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shirtlesssammy · 4 years

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15x14: Last Holiday

Then:

March was so long ago

Now:

Sam’s doing research, Dean’s making burgers, Jack is hitting his existential saving the world phase, and the bunker is falling to pieces.

The brothers head to the basement to investigate the failing plumbing. They find the bunker “grid control center thing thingy”. I believe that is the technical term. Dean decides to channel his inner Sam Wesson and turn it off and on again. And it seems to work!

Good job, Meat Man!

He heads to his bedroom with his victory beer and burger, only to be surprised by a kindly looking woman folding his Scooby-doo underthings.

They find out the woman is named--well, she’s called Mrs. Butters. She’s a wood nymph. She lives in the bunker and helps the Men of Letters. She cleans, does laundry, cooks, and reinforces mid-century misogynistic stereotypes, you know, the usual.

The brothers find out that she thinks it’s the year 1958. Dean breaks the news that it’s actually 2020. (From a 1958 perspective, 2020 seems SO FAR in the future. WTF?) Mrs. Butters is confused and horrified. She asks about the Men of Letters she cared for. They’re all dead, Dean informs her.

“That’s why they didn’t come back,” she responds. It seems that when the Men of Letters never came back from the ceremony, she placed the bunker and herself in standby mode. Mrs. Butters is upset at learning about the passage of time, but instantly jumps into caretaker mode, noting it’s been an age since they’ve had a home cooked meal or celebrated the holidays (she also seems to think that they don’t wash their clothes, but I can’t imagine either Sam OR Dean as anything but mostly clean.)

She then activates her magic to bring the bunker to full power. The monster radar on the map table starts chirping.

Dean’s super excited about the new development, but Sam is a bit skeptical. Dean assures Sam it’s ok, and if it’s not, they’ll deal with it. They decide to head out on a vamp hunt, but Dean tells Jack (through his door) that they have a guest and she’s making snickerdoodles.

During Sam and Dean’s Impala broment, Sam wonders if it’s the best idea to have Mrs. Butters in the bunker. Dean doesn’t see the problem. “Ignoring your trauma doesn’t make you healthy,” Sam points out. (F U C K --i am ded)

Mrs. Butters makes Jack a sandwich.

Meanwhile, two vamps living the Big Swig life are quickly dispatched by Sam and Dean Winchester. (Note: They were drinking blood from blood bags, not from people. Were they really that bad? What happened to the gray area of hunting, SAM???? I only say this because I think this is highlighting the true evil of the Men of Letters...and Sam and Dean, super excited for their own toys for once, don’t stop to think about their actions.)

They come home to find the bunker decked out for the Christmas season. (HEARTS to the map table with a giant tree and train set.) Mrs. Butters even made cookies. JOY TO THE WORLD INDEED!

Breakfast in the bunker brings a skeptical Sam, a millennial Jack (I think he’s really a zennial?), and a nightshirt adorned Dean ready for breakfast made by Mrs. Butters.

(Dean’s nightshirt gag was funny as a cartoon, but less funny as the promos rolled out, and just fell flat during the episode itself.) Mrs. Butters wonders what Jack is, and then hands him a magic smoothie.

Suddenly the bunker alarm goes off and Dean’s in Ghostbuster mode. “We got one!” Dean exclaims and the brothers head out on a lamia hunt.

Jack stays behind to drink smoothies and help Mrs. Butters with the dishes.

Mrs. Butters asks about Jack’s dad, Lucifer, but Jack only tells her about his family --Sam, Dean, Cas, and….Mary. He confesses to killing her. Mrs. Butters’ response is GOLD. She appears to sympathize with Jack. She tells Jack that life gives us second chances, and then offers him another magic smoothie.

HUNTING AND HOLIDAY MONTAGE ALERT

Later, while drinking another smoothie, Jack finds Mrs. Butters rifling through some files in the library. He then heads to investigate what she was looking at. In the drawers he finds an old file on Mrs. Butters, and a film reel.

The film reel shows a smug Cuthbert Sinclair recounting the recovery of a wood nymph from a Thule (Nazi) laboratory. Our domestic, smiling Mrs. B was responsible for the deaths of at least two hundred Nazi soldiers before she was restrained. Apparently wood nymphs are docile until their home and family are threatened. Cuthbert introduces Mrs. B in the reel: she’s “agreed” to join the Men of Letters for “service and security.” She then proceeds to rip the head off a bound Nazi and offer up tea and cookies. Jack recoils in horror.

Jack runs to warn Sam, but Mrs. B reveals that Sam is getting ready for a hot date. WITH EILEEN!!! Sam comes out, dressed to the nines in a collared shirt, tie, SWEATER VEST, and nice coat. Good lord, Sam! <3

Mrs. B drops a quick fact on Dean: she fixed his broken TV. Dean’s eyes light up. The DEAN CAVE IS OPERATIONAL! This is sufficient distraction for Dean.

As Dean runs off, a concerned Jack decides to follow Mrs. B down to the demon dungeon. He confronts her with the film reel evidence. “How did it make you feel?” she asks him, not at all surprised that he’s found her out. She thinks he enjoyed watching the agony on screen, and that he’s a danger to Sam and Dean.

Jack protests that he would never hurt the Winchesters and we get an extremely close up shot of a distraught Mrs. B asking Jack if he thinks they keep him locked up to keep other people safe. (I imagine Mrs. B asking, “Is getting locked up to keep the world safe a normal thing? Asking for a friend.”) She mojo-chucks Jack against a wall! He’s as weak as a puppy and fails to fight back.

She smiles at him. All those smoothies were full of nephilim-depowering goodness, chock full of vitamins, arrowroot, and JAWBONE. She’s going to rid the world of all monsters, starting with the ones in the bunker.

She greets Dean in the kitchen with a fresh grilled cheese sandwich. “You’ll need your strength so we can go kill Jack,” she tells him calmly.

“Damn it,” Dean bursts out when she pulls out the archangel blade. “We had a good thing going but of course you had to go full Nurse Ratched.” He suggests an alternative plan: free Jack and continue their blissful new cohabitation as one big happy family. Cut to a little while later - and Dean winds up locked up alongside Jack.

Mrs. B greets Sam when he gets home and gives him the quick summary: Jack’s controlling Dean’s mind and she has them both trapped so they can be killed. How efficient! Sam plays along enough that I don’t notice in the first viewing that he’s shed his tie and unbuttoned that collar after that date!

Back in Sam’s room, he calls Dean who is...still trapped in the room with Jack. WITH his phone. I guess Mrs. B doesn’t understand cell phones? Also, Dean didn’t call to give Sam a head’s up so he could enjoy his date. Dean Bean, the support is nice to see. What a hopeless ROMANTIC, though.

The Winchesters have gotta take out Mrs. B, and both admit that they just never quite got around to researching HOW. I mean, there was Christmas and Thanksgiving and BOXING DAY breakfast… Dean tells Sam to start with the console in the boiler room while he and Jack try to escape.

Jack offers to use his power to escape. When Dean shoots down that plan, Jack proposes that Dean still thinks of him as a monster. Dean uses his words! He hasn’t forgotten what happened to Mary, and he still has some anger, but he’s not going to let Jack die!

Sam stalks Mrs. B through the bunker and when he finds her, he hilariously hides his gun behind his back. And reader, I…. I don’t know. I think that sweater vest is getting to me because I have gone full on Velma with this shot. LOOK AT THAT BIG LUG!

For Velma Heart Eyes Science:

Mrs. B traps Sam and offers to help him understand, the same way Cuthbert helped her to understand. And no, it’s not with snuggly kittens and cookies! Sam argues for Jack. He’s a kid who’s already undergone way too much trauma in his short life! (I agree!!!) Mrs. B does NOT agree with this assessment. Pulling from Cuthbert’s playbook, she pries a fingernail off of Sam. It’s gooey! There are sound effects! While re-watching this scene, I actually put my hand over my eyes. It’s fine!

Dean tries to use the blade to hack the cuffs off of Jack, but his attempt is useless. He just blasts Jack against a wall instead. That gives him an idea, though. “Pain is just weakness leaving the body,” Dean counsels Jack, positioning him in front of the exit door. He hacks at the cuffs again, throwing Jack against - and through the door. Well…...ooookay.

Now free, Dean and Jack head for the console and hit the reset button. The bunker turns a worried red and Mrs. B corners the three of them in the library. She’s going to stop Jack and save them! Sam tells her that Cuthbert TORTURED her to bend her to the Men of Letters cause. She can’t kill Jack!

“He can save the world,” Dean tells her. The whole mission of the Men of Letters is to do just that! (No pressurrrrrrrre, Jack!) That’s the magic phrase for Mrs. B, though. She breaks down in tears, and relents. In the end, she still loves the Men of Letters she knew (even if she entered into it in an entirely awful way).

A little while later, she’s healed Sam’s hand and bids them farewell. She longs for the forest. When she leaves, the magic of the bunker will be diminished once again. But that’s fine! Dean just needs a grill and a nice TV room to take his honey on a date, amirite? Also, Dean doesn’t need fancy map tables and “whatever that telescope thing is.”

“It’s an interdimensional geoscope,” she corrects him carefully. Dean protests: he looked through it recently and didn’t see anything! “That’s not good,” Mrs. B proclaims softly. I hand her the Understatement of the Year Award.

Mrs. B counsels Dean to eat his vegetables, Sam to cut his hair, and Jack...to save the world. She whooshes out.

Later, Sam tries to tease out Jack’s feelings. Jack’s worried. For a supposed god-killing machine, he was easily trapped. Dean interrupts this existential crisis by arriving in the library with a covered cake stand. Whipping off the cover, we see Dean’s made Jack A BIRTHDAY CAKE! They put a single candle in it because OMG Jack is just a little baby.

Dobby the Quote Elf:

We fought the devil. I killed Hitler. I think we can handle a few old pipes

Meat man coming to town!

Ignoring your trauma doesn’t mean you’re healthy

We all do things we’re not proud of but life gives us second chances and it’s our obligation to hold onto them.

Somebody’s shopping at Ambercrombie and bitch

Tell you what we’re gonna do. We’ll go downstairs… We’ll let Jack go. Forget this ever happened

Dang it. Dang-- Damn-- Damn it!

I’ve already had one monster take my family from me. I won’t have it happen again

He loves that apron

Want to read more? Check out our Recap Archive!

#spn recap #dean winchester #sam winchester #jack kline #mrs. butters #spn 15x14 #last holiday #supernatural season 15

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starspatter · 7 years

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Heroes and Thieves, Ch. 3

Title: Heroes and Thieves Fandom/Universe: BTAS, pre/post-RotJ flashback

Summary: A story about second chances, healing, and having hope.

Rating: PG-13, for references to character death, child psychological torture and trauma.

Genre: Romance/Family/Friendship/Hurt/Comfort

Word Count: 3,853 Previous Chapters: 1, 2

Also on ff.net and AO3.

One, two boys by the river Down by the water tellin' riddles in the dark With fireflies under the moonlight Carvin' the insides of a tree with a knife You ever hear the one about the boy's big sister His best friend come along He tried to kiss her

-The Wallflowers, "The Difference"

Now.

Dick rolled over in bed as his cell’s ringtone blared loudly, glaring and groping for the obscene noisemaker. Checking the time, he squinted blearily as he noted the Caller ID, unsurprised by the label listed. Though he briefly considered the option of ignoring, he was conditioned to respond to every evening page as if it were an emergency (and, considering the extending party’s “extenuating circumstances”, it could very well be something important; he’d never forgive himself for not being there a second time when his younger sibling needed him). In fact he was rather used to being awoken at odd hours by now – or sometimes the other way around – even if he’d also since ceased his other “nighttime activity”. …Still, old habits tend to die hard.

He flipped open the phone and greeted groggily, speech slurred somewhat.

“Hey, bro. Whassup?”

His hearing was immediately hailed by a jumble of words, tumbling from the receiver like a drunken tirade (which, in his heavily inebriated state, didn’t help the matter of his own increasing headache).

“Whoa, whoa, slow down. What’s this about you and Steph?”

A curved shape stirred under the comforter next to him, wrapping naked appendages around his shoulders. He could feel an ample pair of voluptuous volumes pressing against his back, alcohol and cherry-scented lips nibbling sensually against the scruff of his neck. Feminine fingertips concurrently tracing contours of collagen craters over hardened hide – gradually fading but forever permanent – circular scars pockmarking his skin. Within. Teasing broad blades and spine (where a bullet remained lodged, buried evidence of a decisive battle that felt so long ago – but still stung like yesterday). A cloying query purred, sickeningly saccharine:

“Who ya talking to?”

“Hold on,” Dick murmured into the speaker as he gripped the hand spider-crawling light across his chest, slowly snaking down to his waist. Gently but firmly, he pushed the owner off, sliding to a stiff sit on the edge of the mattress. Balancing the phone in a semi-awkward position (which most people who weren’t as flexible would probably find pretty difficult to maintain, even if his own elasticity was halved compared to before), he hurriedly pulled on his pants and rose, staggering to the door.

“Sorry babe, I gotta take this.”

“Mm, hurry back, hot stuff~”

Swaying slightly, he lumbered out into the hall and down the stairs from the loft, making sure to put a secure measure between himself and the bedroom. (Though navigating around the familiar furniture and gym equipment was a fairly easy task, he had to be extra careful descending the last step, as even without the spirits in his system, he was still getting used to the whole “reduced depth perception” thing.) Once he was sure he was out of eavesdropper’s range, he resumed the call.

“Back. Sorry ‘bout that.”

“Were you… with someone just now?”

“Maybe.”

“I wasn’t interrupting anything, was I?”

“S’fine.”

“Sounded like a girl.”

“Jus’ some lady I met at a bar last night. …Come to think of it, I don’t think I got her name.”

He could virtually hear the shaking head on the other end, more than mildly exasperated.

“Unbelievable.”

“Hey, last I checked, having a healthy sex life isn’t a crime.”

“And you’re totally not overcompensating for a lack of the latter in your life.”

“Look, are we gonna talk about my issues with women or yours?”

“…”

More soberly, he asked:

“Do you need me to go over there?”

“No.”

“Then talk to me, Tim. What happened.”

The silence was stark as opposed to the initial outpouring. Dick lowered his tone, softening to a hush. Tentatively, he prompted again via the one clear bit of info he had caught from the earlier conversation before it was cut off.

“You said she’s the Spoiler.”

Just to be safe, he cupped his palm to contain the whisper. Again, old habit.

“I… confronted her about it. Tried to get her to stop. And I- I ended up telling her. About us.”

“How much?”

“Enough.”

“Tim.”

“Look, I just mentioned the fact that I used to be… you know. I didn’t say anything about ‘that’. …I couldn’t.”

“And? Then what?”

“She kept asking about it… About why I quit. I couldn’t tell her the whole truth. I mean, how could I? There’s just no way.”

Dick sighed, scraping a hand through his hair. He could understand where the kid was coming from, sure, but based on personal experience, taking the easy way out had never worked out well in terms of keeping long-term commitments before (at least any of his actual attempts at them). …Especially when it came to withholding secrets from each other.

“Listen, Tim, if you’re really serious about this girl, then you’re gonna have to make some compromises. Take it from someone who knows, honesty is key to being in a relationship.”

“…Says the guy who takes advantage of his disability by using it as a way to get laid.”

“Hey, what can I say, chicks dig the patch.” Dick shrugged, eyeballing his half-masked appearance in the window’s reflection.

“You’re incorrigible.”

“I prefer to think of myself as an ‘equal-opportunist’. …Anyway, like I said, this is about your love life, not mine. ‘Do as I say, not as I do’ and all that jazz.”

“Except I’m not like you. I’m not some super pick-up artist, I can’t just go gallivanting around broadcasting my ‘condition’ to the world to garner sympathy.” The air quotes in the dialogue were distinctly audible. “It’s not exactly something I can pretend to boast proudly about, unlike your ‘stupid sexy eyepatch’.”

Dick clenched his fist, trying not to get riled by the bitter sarcasm rolling off the other’s barbed tongue. As much as he generally avoided overreaction to insensitivity, it was still a sore subject – especially when the instigator in this case couldn’t contend obliviousness – ignorant bliss – about the actual origin of his wounds (and vice-versa).

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

“Sorry, low blow. It’s just… What the hell am I gonna do, Dick? There has to be some other way to convince her.” A pause, followed by a swallow. “I never wanted her to get involved in any of this. How can I even break it to her without her wanting to break up with me?”

“Sometimes that’s a risk you have to take if you want to make progress.”

“…It’s too late now anyway. I already messed up big-time. We got into a fight afterwards. Like, an actual fight. Dick, I… I almost hurt her.”

He sounded scared, like he was about to cry. Growing concerned, Dick reached for his pocket, fumbling for the keys to his cycle as he tried to remember where he put them after returning home in such a stupor.

“I’m coming to get you.”

Maybe they were still in the ignition, or his jacket. Crap, he forgot to put on a shirt. He’d have to go back upstairs for that as well. And then he’d be forced to explain to the erotic nymph draped over his blankets why he was bailing in the middle of their “date”. …Just like old times. It was almost nostalgic.

“No, I’ll… I’ll handle this.”

“Are you sure? ‘Cuz I can come pick you up, no prob.”

“Yeah, right. You’re intoxicated right now, aren’t you?”

“…Okay, you got me. Frankly it’s a miracle I didn’t get into an accident earlier. Almost crashed into a pole actually.” He sank onto a balance beam with a groan, rubbing his brows. “…I may or may not be seeing spots at the moment.”

“If Barbara knew you were driving drunk around Gotham city she’d have you arrested in a heartbeat.”

“You really gotta bring her up now?” The furrows of his forehead deepened as Dick frowned. “Anyway, she’s off-duty today.”

Sharp as a razor, Tim seized smoothly on the discrepancy.

“…How do you know that?”

Dick flinched, grip tightening on the cellular.

“I just do, okay?”

There was a moment of quiet, before Tim’s voice continued.

“Dick. When’s the last time the two of you spoke?”

Dick heaved a long exhale. Somehow, talking to Tim when he was under influence always seemed to land back on this topic. Curse whatever was in that mix for making him maudlin.

“What happened between us is our business. It’s got nothing to do with you. Besides, it’s ancient history now. She moved on, and so did I. These things happen. You should just focus on maintaining ties with your girlfriend. …Actually, maybe you should go see her. Babs, I mean. She’s closer to you, and she can probably help you out better than I can.”

“…I’m already on my way there.”

“Ah.” A beat. “Good. Let me know how it goes.”

“Yeah. I’ll talk to you later.”

“…Tim, wait.” Dick stood up again, feeling frustrated at his own uselessness, restless and remorseful. He hobbled, wobbling to the wall, leaning with one arm against it for support instead. “I know I haven’t been the greatest role model to you, especially recently. Hell, it’s practically my fault you wound up this way. If I hadn’t been so wrapped up in my own affairs, if only I’d looked out for you more…”

“Dick, we’ve been over this. I don’t hold any of what happened in the past against you. Like you said, it’s ancient history. You’re the one who wanted to put an end to the blame game when you got… ‘injured’. We’re even, remember?”

“I know, but still. Here I am, supposed to be the responsible elder relative, and yet it feels like I’m the one constantly getting lectured.”

“Are you kidding, you’re the best big brother I could’ve asked for. You’ve always been there for me since then. I’m grateful for the effort, really. …Even if I haven’t always acted like it.” As if embarrassed by his own admission of sentiment, Tim added: “Plus, you’re a perfect example of what not to do when it comes to dealing with angry females.”

“Har har. Touché.”

Despite the jab, it relieved Dick a little, that Tim was still able to josh like this on occasion. He’d been doing it more often ever since he met the female in question, actually. Dick had discreetly observed the difference over the past several months, and truth be told he was a mite jealous at times. Watching those two together reminded him of days spent hanging out with another certain tenacious gal who refused to listen to his warnings, and kept tagging along on various dangerous assignments, impressing him each time with her capabilities…

“I’m joking, but… I meant what I said earlier. You didn’t have to stick around Gotham after that whole ‘fake Joker’ fiasco, just to keep an eye on- watch over me, you know. You’ve got less reason to want to be here than me, what with ‘that guy’ and Barbara both being nearby… I mean, considering the entire mess that followed the first… ‘incident’, everything that happened between you and her… For you to move back on my account… Sometimes I feel like I ruined both your lives, like I’m dragging you all down with me…”

Dick wasn’t about to allow Tim to start wallowing in self-pity again.

“Look, I made the decision on my own. Those two had nothing to do with it. I was worried about you, so I stayed. Simple as that. …Besides, it’s not like there’s much I can offer Blüdhaven at this point.”

“Yeah well, maybe you should let others worry about you for a change. I still wish you would’ve let me come with you that time. …Maybe then at least one of us would still be doing the hero gig.”

“Trust me, it was a long-time coming. My wake-up call just happened to occur a little later.”

“But-”

“Tim, I appreciate the concern. But right now you’ve got bigger problems to deal with, don’t you? Listen, you’ve got a good thing going for you. You should hold onto it, and… Don’t let go, because once you lose that chance… It’s gone. Don’t screw it up by making the same mistakes I did. …Believe me, if any one of us deserves a shot at happiness, it’s you.”

For a minute, his partner remained mute, perhaps debating whether to protest further. Dick held his breath, prepared to shoot down any deflecting arguments. Finally though, Tim simply stated:

“I gotta go. I’m at the door.”

“All right. …Say hi to Barbara for me.”

“I will.”

“Good luck, Tim.”

“Thanks.”

As he disconnected, Dick’s partial vision lazed, traveling hazily towards a poster on the partition he was propped against. In its center displayed an image of his junior self in circus garb, surrounded by his smiling mom and dad: The Flying Graysons, in all their erstwhile glory.

He wondered, idly, if his parents would be proud of what their son ultimately turned out to be: a drunken and debauched bachelor, hung over and hung up on muddled memories, making up for current paucity of meaning or purpose with an abundance of casual hook-ups. A disgrace to the Grayson title, prodigy turned prodigal. Who went from valiantly saving citizens with a wink and grin (not like he could even pull off the former now) to sleeping around on a whim, “swinging” from clubs at night rather than rooftops – trying in vain to fill some void, a hollow hole left in his heart. Tim was right; he was just seeking to sate a starved hunger for attention, a voracious need for validation he’d long been denied. Appetite for affection. Acknowledgment. Acceptance. Substantiate some sort of worth after everything he (thought he) knew was stripped – stolen – from him (literally and metaphorically – in more ways than one), for the sheer sake of sustaining his existence.

Unlike Tim, it wasn’t the first time he’d been betrayed by his ideals. …Hence all the more reason he’d stormed out in a huff (seemingly for good), thanks to the final straw – or rather bullet – that broke his back (which he’d already been stabbed in once before). …And yet, no matter how many times he endeavored to completely break away, set sail on his own private path, he kept coming back to the same place, somehow ending up exactly right back where he started. Desperate for other forms of contact after cutting nearly all ties to “family” and friends (not just within the gloomy house where he grew up, but foregoing second sanctuary, his summer “haven” as well), he found himself drifting aimlessly since then, treading water and clinging to wreckage just to stay afloat, now that so many bridges were burnt beneath his feet. …Harboring hatred towards ‘that man’ most of all – maybe moreso than Tim.

To keep from sinking in a sea of longing and lingering regret, he quickly discovered a different method to dispel wrath in place of punishing felons (which in turn had progressively become a surrogate for rage-punching a fraud of a foster “father”, whose loathsome face he still sometimes visualized when he sparred in solitude). Where Tim eventually took to literature as a diversion (even if Dick was unfortunately just as aware of other, more abusive addictions – although those had steadily been improving as well of late), instead he turned exclusively to liquor to escape loneliness, slake an insatiable thirst for vengeance and quench resentment. Quell fury without resorting to fists. (Even if firewater sometimes fueled violent urges further instead of dousing ire.) Simultaneously satisfying desire for warmth by throwing himself into an endless series of one-night stands, (self-)disgust disguised as lust. Hate replaced with fervent heat, tangling and tangoing under sweat-stained sheets. Ravenously ravishing, savoring strangers’ touch. Relish in passing pleasure. …Easing exhaustion and envy (over an ex dumped years ago, an old flame gone cold – even though he’d extinguished the last spark himself) through empty embrace. To console a weary, guilt-ridden soul by trading duty and sacrifice for decadent vice. From Robin to Bluebird to Cardinal sin. Downing his own woeful sorrows and demons by drowning them in sex and tonic and gin.

Granted, most days he managed to uphold a relatively respectable impression, fronting as a well-adjusted and decently functioning member of society despite debilitation (even if his was more physical than psychological). In contrast to Tim’s total retreat into depression – regression – going through the minimal motions in order to survive, he told himself he needed to be strong – to be the dependable brother he never really was (at least when it counted). Still, his insecurities merely manifested in different ways, relying on showboating and overindulgence as an invisible crutch. Resolutely rejecting the rigorous manner (nevermind manor) in which he was sternly brought up and raised – trained to remove empathy out of the equation for the objective of the so-called “mission” – out of staunch determination not to become like him.

…For all his resolve to resist such strict teaching techniques though, even he recognized the suave playboy in the mirror nowadays was as much a persona as his previous mentor’s was. Hiding hostility and apathy behind an altered ego, a modified mask. Concealing consciousness over obvious flaws beneath another façade, exuding false confidence. Even if outwardly he wasn’t as gruff or tough as his former instructor (or rather false “idol”) – certainly nowhere near as mean and demanding in demeanor – underneath the fortified exterior was essentially nothing but a spiteful shell. His real self had become just as brooding and detached – deflated – suppressing jaded cynicism beneath dry wit and humor. Honestly, who was he even to give counsel when he could barely claim to be any better at coping with his emotions?

Things changed – were changing – for Tim and for Barbara. For the better. …Meanwhile, where did that leave him? A part of him felt cheated, like he was being left behind – abandoned in the same way he (ironically) once did to them – and it made him afraid. The truth was he was the only one who stayed the same by declining to let go the past, bearing grudges beyond their prime to the point they festered deep within his rotten gut. Rancid rancor. Sour and stagnant, just like…

“God, I really am starting to sound like him.”

He muttered as he realized he was no longer mentally making excuses, but apologizing aloud to his folks’ memorial portrait. He seriously was smashed.

To distract his buzzed brain, he shifted concentration to a more menial matter.

“Keys, keys… Where the hell did I leave those damn things.”

“Looking for these?”

He rotated to find his guest poised suggestively against the entry frame, dangling the chain from her digit. She was wearing his top too, go figure (though her bottom half was still clearly undressed). She pouted as he approached and made a grab for the brass ring, withdrawing the prize behind her back.

“You weren’t planning on leaving me here and running off, were you?”

Dick hastily put on debonair airs, flashing a signature winsome beam that would make any damsel melt. He slipped his hands over coyly cocked hips, causing knees to weaken as he drew her in close (subtly stimulating lower regions).

“’Course not. Why on earth would I want to leave such a gorgeous goddess?”

Duh, I live here. Where the hell would I even go.

She gave a giddy, high-pitched giggle (almost grating), greedily eating up the compliment as she arched into his grip, linking limbs around his collar.

“Good. Shall we head back upstairs then?” She mewed demurely whilst playing with a lock of red as she pawed at his breast, thoroughly admiring the rough ruggedness of solidly well-built muscles, rippling beneath bare pecs. Still sturdy and studly (even if somewhat out of shape compared to past prime’s peak). “You said you were going to show me your ‘love nest’, and I don’t think I’ve seen nearly enough yet.”

Dick winced inwardly at his own lameness. Sometimes he couldn’t believe the dumbass phrases that spouted out his own mouth.

She inclined forward to seal said mouth with an intensely intimate kiss, and he let her libido lead him up the stairwell. (He sensed she was trying to keep considerate of his blind side, insistently guiding to prevent any potential bump or blunder – and wasn’t sure whether to be obliged or offended.) As they walked, half-wavering, half-waltzing, she inquired curiously again:

“So who was that?”

“Just my little brother. He needed some advice. Girl troubles.”

“That’s sweet that you care about him.”

“Yeah.”

Bored of the discussion already, she steered impatiently towards the bedchamber, eagerly shutting the door behind them. Animalistic hormones raging and roaring, raring to pick up right where they left off; rid any remaining decency by delightedly ripping dress off.

“Now then, where were we?”

Like a stage, she dimmed the lights to arouse an amorous atmosphere. …And yet, despite the dark ambience and scantily clad, seductive beauty growling, prowling before him like some exotic creature – a primal lioness primed to leap on his loins – he couldn’t bring himself to express quite the same enthusiasm as before. Mood mismatched to setting or pace. Mind in alternate place.

Rather, he felt suffocated, trapped inside a stuffy, sultry cage of his own creation (as much as he accused the ringmaster of orchestrating from the start, manipulating and pulling puppet strings for his own selfish benefit). Grounded avian prey, unable to fly away – waiting to be devoured by some carnivore, a carnal carnival. Like his own innocence (whatever was left of it) was about to be deflowered.

Because he knew the drill by now. Relentlessly rehearsed the same routine, practicing – perfecting – perfunctory performance over and over, too many times to keep track of. They’d share a few wild nights of tender passion, tearing through clothes and covers and countless condom wrappers with reckless abandon. (For all the uncomfortable scoldings his allegedly appointed legal “guardian” – let alone purported “parent” – gave him on using protection, you’d think the old man would at least be able to follow through with his own recommendation –especially when it came to the most significant person his ward – “son” had cared about since college. …Whom he’d planned to make his own proposal to, planned a whole lifetime together with – only for her to weep over crushed dreams and canceled wedding bells – before settling down as someone else’s happily ever after instead when he stubbornly – stupidly – wouldn’t take her back. Turned his back.)

Then. She’d start to get too clingy, too close – and he’d dodge and dismiss – distancing – fleeing on frigid feet, promising to call her – only to break that promise and her heart. Afterwards, when she finally manages to get ahold of him – maybe she’d stumble into him in the street, or, if she were persistent enough – already in bed with another – she’d cry, scornfully slap his (im)perfect visage, yell that he’s a dick (as if he hadn’t heard that line a thousand times before), and when she tearfully demands an explanation for such abrupt rebuff, all he can sincerely answer – from the bleak bottom of his blackened integrity – is the same tired failsafe he’s fallen back on for years:

“Things change.”

One boy lives in a tower With bow and arrow and the artificial heart With his girl, maid of dishonor He loaded the cannon with a jealous appetite They say that children now they come in all ages And maybe sometimes old men die with little boy faces

The only difference that I see Is you are exactly the same as you used to be

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