#but dismissing Bruce was just a ‘monster’ now and saying that the world would be better off without him is really extreme | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

angerissue · 3 years

Text

ID: UNKNOWN.

@mynameisanakin

It was midday in the Catskills, around the time of year when the days were beginning to shorten and darken, and the temperature was beginning to chill. From his glances outside and the occasional wanderings into the hills for some fresh air, he could see the maple trees blushing with a garish shade of candy apple red, the colours vibrant against the unchanging fir and pine. But attractive as the imagery was, when Bruce was indoors and preoccupied, as he was now, it didn't remain at the forefront of his mind, as if it was somehow immune to permanence. His focus was more immediate and didn’t care about the outdoors.

Cloud-bidden sunlight filtered through the windows, mingling with the fluorescence as he wandered down the hall and towards the kitchenette, a clipboard tucked under his wing and the desire for tea on his mind. Over the past few hours of work, his eyes had grown sore and a bit dry; a bit nearsighted from their fixation on the monitors in the laboratory, a problem that even his eyeglasses wouldn’t thwart. He almost forgot what that was like, to suffer the effects of prolonged screen time. Not that it was ever a bad idea to remind himself every now and again; to retain that connection instead of dismissing it.

(He wasn’t sure it would return again, if he did that.)

Regardless, after a good fifteen minutes or so, he would be back in business again and return to the lab. Not that he hadn’t brought some of his work along with him in the interim, because it felt odd, leaving his work unattended if he was enthralled in it to his current extent. Then again, he would be kidding himself to say this project was different from the rest. Piecemeal modifications to the quinjet’s power source were one project in an excessively long lineup of others. Yes — the efficacy of upgrading the quinjet was questionable. It may not have been practical, to invest in a vehicle that lacked proper permissions in the air and could only be used sparingly; with its cloaking, whenever he felt it necessary to slip from one location to another without using the Hulk.

But it remained a pet project nonetheless. The same went for his research into better performance textiles, mass-scale water purification units, and the applications of the Hulk's plasma — an interesting venture, because its ability to heal deep wounds and transport medicine in the bloodstream had shown promising results in mice, almost to the point of unnerving him with its potential. The only hiccups came whenever he contacted his sources, at which time he requested that they solely provide him with the "frail and ailing" specimens. It had always been an uncomfortable conversation; perhaps it was only Bruce's imagination, but he suspected that some of these men and women, while they were indeed fully aware of his qualifications in the sciences, believed he was gathering up sick mice to observe for kicks. He must have seemed like a sadist. It wouldn't have been difficult for them to believe, given he'd conceived of an AI that fit that bill. And he’d heard the murmurings over the years. Whether the infamous Doctor Banner was merely posturing as an unlucky scientist, and truthfully had ulterior motives for all his supposed blunders. The conspiracy theories had been less prominent and discussed since the snap was reversed, his name included in the list of those behind it, but they were still around.

In truth, he merely believed if the mice were on the verge of succumbing anyhow, they could only improve. Nothing he did could worsen their odds further; add more preventable deaths to his conscience.

But those experiments had been put on hold in favour of the quinjet modifications, part of which were attached to the clipboard that he lowered onto the kitchen island. There was only one remaining mouse in the observatory; a white-furred knockout he had affectionately named Eddie, who no longer lived in the lab, but off in the corner of the living room in a small cage. If he turned his head, he would see it next to the sofa.

Sometimes, Eddie joined him in the lab, seemingly at peace even on the big guy’s shoulder, or in his hand.

And Eddie wasn't a rarity in that sense. It seemed that most animals didn't mind the monster's presence. There was something about that state; he was never quite sure whether his presence alone was calming to animals somehow, or whether there was some attribute in his behaviour that was missing in an ordinary man's. Predictability, perhaps. Whatever the reason, when he wandered into the trees and crossed paths with deer, they seldom skittered away from him. They often approached him to say hello. The warblers and white-bellied thrushes never flew away in anticipation of an incident. Generally, the wildlife lacked fear. The doctor could tell this with certainty, because he could hear... Everything. The natural world's impression of him had been an odd lesson to learn, when he first learned it, but it ultimately made him feel better. Unnatural as he was, he felt anything but in these circumstances. It almost made him wonder if the concept of natural; unnatural, was a wholly human construct. A way of labelling, quantifying, and classifying things that were unfamiliar to them, but in the end, could still fit into the world like a missing puzzle piece. In that sense, perhaps nothing was ever really unnatural.

Bruce opened the kitchen cupboard. Then, fingers curling around the brassy handle, he carefully pulled the maple tea box from its resting spot, placing it on the counter and carding through the multicoloured packets for jasmine tea. The tea box was one of the few earthier items in the more clinical vicinity. A stark contrast, and definitely a conversation piece that could warrant questions, or at least unexpressed intrigue and curiosity, from newcomers.

Said newcomers would find it hard to believe, but the box had been a housewarming gift from Tony. Bruce theorized that he'd bartered for it from some small-time vendor or nabbed it from a pawn shop; it didn’t have the meticulous, almost machined finish that someone would expect from a mass-produced piece; there were flaws, but they were not the typical quality control issues of that production type. And when he saw the engraved name on the underside of the lid (which he presumed was the maker) and searched for it online, he received very few answers. Sometimes, he considered whether Tony himself had carved the tea box, which could feasibly correlate with his more slower-paced lifestyle as of late; one that was less inundated by bleeding-edge tech. Yet Bruce never asked him. One answer could’ve led to five more questions, or worse yet, he could’ve fallen into another one of Tony Stark’s infamous rabbit holes and had trouble digging his way out again. It wouldn’t have been the worst of rabbit holes; woodworking, but the guy had a wife and a kid. Bruce couldn’t have deprived Tony of his time with them; hard-earned time at that, even if the man himself said it was supposedly fine. Bruce didn’t trust his own judgement, but he didn’t trust Tony’s most of the time, either.

However, discussion of the tea box was nonexistent at the observatory. There were seldom newcomers to ask about it.

But he preferred the solitude. With interactions came problems. Quandaries to solve that wouldn't have manifested otherwise, like worms deep in the earth, invisible until someone rooted through the topsoil and disturbed them, throwing everything out of balance. And frankly, it had been ages since the hardest decision he needed to make was determining the kind of tea he wanted to brew. Since one of his decisions didn’t precede a potentially devastating domino effect, because in the company of others, his actions tended to have that outcome. It had taken him far too long to accept that this was unsustainable.

Nothing justified putting innocent people in harm’s way so he could chum around with his teammates.

Not to mention he sorely missed the calmer, easier days that came before all this; before the accident and the team and the culling. He wanted to restore them in the next few years, and beyond. He wanted to remember what they were like. He wanted to flex this old muscle, after allowing it to atrophy for so long, especially because with that atrophy, he had gradually noticed a kind of emptiness forming inside of him, like he didn’t know his truest ideals or intentions anymore; like he was being moulded by the others until he lost his own identity.

Forging a direction of his own was... Paramount to him.

Not that his years with the Avengers didn't bear validation and silver linings of their own, but the moments were often interspersed among more arduous circumstances, which he’d rather have avoided. A positive event derived from a negative event could never be considered a net gain, because they cancelled each other out. And this was what happened with the Avengers, at an uncomfortably frequent rate... The Sokovia relief efforts were a humanitarian, positive venture, but those efforts only happened because of the genocidal Ultron intelligence that had levelled the entire city. Among others. Bruce still bore the consequences from these antithetical happenings. Much as he tried to dismiss them, they still pricked at him every now and then. The fear he would never undo the public’s distrust of him. The omnipresent sense of never being able to make up for lost time, despite doing so now. This... Identity disorder that had proliferated in his mind like a cancer.

That part, in particular, still felt like a bad dream. Something he couldn’t believe was real, nor could ever be real. He had discounted Tony’s input and suggestions about it when he first heard them, and there were still moments when he couldn't accept the man's diagnosis, because it just seemed so outlandish. He'd done plenty of research himself into so-called split personalities. Bundle theories; ego theories. But nothing seemed remotely plausible or realistic. What happened to him in Johannesburg, at the New Avengers' compound, and less than a year ago in this same observatory; it was like something out of a movie... Pseudo scientific... Alien possession. Implanted memories. Dopplegangers. Perhaps Wanda had put something real in his brain, for all her intangible abilities. Perhaps it would show up as a shadow in an MRI. Perhaps the shadow would move.

But in the end, however real the problem was (and there was, indeed, a problem; his loss of time and consciousness could attest to this), Hulk hadn't made an appearance since then.

Bruce almost believed, or wanted to believe, these were isolated events. And Hulk wouldn’t appear again.

He suspected that being alone would help with it.

Perhaps his former teammates knew that he needed time alone. Perhaps it's why an unspoken understanding between them had arisen once he'd settled down, here in the Catskills — an understanding that, while they would continue to call each other acquaintances, they wouldn’t bother each other unless utterly necessary, because their paths had wholly diverged now. Because they had attained some new form of equilibrium with each other, unlike the kind that existed when they were all working together.

And perhaps, some part of Bruce feared that if he updated his teammates on all his recent ventures, it would inspire Tony to return to his own work (however improbable the idea was, since his family life had long been a priority for him). Bruce wasn't sure he wanted the competition. He was finally in a place where he could catch up to, and eventually even surpass, Tony's own milestones in the field, and this would become a lot more difficult if Tony was still chugging away. A selfish notion indeed, but it didn't adversely affect Tony in any manner, so while he did feel the occasional pang of guilt about it, he could ultimately shrug it off.

He poured some water into the electric kettle and plugged it into the backsplash. As he waited for it to warm up, problems and solutions for his current project passed in and out of his thoughts. His mind was never quiet, even now during his self-imposed break, and he couldn't help but cast occasional glances at his clipboard, as if it could record all his ruminations without contact.

Soon, the kettle was whistling. Bruce grabbed a mug from the cupboard and began steeping his tea, electing to stand at the counter rather than taking a seat — at least for now. The mug that he chose was made from white ceramic, and it bore a custom print job with a child's drawing on the front — a colourful crayon scribble of Captain America, which was one in a four-piece set that contained artwork of Thor, Captain America, Iron Man, and the Hulk; what the general public deemed the "big four" of the original Avengers. Multiples of this mug set, which was undoubtedly created by an enthusiastic child who loved superheroes, and a supportive parent who indulged the (perhaps misguided) adulation, had been in a fanmail package for Steve months earlier. Steve had originally offered Bruce a mug with the Hulk on it, but he'd turned it down on the chance that if someone found their way into the observatory and caught a glimpse of that mug, and only that mug, they could draw unwanted conclusions. He wouldn't have that. Rather than retracting the offer, Steve made it bigger and offered him all four mugs. Thus, he owned the entire set — Thor, Captain America, Iron Man, and Hulk.

(The Hulk mug received less use than the others, as evident from its comparative lack of tea stains.)

And at last, Bruce took a seat at the island.

He didn’t think about tea much when he was greener. Drinking it wasn’t something he could humour unless he wanted to make himself uncomfortable. But he couldn't deny the pleasure his ordinary self derived from tea — it was nice to wrap his fingers around a warm mug when they were stiff and sore from tapping at a keyboard. It was nice to let his elbows rest on a tabletop and give his shoulders a break, after they had spent hours propping his hands up for touch and gestural commands. He relished the sensations more the longer he abstained from them, the sensation of eating most of all. His transformed self simply couldn't do this without suffering ill effects; he wasn't designed to ingest things. While he could, theoretically, take a sip without swallowing and chew without swallowing, it lacked the fulfillment of the rest of the process, least physiologically. It was like chewing gum, but much more agitating. If stopping before swallowing were that simple, he imagined people would eat all sorts of things and not suffer the consequences, no matter how harmful. Wouldn't that be nice. As it stood, it wasn't possible.

Thus in a sense, the opportunities when he could eat or drink had become something of a treat for him. It was something that only happened if he slowed down a little, and yanked himself away from his work long enough — and spent some time as a frailer version of himself.

Both of these criteria were rarities.

Blowing across the top of the mug to cool it down, he took a swig of tea. Then he glanced down at his clipboard, the graph paper covered with iterations of a new device, both sketches and measurements. He inspected one set of measurements, then he flipped his pencil and scrubbed away a line of writing before thumbing the shreds from the rubber tip.

Reworking certain components of the quinjet, in a sense, reminded him of the time he designed the observatory. And he missed the design process, frankly, because it gave him a substantial sense of control in comparison to his accommodations at the Avengers facilities, where he could adjust his spaces but not overhaul them entirely; after all, the locations were not his own. Back when he designed the observatory, he could choose doors that locked on his own command, and ones that were tall enough to accommodate both his guises. He could choose the ratio of open space to smaller, more amniotic rooms. So while he didn't build the place, his input on the floor plans made it feel more like home than anything else.

The entrance faced south and opened up into the main floor, which held the kitchen and living area. The latter space was dressed with a few sofas and a coffee table, and boasted large, open windows that easily permitted the morning sun. If one ventured further into the floor and passed through a closed door, they'd find the laboratories, and living quarters which consisted of his own room and a guest ensuite (it was still unfurnished, given the circumstances), or they could take one of two staircases. The first was a nautilus shell of a metal staircase that spiraled up into the dome, the room fitted with a massive telescope that passed through the paneled ceiling. The second was a straight staircase that led into the basement. The clutter of unused equipment against the pallid walls was evident the moment someone ventured down there — as were the control panels for the power source, which manifested as a sizable column of green light wrapped in thick glass. It originated in the floor of the basement and continued upward, stopping at the ceiling.

It was a proof-of-concept work, but unlike the towering arc reactor back at the Stark Industries headquarters in LA, which eventually gave way to the miniaturized version used in Tony's armour, this was not a publicity stunt for the doctor, but a means to an end. It was purposed as a self-sustaining, cyclical energy source that allowed Banner to work off the grid and operate the lights, appliances, and other power hogs without reliance on external sources.

And there were many of these power hogs. The refrigerator, dishwasher, and laundry unit on the main floor were the least of it — the two laboratories in the deepest part of this floor were outfitted with machinery and computers that never took a snooze, because in most cases, neither did he. (It felt somewhat... Gratuitous to sleep, when the monster didn't need to sleep at all.) The first and larger lab contained the bulk of these devices, being the place for heavy-duty conceptualization and fabrication, like a production line of sorts. It wasn't unusual for novel tech to be scattered throughout the vicinity, sitting pretty on desks and carts in readiness for completion. The second lab was smaller; more old-fashioned, and had less computers, containing the typical assortment of beakers, graduated cylinders, and other apparatus for chemical and biological experimentation instead. Fume hoods, eyewashing stations, and sinks in case of chemical spills were also present, but he never needed to use them. Not for the lack of incidents, but because it had become less of a hassle to hastily undress and, as Tony had consistently put it, "Hulk out" and allow his body to deal with the issue with utmost certainty of negating it, rather than spraying himself with water and hoping for the best.

(His condition could heal wounds; injuries, but not scar tissue. It was the reason he still hadn’t lost the chip of a scar beneath his eye, which he incurred so long ago that his memories of the incident were shrouded. It was odd, knowing something so small wasn't a match for his healing capabilities, while more... Grievous injuries never left a scratch on him.)

If he wasn’t already “Hulked out”, which was the norm.

Nonetheless, the chemistry lab could still be used for engineering in a pinch, if he referred to one of the few computers therein. The observatory ran on a single closed network, so the files were accessible from anywhere within its walls. It was difficult to access this network even if someone did manage to sneak into the building, however; he had made sure of it. Secluding himself from the rest of the world was only one way to ensure his privacy, and it was part of a bigger equation. Therefore, even the doors, not only to the labs but the living quarters and the generator room, were chronically locked and required a biometric scan to open, and it was of a certain kind that only someone with his condition could provide.

So if someone entered the building, they could wander around the kitchen; the living room, and find their way to the first bathroom, but everything else was behind those locked doors. This was for the better, because Bruce valued his privacy, and because guests might be uneasy if they realized the building ran on radioactive isotopes. Not unlike a neutered bomb.

He remained at the island for a few minutes. Uneventful, for the most part, save for the ideas and questions that were tumble-drying in his brain, wearing down both ends of his pencil.

Uneventful.

Then he saw the tea in his mug twitch.

He looked to the mug, intent on confirming the occurrence, suspecting he may have hallucinated somehow. No, he wasn't. It happened again. There. And then, something trembled in the soles of his feet.

Soon, it snowballed into a low-grade rumbling.

He tried to pick apart the reason. There were no trains this far out; nobody would dare budget an endeavour like building a railroad in these plateaus, nor was the area prone to tremors and earthquakes; he had ensured this when he was initially scouting the location.

The lights began to flicker.

With it, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up.

Something was burning. It was a rubbery smell, like raw cable set aflame, mixed with the metallic tinge of static electricity. The tremors in the building were growing, small bits of dust and debris falling onto his shoulders and into his tea from the ceiling. And then, down in the basement, Bruce heard something fall to the floor with a deafening clatter.

His nerves kicked into gear. It was the kind of painful, adrenaline-fueled pulse that came from a sudden surprise.

He abandoned his drink, leaving the kitchenette and hurrying down the stairs to the basement, fluorescent lights running overhead like road markings. As he descended and reached the bottom of the steps, which opened into the basement's storage area for unused lab equipment and furniture (both were abundant, insinuating their owner was a bit of a pack rat and preemptive planner), his direction turned to the generator room. He needed to discern what was happening, and potentially shut off the power if there was a leak. Plutonium was polite if it was stable, but not in other situations. Potentially this one.

When he opened the door and entered the room, he stopped in his tracks. The siren kicking in over the PA system was the least of his worries; that much was expected and normal, if not slightly disconcerting, with the memories of a certain accident at Culver University that it conjured up. But the issue was worse than he'd anticipated, and as it sunk in, his throat seemed to plunge down into his stomach like an elevator in freefall.

The cell was pulsing. The green light became dimmer, then more vivid and brighter, oscillating between the two intensities. This effect became quicker and quicker until it escalated into a strobing effect, cell alternating between a dim glow and a blinding brightness like the chromatophores of a squid. And it was creaking; moaning — as if under duress; as if pressure was building within the glass and prone to bursting free any moment.

He’d never seen this before. Theories stirred and began racing in his worried brain, the first of which... Something must have been overloading it. Somehow. Experience told Banner he must have missed some important factor when he was first designing it; some misplaced detail that would only manifest over the long term. There wasn't a possibility of cross-contamination; there wasn't a possibility for anything except his own errors; nobody else was involved in this. But whatever the case, he needed to shut it down immediately.

But he couldn’t walk forward. Some part of him, however small, told him it wasn’t safe anymore.

Intuition, perhaps.

If he contemplated it more, he may have wondered if Hulk was stopping him from proceeding. If Hulk was calling him stupid. Reckless.

Again.

He was smart to wait. Before him, the chamber cracked, a hairline fracture creeping down the glass in incremental movements. This was all it took. The building heaved, and with a rising shriek that sounded eerily akin to the arrival of a nuclear bomb, the entire chamber exploded, blinding light erupting and shards of thick glass snapping and spraying out into the room like bullets. High pressure followed suit, knocking the wind from his lungs and causing him to lose his balance, gusting him back as he flew into the concrete wall and collided with a dull crack. He collapsed into a heap on the floor, ears ringing from the explosion.

And with a domino reaction of popping glass from above, and an electrical shudder, the lights went out.

Quiet. Still. Dark.

Heart pounding, loud in the blood barrier of his brain, Bruce staggered to his feet in the darkness, wincing as a sharp pain lanced through his lower back and threatened to lock the muscles. Glass crackled and crunched underfoot as he steadied himself, his skin stinging from newfound cuts. His breaths were strained and hurt his throat with every exhale. The inside of his nose felt wet. He smelled blood. He didn’t know what to do; shock had washed over him.

Can’t see... Can’t see. Oh god.

A few moments later, the backup generator kicked in. The room was bathed in a dim, eerie yellow, incandescence winning over the earlier fluorescence. Shadows blotted in the corners of the room and occluded the furniture, as if the recent darkness couldn't recede entirely. A chalky dust floated in the air, irritating the doctor's eyes and tickling his nose and throat. He sucked in a shallow, tense breath, and coughed from the dust that filtered down into his throat and lungs, lifting his elbow up to his mouth to muffle the sound. In concurrence, the air around him whorled in a puff of microscopic debris as, mind buzzing with adrenaline and unable to focus on anything except the damage before him, he tried to assess how bad it was.

The power source was gone. It had taken some of the walls with it, opening up the generator room into the rest of the lackluster basement. He looked up and noticed vein-like cracks throughout the ceiling, congregating into a massive hole where the power source had once inserted. A sickly yellow light poured in from upstairs, slivers of light bleeding in from the surrounding cracks. Instruments and tables from the lab upstairs had fallen through the floor, which were now strewn before him, the furniture and other apparatuses dented and mangled beyond repair from their impact with the floor. Metal trays were bent in half. Carts were relieved of their equipment as they lay dead on their backs, wheels still rolling in their casters. He saw his work, some pieces near completion and others in the beginning stages, destroyed. He didn’t know how far the damage extended past this.

Breathe.

He did, and then he gave another muffled cough, cheeks puffing. The entire place smelled like pig iron and ozone. He looked to the center of the incident, where the power source had been reduced to a smoking pile of dust, broken glass, and metal. At its peak, he saw a shape.

Breathe, Banner.

It was a man. Or, it looked like one. Bruce wouldn’t assume he was ordinary simply because he looked so; he’d been on the receiving end of that phenomenon too often himself.

And this man came from... Nowhere. Materialized, from thin air. There’s no way he could’ve snuck into the lab.

He stared at them, eyes intent. Words didn’t come; they were stuck behind his teeth. He wasn’t sure what he would tell them, anyhow. Every inch of him was on edge, and at the same time, too stunned to muster any kind of reaction; worst of all, this wasn't a simple case of misinterpretation and overreaction on his part. Whatever this person had intended, and whatever justifications and explanations they could give, they had just destroyed what felt like a part of himself, ripping months and months of his work apart like inconsequential sheets of tissue paper and rendering it useless; useless; as if he needed any more problems; what would it take for people to leave him alone and stop dragging him down?

He did what the public asked of him; he stepped out of the spotlight. Graciously. He never wanted it in the first place, not the way it was given to him. He never wanted to be known; half-known, at least, for the notoriety of the Hulk’s temper tantrums; those events were the direct antithesis of his lifelong plans and goals, and he was done with stitching up the wounds it kept opening up. Severing his connection to violence, and keeping his distance from it, he’d become so certain over the years, was imperative for progress. But once again, as it always happened in the past, violence had found him instead. Even here.

Courtesy of his new and egregious... House guest.

His jaw set. He could feel his fists coiling up, trimmed nails digging into the meat of his palms.

(Tch. If you’re gonna chew them out, then chew them out, dummy. Don’t make me do it for you.)

Bruce's anger was enough to pull him from his stupor. He stumbled towards the man, steps unsteady but intentional. His voice was hoarse, uneven; close to catching in the dryness of his throat, and it was coloured by pain and disbelief from what occurred, but it remained full of the accusation and animosity he wanted to convey. The intent to single them out. Pass off the blame to them. No amount of shock would quell that, nor would the unknown nature of the newcomer; their unknown capabilities. It simply wasn't a factor when it came to the intentions that ailed him. He needed to get their attention.

He needed them to understand what they’ve done.

“Hey!”

Perhaps they would already know it, with the wreckage scattered around them. But he was almost hoping that wasn’t the case. Much as he couldn’t admit it, he wanted the honours all to himself... To yell; to accost them; to blame someone else, because he seldom had the chance, and it was clear as day who the guilty person was in this situation; maybe it was him, but probably not; he wouldn't accept it because if that were the case, a stranger wouldn't have landed in the middle of the room with smoke trailing from their clothes.

They did this. They did this.

His vision flickered.

And if words didn’t get through to them, some part of him had always found pleasure in the alternative.

#( in control. )#( verse ) rayleigh scattering.#mynameisanakin #mynameisanakin 1 #coming in hot with bruce's continuous semi-denial of his did #and eddie wasn't a thing before i wrote this but... eddie.#bruce could use a tiny animal friend.#i should probably make a new verse for this because #uhh there's a lot. lol.#i'll figure out a name eventually.#anyways - let me know if you need anything changed here!

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quicksiilver · 3 years

Text

In My Fathers Eyes

All Parts: Here

Also now on AO3: Here (I’ve wanted to do this from the start! Finally did it.)

Part Four: The People In the Dream

Word Count: 4k.

Chapter Summary: Rachel reencounters the boy from downstairs. A familiar piece of art is brought up, and her uncle identifies their type immediately, which gives Rachel just a taste of what she’s really in for.

Getting off the elevator I followed Thors directions and went straight down to the end of the hallway passing by rooms that were full of scientific equipment and important things that I wouldn’t understand. This must’ve been the science fair Natasha was talking about and I smiled to myself thinking about it, shoving my hands in my hoodie pockets.

She seemed so cool and so chill. I wondered if she was the only girl on this team because she’s the only girl Avenger I’ve heard about so far. Black Widow, I thought, how cool it would be to be Black Widow. I smiled again and shook my head. Just wait until I tell Shaun that that thought just crossed my mind.

“Yeah, downstairs,” I heard a voice say as I reached the end of the hall. Peering into the room I found Tony, Steve, Bruce, Thor, Natasha and the guy I ran into on the first floor who was the one talking. I cleared my throat to subtlety announce my arrival and sure enough everyone's heads snapped to look at me. Natasha and Steve were smiling at me, but Thor got up and wrapped an arm around my shoulders. I gave him a smile.

“See? Told you there was no need to rush. Everyone is here, everyone is patient,” He gestured toward the group.

They were all sitting around different tables that used holographic computers or something. Tony was using a touch screen but it was in midair. I broke away from Thor and weaved my way through the tech, admiring it all.

“Yeah, patient,” Tony muttered fiddling with three different sets of codes, his eyes not leaving the screen, “Rachel we gotta talk.” Turning to look at Tony I shrugged my shoulders to let him know I was ready and then I looked to the boy next to him who was already looking at me. He seemed a little nervous so I smiled.

“Hi,” I said quietly before my face twisted with confusion, “Wait- how’d you get up here so fast? You were on the stairs...”

“Uh, yeah,” He started and shrugged his shoulders twice, waving a hand at me as if to tell me to ignore him. The boy clearly had trouble with words, but he was cute if I had to admit it. He was as tall as Tony and gave off a sweet energy.

“He’s Spiderman,” Tony said flatly, still not looking away from his screen. My jaw dropped only a little in shock, “Peter, this is Rachel. Rachel, this is Peter.” He waved a single hand between us before returning it to the table.

“So you’re just going to give me up like that, then? Again!?” Peter raised his voice, annoyed by Tony. I laughed to myself, gaining Peter’s attention again. He gave me a small smile and laughed with me.

“Nice to meet you,” He nodded.

“Nice to meet you, too,” I said. We shared eye contact for another moment, just taking each other in before Steve started to speak and took me away.

Behind my back Natasha was watching Peter, and once Peter noticed her stare he pulled a face of disgust. Natasha rolled her eyes, flickered her eyes between Peter and I, and then winked at him. He was flustered, and looked away, but then turned back and shook his head trying to throw her off. She nodded her head slowly and raised her eyebrows pointing at me once before giving her attention to Steve.

“Now that you’ve gotten to know Uncle Thor-“ He began, but Peter quickly cut him off.

“Uncle!?” He exclaimed, his eyebrows were raised so high as he watched Thor seeming more shocked than I had been.

“No Uncle,” Thor smiled, but squinted his eyes and we both shook our heads trying to dismiss the name we both decided didn’t fit.

“Okay, not Uncle Thor,” Steve said unsurely quizzing me with his eyes, “We figured now that you know some information we could possibly get started on what we need to do to... you know, save the world,” He sighed and sat down in a chair beside Natasha folding his arms across his chest.

“Funny, Cap,” Tony said as he stepped away from his tech, “You said you didn’t want to take the reins on this one.” Steve took a deep breath looking at Natasha before turning to Tony.

“Then be my guest, Tone,” He said saltily, turning the air bitter. Somewhere in my heart it felt unfitting for Captain America, a man who lived in the 1940’s, to treat someone with a little disrespect like that. I glanced to Peter who was pressing his lips in a firm line obviously holding back a laugh. My lips slowly grew into a smile even though I tried my best to repress it, and Peter’s did the same. Not even a second passed before we both burst into laughter, the adults in the room turning to look at us.

“Children? For one second can you let the grown-ups have a moment?” Tony threw out a hand and talked with it. Peter shut down quickly, but I let out another giggle as Tony turned back to face Steve. He glanced at me only once more at the sound, and when he did I lowered my chin and narrowed my eyes watching him do a double take of disgust.

“Can you, please! Please do not look at me like that,” He brushed his shoulder off with his hand as if to brush me away.

“Look at you like how?” Peter asked. Keeping my chin low I faced Peter to let him have a look. From Tony, to me, to Tony, to me, his eyes were dancing.

“I don’t get it,” He shook his head.

“He doesn’t know who that is?” Bruce spoke up. Peter shook his head again. I sighed and crossed my arms, copying Steve who looked to me humorously rolling his eyes in agreement.

“Listen, Cap,” Tony caught him in the act, “I wasn’t about to involve the entire team in this yet,” He gestured to Peter vaguely, “Let alone Peter, when we have no idea what this mission is going to do to us.”

“What mission?” Peter asked, getting no answers to any of his questions. Tony and Steve broke into an argument that Natasha did her best to break up, and when she failed Thor stepped in and pushed Tony backward with a giant metal hammer that seemed to appear out of nowhere. The Asgardian had business written on his face as we all watched the two of them stare at each other.

“That is my brother's daughter,” He spoke softly, but the strict tone was eminent. After he said that Peter looked at me, still confused.

“If you all are not going to treat her with respect and thank her for coming here to help us, then I will take her home myself and make sure she lives the happiest life now that I know who she is,” Thor tapped Tony’s chest with the hammer again, “And I’m talking about you, Stark.” Tony looked between the hammer and Thor with minimum expression on his face.

“What will you do? Lightning strike me into oblivion? You guys need me, you wouldn’t do a thing,” Tony said. Thor pressed the hammer against him completely. My mind was blown, it was as if this hammer weighed thousands of pounds yet Thor was able to just carry it around. Tony let out a few noises to alert us that he was uncomfortable, and Peter looked concerned, but I watched with content. Tony had been nothing but rude to me since I met him, I didn’t see anything wrong with giving him a little push.

“I could do it,” Thor agreed, “But I won’t,” He turned to me and I gave him a thankful smirk, then he looked to Tony once more, “Without you we won’t be able to find Loki. We wouldn’t have found Rachel. I need my brother to be safe, and she needs her father to come home. Loki... Loki needs to be here,” His voice fell soft at the end, “He needs to be with her.” The room was silent for not even a minute after Thor’s touching speech, that did pull at my heart a bit. Hearing that my father could be in danger if Thor said he wasn’t safe, and hearing that he needed to be with me, something stirred inside of me. It felt like a longing, a need to know someone, a need to help someone.

Now it was Peter’s turn to get the attention.

“Loki? You’re his daughter?” He asked me. Nodding, I shrugged my shoulders. My go-to for when I didn’t feel like admitting anything out loud, or apparently when the Avengers were driving me nuts. I waited to see if Peter's face gave any hints as to how he felt about that information, but he just looked down to his hands and messed with them. His eyebrows were pushed gently to the center of his forehead as he looked up at me, but he didn’t expect me to still be watching so he quickly looked back down. Turning completely toward the adults I found Natasha watching me with a small smile. Returning it I sighed and took my hoodie off completely, tossing it over a table to my left. The white tank I had beneath it would do, I was comfortable being chilly anyway.

“Okay,” I said gesturing my hands around at them, “I’m ready. Use me.” I said sarcastically. Thor eyed me curiously, but proudly as I offered myself to them. He had a plan of keeping me away from this tonight, but I decided now that I was going to get this over with. Bruce stood up and held out a hand.

“Bruce Banner,” He said. I shook his hand and nodded. Hulk, I said to myself in my head, big green guy. I mentally noted to always be nice to Bruce. There was something about knowing he could turn into a monster in a split second that just freaked me out to my core.

“Rachel Andrews,” I said and let go, holding my hands behind my back.

“Nice to formally meet you, Rachel,” He said with an emphasis on the word formally, getting a quiet rise out of Tony, “You’ll be doing a lot of work with me... and Tony to start out with.” Thor released the man who came a few steps closer to us.

“Hi, Rachel,” He said in the same tone he’s been using, “Yes it’s been great to meet you, but I’ve just been stressed the hell out. These superhuman’s don’t understand that I can’t punch or break something to simply figure out how...” He paused and internally seemed to tell himself to stop talking.

“Can I tell you what we need to do?” He asked me and I gave him the famous shrug, “You know you do that a lot.” He mumbled and turned around motioning for me to follow him. Just when I thought Tony could’ve redeemed himself in the slightest, he ruins it with a snide comment.

“Guys, Steve and I are going to go meet Wanda downstairs,” Natasha said, starting for the door with Steve behind her, “Peter?” She paused for a moment looking to the boy who was still standing there quietly. He looked up to her.

“Are you going to come with us?” She asked him, her tone insinuating something. Peter shook his head and then cocked his head toward Tony.

“Nah, I’m going to stay and help,” He said. Natasha eyed him, then left with a grin on her face.

Tony brought me over to the table he was standing behind when I first came into this room and he started to explain what I was looking at on the screens. It was insane, when I was behind the screen I could see right through it, but looking at it from here it was like a solid page.

He told me that he and Bruce needed to, ‘explore the valleys of my hippocampus’, to see if they could find any leads on my father and where he could be or what he could be doing.

“You realize I’ve never met the guy?” I said, stating the truth.

“Seems as though you’ve met something related to him,” Tony said and I pulled a face.

“Yeah, Thor-“ I started to catch an attitude, but he shut me up.

“Not... Thor,” He held out a hand before reaching for his phone in his pocket, “Banner, I didn’t show you this yet.” Tony scrolled on his phone for a minute and then flipped the screen around for Bruce to see. His eyes nearly bugged out of his head, and Tony vocally agreed with him.

“What is it?” Peter asked coming close to peer over Tony’s shoulder, “Whoa, is that paint?!” He exclaimed. Reaching out a hand without thinking twice I snatched Tony’s phone from him with force and saw a photo of my painting from this morning on the screen. I could feel my blood start to boil. Nothing made me anymore angry than non consensual art being flaunted around, especially if it was mine. In sixth grade a drawing of a girl I had a crush on was spread around the school and I was made fun of for weeks, so I’m pretty sure that’s where this trauma stems from.

“You think this is okay? Stealing peoples art and hard work?” I spat, sliding his phone back to him on the table, “I worked for hours on that.”

“And it’s great, really,” Tony praised, “I didn’t take the picture to steal your art, kid. Can I ask what it is? Who are they?”

I peeked at his phone again, looking at the blue figures I had painted onto an icy background.

“I know who they are,” Thor said, making us all jump, because I think we all forgot he was here. He walked toward us, stood behind me and reached over my head for Tonys phone. I looked up at him genuinely shocked.

“What!? You do?” I asked, “These are things I’ve seen in my dreams my entire life. How do you know who they are?” Thor looked to Tony who looked to Bruce.

“Go ahead, she’s going to need to find out anyway,” The scientist rolled his eyes. Thor placed a hand to my shoulder as usual and walked me away from the table. Once we were across the room he showed me my own painting again.

“Yes, I know,” I nodded, “Blue people, red eyes, ice world.” Thor laughed under his breath.

“This is a place close to Asgard,” He began, his words freezing me in my place, “We used to be at battle with them, the Jotun’s, for millions of years until my father... ended it. It’s called Jotunheim and these people are called Frost Giants.” My eyes were glued to my painting and my stomach was starting to feel nauseous. My entire life I had believed that this was a made up place that my six year old brain created, and then continued to create when I needed something to get me away from what is now my traumatic backstory.

“You’re looking like him again,” Thor whispered, mentioning the clear discomfort I was wearing on my face, “The place was silent for a long, long time after my father created peace, the Jotun’s leaving Asgard alone, however... today battle is on the horizon. It has been for a while now.” I swallowed the lump in my throat and looked up to my uncle.

“Are you alright?” He asked genuinely, a hand touching my cheek. I started to nod slowly.

“I mean... yeah, if you consider the fact that I have no idea who I am anymore,” I said at merely a whisper, “This has to do with my dad, right? All of it? Why else would I be dreaming about another planet?”

“This is why we’d like to explore...” Tony sang out from the other side of the room, letting his voice trail off obnoxiously after his little song.

“Maybe, possibly, somehow some of it wasn’t a dream... It was real,” Bruce said.

“I’ve NEVER met my father,” I clenched my fists and watched Tony flinch, my voice raising a bit as I stared Bruce down.

“Maybe it wasn’t your father,” He said simply, not even reacting to my state. Squeezing my eyebrows together I quickly crossed my arms over my chest hoping to physically fix the emotional hole that was just opened. My body was turning warm, I could feel the heat rising from my bones and it started to make me shake. I turned to Thor and shook my head nearly pouting my lips. He rested a hand on my arm and pulled me in to hug him. His hold was strong, but comforting, and as he hugged me he told me quietly that he was not going to let anything or anyone hurt me.

“And I mean here, too,” He lifted a finger to my head implying mentally. Bruce and Tony had turned away and were talking to one another focused back on a screen. Peeking out from under Thor's arm it seemed as if they didn’t care that this day has been the third most overwhelming day of my life. They both just tapped away at their work with their fingers and spoke a second language of smart people’s lingo to each other.

“Hey,” Peter said from behind Thor and I. Suddenly realizing that he was still here I stepped back from Thor rubbing my eyes clean of any subconscious tears that may have fallen before turning to look at him. I took a deep breath as he stepped close to me.

“I don’t really know what you have to do,” He started, and I nodded in agreement because I had no idea either, “But Mr. Stark and Mr. Banner can be nice sometimes. They can even make me laugh sometimes,” He spoke lightheartedly, watching me curiously. Then he spoke quieter, keeping his words between us, “If you wanted, I could totally stay here, if that’s okay with you, and maybe even help them and you, of course. You barely know me, but somehow I feel like I get you.” Tucking my dark hair behind my ears I glanced to my feet feeling something stir in my center again as I stood here in front of Peter.

It was a feeling I had felt for the first time in sixth grade, and another time when I first met Shaun. Shortly after getting to know Shaun and who he was it was settled that I’d have to get over what I was feeling, fast, or else we wouldn’t have become the friends we are today. I had never dated anyone before, and I wasn’t sure that something along those lines was even written in the stars for me. The thought of someone coming into my life and disrupting the way I live it made me uncomfortable. I work too hard to be able to survive the way I’ve been, and any time Shaun asks to set me up with someone I decline. He loves to tell me I enjoy shutting people out, and have a talent for not opening up or speaking my truth. Although for Shaun that’s never truly an issue. Our other friends however couldn’t tell you a single thing personal about me.

As I looked back up to Peter these thoughts washed away and all that remained was my gut instinct to shut it down as fast as possible and run the other way, but then I figured I could use a friend while I was here. Shaun was at home, possibly still at mine, and I was here by myself completely vulnerable to a handful of Gods, superhuman’s and shape shifting human beings.

“Sure,” I answered Peter with a small smile, “You can stay.” He smiled in return, his eyes looking to me happily. Flutters in my stomach. Breaking my gaze I sighed and turned back to Thor who was waiting attentively.

“You can do this. In the end everything will be fine. Even better than fine,” He said grinning, “Peter, Spider-boy,” He said.

“Uh, Spider-man... Thor, sir,” Peter said too respectfully.

“Right,” Thor laughed, “You’ve always been someone I trusted these few years you’ve been with us,” Peter’s smile grew, “Can you promise me something?”

“Of course,” Peter nodded quickly.

“Good, now, please,” Thor paused and closed his eyes. I turned to Peter for a moment, both of us questioning him, “Please promise me that if I am not around... if I am not in sight, and this one is in danger,” Thor pointed to me, “Promise me that you will protect her. Whatever it takes.” Peter stepped around me and held out his hand for Thor to shake, and when the god grabbed it he nearly lifted Peter off the floor.

“I promise,” Peter said genuinely. Thor nodded and looked between the two of us satisfied with himself.

“Good, good,” He mumbled, “That is my niece,” He said to Peter who nodded, understanding, “And this is my friend,” He said to me, gesturing toward Peter, “Don’t get too comfortable.” He whispered harshly, laughing at the cringe reactions he got out of both of us.

“I will be leaving for a moment, will you be alright?” Thor then asked me. Nodding my head I glanced to Peter, then to Thor and smiled, “Great. Take care of her, please.” He said to Peter before heading out the door.

“Rachel, can we do a test run to see if we have everything working right?” Bruce called over to Peter and I.

“Sure,” I said knowing that I didn’t have another option, but Thor's threat to Tony about him taking me home did sound pretty nice. Walking toward the geniuses I say down in a comfortable chair right beside the table Tony was working at.

He handed me two tiny earbuds and explained to me that I needed to put them in my ears like I was wearing headphones to listen to music. I hesitated at first, questioning Peter with my eyes, but he just gave me a shrug, so I stuck the little oval shaped beads into my ears.

“Alright,” Tony’s tone turned to excitement, “Let’s see how well our four month prototype works out, Banner.”

“Prototype?!” I nearly shouted and lunged forward in the chair making Tony jump and stumble backwards. The sight of his frightened face confused me once again, yet it always seemed to bring me a but of joy, “You’re really scared of me, aren’t you?” I asked quietly, my voice lowering immensely, some humor detected behind it. Tony came back close to me and ignored the question, giving me the answer I was looking for, and started tapping away listening to Bruce’s instructions. Peter had himself sitting criss-cross on a table top when I looked back to him. His hands were in his lap and he was watching the guys work with interest in every move they made. His eyes found me and he smiled again, shooting me a look that was asking me if I was okay. I sat back against the cushion once more and nodded as I rested my forehead on my fist, the feeling of a headache brewing and on its way.

#marvel #marvel fanfiction #The Avengers #the avengers fanfiction #peter parker fanfiction #loki fanfiction #thor fanfiction #black widow #natasha romanoff #Tony stark #Steve rogers #Bruce banner #the hulk

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iggy-of-fans · 5 years

Text

Of Being a Ladybug part 2

So, Paris is about 6 hours ahead of Metropolis . So if Marinette sent the message at say… 8 pm, and Jagged got it at 9 because he was at dinner, then getting lawyers straightened out and all that ...say Marinette starts school at 10 am, then it would be approximately 4am in Metropolis. It would be a 7 hour flight, meaning she'd leave at noon on Monday, and arrive at 2am on Tuesday.

The cons of being a reporter.

TUESDAY 2AM Paris

Lois was as excited as she was exhausted. Paris! She'd always wanted to go to Paris. As her taxi drove her past the Louvre and she could see the Eiffel tower in the distance, she couldn't help but remember the call she received yesterday.

"I know it's early, Lois, but I have a job for you in Paris" Bruce said from the other line.

"I'm listening."

"The satellites from the Tower have been picking up irregularities. Burning buildings, the Eiffel Tower toppled or completely missing, then the next pass everything is normal. Hal even claims he saw a giant baby on cams once. I've gone over all the pictures of the last year, a couple of weeks ago there… I can't explain it. I'll send you the images and we'll try to find a believable cover story for going in the middle of the school year like this"

"I understand, thank you Bruce. I'll book the earliest flight I can." Burning buildings? The Eiffel tower toppled? Nothing had been said in the news. If something on a grand scale like that were happening, they would already know.

"Thank you, Lois. I will of course pay for your accommodations while there," Bruce offered. A consolation for sending her around the globe for film effects.

She barely got a "thank you" out, before he hung up. She flopped back onto the bed, Clark raising an eyebrow at her. Of course he'd heard both sides of the conversation, so he obviously had his own opinion to share.

"Well? What do you think?" she asked him. If Clark gave it some weight, she might take it more seriously.

"A video was sent by the Mayor of Paris about a year ago, asking for help because his city was being overrun by stone monsters and their only hope lay with a couple of kids. I watched it and it looked like some cheap special effects and deleted it like the other publicity stunts people pull. Diana was the one to notice the inconsistencies with the Eiffel tower, and she swears she saw a couple kids flying on rooftops. It's why Bruce started investigating. But he has no reason to be in Paris at all, since Wayne Enterprises doesn't have an hq there, and he wants to save that excuse for if there IS any trouble. Anyways, try to enjoy your little vacation while you're there" Clark smiled.

"... Does Bruce know the mayor called for Justice League intervention?" Lois asked slowly. This… Was… Not… happening.

"No? I mean, just some publicity stunts, Lois. We get 20 of them a day" Clark dismissed. Lois was beyond words so she got up and started packing, and turned on her civilian phone to call for a flight. Before she could get dialing she got a call incoming.

"Penny? Is everything okay? WHAT? YES! Of course I do! That's huge! Yes, let me just call my boss…. Oh? Oh wow! Thank you! Yes, I'll see you tonight… Or I guess tomorrow for you…yes. I understand. Thank you" Lois couldn't believe her luck. She grabbed her JL phone and called Bruce.

"Bruce! I've got a cover! I've been asked by an old college friend to interview her client and a few others on Parisian TV. Yes, totally legit, she just called me… Penny Rolling. Yes, yes Bruce! I will keep my eyes open. Did you know the Mayor tried to call for JL intervention a year ago? No? Clark told me there was a video but thought it was a publicity stunt. Maybe try to find it and give me a heads up… okay… Thank you Bruce. That'll be perfect! I'll get to the bottom of this… Okay, thank you."

Finally done with the update she rushed to call the airline.

" NOON?!"

Before she could take in the breathtaking view any longer, the cab stopped. Lois paid the fare and stepped out and looked up. It was a beautiful hotel, owned by Mayor Bourgeois. The cabbie was loading her bags onto a trolley with a Bellhop waiting stoically by the doors. Just as Lois went to inquire about Penny, the door opened and out she came.

"You cut your hair!" Lois exclaimed, giving her friend a hug and a LA Bise.

"You, my beautiful ginger, are late! Had you arrived a few hours earlier you would have had quite the show!" Penny said with a smile. She'd always been jealous of Lois's hair.

"It's Paris, Penny. How exciting could it possibly be?" Lois asked jokingly, wondering just what her visit here would truly reveal.

I was going to end it here, but I believe I owe you all an action scene 😉

MONDAY 10AM PARIS

Ladybug flew over buildings in the direction of the explosions. She really wished she'd had a chance to see the classroom before leaving to see if she would have to once again go up against Alya. Or Lila.

Maybe if she was lucky it would be another unfortunate soul altogether. One she hopefully didn't know personally. Because it was starting to really take a toll on Ladybug, every time she came face to face with a friend or loved one.

Before she was ready she was at the scene. And she was shocked. The Akuma of the day was a barely visible outline of a woman. She had a flowy garment on and only became visible when she touched a person. The person would immediately admit to bad deeds, anything from finishing the ice cream container to more horrible crimes.

Ladybug watched as a couple hid behind a vehicle to escape the fate, only for the akuma to lift and throw the car, one handed, into another vehicle, creating another explosion. The akuma drifted ghost like towards the couple and became fully corporeal as she touched them, first the man ("I tapped your phone! I hated how much time you spent always going out!" he blurted out) then the woman ("I can't stand being with you!" she screamed back). Ladybug swallowed. This was not good. A non corporeal being with the strength of ten men and the ability to… Spill secrets? Ladybug wasn't sure, but didn't want to get too close before she had the full story. She went to grab her yo-yo to call Chat, only for him to pop up, baton swinging.

"What have we here? Another scary movie victim?" Chat asked, drawing all eyes to them. Ladybug wanted to scream. Or toss him off the building. Once! Just. ONCE!

"I… am Guilty Conscience. That voice that should tell you not to do bad… It Is too quiet in most people's heads. So therefore I shall make you scream your misdeeds to the world. No longer shall there be hiding behind white lies for innocence" the ghost whispered, yet to Ladybug she may as well have screamed.

"Che, you're out of your league! I have a picture perfect record!" Chat smirked, ever brash and fearless. Without a second thought, he jumped off the building towards the ghostly form. And just as Ladybug predicted, went right through her. She did not become solid upon contact with a human unless she so chose to. Great…

"Chat! Fall back, we need a plan!" Ladybug called, stepping back from the roof and readying her yo-yo.

"Just lucky charm her and we can go out for coffee!" Chat yelled back, swinging his baton uselessly through GC. Ladybug shook her head. She was almost 90% sure they'd need more backup.

"Lucky Charm!" she cried, throwing her yo-yo high. Down fell a teapot. Back up it is, she sighed.

"Chat! Fall back, I'm going for backup!" she called out again.

"Awe, but M'lady, I thought I was the only one you needed in your life!" she was sure he thought he sounded charming. She cringed.

"Not now Chat. I'll be back in a while, keep her from following me but keep your distance. No need to waste your energy for now."

Had she looked down, or paid more attention to her surroundings, she may have seen Lila hiding in an alley not far from the akuma. She may have noticed her trying to follow her. She may even have taken another route to get where she was going. Later she would regret not being more vigilant.

To be Continued...

Looks like me tag list is officially full. I'll try to send the rest in the comments!

@sidd-hit-my-butt-ham @kuroko26 @northernbluetongue @zelladane @chez-pezeater @luciferge @vixen-uchiha @bluerosette23 @mochinek0 @krunchy-tuna @treebrosha @geekydragonyt @vivilakitty @sassy-spocko @bluefiredemon-blog @mindfulmagics @thornangelic727 @sidefrienda @xxmadamjinxx @thepeacetea @pandocatxd @whomthefyck @lamestplaceintheworld @miraculous-ninja @mikantsume @unabashedbookworm @kandi-pie @2sunchild2 @redsparrow12 @shamefullove @cadencehood @thatonechickathottopic @yin-390 @tazanna-blythe @bb-basbusa @zazzlejazzle @fanfictionaddict13 @royalchaoticfangirl @god-is-dead-and-so-am-i @worlds-tiniest-spook-pastry @slytherinsheashire @imanerddealwith @tinybrie @angelisalise @graduatedmelon @trickstermiraculous @ayuchan07 @thatrandomfandomsgirl @sweatyruinsstudentbored @chloe-bourgeois-is-big-gay

#damian wayne #marinette x damian #daminette #marinette dupain cheng #maribat #marinette deserves better #maridami #marinette protection squad #Penny Rolling #Jagged Stone #uncle jagged #Aunty Clara #justice league #lois lane #clark kent #batman #batfam

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beccarooni · 5 years

Text

Hulk's protector

A.N: thor is not a coward and is 500% willing to spoon the hulk, AS ARE WE ALL

Thor knew something was wrong from the moment he turned over, expecting to wind his arm around Bruce's shoulders but instead being met with the cold, empty bedside.

That wasn't to say Bruce didn't make it all the way to bed, sometimes. Thor had lost count of the amount of times he'd caught him face-down on his desk in the lab, snoring into a pile of papers.

But Bruce had been there.

They'd fallen asleep together, the tiny scientist tucked close to Thor's chest. Bruce wouldn't just leave after that, not unless something had happened.

Thor's eye took a moment to adjust to the darkness, but eventually found what he was looking for. A huge, dark shape, taking up nearly a whole corner of their bedroom.

He frowned, sitting up against the headboard, blankets falling into his lap. "Hulk?" He stifled a yawn with the back of his hand, scratching at the underside of his neck. "What time is it?"

Hulk grunted in response, turning sharply to face the wall. "Blondie go back to sleep. Hulk fine."

Hulk was very clearly not fine, and being a self proclaimed master of the 'hide your emotions' game, Thor saw right through him.

He shifted onto his knees, holding his hand out to the dark. "Only if you come back with me."

Hulk stared at his outstretched hand for a moment, as if considering the option. A few seconds of careful silence ticked by before Hulk made another low growling sound, and twisted away from Thor's reach.

"Hulk not need sleep. Not like puny God."

"Was it a nightmare?"

Hulk paused, turning his green eyes sharply onto Thor in what could've been considered a glare. But Thor had been around long enough. He knew Hulk, and he knew the difference between frightened and angry, as thin as that line was.

"Look, you don't have to tell me what it was about."

Although, he could probably guess. The day that Banner had told Thor about his past, about his mother, about Ross, that was a day he would never forget. It burnt in the back of his mind every time he had to interact with Ross at the compound. Thor had had to remind himself consistently that no, he wasn't allowed to electrocute an influential member of government, however much he might like to.

Although, he wouldn't deny that it was satisfying knowing he could.

Knowing he could protect Banner from that monster, if the occasion arose.

Thor cleared his throat, edging closer to the end of the bed.

"You don't have to say anything, not if you don't want to. But I'm not going back without you." He leant forward, until his fingers gently brushed against Hulk's skin. "I'm not leaving you."

Hulk's sharp gaze softened somewhat, as he tentatively reached out his hand towards Thor's. Hand holding was slightly difficult when Thor could only really get a strong grip on two of Hulk's fingers, but even that seemed to be making some progress.

Hulk gradually pushed himself out of the corner, following Thor back onto the re-enforced bed (courtesy of Stark technology, an invention that the man had insisted on creating the second Banner had confessed their relationship).

Thor brought himself up from his knees, balancing awkwardly on the mattress until he met Hulk's height. He pressed a careful hand on the side of Hulk's cheek, taking a moment to admire the stark contrast of green and tan, before speaking in the careful tones that he knew by now to use.

"You know I'll always protect you, right?"

"Hulk not need protecting." He scowled, although his face was still pressed firmly into Thor's hands. "Banner need protecting."

"I know." Thor hesitated for a moment, but soon leant forward until his forehead was touching Hulk's, and his single blue eye met the dark green ones before him. "But for both of you, I will always be there. I swear by it, as long as there is breath in my chest. I will not let anything happen to you- either of you."

The seconds slipped by into minutes, with only the sound of Hulk's heartbeat beneath Thor's hand breaking the comfortable evening silence.

Thor hated seeing them like this. Hulk or Banner, each one had the capacity for fear, and so often were pushed into showing it. Each battle, each team squabble, each voice or gesture that was just a little too loud or sudden forced that fear back into those brown eyes, and every time it broke Thor's heart.

Banner had been there for him- Hulk, too. When the world seemed to collapse around him and the pressures of the throne grew so loud he thought he'd scream, there was always a pair of arms, big or small, for him to fall into. He could bury his face in the collar of a lab coat or an expanse of green muscle, and let the memories fade for a while.

He wanted to do the same for Banner. He needed to do the same.

After what seemed like an eternity of silence, Hulk finally slumped back against the headboard, watching Thor with wary eyes.

He shoved the demigod lightly on the shoulder, the expression of anxiousness finally breaking into a toothy grin. "Thor soft!"

"No, Thor just cares about you." He attempted a disapproving grumble, but the deep boom of Hulk's laughter pushed the smile back onto his face almost immediately as he scrambled back up towards the headboard, bringing the thick duvet with him.

"Now, my love, it is 4 in the morning. Do you want to sleep now?"

That didn't seem to go down well Hulk drew in a sharp breath, twisting harshly into his side, dragging most of the blankets with him. The huge shoulders shuddered beneath the blankets, and a deep rumble of discontent shook the room.

Thor sighed, idly tracing one hand over Hulk's shoulders as he racked his brain for a solution. Leaving Hulk alone for the night was out of the question, but he knew Banner hadn't slept properly in weeks. And his week was stocked with meetings about the future of Asgard. Hulk and Thor were similar in many ways, both fire no matter how insistent Hulk was about Thor's punyness. He knew what comforted him when the nights seemed to stretch out into infinity. Maybe it would be the same for the Hulk?

"Hulk?" Thor nudged his shoulders slightly, prompting a grunt of response. "Can I try something?"

"Thor not make this weird." Hulk warned, turning his head ever so slightly in Thor's direction.

"I'm not- look, I just want to help." He paused, glancing down at the Hulk's sprawled form beneath the sheets. "Please?"

He wasn't overly sure if Hulk was going to ignore him completely or throw him out of the bed. Stars above, that did seem to happen all too often. He was fairly sure he'd left a Thor-sized dent in the floorboards somewhere from the amount of times nighttime tossing and turning had gotten too rough.

Luckily, Hulk didn't seem to be doing either. He caught a mumbled "whatever", before Hulk tugged the blankets further over his shoulders with a dismissive grumble.

Thor scooted forward, wrapping his arms around the Hulk's shoulders, nestling his chin against the thick black curls with a contented sigh.

There had truly never been a better cure for night terrors than being held in Banner's arms, and it had been all too long since he had returned the favour. Now seemed as good a time as any. He felt some of the tension leave Hulk's shoulders, the gentle rise and fall of his chest bringing a yawn from Thor's throat.

"What Thor doing?" Hulk mumbled, bringing one heavy hand back to prod Thor in the side.

"Ah, I believe Banner referred to it as spooning?" Thor planted a gentle kiss into the crown of Hulk's head. "We can stop, if you wish."

"No. It's okay." Hulk's breathing began to even out, and Thor caught the glint of moonlight dancing across green eyes. "Feels nice."

"Does Hulk feel safe?"

Thor felt Hulk nod beneath his chin.

With a satisfied smile, Thor pressed his chest closer to Hulk's back, feeling the heat radiate from the thick green muscle. A small wave from his hand conjured a light drizzle of rain outside, pattering against the windowpane of their apartment. Bruce would probably chide him for driving the meteorologists crazy tomorrow, but if throwing off weather patterns would help Hulk feel less afraid? He'd cause a hurricane, if he had to. Luckily, he didn't think he had to. Hulk's breathing began to slow, the rise and fall of his chest evening out with each wave of rain.

He knew that this was only a temporary win. Ross was still a very real threat to Bruce, to all of them. Even from their brief meeting all those months ago, he imagined Ross would very much love to see him laid out on an operating table. The thought that he'd wanted, and almost succeeded to do that to Bruce?

It still hurt. Chances are that would never fade.

But for now, they were safe.

For now, Hulk could sleep. And Thor would protect him.

#thorhulk #thorbruce #thor odinson #thor #bruce banner #hulk #gamma hammer #thunderscience #thunder science #writing #fanfic

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lady-hammerlock · 5 years

Text

Through the Looking Glass - Chapter Six (Telltale Batjokes & DC Comics Crossover)

AN: Not a lot to say this time, except the warning for sexual harassment is relevant again. There’s going to be stuff in the next couple of chapters that I know a lot of you have been looking forward to seeing through, so stick around for that.

CHAPTER SIX

“So, do you have any other brilliant ideas Mister Wayne?” the Joker said. He was slumped as far down in the Batmobile’s passenger seat as he possibly could be, his body contorted in such a way that he could easily take his frustration out on the dashboard with his feet.

He did exactly that, kicking it a few times and ultimately making very little difference to anything except maybe to his own mood. Served the dashboard right; existing at him.

He expected Batman to tell him off in response. A good lashing out would have been ideal, perhaps even a punch or another twist of his arm like the one he had experienced in Arkham, but he would have settled for even a gentle verbal rebuke.

He wasn’t even given the slightest telling off however. Instead Batman, or what passed as the Bat in this pathetic universe, just stared at the road ahead, seemingly lost in his own thoughts and paying absolutely no attention to what the Joker was doing beside him.

“Perhaps we could go and talk to someone else who has absolutely no idea what’s going on,” the Joker said. “That sounds like an absolutely charming way to spend the time to me. What do you say old pal?”

Still nothing.

This really wouldn’t do.

The Joker already knew that he was going to have to make some changes to this version of Gotham. He wasn’t exactly sure how he was going to do it just yet; whether explosions or acid or just a few well-placed assassinations would do the trick, but he did know that there was no point to any of it if the Bat wasn’t going to come out and play in response.

Which meant he had to find some way to make the other man snap.

That was proving to be more of a challenge than he would have thought.

Back in his own world the Bat had all sorts of delicious weaknesses that he could exploit. He seemed to gain a child, or sidekick, or partner, or whatever the hell they chose to style themselves as, every year or so, and he was never quite as careful with them as he should have been. Barring that there were all sorts of allies for the Joker to go after; women that were rumored to have gotten a little closer to his Bat than was healthy, especially when the Joker was paying attention, or do-gooders that simply didn’t understand that doing good in Gotham led to nothing but bad luck for them.

There was none of that here though; no allies as far as the Joker could tell, except for ‘John Doe’, pathetic excuse for a Joker that he was, and he was in another universe, so there wasn’t much that the Joker could do to threaten him right now. Poor, sweet, insufferable John seemed to have stolen the entirety of Bruce Wayne’s heart as well, although whether either John or Batman had realized that was anyone’s guess, so the Joker had a feeling no other love interests were going to show up that he could play with. The Bat seemed to care about his butler, but said butler was in another country, so that marked him as a less than ideal target as well.

There had been that phone-call to Gordon back at Arkham. The Commissioner and his Bat had always worked closely together in his own universe. Perhaps good old Jimmy Gordon was worth considering. It certainly wouldn’t have been the first time the dear old Commissioner had made himself a target.

The Joker found himself smiling as he thought about it. Ah, such fond memories. It had all gone so well the last time. He and Batman; holding each other in the rain and laughing.

When his Bat… or rather, Bruce Wayne (the longer he spent with the man the harder it was becoming to think of them as being the same person) finally did speak up, his words were not at all what the Joker had anticipated.

“Do you need a drink?” Batman asked, pulling his cowl roughly off before continuing. “I need a drink.”

And oh my. That was certainly enough to bring a smile to the Joker’s face.

After his initial outburst John Doe became quiet as they drove through Gotham City. Bruce wondered if he should say something, but had no idea what he could possibly say that would actually make things better. John had clearly come from a much kinder, more functional version of Gotham City. There wasn’t much Bruce could do about that, except continue to promise John that he would get him back home as soon as possible.

He was just considering whether their next move should be paying a visit to the Justice League and if so, what in God’s name he was supposed to do with John in the meantime (because letting John into the Batcave was one thing; letting him follow Batman into the Watchtower was another completely) when he turned a corner and found that the road ahead had been completely blocked.

A twisted mess of unnaturally large vines and greenery had formed a roadblock about as high as a single story house. The largest vines were about as thick as Bruce was tall; large enough that slamming into them at the speed they were currently going would cause more damage to them than the vine.

Bruce slammed a foot down on the brakes, and turned the wheel sharply. He caught a glimpse of John Doe tensing and clinging to his seat as though his life depended on it.

The Batmobile skidded to a stop, barely feet away from the tangle of vines.

“You all right?” Batman asked, glancing over at John once more.

“Uh huh,” John replied.

Bruce watched the other man carefully for any sign that he knew what was going on. If they were lucky then this would just be Poison Ivy. If not…

“All right Bat Brain!” a shrill, high-pitched voice demanded from somewhere among the tangle of vines. “You get out of that car nice and slow, all right? And bring Mistah J with ya if he’s really in there!”

They weren’t lucky.

Harley Quinn and Poison Ivy emerged from somewhere behind the vines, Harley brandishing her hammer as though she had every intention of using it if Bruce and John didn’t do exactly as she asked.

Bruce glanced over at John. It was hard to tell how much of what was happening made sense to him. He looked terrified, although that could be because of the giant vines that had just appeared in the middle of the road or the fact that a woman with green skin had appeared and was controlling them, just as easily as it could be because he had bad memories of either Harley or Ivy.

John was clutching at his seat belt. He seemed to notice Bruce’s eyes on him, and looked straight at Bruce, pleading wordlessly with him. To what exactly? To protect him from Harley and Ivy? There was only one way to find out.

Bruce left the Batmobile, and found John quickly scurrying after him.

“Great!” Harley exclaimed as the two of them stepped away from the Batmobile. “Just the men I wanted to see! Now quit hiding behind the Bat you coward! I’m feeling like you and this hammer of mine need to get better acquainted!”

“You see, the two of us heard a rumor that you brought the Joker into Arkham,” Ivy said, twirling a tendril of vine around in her hand as she did so. “And that when you left, he left with you. Neither of us liked the sound of that, so we came to investigate. I told Harley not to worry. That there had to be some sort of mistake, and yet here we are, and here the two of you are.”

“What the hell are you doing with that freak!” Harley said, pointing at John with her hammer. Considering that John was still doing his best to hide behind Batman, it meant that she was pointing her hammer at Batman as much as at her actual target.

“Let me at him!” Harley said. “I don’t know what he’s planning or how he’s gotten to you Batsy but you know you can’t trust him!”

It was only Poison Ivy’s hand, placed gently on Harley’s shoulder, which stopped her from throwing herself right at John and attacking him.

“How did you hear about the two of us visiting Arkham?” he asked. Harley and Ivy had managed to intercept them remarkably quickly.

“I still got friends in Arkham ya knucklehead,” Harley said. “Ones I might have been on my way to er… visit.”

“You mean break out.”

Harley grinned and shrugged. It certainly wasn’t a denial.

“You still haven’t answered our question,” Ivy said. “What are you doing with the clown?”

“This isn’t who you think it is,” Batman said.

“Of course not,” Poison Ivy said, tossing her hair back over one shoulder in the most dismissive manner possible as she did. “Because two of those psychos running around Gotham is exactly what this city needs.”

Behind Bruce John let out a small whimper. He wondered if the other man knew Poison Ivy and Harley back in his world. If so, they didn’t seem to have left a particularly positive impression on him.

“All right,” Bruce conceded. “He is the Joker, but he’s a Joker from another universe. Not the one that you’re used to. An accident made him switch places with the Joker from our universe.”

Damn it. He was getting sick of having to explain this to everyone he met. And he thought having to defend the regular Joker from all of the people who tried to kill him was exhausting.

“So you’re helping him get back home?” Ivy asked. “You’re going to switch them back?”

“Of course,” Bruce said.

“Why?”

Bruce frowned.

“What do you mean?”

“When you send this Joker back home we’ll get our version of the Joker back, right?” Ivy asked. “I don’t know much about this guy but the fact that he’s spent the entire time cowering behind you rather than being an absolute asshole already makes me like him more than the one I’m used to. Are you sure you want to swap them back?”

“I’m not about to let the other universe deal with that monster,” Batman growled.

“Why not?” Ivy asked. “I know you love playing hero and all, but a universe you’ve never even seen is hardly your responsibility.”

“No. But the Joker is.”

Poison Ivy just rolled her eyes in response to that.

Harley hadn’t said much during Batman and Poison Ivy’s exchange. Instead she had slowly been walking closer to Bruce, her mallet held behind her back. Now it seemed as though she was trying to peak behind Batman and get a good look at John.

Bruce heard him let out another squeak and move slightly more to one side, tugging part of Batman’s cape along with him as he moved.

“Wait a minute,” Harley said, coming to a stop right in front of Batman. “Are you scared of me?”

She pointed her mallet in what Bruce could only assume was John’s general direction.

“You are! Is there a reason you should be scared of me?” Harley continued, taking a couple more steps. “You know something Pammy? I think this guy’s got a guilty conscience. You recognize me, don’t ya?”

“Nope. Absolutely not,” John said, and even with his limited knowledge of the other man, Batman could tell that he was lying.

“Tell the truth John,” Bruce said. “You know Harley, don’t you?”

“Well, I mean… Not this Harley, obviously…” John said, finally emerging from behind Batman and looking more than a little sheepish as he did.

“Quit avoiding the question!” Harley snapped, making John startle and grab hold of Bruce’s arm. “You got a girl named Harley back in your universe too, don’t ya? Did you twist her mind too!? Did you ruin her life too!?”

It was only Bruce deliberately putting himself between Harley and John that stopped the woman from grabbing him and doing who knew what to him.

“Harley,” Bruce said softly, attempting to calm the apparently murderous woman down. “As far as I can tell John Doe here isn’t the villain that our universe’s Joker is.”

“Yeah, newsflash Batsy,” Harley said, still trying to duck around Batman to get to the man in question. “A guy don’t have to be a supervillain to ruin a girl’s life like that. Just an asshole, and there’s plenty of those around.”

“I didn’t do it!” John finally squeaked as Batman tried to stop him from hiding beneath his cape. “At least, I’m pretty sure that I didn’t!”

“Yeah!?” Harley demanded.

“I mean, I did fight you once,” John said, as Harley tightened her grip on her hammer. “But that was because you were working with the bad guys! And I tried to get your attention, but I was never mean about it! I mean, you were the mean one! Making me do things all the time!”

“Would the two of you just stop!?” Batman said, finally snapping and forcibly pushing the two of them apart.

It seemed to work. For the moment at least the two of them seemed content to stand on either side of Batman and glare at one another. Ivy meanwhile hadn’t moved at all, instead leaning back against the vines and watching the interaction with a look of open amusement on her face.

“If John and his Harley don’t get along in their universe then that’s something for the two of them to work out,” Bruce said. “Not you.”

“Yeah… I don’t know about that,” Harley said, glaring at John as she did so. “Tell you what; you tell me what happened between you and the other Harley and then I’ll decide whether or not I need to pummel your brains out. How does that sound?”

The Joker had been excited. Delighted even.

Emphasis on had.

When Bruce had announced that he needed a drink, the Joker had expected alcohol, and that had been a positively delicious idea in his opinion. There were all sorts of things that a clever clown might get up to when his love-slash-sworn-enemy was all drunk and relatively defenseless.

Clearly, there was a big difference between ‘getting a drink’ and well… getting a drink.

The Joker glared at the cream covered concoction that Bruce Wayne placed in front of him. He had changed back into civilian attire, before dragging the Joker to a small, independently run café, where he had proceeded to order them both coffee.

Not alcohol. Coffee.

And the one that Bruce had ordered for him had sprinkles on top.

Bruce could tell that the Joker wasn’t happy, even before he opened his mouth.

“You can’t possibly be serious Mister Wayne,” the Joker asked from over the top of the drink. “Is this really the sort of thing the two of you do here? You go on coffee dates and I drink… this sort of monstrosity?”

“You don’t want it?” Bruce asked. “Sorry. I just assumed you’d like the same thing as John. I can get you a normal coffee instead if you’d like.”

“No need,” the Joker said, grabbing the drink and starting to down it in the most aggressive manner Bruce had ever seen.

“Although I should warn you Batsy,” the Joker said, as he ran a finger through the cream on top and then sucked the cream off in the most lascivious manner possible. “I do tend to get a little… excitable when I’ve had too much sugar.”

Bruce felt something brush against his leg beneath the table, and soon realized that it was the Joker’s foot; a foot which was slowly trailing its way up Bruce’s leg, heading towards…

Bruce cleared his throat and pushed the other man’s foot off his thigh as subtly as he could, hoping as he did that no-one else in the café had noticed what was happening.

“What are you doing?” he hissed at the other man.

“What do you think I’m doing Batsy?” the Joker asked, as he shoved another cream-covered finger into his mouth.

“Stop calling me that!” Bruce hissed beneath his breath. “Someone might hear you.”

“Oh, we wouldn’t want that now,” the Joker said as his foot continued what it had been doing earlier. “Would we Batsy?”

Bruce groaned and rolled his eyes.

“What is it going to take to get you to behave?” he asked, trying as he did to ignore the point of the Joker’s shoe as it journeyed over his thigh.

“I don’t know,” the Joker said, as he swiped another dollop of cream off the top of his drink. “Why don’t the two of us find that out together, hrm?”

He grinned over at Bruce, and Bruce had a very hard time trying to figure out whether the Joker was trying to flirt with him or threaten him. Either way he wasn’t particularly happy about it.

“I have handcuffs in the car,” Bruce threatened back.

The Joker’s eyes and mouth both went wide, clearly excited by the news. Damn it. Of course the Joker would misinterpret that as flirting.

“Oh really?” he purred as he leaned forward on the table. “Well why didn’t you bring them with us? It would have made this whole date a lot more interesting.”

“This isn’t a date!” Bruce snapped. “This is just us getting coffee. I need the caffeine.”

His mind immediately went to the first time he and John had come to this particular café. John, who had still been smitten with Harley at the time had asked for advice, Bruce had come to the unfortunate (or so it had seemed at the time) realization that he was falling in love with John, and, he would later discover, that had also been when John had realized he was Batman.

It had certainly been an eventful night. Had it been a date though? Bruce wasn’t sure, but either way it seemed like more of a date than whatever was currently happening between himself and the Joker, no matter what the man across from him was attempting to do with his foot.

“Oh,” the Joker purred again. “I think you need a lot more than just some caffeine… Batsy…”

He was doing it just to annoy Bruce. There really was no other explanation.

“Well, whatever it is I need,” Bruce snapped. “You removing your foot is probably a large part of it.”

“I won’t,” the Joker said, digging the tip of his shoe into Bruce’s thigh so hard that it hurt. “Not unless you give me a good reason to.”

“Well I might be able to do that if you’d just tell what the hell it is that you want from me!” Bruce said, standing up and slamming his hands down on the table.

He immediately regretted it. There were only a couple of other people at the café at that time of the afternoon, but the people that were there all glanced over in Bruce and the Joker’s direction.

“There you are,” the Joker said, leaning forward on the table and grinning up at Bruce. “Just like that Batsy.”

Bruce didn’t know what he was supposed to react to first. The lascivious way that the Joker was batting his eyelids and smiling at him, the fact that the Joker had called him ‘Batsy’ again, or the fact that the Joker had all but confessed that he wanted nothing more than to make Bruce angry.

“Come on,” Bruce said, stepping back from the table. “We’re leaving. It’s clear that I can’t trust you out in public.”

The Joker didn’t stand up from the table however. Instead he picked up his iced coffee and took a long drag from it, making sure that the straw made a loud slurping noise as he did so.

“Come on,” Bruce hissed again, looking around nervously. The rest of the café’s patrons had returned their attention to their food or their phones, but that probably wasn’t going to last if the Joker kept misbehaving like this.

“Oh, but I’m just getting comfortable,” the Joker said, batting his eyes at Bruce again.

“You want me to manhandle you, is that it?” Bruce said, trying to keep his voice low. “You want me to forcibly drag you into the car. Well, I’m not going to.”

He turned, and continued to walk towards the car. He could just wait there until the Joker finally grew bored and decided to join him. That way he wouldn’t have to worry about the Joker calling him ‘Batsy’ in front of other people, or about him doing inappropriate things with his feet beneath the table.

“Leaving me unsupervised Mister Wayne?” the Joker called out before he had left the café. “That isn’t very wise you know.”

“You’re not going to do anything,” Bruce said, forcing himself to sound more confident than he felt. He knew now; the Joker wanted nothing more than his attention, and if Bruce wasn’t there to give it then there would be no point and the Joker would give up.

At least, that’s how Bruce was hoping things would turn out.

“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure of that Mister Wayne,” the Joker said. He sent one last wicked grin in Bruce’s direction, before jumping up from his chair and climbing onto the table; knocking over the remains of his and Bruce’s drinks as he did so.

“Attention Gothamites!” the Joker announced loudly, throwing his arms wide as though he was on stage.

“What are you doing?” Bruce hissed, but the Joker wasn’t paying him any attention.

“I have a very important announcement to make! Trust me, you’ll all love it!” he said, and it was only then that he turned to face Bruce again, giving him an absolutely wicked grin as he did.

“You see, it involves the identity of one Caped Crusader, Gotham’s truest and most beloved hero!”

Bruce had to stop him. It didn’t matter that he’d essentially be doing exactly what the Joker wanted. He couldn’t let him reveal the truth, no matter what it took.

He reached up and wrapped his arms around the Joker’s waist, pulling him off the table and into his arms as swiftly as possible.

“Sorry about that folks,” Bruce said to the people who were now most definitely paying the two of them more attention than Bruce would have liked. “My friend here forgot to take his medication. We’ll be leaving now.”

He made a mental note to the leave the wait staff an extremely generous tip the next time he visited.

The Joker squirmed in his arms, flailing and writhing in such a manner that Bruce honestly couldn’t tell whether he was trying to escape from Bruce’s grip or press closer to him. Bruce twisted his arms back, holding onto them tightly, and forcibly marched the Joker in the direction of the car, trying to ignore the mixture of delighted cackling and pleased groaning that the Joker let out as he did.

Eventually he managed to get the Joker into the car, but not before they had both gained a few new bruises. Worse than the bruises though, or the fact that Bruce had come so close to all of Gotham discovering his secret identity, was the knowledge that he had just lost. He had just done exactly what the Joker had wanted him to, and Bruce couldn’t be sure that it wouldn’t happen again.

John Doe had barely finished telling his story when Harley Quinn apparently decided it was time to try and squeeze the life out of him. Not in anger however, which came as something of a surprise to Batman. In fact it seemed to be an attempt to comfort John, despite the fact that Harley seemed to be far more upset by John’s story than John himself was.

“I’m so sorry!” Harley cried as she ran a hand over John’s hair. “I didn’t know that our places were switched in your world!”

“Switched?” John just managed to squeak out.

“Yeah,” Harley said, before turning around, still clutching John tightly and pouting at her partner. “Pammy, I’m the bad guy in John’s world. Ain’t that just the worst?”

“That doesn’t make you a bad person dear,” Ivy said.

Harley pursed her lips and seemed to think about things for a moment.

“So by that reasoning John here isn’t a bad guy either,” she said.

“Maybe not,” Ivy agreed, before fixing her eyes on John. “Although I’m not convinced yet. Just because he wasn’t responsible for corrupting you doesn’t mean that he’s innocent of everything else.”

John swallowed nervously, before Ivy continued.

“Have you ever blown up a building?” she asked.

“Once…” John muttered. “But it was an accident.”

Ivy frowned.

This wasn’t going well. Bruce found his hand moving to his utility belt. He had been hoping after John had told his story that the two of them would be in the clear as far as Harley and Ivy went, but it looked like they weren’t out of danger just yet.

“You ever killed a kid?” Harley asked, her arms still wrapped tightly around John.

“What?” John asked. “No! At least… I don’t think so.”

“How many people have you killed?” Ivy asked.

“Twelve,” John said, cringing as he did, as though it hurt him to actually talk about it. “Wait… No. Sixteen. I think. Yeah. Sixteen. Most of those were in self-defense though! Or accidents!”

He looked as though he was trying to convince himself as much as Harley and Ivy.

He looked over at Bruce then, and Bruce could see the other man’s heart breaking a little; as though John was absolutely sure that Batman would want to have nothing to do with him now that the truth was out in the open.

Sixteen was, in the grand scheme of things, a lot of lives for one person to have taken. Compared to what Batman was used to dealing with however…

“Ah hell,” Harley said rolling her eyes. “I’ve killed more people than that. So’s Pammy! I ain’t proud of it mind you, but if you’ve only killed that many then there’s no way you’re as bad as our Mistah J.”

Poison Ivy seemed to have relaxed a little as well.

“Do you think the two of you could look after John for a short time?” Bruce asked. He found himself questioning the wisdom of the idea as soon as the words left his mouth. The three of them could get up to a lot of trouble together, but at least Harley and Ivy would know to be on their guard around him, and would be able to subdue him if anything went wrong.

“You want us on babysitting duty?” Harley asked, finally letting go of John as she spoke. John took the opportunity to scurry away from her and back towards Batman, apparently not nearly as much of a fan of the hug as Harley had been.

“Why?” Ivy asked. “You seem to be doing a perfectly good job of taking care of him so far.”

“There’s something I need to take care of,” Batman replied.

Harley and Ivy glanced at each other for a moment. Harley shrugged, but neither she nor Ivy looked particularly convinced one way or the other.

In the end it was John himself who made the decision.

“Can’t I er… Can’t I just stay with you instead?” he asked Batman.

“Not this time,” Batman said.

“Can I stay at the manor or something instead?” John asked. “Alfred will be there. It’ll be just the two of us. Ooh! I could help him cook!”

John seemed quite enthusiastic about the idea, but while he had been behaving himself perfectly well up until that moment, Bruce wasn’t sure he was ready to leave John alone with Alfred just yet.

“Why don’t you want to stay with Harley and Ivy?” Batman asked.

John glanced pointedly over at Harley, who was currently in the middle of a very frantic whispered conversation with her partner.

“I know she’s not the same Harley that hurt me, but that doesn’t mean I want to be alone with her,” he hissed when Batman didn’t say anything.

“You wouldn’t,” Bruce said.

“Psh, yeah,” John scoffed, folding his arms tightly in front of his chest. “I’d be with her and her girlfriend. Nothing better than being a third wheel.”

Bruce sighed. It didn’t seem as though he was going to be able to convince John, and he really didn’t want to force the other man to stay with someone he was uncomfortable with. He’d just have to find someone else to watch John while he visited the League.

At that moment the conversation between Harley and Ivy escalated, and while Bruce hadn’t been paying any attention to the rest of the conversation, he couldn’t help but hear what Harley said next.

“I’ve been there too Red!” Harley shouted. “I wanna help him!”

Ivy had her hands placed firmly on her hips and she looked anything but impressed as she looked back over at Batman and John; John, who had started clinging to Batman’s arm again.

“You can’t help everyone,” she said, her tone more fond than annoyed. “Besides, I get the feeling the best thing for John here is going to be to get back home as soon as possible. Isn’t that right John?”

John scoffed.

“Yeah,” he said. “Obviously.”

“You don’t want to stay with Harley and I, do you?” Ivy asked, while Harley pouted next to her.

“Not really,” John admitted.

Harley’s pout just grew.

“I want to get home to Bruce,” John said, immediately cringing when he realized his slip-up.

“Ooh,” Harley immediately replied. “Who’s Bruce?”

John hesitated for a moment, looking backwards and forwards between Batman and the two women a couple of times before continuing.

“A friend,” he replied. “A really good friend. He helped me out when no-one else would; helped me realize that Harley was no good for me, and waited while I was in Arkham and…”

John broke off with a strangled noise that sounded suspiciously close to a sob.

“I think it’s time we went home,” Batman said, placing a hand on John’s shoulder and hoping that it did more to comfort John than Harley’s hug had.

“I’ll find someone else for you to stay with,” he murmured to John, low enough that Harley and Ivy wouldn’t be able to hear it. John nodded meekly in response.

“As for the two of you,” he said, turning his attention back to Harley and Ivy. “You’d better get this mess cleaned up right away.”

Ivy frowned at him, but then reached over and placed a hand on the vines that were stretched across the road. As soon as she did they started to retreat back to either side, until eventually they left the road completely clear.

“And remember,” Batman added, before the two of them could scurry off and get up to who knew what sort of mischief, “if there’s a breakout at Arkham I’ll know who to blame.”

Harley waved an arm dismissively at him, as though she really didn’t give a damn what he was saying.

Bruce gently guided John towards the Batmobile, hoping silently as he did that he wouldn’t have to deal with Harley breaking out anyone too dangerous on top of everything else that was happening. At least he wouldn’t have to worry about the real Joker popping up in the middle of all of this and throwing a spanner in the works, as he so often did.

That particular thought caused a pang of something inside his chest; something that was far too complicated to put a name to, but which made him anything but comfortable. He already knew that they were going to find a way to reverse the effects of the Looking Glass. It was only a matter of time.

“Oh hey!” Harley yelled, waving enthusiastically at the two of them as they got into the Batmobile. “Good luck getting back to your Bruce John! Make sure ya give him a big ol’ hug when you see him again, okay?”

John gave Harley a thumbs up.

Bruce wondered if he had somehow managed to miss an important part of John and Harley’s conversation. It certainly felt like they were communicating on a level that excluded himself and Ivy, although Ivy didn’t seem to mind.

Harley gave John two big thumbs up in return, before John ducked into the Batmobile and the two women moved off to one side of the road.

Bruce waited for John to say something about the encounter, but the other man seemed to be lost in thought. By the time he did say something the two of them had left the two women far behind, and John’s words were not what Bruce had thought they would be.

“Thank you,” he said simply.

“For what?” Bruce asked. By this stage he had been so lost in thought trying to work out who he should leave John with while he visited the Justice League that he had absolutely no idea what it was that the other man was supposed to be thanking him for.

“For not making me stay with them,” John said. “I mean, I’m sure that Harley is nice and all, but…”

He trailed off. Bruce wasn’t sure whether he was expected to say anything, so the Batmobile fell silent once again, at least until the car’s comm system crackled to life a moment later.

“Sir,” Alfred began.

“Alfred,” Bruce replied.

“We have unexpected guests at the manor,” Alfred replied. “I’m not sure how they’re going to react to your current guest, so I thought the two of you should be prepared.”

“What sort of guests?” Bruce asked.

“It’s Master Dick and Master Jason sir,” Alfred replied. “And they’ve been asking a lot of questions about John.”

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#my fic #batman telltale #batman the enemy within #batjokes #harley quinn #poison ivy #harlivy

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ironstrange-is-the-endgame · 5 years

Note

Hey, if you’re doing the OTP drabble prompts, can I please get a science bros no. 2 with extra fluff? Thanks ❤️

I hope the fluff is enough @sciencebrosbingo card

2. “Baby, you’re not a bother.” - “I’m too needy, you don’t deserve it.”

There was a knocking against the glass wall of the lab by which Tony was surprised. It wasn’t unusual that people tried to enter the place where his wonderful ideas and creation were born, but they usually just breach into the room without asking for permission, which was annoying when those people weren’t Peter, Harley or Bruce. But someone knocking on the door, well, that was weird.

Tony rose his eyes from the schematic he was examining at that moment and moved a hand so that Friday dismissed the obscuring screens that were covering the otherwise transparent walls. And the genius was surprised to see who the person at the other side of the door was.

Bruce Banner was standing there, his right hand playing with the fingers of his left anxiously, in a way that Tony had seen a lot of times and totally hated on his boyfriend’s face. Every time he saw it, he wished to be able to wipe that expression away from Banner’s face. He couldn’t, because he wasn’t enough, he would never be enough.

“Brucie, is everything ok?” He asked, Friday had swung the door open the exact moment Stark saw who was the person at the other side of it and the doctor walked inside, not daring to move more than walking over the threshold. Tony’s eyes looked at him, trying to understand what was wrong and not detecting anything. He would have Friday to scan Bruce once he couldn’t hear the order because he knew that he would have said that it was useless.

“Am I bothering you?” The answer came weirdly. Despite everything, Bruce had never been a shy person, he could snark back at pretty much everyone and while he wasn’t as talkative as Tony, he had never been the kind of person who would be ashamed of asking for help. He was quiet, usually, and had always preferred doing things by his own before asking for it, but there was a little difference between that and how Bruce was standing there, in clear discomfort.

Tony was aware of the fact that he was looking at his boyfriend with wide eyes while he shook his head and jumped over the workbench so that now he was looking at the other man’s brown and warm eyes. He wanted to understand what was wrong with him, but he knew that neither of them was too good with the sharing. Bruce was slightly better than Tony, though, so if Stark could make him speak, maybe, he would have a few possibilities to know he was fine. He smiled, a hand reaching Banner’s shoulder. “No, of course not. What’s wrong?”

“It’s about Ross,” Bruce let out in a breath and Tony felt his body tensing. The man had been trying to get to Bruce since forever and now that he was Secretary of the Defence and after the New Accords, he was sure to have free will over enhanced people. Tony was more than ready to prove him wrong.

“What about him?” Stark knew his voice was tense, but, again, he couldn’t care less. The only thing he wanted at that moment was to find a way to have the man as far as possible from his family.

“Friday, can you please show Tony?” Bruce asked, instead.

“Sure, Dr Banner,” The A.I. answered and, a moment later, the face of the one Thaddeus Ross was on one of the holo-screens in the lab barking against whoever didn’t sign the Accords and about containing the most dangerous enhanced humans. Bruce’s name came up far too many times for Tony’s liking.

“I’ll have my lawyer on it,” Tony said, immediately, already typing a number on his phone just to be stopped a moment later by Bruce’s hand on his. “No, I don’t want to be a burden for you, I just wanted to ask you to use a Quinjet, I’ll leave as soon as possible.

“You know you don’t have to,” Tony was looking straight at him, now, eyes fixed on the man he loved without really understand what Bruce was saying. He couldn’t leave on the run, it was pointless and absolutely stupid, considering that Tony lawyers could have Ross’s head, both literally and metaphorically.

“That’s for the best, Tony. I’ve bothered you long enough,” And that the anxious pacing was back. Rapidly, Bruce moved back from Tony and started to move around the lab. “I don’t even have a place where to stay, I just crashed there and never move and I just leave on your back, how can you just be fine with this?”

“Baby,” Tony let out, even if he knew Bruce hated that pet name. He didn’t care, not at the moment, if that was what going through Banner’s mind at that moment. “You’re not a bother. I don’t care about you staying there, I love it, I love you.”

He reached the other man trapping his head between his callous hands, softly. “Look at me, you are the most important person in my world, you won’t ever be a bother. And now, let me kick Ross’s ass another time.”

“You know, you don’t have to lie to me,” Bruce answered. And for being one of the most intelligent persons in the world, he was being a giant idiot. “I’m too needy most of the times, and you don’t deserve this.”

Tony rolled his eyes to the ceiling, his phone and Ross forgot for a minute. “What the hell are you saying, Bruce? You don’t deserve a person like me, you deserve someone kind and loving, someone who isn’t so fucked up. I don’t deserve you because you’re too good.”

“Tony, stop it, please,” Bruce turned to look at everywhere which wasn’t Stark’s face. “I0m not good, I turn into a fucking monster who destroyed New York and then goes back to his boyfriend and asks him a way to get away with his crimes.”

“And I’m the one who drunk himself asleep more times than not, but I don’t see how this is pertinent now,” Again, Tony’s hand went to catch Bruce’s chin, this time tilting his head up so that Banner was looking at him in the eyes. “You won’t even be a bother, and I’m not giving you a Quinjet to run away, not again. Now, look at me,” He let one of his rare and sincere smiles appear on his lips before pushing them against Bruce’s. “Now you and I go upstairs, because I have the need to show you what needy really means, and tomorrow we will call my lawyers. I won’t accept no as an answer.”

send me a ship and a number for a drabble!

#science bros #sciencebros #sciencebrosbingo #science bros bingo 2019 #science bros bingo #tony stark #bruce banner #anonymous #asks #sciencebrossbingo2019

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mariemarvelbear · 4 years

Text

Queen

Avengers x Reader

Warning: Angst.So much Angst.Slow burn angst.Abuse.Mention of rape.Brainwashed.ANGST.Blood.Torture.Swearing.Kidnapping.

Part 19

“What are you doing here?” The two looked behind them, just to see a sleepless Tony stand in the doorframe. He looks so tired, yet he had a smug smirk etched on his pale face, his hands buried deep on the pockets of his sweatpants. Peter’s brows furrowed, anger and disappointment plastered on his face as he saw the pain lingering on Tony’s eyes. “Helen, I specifically told you not to let anyone of them enter my property.” His gaze then landed on the teenager, his hair shorter and his sideburns fully grown. “Wha’tcha doing here kid?Aren’t you supposed to be at school?” Looking at his watch, Tony scoffed; “It’s eight in the morning,Is that how that witch raise you now?”

“She has a name Mr.Stark. It’s Wanda.” Peter said through gritted teeth,Disgust lingered onto Tony’s face, rolling his eyes as Peter repeated the witch’s name. “When will you ever stop blaming her Mr.Stark?Wanda’s nothing but nice, She doesn’t deserve to be blamed by others.Especially us, We’re her family Mr.Stark.We’re supposed to understand her, not blame her.”

“You know nothing.” All of their heads snapped, their gaze landing on the other end of the hall. “Tony, I didn’t know we were expecting any outsiders anymore.”

“I was actually surprised myself.” Tony’s brows rose mockingly, his arms folding onto his chest; gaining confidence as Natasha stood next to him. “Don’t mind him anymore, Nat. He’s just a kid, anyway.”Tony chuckled before taking the folders in Natasha’s grasp; finally moving the opposite way; away from the furious Peter and the disappointed doctor. “You may now go kid, you know the way, out right?”

“No one’s going away.” The four of them, quickly looking at the east side of the hall. There, stood Wanda. Her hair longer, yet drier- It didn’t have the shine that it usually possesses. The glow that her Sokovian features enjoys, was now absent. The bags under her eyes darker and lower along with this was her body built-She was thinner, petite even-That you can clearly see her clavicle as if it would pop out of her skin. “Why are you here Pete?” Wanda hissed, her furious gaze not leaving off Tony.

Tony mockingly gasped “Aren’t you such a delight?” rolling his eyes as he continues scanning the papers that Natasha handed “Aren’t you the one who volunteered to take care of this boy, yet know nothing of his whereabouts?” Wanda rolled her eyes, a red growing wisp floating at the back of her fingers-showing the annoyance and rage she feels.

“Don’t.” Peter whispered, back on his feet and his hands holding the witch’s soft ones-trying to comfort the irritation that was building up in her mind, afraid that she might physically hurt Tony, or worse-Natasha. “Remember? They’re just hurting. They don’t know what their saying Wanda.”

“Still a softie, I see.” Tony commented, munching on the blueberry he found behind the doctor’s pen holder. Peter closed his eyes, trying to tell Tony to fuck off, because Pietro’s not there and he doesn’t know how much he can contain the anger Wanda was feeling. It’s been five months since they all last saw each other, After your funeral-nothing was the same. When you were taken away from the team, they all felt broken and miserable, and when they found you yet learned that they were played with-they were all anguished, mad and furious. And now, they had legal documents. Validated ones that repeatedly declares your death. It was all over the news, everyone mourned, and the world was devastated, grief stricken and shattered. And because of this, the team continue to become distant to each other. Bucky and Sam bickered every day, and when Pietro would try to interfere-they would all fight. Wanda and Natasha became too competitive of each other. Competition to who’s better at holding grudges and much better at not talking to each other. Then there was Bruce, after the funeral- The guy turned to the big guy-hiding the pain and sorrow he was feeling-so his let out, was rage; and Natasha not being there was a bigger impact-He was back to being a monster to others-killing a couple of innocent lives just because of the overwhelming rage he felt. So T’Challa brought him back to Wakanda and kept him there, along with Doctor Strange who continued his work there. Thor and Clint did nothing but leave, the next thing morning after your funeral-the two gentlemen were gone. Loki never visited anymore nor Scott. Everyone left.

Then the two lads. Steve and Tony. After your funeral, Tony stayed in the infirmary because of alcohol intoxication. Steve would be found by Natasha and Peter, beaten up on the parking deck of the tower- unconscious. After a week, Wanda found a letter from Steve-bidding his farewell.

It was chaos, madness-and as hell broke loose- Earth’s mightiest heroes continue to break apart. Fury was mad, the council and the state government visited the facility everyday, to talk to Tony or even Steve, or to anyone-But they would all be greeted by FRIDAY-Apologizing again and again. Fury was the one who received all the hate, rage and disappointment of everyone. Literally, everyone. Even the vice president of the country voiced his dissatisfaction regarding the issue. It was a no brainer that the Fury was angry, He was so infuriated of the team-But he couldn’t talk or consult to anyone,With Maria resigning- S.H.I.E.L.D was also lost to the madness that the world continue to bear them with.And as the world continue to suffer, so does the King in the other realm.

“You’re starting to piss me off Victor.” Korvac hissed, madness evident on his pupils as his fist clenched one more time, beads of sweat forming on his forhehead as he continued rambling his anger towards the frustrated scientist. “That’s your thirty-fifth potion for the last four days and you still can’t get it right?!I thought you were some amazing genius who can do special potions even with your eyes closed!” Korvac continued, removing the vest from his chest as he loosens his thick longsleeve top. Rage building up in his body, forming heat as the nth potion- did nothing but bubble “You’re a failure!” And with this, the scientist looked up at him with anger in his eyes; ready to fight back- but before he can even do so, a loud rumble in the room beside them crashed-making the two of them look.

“’Kael?” A soft voice squeaked, as the door slightly opened-revealing a young lady with bloodshot eyes and pallor face. “What happened?” Her ebony hair tangled, exhaustion visible in her dark black eyes. “Is everything alright? Why is the specialist here?” She questioned, her accent thick and her voice hoarse. Korvac eyed her, his eyes dropping to her hand-dripping with blood. “Am I sick?” It was in an instant that she was sobbing, murmuring that the last thing she remembered was when she was screaming in pain and then everything was black. “My queen.” Korvac whispered, quickly embracing the young lady as she wept. “Please stop your worries, My Queen. I was so anxious and troubled about your condition that I called Victor to check on you.”

“Am I okay?Why?Is something wrong?’Kael. Is the angel in my womb alright?” The queen mumbled, quickly embracing her swollen abdomen, feeling for the life inside it. “Everything’s alright, my love. It just seems you were tired, yet again. I think this pregnancy is taking it’s toll on you-“

“I’m fine ‘Kael.” She interrupted, cutting him off. Not wanting any discussion anymore about the dangers of her pregnancy. “I’ll rest more.I’ll eat healthier and I’ll even take more dosage of the supplements the specialist prescribes me with. I’m fine.” Dismissing the topic, She smiled back at her husband- her eyes evident with exhaustion as she clung into her stomach. “Where’s Sequoia?” Before he can respond, a loud shriek was heard all over the palace, and soon- a little blonde boy was running fast towards his mother. “Mama!” He cried, his cheeks getting red as he sinffled. “I was worried about you mama!” “My love!” The queen jested, quickly scooping the little child in her arms as if she wasn’t complaining about her throbbing head a few minutes ago.

“My King.” Korvac’s smile soon vanished as Victor grabbed him by the arm, gesturing to follow him into his laboratory.

“What is it, you fool.” Victor grimaced at the harsh words, heaving a sigh as he handed the diety a small box that had a few tablets. “What are these?”

“Her medications. Stronger ones. As I’ve told you, It seems that as the queen grows older- Her powers get stronger, The only thing hindering her from knowing everything by now is the child inside her womb.As it demands for her strength, her mind and consciousness cannot fully grasp the idea of what we’re keeping away from her.That she’s a hostage, a victim of evilness-“ A loud gasp escaped his mouth as Korvac’s massive fist made contact with his abdomen.

“You imbecile.” Korvac grumbled, looking at the doctor with anger and spite. “She’s mine. Eviana is mine.”

#Steve Rogers #tony stark #marvel #mcu #cmen #Avengers #avengers fanfiction #The avengers fanfiction #series #ao3 #fluff #angst #angst fanfic #avengers endgame #wanda maximoff #natasha #thor #bruce #iloveyou3000

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terresdebrumestories · 5 years

Text

Clark Kent, of Krypton - 1/4: Kal-El

FANDOM: DC’s cinematic universe. RATING: Mature. WORDCOUNT: 20 404 (Fic total: ~98k words) PAIRING(S): Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne (main focus is on Clark, though). CHARACTER(S): Kal-El | Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne, Jor-El, Lara Lor-Van, Kara Zor-El, Zor-El, Martha Kent, Alfred Pennyworth, Diana Prince, Barry Allen, Arthur Curry, Victor Stone, John Stewart, J’onn J’onn, plus a quick cameo by Lois Lane. GENRE: Alternate Universe (canon divergence), transition fic with romance. TRIGGER WARNING(S): A great deal of anxiety and self loathing, especially in parts one and two. Some descriptions are heavily inspired by my experience of dysphoria-induced dissociation. SUMMARY: Batman crashes on Krypton a few days before the Turn of the Year celebrations and Kal-El's life takes a sharp turn to the left, on a path that will ultimately lead him to becoming Clark Kent.

OTHER CHAPTERS: [II. Shadow] [III. Superman] [IV. Clark Kent] ALSO AVAILABLE: [On AO3] [On Dreamwidth]

AUTHOR’S NOTES AND THANKS: Seven months of work and nearly a hundred thousand words! How's that for a first foray in a fandom, uh? I'm actually pretty proud of myself on that one, and I hope you all will enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it! But before we start, there's a number of people I need to thank:

@susiecarter, for getting me into this pairing (seriously, go read her stories!), cheerleading me through the writing process, and then betaing the whole monster in absolute record time!

@stuvyx for the AMAZING comic pages which you can find here and here, and for the banners used in the official @superbatbigbang masterpost. Go shower her with praise for her work! :D

The Mod Squad @superbatbigbang, whose instructions and work were impeccable and easy to understand even for me and my silly brain

The OfficialMovieSoundtrack channel on YouTube, for compiling the complete Wonder Woman score: I listened to this more than any other music while writing CKoK.

The jewish nerds of tumblr, who’ve been (and still are) spreading the word about Superman’s origins and the character’s original meanings and principles, which in turn had a rather large influence on Clark’s personality in this fic. I hope the bits with Martha will come off as respectful as I tried to make them.

And lastly, a tiny thanks to DC and Mr. Snyder, for deciding to cast Henry Cavill and his jawline as Clark Kent but also making him just not-how-I-wanted enough (and in the right way) to spark me into telling this story.

“Oh, you haven’t heard?” Lord Bel-Lor exclaims in lilting Council, with a hiccup of delighted surprise. “I would have expected the whole of El to know of this by now.”

Kal-El, strategically stationed close to one of the potted plants meant to shelter the refreshments table from the dancing area, presses his lips together while the young Zod dignitary tries very hard not to sound too eager about incoming gossip. Kal swallows around a lump in his throat, but remains silent. His aunt and uncle’s Turn of the Year ball is one of the most important events of the year, and it wouldn’t do for him to cause a fuss.

He stands in place, fingers tightening around his drink, and darts a quick look around. Lady Ona-Set has found her customary seat a few feet to his right, advanced age and a rather poor sense of rhythm having long ago banded together to keep her from the dance floor. Further to the left, close to one of five internal balconies, Lady Ra-Ny and her spouse have gathered a small but agitated-looking group of Worker dignitaries from Lot and Zod’s delegations. They seem to be engaged in a rather heated debate, hushed as it is. But the rest of the guests have, for the most part, elected to dance or make good use of the balconies allowing them to gaze over the minuscule shapes of their lavish homes, several thousand feet below.

There was a time when El’s elite lived closer to their rulers. A long time ago, the Citadel of El was filled with habitations floor to mountain-high ceiling: the royal family lived in the last few city-wide floors, the lords and ladies shared the following quarter of the space, and the common people divided themselves between the Citadel grounds and the Outside. Then the Lords and Ladies of the Principality rebelled against King Hyr-El, who resolved the situation with a bloodbath first, and the destruction of a solid third of the Citadel’s inner buildings second.

Ever since then, the Stateroom of Peace has floated, alone, in the vast emptiness left by the old families’ houses; the new Citadel Lords and Ladies made new homes on the Citadel Grounds, and pushed former merchants to become Mountain Lords and Ladies in city-domes of their own. The Stateroom—which, as its name implies, is used for every Guild Council meeting and many other official occasions—also serves as a ballroom for religious occasions such as the Turn of the Year, during which all of Krypton celebrates yet another cycle of close collaboration between Rao, the Helping God, and his brother-husband Vohc, the Builder. These are, at least, the Stateroom’s official uses.

There is, however, a third—and chiefly preferred—activity that takes place here: gossiping. Kal has been privy to much of it throughout his near-thirty years of life, and he is largely unsurprised to find his family once again at the center of attention as Citadel Lord Bel-Lor proceeds to share the latest news of the Citadel Princes and Princesses of El.

It goes like this: two days before this very ball, a mysterious spacecraft crashed on Lady Mon-Ka’s property. The precise patch of land in question, bordering the Citadel, had been deemed unfit for cultivation and left in disuse for quite some time, rarely visited and even more rarely monitored. Perhaps that was why no one raised the alarm—or perhaps, as Lady Kam-Leang remarks, Lady Mon-Ka was simply suffering from the effects of the energy depletion afflicting all of Krypton, and could not afford to keep her sophisticated surveillance system in a functioning state. Whatever the reason, no one at the time thought to investigate the craft.

“No one, that is, but the Shadow of El,” Lord Bel-Lor says with a storyteller’s instinct for dramatics.

Kal drains his flute of liquor in one go while the Zod dignitary dutifully asks about the Shadow of El. Lord Bel-Lor declines to delve into much detail, aware as he is that extensive knowledge of the Shadow won’t garner him any favor at court, but there is more than enough there to earn several exclamations of surprise and one shocked ‘No!’. The Shadow of El, he explains, is a disturbance to the peace, a master criminal helping other criminals escape well-earned justice...but alas, the people of the Citadel have taken a shine to them.

“Something to do with old legends,” Lady Lin-Na says in a disdainful tone. “You must have heard of the Dark Sun.”

“Only in passing,” the Zodian admits. “I hear they are causing some trouble.”

“Inconsequential,” Lady Lin-Na dismisses, several other voices humming in approval, including her husband's. “But they did find their name in one of our old legends, in which Rao must go through a magical sleep, and a darker version of him—Rao’s dream self, if you will—takes it upon themselves to help protect the world during the sun’s long absence... Because the Gods may not interfere in the affairs of mortals in person, the Dark Sun casts a Shadow of themselves on Krypton, so that it may fight the monsters trying to take over the world.”

Several voices try to be the first to express their disapproval and disdain towards the very idea, Council and Ellon overlapping in the conversation until Lord Bel-Lor clicks his tongue to reestablish silence. Kal-El picks up another drink—his third this evening—and ignores Lady Ona-Set’s judgmental glare as he sips at it, knuckles white around the stem.

There is no true way to tell what exactly transpired in that disused field. What is known, however, is that by the time Lady Mon-Ka was made aware of the smoking ruins on her property, the Shadow of El had scooped the spacecraft’s pilot out of the wreckage and taken them to the Citadel. They appeared on the main external balcony with an alien in their arms and the light of the sun behind them, striking Lara Lor-Van and Jor-El almost dumb with awe. And the Shadow of El commanded them to take care of the alien, for the spacecraft had reached Krypton on the day of Vohc’s comet, and its pilot might therefore be an envoy of the God.

Jor-El and Lara Lor-Van, known throughout El for their piety, took the alien in. By the time Kal-El emerged from his labs six or seven hours after dawn, groggy and sporting wrinkle marks from his pillow all over his face, the entire household was scrambling to accommodate both this badly-injured and unexpected new responsibility of theirs, and the ire of Zor-El, Citadel King of El and rather exasperated older brother, who had no patience for his younger sibling and sister-in-law’s latest religious fancy.

“I fail to understand,” the Zodri dignitary says in hushed tones while Kal braces himself for the inevitable turn of the conversation from this point on, “why Citadel royals would comply with a criminal’s instructions.”

“I forget sometimes,” Lord Dar Ran-No says with a smile painfully obvious in his tone, “how little of our internal politics is understood outside of El.”

Kal listens to the giggles that follow the word ‘politics’ and resists the urge to mime gagging into his glass. It isn’t so much Lady Ona-Set he worries about—she has little affection for Bel-Lor, or any of the Citadel Lords for that matter—but rather the foreign delegations taking part in the celebrations. What the Zodri envoy is about to discover will make its way into every available ear before the end of the night; no two ways about that. Kal can almost hear General Dru-Zod teasing Zor-El about it already. At the very least, however, he does have the power to avoid bringing even more attention to himself with an untimely departure. With a deep breath, Kal forces himself not to empty his Ulian liquor in one go, choosing instead to soothe the tense ache in his neck with a slow overview of the room.

The dancing is slow tonight, even by court standards, and most of the guests are still busy digesting the vast array of refined dishes they spent the better part of three hours sampling over the luxurious buffet. The light, as red as El’s famed sunsets, sparkles over jewelry and shining fabric. Lady Ra-Ny, her spouse and their group have retreated to one of the internal balconies, Warrior-looking men scattered in close proximity while Zor-El stands in the middle of the group. All over the dance floor, people laugh, voices loud and smiles sharp with the delight of mostly harmless gossip.

Behind Kal, the chuckles have faded, and as Dar Ran-No feigns reluctance to share his knowledge, Kal prays in vain for the ground to open up and swallow him.

“Something you must know,” the Citadel Lord says in a delighted tone that makes Kal slouch even further than he usually does, “is that Their Majesties have never been the sort to resist...scientific curiosity.”

More giggles, and Kal overhears two voices sharing the title of a certain book in hushed Ellon.

“A very specific sort of scientific curiosity,” Lord Bel-Lor chimes in, improper meaning exactly as clear now as it always is.

More laughter. Kal doesn’t quite screw his eyes shut, but he does look down at the ground, feeling redder than the sun. In his armpit and in his ears, blood pulses with the sharp painfulness of shame, and he forces himself to relax his grip on his flute of liquor or risk breaking it. It takes everything he has to use a polite tone to send away the servant offering him a drink, instead of begging them to leave him alone.

“I must admit,” the Zodri dignitary says with what sounds like genuine curiosity, “I am quite incapable of guessing what you are driving at.”

“Do you truly not know?”

“To be fair, Lord Bel-Lor,” Lady Kam-Leang says in an indulgent tone, “the young man doesn’t look much older than the Prince himself.”

“Prince Kal-El? What does he have to do with his parents’ scientific endeavors?”

At least two people snort at that, loud and undignified, and Kal’s face heats up even further, stomach sinking fast and low in his belly. Dar Ran-No’s voice sounds tight when he explains, in the usual embarrassing amount of detail, what exactly Kal has to do with his parents’ scientific endeavors.

“That is revolting!” the Zodri dignitary exclaims, in a strained hiss that sends cold shivers down Kal’s spine. “Who would even conceive of something so—so—”

“I believe it has been called primitive.”

Kal somehow restrains himself from muttering unflattering things into his drink, but only just. To his left, Lady Ona-Set sits with her eyes closed, head tilted toward Kal, mouth hanging slightly open; but the lady shows no sign of drooling. Old she may be, but the gene for degenerative hearing has been eliminated from the collective gene pool for almost seven centuries, and she has always had a reputation for gossiping. No need to encourage that particular trait with entertaining dramatics on his part, especially when she can’t possibly be having any trouble hearing when Dan Ran-No continues:

“Primitive or no, it was in direct keeping with their previous endeavors...and neither of Their Majesties has ever made a secret of it. When the—what was the word they used for it? I forget.”

“The birthing,” Kam-Leang supplies, voice curling with a sort of fascinated distaste around the archaic word. “That was what they called it.”

“Right,” Bel-Lor acquiesces with a scoff, “the birthing. Both Prince Jor-El and Princess Lara Lor-Van had been religious before, you must understand, but after the—uh—the birthing, they became quite convinced the child was a miracle of the Gods. A gift from Rao himself.”

“Surely they didn’t—”

“Oh, yes, they did,” Bel-Lor all but squeaks; Lady Kam-Leang and her husband both hush him.

Kal winces at the sound, fully aware that this particular piece of gossip has lost none of its power in the twenty-nine years since his birth. He doesn’t even need to put any particular effort into picturing the looks on the Ellon nobles’ faces: wide eyes and delighted grins, vaguely hidden behind fluttering fans and flutes of sparkling Nyen wine. They have sported it at regular intervals throughout Kal’s life, and he can only assume the Zodri envoy likewise looks very much the same as every other dignitary ever has: as enraptured as his predecessors were by the scandalous yet fascinating story of the last natural birth of Krypton. There is, however, more to this story, and this time Kal does down what is left of his liquor before they speak again, wishing for all the world he’d thought to grab some of the fermented torquats Dru-Zod brought along as a gift. At least he would have had something good to chew on while waiting out the night’s agony.

“They tried to have the child blessed by the priests of Rao—”

“They were, of course, refused,” Lady Kam-Leang states with piercing finality. “The official reason was that to give the child such a name was an affront to the Gods no priest could ever be tempted to forgive—”

“Truly?” the dignitary asks, genuinely puzzled. “I fail to see the problem with it.”

“Because you are unfamiliar with Ellon,” Dar Ran-No says, “or you would know ‘Kal-El’ is the light of the sun.”

“Although,” Lady Kam-Leang remarks, “things would perhaps not have been so bad if they hadn’t gone further still. For years afterwards, Their Majesties and their followers—yes, they do still have a handful of them—insisted on calling their offspring a miracle. A herald of great things to come.”

Kal is...acutely familiar with that line. It is old habit, by now, to swallow the bitter shame that comes with it.

“I heard rumors,” Lord Bel-Lor continues, “that Their Majesties wished to attempt birthing a second child, but it seems the Gods intended for the prince to be a one-time phenomenon.”

“Some people in the Guild of Believers have whispered that this must be a divine punishment for the Els’ arrogance. I do not know that I agree,” Dar Ran-No says in a slightly pinched tone, “but the lack of a second ‘miracle’ did certainly temper Jor-El’s dreams of having a messiah for a son.”

“But of course,” Bel-Lor adds, picking up where his fellow Citadel Lord left off, “if the other rumors are true, and Their Majesties are being plagued with a much more biological problem….”

At least one person chokes on a drink. Another one, perhaps two, coughs. Kal assumes the high-pitched, quickly-aborted laughter belongs to the Zodri dignitary, although he wouldn’t be able to swear to it. Face burning even as the rest of him turns to ice, he makes a tremendous effort to keep his gaze on the ground and take deep breaths until the corners of his eyes stop stinging. Inside his chest, his heart throws itself against his ribs like a wild animal trying to escape a cage, and Kal has to blink several times before he can bring the patterns on the floor back into focus.

The balconies are overcrowded, the object of too many mocking eyes and surrounded by the imposing silhouettes of Nyen Warriors. But they are the only place where Kal can hope to find a little fresh air—and peace, if he can be allowed to make use of the one occupied by his uncle and his friends, rather than any of the other four—until he has remained here for the full four hours required of him, and is allowed to retreat to the safety of his labs.

He braces himself and, carefully avoiding Lady Ona-Set’s suddenly alert gaze, begins to make his way around the ballroom.

“Good morning, Kal-El,” Krypto says when Kal emerges from his labs, with no sleep under his belt and Kryo on his heels. “Their Majesties wished me to remind you of the king’s visit tonight.”

Kal nods, always more tongue-tied than he’d like in presence of his mother’s hunit. Krypto has always been pleasant to him, programming far too stringent to allow even for the impression of disrespect in its tone; but it is an extension of Lara Lor-Van, and that is enough to keep Kal on his toes.

“I remember,” he tells the hunit, “thank you. In fact, I was on my way to wash up and rest. I should like to be fit for polite company tonight.”

“Good,” Krypto says the same way it always has, the one that makes Kal feel like he’s still a little boy. “Lady Lara also wishes you to know the doctors have officially released our guest from bed rest.”

“Oh,” Kal says, heart rate picking up. “I suppose that is good news.”

It will mean one more person to keep in mind, one more presence to navigate around in the palace, and Kal’s head aches just thinking of it—but it is still good that the alien didn’t die. They cannot, after all, be held responsible for Kal’s issues.

“Quite,” Krypto replies in its usual toneless voice. “Their Majesties ask that you remember the name of House El must not be tarnished. Dinner should be served at the customary hour.”

Stomach sinking to somewhere in the vicinity of his knees, Kal nods around the lump in his throat, head lowering almost of its own volition. He stands still as Krypto, ever unaffected by displays of emotion, extends him bland wishes for satisfactory repose and floats away towards the main rooms of his family’s apartments. The Lesser House of El may have lost much of the respect they once enjoyed, after Kal’s birth, but their living quarters do still occupy a solid third of the Citadel’s upper dome. Even living here his whole life, Kal has gone numerous stretches of several days—once as much as two weeks—without encountering his parents. The sight of Krypto leaving him to go and report their conversation to his mother is as familiar an image as Kal has ever known.

He stands alone in the corridor for a moment, breathing in and out at consciously regular intervals while Kryo asks if he’d like a massage to be added to his personal agenda for the night. He nods, of course: a little help relaxing can’t hurt, after all, and he is going to need every ounce of confidence he can get today. That, and his sore arms will definitely thank him.

“Your heart rate is elevated,” Kryo says after a short silence.

“I know,” Kal says, heart picking up its speed again as he tenses in anticipation of Kryo’s predictable remark:

“I am compelled to let you know your current readings are quite far above average.”

“I know,” Kal says again, and breathes in deep to avoid snapping at it.

It isn’t the hunit’s fault, after all, that these reminders were programmed into it. Some things, Kal has changed over the years; but he never did figure out how to make the hunit less judgmental without messing up its programming beyond repair, and so the tone has stayed. It's proven useful in the long run, in that Kryo's unaltered demeanor hides all the things that aren’t the way Kal’s parents wanted them to be, but it doesn’t mean the hunit is never annoying. Kal has practice with this, though, and so it is simple—if not effortless—to keep his tone in check when he says:

“Don’t worry, Kryo, I’ll be fine tonight.”

“You are a prince of El,” Kryo says, automatically beginning one of the most irritating conversational routines in his repertoire. “You are—”

“Bound to interact with strangers from time to time,” Kal cuts in, “yes, I realize.”

“Irrational behaviors due to feelings of inadequacy—”

“Kryo. You are well aware I dislike it when you talk about me like this.”

Kryo goes quiet, but doesn’t apologize. Contrition is not a state hunit were ever designed to emulate. They are far too matter-of-fact for that. Kal, for his part, breathes in deep again, and forces his shoulders to unwind as he finally walks away from the access stairs to his labs and strides toward his rooms. He has Kryo perform a general scan to locate the rest in the household—only in the part of the Citadel assigned to Kal’s parents, however—and is all but scolded for it. The other hunits of the palace are complaining, it seems, about the frequency of pings of that nature they tend to receive.

“It is never a good thing to render house hunits dissatisfied.”

Hunits are devoid of emotion, incapable of satisfaction or dissatisfaction by design. What Kryo is truly saying is that Kal’s use of household scans is above average and will therefore be reported; but the emotional vocabulary makes the whole thing sound just a tad less pathetic, and so Kal sighs and nods rather than correct the hunit. Besides, his higher reasoning functions are begging further out of this conversation with every step he takes toward his bed. No point in trying to argue in these conditions. He is in the middle of a jaw-cracking yawn, his entire being crying out for sleep, when the black-and-gray silhouette of his parents’ guest stops him.

The alien, standing by the guests’ library, is tall by Ellon standards, though the people of Zod might find them of average size. Their anatomical model is familiar enough to be reassuring: four limbs with hands and feet, shoulders on the broader side but still within the limits of what Kal would call normal. The muscles seem too well-defined to be natural, although Kryo maintains that all staff accounts state the alien looks perfectly Ellon-like under their clothes. Kal has never seen them out of their clothes, though, and so the impressive shape of the alien’s body retains all its power as far as he is concerned.

The main difference between him and the alien lies in the head. Where Kal’s is somewhat round at the top—though perhaps a little squarer than average around the jaw—with the ordinary short round ears of Kryptonians, the alien’s has two protruding appendages at the top, aligned approximately above where ears would be. They jut out of the alien’s cowl in menacing straight lines and narrow to frighteningly sharp-looking points. Kal...believes Kryo when it says the alien doesn’t actually possess ears—or horns—that look like this. The hunit is, after all, unable to lie to him. But that knowledge doesn’t quell the eerie feeling of strangeness that tightens Kal’s chest every time he looks at them.

The alien’s most noticeable feature, however, is not so much their silhouette as their stance. There is no hint of groveling in it, none of the wary tension displayed by visiting envoys from neighboring planets. Not that those envoys cower, exactly, but they are always clearly conscious of the galaxy’s painful history with Krypton, and therefore never fully at ease. This alien—Vohc’s alien, as Kal has heard some call them—carries themselves with the easy authority of a Citadel Lord in the king’s confidence. Back straight, head high; no hint of doubt in their own worth, their own place, their own right to remain.

The sight of it shrivels something already small and wrinkled in Kal’s soul, makes him want to shrink back in the darkness and hide from the alien’s presence...for, sent by Vohc or not, this alien certainly does seem capable of things Kal couldn’t even dream of; and the thought of being found wanting compared to someone who, according to the court, does not even have the decency to be from the known universe, let alone Krypton, is… distressing.

It is, therefore, unfortunate that acting on that self-effacing impulse would bring more shame to Kal’s house than his continued failure to prove himself worthy of attention.

“Good evening,” Kal manages after a deep, steadying breath, pulse hammering away so hard he can feel it in his clasped palms. “May I help you?”

In front of him, the alien’s head tilts to the right in what must be—might be; hopefully is—a sign of incomprehension, and Kal almost gives into the impulse to slap himself in the forehead. The alien is not from any recognizable planet, let alone a known species. They did not respond to any of the local languages stored in the House’s courtesy translators, never mind Council or Ellon. Why, then, Kal would be silly enough to assume they would understand is certainly a mystery for the ages. Not the first of its kind, it is true, but painful nonetheless.

Swallowing a sigh, Kal draws on his vague memories of learning Council as a child and starts again:

“I am Kal-El,” he says in Ellon.

He waits for a few seconds, taps his fingers to the middle of his forehead, and repeats: “Kal-El.”

“I am Batman,” the alien says.

The words are clearly unpracticed on their tongue, the gesture all wrong. No one in El would tap their chest to indicate personhood, after all. Still, these things can be forgiven; it is the alien’s grammar that poses a significant problem. None of the politeness markers fit their position: a nobody—for all anyone knows, at any rate—addressing...well, essentially another nobody, but of royal blood. Many at court would have had Batman’s hide for that sort of an affront, accidental though it may be.

Batman is lucky, though: Kal has dealt with much worse than people addressing him as if he were a lower-ranked but still respected guest. It is easy, then, to quell the sliver of pleased surprise—and the subsequent shame at how readily swayed Kal is—rising in his chest; to muster a stiff smile and a nod and, when Batman does not seem willing to communicate any further, flee toward his quarters.

It takes Kal a long while before he can fall into a nap, and then it takes an even longer time for him to wake up properly once the evening comes. It isn’t that El’s simple tunics of straight lines and slashed sleeves take all that long to put on, really. It’s just...well, frankly, it’s just that Kal is somewhat clumsier than average. He tends to bang into furniture and trip on his own feet more than other people do, and existing in a near-constant state of sleep-deprived grogginess does not help. Science is worth it, he knows. It doesn’t make it any less awkward to step into the Fire dining room almost three minutes late and watch six pairs of eyes turn to him.

Kal’s uncle, King Zor-El, is a proud man, taller and bulkier even than his brother Jor—a rare build, for Thinkers. He sits in state at the head of the table with an ease Kal knows he would never be able to replicate, gaze a strange mixture of fondness and disappointment. Force of habit, perhaps. Either way, Zor-El does not say anything about Kal’s tardiness. A simple raise of his eyebrow; the pinched look on Kal’s parents’ faces, the amused gaze that passes between Sol Ka-Zod—Kal’s aunt—and her stepdaughter...all of these are familiar enough to be set aside. Not easily, not quite. But they are set aside, and that means Kal is free to look around the rest of the room, and marvel.

The Fire dining room is one of the smaller, cozier rooms of similar function in the Lesser House of El’s apartments. At the back, a fire burns year-round, for the rooms closest to the center of the dome tend to be colder, and fire has always been Rao’s way of welcoming guests. In front of the fire sits the table, around which Kal’s family has arranged itself amidst the flowing lines of curved columns, floral motifs carved into the very bones of the building.

There, to the right of Kal’s usual chair, sits Batman. Their back is still as impeccably straight as it was this morning, their shoulders just as steady, their jaw just as strong. This time, however, the slant of their lips, below their cowl, curls into something...well. Perhaps not quite a smile. Not a smirk, either. But there is the seed of an expression there, Kal is fairly sure, that could become either of those things; and it is such a novelty compared to the usual reactions he garners that as he seats himself Kal can’t help but blush, looking down at his hands until he feels in control of himself again.

The meal is well underway by the time Kal comes back to himself, silten salads half-eaten and roasted keltar being rolled into the room. To Kal’s right, Batman has taken their gloves off to eat, and their hands look very much like Kal’s hands—a little bigger, maybe, in keeping with their owner’s size, but nothing strange. Nothing that would be out of proportion for a Kryptonian, at the very least. They catch the eye somehow, at least as far as Kal is concerned. Batman’s silhouette was so imposing this morning, so surprisingly regal for someone people have barely hesitated to classify as a barbarian; it is hard not to be surprised when it turns out they eat like a regular person.

It wouldn’t do to stare, however, and striking up a conversation right now would mean talking over the main guests, an ill-advised course of action.

“I don’t think the Melokariel Proposition will ever be accepted,” Kal’s father is saying when Kal finally dares to raise his eyes away from his plate. “Nor do I think it should.”

Kal darts a glance over the table, unsurprised to find his cousin raising her eyebrows quite high into her glass of Ulian liquor. The reaction is, Kal supposes, understandable. As the first in line to take over the throne of El, Kara has been invited to every single one of her father and uncle’s twice-weekly dinners since the tender age of twelve, and is therefore even more familiar with Jor-El’s way of gearing up for a fight. Or, well. A debate, as he calls it.

Notorious for his incompetence and disinterest in politics, Kal returns Kara’s gesture nonetheless. He might not know the ins and outs of this Proposition as well as she does, but he does know his parents, and the thought of another family argument beginning is about as annoying as it is stressful by now. At least he knows he won’t be asked to participate. Kal’s horrendous lack of social acuity, cultural refinement, or specialization has been exposed, discussed, debated, and condemned more than enough for a lifetime; he isn’t keen on sparking that particular conversation again by asking about the Proposition or, Rao forbid, trying to change the topic. He will get through this in silence, like he always has, and count himself lucky for it.

“Ever the retrograde, brother,” Zor-El says while a servant takes his empty plate and replaces it with the largest keltar of the lot. “If I were to listen to you, we would be working our way back to the days of primitive savagery.”

There is no need to look up to know Zor-El has nodded in Kal’s direction, the circumstances of his birth ever a sore point for the family. He dares a glance to the right instead, and blinks when he finds Batman looking down at the table coil they were handed along with their meat. There is nothing strange about the tool that Kal can see, though accidents do happen, so he turns back to the left when his father, having most likely run through his usual defenses of Kal’s conception—helped along by his wife, of course—snaps:

“In any case, the fact that Krypton does not possess the necessary resources to—”

“We have talked about this before, Jor,” Zor says in a warning tone. “Krypton will not debase itself by going around begging colonies for their scraps.”

“Ex colonies,” Kara points out, mild but clear. “The Green Lanterns saw to that.”

Queen Sol Ka-Zod elbows her stepdaughter in the side, but Kal has never seen his cousin heed that particular warning before. His aunt cannot be faulted for the gesture, as it is unseemly for an heir to the throne to dissociate herself from the ruling monarch so openly—even if only at the family table; but then again the only thing worse than that would be for Kara to have no opinion at all. As it is, the jab passes, and the conversation returns to its topic of choice for the past nine months or so: the Melokariel Proposition.

Kal, knowing no one will think to ask for his opinion on the topic, takes a look to his right again, and freezes. Batman, despite maintaining as dignified a posture as can be, is making an unimaginable mess of their food. Bits of it have strayed from their plate; the rest stains both their hands and their forks...and that is when Kal realizes this should have been an entirely predictable outcome. What were the chances, after all, that Batman learned to use proper cutlery on whatever backwater planet they came from? The cost of forgetting your manners—and therefore, your place—is high on Krypton, however, and Kal is too well-aware of this to sit there and do nothing. He reaches over, ready to take action, when Zor raises his voice:

“Mining the core is the only way to survive,” he says in a tone full of rebuke, catching Batman’s attention without effort.

“So say Peacekeepers,” Jor retorts—too loud, too fast. “They have always been quick to demand and slow to think, but—”

“Jor!” Kal’s mother exclaims, half reproof and half horror, at the same time as Zor warns:

“It would do you good to remember which Guild your queen came from, brother.”

Despite the fire, the atmosphere of the room grows chilly, and Kal has to force his fingers to relax as he closes them around his fork and table coil. He tilts his head to the side when the alien looks at him, left hand extended palm up toward Batman, coil hanging between his thumb and forefinger, and asks, “May I help you?”

Batman looks at Kal for a few moments—or at least, they keep still, with their optical lenses pointed in the appropriate direction—before they nod. Kal nods in return and, in a practiced gesture, lifts the keltar’s nearest limb with his own fork, loops the coil around it, and slices it off the animal’s body by spreading his fingers. Batman makes no sound, and does not give any indication that they watched Kal's actions particularly closely, but when Kal outfits them with a coil of their own, Batman imitates the gesture almost perfectly, and then repeats it with diligence. There is something surprisingly circumspect in the way they move, as if trying to master the gesture in as little time as possible. It seems strange, to Kal, who tends to observe things for far too long before he makes a move, but it works in Batman’s favor, and they are eating cleanly in no time. Just in time, in fact, to hear Kal’s father snap:

“If Tsiahm-Lo does vote in favor of the Proposition, he will truly lose the right to call himself the Wise King of anything, let alone Laborers!”

“Jor-El!” Sol exclaims, obviously shocked.

Even Kal’s mother doesn’t dare speak in support of her husband after that sort of claim, and it is easy for Kal to feel the assembly tense—even down to Batman—as Zor leans forward and says in a low voice:

“I would guard my words if I were you, Jor. There are those who would consider such a statement dangerously close to treason.”

The table is grimly silent for a moment, fragile balance poised on the edge of a knife, as Kal watches his father reconsider his words, swallow, and say:

“Forgive me, everyone. I don’t know what came over me. Obviously, I misspoke.”

On the opposite side of the table Lara, Sol and Kara all look distinctly relieved, though Kal can’t quite manage to relax his shoulders. He hunches in on himself a little closer instead, ignoring the way Batman’s attention seems to have moved away from their food and toward the conversation on the more interesting side of the table.

Kara is the first to speak again.

“If nothing else,” she says in a firm tone, “I don’t believe anyone should consider the Proposition without also considering its alternative.”

The rest of the table mumbles their assent, until Sol and Lara join in and, soon enough, the debate veers away from the Melokariel Proposition itself and onto the merits of Krypton’s old colonial programs. Kal, who has little interest in joining that discussion either, presses his lips together and turns back to his food for the rest of the meal. Batman requires almost no further help, except when dessert comes and they seem more than a little perplexed by the singing flowers set atop the cakes.

“You can eat them,” Kal says when Batman clears their throat and tilts their head toward their plate.

“You?” Batman repeats, head tilted, while gesturing with their hand like they’re bringing something to their mouth.

It isn’t the gesture Kal would use to signify eating, but context makes it easy to interpret. Kal repeats the verb for Batman’s benefit, rectifiescorrections their pronunciation to something more understandable than their first attempt, and starts thinking.

There is no telling when—or if—Batman will leave Krypton. The Shadow of El passed along no word of anyone else in the alien’s spacecraft, and no one has reached out to El looking for a lost companion since the day before yesterday. There is a possibility—how much of one is impossible to tell, but the chance is real nonetheless—that no one is coming to rescue them. If so, they will need to integrate. They cannot possibly be expected to remain incapable of communication forever, and the odds of anyone volunteering to take them to a neighboring planet are minimal at best. As for waiting for his parents to think of Batman’s well-being...Kal would frankly rather not. And yet Batman will need to adapt and find a place in Ellon society.

They will need to speak, Kal realizes. To learn the things they don’t know, to figure out the rules and customs of this place—for otherwise they leave themselves open to ridicule, contempt, or worse. As a man with experience dealing with two of these things, Kal finds himself loath to leave Batman to deal with them alone. Not when he knows he can, perhaps, do something about it.

Kal is no expert linguist. In point of fact, he isn’t even a teacher. He is willing to help, though, and willing to spend some time trying to figure out the best way to help Batman around...which, he guesses, makes him the only choice available. It might be a bad idea. He has other things to do, after all. Responsibilities he cannot shirk. He is a Citadel Prince of El, though, and those responsibilities do extend to taking care of guests.

He might not be the best choice for this, but if no one else will make time for the task, he will.

Raising his head at breakfast the next morning only to find Batman standing in front of him with the same serious expression they have always displayed is a surprise for Kal. He would say that he hadn’t expected the alien to seek him out quite that fast, but the truth is he hadn’t expected Batman to seek him out at all. Besides, it is long past breakfast time. Kal is still there, it is true, but that is only because he tends to work all night and barely emerges from his labs in time to ingest something before he collapses on his bed and sleeps most of the day away. Batman can’t possibly have missed that fact. Can they?

Whatever the reason, the alien does not seem ready to stop looking at Kal in a way that makes him feel as though his use of his table coil is being assessed and found wanting. This is not, it is true, an uncommon sentiment for Kal. Most of his life has been spent in self-conscious discomfort. But the familiarity of the sensation does nothing to prevent a blush from rising into Kal’s ears until he feels like they are about to catch on fire.

“Excuse me,” he tells the alien in an attempt to relieve some of the tension, “may I help you?”

Batman remains stock still for a moment. Nothing in their expression shifts exactly, except perhaps for a certain sense of...looking for something. ‘Hesitation’ seems like too strong a sentiment, somehow, though it comes closest to what Kal perceives. Deliberation, then. Batman indulges in a few more seconds of it before they nod and take a seat in front of Kal. Behind him, Kal feels Kryo hover closer, perhaps out of a sense of misplaced protection, but the hunit does not do anything else.

Meanwhile Batman has extended a hand and is pointing at Kal’s table coil, saying something in what Kal assumes is their birth language. He blinks, still a little too groggy to process this in a timely manner, and he is fairly sure he sees Batman’s lips tighten—a sure sign of exasperation on a Kryptonian—before they point at Kal:

“I am Kal-El,” they say. Then, pointing at themselves: “I am Batman.”

They point at the coil again then, and Kal blushes harder when he realizes the question was actually quite simple, and he should have understood it right away. He pushes past it, however, and answers with flaming cheeks:

“This is a table coil.”

“This is a table coil,” Batman repeats, pronunciation quite close to Kal’s.

“Table coil,” Kal repeats nonetheless, just to make sure the alien will understand that only these two words designate the object they are asking about.

That, and to make sure Batman won’t mispronounce it and accidentally refer to a very intimate part of the anatomy by accident.

Batman, as has been the case so far, proves themselves a diligent learner, and manages a perfect rendition on the second try. Kal beams. He doesn’t stop to think, then, that Batman may not have been asking for a full vocabulary lesson when he points at his fork and says:

“This is a fork .”

“This is a fork,” Batman repeats, eyes fixed down on the table.

Kal nods, grin widening despite himself, a thin bubble of pride growing in his chest.

“This is a glass .”

“This is a glass.”

Kal walks Batman through several other eating implements—a plate, a spoon, a napkin—ever more pleased when Batman keeps getting the pronunciation right in two, sometimes three attempts at the most. They name all the items set on the table, eventually, and Kal imagines things will stop there for a moment, but then Batman points at the table itself and says, “This is….” with a tilt of their head.

“This is a table,” Kal informs them. Then, because he can’t think of a better way to explain the question, he seizes his glass again and, with a tilt of his head similar to Batman’s, asks: “What is this?”

Batman nods at that, mouth slanting...well, not into a smile, maybe, but a more relaxed angle, at least. Something that seems to hint Batman has finally found something worth considering in Kal, and, well. It would be a lie to say it does not affect him. There is something—giddy, almost, but also rewarding about this. About knowing he is useful here and that what he is doing right now will be—perhaps ‘appreciated' is the wrong word. Batman would be well within their rights to consider teaching them the language a demonstration of basic courtesy on the part of their hosts. Even so, whatever Batman learns and remembers this morning will be useful to them in the future. The sentiment is exhilarating. It loosens Kal’s shoulders, make him more willing to smile as he tries to mime the concept of a room in order to explain the word ‘parlor’.

By the time they stop, almost an hour later—and then only because Kryo reminds Kal today is the day of his annual health examination—Kal has had time to fill his chest with so much satisfaction at a job well done he feels almost no self-consciousness at the gesticulating he has to engage in to explain that he needs to leave. Batman nods, somewhat less stiff than they usually seem to be, and then says two words—at least it sounds like two distinct words—in their language.

Kal, caught off guard, nods back, close-lipped and tenser than he would like to be, and doesn’t look back as he leaves the room at an appropriately sedate pace, Kryo hovering at his elbow. He is in the process of trying to breathe his heartbeat into something more acceptable when the questions—the sudden uncertainty—become too much to handle, and he asks, “That probably meant thank you, didn’t it? No reason for them to—”

To what, exactly? Mock Kal? Judge him? Insult him? None of these possibilities make any rational sense. Context, and Batman’s attitude, both point towards the alien’s words being some form of thanks but—but what if it wasn’t? Kal is familiar with his mind's tendencies. Its ability to twist even the most innocuous things into catastrophes has been a part of his existence for as long as he remembers, and he knows better than to listen to it without reserve.

But still, a persistent part of him asks, what if he made a fool of himself this morning and did not realize it? What if Batman was only indulging him and could not hold it back any longer? What if they found Kal the dullest, most profoundly boring creature they have met in their entire existence, and are now determined to avoid him at any cost? The chances are slim—very slim, even—but….

“You are panicking again,” Kryo says in its usual dispassionate tone.

Kal does not hush it, but he does think about it. These concerns of his are...irrational, most of the time. He knows this. Not always, though. Kal has made a mess of things without meaning to before, has been found wanting in many and varied respects—numerous times, even—and Batman...well. It did seem, for a moment there, like Batman didn’t completely despise spending an extended period of time in Kal’s company. That is a good sign. But others have pretended as much before, and Kal should have remembered that; should have paid more attention to what he was doing, put more care into remaining—unobtrusive. Yes, that would be the right word. He knows how dull he is after all, should keep it in mind lest he keep making the same mistakes he made today—too solicitous, he’s sure, treating Batman like an imbecile or...or whatever else he did, really. It will come to him, he knows.

“Kal,” Kryo points out again as they round a corridor towards the palace doctors’ offices, “you are panicking again. Calm down.”

Never has that particular command been of any help in the past, but Kal has long since given up on trying to get it out of Kryo’s programming. He bites down on his instinctive rejection of the advice and breathes in deep instead. Then he asks, “Would you calculate the probability of what Batman said meaning ‘thank you’, please?”

“Situational elements suggest an 85% chance that that would be an appropriate translation of their words,” Kryo replies. “The scarcity of available data means linguistic calculations might take as long as four weeks to process. Do you wish me to proceed?”

“No, thank you,” Kal says.

Eighty-five percent, he tells himself even as he knocks on the door to the doctor’s office. That doesn’t sound so bad. Granted, there is still a fifteen percent chance he misread the situation entirely. A fifteen percent chance Batman was seeking him for very different reasons—although he cannot fathom what those reasons might have been—and he only managed to annoy them beyond belief. Fifteen percent chances are more than enough to send his heart racing; more than enough to half convince him he should, perhaps, consider shutting himself off from the world for good, if only it would ensure he never made that sort of mistake again.

“Good morning, Your Majesty,” the head physician says when she opens the door.

She gives Kal a familiar once over, takes his expression in—and this time, Kal knows he is not imagining the exasperation. Sighing, he follow her lead and tries to steel himself for the upcoming assessment and the myriad of little embarrassments that come with it.

The examination goes well enough, except for a few awkward bruises and wounds Kal has to admit he got from lugging heavy objects around in his labs—“If you’ll beg my pardon, Your Majesty, I know people lighter than these plants of yours,” the doctor says. Kal gives her an awkward smile and changes the topic; something new to be needlessly embarrassed about. The plants are nothing big, truly, nothing anyone would find really remarkable. Kal is known for being chiefly interested in botany, though, and most people do not associate this with sprained ankles or bruised ribs; so every instance of someone finding out must be followed by an uneasy reminder that Kal does not live a dangerous life at all but is, rather, ridiculously clumsy...and getting clumsier as the years go by.

Still, he does escape the doctor’s office eventually, relief more than palpable in every single one of his veins. Then he gets to his laboratories, settles down behind the floor-to-ceiling, one-way window, and proceeds to lose himself in work.

He is in the middle of a—lengthening—break several hours later, when Kara’s voice rings from the top of the stairs and bounces against the spherical ceiling of the comparatively minuscule room:

“I might wish to update your security protocols,” she says, her footsteps gradually losing themselves in Kal’s small forest of growing plants. “They barely reacted when I approached the door.”

“Of course they did,” Kal says without looking away from his current notes, “they know you. Besides, it wouldn’t do to give anyone the impression I’m trying to hide something in here, would it?”

Kara hums from where, if the rustling is to be trusted, she is poking at Kal’s morose-looking keva vines. Not that he takes poor care of them—he hardly does anything else with his days, after all. But Krypton’s atmosphere has been profoundly changed by the ever-more-intensive mining projects grinding away at its soil, filling the air with more dust than many plants find it possible to survive. Some biomes have been able to adapt on their own in the northern parts of the planet, where mining activity has been subdued by the lack of remaining material worth the effort. But El is one of the least-affected Principalities. The worst of the work is yet to come, here, and while the king—in his wisdom—has remained steadfastly convinced no problem could arise from an intensification of industrial production, Kal has always been more...anxious.

It was easy to combine this with his scientific curiosity and indulge in the sort of pet project none of his family members could truly disapprove of, despite his lack of formal education on the topic. Kara, for her part, has never quite seemed to understand Kal’s enthusiasm for his test subjects, and barely bothers to feign an apology when she accidentally snaps a leaf off a luat bush.

“They seem to be doing better,” she says with a polite smile even as she places the broken leaf back into the luat’s force-field, the atmosphere set to mimic a seventy percent air pollution rate. She wipes her hand clean with a nearby rag before she continues: “Perhaps you are finally succeeding.”

“We did move from a five percent survival rate to ten,” Kal replies without mirth.

“Ah. Well...at least there is progress?”

Kal tilts his head in concession, and then stiffens when Kara finally walks up to his desk and leans over his shoulder. The working lights, brighter than any other in the lab, must obstruct her view: she reaches for Kal’s papers, and although his first instinct is to grab after them, he knows better than to attempt it. Kara has, after all, been training all her life never to take no for an answer. Not at face value, in any case. Kal hesitates. Fidgets. At last, when he is sure Kara must have completed at least her second reading of what notes he has, he can’t help but ignore the skepticism in her expression and ask:

“What do you think?”

Kara’s lips purse into a doubtful expression, and she chews on her tongue for a second. Curbing her answer to sound more diplomatic, then. Perhaps Kal should warn her to get rid of the tell.

“I can’t say that I have much expertise in linguistics,” Kara says at last.

Biting down on a sigh, Kal reaches for his notes again, and meets no resistance from his cousin. He eyes his teaching plan for what must be the hundredth time today, and thinks.

Batman’s species is unknown on Krypton. Taking care of them has worked out all right so far, but nothing says they won’t be confronted with unexpected problems later on. They must be able to satisfy their basic needs on their own, which means they must be able to obtain food, drinks, sleeping accommodations and hygiene products. This implies naming said items, and learning how to ask lower-ranked individuals for services and thank them appropriately afterwards. Other things will come, such as asking for and understanding directions to various places, greeting individuals of various ranks and, of course, learning to make some form of conversation with the royal family without provoking an incident.

Kal is in the process of revising what he should focus on first and which verbal form to prioritize—desperately trying to remember his first lessons in any language in the process—when Kara sighs, sits on his desk next to him and asks:

“How long do you believe this will take?”

“A few months, I suppose?” Kal hazards. “They seem to be a fast learner, and they have more pressing motivation to learn Ellon than I did to learn La’u—”

“I never understood why you even chose to learn La’u when you didn’t have to,” Kara interjects with a wink.

Being ten years Kal’s senior means Kara was well into her La’u lessons by the time Kal started grasping the basics of Council, but he did hear his tutors rejoice about his prowess enough to imagine the sort of pains it must have caused Kara to learn it. Frequency-based languages are a struggle for anyone more used to words, but the fact that La’u uses deeper frequencies for more polite speech can hardly have helped Kara and her light voice. In any case, Kal himself struggled enough with the language that he cannot fully blame his cousin for her surprise.

Still, the specifics of La’u are not the point, and Kal continues:

“Hopefully they at least know what conjugations are, but we cannot be sure, and if they do not, it could add months of teaching in order for them to grasp the basics. And after that—”

“After that?” Kara exclaims, but Kal is surveying his teaching plan again and only half paying attention to his cousin when he says:

“Do not worry, I only intend to teach them Court Member forms, at first. That should serve them well enough until—”

“Kal, I wasn’t—don’t you think you are taking on quite a lot of responsibility with this?”

Something shrivels in Kal’s chest, a hopeful seed squashed to the ground by a distracted boot, and he hunches in on himself before he even realizes it. He does attempt to deflect the question with a shrug, but Kara would not be Kara if she could be satisfied with a non-answer of that sort.

“Kal. You are a Citadel Prince. You are a busy man—”

“I do believe you are confusing our timetables,” Kal mutters, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice.

“Even so,” Kara insists, after clearing her throat, “your plants take up quite a lot of time and work, especially the nocturnal ones.”

“I am well aware,” Kal tells the piece of paper he wrote Batman’s lesson plan on, “but even so, I am not half as busy as you are. I think I should be able to handle this.”

With a shake of her head, Kara clicks her tongue and rises from the desk, walking to the disused elevator shaft that crosses Kal’s lab and knocking on it with her knuckles. “You know I believe in this project of yours, Kal. There is a reason I wanted to get involved. I know you will continue to give it your best effort—but I also worry you might be taking on responsibilities that are not yours.”

“Batman is a guest under my family’s roof,” Kal points out, trying to keep his tone mild despite the sudden spike of irritation in his chest. “I do have responsibilities—”

“There are plenty of tutors in our service—”

“I’m quite aware,” Kal replies with more bitterness than he thought he had in store for the memory of his old teachers. “I remember my time with them, and I would rather spare Batman that.”

“I know you did not enjoy your basic studies,” Kara starts, “but perhaps if you hadn’t been so difficult, things wouldn’t have been so hard for you.”

Kal gapes for a moment, breath stolen by the sharp stab of pain in his chest at Kara’s words. She means well, he knows. And perhaps...perhaps, in some ways, she is right. It is possible—not probable, but possible—that Kal caving in to his teachers’ demands to specialize in the learnings of one Guild would have made his youth easier. It isn’t the done thing, after all, to ignore traditional limits the way Kal does. To defy genetic marking and engage in activities best left to those who were engineered for them. Still, what was he supposed to do?

The very source of his fame is that Kal does not have any Guild markers in his genome. That he is, in fact, the only Kryptonian to have lived without them in centuries and, if the way his life has gone so far is to be taken as an example, for centuries to come. Why Vohc allowed him to be created—why Rao did not do him the mercy of never allowing his mother’s pregnancy to come to term at all—is a mystery for the ages. Still, the fact remains that he would never have been accepted in any Guild, no matter how well he studied. Believers, Workers, Thinkers…none of them would have wanted him. Why else would Kal’s teachers have scoffed when he asked if he would ever be allowed to learn any of the Guilds’ languages?

It is most likely that Kara believes what she is saying. She has always been kind to Kal, and treated him as an equal, if something of an incomprehensible one. But the truth is that Kal’s tutors were ever unprepared for him—and he was a son of Krypton. How they would react to an alien, Kal would rather not find out. Not, in any case, if it means taking the risk of making Batman feel the way Kal did during his training.

Taking a deep breath, Kal forces himself to straighten his shoulders as much as he can and, sidestepping the ever-delicate subject of his former tutors’ treatment of him, says, “Perhaps you are right. Even so, I have already invested time and effort in this project. I should very much like to bring it to fruition. I have talked with Batman—”

“Is that his name?”

“It is. Though we cannot know for sure whether they are a he—or if this concept even exists where they come from.”

Kara concedes the point with a nod.

“They seem to be an interesting person,” Kal continues. “I would like to get to know them better, but I cannot do that unless they learn to communicate with us and I spend some time with them. Teaching them Ellon seems like the ideal way to accomplish both of these things.

Silence falls around them, and Kara fixes her gaze on Kal for a long time, a skeptical moue firmly set on her lips.

“Very well,” she says at last, sighing in defeat the way she would never allow herself to if Kal were anyone else. It fills his answering sigh with gratitude. “Although I fail to understand what makes him—them—more interesting than any of the other aliens you have met and failed to befriend before.”

She kisses Kal’s forehead before she goes, not noticing how still he has gone. He has to be still. He would cry if he weren’t, the shame of his own inadequacy catching up with him with the force of a laser blast. He tries to explain it later, only to himself—only in the privacy of his own head—but he can’t quite put it into words without finally breaking down into sobs: the way it felt to have Batman see him as a simple stranger, rather than a well-established failure .

It is, sadly enough, a practiced routine to ignore Kryo’s bland inquiries about his health.

It takes Kal some time, after his and Kara’s non-fight in his lab, to realize she must not have come to see him so they could discuss his newfound interest for the art of teaching. In fact, it takes him a full night of reflection—earning him several bruises and possibly a cracked rib that could otherwise have been easily avoided. Kara is busy all of the next morning, and Kal uses that time to sleep like the dead for a while longer, before he goes to visit her in the upper levels of the royal palace.

“I understand,” she says when Kal is done apologizing, eyes on the floor as if he were still a little boy of ten trying to live up to his adult cousin’s expectations. “I suppose I wasn’t at my best myself.”

Kal nods, struck mute now that he has said his piece, and waits for Kara to set what she was working on aside and add:

“I wanted to ask what you thought of the Turn of the Year Ball. You did not dance much.”

“You know I mislike it,” Kal says with an embarrassed shrug. “It accomplishes nothing save providing the court more fodder for gossip.”

He glances up just in time to catch Kara’s knowing look, and feels himself blush. It shouldn’t be an embarrassment, for her to know what the court has to say about Kal. He has been a source of gossip for longer than he can remember, after all, and she must have been aware of this long before he ever began to suspect there was something wrong with him. Still, discussing a source of humiliation is not the same as being aware of its existence, and for a moment Kal finds himself quite unable to speak.

“I understand,” Kara says with the same soft tone she always uses in these conversations of theirs. “I imagine you wanted some fresh air after that.”

“I tried, but the main balcony was rather occupied,” Kal remarks, forcing himself to take his hands out from behind his back, only to twist them together again at his front. “Lady Ra-Ny was there.”

“Well,” Kara says, her tone as mild as her eyes are sharp, “she does like her space. Did you see who else was there?”

“Lord Ko Li-Van of Ul, Lord Nej Tar-Plak from Po—along with his lady wife—”

“Ce-Qod? I thought she was too sickly to travel.”

Kal gives a nonchalant shrug, dragging his eyes back down to the ground, heart hammering in his chest.

“So did several others in their assembly,” he says. “One must assume she made an effort for the sake of the opportunity to meet your father.”

“Indeed,” Kara replies, thoughtful.

Kal glances up and finds her looking down at her work, though her pen hand is not moving.

“It seems quite a lot of Worker Princes and Princesses were hoping for the honor of meeting our king, this week. One can only wonder why.”

She looks up then, straight into Kal’s eyes, and he shrugs.

“Perhaps they were simply hoping to present him with well-wishing gifts for the Turn of the Year. I did hear some of them trade ideas among themselves. I believe Shadow’s limbs were invoked more than once; or, failing that, some form of garment patterned with Dark Suns.”

“Well, thank you, Kal,” Kara tells him after a long silence, features and shoulders as stiff as stone. “You always do pick up the best gossip.”

Kal, who knows the way his cousin looks when she needs to think on something, nods, and makes his way back to his family’s level of the palace.

Once he is back in his family’s dwellings, Kal decides it would be best not to put off his teaching project. The prospect of approaching Batman might be mildly terrifying—though the memory of their willingness to tolerate Kal helps—but it is a necessary step for anything to happen. Besides, teaching or no teaching, it would not do to leave Batman to their own devices like an inconvenient visitor one tries to get rid of, having been followed home.

He finds Batman, after some searching, in one of the smaller libraries of the palace, not too far from the guests’ quarters. Neither the apartments nor the library have seen much use in many years, and the silence around them is enough to set Kal’s nerves on alert, but Batman looks unbothered by it. They've taken a seat by one of the curved windows, relaxed pose incongruous in contrast to the stiffness of their clothes—perhaps Kal should see about having something else made for them—with a book on their lap and something close to a scowl on their mouth.

Kal steps closer, and recognizes the cover of The Adventures of Flamebird . The character is a rather popular hero in El legend: a servant of Rao who went around the world helping those they could—for their gender was never revealed, if indeed they had even had one—and did so well on their quest that the Sun God himself gave them a home atop the highest mountain of the world and allowed them to call themselves Xen-El: Xen of the light, under the protection of the Helper God himself. The story itself was nothing truly original, merely a collection of legends that had lived in El for millennia before Kal’s great grandparents were even conceived...but Kal spent many a solitary hour poring over this book, devouring Flamebird’s adventures, their discovery, and their friendship with Nightwing, who rose in service of Vohc and became the first true Thinker of Krypton.

The book itself, in fact, shows the wear of such a love. It is creased and bent where multiple sets of hands were cajoled into holding it open for Kal...and later on, from many instances of bringing it along on official travels or solitary explorations, until the order was finally given to find it a home in the guests’ library. Kal’s lips twist with the memories. There are entire sentences of the work still carved into his mind. They are not, unfortunately, the ones his parents wanted him to learn—these were lost to time, but Kal retains the vague impression of certitude coming from them, the edge of despair creeping into their voices until they could no longer cling to the hope that Kal would, one day, reveal himself as Rao’s heir and lead El back to its former glory. Nonetheless, some parts of this book Kal could recite without looking at them, and he cannot help but smile when he sees such a beloved item in the hands of someone he hopes to come to know and respect in the future.

Batman must be attempting to teach themselves Ellon with this book. It is a commendable effort, and something Kal might have attempted in their situation, but if the alien’s face is anything to go by the experiment is not quite yielding the expected results. Then again, as far as Kal knows, Krypton’s alphabet is quite unique in the galaxy, so unless Batman is somehow familiar with something similar, it is hardly a surprise that they are finding it hard to make sense of.

Stepping closer, Kal clears his throat and says, “I might be able to help with that.”

It is unclear whether Batman was already aware of Kal’s presence or if they simply have commendable control of their body’s reactions. Either way, they give no sign of surprise that Kal can see. The window does offer quite the vantage point over the library, it is true. Its round frame dominates a circular room, covered floor to ceiling with the yields of thousands of years of book collecting. The truly rare editions, made of organic fibers rather than the synthetic paper everyone uses nowadays, are of course stored in the master library. Still, this particular collection is nothing to blush at, and Kal inhales the dusty smell of many books collected together with a form of reverence, even as he waits for Batman’s response.

The alien, for their part, hasn’t moved at all since Kal entered, as if waiting to see what might happen next. The image puts Kal in mind of a predator surveying its hunting ground...although, perhaps, with more benevolence than most. It would seem...unlikely, to most, for a royal guest to keep track of people’s comings and goings around here. Then again, those same people would also deem it impossible for Kal to notice half as much as he does, and so he does not entirely dismiss the possibility.

He endures Batman’s scrutiny instead, resisting the urge to flush and hunch in on himself even further than he already does. Thankfully, after a long moment of contemplation, Batman says something in their own language—Kal could slap himself for expecting anything more, really. Of course, Batman wouldn’t be able to answer. That is the entire point of this conversation, isn’t it? Rao, Kal. Keep up.

“I would,” Kal starts, and winces again. Simple words, in this situation, must be best. He tries again: “I want to help you speak Ellon.”

Batman stays silent again, the cowl obscuring their expression in a way that leaves Kal at a complete loss. He does not have the strength to wait as long as he did the first time around, though, and so he steps forward, points at The Adventures of Flamebird and its colorful pages, and says, “This is a book.”

He might, possibly, have imagined the way Batman’s lips quirk into the not-quite-smile Kal is beginning to suspect is their best approximation of an encouraging expression. Regardless, no rebuttal or rejection comes, and Kal allows himself to sigh in relief when Batman dutifully repeats the word. Then, Batman gestures for Kal to sit down next to them and Kal takes a place on the windowsill with rather more giddy enthusiasm than he’d expected to feel.

“May I?” he asks, hand hovering over the book.

He waits for Batman to push the collection into his hand and flips through the pages to the beginning of Flamebird and the Secret Lake . There, he points at the illustration and says:

“This is water.”

“Water,” Batman repeats with a small nod.

Kal beams at them before he can think better of it, then flips through a few more pages to the part where Flamebird serves one of the old Lords of Krypton to prevent a servant from losing their place in the palace; points at the picture of a glass, and asks:

“What is this?”

“This is a glass,” Batman says.

Kal grins again, and goes through several more illustrations, naming objects and checking back on Batman’s memory at regular intervals. It is easy to find the material he needs, the book so beloved it feels like he might be able to find specific pages without even looking. At some point, he drops it in his excitement, and thanks Batman when they pick it up for him, but otherwise a solid half hour is spent on nothing but new vocabulary. Until, that is, Kal realizes he cannot possibly expect Batman to memorize all of this without any sort of support.

He manages to refrain from apologizing—although only because knows Batman would not understand the words—as he rises from his seat and goes to fetch Batman something to write on. He is not, technically, supposed to use the blank books stored at the bottom of the shelves, but then no one ever does, and he does not think they have been counted even once since he was born. He finds one with a black cover and the El coat of arms in silver embossing on the front, the lined pages inside ideal for a long list of vocabulary, and brings it back up to the windowsill.

“Thank you,” Batman says, and Kal gasps and blanches.

“Oh Rao, no, no! You can’t address me this way, you have no idea how much trouble—”

Kal cuts himself off, face and neck heated enough to cook on them. Of course Batman has no idea what they've done. Kal should have anticipated this, even: they did run into this particular problem before. Kal...well, he does not mind what is technically disrespect. Quite the contrary, in fact. But others? Oh, others definitely will mind, quick though they are to forget Kal is a Citadel Prince when their lust for gossip overtakes them. Batman, of course, is unaware of the problem, and does not have enough understanding of Ellon for Kal to explain it to them as of yet, not without running the risk of confusing them for a long time to come—which means the situation calls for some social gymnastics.

So, Batman is an alien. In theory, this would make them lower-ranked than any Kryptonian, let alone an Ellon in their own Principality. They are, however, also a guest of the royal family, however reluctant their hosts. This, in turn, will protect them from quite a lot of negative reactions, despite Jor-El and Lara Lor-Van’s disgrace. Servants’ modes of speaking are, of course, quite out of the question; but Batman cannot be allowed to address Citadel Lords and Ladies like equals either, or they will end up in a world of trouble. Which means they probably ought to talk like a Mountain Lord then, or at least as if close to them in status. It is, after all, unlikely that they will run into anyone ranking any lower than that while they are staying in the palace, and if they are to visit other parts of El...well, hopefully, they will wait until they can communicate better before they attempt it.

“Let’s try again,” Kal offers, once his grammar is decided. “’Thank you’.”

“Thank you,” Batman repeats, something in the way they move making Kal wonder if they have picked up on some of the social cues involved.

Regardless, they do not seem eager to question the new, quite different version of the phrase, and Kal beams again, hard enough to push the embarrassment of his earlier mistake almost out of his mind. He ignores the lingering traces of it for the time being in order to pull Batman’s notebook open, pen a rapid sketch of a glass in the left hand margin, and label the drawing in his most careful schoolboy handwriting. He hands Batman the pen when they tap his wrist, and repeats the word when asked, impressed when Batman adds notes in what looks like two different alphabets of their home world.

They archive the rest of what Batman has learned so far in the same manner, Kal flipping through the pages of The Adventures of Flamebird between words, finding his favorite illustrations without much effort, even though it has been years. After the words come sentences, and Batman puts them through the same process as the rest, writing down both the way they are to be pronounced and what Kal assumes is a translation below the Kryptonian letters. Then, after a while, Batman speaks again, in that strange language of theirs.

Kal turns back to them, only for them to point down at the book and repeat whatever they were saying. The words, obviously, are entirely opaque, but the sentiment behind them seems easy to interpret, and Kal decides to go out on a limb in order to answer.

“This is one of my favorite books.”

He clutches the book to his chest with a wider smile than he remembers sporting in years, excited to meet someone whose reaction to the stories does not range from fond amusement to open disinterest for a collection of children’s tales.

“Favorite books,” Batman repeats, and Kal beams again, closing the book to point at the cover.

“They are Flamebird,” he tells Batman. “The legends say they were the very first El of Krypton.”

Batman looks—not invested in the topic, perhaps, but mildly interested, if their mouth is any indication. No more disinterested than before, at any rate. And Kal—Kal has had few occasions to discuss a book he is passionate about in his life, his family not much for fiction. This, most likely, explains how he manages to spend over three hours talking Batman’s ears off about the book and why, in the end, even the mortifying certitude he must have bored the alien almost to tears isn’t quite enough to prevent him from seeking their company the next day.

Batman progresses much faster than Kal expected. It takes them only two weeks to remember the numerous words Kal plied them with during their first lesson—something of a mistake, perhaps, to throw so many words at them and expect they would remember them all so soon—and then only about a week after that to grow quite at ease in asking for what they need at the dining table. Where before Kal used to remain silent while his parents or the rest of his family discussed one topic or another, he is now able to put this time to good use helping Batman improve their mastery of Ellon with an enthusiasm he does not remember feeling for the rest of his work before.

He does not neglect his studies, of course, and Kara eventually stops feeling the need to ask if he is still fit to take care of his nocturnal plants. He does, however, spend most of his afternoons in the guests’ library with Batman, learning bits and pieces of Batman’s language through their alphabet of sound, and engaging in more and more complex discussions about Flamebird and the various legends surrounding them.

He convinces Batman to let themselves be measured—with their uniform on—during the second week, and presents them with a black and cowled variation on the latest fads in Ellon fashion, the slashed sleeves of their new tunic opening up to reveal lighter gray underneath, and the strange motif of Batman’s original outfit embossed on a breastplate similar to what even Kal has taken to wearing on a regular basis.

“Thank you,” Batman says when they receive the gift, although Kal is rather unsurprised to find their expression as mild as ever.

“You are quite welcome,” he says. “I know the old one is cleaned every night, but I also know how uncomfortable it can be to wear the same thing every day.”

He cannot be sure Batman truly glances up at him at the words, covered as their face is, but he does get the impression of it nonetheless. They have, after all, been spending almost all their time together these days—save for the one evening his uncle received a small group of Worker Princes and Princesses in the Stateroom of Peace, and Kal put his family’s absence to good use, excusing himself early to work on his nocturnal specimens. Such proximity makes it easier to understand someone’s expression, limited though their shared vocabulary may be, and so Kal is, perhaps, not caught as wholly off guard as he could have been when Batman asks, “Is this Nightwing?”

Despite having anticipated the question, Kal blushes. It is one thing to draw inspiration from a legendary hero for a friend’s outfit, it is quite another to have them pick up on it. Not that Kal is too concerned about anyone else understanding the reference, seeing as Nightwing had fallen into disrepute long before he was born.

“Perhaps,” he hedges, though it does not feel like Batman believes him.

Nightwing was once as popular a legendary character as Flamebird, at least in El. He was, after all, the very first Thinker, and Thinkers are El’s favored Guild. Many Els have been engineered to be Thinkers in the past, and Kal’s family members are no exception. Why, his father even married into his own Guild, a rather unusual choice for royals. But where Nightwing, and his patron God Vohc, was once revered and respected as a leader of the people and a Builder of great things, later centuries turned him from ambitious to proud, from charismatic to authoritarian, from an instigator of beneficial change to an agent of chaos.

In El, at least, it is Rao who now presides over the Gods, guiding them with his light to follow the rituals set thousands of years before by early Ellons. Flamebird, too timid and too tangled in the story of Nightwing, has also been largely relegated to the role of fairytale character, following in Rao’s footsteps with unwavering loyalty and teaching the young how to make their parents proud. A worthy goal, Jor-El used to say when Kal was little; and Kal’s destiny, his mother would add. To make them proud. Not that it did them—or Kal—any good but then the future is a hard thing to predict, and Kal did not turn out to resemble Rao in the slightest.

It was, perhaps, quite inevitable that Kal would never meet anyone who shared his preference for the older versions of the tales.

“I like it,” Batman says at last.

The tears catching in Kal’s throat are a surprise but he does, thankfully, manage to keep them from falling.

Weeks turn into a month, and then another beyond that. Batman continues to progress in Ellon at astonishing speed, his—not their, as he tells Kal at the end of his first month on Krypton—ability to pick up on a word’s meaning and the complex grammatical structures of Ellon beyond anything Kal has ever heard of. Not, of course, that many people are willing to discuss much of their lives with him, language learning included, but still. He did read a few books on the theory of language acquisition, after all, and from what he sees either Batman comes from an especially quick-witted species, or he is even more exceptional than Kal suspected.

Eventually, Kal’s parents start talking to him a little. Nothing more than idle conversation in between more important errands, but it is still progress, and an occasion for Batman to practice his skills with someone other than Kal. It...worries Kal, in the beginning. A selfish reaction, he knows—but Batman is smart, with a dry sense of humor Kal can’t help but grin at, and prone to engage in the sort of verbal sparring that makes Kal feel more alive, somehow. Talking to him—existing next to him—is a breath of fresh air. It is the very first time Kal has met someone who doesn't merely tolerate him, but rather, for some reason, seems to appreciate him.

So it is...understandable, perhaps, if not honorable, that he fears losing this once Jor and Lara start addressing Batman over the dining table. He won’t do anything to stop it, of course. Knows better than to keep someone he has come to care for more than he ever planned to from making new friends and building himself a life on Krypton and in El...but there is still a part of him that sighs in relief once it becomes obvious something about the Prince and Princess of El’s conversation displeases Batman. Not much. Not enough for him to shun them entirely. Just—just enough for Kal to pick up on it and feel selfishly, shamefully glad.

Kal is, in all honesty, not as good a person as he wishes he could be.

Nevertheless, Batman does not desert Kal, and when the time comes for him to be invited to one of King Jor’s minor receptions, he appears on Kal’s doorstep long before they are to join the rest of the palace’s occupants for the descent into the Stateroom.

He looks—well, Kal has always known Batman looked good, even in the strange, almost goofy outfit he brought from this Earth of his. Shoulders like his cannot be disguised by what is clearly thought of as a set of armor. The softer fabrics of El’s ceremonial outfits, however, the elegant work of the decorative breastplate and the geometrical embroideries—all of these combine to reveal a body no one would have to blush at. A body Kal may well be thinking of a tad more often than he is supposed to, hidden as it is behind its layers of clothes.

“I would offer my assistance,” Kal says when he has made sure he isn’t staring, “but it seems to me like you have everything under control.”

“Contrary to what everyone seems to think, there are things I am quite able to handle on this planet.”

Kal chuckles despite himself, and hides the smile that lingers on his face by busying himself with the fastenings of his tunic. It has only been a week since Batman started talking to him as an equal and while Kal should, by all accounts, maintain a proper distance between him and someone so insignificant in Kryptonian society, he finds he does not want to. What does it matter, that Batman is a nobody from nowhere, if he is Kal’s friend?

“Well, the outfit suits you well,” Kal tells Batman as he finishes putting his breastplate in place.

“Black does seem to be my color,” Batman agrees, a dry blankness to his tone that makes Kal smile again, “even when everyone else satisfies themselves with the darkest khaki s I’ve ever seen.”

It takes a bit of time for Kal to understand what khaki means and provide a decent translation. When that is done, though, he cannot help but agree with Batman as to the rather monochromatic state of Kryptonian fashion. Most fabrics that Kal is familiar with are dark and muted, as if the light had been leached out of them, so that the solid black and gray of Batman’s outfits seem almost bright by comparison. It is a good look on his friend, though, and Kal finds himself toying with the idea of saying so as they move to join the rest of his family at the entrance to the Way Down.

“It is a fancier name than it needs,” Kal admits, rubbing at his neck in embarrassment, once Batman asks about it. “But it is the only way to reach the Stateroom of Peace from here, so….”

“The only way?”

“There are the service elevators, I suppose,” Kal says with a shrug.

There used to be five of those, actually, disseminated at various points around the palace, until the lower botany labs were built and one of the shafts had to be closed; one of Kal’s ancestors disliked the coming and going of servants so close to them. Nowadays the serving staff use the four remaining—small and uncomfortable—service shafts, deliveries are made through a specific balcony, and Kal’s family uses the Way Down, voices echoing against the room-wide walls of polished metal. The feeling of it is rather like sitting in an egg meant to welcome forty adult Kryptonians, and Kal cannot help but wonder how much of his discomfort every time he goes down rests on that particular architectural choice and how much is simply due to what he knows he will have to face downstairs.

“You live in a fortress,” Batman says after a pause.

His gaze is still firmly set forward, his shoulders unmoved. Yet there is something in his tone that squeezes at Kal’s heart, a sort of tightness he isn’t sure he can figure out on his own. It leaves him nervous and tense, more hunched than he would like as he fiddles with the hems of his sleeves.

His father, when he notices it, pulls Kal's hands apart without a word.

“It is unbecoming,” Kal’s mother says with a shake of her head. “You must rid yourself of this habit, Kal.”

Kal leaves his cuffs alone and mumbles an apology, though he can’t help but try and explain himself.

“No one is as fond of these occasions as they would like to appear,” Jor-El replies as the seven of them step into the elevator, “but you cannot shame our House with that sort of ridiculous behavior.”

Resisting the urge to wrap his arms around his midsection—a much bigger embarrassment than simple fiddling—Kal nods at the ground. It is, in all honesty, a good thing that Batman is here. Kal has no desire for his friend to realize how pathetic he can be just yet—or perhaps ever—and so it is easier to keep his shoulders straight than it would usually be. Besides, while Kal has no illusion about the interest people may find in him—very little, if any—Batman still hasn’t tired of him. In fact, the alien has treated him with something not unlike a form of fondness, like tolerating a faulty but well-worn hunit. It isn’t much. Kal knows it isn’t much. It is, however, better than he remembers ever knowing elsewhere, and it helps him keep his self-consciousness at bay as he takes a small step away from his family and toward Batman.

They both stay quiet during the ride down, Batman having learned by now not to expect too much conversation from Kal’s parents. Brilliant scientists they may both be, but they are not teachers, nor very patient. And so, despite the keenness of Batman’s mind, behind that strange cowl of his, he has been forced to content with Kal as his only company...until, that is, rumors of his progress reached the Citadel Lord and Ladies, and he was invited to this latest function.

“Are you always this nervous?” Batman asks just before they exit the elevator.

Kal would like to have the conversational skill and the confidence to answer ‘often enough’, but in truth it is not that much of an exaggeration to say, “Yes.”

Batman, thankfully, is not prone to clicking his tongue, shaking his head or, indeed, acknowledging his emotions or opinions in any voluntary way at all. This is good, because while Kal is slowly learning to read the alien—the man, he should probably call him—it makes it easier to pretend Batman doesn’t think he is being ridiculous for this. Kal squares his shoulders instead, breathing in and bracing himself just as the doors to the Stateroom open and the members of the royal family are introduced by order of importance.

The Stateroom, far too vast for this fairly intimate assembly, has been divided in two for the night. At the front, closest to the exit of the Way Down, stands the royal table, at which Batman, Kal, and the rest of the family will sit on display for all the court to see for the duration of dinner. Then the assembly will move to the back of the room for the evening’s first dance—a mandatory exercise, Kal has been informed—and the other points of interest. There are professional dancers, two magicians, three jugglers, and one woman whose business is in fire; Kal would rather spend the evening admiring them all than dance for even a few minutes, but that is, unfortunately, not an option.

By Kal’s side, Batman seems decidedly unperturbed by the crowd, the noise, and the myriad of occasions one has to embarrass themselves in this sort of public setting. He moves the way he has always done, head held high as a king’s, back unbowed, step unafraid. He behaves, in fact, more like a prince than Kal knows how to.

As soon as the first nobles have paid their respects to the king and come to engage the mysterious resident of the palace, Batman slips into an almost liquid version of himself. His mouth stretches into a smile, the set of his shoulders mellows, and even his voice softens enough to become almost unrecognizable. It is like watching the man become another part of himself entirely, and Kal would gape if he were not as aware of their audience as he is.

He follows Batman at a distance instead, watching him charm Citadel Lord after Citadel Lady, easy and practiced despite the still-obvious gaps in his vocabulary. It is a talent Kal could never cultivate, and a deep sense of shame settles in his chest, almost obscuring the pride he feels in his friend’s talent. The assembly, predictably enough, pays him little mind. Kal is used to that treatment, however, and while it is never pleasant it is easier, with Batman here, to push past the stopping power of indifferent disdain and listen to the gossip circulating in the room.

If, that is, multiple talks of financial transactions can be considered gossip. Kal is...too well-known as an incompetent to join any of the conversation, but mining projects seem to be all the rage in El, and more than one Lord or Lady is already considering what to do for the king’s birthday, in six months’ time.

Slowly, Kal trails Batman through the dining half of the Stateroom, wondering if this was how Kara felt when she was first allowed in polite society twenty-five years ago. They make small talk with many people, Batman coming up with a new way of calling Krypton grandiose for each pair of ears that would not accept anything less, and answering countless variations of the question: “What is your favorite thing in El?”

No one, Kal notices, asks whether Batman misses his home planet at all. Not that he would answer—in Kal's experience, attempts to make the man open up about his emotions go about as well as punching the wall of the Citadel and expecting a door to open. Still, Kal cannot help but think the asking of that question matters, perhaps even as much as the answer. He might be biased, of course. Trying to bolster his own importance. Even so, he is glad he had the mind to ask this, at least once.

They make their way back to the front of the room, where the dining bell will soon call them and the rest of the royals. Cold golden light shines over the room in waves, like a winter sun filtered through water. It gives the whole scene an eerie look, as if seen in a dream, though Kal does not remember it feeling like this before. Eventually, he and this mellowed version of Batman catch up to a small group composed of Kal’s family, all caught in conversation with General Dru-Zod.

“You don’t like him?” Batman asks, tone flat enough to almost turn it into an affirmation.

“I don’t believe he is very fond of me either,” Kal mutters in return, trying and failing to sidestep the question.

He is under no illusion that Batman missed the evasion, of course. Still, the man has the kindness not to laugh at the childish sentiment, though Kal can’t help but feel like he wants to. Batman approaches the conversational circle, but Kal knows where his own place in this particular configuration is and stands by a nearby table instead, just far enough behind his parents to affect ignorance should any courtly eye wander his way. He can’t be sure Batman glancing at him through the lenses of his cowl is anything more than a figment of his imagination, but he does give a little shrug just the same. Just in case. It is good, after all, for Batman to have more interesting things to do than content himself with Kal’s company all day. This evening will do him good, and if it means he makes better friends than Kal in the process, well, it will have—it will be alright. Perfectly fine.

As it is, though, none of the speakers pay Batman much attention, and Kal watches General Dru-Zod as he clinks his glass against Zor-El’s first, and Kara’s second.

“To a most excellent deal,” he says.

The small circle sips on what Kal assumes is one of the Zodri wines the general is so fond of, unbothered by Batman’s empty hands. The silence settles around them as they savor the taste, Kal’s uncle swishing the wine around his mouth before declaring it absolutely delicious. Kara sways after her second sip, closing her eyes and saying, “Forgive me, this is perhaps a little strong,” as if Kal hadn’t seen her drink men twice her size under a table.

“Strong wine for a strong future,” Dru-Zod replies, self-assured. “This proposition is a boon from the Gods!”

“This proposition hasn’t been signed yet,” Kal’s mother counters in a quiet, yet firm voice.

Around her, the air tenses. Batman, caught between her and Dru-Zod’s piercing gaze, remains unmoved, while Kal’s shoulders bunch together even as he looks away. He knows these people’s faces well enough by now: there is no need for him to look at them to imagine the pursing of his cousin’s lips, the frown on his aunt’s face. The tightness of his uncle’s jaw when he hisses, “Sister.”

“I am but speaking the truth,” Lara replies, still in an undertone. “You and all your Laborer friends may rejoice all you want, but none of your pretty gifts will amount to anything if Tsiahm-Lo changes his mind at the last second.”

“Gifts have nothing to do with his decision,” Kal’s aunt replies in a mild, somewhat miffed tone. “His Majesty is perfectly capable of making his own choices, and no one here has any close contact with him.”

“Not directly,” Kara remarks.

Kal almost hears the air grow tense after her words. He cannot fathom Batman’s expression has changed much...nor that anyone else looks very pleased. Not with the heaviness of the silence around them. Still, he keeps his eyes turned away from his family, sweeping in wide arcs over the Stateroom and its crowd of milling nobility, the performers entertaining the crowd until the royal family finally feels the need to eat. Lady Ona-Set, robes swishing around her, wanders between tables, no doubt lamenting the excessively modern arrangements of cutlery.

“Nevertheless,” Jor says with a tone of finality, “it would do Tsiahm-Lo good, rethinking his position. The Melokariel Proposition is pure folly, and my father—”

Lady Ona-Set must have stirred some dust: something tickles at Kal’s nose and he finds himself sneezing three times in rapid succession.

“Perhaps we should not speak of this where a foreigner can hear,” Kara interrupts Jor, switching to Council.

“Perhaps you are right,” Dru-Zod replies, “although there is nothing much more to be discussed. Krypton has been stagnating for far too long, and this project will serve to revive it.”

“You are a fool if you believe that,” Jor retorts with enough feeling to turn Kal’s head towards him, “and so are the Wise—”

“Jor!” Zor and Lara hiss at the same time.

On his chair, Kal stiffens. It is not done, to openly disagree with the Wise Council. Their hearing is quite keen and their new militia, specifically trained in Kandor to help unify the planet under one rule, has lengthened the reach of their arm. El holds some power in Krypton’s politics and retains its own police force, still—as does Zod and the distant Principality of Quod—but even Kal has heard whispers of how briefly prisoners taken by the Council’s militia remain in Ellon prisons. When, that is, they visit them at all. Even for royals, it is not done, to openly disagree with the Wise Council.

For a moment, Kal thinks his family members will attempt to resurrect the topic and keep the conversation going. They spend a long time looking pensively at their glasses instead and then, without a word, the king leads his entourage up to the main table.

The meal starts quietly enough, but the conversation on Kal’s right picks up again by the time the first dishes are brought out. To his left, Batman eyes the various foods with a tight pinch to his lips, and Kal smiles, even as he points out his favorites as well as one thing he is not very fond of but believes Batman might enjoy. They are well into the meal—in silence, for Batman is not one for idle chatter—when Batman asks, “What does your grandfather have to do with the Melokariel Proposition?”

Kal almost chokes on his glass of water, and has to reach for a napkin with some urgency to cover the blunder. He is flushing, he knows it, and his heart is pounding hard when he answers with a question of his own.

“Whatever do you mean?”

“Your grandfather,” Batman repeats without looking away from his food, perfect profile insufficient for Kal to figure out what he is thinking. “Your family was talking about the Melokariel Proposition earlier. Your grandfather was mentioned, but I fail to understand how he is related to it.”

For the barest moment, Kal gapes. He is, after all, widely known for his disinterest in the Melokariel Proposition, and his utter inability to change that fact. That Batman would have questions about it had never crossed his mind, let alone that he would come to Kal of all people for answers.

“I’m afraid,” he says with some difficulty, cheeks burning with too-familiar shame, “you misunderstand me. I meant I don’t know what the Melokariel Proposition is.”

Batman’s head turns toward him. The man’s eyes are invisible, and yet Kal still wishes he could squirm away from them.

“The Melokariel Proposition,” Batman repeats. “I have been here more than two and a half months, and I’ve heard it discussed at least twice a week since then.”

“Then,” Kal admits, shoulders drooping almost of their own accord, “you have a better mind for these sorts of things than I do.”

There is no change in Batman’s posture, no indication in his expression or on his face that what he has just heard displeased him. This does not in any way prevent Kal from feeling like a great divide has suddenly opened up between them.

Kal collapses at the door to the elevator shaft in his labs with a grunt of relief, and takes a couple of minutes to get his breathing back under control. His outfit rearranges into more palace-appropriate garments with a tickle, the slick feeling of dirty water and blood sending his stomach reeling. He wishes sometimes that he could just use one of the regular elevators for these outings of his. The scrutiny that would bring him, however...it would be ill advised, at best. And an unnecessary complication besides. So, abandoned shaft it is, though the necessity of the scheme does not prevent Kal from snorting, from time to time, as he tries to picture his parents’ expressions should they learn of this habit of his.

“Avoiding servants?” Kryo asks when Kal slowly pushes himself to his feet.

“Always a success,” Kal replies, and does not watch Kryo bob up and down in acknowledgment.

His entire body is sorer than it has been a while, bruises growing on top of bruises. Tonight was not a good night. Multiple incidents; he’ll have to tell his family tomorrow. A dozen plants dead. Significant structural damage—well, no, that he can’t share. They would want to see it if he did, and it isn’t as though Kal could show them. In any case, it will be at least three days until Kal can afford to leave his work again.

Three days might be pushing his luck a little, Kal knows. Two would arouse less suspicion. But the truth is, this is not an effort Kal is willing to expend, not when his only wish is to lie down and sleep for an entire week undisturbed. He may have to, at some point—Batman still has questions about the workings of El in particular and Krypton in general, and Kal is still the only one willing to answer him. Even that, though, has lost quite a lot of its appeal.

Teaching Batman about his surroundings used to be a breath of fresh air, a dream of spring in the middle of winter. Ever since the ball, though, Batman has been—it feels like something broke. And—it makes sense. Somewhat. Kal was—he has never been an interesting person to begin with. A subject of morbid fascination, maybe. A specimen for the study of Krypton’s society. A cautionary tale for those foolish enough to dream of following into Jor-El and Lara Lor-Van’s hubris-filled footsteps, reminding them that wishing for Krypton’s next great leader will only get them someone like Kal.

An interesting person, though? Not really.

The thought twists at Kal’s gut, but he swallows the hard truth nonetheless. Tears won’t change things that are, and so he gulps them down and makes himself face the facts while he walks to the showers at the back of the labs. He is uninteresting. That, he knew. But at the very least, Batman used to find him—useful. Tolerable, maybe. A companion of limited worth, but still preferable to complete solitude and then...well, then, Kal did not see Batman for almost two weeks.

Three weeks in, and they have finally resumed their usual study sessions, but it is easy to see the tone of them has shifted. There are as many questions as there have ever been, as many topics to touch upon. Batman still teaches whatever English Kal is willing to learn. But where before these moments flowed like long exchanges between friends, it seems to Kal Batman is now merely perusing a list of references, gathering information to examine it at a later date. Seeking pointers to guide his solitary studies rather than answers from someone he trusts. It is—it makes sense. Kal should have known it would happen. Batman has figured him out and moved on. He should have known. He should have. He should.

But he did not, and tonight more than ever the thought twists inside him, clawing at his throat and the corners of his eyes in a way it hasn’t in the three months and some weeks since Batman crash-landed on Krypton.

It is no use, spending so much time thinking of this. Kal knows this, and tries to push the thoughts out of his mind as he steps under the shower. Clearly, Batman was unwilling to bother with someone uninterested by the topic of the Melokariel Proposition. That is that; no more to say on the subject.

Although it does, of course, beg the question of why Batman has become so invested in that project in the first place. What does an alien who did not even come from this galaxy care about a strictly Kryptonian affair? Everyone, after all, keeps repeating the truth that no neighboring planet will be affected, let alone Batman’s distant and unknown solar system. Why, then, has the man developed such curiosity about it? That he did not know of Krypton’s existence even while passing by it close enough to crash on it after an accident, Kal can believe. Light-speed spacecrafts are all equipped with automated pilots, and Batman did say he was traveling on business, attempting to reach friends who had required his help. The lack of help, too, is unsurprising. Batman did not have any way to communicate for a long time, and no one—not even Kal, he realizes, wincing—thought to offer help in getting him back home.

But why would he grow so passionate about the Melokariel Proposition as to reject Kal on the sole basis of his lack of interest in it?

“Would you like me to order some breakfast to be brought up?” Kryo asks when Kal emerges from his shower in a hurry and immediately shoves himself into his now-anthracite tunic.

“In two hours, please,” Kal replies. “I have something to do, first.”

It must be the space making him paranoid. It must be. There is too much of an echo, down there, too much darkness, like a cave of insanely regular proportions. Still, the doubt clings to Kal’s skin as he strides across the space, drooping leaves brushing at his face and arms as he goes on, wishing desperately for answers—or, failing that, for some way to stop thinking altogether...two things he might, in fact, be able to find in the same place.

The Adventures of Flamebird has always been a source of comfort to him, well-worn pages and cover a soothing sight of their own by now. It would do him good to hold it, to lose himself in the myriad of tales it contains and the distant, unknowable lands of Krypton in its earliest days. It would ease his mind; soothe him enough, perhaps, to let him sleep and forget the night’s casualties, at least long enough to survive. And since the book has been residing in Batman’s bedchamber for several weeks now, perhaps Kal will manage to seize whatever feeble courage he has and ask some of the questions that, he can tell, will not leave him alone otherwise.

He has no desire to do it. Kal is many things, but brave is not one of them, and the fear of losing whatever shreds of Batman’s friendship he still has stops him in his tracks at the bifurcation between the guests’ quarters and the royal apartments. He is, however, a Prince of El. Not the most glorious of them, and not a particularly good one, either; but if he suspects something strange is going on in the palace, it is his duty to examine it. He must do this, and he must do this fairly—he cannot let his desire for friendship blind him to whatever reasons Batman might have to research a planet-wide project involving so much energy...and if those reasons come with ill intent, then Kal will have to stop the man. Friend or no.

Kal knows his duty, he truly does, but he cannot deny that relief washes over him, a few minutes later, when Batman does not answer the knock on his door. For a brief moment, the urge to forget about all of this seizes him, and he almost turns back. But tonight has been a bad night, and a dozen pe—plants have been lost by his fault. Four of them only saplings. He should have—done many things. He did not, and now they are lost, and that knowledge is what spurs him on to push Batman’s door open. The book can wait, though Kal will miss its presence tonight; his questions cannot.

Making no noise across the carpeted floor is an easy feat, with shoes as light and supple as socks. Even then Kal is wary. Batman, he has learned, sleeps lightly. And, these days, most likely in short stretches. The first, Batman has admitted to him directly. The second, Kal is forced to assume from what he has seen of the man. He naps at random times, and is irritated and bad-tempered when left to sleep longer than he meant to. He has the uncanny ability to fall asleep anywhere, without needing to adopt an even vaguely horizontal position. All of these are symptoms Kal recognizes from his own poor sleeping habits, ways to get some rest between his nightly work and the demands of a princely life. It is neither healthy nor agreeable, but Kal has grown used to it, and he is at least capable of recognizing the signs of it in another, when faced with them.

All of this, of course, can mean only one thing: something has come to disrupt Batman’s sleeping patterns since he distanced himself from Kal. Something that probably can’t be the fault of any other Kryptonian, for Kal is still the only one to speak to Batman with any regularity, and he knows perfectly well no work was given to the man besides making sure he does not accidentally insult his hosts, or his hosts’ guests. The question now is to find out what, exactly, that something is.

Kal, stomach heavy as a stone, crosses from Batman’s living quarters into his bedchamber without a sound, relieved to find the man asleep with his back to the door. He is snoring, too, soft and regular, and Kal allows himself a relieved breath before he creeps closer, knowing Batman well enough by now to realize nothing of importance in his Kryptonian life will be kept out of his reach.

Batman’s Earth outfit rests on a dummy by the bedside, mended torso, yellow belt and all. To the right of that, immediately left of the bed, the crimson glow of the moon washes over a pile of books—some Kal recognizes, some he doesn’t—with some kind of sharp-looking weapon and, at the top, a bracelet of some kind sporting the all-too-familiar symbol of the Green Lanterns. Kal can’t help but stare at it for far longer than he should before he grabs it, shoves it into a brand-new inside pocket of his tunic, and has to put all his focus into exiting as quietly as he came in.

He stops outside of Batman’s quarters for a moment, grateful for Kryo and its never ending watch as he tries to sort through his thoughts. A Green Lantern! In the palace! If anyone knew this—no. Better not think of it. Not, at any rate, until Kal has decided what to do about this information. He is not thinking clearly, he knows. Cannot possibly handle this information with the amount of care and objectivity it requires on his own, not without several days to ponder it, and he does not have that kind of time. This in turn can mean but one thing: he needs counsel, and not from Kryo, which does not know the meaning of affection. No, he needs someone whom he can trust, and someone who will understand, at least in part, the dilemma he finds himself in.

With a clear path in mind at last, Kal sighs, braces himself, and sets off toward the upper levels of the royal palace.

Kara’s pillow slaps him in the face with enough force to disorient him for a moment, and Kal only owes the lack of a second blow to the sharpness of her reflexes. She hisses imprecations at him for a while, until he pulls out Batman’s bracelet and cuts her short. Without a word, Kara reaches for the item, scowling when Kal pulls it out of her reach on reflex. She sits up straighter and asks:

“Where did you get this? I swear to the Gods, Kal, if you contacted the Green Lanterns—”

“Do you truly think I would be so foolish?” Kal hisses back.

There are those on Krypton who have managed to get in touch with the Green Lanterns and remained on the planet, but Kal has never contacted any of them directly, though he is working with them after a fashion. The Green Lanterns’ name may only serve as a curse in the higher circles of Krypton, but the general population is hardly fond of them either.

“Then where in Vohc’s name did you find this?”

“Batman’s room, as a matter of fact,” Kal admits.

Kara mutters something that sounds a lot like ‘Rao help us’ with the deepest scowl Kal has ever seen on her face. He supposes he cannot blame her for it. She looks him straight in the eyes then, still frowning, and Kal has to force himself to hold her gaze, to show her without words that he is not entirely careless but merely out of his depth.

Eventually, Kara’s face goes through a complicated movement and, with the twist of her mouth that signals questions too delicate to be dealt with immediately, she asks, “Are you sure no one else knows?”

Kal nods with a sigh of relief. He can’t know for sure what Kara’s advice will be, but whatever happens next, at least he can have some control over the situation, and maybe—hopefully—spare Batman the worst outcomes. Colluding with the Green Lanterns would send him to jail, at best—and not an Ellon one, at that. Kal may not be an expert on the topic, but he knows his uncle: there are not many things in this world that tighten Zor-El’s jaw with a mere mention, and the people who leave El for Kandorian cells tend not to come back.

“Good,” Kara says.

“Do you think the Lanterns could have sent him here on purpose?” Kal asks, heart in his throat. “I don’t think so, but I—I don’t know that I can tell what I wish to be the truth apart from what really is.”

Kara clicks her tongue as she scoots to the edge of her bed and crushes Kal into a brusque hug.

“They would have to be stupid to do that,” she says after she releases him. “Much though Krypton’s power may be….”

“Diminished?”

For once, Kara’s distinctly unimpressed look leaves Kal mostly unaffected. Krypton has been steadily declining for several centuries now, and the Wise Council’s reach has only grown upon Krypton these past decades, not beyond it.

“Let’s call it that,” Kara begrudges after a beat. “Nevertheless, we are still a force to be reckoned with. It would be foolish of them to come look for trouble our way when we have respected the terms of the Treaty. Especially with Leaark and Axor at each other’s throats, at any rate.”

Kal does not know what is going on between those two planets exactly, although he understands some kind of blood feud is involved. Still, it does not take a genius to grasp why the Green Lanterns would be keeping an eye on that rather than spying on a long-dormant enemy who has made no effort to communicate with the rest of the galaxy since the Independence Wars. The thought releases something in Kal’s chest, but only for a short while.

Just because Kara sees things this way, after all, does not mean her father would agree, to say nothing of the Wise Council. Kal wouldn’t expect them to care whether a friend of the Lanterns came to Krypton by design or by accident. And Batman...well, even assuming he was lying when he said he knew nothing of Krypton when he landed there, his species, his planet, and even his solar system have no presence in Krypton’s database. There is nothing, intergalactic law or otherwise, to forbid Batman from associating with the Lanterns from Earth, so why should he be punished for it?

But then, of course, there is also the matter of his latest activities.

“I think,” Kal says with a heavy heart, “we still need to keep an eye on him.”

Relating his reasoning to Kara only takes a few minutes, but Kal still feels like he has been speaking forever by the end of it. It is the right thing to do, he knows. Even for Batman’s sake—it wouldn’t do to let him involve himself in something as fraught as the Melokariel Proposition without at least a warning. That thought, however, does not do much to ease the feeling that he is betraying a friend, and he knows he has been too obvious in his worry when Kara loops an arm around his shoulders again.

“Perhaps you should have a conversation with him, and take his version of things into account before we decide what to do about him. If he is planning to do harm to Krypton, we will need to stop him...but I see no need to punish him if he is only an unlucky traveler a little too curious about things he does not understand.”

Kal nods, too afraid to voice the thought weighing on his mind: Batman seems too smart not to have any notion of what he is doing. Kal is still hoping all of this is an unfortunate misunderstanding, but already his heart sinks with the possibility of tragedy.

“He hasn’t been friendly toward me since your father’s latest ball,” he admits, glad that he manages to keep the tears clogging his throat out of his voice. “I doubt he would listen to me even if I tried to broach the topic...and it is too risky to have that conversation in the more public places of the palace.”

“Well,” Kara sighs, settling back under the covers, “the other you, then.”

#DCU #Superbat #superbat big bang #Clark Kent #Bruce Wayne #My Posts #SBB 2019 #DCU Fic #Fanfiction #fic: Clark Kent of Krypton

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