanger bubble popped up on the screen; he knew what it's going to say.

„I'll save some for you.” she promised him. „Hey Jim, save some for you as well?”

„If it's not a problem.” he said solemnly and Oz winced. „Louise, you're going to bring them home, right?”

„Oh, I'll try my best. Can't promise anything though. Junkrat's sneaking behind us. Whoops. Past tense.”

After the match ended – they won 3:0 and Louise got potg as Widowmaker, prompting the enemy team to throw a hissy fit over „FUCKING ATTACK WIDOWS” - Oz finally read the message Vicki sent him during the match.

YOU THIRSTY IDIOT.

He shrugged. What could he say? She was right, there was no denying – even though he was doing his best to hide it. On good days he'd almost fool himself into thinking Charlie is just a friend of his cousin, a nice girl who sends him memes at 3 am and bakes the best damn muffins he've ever eaten.

But she was so much more than that. She was also taken; and as much as he hated her fucking Harry he never said anything out loud, knowing damn well it'd only be interpreted one way.

That night he thought of her before falling asleep. She was on his mind a lot lately; but that night it was less about the warmth she made him feel with her laughter and more about the way she tilted her head and exposed her neck when lost in thoughts. Less about wanting to make her laugh – and more about her lips parted in a moan.

That night he jacked off to the thought of his cousin's close friend, who was in a committed relationship.

*** Next evening he met her on his way to a boxing match. He was just leaving when she showed up, her cheeks red from the chilly weather and her hair a mess, thanks to wind.

„Oh! You're leaving?” she asked; was that disappointment in her voice? He hoped so.

„Yeah. Things and stuff.” he replied, putting his leather jacket on and picking his backpack up.

„How mysterious! Are you doing something illegal?”

„Very.” he blurted out; he wasn't lying. His matches were illegal.

„Then try to not get caught... Though I'm sure I'd be able to convince Harry to represent you in court!” she giggled and he pursed his lips and nodded and left, his mood completely ruined. Did she have to mention her douchebag of a boyfriend?

Vicki was waiting for him outside the – officially abandonded – building where the match was supposed to be held. She was smoking and offered him a cigarette as soon as she saw him.

„Thanks.” he muttered, lighting it. „How's your day?”

„Could be better, could be worse. How's yours?”

„I'm going to fucking deck someone tonight.”

„That bad, huh?”

She finished her cigarette and crushed under the heel of her boot.

„It's your lucky night then. You'll be fighting Napier.”

„How the fuck do you know?”

„I'm a journalism major, remember. All the right questions to all the right people.”

She crossed her arms and inhaled the cold, sharp air.

„Le's get inside, I can feel my insides freezing.”

He shrugged, got rid of his cigarette and silently followed her.

„How's your cousin?” she asked, as they were entering the building.

„He's having a movie night with Lou and Charlie.”

„Oh, so that's where your bad mood comes from. You're still not over it?”

„Looks like I'm not.”

„You never told me how you actually met her.”

The building used to be a warehouse; it was spacious and relatively well lit. The host set up a makeshift ring there; and other people were starting to slowly flow in.

„Not tonight.” he said shortly. „You have our masks?”

As instructed by the host, every contestant – as well as every spectator – was supposed to wear a mask, to conceal their identity from potential cops masquerading as... Well, not cops.

Vicky patted her stuffed bag.

„Yeah. You sure yours is even admissible? You can stab someone to death with this beak.”

„The host said I can wear it as long as I don't use it to my advantage. Meaning... No stabbing. At least not tonight.”

„Edgy.” she said dryly and he laughed in response.

They parted ways – he put his mask on and joined the other people in a makeshift locker-room, while Vicky stayed behind, as spectators were not allowed anywhere behind the scenes.

Napier – or Joker, as he demanded to be called during nights like this – was sitting on a bench, staring other people down. His skin looked unnaturally pale, as he coated himself in white paint; he never wore a proper, physical mask. Only paint.

„Penguin, my man!” Joker greeted him cheerfully, not moving from his spot. „It'll be my pleasure to destroy you on this lovely night!”

„In your dreams, you freak.” he said coldly, not even trying to hide his disdain. He knew Jack Napier – they studied at the same college, even though nobody was able to tell exactly what is Napier exactly studying. He also knew Napier has his eyes on Harleen – a very sweet, very intelligent psych major who once helped him get away with some of his illegal shenanigans, despite not even knowing what's his name. That was the type of person Harleen was – type of person that needed to be preserved and protected, for they were making the world actually habitable.

And Napier having his eyes on her meant she's about to lose some of this goodness, same way one Esme Midnight and her step-brother Rocco lost their optimism and energy.

Their fight was first that night. Once on the ring, Oz let his body take control – it wasn't his first fight in general and not his first fight with Napier. He knew the drill. He knew the tricks – even though Joker was a one trick pony, his trick being unpredactibility.

As they fought, his mind came back to Charlie, or rather her boyfriend. He was a typical – stereotypical, even – frat boy; it was a miracle his name wasn't Chad. He was a law student, came from a rich family, his parents were friends with the mayor. He was a Republican and a living embodiment of the „boys will be boys” sentiment.

And Oz absolutely, truly, madly, deeply hated his guts.

(It was not a simple jealousy. At least he hoped so.)

Thinking about Harry Spencer did help him win the fight though. Joker never stood any chance.

„Are you sure you're not trying to actually kill Napier?” Vicki asked him after they left; they were going to a bar to get a beer or five.

„I wouldn't cry if that happened.”

„You'd end up in jail. For a long time.”

„Not really, no. Remember, my family's rich. Jail's not an option for anyone with the name Cobblepot.”

„But do you think Charlie would want to hang out with a murderer?” she asked and he groaned, rolling his eyes.

„She's a woman's studies major and Napier's an alleged rapist. I think her moral code might have a blind spot for me killing him.”

„That's... One way to win a girl's heart.” Vicki said, giving him a concerned look. „And the exact reason I don't take dating tips from you.”

„Speaking of dating... How's your grand plan going?” he asked when they reached the bar and sat down in a nearly empty room. „Did you ask her out yet?”

„I did. We have a date tomorrow.”

„And do you think there will be a second one?”

„I fucking hope so, she's...”

Vicki paused and Oz reached to pat her on a shoulder.

„Take your time. I get it. I really do.”

(He meant it. They both knew how hard it can be to find the right words to describe a girl; to fully do their beauty justice. Usually they just settled on „I want to both do unspeakable things to her and make waffles with her, you feel?”.)

After he and Vicki parted ways, he tried to open the door to his flat as quietly as possible, to avoid waking anyone up – but it wasn't necessary, as nobody was asleep anyway. The lights were on and Oswald and his friends were in the living room, talking excitedly.

„Hi Oz!” Charlie said cheerfully as she noticed him walking towards his room. „Join us!”

„Depends on what are you going to be watching.” he said; he was lying. He'd join them regardless of their movie pick.

(He could see she was wearing her pink night gown that exposed her legs and arms. Naturally.)

„Jupiter Ascending! I stand by my opinion, this movie is a masterpiece.”

„And I stand by mine. It's garbage.” Louise said, not looking up from her phone. „Hurry up, Oz. And maybe take a shower. You stink.”

Charlie stopped him as he was about to leave the room.

„Are you hungry?” she asked, weirdly nervously. „I can... Make something.”

„You're a guest, I'm not going to make you cook for me. Besides... I'm a big boy.”

„But I want to cook. Plus I'm going to the kitchen anyway.”

Her insistence made his lips twitch in a poorly hidden smile and he nodded.

„Well, alright. It's a free country.”

As she left he followed her with his eyes. Louise finally looked up and shot him a disgusted, disapproving look.

„Take. A. Shower.” she repeated, accentuating every word. „You filthy bastard.”

(He wondered whether she's referring to the fact he was covered in sweat or maybe the fact he stared at Charlie's bare legs as she was walking towards the kitchen. Both were plausible options.)

When he returned – his hair dripping wet and his head a mess, despite a cold shower – they were waiting for him, the movie about to start; Charlie made him a – perfectly round, perfectly golden – omelette and Louise threw a pillow at him, telling him to at least put a shirt on, to which he flipped her off.

At some point during their third movie, around 4am, Charlie – who was seated on the floor, right next to him, close enough for him to occasionally brush her thigh with his hand on accident – dozed off, with her head leaning on his arm.

From that perspective he could see her long lashes. She looked so peaceful; and the warmth of her skin against his felt like home.

„Should... Should I wake her up?” he whispered to Louise, who was right behind him.

In response, Louise gently kicked her in the back and she woke up almost instantly, her face turning red when she noticed who was her pillow for a short while.

„I think that's it for me.” she muttered, getting up shakily and using his arm as a support. „Oswald, I'll crash in your room.”

„Goodnight!” Oswald said cheerfully, still full of energy, as Charlie left the room, yawning; and Oz remained perfectly still, his arm ridiculously hot where she put her hand.

The next morning he encountered her in the kitchen; still sleepy, not fully awake, slowly sipping her coffee. It was just the two of them; Oswald and Louise were asleep on the couch and Oz could hear their snoring.

„Morning.” he said, opening the fridge and looking inside. „Breakfast?”

„Mmm.” she muttered and he smiled to himself. „I dunno. Give me a sec.”

In soft, morning light she looked almost unreal. One of the straps of her night gown slipped down and he could see the faint outline of her breasts underneath the pastel pink fabric.

„Alright, I'm awake.” she said eventually, seemingly unaware of his wandering gaze. „Now feed me.”

„What do you want?”

„Waffles.” she said firmly. „Crispy and golden. You know how to make waffles, right?”

„Yeah. You taught me that, about... Two months ago.” he said, gathering his ingredients. „Remember?”

„I was sure you forgot.” she said softly and he fought off the urge to turn around and look at her.

The waffles turned out perfect and he found vanilla ice cream in the freezer and made her another coffee; with condensed milk and vanilla, strong and sweet, just how she liked it.

And that was the last time he saw her before everything went to shit.

*** It was a Wednesday afternoon and they were all playing together; „just one match” they kept saying for five games now. It was going well. They were having fun and even Gordon seemed to be way less annoying than usual. Oz could hear Harry in the background of everything Charlie was saying; but she seemed to be in a good mood, so that was all that mattered.

He was playing Hog that evening; he started to – very stubbornly – play him when Charlie offhandedly, jokingly mentioned Hog looks like someone who'd treat her right.

(Nobody commented on it. Nobody pointed out it probably says something disturbing about her relationship.)

She was playing Mercy and the enemy Mei was going after her like her life depended on it; at some point Oz just hooked her away, to make her fuck off.

„God, Oz, I could kiss you right now.” Charlie said, flying up to Louise who was testing out Pharah. „Thanks!”

„Everything for you.” he said nonchalantly, pretending he doesn't see the enemy Soldier sneaking around. „Pucker up, angel, I want that kiss. Or a solo rez. Both will do.”

„A kiss won't potentially ruin the game for us, so yeah. Pucker up.”

And that was the exact moment everything went to shit, meaning: Harry Spencer – Charlie's apparently-fucking-great boyfriend – threw what could only be described as a temper tantrum.

Turned out he wasn't at all a fan of Charlie joking about kissing other people – and they heard it all, because he didn't realize that even though she instantly turned the game off (leaving them hanging, but it didn't matter; they were too concerned to keep playing properly anyway and told the enemy team to do whatever they want) the discord was still running in the background, her good quality mic picking everything up.

Every insult. Every threat. Every tearful apology.

0swald

what should we do???

RaptureFucker

call the cops

WizardOfOz

they'll only make things worse for her. I'm going to pay them a visit.

victoriousvale YOU'RE going to make things worse for her, wtf, stay where you are!

gourdon I'm with him on this one though. Cops won't do any good. Cobblepot, you still there?

0swald

yes

gourdon ...not you. The other one.

0swald

he just left. i can hear his bike, i think he's serious.

victoriousvale he's going to get them both killed!!!!!!

RaptureFucker

vicki

did you know?

victoriousvale about what

RaptureFucker harry being like this

did anyone know?

anyone?

victoriousvale no, i didn't!!! but you heard him!!! if oz will show up at their doorstep now it's going to end up in a fucking bloody mess!!

gourdon

Fine. I'm on it. I'll be there before him. I'll stop him.

0swald

don't kill my cousin!

gourdon I'm not going to fight him, I'm going to talk some sense into him. Gordon out.

When Oz stopped his bike in front of the building where Charlie and Harry lived, Gordon was waiting for him on the sidewalk, his hands in his pockets.

„What the fuck are you doing here?!” Oz snarled at him, trying to get past. „I'm going in.”

„No, you're not. You're going to calm down. And then, you and I... Then we're going to talk.”

Gordon's grip on his shoulder was surprisingly firm. Blinded by fury, Oz grabbed him by his shirt and pulled him close, staring into his infuriatingly calm eyes.

„I'm going in.” he repeated.

„I texted her right before you showed up.” Gordon said, still staring at Oz. „I asked her if everything's alright, because she suddenly logged off. She texted back. Meaning she's alive. And you can't just barge in.”

„Why?”

„What makes you think she wants your help?” Jim finally blurted out. „Do you think that was the first time it happened? Do you really believe it?”

His thoughts came back to the first time he saw her, to the redness around her eyes and the way their lips almost met, the way she put her fingers on his shoulders.

„No.” he finally replied. „No, I don't think that was the first time.”

„Do you want her to leave him, Cobblepot?”

„That's none of your business.”

„Oh but it is. It is my business.”

„What the fuck do you want, Gordon?”

„For you to hear me out.” Gordon replied stoically, still staring him down. „We can help each other.”

„I don't want your help.”

„No, but you need it. And because I don't need yours... This is my first and last offer. Hear. Me. Out.”

„Fuck. Fine.” Oz said, giving up. „The fuck you want?”

„Are you in love with Charlie, Cobblepot?”

„That's none of your fucking business, Gordon.”

„You are then. So obviously, you want to help her, because... She's too good for this situation, right? She doesn't deserve this. He doesn't deserve her. You want to help her out, maybe you're even hoping she'll leave him for you...”

„What's your point?”, Oz interrupted him, feeling way more uneasy than he'd like to admit.

„I'll be blunt: we both want the same things for two very different people. I'm of course talking... About Oswald.” Gordon finally announced, his voice cracking just a bit. „I love your cousin, Cobblepot. And he's in the same exact shit as Charlie, it's just... A bit less obvious. And I want you to help me get him out of it. In exchange... I can help you with Charlie. I have classes with Spencer. I can work him. Get a confession out of him.”

„And what if I refuse? Will you just... Leave Charlie? In this bullshit?”

„She still has you, doesn't she? But the question is... If your gentle pushes will be enough to wake her up.”

„Are you expecting me to befriend Nygma?”

„What? No, this is out of question. He knows you're Oswald's cousin, he'll never open up to you. No, I want you to employ your less personal skills. Oh, stop making that face, of course everyone knows you've been stealing files.”

They were standing on the empty sidewalk, facing each other; Gordon seemed to be perfectly, unnaturally calm and Oz was still shaking from thinly veiled fury that was making his blood boil.

„We can get confessions out of Spencer and Nygma. We can make Charlie and Oswald face the facts. We can help them make the right decision. We can... We can help them. Ruin the illusion.”

„Fuck. Fine.” Oz repeated, feeling infuriatingly helpless. „Fine. Deal. I'll see what I can find. Maybe he said something to one of his weird friends. I'm still going to try to talk some sense into Charlie though.”

„She won't listen, but fine, have it your way.” Gordon said politely and turned around, ready to leave.

„Hey, Gordon.”

„Yeah?”

„I'm not doing this for you, yeah? I'm only doing this for her.”

„And here I thought you actually care about your cousin.” Jim said mockingly, walking away. „Go home, Cobblepot. Oswald's worried sick.”

He disappeared behind the corner, leaving Oz alone with his thoughts and an overwhelming desire to spill some blood.

*** He next saw Charlie next week, when he was paying Vicki a visit with some beer and sadness. Charlie was there and she was about to leave and he really, really wished she'd stay.

She looked as chipper as always and seemed to be genuinely surprised when he put his hand on her shoulder when they were in the corridor.

„Is everything alright, Charlie?” he asked, looking into her – blue, blue, blue – eyes.

„What do you mean?” she nervously replied, nervously pressing her bag to her chest.

„With you and Harry. Is everything okay? Because I'm here if you need to vent. If he's... Not treating you right.”

For a moment he was sure she's going to crack. That she's going to let her feelings out. That this was all it took to solve the problem-

but instead she only furrowed her brows and pursed her lips.

„My relationship is my own, Oz.” she said sharply. „Mind your business.”

And just like that she turned around and left, leaving him alone and heartbroken.

„Wow. Real smooth.” Vicki said mockingly, walking out of the kitchen. „See? That's why I don't take dating tips from you.”

„I just want to help her.” he said, setting his beer-filled bag down.

„Then at least be smart about it. Have you talked to Gordon?”

„Yeah. And he told me the same exact thing.”

„But you're not going to listen since it's coming from him, so let me be your voice of reason. Be smart about it, Oz. She doesn't want your help. Make her want it. Make her realize she needs it.”

It all sounded simple and doable, but the truth was – he had no idea how to get around to doing it. How could she not see everything's wrong? How could she not see this is not how she should be treated?

(Even putting his own way of treating her aside – there were still other people. Oswald. Louise. Her other friends he didn't really know all that well. They were all treating her with kindness, because she never did anything to deserve anything less – so why couldn't she see Harry isn't giving her what she deserves?)

But, alas – he tried. Next time he saw her neither of them mentioned her sudden, short-lived outburst; she was all smiles and oh!s again, all charm and bubbliness. He learned his lesson from that one time though, and didn't try to openly talk about it again – at least not with her.

(He talked about her a lot behind her back, mostly with Vicki and Oswald; and Oswald seemed to agree that this situation is bullshit. He even promised to try to talk sense into her, as a friend, as someone who knew her considerably better than Oz.)

Watching Charlie – and remembering every fucking word Harry said to her – made Oz notice a few things about his cousin. He always knew something is up with Nygma; but he never really thought about it, believing his cousin knows what's best for him. He was of Cobblepot bloodline, after all – but their frequent night discussions almost made him look at Oswald the same way Gordon was probably looking at him.

(He and Gordon were in touch, which was weird and felt wrong, but they had to. One time, when Gordon was being particularly annoying with his pestering Oz over his lack of progress in going through Nygma's files, Oz outright asked him what does he see in his cousin?

„I don't know. What do you see in Charlie?” Jim then asked in return.

„She's just... Good. She's gentle. And beautiful.” he said, not sure why is he being so honest with Gordon of all people.

„Here's your answer then.”

For once in his life Oz felt like he has something in common with Jim Gordon.)

Not even once did Oz as much as consider confessing his feelings to Charlie. There was no point in doing so – he was damn sure only she only sees him platonically. The almost-kiss was often on his mind; but that night she was distraught. Maybe slightly drunk (though her breath didn't smell of alcohol and her eyes were clear); and she never sygnalized any attraction to him.

(He knew damn well he's handsome and he knew damn well about his bad boy charm. Didn't seem to be working on her though.)

*** Two months had passed since his late-night conversation with Gordon. Their weird pact was seemingly going nowhere – Oz couldn't find anything on Nygma's drive and Gordon couldn't get anything out of Harry Spencer, despite putting his best douchebag face on.

(Louise, who was also a law student and saw this first-hand confirmed Gordon is really trying to befriend Harry for some reason. His efforts weren't entirely futile – Spencer did seem to be comfortable around Jim, comfortable enough for rape jokes and some slut shaming; but not comfortable enough for truth about his girlfriend. Not comfortable for anything Gordon didn't already know about.)

Oz was alone that night; Oswald was studying with Louise and Gordon at their place and Vicki was writing three papers at the same time. He was alone that night and only had his thoughts to accompany him and – as usual – Charlie entered the picture, all soft and pink and beautiful.

He was just indulging some of his wants (her skin under his fingers her fingers in his hair their breaths tangled together) when his phone buzzed on the table and he blindly picked up, sure it was Oswald with an emergency.

„Oz.” he heard Charlie say, and she sounded so tense and awkward and sad. „Am I interrupting?”

„...no.” he muttered, his hand still moving. „What's up?”

„Can... Can I come over?” she asked hesitantly. „I'm sorry, I know it's so sudden and you probably have plans, but-”

„No, it's not a problem. You can come.” he interrupted her hastily. „Oswald's not home though.”

„I know. I just... Want some company.”

(It almost sounded like she's settling for something less, but he didn't mind. He didn't mind being something less, if it meant being anything at all to her.)

„I can bring some muffins.” she added after a moment. „I'll be there... In an hour.”

„Sure.” he said, closing his eyes. „See you.”

(He had no remorse for jacking off during the call. She didn't know. It didn't influence her life in any way.)

When she showed up he was on the couch in the living room, reading. He took a shower and put on clean clothes; just for her.

„You hair's wet. Did you shower just for me?” she asked, entering the room. „I'm touched.”

„Everything for you.” he said, forcing himself to not look up from his book. „What brings you here?”

„Harry's out and I'm feeling lonely.” she said, sitting down in Oswald's favorite chair. „Are you sure I'm not interrupting anything?”

„You spend so much time here it doesn't even count as coming over anymore, you know. So no. You're not interrupting anything.”

He finally put his book down and looked at her; she looked sad.

„What's eating you?” he asked and she blinked at looked at him.

„What?”

„You look sad. What's eating you?”

„I guess I'm just tired. Long week.”

She wasn't telling him the truth, and he knew that; she was hiding something. But fine. He decided he's not going to push.

They ordered some food; he convinced her to give his favorite place – a small takeout bar ran by a very jolly, very Slavic family – a chance and she seemed to genuinely enjoy the bizzarre wonders of East European food. They binged Brooklyn 99 together – her choice, not his.

About halfway through the second season she turned around to face him. He only had a chance to notice her fingers trembling slightly, before she suddenly threw her arms around his neck and kissed him.

That night she tasted like a weird mix of bubblegum, cherry coke and pierogi; and he didn't want to push her away, even though he knew he should. He didn't want the moment to stop.

He was on his back and she was on top of him, still kissing him, her fingers still trembling; and he could feel something warm and wet on his face.

Tears.

„Charlie?” he muttered, finally breaking the kiss. „You're crying.”

„I know, dumbass.” she said, tears still streaming down her face and falling on his. „Sorry.”

„Hey.” he said softly, slowly sitting up, forcing her to back up a bit. „We should talk.”

„No, I should leave.” she said, averting his eyes. „I... I don't know what happened. Sorry.”

„Don't lie to me.” he blurted out without thinking. „Please. Not to me.”

She finally looked at him and he handed her a tissue and she wiped her tears and then... Then she started talking.

„I'm sorry.” was the first thing she said. „This isn't right. This isn't right, but it's just how I feel. I know a person can love two people at once, I know, but you and Harry... You two are so different.”

(Yeah, obviously – Oz thought – one's not a COMPLETE douchebag.)

„I just... I don't know. Can I be blunt?”

„Of course.”

„You're on my mind a lot lately.” she blurted out, looking embarassed. „When I'm alone. Or not. I think you're hot. And it's been on my mind... A lot. When I'm around you... I feel things I don't feel when I'm around Harry.”

„What do you feel around him?” he asked quietly and she only smiled and shook her head.

„My relationship's my own, Oz. Remember?”

„Yeah, well, it seems like I just became a part of it, want it or not.”

She closed her eyes and sighed and when she opened them again, she looked surprisingly peaceful, even though there were still faint trails of tears on her cheeks.

„Do you think Harry's bad for me?” she finally asked and his heart stopped for a moment.

„Is that a trick question?” he asked carefully.

„Maybe.”

„And do you want me to be honest?”

„I'm not expecting anything less. Not from you. You've always been honest with me.”

„Then yes.” he said finally, giving up on trying to uphold the facade. „I think he's bad for you.”

„Funny thing... I've been thinking exactly the same.”

„Wait, what?” he asked, not fully comprehending what just happened.

She gave him a sad smile and shook her head.

„I love him, but I don't think he loves me. I don't feel loved. I don't feel appreciated. I don't feel wanted. I only feel... Lonely. Useless. Like a prop. A thing. And do you know on whose attention I always could count? Who never failed to make me feel less terrible, who complimented me on my cooking, who kept their eyes on me?”

„No.” he said softly, despite already knowing the answer.

„You. You did. All this time, all these months... You've been filling this void. Just because. Without asking for anything in return.”

(She wasn't entirely right, but he wasn't going to correct her.)

„But why me, specifically? There are other people. You and Oswald seem close.”

„Oz, don't play dumb. I know the truth. Oswald told me.”

„WHAT?”

„We got sad drunk once. I said... I said I wish you saw me the way I see you. And Oswald... Oswald then just looked me, his eyes wide open, like he just heard the most outrageous thing ever, and just said YOU DON'T KNOW?”

(How did his cousin know? How did he figure it out?)

„I know you have feelings for me.” she whispered, putting her hand on his. „I know. And I think... This is what kept me going.”

„Are you going to break up with Harry?”

„I can't.” she replied after a long silence. „I... I don't know how. I don't know if I want to. I keep telling myself... He'll change. For the better.”

„How many times, Charlie? How many times have you told yourself that?”

„I lost count.” she said quietly. „After every argument. Every... Every threat. Every word. But I still love him. I can't just leave him. But I also... I think I also love you. Will you judge me if I stay with him?”

„It's not safe for you. If he'll find out...”

„He won't. Besides... I know I can count on you. Right?”

She brushed his knuckles with her index finger.

„Right.” he said quietly. „So... What about us? What does it make me?”

„Kiss me.” she said instead of actually answering. „It's been so long... Kiss me. Kiss me like I've been imagining you would.”

„Yeah? How exactly?” he asked, giving in, pulling her closer. „Do you want me to be gentle? Rough?”

„Take your pick.” she muttered in response. „Both will work.”

He kissed her gently, tenderly; he could feel her fingers in his hair, on his back, on his shoulders. He didn't want to let her go, not after all these months. And he didn't want to think about what will happen when the sun rises and she'll come back home, to Harry; he was sure they'll find a way to fix this mess, to get her out of it.

(He wanted to message Gordon right here, right now, to tell him Charlie's been aware of everything, to tell him all his efforts to befriend Spencer were actually for nothing).

They only kissed that night, but it was enough. They had time.

*** It took her a month to break up with Harry Spencer, a long, surprisingly painful month. They never mentioned anything to other people; no pet names, no small, casual displays of affection. Just in case. Just to be careful. They were doing a great job at hiding, at only brushing lips when no one was around, at only calling each other „love” when nobody could hear it – but eventually, the truth came out.

Thankfully, it came out to their friends at first. She asked him if he can pick her from appointment at a tattoo parlor and drop her off at a cafe, where she was going to meet Louise; he naturally agreed, saying she can repay him in kisses or muffins, because good god, he loved her muffins.

But she never showed up and wasn't picking up her phone; and when he called Louise to ask if she has any idea what's going on he heard Charlie's in Gordon's room. She showed up on their doorstep, crying, sobbing, and refused to say what's going on, so they wrapped her in a blanket and waited for her to calm down a bit.

„At some point she just... Dozed off.” Louise muttered to him. „And now she's sleeptalking. Something about Harry... And something about you. Jim asks if there's something you want to tell us.”

There was nothing he wanted to tell them – but there was something he had to tell them.

That was the first time he heard Jim Gordon lose his composure.

„ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!” Gordon roared at him through the phone. „FUCK!”

„Hey, our arrangement's still a thing. I'm keeping my end of the deal.”

„How could you do this to her?! Do you have ANY IDEA what kind of danger you're putting her in?!”

„She initiated everything!”

„And you're a grown ass man! Why didn't you just say no?!”

„Oh, fuck off, you hypocrite, don't think I didn't see you and Oswald making out in the kitchen two weeks ago. You're the last person who has any right to judge me. Now give Louise her phone back.”

„You made out with her?” Louise said immediately after getting her phone back. „Wow, Cobblepot. Just wow.”

„Look, as for now I'm her side boyfriend. That's just the way things are. How is she?”

„Bad. That was a regular breakdown.”

„Any idea what triggered it?”

„I have two theories. One – Harry threw a hissy fit again. Two – she feels like she's using you.”

„Both equally grim. Should I come over?”

„Heavens, no. She's in good hands. You... Just go home. Oz!”

„What?”

„You're not going to cheat on her, are you?”

„I'm going to say it once. I've been stuck with a serious fucking case of emotional blueballs for months. Months. I'm not going to fuck this up. Have some faith in me, wouldn't you?”

„Fine. I'm calling Vicki.”

(Vicki called him twenty minutes later, but he was on his bike, so he called her back after reaching his building. She picked up and the first thing he heard was her laughter.

„You fucker!” she eventually said. „I knew you'd do it!”

„Always glad to hear how supportive you are.” he said dryly, looking for his keys. „What did Louise tell you?”

„Everything, Oz. Everything, you little homewrecker.”)

All in all, they took it rather well – especially Oswald, who seemed to be genuinely happy for them and very concerned about Charlie's situation.

(When listening to his cousin's excited chatter he kept wondering if Jim already heard what he heard. If Oswald told him about not feeling loved and about Jim filling some void.)

But their friends knowing wasn't an issue. He knew their friends and he knew nothing will get back to Harry – especially not from Gordon, who was suffering through every minute of trying to get closer to Spencer. No, the truth came out in a way nobody expected – Spencer figured it out by itself.

It was a late Saturday evening when Oswald's phone rang.

„Oh! Charlie's calling.” he said an Oz only muttered something in response, busy fixing a paragraph in a paper he was supposed to submit in few hours.

Few moments later Oswald – even more pale than usual – shook Oz's arm violently, turning his phone's volume all the way up.

„What?!” Oz asked with annoyance, but quickly understood. Charlie called Oswald during an argument with Harry – and things were getting ugly.

He went through her phone when she wasn't looking. He went through her phone and found her texts and their discord chat and Oz thanked god Charlie was sensible enough to delete the photo she sent him earlier that week; her freckled skin looked beautiful in the morning sunlight and her black lace bra almost costed him his good composure in class.

„I'm going there.” he said shortly, getting up, walking towards the door. „Call Gordon. Tell him to get a car ready.”

Just like last time, Gordon was waiting for him on the street; but this time he didn't stop him.

„What is going on?” he asked instead. „Oswald didn't give me any details.”

„I'm getting Charlie out of here. And I need you... To stop me from killing Harry Spencer.”

„You picked a wrong man for the job, mate. I want to kill him myself.”

„Tough shit.” Oz said, entering the building. „You scratch my back, I'll scratch yours. I can stop you from killing Nygma.”

„What, you found something on him?”

„I've been tracking his online activity and I got something Oswald's definitely not gonna like. It might open his eyes though.”

„Great. But now, let's focus on why we're here.”

The elevator dinged and the doors opened and they were standing right in front of the door leading to Charlie and Harry's place.

„Use that stick you got up your ass as a moral compass, Gordon.” Oz said, opening the door without knocking. „Anyone home?”

Spencer wasn't expecting them, they took him by surprise; after a moment he was lying on the floor and Oz was on top of him, his fingers around Spencer's neck.

„Cobblepot, this is enough.” Gordon said eventually, pushing him away. „Leave him to me. You go get her.”

Charlie locked herself in a bathroom and Oz could hear her muffled sobs from behind the door.

„Babe?” he asked carefully, not sure what to do. „Can I come in?”

„Is Harry alive?” she asked in return and he sighed and glanced at a – seemingly unconcious – Spencer, guarded by slighly annoyed Jim Gordon.

„Yeah.” he said. „What, do you want me to change that? It can be arranged.”

„No!” she replied instantly and he heard her unlocking the door. „I don't want you to get in trouble.”

The door opened and he took a step back and she left the bathroom and he instantly felt his blood boil at the sight of her giant black eye.

„Don't kill him.” she repeated, awkwardly trying to cover the mark with her hair. „Don't... Don't look at me.”

„Can I take you home?” he asked, his fists shaking. „I'm not leaving you with him.”

„Can I pack my stuff? He's... He's going to wreck it. I know it. He told me.”

„Take your time.” Gordon said, still sitting next to Spencer. „If you go with him, I'm sure everything will fit inside my car.”

They hastily packed her things – mostly books and clothes and an outstanding amount of kitchen utensils – and put them all in Gordon's car.

In the meantime, Harry Spencer was slowly starting to wake up.

„What the...” he muttered, trying to get up, but was instantly and firmly stopped by Gordon.

„You fucked up.” Gordon told him calmly, despite not being calm at all. „Big time.”

„Gordon?” Spencer muttered, trying to figure out what's going on. „Bro. What the fuck?”

„I'm not your bro, Spencer. Never was. You guys done?” he asked, looking up at Charlie and Oz, who were moving another bag full of stuff.

„Almost.” Oz replied, effortlessly lifting the heavy bag off the floor and in the background Charlie laughed quietly and asked if he's going to pick her up as well.

„Anytime, babe. Anytime.” he then said nonchalantly and walked past Spencer who was slowly piecing things together.

„You fucking cunt.” he said quietly, angrily as Charlie was walking past him.

„If I were you, I'd watch your tongue, Spencer.” Oz said calmly, squatting next to him with a knife in his hand. „You might lose it.”

„You wouldn't dare.”

„Oh, but I would. And it'd be the greatest pleasure, to cut you into small pieces. But Charlie asked me to not hurt you, so...”

„Do you think she's in love with you, Cobblepot?”

„Doesn't matter. What matters is that I'm going to keep an eye on you, Spencer. So you better watch yourself.”

„Are we done here?” Gordon asked, getting up.

„Almost.” Oz said, not taking his eyes away from Harry's face. „Wait for me outside.”

„What? No! I have one job here and I'm not going to fuck it up.”

„I'm not going to kill him, Gordon. I just want to have a friendly little chat with him. Imagine... There's someone else on the floor.”

„You know damn well that if it was Nygma I'd be the one with the knife. But fine. Have it your way.”

Oz joined them a few minutes later, putting his knife back in his pocket. Charlie didn't notice it, as she was facing the other way; Gordon only raised his eyebrows and shook his head with solemn disapproval.

„So, let's go. We need to put some ice on this eye.”

„You can always kiss it better.” Charlie said hesitantly. „I guess... This is the end.”

„I hope so. You're not going back to him, are you?”

„He hit me. He... He tried to...”

„Do you want me to chop his dick off? It can be arranged.”

„I just want to go home. Can I stay with you and Oswald for a while? I need to call my parents. Figure it out with them.”

„You can stay as long as you want to.” he said softly, handing her his spare helmet. „You can stay forever. We'll figure it out. It's not like money's any problem for any of us.”

„Can we go now?” Gordon asked impatiently, ruining the mood. „I have some stuff to do.”

Back home – where Oswald was waiting, all anxiety and stress and questions – he made her waffles, just the way she liked them. He – gently, carefully – kissed her black eye and put some cold compress on it.

„Hey, Oz?” she said eventually, as they were on a couch, her head on his lap, his fingers in her hair. „I love you.”

„And I love you, beautiful stranger.”

She laughed and he knew that she's going to be alright, one way or another.

#ff #oc #eng #collegeverse #pinnguin

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nickireadstfc · 7 years

Text

The Foxhole Court, Chapter 11 – Orange Sportsball Gets The Fuck Real

In which the Foxes play their first match of the season, I have questions about American college sports, my Percy Jackson obsession has a brief cameo, and I’m sadly less excited about Actual Sportsball Games than I should be.

Sounds good? Then it’s time for Nicki to read The Foxhole Court.

Thursday’s excitement had nothing on Friday’s. The whole school got decked out overnight with vibrant orange and white streamers. Ribbons and banners hung off every sidewalk lamp. Live student bands took over the amphitheater for short concerts and the student newspaper released that morning gave details for the afternoon parade.

Is that, like…………. Normal behavior on game days?? Actual American high school/college students, please confirm. Is this an actual thing???

I mean, I know y’all are big on sports and school spirit, but this big??

Please understand my confusion: At my school, no one fucking gave a shit about the sports teams. I didn’t even know when anyone had games/competitions unless we got told afterwards who won what brilliant award now, and even then like 5% of us cared. And I can’t speak for my uni yet, but I’m pretty sure it’s the same there as well. Do German unis even have sports teams?

I always liked to make fun of High School Musical 3 for having those giant ass banners displaying the athletes hanging in the halls. I am now starting to realize that might be perfectly normal for American schools.

What the fuck.

Also, Neil officially came out now – as a member of the Foxes, that is, of course.

Neil wanted to cut class and hide at Fox Tower until game time, but athletes weren’t allowed to call out without a legitimate medical excuse. Someone from the athletics committee went around all day counting heads through classroom windows, and Wymack would be the first to hear Neil was absent.

They seriously stalk their students all day in fear they might be skipping class? And these students are in college, they are grown adults, not 14-year-olds. Again, is this a thing, what the fuck??

Then again, we’re talking about the country who invented hall passes. This is probably not the craziest thing around.

Fortunately, the Foxes decide to display their first sign of group solidarity in these trying times and guide Neil from class to class. This is a really small detail, but I love it.

I’m imagining Neil as a lil baby duck who obediently follows a big spikey-haired Matt duck, a small white-pastel-y Renee duck or a glamorous blonde Allison duck, wagging behind them in a tiny duck-sized jersey.

Although, when you think about it, they’re all just lil baby ducks following a big Wymack momma duck.

(Someone draw me fanart, I’m BEGGING YOU.)

I’m getting off track. Back to the plot.

Andrew hadn’t lied to Neil back in May. In almost every article that talked of Neil’s pathetic experience Kevin was quoted as having high hopes for him. Kevin really had said that Neil would one day be Court.

Because this is the second time this has come up: What exactly does “being Court” mean?? Like, being Captain? Being MVP? Also, is this a regular sports expression or is is Exy-exclusive? Exyclusive?? Help.

A small silver lining of future hilariousness appears on the horizon: An Exy kickoff banquet is going to happen sometime in the next few chapter, and I am HYPED. This chaotic mess of a team + all their rivals + dates + drinks can only equal a Massive Fun Time™.

Fun for us, not for them, might I add. I am dying to see this.

“[Renee] hasn’t asked [Andrew] yet, but it’s inevitable. (…) Money’s on the table as to whether or not he says yes. Pot’s getting pretty big, so get your bet in fast.”

The only thing the Foxes had in common besides Exy and hardship was their strange obsession with betting on the stupidest things. Neil had figured that out only two weeks into practice. A week didn’t go by when there wasn’t money on something or another.

A team after my own heart <3 Can I join? I can never find anyone to bet on dumb things in my own circle of friends.

Will I throw this piece of paper in the bin on my first shot? Will the bus be late? Will Friend A and B hook up tonight? Will I lose my (nonexistent) emotional sanity to this series before the last book is over?

I don’t know about the others, but the last one is 100% happening.

“There’s something we haven’t told you yet,” Dan said. (…) “So Andrew’s technically legally required to take his medication, right? (…) He struck a bargain of his own with Coach. The only reason he signed with us is because Coach agreed to let him come off his drugs for game nights.”

Is this supposed to come as a big plot twist? Because I kind of saw that coming. 10 bucks says Andrew comes off his meds for all Important Moments.

*insert yet another rant about the negative portrayal of mental health meds as barbaric mind-numbing, mania-inducing ~happy pills~ here*

Anyways, back to game day!! Our beloved foxy nutcases are playing against the Breckenridge Jackals, which is shaping up to be a Fun Time™ as they are apparently the biggest bullies around (second only to the Edgar Allan Murder Mob Clique, of course).

However, when faced with his impending wipe-out on the court, our favourite Sassmaster McSavage reaches new levels of Hell Fuckin Yeah:

“[Gorilla] will break every bone in your body if you give him the chance.”

“Don’t worry, though,” Matt said. “He’ll probably be too busy killing Kevin and Seth to notice you.”

“This is my reassured face,” Neil said, pointing up at his blank expression.

SAVAGE.

I actually laughed so hard at that. This is some Percy Jackson level of sass right there.

Come to think about it, I want the entire AFTG series narrated by Percy Jackson, especially the chapter titles.

“I Am Offered A Foxy Deal”

“My Troubled Past Comes Back To Haunt My Ass”

“I Get Dragged Into Some Gay Shit”

“We Kick Serious Jackal Butt, Sort Of”

Remind me to make a full post of that once I’ve finished the series.

Off topic again. Sorry.

Before we finally begin the actual match (and wow, it’s 1.1k words already), Nicky seems to finally get the mental slaps I’ve been sending him since a few chapters ago:

Nicky looked at Neil. “Hey,” he said, sounding uncharacteristically hesitant. “We haven’t really had a chance to talk after… Well. I wanted to say sorry, but I kept chickening out. Are we okay?”

“I don’t know yet,” Neil said.

Nicky weighed that for a minute, then sighed and said, “Fair enough.”

Deep sigh. Who are we kidding, I can never resist a self-aware comic relief, Nicky, you’re still one of my faves. At least he knows he fucked up.

And now, finally: It’s Orange Sportsball time!!

Time for fast-paced sports action, balls flying, racquets hitting, body-checks left and right, a flurry of energy and emotion… that I simply can’t get behind.

I’m sorry, you guys, but I found myself having to double- and triple-read passages here in order to keep up with who is standing where, who is passing to whom and just generally what exactly is going on. Maybe it has to do with my own lack of interest for any sports involving balls (or actually any sports that isn’t dance, cheer, or anything involving performance), but I’m not really excited about this whole game part, to put it mildly.

Don’t get me wrong: I am loving the emotions attached to it. Solidarity, passion, group dynamics and character development shown on the field, give me all that good shit. I just couldn’t care less about who’s passing to who. Forgive me.

Did someone say passion and group dynamics?

Neil’d watched his teammates fall apart to in-fighting all summer long, but now he finally saw them as a whole. As much as the Foxes disliked each other at times, they disliked their opponents more. They were still too fractured to be truly great, but they were good enough to give him chills.

This is shaping up to be good, you guys.

I can only imagine the sheer gloriousness in the upcoming books when Kandreil finally get their shit together and play on the field as a beautiful unstoppable three-way killing machine. I WILL DIE.

Twenty minutes into the game, Seth is crushed against a wall by three hundred pounds of pure douchebaggery – and I actually do feel sorry for him, not gonna lie – which means it’s time for the moment we’ve all been waiting for:

“Going on for Seth Gordon is freshman Neil Josten, number ten, of Millport, Arizona.”

Neil wondered if casket lids sounded like court doors being shut.

Ah yes, thank you for reminding me, even in the face of impending doom, how incredibly extra our boy Josten is.

“A national champion and an amateur? South Carolina’s gotten even crazier than usual.”

“An amateur and a cripple, you mean,” the dealer said.

Andrew slammed his racquet against the goal, making several athletes jump and drawing more than a few wary looks his way.

This is such a small detail but it’s the /best/. Nobody insults my boyfriends in front of me, fuckface.

Bla bla bla more sports bla bla, I’m putting everything remotely interesting that’s happening in a bullet list because let’s be honest, it’s not fucking much.

Neil scores! Twice! Good boy.

Matt takes a card for the team by punching the fuck out of Gorilla, what a babe.

Also, his mom is a professional boxer? When can we meet her. I’m always a sucker for strong women who could kick my ass.

Gorilla has been hitting Kevin’s hand on purpose all the time, which is not cool, yet not surprising, ain’t no honour in Exy injuries, apparently.

That is it, my dudes.

Writing the next chapter on a coach (yet again) as I’ll be visiting some friends in NRW, so I’ll be coming to you live from my Prime Flixbus Office Space, let’s see how that works out. Till next time, ily all. <3

#tfc #the foxhole court #the raven king #the kings men #nora sakavic #nicki reads tfc #would you look at that!!! I'm on time!!!!#amazing #don't get used to it

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writersindigestion · 8 years

Text

teased | edward nygma x reader

“was it even regret, anymore?”

reader gender: female

words: 4362

warnings: trauma, substance abuse, paranoia, PTSD, minor violence, minor blood, Edward is still Mean and Green

notes: hey there again, everyone. once more - for your ease of reading, i’ve split this chapter into another two parts… because it was almost at 10,000 words. :////’ sorry i suck so much. but i’m nearing the end… i think. expect another part within the next week or so.

PART ONE | PART TWO | PART THREE | PART FIVE | PART SIX also available on: AO3

For [Y/N], personally, the following weeks were filled with inactivity. She continued on her previous schedule as she’d been doing since her friend was killed, only making sure to at least sometimes talk with the people outside of her apartment. There were some good films that she saw in theatre, though she spent the whole time snogging her girlfriend, and had only assumed that the movies were “good”. There were some sports games she cheered on, some museums she visited, some books she rented - but nothing felt normal. The manic woman was beginning to realize that she’d likely never feel that way again.

More beers, more wine, more snakes at her spine, and the crucifix ever-taunting her from across the street.

For Gotham, however, the weeks were bigger than they’d been in recent history. They saw the escape of the Arkham monsters (Nygma not included, thank the Lord), they saw the rise of Fish Mooney’s escapees (undead or otherwise), and, most importantly, the catapulting of Oswald Cobblepot to the mayoral throne.

[Y/N] had long since chosen to remain oblivious to the goings-on in her hometown, having spent an exorbitant amount of time with the news droning on in her empty headspace - politics, theft, murder, mass homicide, life-threatening magicians and several attempts at axing Jim Gordon and Bruce Wayne. Then there was Theo Galavan - even for a criminal, she didn’t like him. Had she not been too afraid to leave the house, she wouldn’t have voted for him. Not that it mattered, since no one else had been alive to challenge him.

Little did she know, her ignorance would be her downfall.

“Babe, you’ve got a letter!” Chryssie called from across the apartment, sauntering into sight with silky, pink pajamas floating around her form.

[Y/N] leaned backwards to peer over the cushy loveseat she sat on, her form having been curled up over a popular sci-fi novel. She dogeared the corner of the page and set the book down on the coffee table, her lips parting slightly in surprise. “Really? Who’s it from? Not many people have gotten the memo about my new address.”

The envelope was heavy - clearly a fancy type of cardstock. She glanced over the off-white surface, her eyes catching the tiny, decorative speckles that blended into the background like an impressionist painting. The return address read ‘City Hall’.

“Ugh, government letters,” [Y/N] growled, making her girlfriend turn towards her.

The larger woman tutted, then chuckled, reaching for a pot to boil pasta in. “You probably have jury duty. Aren’t you special, babe?”

Her groans of disdain intensified, but she sliced delicately into the package, pulling out the paper that rested inside. Cramped fingers unfolded the letter, and she cleared her throat dramatically,

“Dear valued citizen,

You have been invited to a celebration of Mayor Cobblepot’s victory in the recent elections. We have hand-selected a number of individuals based on their contributions to Gotham City. The mayor’s home welcomes you to join us this following Sunday, provided this message reaches you safely. It would be an honor to have you.

No reply is needed, and plus-ones are accepted.

Warmly,

Oswald Cobblepot & Team”.

The pair couldn’t help but laugh at the card, practically bent in half with hysteria.

Chrysanthemum broke through her giggles first, “No offense, [Y/N], but what have you ever done to help this city?”

The seated woman spoke between wheezes, “Well, I was a member of the safety patrol in Junior High - clearly worthy of a Nobel Peace Prize.”

“You sure kept those hallways safe.”

“Hey! That was an important job! Think of all the collisions I stopped.”

“God forbid those clumsy preteens gently bump into each other.”

[Y/N] grew facetiously irate, “I prevented FATALITIES - I wore a BADGE! And a NEON VEST!”

Chrysanthemum paused for a moment before commenting, “Seriously, though, you probably got an invite for your work at the GCPD.”

Her partner rolled her eyes, tossing the letter onto the coffee table. “Oh yeah - my ‘work’ - delivering mochas.”

“Hey, now… We are only half as strong as our errand boys!” Chryssie exclaimed, stirring a spoon around in the pot of noodles that she’d nearly forgotten. “So what dress should I wear?”

The other woman sputtered, “W-What? I don’t want to go to this ‘party’! What if they make me wear a button? It probably wouldn’t even match my outfit. Not to mention…” She hesitated, grabbing the envelope again, pointing to the included address, “This guy isn’t celebrating in City Hall - he is partying in his house, which I’m positive is filled with breakables!”

“They need a safety patroller to stop guests from running into their precious valuables.”

“A neon vest really won’t match with anything I own…”

And so the couple decided to attend the celebration - well, one did, and the other begrudgingly followed.

The mayor’s mansion was indeed grand, and filled with fragile objects. [Y/N] kept her arms locked close to her body, and her body away from the walls - it would be just her luck to accidentally break something.

Both women wore black dresses (“In case either of us needs to don that sacred vest.”), their skirts coming to rest just above the knee, with the rest of the bodice fitted to their personal shapes and tastes. [Y/N]’s outfit, while beautiful, was slightly more conservative than her partner’s. She wondered, anxiously, if it made her appear insecure.

Of course, nobody would think anything of it, but her paranoia was potent, personal, and positively irrational.

She kept a stiff arm locked into the larger woman’s, content to let herself be dragged around, as if Chryssie was the one invited in the first place. Bodies swam gracefully between each other, every person grinning like they were actually excited to be there - [Y/N] didn’t believe it.

After awhile of being at the party, she felt comfortable enough to unwind from her girlfriend and mingle with the unfamiliar faces.

Where were the people she knew? If other precinct employees weren’t there - why was the former secretary - who left without warning and refused to answer any and all calls about her absence - invited?

The neurosis settled in full-force this time, and her shaking hand found its way back to the crook of her lover’s right elbow. Between mingling, she whispered these misgivings frantically in Chrysanthemum’s ear, but only got scoffs in return.

Frustrated, she kept her further concerns bottled up, and neglected to speak to most of the people they were now passing by.

Eventually, the feedback of a microphone drew the party-goers’ attention to the front of the room. [Y/N]’s anxiety was somewhat soothed at the hush that fell over the crowd, her senses no longer being assaulted by unrelenting stimuli. A deep breath in, and back out - she was going to get through this.

A man limped up to the mic stand following an over-exuberant introduction from a colleague. He was rather short, for the typical grown male, and had the haircut of someone far too deep into their grunge phase. His grin was proud, bordering on arrogant, but she’d already seen him an innumerable amount of times. Hard to forget the face of a known criminal and gangster when he had shown up so frequently at her place of employment.

Oswald greeted his guests, offering a sincere welcome, “Thank you all for coming - it means the world to me that I have your support…”

[Y/N] tuned out his babbling, staring politely in his direction so as to feign alertness. Absentmindedly, she noted him talking about his mother, his campaign team, and those who voted for him. She swirled the champagne around in her glass, gaze now drawn to the bubbly drink as opposed to the new mayor. Yeah, yeah - when is the buffet open? I’m starving.

“… And most of all, I want to thank my chief of staff, Edward Nygma, for believing in me, especially when it felt like no one else would. Without his faith - none of this would have been possible.”

But she didn’t hear anything past the moment when the mayor mentioned his name. Suddenly petrified, [Y/N] bent to the floor, staying on her feet as she pretended to search for an earring. Chrysanthemum had already realized the issue, crouching next to her as well. Applause erupted around them, and the larger woman grasped her friend’s hand tightly, pulling her away from the noise, their escape hidden under the cover of the crowd.

[Y/N] broke into a near-run as soon as they were out of the room. Chryssie almost had to jog to keep up with her partner, not wanting to risk the two of them being separated. Especially when she knew what was coming.

With the other woman unaware, Chrysanthemum held her breath, waiting on the edge of her seat as they finally reached the exit.

“Isn’t it a little early to be fleeing the scene? We haven’t even served dinner yet.”

[Y/N] didn’t bother turning around, she immediately placed her hand on the doorknob, twisting it with purpose. And it moved - she wasn’t locked out at all, but her girlfriend’s hand on hers rooted her inside the building. Panicked, she cast an alarmed look at Chryssie, seriously debating whether or not she wanted to physically attack her partner, but the look in the other woman’s eyes stopped her from acting.

She could see the devil in her peripherals, but she’d already made up her mind that if she didn’t look directly at him, maybe he’d cease to exist. Instead, her gaze bore deeply into her friend’s, finding grief, finding guilt, finding fear where she thought she’d find malice. Immediate remorse flooded through her - there was no way Chrysanthemum was doing this on purpose. She was no traitor.

What the fuck did he do to her?

Swallowing thickly, [Y/N] questioned her lover, “Can you tell me what’s going on? Did he hurt you?”

Chryssie’s face screwed up - silent, tense tears leaking down her cheeks. She tugged the smaller woman closer, grasping now with both hands. Her voice was quieter than feathers fluttering to the floor, “He didn’t hurt me… He said he didn’t care about me.” The couple’s eyes locked together. “But that if I cooperated, he wouldn’t hurt you.”

[Y/N]’s stomach dropped, and her palms twitched with an ugly anticipation. “You shouldn’t have worried about me. You should’ve taken care of yourself. I would never live it down if something happened to you. Maybe we could’ve gotten away.”

“You know we wouldn’t get away. We wouldn’t make it outside of the city before he found us.”

“We could have tried, Chrysanthemum! We could have tried! He’s not omnipotent-”

“He might as well be - what if we-”

Edward Nygma interjected himself back into the conversation, now standing only inches away from the couple. He fiddled with his cufflinks, giving a calculating, close-lipped smile to the both of them before he spoke, “If you two are done bickering, I have some things to attend to.” His large hand pressed against Chryssie’s shoulder, easily creating distance between the lovers. She looked confused, afraid - he enjoyed it. Always a pleasure to present dilemma to the simple-minded.

[Y/N] made a grab for her friend’s hands again, but was cut off from her side - a criminally tall man instead taking her outstretched arms. She wouldn’t look at him. She couldn’t look at him. All she saw was the green of his suit tie, and even that seemed to dissolve under the weight of her renewed trauma and overall dissociation.

“Wait, wait - what the hell are you doing?” Chrysanthemum called, trailing after the murderer as he pulled her girlfriend into a separate room, “You said you wouldn’t hurt her. Are you a liar and a crook?”

For just a moment, she had his attention, and he turned to her with a flourish, hands still tugging the stumbling [Y/N] along. Edward’s smile was dazzling as he quipped, “Naturally.”

Chryssie was removed from the mayor’s grounds shortly afterward, not being given the chance to get a word in edgewise. She caught her best friend’s gaze before a closed door blocked her from sight. Never before had she seen someone more shell-shocked in her lifetime, and she never would again. After hours of waiting outside the mansion gates, she hailed a taxi, choosing to return home after the guards threatened to call the cops on her.

[Y/N] could only wish that she were being arrested. The hard, unforgiving seat of a police car would have been a welcome comfort against the capture of Nygma.

“I honestly hadn’t expected you to run away so quickly after that day. Smart of you, though - I was a little busy with some things anyways,” Ed started, releasing one of her wrists in favor of sending a short text message. He held up a finger for a moment, as if telling her to quell her thoughts until he was finished typing.

She didn’t have any thoughts. She didn’t have any senses. Everything seemed just a little too far away from where she was standing. All she saw, all she could concentrate on was red - and it was probably her own blood, as opposed to his, that was painted across her psyche.

Long fingers folded the phone closed, placing it in his left pocket with an uncanny amount of grace. He ran a thumb along the inside of [Y/N]’s arm, humming idly.

They came to a stalemate, neither bringing forth any conversation for the sake of letting the other suffer. Unfortunately, for the smaller of the two, Edward had all the power in the situation, and he intended to get what he wanted. He always got what he wanted.

She let out a yelp, trying to pull her wrist out of his grasp as a dull thumbnail started digging angry, red circles into her skin. Her failed attempt at release only served to make his scratching all the more painful, his nail dragging down the length of her forearm as she closed her free hand around his, grabbing his middle finger and yanking it backwards until it nearly touched his carpals.

Ed let her go, his finger on the brink of breaking, and took a surprised step backwards at her sudden display of violence. He looked her up and down - this was not the same woman he left in the precinct basement, crying over her dead friend and chained to some leaky pipes. She had vanished to a far corner of the closed room, soothing the angry marks on her arm like a feral cat, licking its wounds.

[Y/N]’s lips curled back over her teeth, and she snarled as she spoke to him, “You should have died in Arkham, you evil, conniving bastard.” Her breaths came in heavy pants, scraping past her teeth so sharply that the nerves behind her enamel started to ache. “You deserve to suffer for the rest of your life, and then you should be brought back from the dead so you can suffer all over again.”

Something dark - darker than usual - passed through his scrutinizing, brown eyes. She saw the tightness in his jaw, the flexing in his neck. For a second, her fear and rage-induced bravery wavered, but she swallowed, a flagrant attempt at steeling herself against Edward.

But he didn’t advance on her, allowing the frightened woman her space, if only to help push her guard down. He kept himself in check, positive that the end would justify the means.

“I’ll allow you that one. I’m sure that you aren’t happy to see me,” He deflected, settling the topic back on [Y/N], “So how are you? It’s been quite a long time since we last met.”

Her eyes narrowed, and she took another step backwards, hands reaching out behind her for any unseen obstacles. “I think you know how I’ve been, Nygma.”

Ed clicked his tongue at her indignance, flashing a smile that hardly reached his cold, dead eyes. “Now, how are we going to understand one another if you won’t communicate with me. We didn’t keep in touch - how would I know what’s been going on in your life?”

“Because you’re smart. You know you’re smart. I know you’re smart,” She snapped, “What good does it do to tell someone what they already know?”

Another smile - this time twice as unfeeling, as unforgiving. “Humor me.”

It didn’t sound like an invitation. Everything Edward said sounded like an ultimatum. She didn’t know what she’d be sacrificing if she refused to play his games. What were the rules? How did she participate if she didn’t know what the penalties and rewards were? Her head hurt.

“I’ve been terrible,” [Y/N] started, words clipped and enunciated, but she thought better of her decision to enlighten him, “I haven’t been sleeping well. There is a draft in my bedroom.”

She watched him nod, his face feigning grief, feigning sympathy. He’d gotten his hair cut since going to prison - the shaved sides and voluminous top made his cheekbones all-the-more severe, his features all-the-more sharp. Ed had seemingly shed his geeky exterior in favor of a more threatening, business-like persona. It was sensible, she supposed, being that he was the mayor’s chief of staff - but it was much easier to have courage against a mathlete than a mobster. The woman found herself missing the days when she got to be the bully. If she’d known how events would pan out, perhaps she would’ve been meaner to him.

Begrudgingly, she wondered if being nice would’ve helped at all. It was likely that any kindness shown towards him would’ve resulted in a different, more co-dependent type of fixation.

He’s a murderer, a terrorist, a liar, a cheat, a thief, a hypocrite, a traitor, an abuser - there is no need to feel sorry for him, not even in retrospect.

He hummed, drawing the attention of his verbal opponent. “How tragic,” Edward mocked, his feet beginning to creep in her direction, “Sleep is very important to the human body, Miss [L/N]. Perhaps you need better insulation in your home? I could get you some help with that.”

“I’m quite alright, thank you. My girlfriend and I simply wear a few more layers,” [Y/N] vibrated, leaning away from him, but not wanting to box herself in a corner again.

He stopped in his forward assault about two feet in front of her. “Ah - yes, your girlfriend. You know you’re lucky, right?”

She refused to feed into his taunting, angry with herself for even mentioning Chryssie. “Yes. Very lucky. She’s terrific.”

“Chrysanthemum - a lovely name for a lovely person,” Ed drawled, caring little whether or not this woman played into his words, “She looked at her most lovely when she was begging for your life.”

He’d barely gotten his taunt through before [Y/N] launched herself at him, catching the lanky man around the waist and toppling the both of them. She reacted far quicker than he did, taking his shock as an opportunity force her palm into the underside of his nose. The man beneath her let out a cry of pain, and god did she relish that sound. It was even better the second time, when she closed both of her fists and smashed them down across the middle of his face.

He was reeling from the affliction, but thought rapidly, using her lack of grip to throw the woman off of him. This was not going as he had planned. Edward had to regain control of the situation before she ruined his plot any further. The towering male clambered back to his feet, hand pressed against his visage to soothe the aching.

[Y/N] had found footing long before he had, and used the discrepancy to put distance between them once more. “Did that hurt, you fucking moron?“ She growled, spit flying from her lips, cheeks flushed a deep shade of maroon, “I’ve seen middle-schoolers with more guts than you.”

His eyes narrowed, and he let go of his nose in a fit of egotism that he couldn’t quite catch - not that he’d ever been good at that. He sniffed, reaching for his pocket handkerchief, “Impressive, Miss [L/N], I must say that I’ve been caught quite off guard. Are you legally prepared to deal with me when I press charges against you?” Nimble fingers folded the kerchief long-ways, and he dabbed lightly at the blood that dripped from his nostrils. “I imagine your wallet isn't very well-lined from selling coffee.”

She didn’t flinch at his threats. “Go ahead - sue me. Send me to prison. I dare you,” [Y/N] barked, her hands still balled into tight, angry fists, “The only place I can think of that would keep me safer from you is death.”

“Death is not a place - it is a state of being.” Ed was then quiet for a moment, his head already leaps and bounds ahead of the woman. She was brave, yes, but she was still an idiot. “You would like that, wouldn’t you?” He quipped, his rhetoric short as he started circling around to his opponent’s side.

She mirrored him, stalking in the opposite direction to avoid letting him get too close. Her palms were beginning to sweat. Maybe she’d managed to land a good punch, but she would never be able to match him in an intellectual battle. He underestimated her - she knew that - and it was probably the only advantage she had against him.

His long legs stopped in their assault, and he changed directions, heading towards the door that they’d only just entered through. With a twist of the knob, it was open, and he stepped to the side, gesturing for her to exit.

[Y/N] squinted at him. “What the hell are you doing?”

Edward didn’t hesitate to answer. “You’re free to go.”

Her mind shut down entirely, her fists uncurled, her face unscrewed. “I’m free to go?”

Momentarily, his indifferent expression darkened. “Don’t make me repeat myself - I didn’t stutter.”

“Just what are you playing at? What am I going to find if I go out there?” Contrary to his offer of escape, she moved further away from Ed, his sudden complacence painfully suspicious.

“I’m not playing at anything. You want to leave, and I’m offering you a chance to leave.”

“That’s a load of bullshit - we both know it. What reason do I have to trust you?”

He smiled, his face lacking warmth almost entirely. In fact, the man’s personality seemed encapsulated in sub-zero temperatures. “I’m not asking for your trust, Miss [L/N], it’s something I simply don’t require…” Brown eyes settled idly on their prey, an unfriendly sort-of mirth lacing their irises. “What I’m asking is for an unwelcome woman to leave the mayor’s home.”

She bristled, but didn’t bother to test his patience any longer. Though reluctant, her unsteady legs drew past the hateful, worthless man, and she heard him follow her out of the room.

He watched her as she stiffly made her way down the front steps, [Y/N]’s entire body alight with anxiety. She paused for a moment, taking a glance backwards at him, and Edward tilted his head in acknowledgement. “I’ll be seeing you, Miss.”

Her steps quickened after his goodbye, and she had to hold back tears until she was off the property.

Chrysanthemum didn’t let go of her for a second that night, and in the following couple of weeks, she watched her companion deteriorate faster than she had after Kristen’s death.

[Y/N] quit her job. She canceled her gym membership. She gave away and donated practically all of her belongings, no matter their worth, not matter their sentimentality. She stopped speaking with friends. She stopped speaking with neighbors. She stopped leaving the apartment. She stopped communicating with her girlfriend. She stopped smiling. It hardly seemed like she breathed anymore, and she definitely didn’t sleep.

When slumber took even a moment to grace her eyelids, all she saw was Edward Nygma. It was a nightmare that she could neither wake from, nor rest from.

The familiar shape of a beer bottle found its way back into her limp grip, her body conforming into the chair that she’d spent so many long days rotting in. Tired eyes found their way back to the Catholics wandering in and out of the cathedral. And the will to live lost its way back to her heart.

She was exhausted in her lethargy. All she did was think - of ways to escape, of ways to beat him, of ways to recover, of ways to get help. There was an outright guarantee that if she even attempted to contact the police, it could mean death for the woman she loved - [Y/N] didn’t have to ask Nygma to figure that out. He meant to see her again. No one could offer sanctuary from a man that seemed to have buried his grubby hands in every niche of Gotham City. So quickly he’d managed it, too.

A happy family walked out of the doors to the church, smiles on their faces and their heads in the clouds. Inwardly, she asked herself if even God himself could save her from Ed’s disgusting, bruising clutches.

She asked herself again.

Her tongue darted out to run across chapped lips, and she set the beer bottle on the side table, rising slowly from her seat. Bare feet brought her to meet the broad face of the packed, homey-looking bookshelf. Her fingers skimmed the bindings, looking for something particular. After several moments of searching, she felt it - a worn, faux-leather covering, a little handle sticking out for ease of transport. She pulled the book from its space in the collection, warming her palm over the canvas as she brought it back to her seat, opening the aged pages with care.

Her eyes did not comprehend anything they were reading, she was so wrapped up in her thoughts. This was her chance. Maybe she could get away with this - ’God-willing’.

What. The. Fuck? Ed. You’re a prick. And… You look like a string bean. >://’ Anyways - let me know if you enjoyed this part! I’ve been working real hard on this story! Once again - I am taking requests, and would probably cry if you left me some. Also - still interested in a beta reader to help me check for continuity and grammar, ect… Love y’all. - writersindigestion

#edward nygma x reader #gotham imagine #edward nygma fanfiction #edward nygma smut #edward nygma #Cory Michael Smith #the riddler #text #mine #dc fanfiction #dc imagine #gotham fanfiction #the riddler x reader #the riddler x you #ed nygma x you #ed nygma x reader #ed nygma fanfiction #ed nygma smut

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