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writerwrites · 3 years

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Yuánfèn | 03

Ch. 3: Saudade: “The feeling of longing for an absent something or someone that you love but might never return.”

Summary: When you’ve lost everything and try to run away from your problems, you keep finding a way back to the one person who completely understands. Can you make another person happy with a broken heart?

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader Chapter Word Count: 4.2k Chapter Warnings: Slow burn, grief, fluff, domestic fluff is strong in this chapter... ALL THE FLUFF

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You hadn’t been sleeping, not really. Between bouts of crying over the piles of pictures and old love letters from the war, you were at a loss for words. A part of you was so mad at yourself for never getting to know your grandparents, not really, not on a level that truly meant something. You loved them and by the prideful placement of your graduation pictures on the coffee table by your grandmother’s reading nook there was no doubt they had loved you too or at least been proud of your accomplishments. You were no one to the world. No one thought about the person that patched up heroes and now the one person left with whom you may have been their world was also gone. You could only describe the feeling as being left adrift.

Adrift, what an odd, dark place to be. You mused in silence as you thought about life, time, and death. None of it seemed black and white to you. No one was wholly good or bad and even the flawed souls had people that cared about them at some point, conflicting as that may have been. You’d turn that thought over in your head, night after night, wine in one hand and pictures or letters in the other. It made you wonder how long it would be until you’d find a soul to remember you when you were gone, the act of having to replant yourself one that felt more like a chore than your tired body seemed to have energy for. The only person that seemingly connected to your entire existence now was a hundred-and-something year old patient that was adored by every person that knew even a fraction of his story. Every night, with that reminder in mind, you’d polish off your glass and curl up into a ball on the couch and wait for a couple hours of reprieve from the horrors of your solitary reality.

At odd hours, you and Steve would check in with each other. For the most part the pair of you had stuck to texting, you with your proof that you were eating and Steve with some balm that the team was still in one piece without you. To your surprise, he managed at least one short FaceTime every few days. This was a new and pleasant escape from your solitude that happened to include little introductions to food he’d never had and meaningless promises that you’d cook more in your tiny kitchen and bring him your leftovers to try. Maybe it was the way his face lit up when you managed to peak your head up from your bundle of hoodie and blankets, but it really felt like he understood and never judged you for how miserable you looked or for those moments where you’d simply fall silent mid-sentence. In fact, he never commented on your appearance at all. Two weeks and it felt like you learned more about him than you had in all the years as a doctor at Stark Industries.

You missed your job, kept telling him as much but Tony insisted you stay and get what you had to get done over with to prevent you from having to make multiple trips away. Stark may have claimed one thing, but your conversations with Steve made you suspicious of what he was getting into and how he was coping with Wanda’s vision. As if you were on some sort of mental health retreat. Steve wouldn’t say anything particular about it, but you noticed that his jaw went tight before commenting that there were no medical emergencies waiting for you and he’d tell you if there were. It was one of the least reassuring statements the soldier had ever given you and he seemed to notice the way your expression fell, getting off the phone awkwardly with an excuse that he remembered he had somewhere he needed to be.

Something told you that it would be the last time he would FaceTime you on your trip to Mallorca. Rather than let yourself get upset by that or hyper analyze the giddy feeling that settled in the pit of your stomach every time your phone lit up with his name, you busied yourself with all the things you should’ve been working on in the first place. It was the most productive day you’d had since getting there, but you managed to forget to both eat or slow down and rest. With little interest in laying down on the couch, still incapable of sleeping in your grandmother’s room, you decided to shower and head out to find something to eat at one of the dozens of little shops. The noise in your head was already wondering what Steve would say when you sent a picture of whatever you were eating and he realized you’d actually left the house for more than groceries or a meeting with the lawyer.

The late April air was warm and dry, a light breeze blew in the sweet scent of the Valencia red roses and lemon scented geraniums that lined the large balcony. As you towel dried your hair with a yawn, half tempted to collapse onto the couch as your stomach groaned with hunger, the doorbell chimed through the house. You looked down at the maxi dress you’d put on, a little wrinkled from being in the small suitcase, as your heart raced. You hadn’t been expecting anyone and no one had swung by to check on your grandmother, but you figured it was only a matter of time. This is fine, I’m glad she wasn’t alone, you chanted whispered over and over as you went to the door and pulled it open.

Steve rocked on his heels, one hand in his pocket and the other holding a small box wrapped in parchment paper and tied with a simple blue silk ribbon. He could hear footsteps inside and his gaze moved over the place. It wasn’t like any place he’d ever been before, more like something from a postcard, and he found himself eager to explore the streets he could hear voices coming from. Then he heard the rapid pulse and little pep talk on the other side of the door, causing the corners of his lips to turn up in a small smile. In possibly the worst attempt at a Spanish accent you’d ever heard, he managed a bashful, “Buenas tardes.”

With a gentle nudge to his shoulder, mostly to make sure you weren’t hallucinating, you managed to pick up your jaw and ask, “Tony finally send you out here to drag me back?”

“Nah, team had a lead and I want them to practice a little recon without me. I’m not too far from them and, I think, my friend needs me a little more than they need me.” He swallowed down his nerves and you tried not to stare at his Adam’s apple or the fresh stubble along his jaw. Instead you looked at the box in his hand. “Sam said this might help with the pictures and things.”

Slowly backing up you nodded for him to come in, watching him duck through the doorway that he easily filled, as you took the gift from his hand. Moving the blanket and pillow from the couch so you both could fit, you carefully opened what was a portable image scanner that would plug right into your computer. You hadn’t realized you were holding your breath, though he’d been watching you the whole time despite wanting to look around the place and he put a hand on your back, thumb rubbing across your spine as you let out a shaky breath. “It’s perfect.”

Nice things, little things, every little opportunity of letting yourself feel even a fraction of emotions seemed to make you fall apart. Steve noticed and took the gift from your hands, setting it gently on the coffee table next to your discarded laptop. “I didn’t get a breakfast or a lunch picture from you. Why don’t we go grab something to eat?”

For some reason you felt the immediate need to protest, but his hands were gently pulling you up from the couch and leading you back to the door. The sun stung your eyes when the door opened and there wasn’t a super soldier to block out the light, making you pull back into the house. Steve didn’t let go of your hand, waiting and trying to encourage you by brushing his thumb across your knuckles. “Okay.” You reassured yourself more than him, taking each step slowly as you let yourself be anchored by the man walking with casual purpose as if he knew where he was going. “Are we wandering or did you really memorize a map when you Googled the place?”

Steve smiled at you, a real smile that reached his eyes and you did your best to not cringe at how much your body naturally reacting with your own smile wracked you with guilt or how obvious it was that he knew by his fingers lacing through yours as he held on just a little tighter. Even when you turned down a little street you hadn’t explored and he pulled out a chair for you at a quaint little bistro you were still smiling. “So, I know what tapas are and with some googling this is supposed to be one of the best places for them.”

Time and again, something normal slipping from this man’s mouth couldn’t help but make you stare at him in awe. “Well, do you like spicy food? Tapas are great and patatas bravas are spicy. You can’t go wrong with the classic tortilla de patata though.” A waitress passed you both a menu and you ordered a café con leche and Steve politely nodded to have the same. “You know you just asked for espresso with milk, right?”

His face went a little pink as he admitted, “I thought café was coffee?” Attempting to hold in your laughter, the small sound that did escape you was muffled by the sound of melodic guitar pouring through the open doors and windows of the restaurant. “If I would’ve known that you were all alone in a postcard I would’ve asked Sam to check on Benton sooner.”

“Benton?” Your head tilted to the side as the waitress set your espressos between you and you processed, while asking her for a coffee with cream and sugar on the side.

“I told you that I’d end up naming your fish if you didn’t. Thomas Hart Benton is an American painter… pretty famous, but probably not an everyday kind of name if you aren’t really into the Regionalist art movement.” Steve waited until the waitress walked away before trying the espresso, his nose scrunching like a kid trying a sip of beer and finding out it tasted nothing like juice.

“You are full of surprises, aren’t you?” Hiding your smile behind your own espresso, you stole another glance at him, catching his bright blue eyes on you for just a moment before pulling away to the colorful scenery. “You’re lucky you showed up when you did. I was torn between a nap and finding something to eat.”

“Is the espresso so you don’t fall asleep on the table?”

Burying your face in your hands you tried to hide your embarrassment. “It’s not that I’m not ecstatic to see you or that you’re not amazing company.”

Your hands muffled your words and Steve reached over and pulled them down. “It’s fine. I understand. You can get your nap in after you eat something.”

To your surprise, he kept reaching out for your hand between bites and light conversation. By the time you were done eating the waitress was hovering, now seemingly aware of who he was. Despite the looks and flirting on her end, he kept his attention on you, insisted on paying, and walked you back to the house. A part of you thought you’d wake up from the dream when you walked through the door but he followed you, only letting your hand go to close the door. “There’s a lot of books to read. I’ll probably only sleep for like an hour.”

“Sleep as long as you need to, Darling. I can sit out here and read or if you’d like me to help scan things onto your computer, I could do that too.” Steve’s smile fell as you buried your face in your hands and started to cry. “Hey, I don’t have to touch a thing. Whatever you need.”

His arms wrapped around you when his attempts to gently pull your hands from your face failed. Just as he’d done before, one hand caressed your back and the other stroked your hair until you settled into the hug. “I’m sorry, you’re just being nice and I’m exhausted.” Craning your neck to look up at him, you caught the glimmer of tears in his own eyes. You didn’t have to wonder who he missed, knowing that probably every person he’d cared about was gone or moved on in the time he was frozen. “I’ve been sleeping on the couch.”

Steve took in a breath, trying to steady himself as he looked over at the couch, remembering the pillow and blanket you’d moved for you two to sit earlier. “This whole time? Is there not a bed?”

Swallowing you hid your face, “There’s a bed, but it smells like her.”

“C’mon.” Steve cautiously pulled you out of the hug, “Show me where it is. I’ll be your pillow and you can get some proper sleep.”

You were in shock; confused, physically and emotionally exhausted, and then he was taking your hand and pulling you toward his best guess at the direction of the bedroom. After opening the door to the bathroom and office, Steve pushed open the door to the bedroom. Reluctantly and barely over a whisper, you muttered a quiet, “Okay.”

He stepped out of his boots and climbed onto the bed, taking up nearly the whole thing, before he reached out for you. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.” Nodding you climbed in next to him and he pulled you right into his chest. His thumb and palms wiped the damp from your cheeks before brushing your hair from your face. Steve waited, holding your face, gently brushing your jaw as you settled in at his side, your head far away from anything that could shock your senses with nostalgia and grief. “Comfy?”

It didn’t seem to matter that you had to hike your dress up to your knees or that ‘comfy’ meant your legs were tangled up in his. The blankets being under the pair of you didn’t seem to matter either, when you were warm against his abnormally warm chest that, despite being solid muscle, still felt more comfortable than the pillow you’d been resting your head on every night. Steve’s long broad frame dwarfed you, giving you the sense of safety you hadn’t felt since before you’d lost your family. His fingertips drew an invisible map across your bare arms and you hummed a nearly inaudible ‘mmhm’ as your eyes fluttered closed. There were a million things you wanted to tell him, but as he took you in his arms and seemingly unleashed the jar of butterflies in your stomach, you almost instantly fell asleep to the sound of his steady pulse under your ear while he engulfed you in the scent of clean laundry and bar soap.

Steve stayed by your side, as promised, and despite the time difference and the Quinjet negating typical travel time from the States to Europe, he found himself comfortable and exhausted. Maybe it was seeing how broken you were to be sitting in a space of memories, displaced by the absence of everything you held dear, something he knew too well; but he found himself incapable of slipping out of the bed or even moving to reposition you so that he could give you some blankets. Until this moment he’d chalked up all of his thoughts of you to Natasha’s pestering to ask someone, anyone, on a date. As his blue eyes closed, he replayed your smile in the sunlight at the table, the breeze blowing the scent of your shampoo and espresso at him. God, he thought as he drifted to sleep, he should’ve asked you to dance.

When you woke up, disoriented by the darkness and a soft blue-white glow over your head, you found Steve staring at his phone, free hand absentmindedly stroking your hair. Your arm was wrapped tightly around his and the sudden realization that you were clinging to him for dear life made you relax. He looked down at you surprised. “I really thought you’d sleep through the night. Are you hungry again? It’s only eight.”

It was painfully domestic and you hated yourself for not wanting to get out of bed. It felt too much like borrowed time and you nodded, hiding your face in his side as you tried not to think about the reality outside of these four walls where you both would eventually leave back to your respective jobs. The certainty that things would go back to how they were the moment you were back in Stark Tower felt like a new pain you weren’t ready to confront. “I can make-”

“We are both hungry.” He’d interrupted you with a sleep-laced haze to his quiet voice. “We’ll cook together.”

Propping yourself up on your elbow, you gave him a studied look. “Full of surprises.” Reluctantly climbing out of bed, you stretched, feeling his eyes on you as the dress fell down your thighs back to your feet. Steve slipped into the bathroom and you heard him immediately turn the water on. Trying not to think too much into it, you put on some music and started pulling out the fresh feta, garlic, basil, and tomatoes you’d picked out at the store.

When he was done, Steve leaned against the wall of the hallway, listening to you singing along to the song, the corner of his mouth turned up as he tried to not interrupt what looked like a little moment of happiness. He could hear Sam’s laugh when he walked into your apartment to pick up the key and see where everything was. It was a laugh he’d given Bucky when he tried to play off asking the prettiest girl in school was a bet and not because he really liked her; the laugh of a friend that knew the truth but was willing to let you feign ignorance a little longer.

When you turned around, you nearly dropped the pot of water and at least half of it splashed onto you. Steve waved his hands in an apology. “I can boil water. I’ll clean this up.” His hand brushed over the soft curves of your hips as he apologized and shooed you out of the kitchen.

The person that looked back at you in the bathroom mirror wasn’t the one you’d seen every day since your arrival- or even in the last three years. You looked rested, despite your hair being a bit of a mess, and the small smile that no longer made your face ache wouldn’t seem to subside. The voice in your head tried to scold you back to reality telling you that this was the most loyal and old fashioned man on earth and that if you hadn’t sent him your location and seemed like a mess for weeks he wouldn’t have shown up. Swapping one dress for another, trying to make your hair sit right, and putting on some tinted chapstick and mascara, you came out looking like a new person and found the kitchen deserted. “Steve?”

For a moment you felt like an idiot, thinking you may have literally dreamt up his presence out of boredom and loneliness. Then he stuck his head in through the balcony door, already talking. “It’s too nice to eat inside.” You watched him visibly pick up his mouth. “You look… I feel underdressed.” You wrapped your hands around yourself about to apologize and offer to change before he said, “No, no. You look beautiful. I’m just… I’ve never really seen you not in scrubs, y’know.” He scratched at his blonde hair and nodded to the balcony.

When you stepped out you found the pasta plated, wine poured, and silverware set neatly on napkins. He’d even picked a few of the roses and placed them in a small glass of water. “How long was I in there?”

With a shrug, Steve pulled the chair out for you and when you sat down and looked up at him, waiting for an answer that he didn’t give, you watched him hesitate before going to sit opposite you. Your tongue ran across your lips, more out of the butterflies wishing you had kissed him than the smell of the food making your mouth water. “So, what do Spaniards say instead of ‘bon appétit’?”

“I think, qué aproveche, but I grew up saying buen provecho.” Steve picked up his glass and you did the same. “Salud!” You cheersed, tapping your glass against his. At first you kept quiet, the pair of you digging in with hums of satisfaction, but as your leg started to bounce under the table you found the question you didn’t want to know the answer to pour past your lips, “Are you just waiting for the team to send the extraction message?”

Steve’s fork hung from his mouth a little and he swallowed. “Yes and no? I have the Quinjet, so I’ll have to get them when they’re ready, but it could be days or longer. It could mean that I need to grab the shield and get to work.” The reality of the danger the team was in with the Maximoff twins working for HYDRA wasn’t lost on him, but two things currently felt more important. First, he needed to find Bucky and do whatever he could to save him. Second, he couldn’t leave you to cope with your grief alone. He’d seen so many people lose someone they loved and though he’d initially told himself that this was his way of doing the same thing Tony had done to help a co-worker through an unbearable situation, Steve was slowly settling into the reality that he looked forward to any time of day you gave him. “But I wanted to be here for you and I know the team can handle following a few leads without me. However long you need me and the rest of the world doesn’t, you’ve got me.”

You bit your lip, eyebrows drawing together, still telling yourself this was Steve doing a favor for a friend and to not read into what he was saying. It hurt, but you felt yourself trying to put up a wall to stop yourself from seeing the kindness of someone you happened to find attractive as more than just kindness. For a moment, you stopped to sip the wine, take a few more bites, and calm down your nerves. Just as he’d done at the bistro, he reached his hand across the table, waiting for you to take it. “I still think that I need you.” Whatever this was, you knew he had given you the first manageable day since you went adrift with fresh grief.

He watched you take his hand, studying your small fingers and how they wrapped around three of his, clinging to him like you had in your sleep. “I still think you need me, too.” But he held it in, trying to focus on you and not confess that he thought maybe, for the first time since he woke up from the ice, he felt like someone really saw him.

The conversation was lighter from there and the two of you decided to walk the cobbled streets to where he’d left the Quinjet so that he could get his bag and gear. As you walked back, hand in hand, you slowed down as a young musician plucked out a beautiful and intricate song on his Spanish guitar. “Can we just… just for a moment. My grandparents would’ve never walked away from this.”

Setting his shield, conveniently hidden in a leather case, and his duffel bag next to the musician, Steve came back to you and held out his hand. “I have no idea how to dance to this, but I’d love to learn if you’ll give me a chance.”

It took every ounce of self-control to not bypass his hands and place yours on either side of his neck so that you could pull his mouth down to yours. A soft, nervous laugh passed your lips, “Full of surprises.” A boyish smile spread across his lips as he did his best to learn and three songs later, the two of you settled into the easy slow dancing that disregarded everything else around you, including time and the small crowd that had joined what, to all others, appeared to be two young lovers lost in their own world.

A/N: Thank you for reading! I’m still shooting for posting a new chapter every Sunday. I would love feedback from you. Do you think they’ll put up a wall before admitting they have feelings? Is someone going to crack first? What’s going to happen when they’re back at the little villa or Stark Tower? I’d love to know where you think this is going.

I mentioned this last time, but while I do keep Reader vague, I’m a Latina. If you know the history of Venezuela, then you also know its political climate in the last 30+ years has led to a mass diaspora, which is why Reader (who like me was raised in the U.S. with family abroad) has some different phrases than typical Spaniards for things. I hope that my Latinx readers don’t mind and that my non-Latinx readers will stick around.

Divider by the amazing @firefly-graphics

I will be reblogging with tags, send an ask if you’d like to be added either to the series or to my overall tag list.

#steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x you #steve rogers x y/n #captain america x reader #captain america x you #fic: steve rogers #writer: writerwrites

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ssa-sugar-tits · 4 years

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But I Love Her

Request: private message // @sleep-deprived-athlete

could you do an emily prentiss x reader where the reader is dereks niece and he’s super protective even though the readers like former military or something. maybe he’s not sold on the idea of prentiss dating his niece?

Pairing: Emily Prentiss x Fem!Reader

Content warnings: angst, kissing, swearing, arguing, yelling

TW: mentions of gunfire in the military

a/n: fanfiction is for everyone which is why we're saying reader's adopted to avoid giving specific appearances or ethnicities :)

"So then I was thinking of getting the-- Y/N? Are you listening to me?" Penelope snaps her polished fingers in front of your face, taking your focus back to her story. You blink your eyes quickly, shifting back to the real world.

"Yeah you were getting the..." you trail off and sigh. She's right, you hadn't been listening. Daydreaming in anticipation instead. "Sorry Pen, I'm just excited to see the team."

"Right, you're excited to see the team." Her red lips smirk at you, taunting you. Penelope's the only one who knows your secret. Surprising, right? But she keeps it.

"I am!" you exclaim and you're telling the truth. Sort of. You haven't seen your uncle, Derek Morgan, since your discharge from the army and you've missed him. You've been extremely close since you were a child. But you've also missed your girlfriend who he doesn't exactly know about. Emily Prentiss. From the day you met, her raven curls and bright smile enchanted you.

"Y/N, this is SSA Emily Prentiss." Your uncle introduced you.

"Just Emily, please." Her laugh rang like honey through your ears, her hair bounced on her shoulders. The handshake lingered, you swore it did.

She'd joined the team a few months after your last visit and oh, how you liked the new addition.

The spike in your heart rate could get you high when you see the team enter the room. Hotch starts to walk towards his office but he spots you and stays with the team to greet you. There she is. Emily. She's wearing a black top, the color of her pulled back hair. Her lips are painted a rosy pink, matching her flushed cheeks.

"Y/N, I didn't know you were coming to visit," Derek pulls you into a firm hug, squeezing you tightly.

"Well it was a surprise, smartass." You laugh. JJ yanks you into another hug and gives you a friendly kiss on the cheek.

"JJ! You look great. How's Henry?"

"Thank you! He's great, he loves the gifts you sent him."

"I'm glad to hear that," you smile, still longing to go to Emily.

"Aaron, David," you smile and give them each a hug too, asking about Joy and Jack also. You know Spencer doesn't exactly do hugs so you exchange a kind wave and he tells you eagerly about a new book he's reading. Then you arrive to Emily. If you had your way, you'd lunge at her open lips and dance around her tongue with yours. You'd make sure she knew just how much you've missed her. But all you do is give her a quick hug and tell her it's great to see her. The look you share, it sparkles. It aches. Just like it did the first time you she left you.

"I'll be back soon Y/N, I promise." Emily coaxed.

"That's not what I'm afraid of and you know it Em!" you cried. "This job is dangerous, what if-- what if you don't come back?"

"I always come back darling."

"Oh!" Penelope rips you away from your thoughts once again. "Y/N brought lemon squares, I left them in the fridge." Her heels clack against the floor as she scurries over to retrieve them.

"You brought dessert? Sounds like a great way to welcome us back," Derek beams. "There are plates in the break room, Prentiss, show her where." A grin almost stretches across your face when you glance at her.

"Yeah no problem." She responds and you walk in silence, your breaths speaking for you. Yours is light, sweet. Telling her how you've missed her. Hers is ragged, exhausted. Saying she's needed to see you. In the empty room, you turn to her and Emily wastes no time. The lips you've desperately dreamed of every night, engulf yours and mash against you. Hands are in your hair, screaming for you to come closer to her. Your hot breath wets her smeared lips as you pull back for air.

"I want to tell him." You say, wide-eyed. "I'm a grown woman and so are you, my uncle doesn't control our decisions. You're everything to me Emily. I don't want to hide anymore. He'd be happy for us, I'm sure."

The look on her face, the eyes you've spent so long getting to know so intimately tell you she doesn't want to. She isn't ready.

"I don't know Y/N. I work with him, I can't..." She trails off. Her sad brown eyes meet yours. "Morgan is my friend and you know how protective he is."

"Of course I know that Emily! I can handle myself. You aren't the only one who's been shot at in the field." That last sentence makes her wince. Her voice quivers.

"I just don't know how he'd feel about this. About us." Us. The word gives you butterflies. Us.

It wasn't long until you asked Emily on a date. She took you to a carnival, she was so excited. The gleam in her eyes and shine of her laughter pulled you deeper and deeper into your facination with her. Cotton candy scents and pink treats. Flowing hair in the wind on the Ferris Wheel. Powdered sugar on those soft lips. Adorable huffs when she lost a carnival game. The taste of chocolate syrup and strawberries on her when she kissed you for the first time. Each time is like the first time. Every kiss, every touch.

"Okay, we won't tell him." You assure quietly. Your voice falls almost to a whisper. "But you know we'll have to eventually, don't you?"

She doesn't answer, instead flickering her eyes with shame. You tilt her chin to lift her head and gaze into her.

"It's okay love. Not until you're ready." You plant another light kiss on her lips and you grip her hair as she runs you against the wall.

"Emily," you moan. The way your tongue fits perfectly with hers entrances you. So focused on each other that you don't hear what the others are saying.

"How long does it take to grab some plates?" Derek mutters, half-jokingly. It's confirmed in JJ's mind, what she's suspected about you and Emily, when Penelope stammers to your rescue.

"Maybe there aren't any up there, I can go check on them!"

Derek's eyebrows furrow. If there's anyone he knows like the back of his hand, it's Penelope Garcia.

"Babygirl, do you know something I don't?" He questions, suspiciously.

Uh oh.

"I love you! Why would I lie to you?" She exclaims, earning mental facepalms from the rest of the team. Profiling 101. Don't answer a question with an avoiding question. If everyone didn't know before, they definitely do now. Derek doesn't continue the conversation, marching up to where you and Emily are. Penelope debates following but instead buries her head in her hands before hastily sending you a text.

Your phone buzzes but you ignore it, too concentrated on re-learning every crevice of your girlfriend's mouth. Every--

"What the hell is going on?!"

Shit. You rip apart and turn to see your uncle standing there. Shit.

"Morgan, we can explain," Emily starts. You've never seen her vulnerable around any of her team members. She's unbelievably frightened, you're the one thing she can't lose.

"Explain what Prentiss? That you betrayed my trust? That you're putting my niece in danger? I've worked with you for years and called you a friend, how could you take advantage of her like this?"

Emily opens her mouth to speak again and you cut her off.

"Take advantage? Emily hasn't done anything remotely similar to taking advantage of me. I'm sorry that we lied to you, but I'm an adult! My decisions are just that-- mine. Not yours." Maybe you should have stopped. His face is angry, hurt even. He's only acting for your own good but it's not his choice to make. He leaves the room and you frantically look at Emily, who stares agape trying to figure out what to do. Tears well up in your eyes and you chase after him but he's nowhere to be found.

"W-Where's my uncle?"

"He left, sweetie. I'm so sorry, I should have stopped him," Penelope says sympathetically.

"It isn't your fault Penny, I..." you sigh and take Emily's hand, making a beeline for the glass doors. He's getting into his car and you yell.

"Uncle Derek! Please don't go. At least listen to what I have to say." You watch as he looks down to how you grasp each other, afraid of letting the other go. He closes the car door and stares up at you, allowing you to continue.

"I know you have your doubts. About your job, about Emily and how it can put me in danger. But I love her and I want all of her. Not just the good, not just her beautiful laugh illuminated by the carousel lights a-and the sweet sugar covered kisses," your words are breathy and you run your hands through your hair. You aren't only talking to him. "I want the cold nights, telling her to stay safe on a case. I want the relief of knowing she's alive. I want the fights, the fears, the risk. Because there's no doubt in my mind that it's worth it as long as I get to be with Emily. I'll go to the moon and back for her, I'll do anything to have her with me. I know why you aren't sold on this, on... on us. But I promise, I know what I'm doing. She's the one I'm meant to be with."

At the end of your speech, Emily's tears are welling up with wet drops of love.

"I love you too." She whispers, and it feels surreal to you.

The first 'I love you' wasn't in a grand romantic gesture or in each other's arms. It was outside the Quantico building in Virginia. It was today. During the first test of your love and your strength. Your first real comittment to one another.

You turn back to your uncle, searching for any twinge of approval. You don't need it, that's what you tell yourself, but you can't live with yourself if you destroy Emily and Derek's friendship.

"You take good care of my niece, Prentiss." He finally says, extending a hand as a sign of friendship, a sign that this momentary battle is willing to come to an end for the sake of your happiness.

"I will, Morgan." She promises.

And Emily meant that promise, with every last ounce of her being.

#criminal minds #emily prentiss #criminal minds self insert #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds x y/n #criminal minds angst #criminal minds fluff #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fanfiction #emily prentiss x you #emily prentiss x y/n #emily prentiss x reader #emily prentiss fanfiction #emily prentiss fluff #emily prentiss fanfic #emily prentiss angst #bau x reader #emily prentoss angst

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great-jenna-bake-off · 3 years

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Season 3 Episode 9: Fraisier Cake

I thought working from (and spending literally all my time at) home would give me more time to bake, but then I got a puppy and my life got turned upside down. She's very cute, but man does she take up a lot of time that I could otherwise be spending baking. Or eating. So maybe it's for the best that I got a puppy.

Anyway, I finally managed to get my act together long enough to make my next bake: a Fraisier cake. We're getting toward the end of the season, so the technical bakes are getting harder and more esoteric. I have certainly never heard of a Fraisier cake, let alone eaten one, but at first glance it didn't look... that hard? It's basically a sponge cake with some creme patissiere, decorated with fresh strawberries and marzipan. How hard could that be? (Famous last words...)

https://www.bbc.co.uk/food/recipes/fraisier_cake_75507

The first step was to make the actual cake portion of the Fraisier cake. The recipe calls for "self-raising flour", and after a few recent improvisations with less than ideal results, I decided to just shell out for the actual ingredient. However, this new strategy hit a speed bump when the recipe called for an "electric hand whisk", which, as mentioned previously, I do not own. No matter; surely I could kick it old-school and rely on my own brute strength to mix the cake ingredients by hand as they heated on the stove top.

This will definitely not create any problems for me down the line...

Editor’s Note: If you’re thinking to yourself, some of these pictures seem smaller than usual, you would be correct. If you’re also thinking to yourself, Jenna is probably too lazy to figure out how to resize them and make them consistent, you are also correct.

According to the recipe, I would be done when the mixture had doubled in volume and was pale in color.

Looks pale to me?

Next, it was time to add the all-important self raising flour.

Gently folded in as to keep in the air that I painstakingly whipped up by hand.

And voila; cake batter was ready to go into the oven.

Looks good so far!

I thought I was off to a good start, but as soon as my cake came out of the oven, I realized I was in trouble. The recipe specifies that the cake should be about 2 inches in height, as you need to slice it in half to make two layers. Mine was... not.

It's like... half an inch, maybe?

Uh oh. Maybe that hand whisking didn't do the trick after all. Still, the cake looked reasonably tasty, so I decided to just move on and start my creme patissiere. First, I had to boil my milk and vanilla pod.

This smelled really nice.

Then it was time for some more whisking: this time of eggs, cornflour, sugar, and kirsch, which is a cherry-flavored brandy.

Fun fact: kirsch is pretty disgusting on its own. Wilson volunteered to drink what I didn't use in this recipe, which was fine by me as it tasted like nail polish remover. Do not recommend.

Finally, I had to whisk the egg mixture and the hot milk together.

My whisking arm is getting a workout today.

Then, I needed to put the mixture back on the stove and watch it very carefully, as in about four minutes the mixture would thicken very quickly. Well, four minutes came and went, and nothing happened. I diligently kept my eye on it, but it definitely did not appear to be approaching a texture that was "thick enough to pipe", per the recipe.

Nothing happening yet...

So finally, I committed a cardinal GBBO sin. I took my eye off the stove for JUST A MINUTE to wash the dishes. And when I came back, my creme patissiere had turned into this:

Uh oh.

I have never made a creme patissiere before. But I have eaten it, and I know it's not supposed to be THIS thick. It's supposed to be velvety and creamy and delicious, while this was more of an... eggy gloop? But hey, it was certainly thick enough to pipe. Maybe the next step of adding butter would help.

Spoiler alert: it didn’t!

So my creme patissiere looked like mashed potatoes. If I were on the show, this is where I would realize I had gone horribly wrong and would toss this creme in the bin before starting over. But, given that I would not actually be serving my food to Paul and Mary, I decided to soldier on. After all, at least my creme was thick enough to pipe. Maybe this was what I was supposed to do after all? So I stuck the creme patissiere in the fridge to cool and crossed my fingers that I would somehow have a delicious, smooth creme when it came out.

Maybe this doesn’t look so bad??

The final step before assembly was to make a lemon syrup, which thankfully was pretty simple after all the missteps I’d already made in this recipe. However, I soon found myself facing another problem: I needed to roll out a layer of marzipan to put on top of my cake, but I had left my rolling pin at Wilson’s house (we made a chicken pie). Luckily, I had a substitute:

When in doubt, break out the wine.

And hey, it actually did the trick.

Who needs a rolling pin?

Finally, it was time to put my cake together. First, I faced the problem of slicing my extremely thin sponge into to layers. I took a deep breath and hoped for the best...

Not actually that terrible.

With some creative construction work, I was able to get two fairly even layers.

No one will ever know.

And now, it was time to stack. In an ideal world, I would have had a strip of acetate plastic to line my springform pan with and had a beautiful, clean surface to work on. But I didn’t even have a rolling pin handy; obviously I don’t have acetate lining around. So plastic wrap would have to do.

If it works, it works.

Then it was time to turn my attention to my strawberries. I picked out the prettiest, most evenly sized ones I could find, and halved them.

At least these turned out pretty.

And then, it was construction time. First, I put in a layer of cake, brushed it with lemon syrup (my pastry brush was also at Wilson’s, so really I spooned on the syrup), and then added a “little crown of strawberries”, as per the recipe.

Regal.

Next, it was time to see if my creme patissiere had magically transformed into the right texture in the fridge.

Nope, still lumpy. But at least it was pretty solid...?

I added some more chopped strawberries on top.

At least the strawberries will taste good.

Then it was time for the rest of my “creme patissiere”, if you can even call it that at this point.

So lumpy.

And then finally, I put on the other half of the cake, spooned over some more syrup, and topped it off with my marzipan. The recipe specified that I should melt some chocolate and make “pretty” decorations, and honestly I kind of wanted to call it a day given all my struggles and just forgo the chocolate. But in the spirit of the competition, I gave it a go anyway:

There is no design to this chocolate, this is the epitome of winging it.

I left the whole godforsaken mess to cool in the fridge overnight. In the meantime, it was time to check in with the bakers to see if they’d fare any better than I did with this Fraisier cake.

***

Mel starts off by referring to a Fraisier cake as a well-known celebration cake, which is certainly news to me.

Must be more popular in the UK, I guess.

The bakers start off by making a genoise sponge, and surprisingly, James chooses to whisk his by hand as well.

Dedication.

However, after seeing Dani’s batter, I can see that I have clearly not even come close to whipping mine for long enough.

This explains the lack of volume in my cake, I guess.

Dani struggles with the creme patissiere, though - she says that hers has “cellulite”.

It’s lumpy like mine, but I never thought to sieve it.

As always, James seems to know exactly what to do.

Such smooth creme.

All the bakers, however, struggle with setting up the acetate.

This makes me feel better about my plastic wrapped cake.

When it comes time to assemble, I can see that my creme is indeed thicker than the bakers’, even Dani’s.

Much more pipeable.

However, this may not be such a bad thing after all - Dani’s cake starts falling apart as soon as she takes it out of the pan, as the creme isn’t set.

Melty cake is never a positive.

In the end, James takes home the gold in yet another technical, with a perfectly risen sponge and a nicely set creme patissiere.

That does look pretty celebratory.

***

It was time for the grand unveiling of my own cake. Would my thin cakes and lumpy creme prove to be my downfall?

First, here’s Mary’s perfect Fraisier:

And here’s mine, complete with chocolate decor:

You can definitely see that the creme isn’t the perfect smooth texture, and my bottom cake especially is a little narrow. But maybe it’s not quite so far off? As always, my judges would be the final arbiters.

***

Matt’s Review: I get the sense that, as time goes on, the bakes are getting harder and harder to transport. So upon Jenna’s arrival I was already impressed that the cake was holding together as well as it did. And that turned out to be important, because the pairing of the layers was the key to this one. I’m always impressed when a food can take a flavor I normally don’t like and recontextualize it in such a way that I become a fan. In this case, that flavor is almond. I really struggle with that flavor normally, and this bake doesn’t disguise it at all. Instead, it pairs it perfectly with the other layers. I think Jenna did an excellent job with all the ratios — this could easily have become a “dislike” for me, but instead it was a joy to eat. All in all, two thumbs up. The cake, and Jenna, made my quarantine a little sweeter.

Wilson’s Review: Well, the consistency is a little off on the creme patissiere. That can be a bit tricky, but the cake is a bit flat, looks like something went wrong with the mixing. Really should be past those kind of errors by now. I like strawberries, and the chocolate added an element of richness that contrasted brilliantly. As for the sponge, while not the prettiest I’ve ever seen, it does taste good - nice and airy. Overall a nice treat for a mid summer snack, once one gets past the first impression.

***

Final Thoughts: The creme patissiere was definitely a bit eggy, which was less than ideal. But all in all, this cake tasted pretty good and looked pretty fancy. The cake layers still felt airy and yummy even though they were thin, and the fresh fruit made for a nice treat. I will absolutely need to practice my creme patissiere though, and remember to NEVER take my eye off the stove. Rookie mistake.

#GBBO #great british bake off #Mary Berry #fraisier cake

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pickyperkypenguin · 4 years

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some reflections on dying hair with henna (lawsonia inermis)

i’ve had dyed my hair red with henna/lawsonia inermis (sometimes with added amla/emblica officinalis, and jatropha) for four years, since i was about sixteen year old ‘til i was about twenty. somewhere at the two or three year mark i roped up my mother into dying her hair with henna too. so, i’ve been dying my own and then my mother’s hair with herbs for the last ten years every month or two. i feel like i might have the right to talk about it just because i’ve done it so many times and got consistent results

it took me long enough to figure out my perfect recipe, but the amount of misinformation i see on the internet in regards to henna dying process is staggering. i thought, okay, maybe ten years ago it was relatively knew in the polish corner of the world wide web, but now? sure it should be more popular? and okay, i did manage to find some info faster than those years ago (boy, let me tell you it was some google-fu required to get into that information back then, and all was, like, crowd-sourced from experimentally-inclined hair bloggers - a sub-type of beauty bloggers - and wise, old and jaded women who knew henna as chna, because they’ve used it back in the socialist times, when it was still imported from the east, hence the different spelling). but still, it was not much, however, there were some more professional sources involved than cosmetics forums. i’ll check the anglophone side, i thought. sure it should be much better, yeah? no misinfo?

goddamn, was i wrong. like, on one hand it was much better, because you have those amazing sources from especially indian women, for whom it is very much a traditional thing so the technique was perfected for, like, millenia. they know what they’re doing. but - and here comes my surprise - there was much of the same simply wrong bullshit from other sources? and i was like, what the hell, why do you even do that, why do you spread information that is clearly wrong - and you’ve had the chance to cross-reference it with very good sources without learning a whole other language in the process? so, like, why? why do people do that? i do not understand.

*if you are curious and want some unsolicited advice from a person who is not an expert, then, here, have my completely unprofessional opinion that’s based solely on years of experience and observation of dying first never previously dyed hair, and then naturally grey hair, which was (is) also getting regularly permed, because my mother has never left the eighties:

the perfect recipe is this:

add sugar and lemon juice when using pure henna or when you combine it with amla and/or jatropha

don’t use acids when you add indigo/indigofera tinctoria, because it needs alkaline environment. you can add either some black tea or a bit of salt

but do not add that salt, to be honest, because it’s not good for your hair, it dries it out

i’m not sure if adding sugar would be bad when dying with indigo (idk about its acidity level - is this a thing in this case?), but sugar is generally a humectant, and really helps the dye to have a lot smoother consistency.

also, sugar might moisturise your hair, but i’m not entirely sure about that - even if one moisturises hair with something, the hair cuticles (is that the word in english?) should be then closed/smoothed down with something else, oil or silicone, to keep the moisture in? otherwise you’re just preparing your hair to be frizzy as hell, because porosity and different level of humidity in the air is a thing

the consistency of the dye should be adjusted to your own preferences and the thickness of the hair, don’t feel like you have to get that arbitrary greek yogurt thickness. that literally doesn’t matter, it’ll work anyway as long as you cover it and keep it moist. don’t let the dye dry, you might get uneven patches of colour. keep it covered with plastic wrap and put a towel on, herbal dyes like warmth to develop properly

speaking of warmth - about 80 C for henna, no more than 40-50 for indigo, maybe even less, around 30 C. never want the dye to be boiled

what also matters is not adding oil to the mixture. it will hinder the dying process. so, no fatty yogurt, no coconut oil. you can do it after, at least a day or two (for indigo at least two, maybe even three) days after

honey will not 'clog’ anything, i have no idea where did it come from. it’s not a fat, it shouldn’t do anything except for the same thing that sugar does

idk, you may add honey instead of sugar if you’re feeling extra, but no, it will not make the shade any different (i’ve seen stuff like adding honey will give you that honey-blond lustre. it will not. cassia might, for grey and very fair blonde hair. but won’t change much when you’re using something much stronger, like henna). and if you think it will give you some health benefits? i mean, i do think honey is healthy for you, but i very much prefer to eat it, simply as that

i have no idea how does that work, if it builds into your hair, if there is some magic with herbal proteins and hair proteins, but herbal dyes, henna especially, thickens your hair. which is marvellous. i believe that ridiculous statement only because i happened to be gross that one time and lost a hairbrush before i managed to clean it, and it was just after my first two or three henna dyes. i found that brush four years later, after consistent dying every single month, and i compared my hair from the brush with the ones in my head - and the ones on my head, despite comparing the very ends - you know, easily reachable when you have hair reaching your butt - and the ends of hair that long are thinner and split in my case - were still thicker (almost twice as thick!) as those from the brush. it was fucking wild

it builds up and darkens overtime, so your ends might be darker than your roots, if you dye the whole thing, as i did

i never dyed with indigo, but relaying on second-hand experience - if you have hair on the lighter side, do the two-step process and pre-dye with henna first. if you don’t, the blue of the indigo and the yellow that your hair contains combine, and you might end up with something green-ish on your head

although, you know, that’s basic colour theory, i don’t know what people expect when they do that and then act surprised - herbal dyes only cover what is already there, they don’t bleach or strip your natural colour before. that’s why henna ends up very bright on bleached or grey hair and yes, you should very much do the two-step thing, if you want your grey hair black not green

also, never understood what’s so wrong with green hair. go and be that nymph, live your true forest god life, eff society

a quick guide for colours:

henna - pure red

henna+jatropha - fox-red, as in warm, yellow-ish, brassy, beautiful for skin with warm and olive undertones

henna+amla - red but cooler, not exactly a cherry, but much different shade than pure henna or h+j, awesome for cooler and neutral skin tones

henna+amla+jatropha - idk what you’re trynna do, mate, but it’ll be somewhere in the red region, depends on proportions

henna+indigo - depending on proportions, anywhere from cooler brown to dark red-ish brown

indigo - black with blue-ish tinge, on lighter hair should be used on pre-dyed with henna hair

cassia - might give you warm, blonde-ish shade on grey or very fair hair, might do absolutely nothing, you can add it to henna mixes to ensure the warm tone

#henna #henna hair #henna treatement #whatever life #i tried to do the kristen stewart in underwater it did not work out #that's what sparked this whole rant anyway #first i dyed with theoretically platinum blonde chemical dye #which got my hair somewhere around ginger #then i decided to bleach it which got me the classic easter chick #then i thought of toning it but only had an old plum toner #which brought it to lilac #i was not happy because it got uneven - in some places more pink in some more blue #which - like - predictable - already had that experience #so i thought oh maybe i can bleach it the second time all those people who are dying white are doing this #yeah lady they do *before* the toner #and yeah it has got me - you guessed it - the famous green #not a very bad kind of green slightly blue-ish rather pastel #i guess some people probs dye it like this on purpose #but on me this shade looks horrible and i would keep it only if i had a turquoise toner on hand #i did not and so it came to henna #it's currently on my hair and i swear i have no idea what will happen when i take it off and if it will even work #if not well i have about a centimetre of hair on my head i can get it to zero or two milimetres

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steve0discusses · 4 years

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Yugioh S4 Ep 15: Yami Joins the Bay Area Tribe By Throwing a Riot About Sports on Caltrain

So as you’ve probably guessed because of my lack of posts--I got kinda busy with life stuff and just got hit with this really nasty flu at the same time. Yes, I am in a Coronavirus-affected area but no, I don’t have it and I am not dying (although I did do the right thing and quarantined myself anyway, much like a whole lot of the Bay who are just...working from home. Traffic’s been great.) It’s just that every January/February I tend to fall apart and get the flu so bad I lose my voice for 5 days. This year was 6 days. I just catch the flu a lot, but at least I get my shots so it’s not as bad as it would have been.

So, I took a hell ton of Nyquil and Dayquil and while I’m...functional...I don’t know if any of this make sense. So forgive my rambling. I usually ramble, today I’ll be like...hella rambling. About TRAINS.

So anyway, Lets talk about Yugioh.

Lets board a Californian train!

Yugioh has decided that out of every vehicle they’ve devoted episodes to--they haven’t done trains yet, so it’s train time. Train time...in America...which is not a great place for trains. Like I never really think about it but...people take the freakin Greyhound over trains. Which is wild, guys, the Greyhound is...it’s a state of mind. We ignore trains so much.

It’s just really funny that they left Japan to go to America to ride a train when it’s like...the show takes place...in Japan. The land of wonderful trains. But wtv, they wanted ye Old Western experience.

Anyway, Rebecca really wanted to go on the train with them, but everyone pretty much decided that children were no longer safe on this trip with Yugi and co. The fact that Yugi and co are also children is something I guess we decided to push under the rug. I mean Duke Devlin has a freakin job and a work Visa at 17 so...that’s adult enough, right?

(*in a very Roaring Camp Railroad Commercial voice, and over the dulcet sounds of a banjo* More TRAINS under the cut!)

And then Arthur decided to just really grill it into Yami for some reason.

I think it was mostly to act as a recap but damn, Arthur Hawkins just really seems to hate Yami for killing Yugi. Anyway, lets get a good look at our train.

Surprisingly for this show, they decided not to put us on the Roaring Camp Railroad through the Santa Cruz Mountains, instead, they put us on an actual legit commuter train, and it blew my mind because...it’s the CALTRAIN.

That’s my train! What’s my Caltrain doing in Yugioh!?!?

They even got the paint job right! This is absolutely the Caltrain!

We never update this train. So yes, it still looks like this over 10 years later. It’s very underfunded.

+++THIS IS TRAIN FACTS FEEL FREE TO SKIP TRAIN FACTS+++++

So the Caltrain was originally privately owned tracks--which is how they are really nicely laid out--a private company bought everything/pushed out the old owners before the place got developed. When trains went under, the tracks were purchased by the State and then given to Amtrack to manage. So, Caltrain is strictly property of the State Government but still run by the Federal Government at the same time. Don’t ask me how it works, I don’t know, I just pay my taxes and it goes vroom.

We’ve wanted to extend the Caltrain down to Southern California for a very long time, but because of corruption and a lot of people in politics refusing to expand the Bay out of the fear of maybe dropping our housing prices to reasonable limits, and the fear of making it way too feasible to get more children to Disneyland, the track has stayed roughly the same length for over 40 years.

Overall, It’s less drive time than this duel that takes up this next arc, I’m pretty sure. I’m gonna guess that the duel will be 3 episodes long because c’mon. This is Yugioh. It’s always 3 episodes long, like a Nintendo boss.

Anyway, all these train facts are things that are probably so weird and foreign to places that have ample trains--but in America, we just don’t have a strong train lobby compared to our auto lobby. So, I’m sure that people in Japan making this series thought “Oh they’re on a train--it can just go forever because why wouldn’t it be long? Aren’t all American trains connected?” but uh...it’s a short train. Like we’re talking like a few hours max, and that’s only if they’re starting from Gilroy.

I will say that BART is longer and has multiple tracks, so you would think they’d just take BART instead. But, it goes under the ocean for part of it, and we’ll get to why that would have been a very big problem in this episode later. Also, BART is very gross and no one wants to animate that outside of a horror movie.

But at least they didn’t go way out of left field and take the SF trolley. The Caltrain does actually go pretty fast. It...kind of makes sense. They did actual research into a real thing that we do have.

++++END RANT ABOUT THIS TRAIN AND HOW NONE OF THIS EPISODE MAKES SENSE BUT IT’S YUGIOH SO I WILL IGNORE THAT++++

And youknow...there’s something just so adorable about seeing desert mesas reflected in the window of the Caltrain. It’s just delightful. Because, in reality the entire stretch of the Caltrain is very densely suburban/urban, and the only place where it isn’t surrounded by city is when it’s flanked by the sea.

But yeah, just put mesas on it!

*freakin curtains*

Joey and Tristan hit the “dining car,” which I don’t think is a thing in any form of commuter train. These trains are for trips the length of about 1 extensive Puzzles and Dragons session on your phone, give or take.

(And man, speaking of, the Yugioh PAD collab was so good, guys. Ah man. Been wrecking like every dungeon in multiplayer ever since Bro and I both got a Yugi to put as our leader. He’s basically one of the best leaders in the game right now and I feel like people at PAD were huge Yugioh fans because they were like “what if we made...basically every Yugioh pull into a freakin beast that broke every dungeon in the game?”)

I can’t believe Joey Wheeler went thousands of miles from his homeland and was like “I better drink an American soda” and chose Orange. I mean he might be drinking an Arizona Tea, but I’m pretty sure he thought “ah, Kenan and Kel, right?” and just nabbed the nastiest soda that exists outside of grape.

I feel like I can still taste the orange soda I drank over 20 years ago. It is terrible. It is SO orange. Gross. But at the same time...good? I really don't know with Orange Soda. It’s probably gross.

Meanwhile, Tea decides it’s an appropriate time for Yami to work on his social skills. Now. When he’s visibly grieving after being berated by his Basically-Step-Grandfather and Rebecca.

And then we find out something I’ve never realized before, and it’s that Tea is really bad at social cues. Like maybe even worse than Yami. Like, I dunno how Pharaoh could look more like an angry cat/hedgehog but Tea was not picking up on it.

And y’all I’m not making that up, these are the topics Tea actually came up with for the guy who just saw his best friend die/was very implicit in said murder. Beaches and Bathing Suits.

She got over Yugi being dead like immediately.

Of course, this episode is kind of weird because, much like this show has done so many times already, these guys are still struggling to truly understand that Yugi is two people in one body. Tea sort of comes to this realization as if she...forgot that she has stepped inside his actual head and seen this for herself.

Or maybe it’s denial, but I’m thinking maybe the show did this for the new people coming to the show, to explain a rather complicated thing that took 3 seasons to cement in our minds. But still, it makes Tea seem very forgetful over a guy she should sort of be dating I guess.

Anyway it’s their first real fight. Kind of. I mean it’s hard to tell if anyone on this show is dating, and it’s equally hard to tell if they are fighting, too.

Well, first real fight if you don’t count Zero when Yugi tried to make out with Miho over a card duel, but I think we’re all doing our best to forget that ever happened. Yugi especially.

Or I guess that time she strangled him nearly to death in the nurse’s office when Shadi took over his body. That counts as a fight, right?

Ah. Now we’re on Caltrain.

Don’t take it the wrong way, Caltrain is actually our higher end safe train, compared to our other transit, BART, which will always sit you next to a weirdo, guaranteed. Caltrain--you can take a good nap on Caltrain. BART...you will never feel comfortable enough to take a nap on BART (also because there’s not enough seating room anymore)

But a lot of people who take the train are just freakin WEIRD. I used to take the Caltrain with my older brother (different bro than the bro of this blog, this is my chaotic neutral bro) because we both worked near the same place in downtown SF, and he would always take with him--I kid you not--a 2 liter bottle of Mountain Lightning for a snack.

For those not in the States, Mountain Lightning is the offbrand Walmart version of Mountain Dew. Yes. I know what I said. It seems dumbfounding as Mountain Dew is already an off brand of Sprite--the true lemon/lemon lime--but indeed, like Inception, you can always go deeper, and if there is a soda so bewildering and random, my older brother will be ON IT.

Anyways, my older bro is a train weirdo, so not only does he prefer Mountain Lightning to Mountain Dew, he would take out a 2 liter from his backpack, tilt back his head, and just chug the whole thing straight from the huge ass bottle in front of God and everyone on that train.

He’d polish it off completely on the ride there and the ride back, because my older brother has this weird medical problem where he can’t really feel pain and he has an insane metabolism and never gained weight until he was like 32, so he can just...chug as much soda as he freakin wants. So, at some point of the trip he would have to use the very tiny bathroom, and it would be very urgent, and he’d just scramble over me to get to the aisle and then kind of skip and hop all the way there on the rush hour train that was completely full of people.

Like, most people don’t even know that Caltrain has a bathroom--well now you know, and for several years there, it was just always taken by my brother violently pissing. That was us (well...him). My apologies.

In case your curious, now my bro has hardcore acid reflux, and all he needs to do is stop drinking so much damn soda, but it’s been very hard for him, so he has cut back to “diet soda”. This is still a lot of soda and it still causes acid reflux. His doctor is working on him.

And yes, Diet Mountain Lightning exists. That’s just so many steps removed from Sprite at this point.

Anyways, enough waxing long about train memories, lets get back to the show, because it’s not this season of Yugioh until there’s a problem with the commute.

Unrelated to Pharaoh punching the walls, everyone has “disappeared.”

My bro looked up the Wiki that says there's “no explanation for the missing train passengers” but we all know what that really means on this show, right?

So, how many people fit on Caltrain?

There’s just NO WAY they’re alive anymore, right? Like Yugioh went and killed 756 Bay Area passengers because...it’s a filler season!

I really feel like there’s just no way Seto or Bakura will ever catch up to Darts’ death count at this rate.

After this, we have ourselves this fun train-jumping trope.

Pretty sure it was the superhuman opposing force of Tea jumping from the back train to the front of the train that forced the back to lose all of it’s 100+ mph momentum and immediately come to a full and complete stop.

Not sure how Darts did this thing with the train separating. But he did. Or maybe it was Rex and Weevil? Either way, he somehow managed to do this well enough to strand Joey and Tristan on the other side of the line that now has no engine.

(course I say this like in 1400 AD the Bay wasn’t full of the Ohlone. this place was basically always developed because...the weather’s hella good when it’s not on fire.)

Now if you go East--southern Utah looks like this, and parts of me wonder if maybe the artists thought they were taking the train all the way to Florida. Did the English dub add “we’re taking the train to the airport” because they knew there was no one in their right mind in America who would take a California-Florida train?

I have no other explanation for why the Bay Area looks like this, than to assume that this is an alternate California where there never was a Loma Prieta Earthquake and also one where Seto and Pegasus bought out and destroyed both Steve Jobs and Bill Gates. Which makes Seto and Pegasus sound like just real true heroes, never paving any sort of way for Mark Zuckerberg to happen and unintentionally (or intentionally who knows) screw up our elections.

Or maybe that was entirely Darts? Maybe it was Darts who’s been eating up the Bay, harvesting nerd souls for the leviathan and knowing that no one will miss these Twitter developers if Twitter never happens in the first place. Especially if he’s just ghosting entire Caltrains willy nilly.

But anyway, fun fact about the Caltrain that the creators of this show didn’t know--the train is a push-pull train, so...It has an engine on both sides of the train. Joey and Tristan...still have an engine. It would have never stopped, even with Tea’s incredible backward momentum.

This is normal train stuff and is something you should always assume about a commuter train that cannot afford the time to reattach the locomotive in order to turn around, but we forget about this in TV shows basically all the time.

However, there are fantasy rules that we give to TV that we sort of don’t extend to other places. We suspend our disbelief for things like this train stopping in a track that would, realistically, have another train passing by in 10 minutes anyway. Things like rogue waves that topple over ocean liners. Or CEOs in Silicon Valley who have ass-length blue hair that is tied with one single hair precarious band.

The point at which we no longer can suspend our disbelief when it comes to TV is SO interesting to me. Because I’m fully willing to let go of the fact that Caltrain is A Push-Pull train because it’s still a fun trope although this can never really happen to you on...almost any train at all anymore. But if this were a movie? People would be losing their freakin MINDS. Look what they did after Star Wars. They lost their entire minds over force-field science that doesn’t even exist.

Like, maybe the people who made this episode really do know that San Jose is the 3rd largest city in California, and that this is a push-pull train, and that there are no mesas anywhere near the ocean of San Fransisco. Maybe they did know that--but they decided to suspend our disbelief by pushing this Wild Wild West fantasy aesthetic SO HARD so it makes it believable although this is just...so wrong. Mostly because...it’s fun TV. Not because it makes any sense, but because I would like to have fun instead of thinking.

Which is also how most romance novels work ps. But Yugioh, although *almost* understanding the key ingredient to how romance actually works, I will assume never figures that out.

I hope.

Also, Rex is here.

Bro would like to bring up that Red Eyes is not a rare card in the real world. So Rex is going out of his way to venge a card that costs...$4.50 at Target. That’s less than a meal at McDonalds. This card may have been in a Happy Meal at McDonalds.

*pictured here, the actual canyons of San Jose*

So something that’s interesting between Yami and Joey is that Yami gives in basically immediately and decides to duel Weevil, who would be very easy to just gently push off of this train. Joey on the other hand, looks down at both of his punching fists and is like “why would I bother?”

Not that it mattered, it’s just interesting that even Joey has more restraint than Yami, who has 0 restraint, apparently, when it comes to dueling cards.

Joey has more restraint that Yami, and Joey is the kid who has tried to punch out Seto Kaiba in nearly every conversation he has ever had with Seto Kaiba over the last 4 seasons.

Also, Tea is just standing on top of this train like it’s a completely normal day outside. Girl has no fear.

Wouldn’t these people be covered in bug guts? Like how are they not getting assaulted by so many flies and birds?

But because she has no decent cards the Oricalchos just kicks her out? I dunno. There’s a lot of weird physics in the next scene.

And she just grabs onto a moving train with her bare hands. I feel like Tea is just so woefully overpowered in this group but for the wrong game. I say this a lot. She’s like their One Punch Man but will never, ever know.

So anyway, that was a long time between updates and now I’m out of sync and behind on everything so...hell knows when the next update will be. Depends on the length of episode I guess? Bro really wants to get to what comes next soon though. He’ll pester me until I do it.

Now I can’t mention Mountain Lightning without sharing with you what you do with 2-4 liters of Mountain Lightning after your brother leaves and then just...doesn’t have enough room for all of his Mountain Lightning AND his baby in his car, so he just leaves it in your house.

It’s called Mountain Dew Cake <-(that is a link) and it’s actually pretty damn good.

I made this once and fed it to a British person and they were like “this is so decadent--what’s in this?” and I uh didn’t know how to respond to that other than “it’s really just Mountain Dew, I’m so sorry” and that was a lie, because it was full of Mountain Lightning.

Anyway, if you just got here, this is a link to read these recaps in order.

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lesya-writes · 4 years

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untitled merthur fic ch.2 excerpt

Arthur made sure to put on a good show of it with a well-timed and indignant “Father!”. He made sure no one would have reason to doubt the act. Inside, he was brewing with a pleasant surprise at this unexpected turn of events. After all, what better way to keep an eye on the boy than having him act as manservant to the prince? And here I was, fretting over trying to come up with something plausible when the perfect opportunity lands at my feet. Perhaps fate favours me.

He looked down at the knife embedded in the back of his chair.

Though it does have a funny way of showing it.

Merlin’s opinion appeared to differ. Where Arthur was pleased, Merlin looked as if all the gods had abandoned him to a hellish fate worse than death itself.

Arthur was a little insulted, he could admit. And, perhaps, even a little impressed with himself for inspiring such a strong emotion in another person, even if that emotion was repulsion.

Merlin’s disgruntled look was quickly hidden; the boy clearly didn’t want to appear ungrateful in the presence of the king and all his noble guests. Hidden though it was, he still looked like he’d bitten into a lemon. And quick he was, but not quick enough for Arthur to miss. No one else seemed to notice, least of all his father, but no one had been paying as much attention to Merlin as Arthur. His father’s good mood didn’t seem to dampen, so instead of calling the whole thing off, he ordered for the feast to recommence after the witch had been promptly removed.

But once the king was turned away and everyone’s attentions back to their feast, Merlin shot Arthur a dirty look.

“Come now, Merlin. You’ve just earned yourself a very prestigious spot in the household. Why so sour?” Arthur asked, putting an arm around the boy’s shoulders.

Merlin narrowed his eyes at him. “You seem rather pleased with this turn of events.”

Well, he has a good eye. Maybe that’s why his name is Merlin.

“Of course I am. Seeing as the last sod quit, I really need someone to polish my armor and wash my clothes and change my bedsheets and -”

“Wipe your arse?” he asked under his breath, but Arthur heard it all the same. He felt his mouth twitch and his eyes narrow. He tried to keep the anger at bay with a smile, but judging by Merlin’s expression, his irritation managed to seep through regardless.

“No, I think I can handle that well on my own.”

“Well that’s a relief. Here I was, thinking the future ruler of the land needs to be looked after like a baby. Glad to know you can take care of yourself. And seeing as you can, in fact, take care of yourself, there really is no need-”

“Merlin!” Arthur said with a fake joviality, patting him on the back a few times. Merlin stumbled a bit. “Are you, perhaps, unappreciative of your new role?”

“Unappreciative? No, never, sire. It’s just…well, I’ve got things to do and-”

“Oh, I’m well aware you’ve got things to do. After all, I’m the one who assigns these things.”

Merlin let out a deep and bone-weary sigh, like an old man who’s been to war a few times. It seems he’s past the bargaining stage, now steadily proceeding on to acceptance.

“Well, this has all been very fun, but I think I’m done for the night.” Arthur walked up to where his father was seated and excused himself.

“You don’t want to stay and enjoy the music?” Merlin asked, a wry twist on his lips.

“No, I think I’ve had enough of music for the time being.”

“Well, at least I won’t be forced to sing you any lullabies.”

Arthur snorted. “As if I’d want to hear that. Your singing could probably wake the dead.”

“So you’re saying my voice is magical?”

“No, I’m saying it’s terrible enough to make me never want to sleep again.”

“And how would you know? You’ve never heard me sing. Maybe I have the voice of an angel.”

“You? Voice of an angel? You talk too much rubbish for that.”

“I talk rubbish? Have you ever heard yourself speak? Well, of course you have, you love hearing the sound of your own voice.”

“Now that’s quite a bit of projecting you’re doing there, Merlin.”

“Me? I’m projecting?” Merlin asked, voice incredulous. His question echoed in the empty halls.

“You seem to love the sound of your voice more than I ever could love mine. After all, your talking is the thing that got you into trouble in the first place,” Arthur replied, brow raised and a smirk tugging at his mouth.

“And my action is what got you out of it.”

“I’m not entirely sure I am out of it. You being my manservant seems like more trouble than I could ever want.”

“Would you prefer being dead? Because I’m sure we could find another angry sorceress to use you as a practice target. Must be plenty of those around here.”

Arthur was unsettled as to how accurate that probably was.

“I’ve not decided yet. I’ll see how you do and then make my decision. If I decide you’re terrible, you have my explicit permission to kill me.”

“Shall I inform the king of that?”

“I’ll tell him at breakfast.”

They reached his chamber doors, finally, and stood in silence for a moment.

Merlin turned to look at him, clearly expecting something.

“You’ll start tomorrow. You are to come and wake me and gather my breakfast. Then, after I am woken, you are to clothe me. Is that understood?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t. Be. Late,” Arthur said, leaning in close to make sure the ignorant knob got it. Merlin leaned away.

“Yes, I got it. I’m not slow.”

Arthur’s mouth quirked up. The boy let out a sigh and simply said, “Don’t.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything.”

“I’m sure. Goodnight, sire.”

With that, he turned and left without even waiting for a reply or for Arthur to dismiss him. He shook his head.

“Goodnight,” he replied to an empty hall.

#merthur #merlin #Arthur Pendragon #bbc merlin #fanfic

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unconventional-hero · 5 years

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Chapter 8-- Under False Colors.

Written by “The Countess”

(In which our Jacks are invited to dinner.)

* * * * *

He found his way back to the hotel. How, he could never tell, but he had never been lost in all his life.

After a sleepless night he came down to breakfast looking pale and haggard. He wondered how he could enjoy fried eggs, fresh fish and muffins when his heart was so heavy, but a man’s appetite is a wonderful and fearful thing, stronger than sorrow or love and rarely absent from its owner.

Certain it was that after the daintily served meal he felt much better and, upon regaining his room and lighting a cigar, he argued the matter, which so disturbed him, pro and con with his conscience.

“Henry Ashton!” he said, watching the smoke form a shadowy likeness of Clyde. “He called me ‘Henry’ when he saw me first. He couldn’t be confused! Blast the man! He’s more than half devil now!”

He kicks an unoffending ottoman viciously.

“He has the clearest brain in all the world and the blackest heart. I hate him!” The ottoman receives a kick this time which sends it flying across the floor. Then comes a pause. A mist suffuses his eyes and is hastily brushed away.

“He was my best friend,” he murmurs under his breath. “And to show him up in his true light would ruin him and do me no good. No, Clyde is too young to marry,-- her folks won’t let her fall in love till she been off to school and then-- ten to one she won’t care for either of us! But any way she’s a little lady and my raising a fuss would only maker her sorry and angry and she would never want to see me again. Yes, Jim’s head is clearest. I’ll forgive and--” with a great gulp-- “forget. And now--” rising and gazing into the depths of the pier-glass opposite-- “take a look at yourself, Henry Ashton!”

He smiles, sarcastically. “And Jim is me! Pshaw, I’ll be sure to call him Jim!”

A knock at the door. A porter with a letter-- no, a card elegantly engraved, “Mr. Jack Morningstar.”

“Somebody making me a present of a set?” he asks genially. “Awfully clever of him! Here’s a quarter.”

The surprised porter eagerly catches the “tip” thrown to him and so misses the dark look of remembrance that comes to Jack’s face. On the reverse side of the card he reads:

“You’re invited, as my friend from Montana to dine at McClure’s to-night with me. Remember, Henry, that Western men are all the go here and don’t polish up. Will call for you at 5:30. --Jack.”

He closes the door after very politely asking the now almost hysterical porter if he won’t “come in and set awhile,” and having the invitation promptly rejected.

“Dinner at McClures’!” he repeats, dazed. “That’s New York for stay to dinner. But ‘at 5:30!’ There must be some mistake! S’pose Jim meant ‘sup.’ Well, well! It’s all one! But at McClure’s! With my little Clyde! And Jim talking of saving her life out West and acting like me! Oh, I can’t do it!”

He throws away his cigar and looks from his window into the street below. What he is thinking of we can but guess. After a while he says it would be rude to refuse, even if he must take a heart of lead with him, and begins to lay out his best attire, polishing his boots until they rival patent leathers, and wondering if “the dudes here put bear-grease on their hair when they go out to dine!”

* * * * *

At 5:30, Jim arrives, picturesque, debonair and handsome. He knocks at Jack’s door, then enters without waiting for an invitation.

“Seems like the West, Jackie, old boy!” he cries gayly. “There, don’t start. Honestly, I’m horribly sorry for what I’ve done. But I’ll make it all right yet. See if I don’t! And I haven’t won the heart of the fair McClure either. The way is open to you. Come, shall we bury the hatchet?”

Jack makes no answer,-- only looks keenly at his companion’s face.

“Hurry, old fellow!” Jim says. “Dine at six, you know. Shall we be friends again?”

Jack starts forward impulsively.

“God knows you’ve hurt me, Jim! I’ve suffered-- there, your paw! Blast me! I love you better than life!”

“And to partly atone for my unaccountable treachery, old boy, I’ll talk to old Miss Dorothy all evening while you’re doing the agreeable to the pretty heiress. Could human friendship further go?”

Jack thinks not. He is as happy as a boy again. At peace with all the world and going to call on Clyde!

They descend the stairs and find a hansom cab waiting for them.

“It is handsome!” Jack says, after Jim has told him what the vehicle is called.

And then they are whirled away to the McClure mansion.

“You’re Henry Ashton, recollect,” Jim whispers eagerly, as they alight. “And I’m Jack Morningstar. Don’t give the game away!”

* * * * *

Miss Jennings greets them most politely and presents Clyde, radiant in rose-colored faille, to “Jack’s” friend, Henry Ashton.

“Really,” she says, calmly surveying them through her single eye-glass, “you are remarkably alike! Are you cousins?”

“Only friends,” responds the pretended Jack, glibly, with an anxious glance toward the real Jack, who is still standing feasting his eyes on the budding beauty of Clyde. “Here, Harry, my boy, take a seat!”

This is a breezy dash of Westernism on “Jack’s” part which is overlooked, though with a short pang, by Miss Dorothy.

She, however, seconds the invitation.

“Mr. Ashton, be seated, pray!” she says in her most genteel tones.

“I forgot where I was!” Mr. Ashton apologizes. “Thanks, I will.”

He takes a stiff, medieval chair at the other end of the room. Clyde’s pretty eyes dance with merriment.

Miss Jennings resolves to treat this new Western acquaintance with great coolness. She makes no effort to have him come into the circle and, turning to the elegant man near her says something about the weather and asks if he is still pleased with New York.

He replies gracefully, exulting secretly over his friend’s solecism and hoping that to the ladies he may appear doubly refined when compared to this “raw specimen,” as he mentally styles him.

After a while Mr. McClure, cordial and breezy as usual, arrives and dinner is announced.

“Dinner?” Mr. Ashton ejaculates, as he rises to his feet and walks rapidly across the room. I do hope that you haven’t kept the victuals waiting six hours for us, Miss McClure!”

Which he considers a graceful stroke, worthy of Jim, but which is greeted with a surprised but merry look from Clyde and utter silence from Miss Jennings.

They are ushered into a long and handsome dining room finished with oak. The table is covered with damask and buttercup satin and an enormous silver epergne, filled with fruits and flowers, graced the center. A dainty, antique water-carafe and the napkins and individual silver complete its furnishings.

Miss Dorothy asks quietly if Mr. Morningstar will ask a blessing.

Honest Jack, quite forgetting the part he is playing, begins, “For what we are about to receive--” when he hears Jim’s voice joining in. In a moment he has remembered all and stops. Jim has honored him, he thinks, by assuming his name. He cannot imagine himself as repeating such choice clauses and pious phrases as he now wonderingly listens to. He is scarcely conscious that he, to all outward appearances at least, has committed another blunder for beginning the grace and save for Miss Jennings’ haughty glance in his direction at the close, no attention is paid to it.

A well-trained butler brings in a bowl of bouillon and a thin square of bread for each of the diners.

“Mr. Ashton, what is the matter?” coos Clyde at his right. “Don’t you like bouillon?”

“Oh, yes, yes!” he answers, his heart leaping into his mouth at the sound of her voice. “I was only looking for the butter for my bread!”

Clyde hides a dimpling smile in her handkerchief. “They never use butter for the bread served with bouillon,” she explains, secretly glad that “Aunt Dorothy” is congratulating “Mr. Morningstar” on his early religious training at the time of this last ridiculous remark.

“Is that so? Funny now, isn’t it?” and Mr. Ashton cooly changes the subject to his great admiration for flowers such as those in the epergne. “And the vase is so odd,” he adds.

Clyde finds him to be great fun and allows him, through successive courses, to monopolize the conversation. Miss Dorothy almost ignores him.

When the lobster salad, fresh from the skillful hands of a chef, is brought in, “Mr. Ashton” sotto voce, tells Clyde that he believes “salading the fish is better than biling them,” only he is afraid the olive oil used in its manufacture may prove “too rich for his blood.”

“And tell me,” he says, at the end of the fourth course. “Did you actually cook all these things yourself? Why! you’d take the premium at the Gallatin county fair for those hot rolls! But maybe you keep a hired girl!”

Clyde laughs aloud, so merrily that “Mr. Ashton” congratulates himself on his fascinating powers, and so unrestrainedly that she meets a look of reproof from each end of the table and a quizzical glance from “Mr. Morningstar” opposite.

Covered with blushes, her face rivals her gown in color. She is sure of a lecture at the close of the dinner.

“Mr. Ashton,” elated by her laugh, says he knows some good conundrums and asks the time-honored “chestnut,” “Why was Eve sent into the garden of Eden?” which is more than Clyde can endure and she laughs again and shakes silently for several moments afterward.

After dessert coffee is served in tiny after-dinner coffee-cups without cream. Jack, the real Jack, does not comment on this fact however, secretly feeling worried at Miss Jennings’ hauteur.

Then come the finger-bowls, a yellow bit of lemon gleaming in each.

“Mr. Ashton” takes his eagerly.

“If there is one thing I’m fond of, it’s lemonade!” he says, and swallows a liberal mouthful of the water, while the dignified butler loses all dignity and rushes to the kitchen.

#Victorian era #period drama #romantic drama #1800s #late 1800s #An Unconventional Hero #volume 2 #the Countess

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nightfoliage · 6 years

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Fic - The More Things Change (Superbat)

Prompt: Bruce and Clark have loved one another for years. They’re both aware of these feelings, though it’s never discussed between them and they refuse to act on them – Bruce because there are a thousand reasons it’s a bad idea, and Clark because he knows it’s not something Bruce would ever allow himself. Everyone from the Justice League to the batfam tries to intervene.

Additional Summary: A Holiday Exchange in the Watchtower.

For: @timmyjdrake

Pairing: Bruce Wayne_Batman/Clark Kent_Superman

Tags and Warning: 2017 Superbat Secret Santa @superbatsecretsanta, General Rating, mostly pre52 universe, holiday exchange, batfam, Ma Kent, other heroes, some pining, denial of feelings, and fluff.

Author’s Note: It’s a bit rough, so I might go over this later, but it’s done! I think I filled the prompt, but mixed in how I feel like things could end with these two.

Word Count: ~7400

Date Published: 12/25/2017 (Edited 1/4/2018)

Read below or on ao3:

-000-

He stays silent even as Diana shakes the hat in front of him.

“Don’t be a party pooper Bats, just take one,” Hal teases. He’s grinning at him along with a few other Leaguers.

Batman does not curl up on himself, nor does he slap the hat out of Diana’s hands. He doesn't go and punch the smug grin off of Jordan’s face and he certainly does not run towards the teleporters.

Instead, he grabs a piece of paper out of the hat. He resists the urge to look at the name and instead folds his arms, tucking the piece of paper into his cape. Some of the other leaguers look at the him, but Batman stays absolutely still. Diana gives him a smile, and moves on to the next person. The others move their attention elsewhere.

Batman silently observes the next people take a name. Some people reveal who’ve they've gotten from their reactions, but none of them get his name.

The papers are dwindling when a voice fills the room.

“Sorry, guys, I had to take care of something first,” Superman says, walking briskly towards the group. His eyes are bright and he looks a bit winded. However, his curl isn’t out of place, so it must not have been anything too important. He joins the circle.

“Don’t worry, Superman,” Wonder Woman says. “You didn’t miss the Holiday Exchange. And there’s a name for you inside the hat.”

Flash speeds over and leans against the hero. “What kept you?”

“Cat stuck in a tree?” Lantern asks with a snigger.

“Actually, it was a ball python.” Superman says, dryly. “I think the fire department was happy to let me handle that one.”

Some of the other heroes chuckle, while some shudder.

Batman does neither. He tracks Wonder Woman with his eyes and watches as she brings the hat over to Superman.

“No peeking.”

Superman rolls his eyes and looks away with his eyes closed and picks a name out of the hat.

After he’s picked his name, Wonder Woman finishes distributing the other names. Batman watches as Superman reads his paper, and discreetly puts it away. He does not give away who he has gotten.

Interesting.

He goes back to looking at Wonder Woman when she begins to address everybody. “This is our holiday exchange (not Secret Santa). Normally, there’s a twenty dollar limit, but we’ve scrapped that rule in case people have sentimental priceless gifts. Try to make the gift yourself if you can. Feel free to exchange them at any time, or during the winter party we’re throwing. If you’re unable to do the holiday exchange, then please tell me.”

Everybody quickly agrees and splits off into groups, while Batman slips into a corner unnoticed.

Someone joins him.

“Forgive me, Bruce.” Diana says softly, with a smile. She’s not sorry at all.

He narrows his eyes but no one's listening. At least, no one who doesn’t already know who he is.

“This is not an emergency meeting, Princess,” he murmurs back. “I’m not even a part of the Justice League.”

“Would you have come otherwise?”

He doesn’t answer.

“So can I count on you for the other gifts in case someone isn’t able to get one?”

He nods and her face turns softer, warmer. “Do you need me to help pick things out?”

Batman shakes his head. “I’ll be able to figure it out.”

She laughs, and for a brief moment everybody glances at her. One person’s gaze lingers for a little longer than usual. He hopes they find a proper gift for Wonder Woman. It would be unfortunate if she as the organizer didn’t receive something special.

“Thank you, Batman.” And with that she makes her way to the others. She draws their gaze away from him and he creeps closer to the zeta tubes. When he’s sure he doesn't have the attention of anyone else and his back is turned towards the rest of the group, he unfolds his piece of paper and reads it.

A moment later he’s teleporting back to earth. If he stayed, he would have stared at Superman the whole night, wondering what to get him.

-000-

“I don’t know what to get him, Ma,” Clark stabs into his pie a little bit harder than usual and winces. Luckily there’s no damage to the plate, or the fork, or the pie.

Blueberry pie.

“You’ve been friends for quite a while, Clark. Surely there’s something you can get him,” his Ma says, puttering around the kitchen. Clark has already been scolded for trying to help. Instead he’s been set to work trying some new pie flavors. There’s a slice of lemon and a slice of rhubarb-strawberry waiting for him.

Clark takes a bite of pie to delay his answer.

How could he explain how important this was to him. That Batman was one of his oldest friends and confidants, someone he trusted with his life. That he needed the perfect gift to show how much the man meant to him.

Thankfully, his mother seems to know anyway and takes pity on him.

“How is the pie, dear?” Martha asks.

Clark gives her a grateful smile. “It’s really good, Ma. A new recipe right? I’m sure the book club will enjoy it.”

But instead of taking the compliment and pinching his cheek like she normally does, Martha sneaks a bite for herself. She frowns and looks at the pie like it’s a puzzle. Clark shovels another bite in his mouth.

She sighs, “Yes. I suppose it’s good enough for book club. Now try the other ones.”

Clark polishes off the first slice and drinks a glass of milk. Then he starts on the next flavor.

“Why don’t you ask all those kids of his what to get him?” Martha suggests.

Clark protests, “Ma, I can’t do that.” But only because he’s considered it already. Maybe he could ask Dick, and maybe Cass in a pinch, but he knows that telling any of the kids is a sure fire way to get Alfred involved. And he’s not sure if he wants Bruce’s father-figure to find out that he’s trying to find the perfect gift for Bruce.

He’s not ready for that.

If he’s really in a pickle, maybe he’ll ask Alfred.

Martha lets her son stew for a bit, before tutting at him.

“Just make sure to get him something nice and make sure to come back during the holidays so I can give you the pies you wanted.”

Clark nods, grateful. “I’ll make sure to give his family one and the League loves your pies.”

Martha glances at the pies. “Well, I hope they like flavors other than apple.”

Clark wonders what his mom has against apple pie all of a sudden (his favorite), but knows he has other things to worry about.

-000-

It’s only a few days since the exchange and it’s a complete coincidence when Bruce needs to head to Metropolis for business. Bruce makes sure to pack for business of both varieties, and does not allow himself to smirk when he surprises Clark (and the rest of the Daily Planet) with his presence.

He makes sure to flirt with Cat and Lois gratuitously, makes sure to slap Jimmy on the back, and skillfully negotiates Perry into making Clark get an impromptu quote about anything new at Wayne Enterprises.

Clark still looks a bit gobsmacked when Bruce Wayne mentions that they can talk over lunch.

Clark stutters out, “Uh, well, Mr.Wayne, I don’t know anything good that’s open at 3pm, but-”

Bruce Wayne cuts the reporter off. “How many times do I have to tell you, it’s Brucie! And sure people are always offering things to me like lobster thermidor with kelp foam, but I’m feeling like something I can really bite into. Know any good places like that, Kent?”

For the first time since he’s stepped into the room, Clark smiles. “I know a good place, er, Bruce.”

-000-

“Finest pizza in Metropolis,” Clark says.

Bruce grunts in response and begins to scarf down his pizza. Clark glances back at the owners, but they’re purposely not paying attention to them and there’s no one else around (luckily).

Then he turns back to Bruce. Clark’s glad that he’s ordered extra because it looks like Bruce hasn’t had a hot meal in a few days. He knows that there’s a particularly troubling case in Gotham involving children so he’s not surprised. He’s just glad he can get him something to eat.

Instead of saying any of that aloud, Clark says: “You could have warned me that you were coming.”

Bruce is in the middle of decimating a bite. He wipes his mouth delicately with a handkerchief (the faker), before saying, “You’re reactions are always best when they’re honest.”

Clark snorts. “You just like getting the drop on people even when you’re not dressed up like a bat.”

Bruce smirks and takes another bite of pizza.

He takes a little bit of pride in making Bruce drop his Brucie Wayne mask, even if it’s at his expense. Once the glow stops he asks, “So why are you here?”

Bruce pauses. Clark can practically see Bruce sorting through all the information in his brain, deciding what not to tell him. It’s okay. He’s a reporter, he’ll figure it out eventually.

“Toyman,” Bruce finally admits.

“Really.” Because Clark hasn’t heard of anything that could hint at Toyman.

“Toy-person. Uses toys to,” and Bruce lips curl enough that it prevents him from eating and Clark’s stomach drops because there aren’t many things that will make Bruce this emotive, “uses toys to make children do their bidding.”

He’s almost afraid to ask, but he has to: “What does he have them do?”

“Anything. Everything. Sometimes it doesn’t even seem like the child is brainwashed, they just do things out of the ordinary. One of them learned how to play a piano concerto overnight, another could suddenly do backflips, and there was a one who scored a perfect SAT.”

“That doesn’t sound too bad,” Clark says, though he’s sure it’s only going to get worse.

“We were sorting through which ones were abnormalities as opposed to those who were naturally talented, when we caught a group that had successfully burgled a bank. Clark, they were all below the age of ten and had skills they had no business of having.”

“Bruce, your kids-”

“My kids grew up that way,” Bruce snaps. “They had been trained from birth to be the way they are. These kids are outliers. Either from families who can’t afford it or the rich and pampered.”

Despite the graveness of the situation, or maybe because of it, Clark lets out a wry chuckle. “Jealous that the young ones don’t have to work to become like Batman, Bruce?”

Bruce stares at him and Clark just manages not to laugh, though he know he’s grinning like the dim hayseed he’s often accused of.

“Maybe, a little,” Bruce says with an eye roll. Then starts to eat his pizza again.

“So, about the kids, are the connections toys?”

Bruce nods.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Surprisingly, or maybe because Bruce is that tired, Bruce doesn’t growl at him to stay out of the case. Instead, he continues to eat his pizza and doesn't answer. That’s as good as a blessing as he’s going to get out of Bruce.

-000-

They're walking back to the Daily Planet, when Clark sees something that catches his eye. They’re passing an antique shop and Bruce immediately memorizes the storefront and the angle Clark glanced at the window.

A day later he drops the Brucie Wayne persona to go back to the shop.

Disappointingly, there’s nothing of note inside. There are a few baseball card he thinks Clark might have been looking at, but no perfect Christmas gift.

There are a few antique puzzle boxes he picks up and the owner looks considerably more welcoming after he flashes the cash. He’s even brought to a private room (he almost chuckles at how shrewd and secretive the owner was, he would have been a great Gothamite) where some of the more expensive prizes are.

He doesn’t spot anything of interest. Mostly it’s old artifacts he might buy later to donate to a museum and a lot of gilded oddities.

Nothing catches his eyes until he spots a golden elephant. Bruce lets himself get drawn into it’s figure. It’s a circus elephant, rearing back on its hind legs.

“Ah! You have a good eye,” the owner says. “It’s also a music box.”

And he turns a hidden piece of the contraption (cleverly placed, he’ll have to keep that in mind), and the whole thing starts to move. The delicate elephant rears back, it’s tusk moves, and it spins on the base. The music tinkles cheerfully, a generic rendition of circus music.

But Bruce is suddenly taken back to an unforgettable night. He remembers Dick, sobbing while holding onto an elephant. Around them the is circus wishing him goodbye and a goodlife as the two of them have solved the murder of the Flying Graysons.

He remembers how happy that elephant made him.

-000-

The case with the toys still hasn’t produced any leads. Following up with Schott and Okamura hasn’t gotten anything and Batman wonders if there is a new player in town. Maybe Mad Hatter? It’s not his MO, but giving children skills is such an usual thing…

He takes apart some of the toys and finds, something. They’re certainly not normal manufactured toys. They’ve been crafted with care and made to look like the other toy.

He’s taking some time to mull over the new information when he thinks about the golden elephant.

With some of the tools he already has out, he starts to take the music box apart.

-000-

He catches Dick after the boy has had a long patrol and a midnight snack. Dick is aware of him before he makes his presence known and Bruce presents him with the gift.

“Hey Bruce! What’s that in your hand…” Dick immediately reaches out and cradles the music box. He instinctive pets the elephant on your head.

Bruce stays silent.

Not a moment later, Dick finds the key to start the music. It’s the beginning of how Haley’s Circus used to open.

Dick can barely take his eyes off the dancing elephant. “Bruce…?”

Bruce doesn’t have an answer for him.

“We should go to the circus,” Bruce says instead.

“Uh, of course.”

Bruce nods and starts to walk away.

A moment later Dick calls after him, “Thank you, Bruce, I love it!”

-000-

Although Clark said he would help, the case comes to an end when the toy person tries to work their abilities on one, Damian Wayne.

Clark finds out via the Gotham Gazette, but doesn't blame Bruce when he sees the article must have been written hours before release.

He stares at the picture on the front cover. Damian Wayne looks triumphant with the criminal in police custody. Bruce Wayne is on one knee, facing away from the camera, a hand on his son's shoulders.

The criminal doesn’t look too out of sorts, so it looks like they’ve resolved the issue quietly.

Even so, Clark decides that Superman could make a quick stop in Gotham tonight.

He’s just crossed over the border when the familiar sound of a grappling hook catches his attention. Only because of his vision, and the fact that he’s been friends with Batman for years, can he spot the familiar silhouette in the shadows.

He lands silently and steps into the shadow so a random passerby won’t spot him. Batman doesn’t acknowledge him.

“How is he?” Superman asks.

For a moment, Batman doesn’t answer. Then he does something Super doesn’t expect, he sighs.

“Tired. It’s covered up by the adrenaline and the fact that he solved the case, but whatever happened made him tired.”

Clark would normally say, ‘at least he’s doing well,’ but he’s not Clark right now. Instead, he doesn’t say anything. Batman broods, but better he brood in company than alone right now.

They stand together in silence. Clark would have been content to stay by Bruce’s side, but Superman has to continue to watch the world around him. He takes a quick scan of the neighborhood, his vision failing miserably to look through Gotham’s walls. Darn lead is everywhere in this city. He extends his hearing, but he mostly gets the sound of the wind howling through the night and the creaking of old metal.

Sometimes, Superman thinks that the city is out to get him. However, it makes him more comfortable knowing he’s doing something.

Then there is a ‘thwip’ and Superman finds that his companion is leaving him behind. He follows slowly and as discreetly as possible, watching Batman move smoothly through Gotham. He’s admiring the sight of him when a sound catches his ear.

Someone’s crying.

Thankfully, Batman’s presence alone is enough to scare the group away, but whoever is crying continues to sob. Batman is silent and stays still, a protector for however long they want to cry.

Superman hesitates, but starts to fly away.

Bruce will feel better protecting someone than having someone try to comfort him.

-000-

Batman does not watch as Superman flies back into the sky. Instead his attention is focused on the young woman in front of him. She continues to cry and so he looks out in case anyone decides to take advantage of her emotional state.

He glances back at her. She’s dressed for a Gotham winter, but her clothes are new, bright, and eye catching. Her purse is name-brand and she has on jewelry. A tourist.

He almost sighs aloud when he spots the Wonder Woman jewelry and Superman patch on her jacket. He’s almost afraid to see if she has a Batman logo or any other hero symbols on her person.

After a moment, her sobs start to peter off into soft sniffling.

“I got lost,” she says, her voice still thick from tears.

Batman does not sigh even though he wants to.

Thankfully she doesn’t try to explain any further. She wipes her tears away and stands up shakily.

He doesn’t reply, instead moving forward through the alleys. The woman doesn’t need any prompting. She follows him silently and keeps pace. He leads her back onto the bigger streets. Batman molds himself into the shadows and calls a reputable taxi service to come in this direction.

It doesn’t take long before one starts coming down the street. Batman recognizes the license plate and the driver. He’s about to go away, when the woman calls back to. “Thanks for saving me.”

He doesn’t reply.

“Maybe I’ll get a Batman patch to match my other heroes,” she says, finally smiling for the first time he’s been with her.

He simply shoots his grapple gun and watches as the woman gets into the taxi.

-000-

The next evening he finds Wonder Woman waiting with a mug of coffee at the watchtower.

“That was a nice thing for you to do, Bruce.”

Batman does not look around this time, because he knows that no one is in the room with them.

“I don't know what you’re talking about,” he says. Then sits in the chair for monitoring duty. Wonder Woman places the mug in front of his hand and he grunts a thanks before taking a sip. She made it exactly how he likes it.

“Of course you don’t know anything about the Wayne Foundation making a sizable donation to my favorite women's charity” she says.

He takes another sip of coffee and switches through the channels, making sure to do his job instead of gossiping.

“And of course, you have nothing to do with the good media that comes with it. Of course that has nothing to do with Bruce Wayne making an announcement about backing the charity and wanting to open a branch in Gotham,” she says. Her voice is warm and she’s probably smiling and her eyes are most likely sparkling like their prone to do when she’s laughing on the inside, but Batman doesn’t turn to look at her to confirm this.

When Batman doesn’t reply, she places a soft kiss on the exposed skin of his cheek. However, after the kiss she doesn’t pull away. Instead she wraps her arms around him and presses her cheek against his and starts to laugh at him.

Batman does not grumble, nor does he pout. Instead he continues to do his job.

She laughs and laughs, but eventually does stop laughing to say: “Thank you for the wonderful present, Bruce.”

When she pulls away, he replies. “You’re welcome, Diana.”

-000-

There’s only a few days left until the Holiday Party at the Watchtower and Bruce does not have a gift for Clark yet. He's trawled over dozens of stores in dozens of cities, gone through hundreds of websites, and even looked through Clark’s apartment to look for a clue of what might be a good gift for him.

He’s thinking that he should just give him cash, but he hasn’t used up all his resources yet. He didn’t want to use this one, but he’s running out of options.

“Is there a reason that you’re ruining some of my dishes, Master Bruce?” Alfred asks.

Bruce does not roll his eyes, but that’s only because he’s staring intently at the water on the stove top. He’s waiting for the water to become a certain temperature, but he can’t let the water boil.

“Actually, I was waiting for you, Alfred,” he says.

Alfred, who was about to start tidying up the mess Bruce had made, stops.

“Why don’t you take a seat,” Bruce suggests.

He can feel Alfred’s gaze on him, but thankfully Alfred goes along with it. He’s probably curious enough to not let his instincts get the best of him. Just like Bruce planned, Alfred picks a stool at the island with the least amount of clutter in front of him.

Thankfully the water is done and Bruce turns the stove off. He takes the kettle off, pours the suggested amount of water into the teapot, then adds the tea leaves.

Bruce can tell that Alfred is itching to do it himself, so he finally tells him his problem:

“I don’t know what to get Clark for the Holiday Exchange.”

That gets Alfred’s attention. He’s finally staring at him and not paying attention to what’s in Bruce’s hands. Once he’s prepared the teapot, he marks the time.

“I’m assuming you’re trying to get a gift that will, ahem, show the extent of your friendship?”

“Yes,” Bruce says. He gets two sets of tea cups, with their saucers and spoons.

Alfred doesn’t answer, but Bruce can see the considering look he’s giving him. He makes sure that he has everything else prepared, the strainer, the sugarcubes, and the lemon slices.

“Why don’t you invite him over for Christmas?” Alfred says.

It’s not what he would have expected Alfred to suggest. Perhaps a physical object, or maybe even dinner, but inviting him over, that’s not something he would of have thought of.

“Alfred, all we do is sit in front of the television and take turns going on patrol. I don’t think that’s how Clark wants to enjoy his holiday. I know for a fact that’s he’s going back to Kansas to visit his mother,” Bruce replies.

“I know you and the kids sit in front of the telly for days. But perhaps that’s something Mister Kent could enjoy. He doesn’t have to worry about his secret identity, but he has plenty of people to keep him company, and if he leaves he doesn’t need to make any excuses to us,” Alfred explains patiently.

Bruce thinks it over and tries to find a way to refute the suggestion. There isn’t any exceptional reason not to invite Clark, especially if it’s after Christmas. And he agrees with all of Alfred’s points and the kids (as well as himself) would enjoy his company.

But is it an appropriate gift for the Holiday Exchange?

He mulls over this question as he pours the tea through the strainer into the tea cups.

“Sugar?” He asks Alfred.

“Ah, perhaps one.”

Bruce places one cube into the teacup, then stirs without allowing the spoon to hit the sides of the cup. Then he places the lemon slice on top. He puts the spoon back on the saucer in the position that he’s seen Alfred place it before. He places the tea in front of Alfred, then starts putting everything else away. He pours then drains his own cup quickly and excuses himself from the kitchen.

“Thanks, Alfred,” he says, but he’s already miles away, trying to think of how to invite Clark over and if the invitation is good enough as a gift.

-000-

Bruce doesn’t even notice the gaggle of people that are in his living room when he stalks past. He’s too deep in thought.

They stare as he goes away, presumably to the cave in order to stew in his thoughts.

As soon as he’s out of earshot, Damian hisses, “What’s wrong with him?”

Cassandra shakes her head while Dick sighs.

“He has been giving out a lot of gifts and none of them have been for Superman,” Tim adds.

“We know for sure that he got Superman in the Holiday Exchange, right?” Stephanie looks at everyone.

Dick steps up with an answer. “Yeah, I had both Diana and Zatanna on it to make sure they got each other’s names.”

“And they’ve received presents! From Bruce! Really spectacular presents that they both love!”

“It’s a coincidence,” Jason says.

“It’s a coincidence that he’s sending wonderful presents to all of his exes?” Damian hisses.

Stephanie is about to say something, but Cassandra stops her with a hand on her shoulder. Instead, she mumbles, “Geez, he’s been with those beauties.”

“Puh-lease, they deserve to get stuff for dealing with Bruce,” Jason says. Most of them agree, while Dick tries to elbow him. “The biggest problem is he’s giving gifts to the other capes, in full view of Supes.”

Dick sighs again, “Yeah, I heard from Diana that Clark’s getting a bit nervous because Bruce is giving people the ‘perfect gift.’”

“Has he found anything for Clark, yet?”

The kids share a glance, and in one look they know that he hasn’t.

“He’s been going to every store in Gotham,” Dick says.

“Not to mention, he looks online for hours for the perfect gift,” Tim adds.

“Which means what?” Damian looks around. “That while he’s looking for the perfect gift for Superman, he finds the perfect gift for everyone else?”

Everyone nods.

“I mean, even I got a gift,” Steph says, surprise coloring her voice. “He left it where I usually sneak into the manor.”

Damian snorts, “It’s not like it was a secret where you were sneaking in.”

They tussle briefly, but thankfully there's no blood.

Dick turns to Jason, “Did you get anything?”

Jason makes a face, “Yeah, he left it at one of my regular safehouses.”

“Everyone got something, even Titus and Ace!” Damian points to the dogs and their new beds. Somehow, Bruce had figured out two beds in which the dogs would not fight over.

“Not everyone has gotten a gift,” Tim says tentatively.

“Everyone’s gotten a gift, Hal, Barry, Vince, Billy, Kendra, Roy, hell, even Guy got a gift. So yeah, everyone’s gotten a gift.”

“Well-”

But before that sentence can be finished, Alfred walks into the living room. He has the most perplexed expression. He’s carry a tea cup on a saucer. The kids hold their breath, waiting for him to speak.

“Master Bruce, just made me the perfect cup of tea,” he says in way of explanation.

All the kids groan.

“Everybody’s gotten a gift,” Cassandra says solemnly, and everyone agrees.

“Everyone, but Clark.”

“I believe that Master Bruce will be inviting Mister Kent over for the holidays,” Alfred offers.

“Really?” Tim says skeptically. “All we do is eat food and watch reruns of Christmas movies so we don’t miss anything when we have to go on patrol or have to save Gotham.”

“Wait. That’s actually a good idea,” Dick says. “Clark is a hero like us and Alfred makes the best snacks.”

“And he’d probably like Bruce’s old fashioned choice in movies,” Jason adds.

“But that’s still not a gift,” Stephanie points out.

And it’s true, while Clark will appreciate the offer, it’s not exactly the romantic declaration they had hoped for.

“Maybe we’re going around this the wrong way. Maybe, instead of Bruce giving the perfect gift, we should have Clark get him the perfect gift,” Dick says.

“That could work. A good gift from Clark and forcing them in the same room with each other might be the key,” Jason agrees. Dick tries to ruffle his hair, happy that he agreed, and Jason fends it off.

“What’s a good gift for Bruce, that’s not something we’ve already got for him?”

“Wait, let’s go the other way around. What’s the one thing we all do for Bruce?”

They look at each other and say at the same time: “The Mark of Zorro.”

“It’s perfect. We have Clark buy tickets to that stupid movie we always watch with him.”

“Okay, then how do we go about this without arousing suspicion?” Damian asks.

Everyone slowly looks towards him.

-000-

Superman flies through the skies of Metropolis. He’s found that his presence can be a deterrent especially during the holidays when people may consider turning to crime. Then the hair behind his neck starts to rise. He’s being watched.

He looks down and sees some familiar figures waving at him. It’s Nightwing and Robin.

He flies to their roof. “Hey guys.”

“Hey, Big Blue,” Nightwing says. Robin nods his head at him.

Superman smiles. “Not that I’m not glad to see you, but what’s up?”

“Tch,” Robin pouts and crosses his hands, but doesn’t add anything else.

“Robin here has been getting a little too much attention from Batman,” Nightwing explains. Robin goes over to the ledge and does a very good impression of Batman looking over the city.

“Ah,” Superman says, totally understanding. “So you’re patrolling Metropolis?”

Nightwing nods. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Of course not,” he says. Robin seems to hunker down, completing his Batman impression. It doesn’t look like he’s going to move from that spot anytime soon.

“Don’t worry, we’ll go back soon. We have to fulfill the annual Christmas tradition with B,” Nightwing mentions.

“Christmas tradition?” Superman asks, trying not to let the interest bleed through. He still hasn’t picked up anything for Bruce. Maybe his kids will be the key to getting him a present.

Nightwing shrugs, “Yeeeah. Every year we get together and go watch a movie at the small theater that he likes. Gets real grumpy when we don’t go. I asked a few of the Titans and some of the Teen Titans are going to help patrol Gotham while we all go. We’re thinking since it’s not Christmas, a baddie won’t interrupt us.”

Superman laughs, know how that goes. “Well, I hope it goes well.”

“Thanks,” Nightwing says with a grin.

Superman hears a scuff of a boot and sees Robin stalking back to them.

“There’s a robbery in process over there,” he points and it looks like he’s about to take a running start before Nightwing snags him.

“And that’s our cue to leave. We’ll leave this one to Superman,” Nightwing says as he pulls Robin into a headlock.

Superman smiles fondly and takes off to go stop the robbery.

Afterwards he can go buy the tickets.

-000-

Tickets bought, he feels infinitely better when he goes to visit Ma to get the pies for the party at the Watchtower.

When he gets inside he breathes in the scent of sugar and fruit.

He tries not to frown when he sees the flavors. Key lime, blueberry, strawberry rhubarb, but still no apple. Weird.

“Hi, sweetie,” Martha says. He bends down so she can give him a kiss. “Did you want a slice before you go?”

“Sure, Ma,” and goes to grab the utensils and glasses for the both of them.

Martha sets out two slices of- boston cream pie?

She catches him staring at the pie like it’s from Mxyzptlk.

“Oh, Clark. I’m just trying out some new recipes, you know that,” she says, before taking a bite.

Clark slowly takes his own bite. It’s not a bad pie, but it’s not a flavor that he’s known his mother to bake. Same with the lemon and the lime and the banana. She’s always been a fan of pies that have local ingredients.

“So, did you find a gift to give to your friend?” She asks.

“Yeah, I did actually. I got us tickets to a movie theater he likes to go to,” he replies, happy to finally be able to tell her.

“You’re finally asking him on a date? Oh Clark, I’m so happy for you.”

Clark startles.

“Ma! It’s not- it’s not a date. I just wanted to get him a good gift, that’s all.”

She wrinkles her nose at him. “Seems like an awful lot of trouble, for just a friend.”

His heart sinks and he sets his fork down. “It’s complicated. I can’t even remember when we decided it, but it’s not something that can happen.”

It’s a familiar conversation and he’s glad when she doesn’t continue it. However, he has to look away when she gives him a look of sympathy. “Oh, Clark.” She pats his hand before putting the pie away. “You can finish this tomorrow. Just have fun at your superhero party.”

“I will, Ma.”

-000-

Batman is digging into a slice of blueberry pie and trying to decide how to talk to Superman. He’s avoiding the rest of the League, no matter how many of them want to wish him a happy holiday, when he takes his first bite.

He takes a second bite.

He’s scowling at the pie when Superman approaches him.

“Hey, Batman, what did that pie ever do to you?” He asks, jokingly.

“This is your mother’s blueberry pie,” Batman states.

Superman is thrown for a moment. “Yes, it is. The other flavors are new ones, but this is one of her classics.”

“This is the same blueberry pie that you had bought last year,” Batman says.

“Oh, yeah. I did bring a blueberry pie last year, didn’t I?” Superman agrees.

But this year, Martha Kent didn’t pack any apple pie, her son’s favorite.

Interesting.

Batman takes out a evidence bag, bags the pie, and tosses his plate and fork out. Superman watches, bewildered.

“Happy Holidays, Superman,” Batman says. Then he stalks over to the zeta tubes and leaves.

-000-

On Christmas day, there are quite a few villains out and about. While Superman’s not happy to be working on a holiday, he’s glad to have something to distract him after yesterday’s party.

Clark ponders on Bruce’s behavior, but tries not to let it get him down. He didn’t even get the chance to give him the tickets, let alone talk to him. And what was wrong with his mom’s pie? Sure, it’s not apple, but her blueberry pies are just as delicious.

He’s looking forward to having Christmas dinner with his Ma, if only to be able to sort out his thoughts and plan out his next actions.

When he gets a break from crime, he flies to Kansas. He goes into the house and changes quickly into a Christmas sweater and some comfortable pants.

The smell of dinner is wafting through the house. Then he spots the spread. He’s glad that he’s brought a wine that Lois recommended, but he should been here to help. He places the wine down and goes over and kisses his mom on the cheek.

“Sorry I couldn’t help you cook, Ma.” His mother hands him the masher and goes about mashing the potatoes, the very last of the dishes.

“Oh, it was alright, Clark. I saw the news and today I had help. I’ll go change while you finish those potatoes and then we can start.”

Clark continues to mash the potatoes, almost forgetting to add the milk since he’s looking at his mom. Then he finishes them and places them in on of their nice serving dishes.

He stares at the spread again. Now that he’s taking another look there are differences that are standing out to him: the dishes are plated more neatly, the scalloped potatoes are exceptionally fine, and all the extra supplies and dishes have been put away. Even the kitchen looks cleaner than before. Now who would have been here to help?

His mother doesn’t mention it and he doesn’t ask. Instead Clark eats as much as he wants and makes sure to serve his mother. They chat about his job and about her book club. Clark makes sure to share the gossip and good deeds of his friends, both caped and not, and Martha makes sure that Clark is up to date on the farm and their neighbors.

Hours later, Clark is putting aside the dishes so that they can make way for desert. He'll put away and do the dishes later. When the table is clear, his mother pulls out a pie from the oven. Clark smiles. He’ll never get tired of his Ma’s pie.

Then Martha cuts into it and places a perfect slice in front of him.

It’s apple.

“Ma…” And he trails off, because she hasn’t been making apple pie for weeks.

“Ta-da!” She says with a bright smile on her face, and goes to serve herself a piece. Clark gets out the forks and the glasses of milk as is normal.

When his mom is seated and is digging into the pie in front of her, he finally takes a bite. It’s a perfect apple pie and he grins and slowly chews to savor the taste.

“It’s been a while since I’ve seen that face,” she says. “I should have asked for your help before, but well, it’s fixed now.”

“Was something broken, Ma?” Clark asks.

“A while back I couldn’t figure out why my pies weren’t coming out right. They were a little different. I tried to fix the ingredients, the oven, but I couldn’t figure it out. I just didn’t know what to do. I knew some people wouldn’t be able to tell, but I could. I didn’t want anyone to notice ‘till I fixed it.”

“So, you made different flavored pies,” Clark fills in.

“That’s right. But this afternoon? A bus broke down near the house and suddenly there were a handful of kids and a handsome man with a wonderful accent come to my door to help with dinner. And when they all left? I found a note saying that the KitchenAid was fixed and that I could finally make apple pies,” Martha finishes, her eyes sparkling.

Then she stands up. “But I’m sure this note is for you, Clark.”

Clark takes the paper. It’s unremarkable and small and has his name written on it. He flips it to the other side.

Happy Holiday Exchange

Is all that’s written, but Clark can recognize that handwriting anywhere. He didn’t even try to disguise his handwriting. Hell, the ink is smudged and there’s part of a fingerprint on the note. He brushes his fingers against that print.

His mother huffs and he looks up at her. “Just a friend,” she says, shaking her head.

Clark can feel his cheeks getting warm.

“Ma? Do you mind if I-”

“Go to him, Clark. And bring the rest of this pie over, will you?” She pushes the boxed pie for him to carry. She must have wrapped it when he was looking over the note.

“Thanks, Ma,” and he leaves in a gust of wind, but not before cleaning everything and giving his mother another kiss.

-000-

He makes it to Gotham in record time and starts to listen for Bruce. Not surprisingly, he’s brooding. His whole body is still and his breast silent, but Clark can still hear the sound of his heartbeat. Luckily it’s coming from the manor.

A moment later he spots Bruce on the balcony, staring out into the forest behind Wayne Manor. He’s in a short sleeved shirt which shows off his scars, but the cold doesn’t seem to bother him, even though he must be cold when it’s snowing.

Not a second later, Bruce looks up and sees him.

“Clark,” Bruce whispers, but Clark can hear him loud and clear.

Clark lands gently next to him. Bruce watches him curiously, but still silent, even as Clark places the pie on the handrail.

“I got your gift,” Clark says with a grin.

Bruce looks at the pie. “Apple, your favorite.”

“My favorite,” Clark nods. “How did you figure it out?”

“The blueberry pie from the party. I had a slice last year, but the two were different even though you said the recipe hadn’t changed.”

“And the kids? And the- handsome man with the accent?” Clark says with a face, finally registering his mom’s words.

Bruce smirks. “The kids found out and wanted in on the plan. They called some others to help patrol Gotham while we were away. Then Alfred took them in to distract your mother while I fixed what was wrong with the Kitchenaid.”

Clark shakes his head. “You’ve certainly earned the title of World’s Greatest Detective.”

“Maybe,” Bruce agrees. Then he falls silent and looks away.

Clark stares at him, unabashed. He gently brushes the snow away that’s accumulated in his hair and on his shoulders and takes a step closer.

Bruce turns back to look at him. “Clark?”

It’s not like him to take such liberties.

Clark takes a shaky breath before speaking. “I had bought us tickets to go see The Mark of Zorro. I was expecting us to go as friends, like always, but now I’m wondering why I can’t ask you on a date.”

Bruce's eyes widen, before narrowing. “There are thousands of reasons why we shouldn’t go out,” he says, gruffly.

“Tell me them,” Clark says in reply.

“What about Lois?”

“What about Diana? We never know until we try, Bruce.”

“We’ll have to keep it a secret.”

“All secrets get out eventually; among the League, among our friends and family. Tell me this is something you think you can hide from Alfred.”

“You don’t want to attach yourself to the members of this family, Clark. I don’t even know how many kids live in this house anymore.”

“This isn’t a house, it’s a mansion, Bruce. And it fits however many kids that you want. And you know I love some of those kids and I would love to get to know all of them. Try again, Bruce.”

Bruce closes his eyes. “I’ll be your weakness, Clark. I’ll be Superman’s weakness.”

Ah. Finally, a reason for why Bruce has been distant all of these years.

“You've always been my weakness, Bruce.” Clark admits. Bruce’s eyes fly open. “For as long as I've loved you, you’ve been my weakness, my strength, my heart, my everything.”

Bruce snorts. “You sap. Just because it’s Christmas doesn’t mean you get to say something like that.”

“Maybe I said it so you’d laugh,” Clark says with a smile.

He takes another step closer.

“Tell me another reason why we shouldn’t be together, Bruce,” Clark whispers.

There are more. Hundreds of reasons why they shouldn’t be together, but most of them are too personal to admit.

But before Bruce is forced to either lie or choke out another reason, Clark grabs his hand.

“It’s okay. We have time.”

He hesitates. Bruce doesn’t know what to do now that he finally has something he wants, literally in his grasp. He nods.

Clark smiles again and Bruce almost looks away.

Clark laces their fingers together and picks up the pie with his other hand.

“Now come on, I want to enjoy this pie with everyone.”

They’re about to leave the balcony, when Bruce says, “Tomorrow.”

Clark pauses.

“Tomorrow, let’s fly your mother here,” Bruce decides.

“That’s a great idea, Bruce,” Clark agrees.

Tomorrow can be a new start for everyone.

#superbatsecretsanta2017 #timmyjdrake #nightfoliage #superbat #nightfoliagefic #edited #now with ao3 link

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sing-swan-spring-swan · 7 years

Text

color me colorblind

Based off a prompt that i can’t for the love of me find, which was basically “we’re doing that flame color lab in chem and you’re cheating off me and i’m getting really angry but you beg me not to make a scene because apparently you’re colorblind”. Involving copious amounts of misunderstanding and pre-relationship detz.

Fitz enjoyed chem.

As a sophomore in high school, he rarely enjoyed much of anything, so chem was special, so to speak. He had to have fun where he could get it, even if “where he could get it” happened to be a science lab.

Unfortunately for Fitz, chem was shaping up to be particularly awful today. It had begun alright, as most awful things do. He’d even been excited for the coming lab. And then the lab had actually been handed out, and Fitz knew he was doomed. He glared again at the offending words, printed with deceptive innocence.

You will be studying the color changes in flames when elements are added to them, it said.

It was a fairly normal experiment: Alvar had done it in his sophomore year, and, although it had sent the boy home with his eyebrows singed, it was one of the simpler labs. Light a flame, add a chemical to the flame, write down the color. Easy. Except for one thing: Fitz had protanopia, meaning he couldn’t actually see the colors to write them down. The teacher didn’t know this, since Fitz had never really thought it mattered. It had never prevented him from doing anything before, so he’d never told her. Ms. Galvin hated children with a burning fervor, so Fitz tried to minimize their interactions.

Unfortunately, now he was stuck. If he went up and told her now, she would think he was just trying to get out of the experiment. If he didn’t say anything, he knew he wouldn’t get the right colors, and he’d fail the assignment. The only way he could avoid complete disaster was-

“You will be working with partners,” Ms. Galvin said.

Immediately, a burst of chatter broke out. People gravitated to potential partners, and under his breath, Fitz thanked his lucky stars. Having a partner meant having someone who might be willing to whisper the answers to him, or check his work to make sure he was right. Maybe he actually could-

“Ahem,” Ms. Galvin cleared her throat and started speaking, voice drenched in disdain; some days Fitz wondered why she’d ever become a teacher. “I will be choosing your partners.”

The chatter came to an abrupt halt, and all the energy was sucked out of the room as quickly as it came. Despite everyone else’s dismay, Fitz held out hope. He wasn’t too unpopular, and most of the other kids, while not exactly kind, wouldn’t mind helping him. He just had to avoid getting the one person in class who utterly abhorred him: Dex. For reasons he couldn’t fathom, the redheaded boy with more freckles than there were stars treated Fitz like he was the cause of every problem on earth. They got along like a house on fire, in that Fitz was the house and Dex wanted to set him on fire- which was not actually the correct meaning of the idiom, but it described their situation accurately.

Still, Dex was one person in a class of about 25 people or so. There was a less than 4% chance that they would actually end up being partnered. Fitz would be fine. Still, he kept his fingers crossed as Ms. Galvin chose their partners.

“Fitzroy Vacker and Dexter Dizznee, lab station one,” she said.

Oh, the world really hated him today, didn’t it?

Fitz dropped his binder at the lab station. Dex glared at him, and he wanted to scream. Instead, Fitz ducked his head and started turning on the Bunsen burner. Still, he couldn’t help trying to understand. Why did the boy hate him? What had he ever done to Dex? Fitz certainly didn't know. What made it worse was that Fitz needed his partner to be helpful, and Dex certainly wouldn't be.

First of all, Dex hated him, and second of all, Dex was a genius. He was smart as a whip; anyone good enough to get into Foxfire Prep on scholarship had to be. Most days, Fitz thought that was amazing- that Dex was amazing. On days like these, though, he resented it. Dex’s genius meant he couldn’t ever ask Dex for help. He didn’t want to look stupid.

This wasn't to say that Dex wasn't helpful ever. He was wonderful when around others. He was sweet, and kind, and nice, and- he had the cutest smile on top of it all. But none of that mattered, because when it came to Fitz, Dex acted like he carried the black plague with him. They rarely spoke, and when they did acknowledge the other’s existence, it was always clipped, short, and an awful experience all around.

The most interaction Fitz had ever had with Dex had been in ninth grade, when their English teacher Mr. Leto had noticed Fitz looking at Dex (he tried to be subtle about it, really, but apparently it was very obvious). They had spent every English project paired up after that, and while Fitz couldn’t really complain, it didn’t change anything. Dex still hated him, and he certainly wouldn’t be any help here, even if Fitz desperately needed it.

The gas was flowing now. Dex took the spark lighter and leaned over Fitz to light the fire. They were now inches apart, and Fitz made a concentrated effort not to notice, or at least to act like he hadn’t. If his breathing went shallow and his body became incredibly still, well, no one needed to know.

It took what felt like ages for a spark to finally catch. In reality, it was only a few seconds until the flame flared up and Dex pulled away. Once they were out of close proximity, Fitz managed to calm his pounding heart and speak, like a normal person.

"So, which chemical are we using first?" he said, doing decently at keeping his voice controlled.

"Calcium," Dex replied, somehow managing to convey his utter disdain for Fitz and his disbelief that Fitz doesn't already know what chemical they're using in a single word.

Fitz obligingly dipped a popsicle stick into water and then the powdered calcium. When he moved it through the flame, he caught flashes of dark yellow in the blue. He and Dex watched it for a few seconds, before Dex scribbled something down. Unfortunately, Fitz still couldn't tell what color it was. To him, it appeared dark yellow, but strawberries also appeared dark yellow, so really it could be anything from red to yellow. He was stuck.

And then he glanced over.

Dex was off getting more popsicle sticks, since for some reason, their lab station had only had one. Currently, the other boy was almost arguing with Ms. Galvin, because, as always, she refused to agree with any student.

Dex’s paper was completely exposed.

Fitz knew he shouldn't take Dex's answers. This was a graded lab. Even when Ms. Galvin said "partner work," everyone knew that she meant "do the actual experiment together, but write down your own answers or you will get a zero and I will send you to detention." So Fitz knew that looking off Dex's lab was a bad idea.

But it was either that or a guaranteed F on the lab. It wasn't much of a choice. He glanced over to see the first short answer already filled in.

Orange-red.

Fitz scribbled it down, and, despite himself, sighed in relief.

Dex hated chem.

He didn’t hate chemistry. He thought science was awesome. But he hated the class. Most of the kids were jerks who wouldn’t stop teasing him about his background. So what if his parents weren’t rich snobs like the rest of them? He was smart enough to get into the school, he deserved to be here. That was fair. Not that the other kids cared. On top of that, their chem teacher looked and acted like she’d bitten into a lemon. Constantly.

And worst of all, he was stuck with Fitz as a partner.

Dex had spent his life being less. Not as rich, not as polished, not as handsome, not as smart- the list went on. He’d thought- he’d hoped that when he got into Foxfire, it would be enough. Foxfire Prep was the most prestigious school in the state. But it wasn’t enough, and it never would be. He was still lesser than all the other students. Most of all Fitz.

Some people were born with silver spoons in their mouths. Fitz was born with a whole silverware set. The Vacker family was incredibly rich and, as if that wasn’t enough, Fitz had every good trait known to man. He was honest, charismatic, charming, smart, handsome and- Dex would die before he said it out loud, but Fitz was kinda cute. But the so called “golden boy” was also everything Dex wasn’t, and he felt constantly compared. He wasn’t as rich as Fitz, or as smart as Fitz, or as good as Fitz.

Part of him would have given his right hand to be friends with Fitz. The boy was nice, and sweet, and- well, he seemed like a good person, that’s all! But a bigger part couldn’t get over the fact that he’d never be good enough for Fitz. When you live your life being lesser, it’s hard to imagine being equal. If they had been equals, things might have been different. He might not have had a grudge against Fitz. They might have been friends (or, whispered a little voice, something more).

But things weren’t different. Dex liked the multiverse theory, but in this world, he was still less than Fitz. Nothing would change that.

So here he was, stuck in a stupid science experiment with his better-in-every-way counterpart. And he'd had to fight with his terrible teacher for at least five minutes just to get popsicle sticks. Dex didn't know why Ms. Galvin was so protective of her popsicle sticks, but apparently they were like gold to her. Or something.

When he got back with his precious popsicle sticks, something had changed with Fitz. He seemed relieved, at ease. Dex hadn't noticed the tension in his shoulders until it was gone. Still, it was none of his business. What Fitz was or wasn’t stressed about didn’t matter to him. He just had to focus, finish the lab, and get out of science class. Focus, finish the lab and get out of science class. Dex could do that; it was what he’d been doing all year.

He glanced at his paper for the next element: potassium. Take a popsicle stick, dip it in water, dip it in potassium, run through flame. The bright blue flame flashed a light purple a couple of times, enough for Dex to see again. He wrote down the color and tossed the popsicle stick into the trash. Some days he wished he could control chemistry class; he’d make it actually interesting, unlike their teacher. But nope, he was in for another mind-numbing day of repetitiveness.

That was, until he looked back. He’d had to look away to throw the popsicle stick away. This had apparently left Fitz with enough time to steal his answers. Because when Dex looked back, he caught Fitz turning his head away, as if the other boy had just been looking at his paper.

Fitz was cheating off him.

Dex was furious.

Fitz, wonderboy Fitz, straight-A student Fitz, was trying to cheat off him.

If it were anyone else, he’d probably have given them the answers. It was just a lab, and not even a complicated one at that. But this was Mr. Perfect, future valedictorian, the Wonderboy, trying to take his answers. How many times had his teachers told him, why can’t you be more like Fitz? Imagine what they would say if they found out Fitz was just a cheater.

“What are you doing?” Dex whispered, low and wary.

“Uh . . . the lab?” Fitz whispered back.

Dex didn’t believe him at all, but he had no real evidence to prove Fitz was cheating. If he honestly wanted to call Fitz out on it, Dex had to catch Fitz in the act. From what he’d seen, Fitz was really bad at cheating, so it probably wouldn’t be too hard. He just had to keep watching.

So he did. He watched Fitz as he took yet another stick, while he dipped in in water and then boron, while he ran it through the flame (he had to look away for a bit here, but he hadn’t written anything, so Dex thought it was okay), and while he threw the stick away. That’s when he saw it.

Fitz was leaning over, looking at his paper, and very obviously cheating. Dex was fuming.

“Stop it,” he hissed.

“I’m not doing anything,” Fitz said, and Dex glared in disbelief.

“You’re cheating off me, I caught you cheating.” He dropped his voice so Ms. Galvin wouldn’t hear, but part of Dex wanted to yell it to the whole world.

“ . . . What are you talking about?”

Was Fitz being serious? He’d seen Fitz copying his answers!

“If you don’t stop, I’ll go to Ms. Galvin, and you know she’ll fail you.”

Fitz said nothing.

Dex grabbed his paper and got off his stool, heading for Ms. Galvin. Suddenly, Fitz reached out and grabbed his sleeve, stopping Dex.

“Please don’t go to Ms. Galvin, she’ll give me a zero, you know that.” “And why shouldn’t I?” Just because you’re the Chosen One at this school doesn’t mean you can escape consequences, Dex thought.

“I was cheating, and I’m sorry, but I can’t see the colors!” Fitz whispered back.

Dex was boiling with anger now. Did Fitz think, just because he’d been born with everything meant he could take anything from anyone. It wasn’t fair.

“What do you mean you can’t see the colors, the flame’s right there! You aren’t blind!”

“I am colorblind!”

. . . Oh.

Shame rushed through Dex, hot and burning. Of course. Of course Fitz hadn’t just been cheating off him. Of course Fitz had actually needed his answers. Of course Fitz had a perfectly good reason to be cheating. He should have known. Maybe they didn’t get along, but Dex still knew Fitz, and Fitz was a good person. He’d seen Fitz interact with other people, and he was kind. Fitz wasn’t the kind to cheat unless he had to. In this case, Fitz had to.

And Dex had been unforgivably rude. What had he done? He’d be lucky if Fitz would even talk to him after this.

“I have red-green colorblindness. The only reason I even know you have red hair is because I hear people teasing you about it,” the other boy continued.

Dex ducked his head. He couldn’t meet Fitz’s eyes. He’d been completely horrible.

“Why didn’t you just- ask me for help?” Dex mumbled.

Fitz laughed sharply, as if the idea was completely insane.

“I couldn’t ask you for help.” He paused, and then, slowly “I- didn’t want to look stupid in front of you. You’re a genius, and I-”

“Wait.” Was he hearing Fitz right? “You think I’m smart?”

“Well, of course. You got in on scholarship, didn’t you? Anyone smart enough to do that must be a genius.”

Dex didn’t know what to say. He’d always thought that getting in on scholarship made him poor, made him not as good as everyone else. But Fitz didn’t see it that way. Maybe that was just because Fitz was rich, but Dex wanted to believe him. There was a pause, and then Dex spoke.

“I- I’m sorry for misjudging you, earlier,” he said, “and, uh, thank you.”

Fitz smiled, and it shone.

“You’re welcome.”

(When they reached for the next popsicle stick, their hands bumped each other.)

They went through the rest of the lab relatively quickly. Whenever Dex wrote down a color, he would whisper the answer to Fitz, who would scribble it in.

It was- nicer than Fitz had expected it to be. Dex was nicer than Fitz had expected him to be. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe Dex was just in a good mood. But Fitz wouldn’t question it. Besides, the bell was going to ring in five minutes, meaning he’d survived chem class without failing. Fitz wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth, so to speak.

At the front of the class, Ms. Galvin cleared her throat to assign homework. Fitz was barely paying attention; he couldn’t wait to get out of class. Besides, he already knew what she was going to say: turn in labs, homework on website, etc. etc. And then he heard her.

“On the website, you’ll find pictures of flames. Write down which elements are burning by next class.”

Oh, perfect.

Fitz did not want to do this. He could probably ask his parents for help, but he’d really rather the assignment not exist at all. Unfortunately, it did, and there was nothing else he could do. At least the bell was ringing, which meant class was finally over. Things would be better tomorrow. Hopefully.

He scooped his stuff up, headed for the door, and bumped into Dex along the way. Fitz didn’t think much of it, but when he got to his next class, he found a sticky note on the bottom of his binder. Written on it, in what was very obviously Dex’s handwriting, was the address of the nearby bagel shop and the words After school, for the hw. Below that were the words I’ll be there.

Fitz smiled.

#kotlc #detz #dex dizznee #fitz vacker #fic #my fic #original fic #colorblind au #modern au #high school au #welp #it's done #i did it #this is the longest and fluffiest thing I have EVER written #but it's done #it's probably ooc and trash but it is DONE.

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clutteredmindpress · 5 years

Text

Jack Monterey:Bk 1-Ch2

I turned off Dorchester Ave. onto Greenwich Street, between McGinnley’s Pub and Burger King. McGinnley’s was probably the only pub I hadn’t been into. Since the upper-class gay and newlywed gentrification kicked in, I hadn’t been to the area much. All the early century triple-deckers were being converted into million dollar condos. I would never have thought parts of Dorchester would be too rich for me.

I found a parking space on Mrs. Kelley's block. That part of the street hadn't been touched by anyone. Each three-story, box-like home used to hold different generations of a single family on every floor. Since then, they’d been broken into three family homes where strangers lived on top of each other. Faded shingles, swaybacked roofs, and second and third-floor balconies with first-floor ambitions—I was back in the town I remembered, the one tourists avoided.

An old man shuffled out of one of the homes, moving slowly to avoid a broken step on his way down to the sidewalk. He tilted forward like he was walking into the wind. There wasn’t even a breeze. He had frizzy gray hair, wrinkled skin, and a nose the color that only comes from years of overdoing the booze.

I reached toward my face. Paranoia?

"Excuse me, sir." I let my friendly, unassuming nature show through my smile.

His eyes narrowed, and he kept walking.

That smile never worked anymore.

"Can you tell me which house is Mrs. Kelley's?" I knew she was at number twelve, but I wanted to get a neighbor's opinion of her. People in that area rarely get to know their neighbors. Top-notch sleuth that I was, I had to try.

The man stopped and spit on the sidewalk.

"The bitch."

Sometimes sleuthing pays off.

"All these houses are hers." He shook his head and shuffled off, muttering.

He was probably heading to McGinnley’s. It sounded like a good idea since I'd gone a little light on breakfast. Maybe when I was done being a detective for the day.

The run-down homes looked different once I knew they weren’t owned by struggling families. Mrs. Kelley—a slum-lord. My opinion of her couldn’t get any lower, but it tried.

I trudged up the concrete steps of number twelve. The boards on the porch gave a little, making me look up at the second-floor porch. I wasn’t going to go so far as praying, but I hoped it didn’t take her long to answer the door.

The frayed, cloth-wrapped wire from the three doorbells ran about a foot up the peeling paint of the wall before disappearing into a tiny hole. I wasn’t even sure they worked. The labels next to the bells for the first and second-floor were cracked and faded. The third-floor label was showroom new.

Welcome to the neighborhood, R. Smith.

I pressed Mrs. Kelley’s first-floor button and jumped at the sound of a thousand electronic killer bees.

Either I was making a delivery to a warehouse in Southie or the doorbell hadn’t been updated since the forties. I waited and eyed the balcony overhead. If I needed to bolt, I wanted to be ready.

Drapes moved in a window to my left. Seconds later, the ancient doorknob jiggled—and kept jiggling. It was good to know I wasn’t the only person in Boston who had a doorknob that only worked if the stars were aligned, the Pats were having a good week, and I squinted and held my tongue just right.

Finally, it turned and Mrs. Kelley swung it open. Her mood hadn’t improved. Maybe she didn’t reserve that smelled-a-rotten-egg look exclusively for me, but I liked to think I was special.

“Mr. Monterey.” She looked me over. “Hm.”

My blue button-down shirt was a little wrinkled. It had lived in a pile of laundry on the floor of my efficiency for the last week. I figured it had every right to look that way. Besides, my sports coat covered most of it, and I’d almost scraped all the mustard stain off the lapel. So, I thought I looked pretty good.

“Mrs. Kelley.” I nodded. “And, you can call me Jack, if you like.” She’d paid money for my services. The least I could do was be friendly.

She backed out of the doorway. “Please come in, Mr. Monterey.”

So much for that.

The first-floor landing was just large enough for a tiny coat closet and the base of the worn stairs that led to the other two floors. I stepped inside and pressed myself against the closet door, trying not to get paint-chips on my coat as she closed the door and jiggled the handle until it locked.

“I’m please that you’re on time. My sister and her son will be home soon and I’d like to have this completed by then,” she said.

The door to her apartment sported a shiny new deadbolt and doorknob. Frigid air poured into the stuffy landing when she opened it. That was unusual. The weather was mild and most people in the city had their windows open. She had money, and I didn’t even own an air conditioner. So what did I know?

“Wonderful, I look forward to meeting them.” I pointed to the door as she shut it. “Did you have some sort of trouble recently?”

It took a second for her to realize what I meant.

“Oh, no. Of course not. I always buy new locks when I have a new tenant.”

I cocked my head. “The outside door hasn’t been changed.”

She looked exasperated. “Of course not. I change the locks on my door.”

Welcome to the neighborhood, indeed, R. Smith.

The living room furniture was on the old side, but in excellent shape. Knickknacks dotted the room, but it didn’t feel cluttered, and there wasn’t a speck of dust anywhere. Tabletops shone and faint, probably permanent lemon furniture polish tinged the air.

The only thing that could have been considered out of place were two books on the coffee table, Houdini’s Secrets and The Dummy’s Guide to Magic, with two large silver rings laying on top. The rest of the books stood neatly in a small bookcase that acted as a television stand.

“You do magic?” I asked, pointing to the books.

She frowned like I was a piteous creature for even thinking such a thing. “No, those belong to my nephew, Kaleb.” She started toward them, but stopped. “He’s always leaving messes. And, if I don’t make him clean up behind himself, he’ll never learn.”

I had a feeling the last sentence was more for her than me.

I shrugged. “Shame. It’s good to have a hobby.”

She'd just opened her mouth when laughter from the front porch stopped whatever words she was about to cut me with. Instead, she nodded.

“They're home. Please, look around, tell her that you see no foul play. Then leave.”

“Done and done.” It sounded good.

Less than a second later, an eight-year-old boy in a school uniform and a very thin woman bounded through the door. They froze when they saw Mrs. Kelley's glare.

The kid’s blue button-down was only half tucked in and his hair stuck out on one side. It had all been gelled at some point during the day. Kids should be messy.

I discreetly scraped my fading mustard stain with my fingernail.

The lady, on the other hand, would have made Hillary Clinton proud. Her pantsuit and kerchief were spot-on and her hair, though it was thinning, was pulled smartly back into a bun. Her pale, drawn face would have shocked me if I hadn’t just seen her laughing. I tried to keep that in mind and not the dark circles under her eyes or her high, sharp cheekbones that were trying to cut their way through her thin skin.

I leaned down and held my hand out toward the kid. “You must be Kaleb.”

He glanced at Mrs. Kelley. She must have given a sign that it was okay, because he took my hand and shook.

“Yes, sir. My name is Kaleb.”

I nodded and straightened. “It’s nice to meet you, Kaleb. My name is Jack Monterey and I’m working for your aunt for a couple of days.”

“And, you must be Mrs. Kelley’s sister,” I said.

The lady nodded. “Yes, Amelia Johnson. Nice to meet you, Mr. Monterey.”

“Please, call me Jack.”

She smiled. “Of course, Jack. Are you the detective?”

“Yes, I am.”

Her smile made it easy to tell she’d been beautiful before… before what? I had no idea. All I knew was that every woman and half the men I knew would have killed to have those cheekbones.

“If that’s over with,” Mrs. Kelley said. “Kaleb, I’ve asked you not to leave your things strewn around the house. Pick these up and put them away.”

Kaleb’s eyes widened when he saw he'd left his books out. “Yes, Aunt Hattie.” He scrambled to grab the books and disappeared down the hall. That Houdini book might have been doing him some good.

As for ‘Hattie’—I wished I’d been armed with that little nugget two hours before. There was still time though.

“And for you, Amelia. How was the job hunt?” Mrs. Kelley turned toward the kitchen like the answer didn’t interest her in the least.

Amelia’s head drooped. “I’m sorry, Hattie. I really am trying. Maybe tomorrow.” She tried to sound hopeful on that last part, and it almost broke my heart.

Mrs. Kelley stopped in the kitchen doorway. “Fine, fine. Go… do what you do. Dinner will be ready in an hour.” After dismissing Amelia, she turned her attention back to me. “If you’ll step this way, you can see the rest of the house and we’ll get this over with.”

I turned to follow. “Right behind you, Ha… Mrs. Kelley.” I figured I’d better save that for later.

#pulp #gay fiction #fiction #author #detective #pulp fiction

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