#well now that I’ve drawn small Bond I think I now gotta draw his full form that’s only in writing

[thespaceyace]

[SXF AU] This frosty duo is here to blow you into chapter 6 ‼️

While they don’t actually interact in this chapter, these two are certainly more than meet the eye and carry their own fair share of magical secrets and powers that are not for the faint of heart ❄️

[ravenwolfie97]

well, here we are. it’s been a whole decade, and i gotta say, the 2010s were definitely the most formative years of my life, especially in terms of art

i’ve only drawn more and more over the years, so as time went on it was harder and harder to choose pieces i thought were best and most representative. and i’m glad to see such a remarkable change after all this time

i started to take art seriously by 2011/12, and i think that shift in focus is visible. i started to join in and contribute to online communities, making valuable artist friends and giving myself a bigger motivation to draw rather than just for myself. i couldn’t be happier with the results :D

in-depth talk about all these years under the cut

i focused primarily on what i could find on my computer because 1. it was easier than digging through my hand-drawn art and 2. it was more organized and i could search them by the date. so that’s why it’s pretty skimpy for the first few years, in addition to me not drawing nearly as much as i am now

2009: so, i’m obviously a pokemon nerd. that wigglytuff comic is the only notable piece from ‘09 on my computer. i started off drawing digitally in MS Paint, with a mouse/trackpad, and i am not one of those savants who can draw clean lines with just that. i had also been developing my own fakemon, heavily inspired by gen4 with a bunch of evolutions to previous pokemon. since i was now able to draw on the computer, i set out to make sprite art of all of my fakemon. i showed off a small selection of them, including my starter trio, a Ghost-type eeveelution, and an evolution to Heracross

2010: late in the year, when i had turned 13, i finally decided to make myself a persona, and the character on the left in my attempt at drawing it and being Cool. obviously a huge difference in design is the lack of wings - those were not an initial idea and were added later on. the other two characters were the protagonists of an old, long-dead story called the Legendary Spirits: John and Shala. i think by then i was just starting to write it and worldbuild, but only a couple years later i scrapped it completely and vaguely incorporated ideas from it in Legends: Children of the Dragons

2011: most of my art from this time was either Warrior Cats or Animal Jam-related. the pikachu was actually my first drawing done with my Wacom Bamboo tablet, and i was really proud of it until i realized the Corel Paint Studio program or whatever sucked (or i was just bad at using it), so i switched back to MS Paint the other piece of my Animal Jam character Ferret exploring Sarepia Forest was probably my first major digital art endeavor, and it’s been something i’ve been wanting to redraw for a couple years now, actually

2012: i joined deviantArt in late 2011, but didn’t really take off until 2012, so i redesigned my persona to be at least a little bit better. now i’ve added the raven wings! it was also around this time that i started getting involved with the pokemon nuzlocke community, finding the original webcomic and then diving headfirst into the fan-made adventures - i even started my own, but never posted it anywhere this is also where my “taking art more seriously” starts to come through, mostly thanks to my friend North and our constant involvement with anime and video games together. bonding over those things really drove me artistically, and it’s because of that that i suddenly had the thought to really practice art instead of basically just winging it

2013: this is when i actually joined my first community, that being the pokemon nuzlocke community in the form of the NOCT: the Nuzlocke Original Character Tournament. it was brand-new and an exciting prospect, so i took the opportunity, and i’m so glad i did. i had just started using GIMP for my Image Design class in highschool, so with only about a month of practice with it under my belt i used it for my entries in the tournament, mainly because it was just so much better than MS Paint. it had LAYERS and TRANSPARENCY, and as far as i knew MS Paint didn’t have anything like that. the picture at the bottom was part of my final round and last entry to the tournament, and just seeing my growth within the year was incredible. and then, in the summer, i stumbled upon a little webseries called TOME. and that kind of changed my life forever. i got both of my best friends hooked on it too, and we all made OCs. mine just looked like my persona, AKA boring, but they got did look a bit better than the year prior

2014: even though beyblade was a big part of my life and a huge inspiration for my art since 2012, it started to consume more of my artistic drive in 2014, with the help of my friends, of course. we wrote fanfiction and drew comics and made self-insert characters and everything. so it was during that time i tried really hard to replicate the style more, and now bits of that have been incorporated into my current art style. also, that december, i challenged myself to my first 30-day art challenge, of course starting with a pokemon challenge. later on in the challenge, with broader themes, i expanded my entries into full-fledged pieces with shading and detailed backgrounds, which i believe was a great step, since i still struggle with and avoid drawing backgrounds. even to this day, i’m very proud of my work in those last few entries

2015: the second NOCT, appropriately called the NOCT2, started this year, and after my experiences with it two years prior i was eager to join in again. however, i did not have as much time to set aside for this one, either because my ideas were too ambitious or because i was also graduating highschool and developing an animated trailer for Legends:Children of the Dragons for my senior project. it was also during this time i was developing a new original story with the help of my friend North called The Dark Side: War on Destiny, which actually came to be in late August 2014. i continued to expand on the lore and designed all of the characters, and so far those aspects have still being adhered to. the drawings of the main characters Kyle and his partner Guarudan are part of a larger 30-day art challenge i took on called OCOctober, where i drew a variety of my original characters throughout time, including my current ones. this is also the year i started my annual art summaries, which is pretty cool, and i’m glad i’ve stuck with that since

2016: not much to say about this year, honestly. i was busy working and preparing for my first year of university, and i mostly focused on TOME and OC stuff. i think this is when my involvement in the tumblr fandom started to come to a head, and once again i’m very thankful for that

2017: this was an extremely hectic year, with university struggles and social shenanigans online eating me from the inside out. however, i made an extremely valuable friend in Mana, and we continue to collaborate on her original stories to this day. featured on this year’s slide is a scene from District of the Stars also, even though i mostly frequented tumblr from 2014 on, i still contributed to pokemon collaborations on deviantArt, mostly for the Gotta Draw ‘Em All group

2018: again, not much to say other than i continued to grow. i used pretty much all of my free time during college to draw, and i strove to draw different things and focus on improving specific parts of my art, which i definitely think helped

2019: now we’re all caught up, and in retrospect i think 2019 was my most productive and proudest year for me in terms of art. even compared to the year prior, i see a lot of growth in coloring and shading, which is something i had been fiddling with for a couple of years. but this time, i’ve made all sorts of friends and colleagues, and i continued to strengthen those bonds

it’s crazy how much can happen in a few years, especially when ten years is almost half your life. my old art still definitely looks like it came from me, but my inspirations and growth definitely helped develop my style into something much greater, into something i can be proud of

okay, i think i’m done now. have a good day

[pinknerdpanda]

Hey, Jealousy

Word Count: 2,696

Characters: Dean, Cas x reader

Warnings: Flangst, Language, sexy times insinuations, jealous!Cas, childish insults

SPN Angst Bingo Square Filled: Stabbing

A/N: This was written for @atc74​ and @d-s-winchester​’s Double Trouble Challenge and also to fill a square on my @spnangstbingo​ card. @atc74​ made the badass aesthetic for this as the prompt along with the highlighted bit below. I loved this challenge and I hope you enjoy this. Thanks Ladies and happy 2nd Blogiversaries!

Beta’d by: @hannahindie​ and @wheresthekillswitch​ - I am going to have to invent new words to accurately describe how much I love you guys. Thank you.

Hey, Jealousy

“You alright, there buddy?”

Castiel turns to face Dean, his eyes narrowed, but not in the normal “you humans defy explanation” kind of way. His blue eyes are practically burning with an emotion that most closely resembles anger.

“Yes. I am fine. Why do you ask, Dean?” Castiel’s monotoned rasp is typical of the angel, but there’s something about his normalness that almost gives him away.

Dean’s eyebrows shoot skyward as he hastily glances between Cas and y/n who is currently talking to a man behind the counter of the gas station and laughing playfully at whatever he just said.

“Nothing, man. You just seem kinda tense.”

Dean drums his fingers on the steering wheel as they continue to watch y/n through the windshield of the car. “Tense” is putting it lightly; Cas has been a ball of jealous rage since they’d decided to send y/n to collect the information on the gold Buick they’ve been searching for. Castiel hasn’t said a single word to indicate any kind of feeling towards her, but there is no denying the intense amount of energy radiating off of the angel.

“Why does she have to cross her arms that way?” Cas grumbles to himself. “Does she not realize that she is only bringing attention to her ample bosom? That cretin she is interrogating has done nothing to hide his fascination with it.”

Dean turns his head slowly to look at him, his eyes wide and his lips pressed in a hard line.

“That’s kind of the point, Cas. Men are pigs and will do anything for a little T&A.”

Cas sighs loudly and fidgets with the front of his tan trenchcoat.

“Are you jealous?” Dean struggles to hide his grin, but as Castiel turns to face him again, the humor drains from his face. Cas is clearly not in the mood to be ribbed, though he remains silent. “It’s ok if you are, bud.”

Cas’ head whips around as y/n pushes through the door and bounces toward the car, flinging the door open and sliding inside.

“Hey guys. Andy says he saw our guy about an hour ago. He was looking for directions to the next town over.”

Castiel turns in his seat to face her, a look of incredulity plastered on his face.

“Andy?” His tone is seething. “Andy? I did not know it was customary for convenience store associates to develop a relationship with customers on a first name basis.”

Y/n’s face screws up, like she’s looking at a piece of abstract art and trying to figure out which way is up. “It was on his nametag, Cas. What crawled up your ass, Halo Top?”

Castiel huffs and turns back to glare at this Andy character as Dean puts the car in reverse and takes off.

Dean clears his throat. “So we are sure that this is our guy?”

“Mid 90’s Buick with Wisconsin plates and a man dressed in an expensive suit? That's our guy,” y/n frowns at the back of Cas’ head as he continues to stare out the window. “So what’s our play?”

“Well, he seems to have a pattern,” Dean hesitates, sneaking a sideways glance at Cas before continuing. “I say we send y/n in to draw him out and then Cas, you and I can take care of him nice and quick.”

A heavy silence fills the car. Cas makes no move to indicate that he’s on board with this plan or that he’s even heard a word Dean said. Dean glances several times between the angel and the road.

“Cas? Buddy, what do you think?”

Slowly and with an air of creepiness to it, Castiel turns his head to face Dean. He narrows his eyes, his lips pressed together for a moment before he turns back to stare, once more, out the window.

Dean’s eyes meet y/n’s in the rearview mirror for a fraction of a second. She shrugs. Castiel mutters something under his breath and it’s all but unintelligible.

“Sorry, man. I couldn’t hear you,” Dean says, tentatively.

Cas sighs, crossing his arms over his chest. “I said, maybe we should go back and get Andy’s input on the matter.”

“Really, Cas? You’re acting like a child,” y/n barks, throwing her hands up.

“Oh, my...would you look at that! The world’s largest barber pole!” Dean exclaims, looking back at y/n with a too-wide grin.

“Well, at least I am not acting like a woman who solicits money from men in exchange for sexual interaction,” Cas sneers.

Dean jerks the wheel of the car to take the exit. “You know I was just thinking I needed a haircut. Good thing we passed by this place…”

“Is that so, Castiel?” Y/n’s voice drops to a low, eerily calm level and her words are full of ice. “You think you’re so fucking high and mighty because you came stocked with a harp and some feathers? Last time I checked our job was to save people and when we pulled into that gas station I didn’t see you offering any ideas or using your angel grace to...oh wait. That’s right. You gave it away to that ass-monkey douche, Metatron and now you’re all out of juice. How’s that working out for you?”

Dean slams the car in park and y/n lurches forward in her seat. He turns around to face her, but her door is already open and she’s striding away.

Castiel sighs and Dean turns to face him. “You called her a prostitute, dude.”

Cas bristles, his cheeks flaming a deep pink color. “No I didn’t, I called her…”

“Yeah yeah...‘a woman who solicits money from men in exchange for sexual interaction’” Dean huffs. “Potato, prostitute, man. What the hell? Just tell her how you feel.”

Cas’ face scrunches up, indignation plaguing his features. “Dean, I am certain I have no…”

A piercing scream cuts him off and the two men scramble from the car. Dean tears off in the direction of the scream as Cas hurriedly pops the trunk and lifts the floor to reveal the hidden cache of various supernaturally relevant weapons. He quickly grabs a sawed off shotgun, an additional angel blade and shoves two flasks of holy water in the pockets of his coat. He slams the trunk shut and runs after Dean.

As Cas approaches a run-down barn, a frustrated cry makes his blood run redhot. A small hiss catches his attention and he turns to see Dean, his back pressed against the dilapidated wall of the barn, gun drawn.

Dean tips his head, directing Cas to follow suit, and then pauses briefly to look at the seething angel; he’s absolutely brimming with pent up rage.

“That whole thing with the dumbass at the gas station have you feeling a little violent?” Dean whispers, hoarsely.

“No, I’m not feeling violent, I’m feeling creative,” Cas pauses, squinting through a knothole in the wall, “with weapons.”

“Let me go, you black-eyed son of a bitch,” y/n shouts, fear lightly tinging her words, “or, so help me God, I will rip your heart out with my bare hands.”

Cas’ hand tightens cruelly around his blade, his teeth grinding together painfully. From where he's standing he can see the back of the demon holding y/n captive. If he weren't human, he would have popped in and smote it; easy peasy. Humanity, in all it's infinitely fascinating simplicity, really has its downsides.

Castiel flicks the cap off one of the flasks and, taking a deep breath, maneuvers from behind the protection of the wall. The demon sizzles, a surprised gasp on his lips as Cas flings the holy water in his direction.

He turns to find y/n, her face marred with cuts and a trickle of blood dripping from her bottom lip. Her hands and feet are bound tightly around a beam in the center of the barn. Cas’ heart lurches as a renewed rage swirls in his gut. The moment's distraction is all the demon needs and, with a swish of his hand, Cas goes flying. He slams, with a painful groan, into the opposite wall, his blade clattering to the floor several feet from him.

“Castiel, you twit,” the demon sneers, “your little girlfriend, here, has you all twitterpated; it looks like you're missing a step, angel.”

Dean creeps behind y/n, moving slowly to avoid making noise and drawing the attention of the now-pacing demon. Y/n jumps as Dean clasps her shoulder reassuringly and begins slicing through her bonds.

“Man, I thought bringing this bitch in,” the demon throws an arm out behind him in y/n’s direction, “would bring me a pretty penny, but you…. Man... That's the real payload.”

Cas winces as he grabs his side, he glances down to find his hand smudged with blood. “What are you talking about? Since when do demons need money?”

The demon chuckles, “That's the best part. We don't. I just really like it.”

Dean severs the ropes keeping y/n bound and helps her sidestep slowly out of the barn. He nods at Cas from behind the demons back, silently urging him to stall.

“So what? You are a demon bounty hunter?”

“Yeah, something like that. You've had a price on your halo since you first shacked up with those idiots in plaid; the Winchesters. I just never thought I'd be the one to collect. Ya know, I gotta say, I'll be glad to be done with all these piddly little contracts I've been working lately.”

“Between you, me and the wall,” Dean's voice booms through the barn and the demon whirls, his eyes flashing black. “tell me - the bounties on me and Cas - whose is bigger?”

Cas leaps to his feet, flicking his hand as the extra angel blade drops into his palm. He rushes forward, jamming the blade into the demon's skull with brutal force, it's tip jutting out from between his left eye and the bridge of his nose. The demon flashes blue before falling forward into a heap onto the ground.

Dean looks between the demon and the angel a few times, his eyes wide.

“Well, that works. Good job, buddy.”

-----

“Ok, I think that will hold just fine,” Dean splashes Cas’ wound with vodka and presses a clean, white gauze over his minty-fresh stitches. Y/n applies strips of tape to hold the bandage in place, stealing a glance into the angel’s blue eyes as a hiss escapes his lips. Her gaze falls to the fresh black ink scrawled across his ribcage in a language she doesn’t understand before attaching the last strip.

Dean clears his throat, and y/n realizes she’s been rubbing her finger absently across the final piece of tape for longer than necessary. She drops her hand and stands up hastily.

“Alright, y/n have a seat, we need to have a talk,” Dean leans back against the cheaply made dresser that doubles as a TV stand in 90% of the motels across the US and crosses his arms over his chest. Castiel casts y/n a sideways glance as she takes a seat on the bed next to the one he’s been occupying for the last 30 minutes. “Look, you two obviously have shit that you need to work out. I don’t know what the hell is going on between you, but, for the love of God, please...figure it out. For all of our sakes.”

Y/n crosses her arms, mirroring his posture in a much more defensive manner, and frowns up at him.

“I don’t know what you are talking about, Dean,” Cas says, staring at Dean with round, angry eyes. “We don’t…”

Dean waves his hand, silencing him. “Ba-bu-bup. None of that bullshit. We are all civilized adults, and I think we can agree that whatever that was that happened earlier…? Not normal.”

Cas sighs and y/n looks at him expectantly.

“You don’t want me here? I get it. I’ll let you have your privacy,” Dean pushes himself upright again and smiles. “I think I hear the local bar calling my name, anyway. Listen, I won’t wait up for you if you guys don’t wait up for me.” He shoots Cas a wink, who returns the gesture with an eyeroll as Dean slips on his jacket and out the door.

Several seconds of awkward silence follow the roar of the Impala as it backs out of the parking spot and pulls out onto the road. Cas continues to glare at the door where Dean had been and y/n looks everywhere except at the sulking angel.

The silence reaches an uncomfortable crescendo before y/n finally breaks.

“You were being an ass, Castiel.”

His head whips around to face her, his eyes impossibly wider as he struggles to find the right words. He still can’t seem to locate them, so he drops his gaze to the floor and coughs lightly.

“I apologize for the things that I said to you earlier,” Cas’ baritone is almost too soft to understand. “Obviously, you are not the type of woman who would actively work to solicit the attention of men in exchange for money.”

Y/n pulls her feet up, hugging her knees and worrying her bottom lip.

“What the hell happened, Cas?”

“Dean says that I was acting out of jealousy,” Cas winces as he shifts to face her more fully.

“What do you have to be jealous of, Cas?” Y/n frowns.

Cas shakes his head, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees and lacing his fingers. “Ever since I lost my grace, there has been a flood of emotions that was both unexpected and incredibly unsettling. I don’t understand how you all handle the volatility of human emotion with such ease.”

Y/n chuckles. “Have you met our good friend, Dean Winchester? Clearly ‘handling emotions’ is something he would rather not have to deal with. I don’t know anyone that exactly handles them with ‘ease.’” She stands, and crosses the short distance to sit next to him. “I don’t understand what that has to do with what happened today, though.”

Cas feels the warmth of her proximity and smells her shampoo and in an instant, a totally new emotion takes over. His mind floods with a barrage of images of her - her cheeks flushed and her skin dewy as she writhes beneath him, his name falling from her lips like a sinful prayer.

“Cas?”

He jerks his gaze to hers, his eyes practically glowing and his cheeks a deep crimson.

“I feel,” he hesitates, “feelings.”

Y/n blinks. “Well, I mean, at least you’re on the right track. Some people eat theirs.”

“I feel feelings...about you, y/n,” he studies her face, her pink lips curled in a surprised ‘o’ and her eyebrows inching toward her hairline.

“What, uh…” she stammers, the intensity of his gaze muddling her thoughts. “What kind of feelings, Cas?”

Cas reaches up, tentatively brushing the backs of his knuckles across her cheek and tracing the curve of her bottom lip with his thumb. Slowly, he lowers his face to hers, their lips meeting gently at first before the kiss deepens, their fingers tangling in each others’ hair. Breathlessly, y/n pulls back, her eyes falling on Cas’ plush lips, now swollen with the effect of her kisses and she smiles.

“I believe that the feelings I am currently experiencing are sexual in nature, though I cannot be completely positive.”

Y/n giggles and his brows crease, in confusion.

“Listen, Cas. Next time, don’t insinuate that the girl you are having feelings for is a prostitute. It sends the wrong message,” she winks at him.

Cas’ lips meet hers again, a leisurely but intense need building between them as their tongues dart between each other’s lips. Their bodies press closely together, as though the air between them is too much to bear.

This time Cas pulls away, a cheeky smile tugging at the corners of his full lips.

“The only ‘next time’ I am concerned about involves more of this.”

Like what you see? Want more? My Masterlist is here. Thanks for reading! :)

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[audreycritter]

Hullo there, Bruce & Jason family bonding. A fic request response for @mylittleangelxxx​ set in Cor Et Cerebrum continuity. 

Gen Rated T for language

The leaves from the puny, withered decorative landscaping tree in the crumbling plaza are tinged red with early autumn. The cracked parking lot with faded yellow lines is not the sort of place one might expect to find Bruce Wayne on a Tuesday afternoon, but he is there nevertheless, sitting in a nondescript car chosen for the occasion, waiting.

After five minutes pass, the low roar of a motorcycle engine grows closer. A figure in a full mask helmet takes a swooping right into the plaza and pulls up next to the car, almost too close to the driver door. The bike shuts off and Jason Todd takes his helmet off and hangs it on the handlebars.

He's parked so close that Bruce can barely open his door enough to climb out. He frowns at the bike and twists sideways to fit through the narrow opening. Jason makes no effort to move the motorcycle but grins crookedly at him.

“Hiya, Dad,” he says, and Bruce almost shuts the corner of his jacket in the door when he starts.

“You do that on purpose,” he says, only mildly irritated and mostly, secretly, pleased. He means, vaguely, Jason’s tendency to only pull out the familial name when he's either genuinely distressed or hopes to startle or otherwise jolt Bruce.

“What?” Jason asks, a hand over his chest. “‘Me? Call you father? The nerve.”

Despite the offended tone, Bruce is relieved that Jason seems to be in a good mood. He's been the most temperamental of their patchwork family unit for some time, but the past year has had the lemons-and-sugar effect of drawing the kid closer to family and rattling him physically and emotionally all at the same time.

As if Jay, of all people, needed more of that.

Instead of answering Jason’s mock outrage, Bruce tousles the boy’s hair hard enough to make him duck his head and swat at the side of Bruce’s face in retaliation. The blow cuffs Bruce’s cheekbone and even Jason looks surprised at how solidly it landed.

“Ow,” Bruce says, putting a hand to his face. “I probably deserved that.”

“You crybaby,” Jason shoots back, heading across the lot for the small store that is their intended destination. “It was frickin’ nothing,” he calls out behind him.

Bruce follows and quickens his pace to be walking alongside Jason, whose shoulders are hunched while his hands are jammed into his pockets.

“Jay,” Bruce says, as they step up on the curb in tandem. “Don't worry about it.”

Something in Bruce’s tone must convince Jason, because instead of tightening toward explosion, the young man visibly relaxes. The door bell chimes as Bruce pulls on the metal handle and they go from the bright autumn light into the dim interior.

The inside of the musty, crowded shop smells of ink and old paper and Bruce inhales deeply. Jason has pulled his hands out of his pockets and is already picking up clothbound books on the new arrivals shelf, turning them over as he studies the spines.

“Hullo,” a voice calls from the back of the bookstore. “Be right with you!”

The towering wooden and metal shelves are so closely spaced, it’s hard to see very far from the front counter. The shelving doesn’t match and Bruce has always guessed it was picked up piecemeal from library auctions, but he isn’t certain. The layout of the store is older than him, by maybe a decade or more.

Jason’s already tucked a book under his arm before turning for the taller stacks. Bruce catches a glimpse of it as he walks by-- it’s a worn Tom Swift.

“Are we looking for something?” Jason asks, scanning the shelves. They’re a mix in this aisle of more recent used books, none older than twenty or thirty years. Some of them have intact dustjackets with faded or folded edges.

“I haven’t stopped by in a while,” Bruce says, crouching in the narrow space to study a shelf of densely packed paperbacks. He makes a quick study of the vertical names, searching for Allingham or Sayers or anything missing from Alfred’s worn collection.

“You needed a babysitter?” Jason asks, amused, without looking down. There’s a tenseness in his voice when Bruce stands and Jason glances over, doing a single sweep with his eyes of the fluid motion. “You’re not nursing broken ribs or a fucking concussion, are you?”

“No,” Bruce says, letting the slight sting of the assumption wash over him and choosing to let it fade away. “Just thought you’d enjoy it. It’s been a busy few weeks.”

“Frick, but it has,” Jason sighs, pulling a book out to look at the cover. He makes a face and nods to it.

Bruce looks. It’s a painting of a vampire in a black cape with shining silver teeth, embracing a woman with blonde, curling locks and a sheathed knife strapped to her bare back.

“It’s you and Selina,” Jason says with a smirk, sliding the book back.

“Stop,” Bruce says, attempting sternness but failing miserably to his own ears. “Selina would never carry a dagger that impractical.”

In response, Jason snorts and then takes the book all the way off the shelf and holds it against his side along with the Tom Swift volume.

“I think I need this one,” he says, turning the corner around the aisle.

“Sorry about that,” the voice from the back of the store says, drawing close to them. “Was in the middle of glueing a spine.”

An elderly man with a stooped back emerges from a back room, just at the corner they’re approaching. There’s a flicker of recognition and then he smiles warmly.

“Mr. Wayne!” he exclaims. “I was starting to get worried I’d lost my bread and butter.”

“We’ve been busy, Mr. Murphy,” Bruce says easily and Jason gives a slight wave and resumes looking over a high row of much older books, with maroon or mustard or navy cloth bindings and embossed titles and curved spines. “We were overdue for a visit.”

“I’d say,” Murphy agrees. “And this boy of yours. I haven’t seen him in over a year.”

“I’ve been out of town,” Jason says, tearing his eyes away from the shelf. Bruce can’t tell if the older man’s attention is making Jason feel welcome or uneasy, the boy’s face is so impassive.

“Ah, well,” Murphy gestures a ‘what-can-you-do’ with his hands. “I have some things I’ve been waiting to show you, Mr. Wayne.”

“Lead the way,” Bruce agrees amiably, letting himself be drawn away from the $1 and $2 volumes lining the shelves of the aisle they’re in. They approach the front again, drawing close to the glass case near the register. Jason trails after them and then joins Bruce in leaning over the glass.

Murphy pulls a small keyring out of his pocket and unlocks the case from behind.

“This, this one I got from a German fellow,” he says, reverently lifting a gray and tan book. “Goethe’s Faust, a Harrap printing for London. One of a thousand in the first run.” He opens the book and holds the pages spread for them and Bruce scans the German verse without touching the book.

“Faust creeps me out,” Jason says, with clear admiration in his eyes.

“You prefer Marlowe?” Murphy asks, raising an eyebrow.

“If you sell your soul to the devil, doesn’t matter if it’s in English or German,” Jason says.

“Eh,” Murphy says. “Probably true.”

“I’ll take it,” Bruce says, eyeing Jason sidelong. The younger man, for all his protests, still hasn’t taken his gaze off the dark lines of text. “What else do you have?”

“You don’t have a Faust?” Jason asks, finally looking away as Murphy closes the book and sets it aside. “No. I know you have a Faust. At least four, actually. I remember moving them.”

“And now you do,” Bruce says casually, turning his attention back to the contents of the case.

Beside him, Jason freezes and makes a small noise of protest.

“You’re not going to buy me a ton of shit,” Jason says. Bruce thinks he sounds more pleased than annoyed.

“No,” Bruce agrees. “Which is why I had to get that one in before you were on your guard. Help me find something for Damian.”

“Is that a Narnia set?” Jason asks, peering down, distracted.

“It is,” Murphy agrees. “First American printing. Got it just yesterday, actually. Condition isn’t great but it’s not bad, either. Wanna see it?”

“Yes,” Jason says quickly.

“For Damian?” Bruce asks, guessing this to not be the case for a reason he can’t quite put his finger on. For knowing himself to be an intelligent man, it irritates him how often he feels dense.

“Damian doesn’t like Narnia,” Jason says, taking the offered box set in his hands and looking it over. Apparently, Murphy is unbothered by either of them holding these without a commitment. Or maybe he’s already assumed the sale from Jason’s initial reaction.

“He doesn’t?” Bruce asks. It doesn’t especially surprise him that his youngest isn’t as enraptured by fantasy, but he’s curious about Jason knowing this.

“The Calormen,” Jason says, looking up at Bruce with a crease of his brow.

“Oh,” Bruce says, understanding slamming into him like a careening steam engine. If he’d had a vague sense of feeling dense before, it fully floods him now. “Hm.”

If Murphy is intrigued by this exchange, he doesn’t show it or ask questions. He never has. Bruce isn’t even entirely sure the man is aware that Jason died or if his easy acceptance of Jason’s return is wrapped up in a mute, elderly wisdom of the contradictions of Gotham, even out here in the limping suburbs.

“I’ll take ‘em,” Jason says, surrendering them reluctantly.

Bruce considers, very briefly, telling Murphy to add them to his own tab, but suspects if he does so, Jason won’t show obvious interest in anything else. He decides to just keep track of how much Jason spends and then let Alfred sort it out somehow.

“I’m guessing this is a duplicate for you, too,” Murphy says, with an understanding smile.

“Yeah, you know,” Jason shrugs. “Might have kids someday. Gotta stock up.”

Bruce pretends to be engrossed in a bookbinding, partly so Jason doesn’t see his reaction to this casual statement and partly because he can’t actually figure out quite how he feels about it to hide it very well.

With a casual observer, he might actually be successful, but Jason nudges him in the side with an elbow when Murphy turns to wrap the set in brown paper.

“Oh, shoot,” Murphy says. “I've left the tape in the other room. I'll be right back.”

He leaves the counter, seemingly unworried about leaving them with the open case.

“Don't panic, old timer,” Jason says. “Dickie and I have a pact not to have any until we're sure you're done taking in strays. The family can only handle so much drama.”

“I'm done,” Bruce says resolutely. “And I don't take in strays. You aren't cats.”

“You keep telling yourself that,” Jason says smugly. “I'm waiting til Damian hits sixteen, just in case. It seems to be the cut-off. I'm not in a hurry.”

Despite his outward irritation, the slight glare he turns on his second son, something in Bruce is deeply relieved to hear Jason talk so openly and calmly about his younger siblings. It soothes concerns that Jason, even now, regards their presence as a kind of insult or intrusion.

“Alfred would throw me out of the house,” Bruce says mildly, instead of arguing.

“You could come stay with me,” Jason grins. “It'll be fun. Me, you, a salty teenager, a tiny apartment. Maybe we can get that reality show your PR guy keeps trying to talk you into.”

Bruce chuckles and asks, “Tim?”

“He thought you were considering it, you know,” Jason says. “He called me in a hot panic.”

“What'd you say?” Bruce asks, thinking suddenly of Tim and the fact that he should take the kid out for coffee or something soon.

“I told him it's be good acting practice,” Jason says. “That you sounded excited and we shouldn't take it from you. And that I was going back to stay with the Kents.”

“Jay,” Bruce says, trying to muster the ire to sound reproving.

“B?” Jason asks. Their eyes meet, Jason’s glinting with amusement that Bruce finds himself unable to not match. After a second, something in Jason’s expression shifts, his features more solemn though not troubled. “Shit,” he says plainly. “I've missed you.”

When Jason ducks his head, Bruce puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes.

“It's been too quiet without you,” Bruce says. “You sure about staying in Gotham this year, though? Clark said Martha already thinks the house feels too empty.”

Jason nods and leans closer to a book.

“Yeah,” he says. “I already got stuff set up at Gotham U. It's time to just fricking get over it and be home. Damian would like that.”

It takes Bruce a moment to realize the last sentence was directed toward the book, and not connected to sentiments about Jason’s physical location.

“What is it?” he asks, twisting his neck trying to make out the faint title.

“Want to see another one? Ah, yes. The Histories.” Murphy asks, returning with an old tape dispenser. When he sets it on the counter, Bruce can hear the sand inside the false wood veneer shifting and settling. “I wasn't joking, you know. Not to pressure you, but I live for a month on your visits.”

“You're just appealing to my sense of pity,” Bruce accuses with a slight smile.

“I own a stinking used book store in a dying plaza,” Murphy says. “Rent is cheap but ebooks are cheaper. I'm not above honest begging to support my paper habit. Can't say no to a pretty book.”

“We are cut from the same cloth,” Jason says a little forlornly. “You want my advice?”

Murphy’s lips twitch, as if he's prepared to be amused, and he lifts the book out without them needing to specify.

“What's your advice, young Xenophon?”

“Find a rich guy to adopt you,” Jason says glibly, carefully holding the book and then handing it to Bruce.

Bruce intentionally and with some effort keeps his face carefully neutral.

“Huh,” Murphy says. “You in the market, Mr. Wayne? Don't know anybody else anymore.”

“No,” Bruce says, “but I'll take the Herodotus.”

“Give him three years,” Jason advises.

“I think we're done,” Bruce says and Jason sets the Tom Swift and paranormal romance on the counter. “Unless you wanted to browse some more.”

“Nah,” Jason says. “I gotta go get my rat from Dev before he gets too attached.”

Murphy begins ringing up the purchases and he pauses when he reaches for the Tom Swift.

“Separate bills?” he asks.

“Hell, no,” Jason says. “I'm broke.”

Bruce’s heart warms a little at this allowance, knowing that Jason both has money and is letting this one fall to Bruce on purpose.

“How long has Dev had the rat?” he asks, pulling out his wallet.

“Since last Thanksgiving,” Jason says.

“Jay,” Bruce says with a crooked smile, “I don't think it's your rat anymore.”

“Come help me liberate him,” Jason invites, a little pleading. “I can't face Dev crying all by myself.”

Murphy’s demeanor betrays no emotion besides mild good humor as he swipes Bruce’s card for the few-thousand dollar charge. Most of it is the Faust.

“I don't even like the rat,” Bruce says. “I told Cass it was a bad idea the first day.”

“Cass didn't listen to you about something?” Jason exclaims, taking the offered brown bag from Murphy. He staggers back in exaggerated and false shock. “The perfect child ignored your fricking wishes? Yours?”

“It is the only mark ever against her,” Bruce says dryly. “Thank you, Mr. Murphy.”

“Come back again,” Murphy says. “Soon.”

Jason nods and they step out of the shop together.

“How are you getting the rat home on a motorcycle?” Bruce asks, unlocking his car. Jason had paused to take the book for Damian out of the bag and he freezes, suddenly, and gives the motorcycle an angry look.

“I don't know,” he says stiffly.

“I'll give you a ride,” Bruce says. “We can swing back for the bike later.”

He waits a moment to see if Jason will argue or resist, either for actual reasons or just to be contrary.

“You sure?” Jason says instead, one hand on the passenger door. “I mean, jiminy cricket, aren't you busy or something?”

“My whole afternoon is yours,” Bruce says. He decides to push a little. “And dinner, if you want it.”

He wasn't lying when he said he had missed Jason. Even if there had been interludes where the family was together, or that week that Jason had surgery and it was just the two of them, it has been a long ten months. It is the sort of thing he felt himself more and more capable of noticing or acknowledging recently, as he is less totally consumed by work. He often finds himself forced to pay attention, by activity in the house and the transition of sullen teens into noisy, bolder young adults.

“Food’s my love language,” Jason says when Bruce joins him in the car. “Did Martha Kent tell you?”

“Alfred could have told me,” Bruce says, guiding the car out of the parking lot.

Jason falls silent and when Bruce looks over, he's perusing the Tom Swift book. Bruce is content to let the silence, which feels more comfortable than tense, settle over them for a while. He drives without forcing effort into maintaining conversation even though a question is nagging the back of his mind, something he's danced around and not directly asked Jason in the few weeks he's been back in Gotham.

It feels more pressing the longer they're on the road until the silence tips from casual to anticipatory. Jason closes the book and looks out the window at the bay as they drive over a bridge.

Bruce clears his throat and for all his usual decisive action, finds the words stuck there.

“So,” Jason says, almost as a prompt. “I think my course load is gonna be pretty heavy this year.”

There are methods of finesse and diplomacy that Bruce finds it easy to wield in the boardroom, when the subject is one he is easily detached from and can be analytical about. But the closer things move up from the work of his fingers to the beating of his heart, the more that tact falls away and he mentally resigns himself to bluntness.

“Are you going to patrol again?”

Jason doesn't look startled by the question but he does, briefly, look very torn. He opens his mouth, swallows, licks his lips and presses them together.

“I don't know,” he says after a long pause. “It feels like a waste not to. What do you think?”

A year ago, six months ago even, this might have felt or even actually been a challenge.

But right now, Bruce just hears an earnest and troubled question.

“I think you should do what's best for you,” he says, knowing this isn't much of an answer but feeling compelled anyway. Jason scoffs and turns back to the window.

“Sure,” he says, bitterly. “Fuck.”

“Jay,” Bruce says, slowing to a stop at a red light. He watches Jason watch the girls in the car stopped next to them.

“What,” Jason says flatly.

“This is hard for me to answer,” Bruce says frankly, thinking of conversations he's had recently with Selina. He wishes he'd talked this through with her, too. She's always been better at nuance. “If I tell you not to go out, I think you'll read it as doubt in your abilities. If I tell you to patrol with us, I'm worried you’ll feel obligated or avoid me.”

“That,” Jason says, looking down at the book on his lap, running a thumb across the cover, “is probably true.”

“So, what do you want? You've had a while off. Do you miss it?”

“I miss feeling like I was making a difference,” Jason says. His thumb traces the curve of a massive, wired contraption in the cover illustration. “But no. I don't miss it. I feel like I should and I don't. And I don't want to decide.”

“Then don't,” Bruce says. “Don't make anything final. Just be Jason for a while. There isn't a deadline.”

“I'm glad I was Robin,” Jason says suddenly, a little fiercely. “I don't regret it.”

“I know,” Bruce agrees quietly. “But you don't have to prove that by never moving on to something else. You can be a Wayne and not have the usual nightlife.”

Jason pulled his hand back from the book and cupped it around his ear, relaxing into a cheeky grin.

“Sorry, I'm a little hard of hearing. All those guns and not enough ear protection. Can you say that again?”

Bruce isn't quite ready to make it into a joke yet.

“I'm serious, Jay. It's my fault I've made it seem mandatory but it was never supposed to be.”

“Okay,” Jason says, lowering his hand. “I'll think about it.”

“And besides, Alfred would throw a party if he thought one of us had enough sense to get out,” Bruce adds, pulling into the parking lot.

“I might pretend to be sure, then, just to get a cake out of it,” Jason says, and the stress in the car seems to have melted away.

“He'd make one for you if you'd just ask,” Bruce says, turning the car off.

“That's not any fun,” Jason says.

They climb the interior stairs together and stop outside the door. Bruce has made the trek to this rarely visited apartment alone before; he realizes he has no idea how often Jason’s done the same. He knocks and there's the sound of movement inside.

“You can't sodding have him!” Dev yells through the door, without even answering. “You fucking abandoned him!”

“Algernon’s mine,” Jason yells back, pounding on the door again. “We had a deal!”

There's a long pause.

“He died!” Dev says vehemently. “Dames’ bloody cat ate him.”

“Alfred’s never hunted anything in his life,” Jason retorts. “He's too lazy.”

“The rat gave himself up,” Dev answers, sounding closer to the door now. “Get a new one if you bloody care so much.”

“I'm not paying for that,” Bruce says firmly.

“You're a fucking liar!” Jason yells.

“Sod off!” Dev yells back.

A door down the hall opens and a sleepy-looking woman leans out and glares at them, then slams her door shut.

The door to Dev’s apartment swings open and Dev is standing there, scowling. The rat cage is visible behind him on a low table, the supplies already gathered into a bag next to it.

“Hullo, Wayne,” Dev says. “Your son’s an absentee parent.”

“He came to see his grandrat,” Jason says fiercely, pushing his way past Dev into the apartment.

“I did not and never say that again,” Bruce says, going in after him when Dev steps back and gestures a welcome with a flourish.

“You've been back for weeks,” Dev says, a final and feeble protest.

“I was settling some stuff,” Jason argues. “Get your own rat. This was respite care and you fricking knew it. And only ‘cause Martha’s got a stiffer backbone than Bruce.”

Bruce’s eyes narrow at this but he doesn't put energy into challenging it.

“Yeah,” Dev says with a sigh. “Take care of him.”

“You're not really pissed are you?” Jason asks, turning a little in his crouch, where he's been petting the rat through the cage grating with a finger.

“Nah, mate,” Dev says. “I’m not home enough anyway. He's better off with you.”

“Of course he fucking is,” Jason says. “He's mine.”

“How've you been?” Dev asks, turning to Bruce when Jason leans forward to talk to the rat.

“Good,” Bruce says. “I'm wondering how much of this attachment to rodents is my fault.”

“Probably all of it,” Dev says cheerfully. “How’ve your ribs been, then?”

“Better,” Bruce says.

“They've been better or they are better?” Dev asks, pointedly. Jason looks up from the rat to shoot an accusing look at Bruce, his white bang flopped in front of his eyes. He brushes it aside irritatedly.

“You told me you weren’t hurt,” he says.

“They are better,” Bruce clarifies. “It was just two cracked ribs, Jay.”

“‘It was just two cracked ribs, Jay,’” Jason tells the rat in a mocking tone. “My body’s just broken but I’m fine.”

Dev doesn’t even look slightly remorseful for bringing it up.

“I hate to rush you,” he says, “but I’ve a night shift at the hospital.”

“Weren’t you at the manor for tea this morning? When do you sleep?” Bruce asks.

“I can’t even take that seriously, coming from you,” Dev says, without answering. “Out. I need to mourn the loss of my rat before work.”

“You coming to the thing?” Jason asks vaguely, standing.

“As always,” Dev nods, and Jason picks up the rat cage. Bruce takes the bag next to it without being asked. “Don’t have any sodding emergencies while I’m working,” Dev warns when they leave. “I’ll leave you to bleed out, just out of spite.”

“Noted,” Bruce says wryly. “Have a good night.”

The door closes behind them and it is only then that it occurs, fully, to Bruce that this means transporting a rat in the back of his car. He sighs.

“What thing?” he asks, while they go down the stairs.

“Oh, hell if I know,” Jason says. “We always pretend to have plans. I don’t remember how it started. Sometimes, we talk about shit we never did, just to drive Tim crazy.”

“I don’t have an older brother,” Bruce says pointlessly, knowing this is stating the obvious, “but I don’t think I would have handled one well.”

“That is literally the fricking understatement of the century,” Jason acknowledges. “But Tim’s usually pretty chill about it. We should actually grab him for dinner or he’ll probably just eat crappy ramen. I’ll text him.”

Bruce waits in the gathering autumn dusk, the slight chill of the air blowing over him, while Jason finagles the rat’s cage into the backseat. And though he usually dislikes being left out of making plans, he honestly appreciates that Jason didn’t need to check with him or study his response before committing to the text he is already typing to Tim, while he half-kneels in the backseat.

When he stands, his eyes still on his phone, Bruce puts the bag in the backseat and closes the door.

“Hey,” Jason says, without looking up from typing. “It’s been like, two years.”

Bruce looks at the low moon, rising slow and waxing full on the east horizon, just barely visible in the narrow window that opens between the buildings and the bay beyond.

“Yeah. It has been.”

“Huh. Thanks for not dying,” Jason says, attention still seemingly on his phone. “And thanks for calling today.”

“You’re welcome,” Bruce says. “One of those things was more my doing than the other.”

“Alfred made you call?” Jason asks, finally looking up and quirking an eyebrow. He grins. “Figures.”

“Get in the car,” Bruce says gruffly, a smile tugging on his lips. “Let’s go get Tim.”