"Okay." Danny slowly laid the already cold body back onto the table, ready to slide back it into the refuge of cold storage. "Okay. Dead guy. Stay there."
The body didn't move.
"Fantastic. Now. Hang out while I pour the embalming fluid into the pump, alright? It should only be a minute."
And it usually did; working in a funeral home wasn't extremely glamorous, but it paid the bills, and Danny had already been used to the rhyme and rhythm of negotiating death with the public by the time he sent in his mortuary school application. It had been a transition that made sense. And in the end, the degree had only cost him a few extra years post-graduation and a little dig into student loans, and now Danny had a stable 12-8 job and health insurance valid in the state of new jersey.
Today, though, the pump had that decided enough was enough. With a bang and a boom, the pump spat out a cloud of smoke and clunked uncomfortably.
The dead body sat up.
Danny scrambled over to push it back down. "No. We talked about this. Dead people don't move. If you want to stay here and have me put you back together all the time, you have to stay put. Got it?"
Whatever the weird gold-eye corpses were on in Gotham, they at least listened to him on occasion. They weren't ghosts, per se— they never pinged on any of the ghost detection devices Mom and Dad had packed in his going-away-to-college bag— but they were, despite being occasionally animate, perfectly deceased.
Weird. Danny had never gotten used to it. Still, they came in droves, too eager to sit on the top of the basement stairwell and lurk in the corners and stare endlessly at them with their weird, avian eyes, and sometimes they heralded the arrival similarly weird-ass bodies that had lost their heads or their arms or their limbs through the more conventional channels.
"I'm losing too much thread to all y'all coming in all the time," Danny complained to the dead body, who, at the moment, was the only person present to blame. "Stop getting your limbs cut off. This stuff is expensive, you know. It's a specialty order."
The body didn't even have the courtesy to blink. Rude.
"At least let them bury you this time. Every time one of you darts off when my back's turned, my boss thinks I'm stealing corpses. My coworkers think I'm building my own Frankenstein or something."
The corpse neither verbalized nor blinked, but Danny hadn't expected it to; with a sigh, he rolled the corpse back into cold storage, locked its little door (not that locking it in had ever stopped it) and called it quits for the night.
It's not like anyone was paying him for the extra hours anyway.
The whole fic on ao3
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Clown Car here, we are still working on our story and account, until then here is our discord server for faster updates
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Damian has been partnered up with Daniel in their Home Ec final.
And Daniel...is putting no effort at all into cooking.
Damian keeps trying to convince him to help, but Daniel keeps wriggling his way out of the responsibility.
Damian ends up having to handle the Turkey! Unacceptable! He does not condone the death of animals for food unless it is for survival! This part must be handled by Daniel.
He shoves the turkey in Daniels' hands.
There's a soft green glow.
He hears Daniel whisper a horrified "oh shit no".
And the very dead turkey that they were supposed to be cooking comes to life.
It is very, very angry.
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i had been used for my body before, i didn't mind it. i had a good trick about it - i didn't have to be there, not in my skin. i could wear the mirror, wear the puppet. you would see your perfect girl, a little monster i had concocted. she would glisten, distilled out of my own blood and venom. it meant i would be using you instead - you think you are taking from me? darling, i think this is a fucking joke, a role i am playing. you can't hurt me, i'm not present for the event. this is just a body, like a book is only words.
and then you came into my life, easy and honest. reaching for my hand in the crowded holiday market. passing me a water before i realize i'm thirsty. checking on me once, twice - the first time i said i'm okay, you knew i was lying. i keep thinking about the shape of your blue eyes and the wild of your hair the last time i saw you. how you got out of my car and when you looked back, i was looking back too. your quiet breathing in a hotel room.
you kissed me like you meant it, is the thing.
i don't know how to be a person yet, not fully. i don't know how to let you kiss me and touch bone. i tell my friends i hate this so much i want to throw up. your name slips into my head - i am no longer really ever alone. a little frazzled heartrate keeps splattering against my collarbone. my therapist asked yesterday - why are you afraid? what is the cost of vulnerability?
a terrifying thought: when i'm with you, it feels like finally coming home.
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Headcanon that, every year on their birthday, Kryptonians get new superpowers.
Clark doesn’t really keep track; That’s Bruce’s job, for the most part. This year? Mediumship.
me·di·um·ship
/the capacity, function, or profession of a spiritualistic medium/
“Communication with spirits,” Bruce has this habit of nicking his thumb with his teeth, pretty, hazel eyes glossy with thought. Clark doesn’t need supervision to see how beautiful he is when his mind’s at work. “Fascinating.”
“Yep,”
Clark watches Thomas Wayne’s ghost give him the glare of the century behind his son’s back.
The skin of his jawline is entirely ripped off, peeled by Joe Chill’s gun, like the news article said. Sincerely, the Wayne glare scares Clark more.
“Fascinating.”
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