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dessarious · 3 years

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How the Sirens Adopted a Ladybug Pt1

So when I was writing the last chapter of How to Not Get a Date it went full blown angst. Since that wasn’t what I wanted for that story and rewrote the chapter that I posted but the other idea decided to blow up into yet another story so here we go again.

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“I don’t suppose I could convince you not to steal that?” Catwoman spun around to find a girl in what looked like a dark red armored suit with black spots. In the Louvre at two in the morning. What the hell?

“And just what are you supposed to be?” The girl just gave her a sardonic smile and Catwoman couldn’t help but notice how tired she looked.

“I’m Ladybug. Hero of Paris.” The sarcastic tone was unexpected and it took her a minute to actually process the words.

“Since when does Paris have Heroes?”

“Since some megalomaniac found a Miraculous and decided to use it for his own selfish desires. If not for the fact that he targets people with strong negative emotions I wouldn’t care what you do. But since the last time the curator of this exhibit was Akumatized it was a three day battle, I would really like to avoid it if I can.” She just continued to frown at the girl. That couldn’t be real.

“Did Harley and Ivy put you up to this?” That just got her confused frown mirrored back at her. She was either a really good actress or she wasn’t lying.

“Look, this exhibit is moving to London in under two weeks. Could you please just wait until it leaves Paris to take whatever it is you’re after?” This was so strange. She claimed to be a hero but didn’t seem to care that Catwoman was stealing, just that it would become her problem. Even most of the bats frowned upon that sort of thing.

“So you’re just going to let me walk out of here like nothing happened?” She sighed and ran a hand through her hair, refusing to make eye contact.

“The police have made it clear that it is not my job to apprehend criminals.” There was a lot of anger under those words. Catwoman walked up to the girl and gently lifted her head so she could study her. Seriously, what was it with black hair and blue eyes? Between the bats and Superman she was starting to wonder if it wasn’t a coincidence.

“When was the last time you slept?” She watched Ladybug’s eyes unfocus as she searched for the answer. “How about the last time you ate?” That produced a flinch.

“I can take care of myself.” Well that wasn’t a good reaction. The girl reminded her a bit of Tim and Jason. The sleep deprivation was all the baby CEO but the amorality screamed mister gun nut.

“I’m sure you can. I’ll tell you what; I’ll do what you want but in return you’ll come with me to meet a couple of my friends and let us feed you.” She hesitated but Catwoman didn’t see any worry in her expression. She wasn’t scared of being alone with criminals so it was likely pride holding her back. “I want to talk to you more about the situation here. It’s odd that I haven’t heard about it.”

“No it’s not. The Miraculous magic is very good at containing itself. Very few people outside of Paris have any idea what is going on.” That tone was odd. There was a trace of bitterness but it was mostly resigned.

“How old are you?” The way she held herself said she was experienced in what she did, but everything else screamed that she was still just a kid.

“Old enough to do what must be done.” Yep, she was dealing with a baby.

------------------------------------------------------

“Will you quit worrying? I’m sure everything’s just fine.” Ivy just shot Harley an annoyed glance. She loved the woman to death but she really needed to take things a bit more seriously sometimes.

“She’s two hours late Harls, that’s a time frame for worry. Not to mention I’ve felt off ever since we got here. There’s something wrong with this city and I don’t like it.” She was constantly on edge and her skin felt like it was trying to crawl off her body. Ivy wanted nothing more than for Selina to get back so they could leave. Sightseeing be damned.

“As always your instincts are dead on.” She let out a relieved breath and turned to yell at Selina for trying to give her a heart attack but couldn’t manage to speak once she saw the person with her. Or rather once she felt the power coming off of them. She pulled Harley behind her and prepared for the worst. Selina was just looking at her like she was insane but the girl was studying her.

“Seriously, you’re scared of a kid?” Harley’s words made her really look at the person and that just made her more worried. Given what she felt this girl was capable of destroying the world without even trying.

“How can you not feel that? The energy radiating from her should be enough that even you should feel it.” Harley and Selina both just looked confused but the girl looked surprised.

“You can actually feel it?” Ivy just nodded. “I’ve never met anyone who could sense the Miraculous before. Whatever you sense though, I assure you I don’t mean any harm. There’s only one person I actually want to maim and I have a feeling when the time comes I won’t even be able to do that.” Well that was… odd. Even Harley was eyeing the girl like she had a screw loose.

“This is Ladybug. She’s a hero here in Paris.” Well that at least explained why she was late. “She’s asked me to hold off on my transaction until it leaves Paris.”

“And you agreed? She’s just going to go to the cops and make things more difficult for you later.” Harley’s words caused anger and hurt to flash across her expression before she controlled it.

“I said I wouldn’t. They wouldn’t take me seriously if I did anyway.” Now she saw why Selina brought her back with her. The girl looked like a stray cat. The stiff way she held herself was exactly like a cat who’d learned that people can’t be trusted, but she refused to run or show fear either. Then Ivy noticed the girls hair and eyes and almost groaned out loud. Selina had been spending so much time with her boyfriend that she was picking up his adoption preferences.

“I wanted to talk with her more about what’s going on here in Paris. We should order food since I have a feeling it’s going to be a long discussion.” Ivy saw the girl's cheeks turn pink and took the time to really look at her. She was the kind of thin that came from not eating rather than just being fit. Her mask hid any bags that might be under her eyes, but even standing still her body was swaying a little. The girl looked like she was about to pass out.

“Of course. Here, have a seat.” Ivy made chairs out of plants for everyone and the girl's face went completely blank before she turned to Selina.

“Is that normal for her?” Harley just started giggling but Selina gave Ladybug a sympathetic smile.

“Yes, Ivy has the power to control plants.” Ladybug let out a relieved sigh.

“Thank Kwami. I don’t think I’m up for another Akuma today.” Ivy shared a confused look with Harley. What the hell was an Akuma?

“You’re fighting people that control plants?” The girl blinked at her in confusion for a moment before understanding dawned.

“No, it’s complicated. I haven’t had to explain this to someone in a long time so I might not make much sense.” She sat while Harley went to order food. Ivy sat across from her and noticed how she melted into the seat. She obviously wasn’t used to being comfortable. When Harley came back in the room they were about to start asking questions when a little black cat shaped creature appeared. It was emitting just as much power as the girl.

“I don’t suppose any of you are willing to spring for camembert?” Harley gave out a squeak of surprise but Catwoman just looked stunned.

“Plagg! Are you out of your mind? Not to mention how rude it is.” Ladybug couldn’t seem to decide whether to be annoyed or embarrassed.

“Given that this one steals for a living I doubt they stand on good manners. Besides, you don’t know if you don’t ask.” The cheeky tone caused an eye twitch in the girl.

“What exactly is that?” Selina hadn’t stopped staring at the creature.

“I’m Plagg, Kwami of Destruction. I power the Black Cat Miraculous.” The girl actually threw her hands up in frustration.

“Tikki’s going to kill us both. Of all the people you could have decided to come out for why would you choose criminals?” Poor kid sounded close to tears and the creature flew up under her chin and started purring. Selina was grinning like a mad woman. Ivy had a feeling things were about to get a lot more complicated.

“Everything will be fine Bug, you’ll see. I’m the Kwami of bad luck and I can feel yours shifting.”

“I thought you said you were the Kwami of Destruction?” Selina sounded far too amused. Ivy shook her head at the woman. She still didn’t understand how no one else could feel the danger here.

“I’m both, just as Tikki is the Kwami of Creation and Good Luck, which is the Miraculous that gives Ladybug her powers.” The Kwami suddenly flew right up to Ivy to study her. “You’re an interesting being. Your abilities are inherently creation but you use them to destroy as well. She could be a good influence for you Bug.” Ladybug let out a sigh and pinched the bridge of her nose.

“I’m not using your powers to smite the people you think have wronged me Plagg. And I would really like to stop having this argument.”

“You act like it’s an opinion rather than a fact. Even Tikki agrees with me there.” The Kwami sounded indignant and more than a little angry. The energy around it was getting steadily stronger. They really needed to divert it’s attention.

“What were you saying about camembert?” The Kwami perked up immediately but Ladybug cringed.

“Kwami need food to recharge and while just about anything will do in a pinch they each have favorites. Plagg’s favorite is extremely smelly and extremely pricy cheese. Which I haven’t been able to provide for awhile now.” Plagg’s expression dropped at her tone.

“Oh kit, it’s not your fault.” The creature flew back to her and began purring again. Ladybug wouldn’t look anyone in the eye but Ivy could feel the guilt and worry coming from her. Whatever was going on this kid needed a break.

“I just need to go change. Then I can run to the store while we wait for the rest of the food.” Plagg looked ecstatic at Selina’s announcement. Ladybug looked mostly worried but there was a bit of relief under that.

“I wasn’t kidding when I said it was expensive. I feel bad enough, don’t let them guilt you into buying something that isn’t really necessary.” Selina scoffed.

“I know exactly how temperamental some creatures are about food and given Ivy’s reaction I’d like to stay on their good side for the moment. Besides, the money isn’t an issue.” She was walking out of the room before the girl could respond. Instead she frowned at Plagg who was still looking after Selina.

“I thought we agreed no more surprises.”

“Tikki and Wayzz agreed, I didn’t. Besides, an opportunity is presenting itself that we don’t want to miss.” Ivy shared a confused look with Harley, who just shrugged at her. Ladybug seemed just as clueless about what they meant. That couldn’t be a good thing.

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#Gotham Sirens #MLB DC Crossover #marinette dupain cheng #Selina Kyle #Harley Quinn #Poision Ivy #mom squad

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consumeconstantly · 4 years

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Those Who Are Kind

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Summary: Siblings are the last thing on Marinette’s mind as she begins her frantic search for Tikki. Really, she can’t even consider them siblings, not yet. But they’re along for the ride, whether she wants them to be or not.

Duke doesn’t know what to make of the current situation.

He’s always known that the Waynes are crazy, insane, even, but he loves them all the same, in the begrudging, cautious way he cannot shake. (This approach has served him well over the years, allowing him to avoid multiple schemes that Tim or Jason typically start up to rile up Damian. From there, everything is guaranteed to snowball. The only time things get really bad is when Cass gets involved.) To him, it’s always been a bit uncanny how similar all the brothers looked, despite the fact that none of them shared blood. All of them had the same sharp jaw, piercing blue eyes, chiselled cheekbones and defined bodies. Only Tim and Damian differed slightly, with Tim having a dancer’s figure instead of that of a body builder or demolitions expert, and Damian having green eyes instead of blue. It’s also disconcerting that everybody the Waynes are more intimately involved with have some sort of alter ego. He often joked with other members of the Justice League that heroism ran in Bruce’s blood.

With the new addition of Marinette to their family, he has to say that he’s been proven right.

A girl who had absolutely nothing to do with the Waynes in any capacity other than the fact that she and Bruce share blood becoming a hero. The leader of a team. Fighting supervillains at the age of thirteen.

He’s very, very glad that he was not adopted by or shared blood with Bruce. He doesn’t think he could have handled being a superhero at age thirteen. He can barely handle being Signal now some days, and he’s an adult. The amount of responsibility on Marinette’s shoulders is difficult to understand. To be the sole wielder of magic that can revert an entire city back to its original state. To bring people back from the dead.

Dick is strangely quiet. A car is driving them from a pit stop near a zeta tube to Marinette’s hospital.

Hands down, Dick is the most sane male of the Wayne family, not including Alfred. But there are times when Duke sees the weight that he carries. All the times that he refuses to talk about the burdens that he bears. Moving forward with a smile when he’s in pain. When he gets in a mood like this, he’s hard to read. But given the circumstances, it’s fairly clear exactly what’s bothering him.

“He’s known about her this entire time,” Dick says, tinted windows allowing Duke a glance at his expression, carefully devoid of any telling emotions. “Nineteen years. He kept her a secret.”

“It’s Bruce.” The man is known for keeping secrets.

“Yeah, but Marinette is family. She should have been, at least. And now…”

Now she’s all alone when she should be surrounded by people that love her, praising her for her victory, for how she shouldered so much responsibility at such a young age. But by bringing her to a hospital in America, she’s been cut off from her team, and any support system she should have had is gone.

“You and her,” Duke says, looking for a way to comfort him. “You’ll get along. You’re similar, after all.” After they brought Gabriel and Lila to the a top security prison and sent Emilie to a hospital that couldn’t figure out what was wrong with her, they got two files from Tim. One detailing Ladybug and all of her exploits. The second, detailing Marinette’s life.

Duke has watched the videos. Has watched how Ladybug leads by example, comes up with the plan and begins the execution. How she shoulders more battles than she should.

He’s seen Marinette pull people together with a smile on her face, even while she’s running on empty after a strenuous akuma attack.

Dick and Marinette are alike.

“We’re too much alike,” Dick says. “I suspected for a long time that Bruce had another kid that he wasn’t telling us about, but I thought that if he was keeping her away from us, then maybe she’d have a shot at leading a good life. A normal life. Not the one she got. Sabine’s— Bruce’s biological daughter shouldn’t be somebody like me. She deserves better.”

Duke is acutely aware that Dick’s parents were also murdered, but whatever relation he had with Sabine is something he’s never been willing to talk about. There are pictures in his apartment of a petite Asian woman with a soft smile standing next to him, but whenever asked about her, Dick never gives a straight answer.

“Nobody has the ability to change the past.” Duke claps a hand on his friend’s shoulder. He sags imperceptibly under the weight.

Well— actually, it’s not out of the realm of possibilities, given the fact that magic, aliens, and metahumans all coexisted, supplemented by the fact that multiple members of Marinette’s team do have the ability to travel back in time, but that’s another matter entirely. There’s not a lot of information on the Miraculous, and all of their knowledge is coming from Wonder Woman, Aquaman, and Zatara, and even the three of them don’t know everything.

“But you have the chance to do good by her. Be a good older brother, like I know you are.”

A thin smile appears on Dick’s face. “She’s going to need more than just one good influence on her life. And Damian is better, but you saw how he looked at her when Bruce brought her through the Zeta tubes. Tim’s not going to react well either, and Jason is a wild card. She’s not going to get the support she needs if she stays with us.”

Duke crosses his arms, knees brushing up against the back of the car seat. “The only person whose actions you’re responsible for are your own. Don’t worry about them. If they don’t like her, they’ll just avoid her.”

That’s certainly not true— all of the members of the Wayne family are notorious for going hard after all of the things they don’t like. But... it’s comforting to hear. Sometimes temporary and known lies are much nicer than harsh realities.

She’s gone.

All of her belongings are missing, the IV needle is hanging from the stand, the window open, and Marinette is missing from her bed.

At least she left a note?

Be back soon — Marinette

“Great,” Duke mutters under his breath. “Another incredibly vague, cryptic Wayne.”

Dick’s face turns to ash. “Her legs. Her head. She can’t go out so soon. Hold on, maybe Barbara can pull up some footage.”

“On the bright side, there’s no blood,” Duke says.

“That’s not a bright side.”

“It is,” Duke argues. “She fell in the worst places possible, right on top of that broken glass casket. If she’s not bleeding that clearly means she didn’t pull her stitches on her mad escape out.”

When Ladybug fell, they’re not exactly sure what happened, because the screen showed Ladybug collapsing almost gracefully. When they arrived on the scene, she flickered between Ladybug and Marinette as her earrings beeped. Her legs were slashed from falling on the glass with a seemingly unnatural force— simply falling would not have garnered cuts that large— and her head was twisted at an odd angle, debris bloodied beneath her.

Somehow, the Miraculous Cure seemed to be working backwards. Not from the epicenter out, but rather from the edge of the damage, in. It worked slowly, every mile taking minutes instead of mere seconds. It hadn’t happened before in any of the battles.

It was useful in apprehending Hawkmoth and Pavona, who were still knocked out. But Marinette, even after the Miraculous Cure washed over her, didn’t get healed. Her injuries didn’t revert. There was still a gash on her stomach from Hawkmoth’s cane, still muscles exposed on the back of her legs and blood on her neck. When she was first brought in, the doctors feared that she may be permanently incapacitated.

Good at keeping to her word at least. She came swinging through the window with worry on her face and grief in her eyes.

“I need to go back to Paris,” she says.

Dick will undoubtedly say no. He’s a very protective person, and Marinette is the center of his current efforts.

But she doesn’t look injured. He eyes her stance. She’s standing with no effort, walks with no limp. No hospital dress, no blood on her neck, no bruises in all of the places he was expecting them to be. Marinette does not look like she just faced a world ending threat less than twenty four hours ago. She certainly doesn’t look like she’s permanently lost the use of her legs. There’s the familiar Wayne Brand Stubbornness in her eyes— no way she’s not Bruce’s kid— that tells him that she’s going to get to Paris one way or another, and that they’re either lucky they were even notified in the first place or that she wants to use a resource that they have that she does not have access to. It’s fairly obvious what that resource is, considering that Paris is nine hours away by any normal plane and it sounds like she wants to get there in minutes, and not hours. Duke also knows that if they don’t take what she’s offering now, she’ll use an alternative method that definitely won’t be as nice or clear cut.

He jumps in before Dick can say anything. “We’ll take you as long as we go with you every step of the way.”

Oh, he’s going to get in so much trouble for doing this. Dick is looking at him with his Disapproving Dad glare, and he can imagine Bruce going into brooding silence when he hears that Duke allowed this to happen.

Marinette’s lips pinch together, but she nods. “Where’s the nearest zeta tube?”

Barbara gets Dick’s text and sighs in frustration.

She’s already got her hands full with watching Tim, who’s spiralling trying to find information about the Miraculous, muttering under his breath in the way he does when he gets a particularly hard case to crack. He’s gone through six cups of coffee in the last hour, and he kicked off his research with a combination of 5 Hour Energy, Monster, three packets of sugar, and 10 caffeine shots. Soon, she’ll have to start limiting his caffeine intake, but right now it’s clear that any attempt to get him to stop his research now will fail spectacularly. At least she’s not in charge of Damian and Jason. Wherever they are, they’re definitely on the move and not happy.

She never thought she'd be able to say she’s happy about being paralyzed from the waist down, but she certainly doesn’t want to be chasing after one of the two hellions. Cass definitely has her hands full and whoever’s watching Jason— wait, is anybody even watching Jason? Typically Roy gets stuck with Jason-sitting duty, but he’s been out for a while.

Barbara groans. Jason is probably on his own, wreaking havoc.

Great.

She’ll deal with that later, even though she has no doubt she’ll regret that decision, but if Marinette is gone from her room, Dick needs the footage, and somebody needs to find where she is. The nurse put in her latest report that her legs were almost healed and that she didn’t show any signs of a concussion, but Marinette was in bad shape when she got admitted to the hospital. Even though Barbara doubts that there was any misdiagnosis, given that Bruce sprung for a VIP room in one of the pricier hospitals, in a world where magic and aliens are present, who knows what’s true or not.

“Tibet!” Tim jumps up from his hunched over position for the first time in hours. “I’m going to Tibet, the closest zeta tubes are three hours by car away, but I can get somebody to loan Wayne Industries a helicopter while I’m over there.”

“Sit down, Tim.” Barbara takes her glasses off and pinches the bridge of her nose. Why can’t Bruce rein in his children? Why is she the one stuck babysitting? “Marinette left her hospital room.”

That certainly gets Tim to put the brakes on his movements towards the zeta tube in the bat cave.

“What?”

“I said, she left her hospital room. Just sit down while I send the information over. It’s not going to do you any good to rush into things anyways.”

A quick review of the surrounding CCTV shows that Marinette didn’t travel far, just around the hospital. She’s looking for something, calling out for it, too. Barbara grabs that file and slows it down so she can read her lips. “Dickie? Do she and Dick know each other already?”

A quick text back to Dick reveals that Marinette has already returned to the room and—

Oh, hell.

“Well,” Barbara pushes her laptop away from her, letting Tim watch the files she’s pulled up. “It looks like we’re taking a family trip to Paris.”

Somehow, Marinette almost manages to lose all four of them within the first four minutes of roaming around Paris.

Luckily, their family has an almost absurd amount of luck between all of them (not all of it good) and the person Barbara was half sure she could only find in prison, beating up Hawkmoth and Pavona, runs into Marinette on the streets and herds her back to them.

“Lose something?” Jason asks, arm slung around Marinette’s shoulder, the smaller, younger girl looking rather upset at having her plans thrown off.

“I told them that they could follow me,” Marinette argues without much real bite. It’s not my fault if they can’t keep up, is the clear meaning of her statement.

Again, Barbara is very impressed that the barely nineteen year old somehow managed to shake off vigilantes with decades of experience with ease. But it is, at least, partially due to her disability. Every time she goes out in her wheelchair, her heart aches a little, especially as the civilians she passes eye her with pity. Barbara doesn’t want pity. Doesn’t need pity. She shouldn’t feel anything when people look at her like she can’t keep up, because she can keep up.

Most of the time, anyways.

It doesn’t matter how she uses her tech skills to modify her wheelchair and deck it out with all the equipment she could ever need, or that she can easily get up to speeds rivalling sports cars for short periods of time before the power runs out. When she’s stuck in her wheelchair, she loses the maneuverability she had when she wasn’t paralyzed.

She couldn’t follow Marinette through the alleyways because she was stuck. Barbara was the one who noticed her escape first. If only she were more capable, she could have—

But it’s okay now. Jason ran into her. Marinette is back with them.

“I need to search for something, and none of you can help.” She’s not intentionally being rude when she says it, and if anything, sounds apologetic. Barbara sees the similarities between Marinette and Bruce. It makes a lot of sense that the two of them are father and daughter, when the two of them are so insistent on keeping major issues to themselves. Marinette twists herself out from underneath Jason’s arm, clutching her purse. Her head doesn’t move, but her eyes are wild.

“We can help,” soothes Duke, ever the voice of reason. “You know who we are.”

“And I’m guessing you’ve all either deduced who I am or have been told my identity,” counters Marinette. “Which means you should know why I can’t have you helping me.”

Barbara and Duke exchange pointed glances.

“That’s not really clear to us, actually,” says Barbara. Marinette isn’t moving, but the way her shoulders tense makes her believe that the younger girl is ready to run at the drop of a hat.

A small group of people from the parade on the streets tumbles into the alleyway they’re resting in. They smell like cheap booze and sweat.

“What are all of you doing in this alley?” one says, after he finished vomiting up his last (very colorful) meal. “You should be out there partying with the rest of us! Celebrating Ladybug and her team.”

“Fuck Hawkmoth and Pavona,” says another solemnly, with neon face paint and pigtails with glitter string intertwined. “Their defeat should be celebrated by even the darkest souls.”

Jason, easily amused by their antics, looks very willing to join them. “Yeah Marinette, we should be celebrating Ladybug not—”

As one, everybody looks at the place where Marinette was, just moments ago. The alley is decidedly empty of a small asian girl with blue eyes and pigtails.

“Fuck,” Jason curses.

“Fuck is right,” Duke agrees, placing a hand over his temple.

Marinette manages to disappear for three hours.

Three full hours.

“She’s good,” Tim says, typing into the holographic computer embedded into his sleeve.

Paris’ CCTVs are painfully easy to hack into, though he suspects that the lack of attention to them may have to do with the fact that everybody in the city is celebrating. Policemen, politicians, artists, students, scientists— people from all walks of life are in the streets today, screaming and shouting and being free for the first time in years.

He spies more than just a few dozen people bawling their eyes out within a few minutes. But that’s not surprising, considering how long Parisians have had to suppress their emotions for.

Dick and Barbara are still in the midst of profiling Marinette, trying to determine the most likely places where she’d stop by, either as Ladybug or herself. All of Ladybug’s usual haunts are decidedly devoid of the young heroine, though Tim does manage to catch a good amount of footage of the other young heroes like Carapace and Rena Rouge, who are most definitely in a relationship based on their makeout session on top of the eiffel tower (one of the first places Tim checked), Viperion, who seems to be the only one from Ladybug’s team to be seeking out the crowd which seems rather atypical considering that the hero never frequented interviews or was spotted on news coverage all that frequently, and Chat Noir and Queen Bee who Jason insisted were in a relationship as well, though the rest of them believed they were only embracing each other out of comfort— Chat Noir looks like he’s been crying for hours, and Queen Bee looks like she’s barely holding it together.

Ryuko has not shown up on camera once today. Neither has Ladybug.

The second place Tim checks is the bakery. She is not there either, though another girl is. It doesn’t seem like the girl has any ill intent, but Duke is more than happy to pull up past files to see if she’s been there before, if she has any reason to be there, and who exactly she is.

Just as Barbara and Dick are debating the chances that Marinette would be at Le Grande Paris, she walks past one of the cameras focused on Tom & Sabine’s Boulangerie. Tim has the system rigged up so that any facial matches for Marinette automatically alerts the room. He hadn’t been able to replicate that with Ladybug’s face for some bizarre reason which is why he, Barbara, Dick, and Jason are manually combing through the areas where Dick and Barbar think she may be (magic is why, but Tim has always believed that technology can be used against and with most forms of magic) so it’s lucky that she enters as Marinette.

“Kagami Tsurugi,” Duke says triumphantly. “She visited often when Tom and Sabine were still alive. Potential candidate to represent France or Japan for Sabre in the next Olympics. Definitely friends with Marinette.”

“Thank God,” sighs Dick. “Now let’s get over there.”

It’s truly, truly unfortunate that they set up shop quite a distance away from the bakery.

They take too long to arrive.

Perhaps it was a mistake, telling Kagami first.

No, not just perhaps. It was a mistake. A bad one.

But Kagami was pushing so hard, and Marinette was so tired and so alone without Tikki at her side, without the knowledge that her parents would be waiting for her. Kagami pushed and pushed and pushed about why the house felt so empty, why there was dust on the floor, why the bakery was closed for so long, and where were Tom and Sabine? Why weren’t they there for the team yesterday, when the battle was won, when they knew how important it was to be there for Adrien who had just lost all three of his parental figures?

The moment the words fall from Marinette's lips, she knows she shouldn’t have revealed it at that moment, because Kagami draws in on herself, lips turning downwards, hands curling into fists.

Kagami has come a long way from the girl she was in lycèe. The thrill of victory is still something she enjoys, but not something she needs to feel secure in her place in the world. She has trouble expressing her emotions, but when it comes down to it, she communicates everything necessary to understand why.

With the news of Tom and Sabine’s death, she withdraws into herself, shifts back into that thirteen year old Marinette first met. Logic and rationale thrown to the wind in favor of cold anger.

It’s no secret that Ryuko, Ladybug, and Viperion are the main strategists of their team. Viperion, out of his duty of using Second Chance and his ability to keep a level head in the face of constant death. Ladybug out of necessity as her position as team leader and the power of Lucky Charm. Theoretically, the two of them should have been enough. But over the years, Kagami became Marinette's favored confidante; though Ladybug trusts all of her team to keep a tight hold on any information she gives them, Kagami is one of the few who is able to pick apart a given situation and transform the monsters they face into manageable pieces.

Today, it is Kagami who has broken to pieces. Very angry, razor sharp shards that seek to hurt.

“You lie to the media, tell them a pretty tale of how they died due to a break in. Why do you avoid pinning their deaths on Lila as you should? To absolve a quality woman from guilt?”

Marinette can’t look Kagami in the eyes.

Her parents deserved a peaceful death. To pass on in old age, hand in hand. Not looking on as a family member died, in fear of what would happen next for their daughter.

“The police know. The judges know,” Marinette protests weakly, but without much eight behind her words.

Kagami just scoffs. “Tom and Sabine were kind people. To not tell the media what truly happened— that’s preventing Lila from getting the full force of what’s coming to her. What happens if she gets out of prison one day? Without any real deaths to her name, she could just flee to another country to escape it all. And when another person loses their life because of her…”

She doesn’t need to finish her sentence. If somebody else gets injured in any way, shape or form at the hands of Lila Rossi, it’s Marinette’s fault. Marinette gets what Kagami is trying to say. She thinks the same thing, after all.

“My parents would not want their death publicized in that manner.” It’s the truth, but it’s said so weakly that the words come off as little more than a weak defense, and Kagami takes the words and twists their truth.

“You know little of your parents, considering that you’re their daughter.” Kagami stands stock still, not a single extra muscle moving. “Perhaps if you spent more time with them as Marinette instead of unsuccessfully gallivanting around as Ladybug, you’d have realized that Tom and Sabine admire truth above all else, even if it is painful.”

Kagami does not ask a single question about where Marinette was last night, or how Marinette felt over the loss of her parents or when she saw all those she held dear lying still on the ground after Hawkmoth and Pavona’s final attacks. She just purses her lips and sweeps out the door.

And then she’s gone, and Marinette is alone once more.

The bakery is bone-achingly quiet.

Every step Marinette takes creates such a disturbance in the peace that moving hurts.

But she can’t stay here. She can’t stay here. She does not deserve to stay here. Kagami is right. Marinette was a bad daughter. She could have prevented their death, could have given them justice sooner, could have—

And Marinette can’t breathe. She tries to, she tries so hard to, but she chokes.

She kneels down on the floor— Kagami is right again, the place is dusty, because Marinette couldn’t bring herself to use the living room and kitchen without her parents, could barely bring herself to sleep in her bedroom because she knew that her parents were not sleeping soundly in the bed below hers— and scrabbles at her throat, vision coming in and out.

Her legs burn. She knows that during the final battle, her legs were cut towards the end of it, and they should be healed, she should be okay now, she’s better than this, she’s—

Somebody gathers her in their arms. They smell slightly of Lotus flowers, just like Maman, and cradle her ever so gently.

Marinette’s eyes open— black hair, greyish eyes filled with understanding and love and—

She can breathe again.

She falls asleep.

“Cass?” Dick’s eyes widen at her unexpected appearance at Marinette’s home.

“I thought you were on Damian guard duty,” Barbara says, fixating on the red around Marinette’s eyes and the barely dried tear tracks on her face.

“Where’s that Kagami girl?” Jason scuffs his shoes on the hardware floor, silently marking the footprints on the floor and getting a general idea of what occurred before they were able to get here based on Marinette’s current state and the other girl’s absence. “I want to have some words with her.”

Cass inclines her head sharply, eye sparking with anger. Jason’s fists rise unconsciously— Cass rarely gets angry, and whenever she gets angry at a specific person, that means they’ve done something very, very wrong— ready to hunt down Kagami. Marinette sniffles and shifts in Cass’ one armed embrace, to which Cass places a finger over her lip and shakes her head, a universal sign to be quiet.

Jason scowls but settles down.

They’re quiet as they wait for Marinette to wake.

@biodad-bruce-month

Maribat tag list(to be added onto this pls send me an ask/dm): @our-precipreciousss @my-dear-friend-anxiety

Who Are You (and what will you become) tag list (to be added here just comment): @anjuschiffer @theunquiet-dead @certainmuffinbagelcalzone @cresentmo0n @allulily @myazael @zalladane @rebecarojas07 @keepingupwiththemalfoys @frieddonutsweets @all-mights-asscheeks @thornalchemist23 @trippingovermyfeet @jiso-lee @redscarlet95 @ira-sairain @screechingflapbiscuitpeach @ramos123 @cutechip @theunquiet-dead @sleep-deprived-aroace @enternalempires @lilkymilky @woe-is-me0 @officiallydarkgeek @miyla-lokidottir @queencommonsense @demonicbusiness @iamablinkmarvelarmy

@emark7 (i will have the edited version of these on ao3 eventually but i think the link to ch 1 on this one works)

where i ended this doesn’t feel very good but ehhhhhhhhhh my writing process is summary then word vomit that barely correlates which means nothing makes sense unless i edit but looking back at my work makes me cringe so at a crossroads yayyy

also can you guys tell which prompts ive written these for because i’m curious

#bio!dad bruce wayne month 2020 #bio!dad bruce #maribat #marinette dupain cheng #bruce wayne #duke thomas #jason todd #dick grayson #damian wayne #barbara gordon #tim drake #cassandra cain #batfam

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mischiefandspirits · 3 years

Text

Are You Sure About That?

((Warning for blood and blood drinking))

The seedy streets of Gotham were filled with whispers about the demons and monsters that roamed the city, and outsiders and Gotham’s lawful scoffed at how superstitious the criminals could be.

Gordon had worked alongside Batman enough to be quite sure there were no demons in Gotham. Sure, the vigilante was a little standoffish, but it was Gotham. Likewise, the Robins and Batgirls were all good kids. Maybe the first Robin’s smiles were a little eerie, but that was likely just the contrast with his mentor. Maybe the second and third liked morbid humor, but that was just how kids were these days. Maybe the fourth Robin was a bit temperamental and harsh, but he was young. Maybe the Batgirls’ movements were a little uncanny, but that was probably just the training. Maybe Nightwing seemed a little too cheerful about the stuff they dealt with, but the kid had been doing this since he was young. He could have a worse coping mechanism. Red Hood was the only one he’d really consider monstrous, but the guy was a former crime lord turned anti-hero and he had been getting better since the Bat had taken him under his wing.

The members of the Justice League rolled their eyes whenever someone brought up the rumors. Batman was grim, overly serious, and secretive, but he was a good man who only wanted the best and always had plan after plan to help the league succeed.

The Titans thought the rumors were hilarious. Sunshine Boy Nightwing? A demon? Who could believe the guy who was always flipping around and laughing at his own bad puns was some dark monster?

The Outlaws didn’t believe it, but they understood why someone might make the mistake of thinking Red Hood was a monster. The guy was vicious and maybe a little messed up in the head, but then again so were they.

Young Justice scoffed at the rumors. Corvid was incredibly intelligent and an incredible fighter, but he was also an absolute mess who couldn’t remember to sleep, eat, or drink on his own.

The Teen Titans stared dumbly when they heard the rumors. Sure, Robin was rude, brutal, and a bit entitled, but calling him a demon was a little much, especially considering the team had a cambion member.

The Birds of Prey ignored the rumors. Oracle was a godsend, even when she had to give up the cowl because of an unknown accident. And Batgirl was a brash spitfire, but she was always willing to lend a hand. Likewise, Huntress mostly stuck to herself, but she could be kind and personable when the time came.

The public, well, as time went on they saw more and more of Batman and his companions working with their teams on the news. It was quite clear to everyone that the group was nothing more than baseline humans with incredible training who were out to make the world a better place.

Yet the rumors persisted.

Because in the shadows of Gotham, where only the darkest of souls and their victims could see you, there was no reason to hide.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Nightwing licked the blood off his talons as he listened to Batgirl’s story, idly kicking the unconscious gangster at his feet every so often.

“Why didn’t you just kill him, Fatgirl?” Robin huffed from Nightwing’s side and the imp ruffled the tiefling’s hair, carefully avoiding his horns.

“Killing shouldn’t be your go-to option, hdiiga,” he chirped.

“Don’t do that! You’re getting saliva and common blood in my hair!” Robin snarled, slapping away his hand.

Nightwing smirked and leaned down to lick a speck of blood off his youngest brother’s cheek, pulling back quickly when Robin screeched and tried to punch him.

“I’d say it’s an improvement,” Red Hood teased as he finished tying up the gangster he’d had taken down.

“Mind your place or I will put you back in your grave!”

Wiping some blood off his mouth, Hood smiled at Robin. “Go right ahead. I could use the nap.”

“If you’re counting on me to resurrect you, I’ll remind you that the last time I did that, you tried to banish me,” Red Robin said, not looking up from the laptop he was hacking into as his shadows soaked up the blood on him.

Nightwing and Batgirl groaned as the zombie and demon settled into a familiar argument.

“Well maybe if you’d brought me back properly as you did for your blonds, then I wouldn’t have tried to banish you.”

“That was different! I was less experienced when I brought you back!”

“I should have been easier to bring back! I was already a zombie!”

“EXACTLY! You came with a bunch of extra complications!”

“Are you two ever going to let this go?” Batgirl asked, eyes on the gangster she had knocked out. His face was twitching with distress as she twirled her fingers across his forehead, occasionally pulling them away to see the small moment of peace he got before she began brushing them across his forehead again. The revenant looked up at Robin and winked. “And killing’s boring, Human-Bird. Everything ends way too fast.”

Robin clicked his tongue. “I will never understand why we should waste our time torturing someone who has nothing worth telling? If we’re not going to kill them then why bother attacking them at all?”

“Because it’s fun?” Nightwing and Batgirl said together.

“There’s always something you can get out of someone, even if it’s just sustenance?” Red Robin offered.

Hood shrugged when the tiefling turned to him. “Don’t look at me. I’m the white sheep, remember. The only reason I could give you is that listening to B lecture about maintaining appearances by limiting deaths and going after insignificant criminals gets really annoying after a while, and that’s never stopped me.”

“Are you five done?” Oracle’s hissing voice echoed through the alley as the green mist that had been hovering across the ground began to rise in serpentine forms.

“Just finished downloading the data you wanted,” Red Robin said, closing the laptop and passing a thumb drive to the snake coiling up him.

“Alright, the police are three minutes out so either clean yourselves up or get out of there.”

“I will head in. I need to wash off the common blood and,” Robin glared at Nightwing, “saliva.”

The imp smiled back unrepentantly. “I’ll go with you, hdiiga.”

“I should probably take off as well,” Hood said as the two left. “I still need to check on a few things in my territory. Maybe grab another bite to eat.”

“Please clean up after yourself this time. I don’t exist just to disappear all your bodies.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll behave. Not really in the mood for a lecture from His Majesty anyways,” Hood said with an eye roll and swatted the serpent on him off so he could grapple away.

“Guess it’s just you and me on babysitting duty, Red,” Batgirl said. She stood up and stretched before walking over to Red Robin. “Mind helping a lady freshen up?”

The demon snorted, but his shadows rose to clean the blood off her. As they waited, Red Robin raised his guise to make him appear human and Batgirl pulled up her scarf to hide the part of her pure-white face that wasn’t covered by the cowl.

Once they’d gone through the motions with the humans, Red Robin took off on his bike and Batgirl headed up to the roofs.

“Alright, O. Take me home!”

The green mist that had nearly disappeared in the presence of the humans flared to life and condensed into a large serpent that coiled around the revenant until she couldn’t see anything but green. The mist dispersed after a moment, leaving her standing within a summoning circle at the center of the Clocktower.

Oracle was sitting in front of her at a desk surrounded by computer screens and candles with green flames. A scrying bowl sat in front of her and a laptop was across her lap. As Batgirl stepped out of the circle, the scrying bowl stopped glowing and the candles went out all at once. The otherworlder set her keyboard on her desk and spun her chair around to face Batgirl, the white light fading from her eyes and the light from the screen catching eerily on the cracks across her skin that kept her from glamoring.

As she pulled down her cowl, Stephanie tossed Barbara a pendant glowing with psychic energy. “Brought home dinner!”

“Thanks. Your dinner is in the oven. Tiết canh.”

“You’re the best!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hdiiga is an Impish term. It directly translates to mean an infant imp, but it more generally is used as a term of endearment used by parents for their children or older siblings for their younger siblings.

For the record since they didn't appear:

Bruce is a demon king from the same demonic realm as Tim

Selina is a demigoddess who was granted powers by a cat goddess and, as a result, can reincarnate up to nine times

Helena is a cambion that came about as a result of a shared night between Bruce and one of Selina's past lives

Talia is completely human as was Damian's father (Damian's tiefling traits are a result of Talia and Ra's infusing Damian with Bruce's power during his time in the incubator in hopes of earning Demon!Bruce's favor. They are not aware that Demon!Bruce and Batman!Bruce are the same person)

Bernard is also a revenant (he and Steph were the blonds Jason mentioned)

#dick grayson #Jason Todd #Tim Drake #stephanie brown #damian wayne #batfam #fanfiction

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captaincravatthecapricious · 3 years

Text

Can’t Get Up- Prompt Fill

See I told you I did both! Cw dizziness, fainting, fever, head injuries, and canon typical being mean to Jon

Send me more prompts! (Bingo card by @celosiaa) The ones with stars are the ones I already have prompts for, the crossed out ones are the ones I have posted! Send me a character, a prompt, and tell me if you want an art or a fic!!!!!!

This one makes a Lot more sense if you read Too Much by @janekfan first, but do as you will, I think it can also stand alone.

The lingering fever left over from Jon’s (to Martin’s and Tim’s lack of information: mysterious and) hellish few days continued to do just that... linger.

Burned and bruised. Concussed and dizzy.

The fever was never overly dangerous, but it sapped Jon’s already basically nonexistent reserve of energy. And it just... lingered. Lingers.

It's better now that Tim and Jon had some sort of talk, but neither of them really know how they stand with the other.

Well, it is better for Jon because he has two people who give a shit if he collapses in the hall now. And better for Martin because one less person is going to actively try to hurt Jon. And better for Tim because he’s missed his friend. But it’s still awkward.

Tim watches Jon drag himself from the cot another morning. It was Tim that stayed with him last night, Martin's turn tonight. Jon is scared and confused and shouldn't be left alone. Not when he screams himself awake every couple hours. Not when gets so dizzy that he loses track of what he is meant to be doing.

Jon has been trying to push through. Trying to work. To make himself useful. To help save the world. To work himself into the ground so he doesn't think about how shitty everything has been for him.

Tim watches him drag himself up, and crumple right back down again. Tim managing to break his fall. Again. He should text Martin. He does text Martin.

Jon blinks up fuzzily at him after just a few seconds.

"Sorry," Jon slurs.

"Stop that," Tim says, not unkindly. Still trying to remember how to be kind with this fragile little man.

"I need... 'Sira need me to... I should get up." Jon is still struggling for words, eyes slipping closed, making no move to push himself from Tim's chest, where Tim has been pillowing him.

Jon might be asleep again. It's hard to tell. Tim presses a hand to Jon's forehead, confirming it still too warm, but not worse, and returns to his seemingly endless playing with Jon's hair.

It is still a bit before hours, so he doesn't expect Martin to appear the next moment, more like in the next half hour, depending on the crowds and the tube. But, when he hears footsteps approaching he feels relief, until he realizes those aren't Martin's footsteps. Too sharp. Still heavy, bit not heavy enough. Jon did mention needing to get something to Basira.

No one has... talked to Tim about his ....calling it a change of heart sounds stupid. He isn't going to call it that. He didn't have a change of heart, per se. He just realized he had his head up his ass and was honestly just as bad as Jon in some ways. Not to mention, he couldn't keep blaming Jon when Jon was basically just an unlucky punching bag, now with the added flavor or concussed and feverish.

"Right," says Basira, pushing open the door after a single, sharp knock. Pulling Jon from his uneasy sleep.

He scrambles upright. Too fast, sending him into a swoon for the second time in just a few minutes.

"Did you find those files? I need them if we want to actually stop the circus, and not just have a slumber party." There is clearly judgement in her eyes.

Tim, who caught Jon for the second time this morning, has an arm around him protectively.

Jon is coming around again. "Mmm wh'?" He forces his eyes open against the light Basira flipped on upon her entrance, eyes crossing as he tries to bring Basira into focus.

"Jon, look. We really don't have time for... whatever this is. Just get up and do something useful or just leave. And leave the rest of us to clean up this mess." It isn't that she is outright mean. Not like Daisy. Not hostile like Melanie. But cold. Which.... Tim shouldn't begrudge her for, but he wants to. Was she there when Jon was beaten? Tim's seen those bruises. Still dark and angry. Jon still cries out when handled roughly, or when handled gently but not gently enough.

Was she there? Was she complicit in this mess? And if she was... if she watched Jon get beaten by her partner. If she was one of the faces that stood over Jon while he dug a grave... and just waltzed back in here demanding Jon to help. Jon who can't even stay conscious... Who has been feverish and incoherent...

Who is she to do that?

Footsteps.

Martin.

Good. Tim doesn't know what to do. His instinct is to protect. To push away. To fight. But can he trust that instinct? When that's what he accused Jon of doing? What he, himself had done?

"Morning Basira, do you think I can get through? Jon's been a bit poorly and I rather doubt you looming over him is going to help."

Martin. God bless Martin.

She scowls but stands aside.

Martin, studiously ignores her.

Tim would rather like to kiss him.

Jon is still having trouble following the conversation. But he visibly brightens when Martin steps into view. Martin checks his temperature with the inside of his wrist. He tuts gently at Jon, who still seems too dizzy to sit up on his own.

"So...?" Basira. Reminding the three of them that she is, in fact there.

"Sorry," mumbles Jon, still barely coherent, and certainly not aware of what he was apologizing for this time. A reflex that makes Tim shudder.

"I'll do it myself." She turns on her heal and leaves. Shutting the door a bit too hardly, and Jon flinches.

"Hey, Jon. How are you feeling?" Tim scoots over as gently as he can so as not to jostle Jon too much. He makes room for Martin next to them.

Jon's eyes flicker closed again. Tim isn't sure if he's lost consciousness again or if he's just closed his eyes against the dizziness.

Martin watches with worry etched on is face. "How's he doing?"

Tim pulls a face. "Not worse, I don't think... but not better. Still getting nightmares. But he's passed out on me twice, though. Not sure what to do about that. Could be the vertigo, could be a panic response, could be the fever, hell it could be dehydration or hunger. We haven't gotten much food in him." Tim yawns. It has been a painfully long few days. And he's only gotten the chance to sleep every other night.

"Maybe... one of us should take him home?" Martin has lost some of that self confidence that he managed to put up around Basira. Probably because Tim know's Martin's flat wouldn't be comfortable for two or three people. Probably because Martin isn't sure just how far Tim is willing to be put out on Jon's behalf.

Then again. It is a bit too late not to be involved. Because Jon cannot seem to get up without passing out and so Tim has just been cuddling him for hours.

"I can take him to mine. I have more space." He offers a tired smile, sparing Martin the halting questions, and Tim the hurt of knowing he isn't fully trusted anymore. Not that he blames Martin for that. He made his bed, now he'll lay in it. Shit, did he make his bed? Well they are about to find out. "You call a cab, I'll see if I can wake him?"

Martin nods, and makes to do that. Exiting the room to spare Jon the extra volume.

"Hey Jon?" Tim runs his free hand through Jon's hair for a few moments. Watching Jon's eyes slowly flicker open.

"Mmmmm." Jon's bandaged hands holding on to his shirt. Too-warm forehead pressed against his chest.

"Is it alright if I take you home?"

"What 'bout work?" Jon's mouth barely able to form the words. Can't see straight enough to read anything.

"Bud, how exactly did you plan to do any work?"

Jon tries to focus his eyes. And his words. He only manages to squint slightly.

"We tried letting you work, but you aren't getting better, how about you take a couple days to get better, then you can come back and we can save the world? Besides. Shouldn't do work with a concussion. Don't want brain damage, do you?" Tim starts slowly easing Jon upright, only to have Jon's eyes roll back. Again. "Shit!"

"You both okay?" Martin's back. Good. Tim doesn't know what to do.

"Well I woke him up, but when I tried sitting him up, he fainted on me again."

Martin tuts again, and sits back next to them to check on Jon for himself. "Maybe we should move him while he's out to spare him the trip. The cab will be here soon."

Tim shrugs and slowly gets to his feet. Maneuvering Jon into a bridal carry as he does so. "Now we just gotta make sure that the cabbie doesn't think we are kidnapping him."

Matin flutters around, wanting to make sure the position will be comfortable enough for Jon when he eventually comes around. "It'll be fine. He should be conscious by then."

"Yeah and what do we say, our boss had a bit too much to drink at..." He searches for the wall clock. "9:30 in the morning."

"We say we're from the Magnus Institute, and they will ignore everything about us, Tim."

Tim... still needs to get used to this side of Martin. He kind of loves it when the bitterness isn't aimed at him.

Jon comes around again and they pass the others in the bullpen, clinging tightly to Tim's shirt until the sudden change of level of the stairs makes him dizzier and his head ache, if the small, fragile sounds he is making are any indication.

Martin is right. The cabbie doesn't a single question once he sees the building they are standing in front of.

Martin makes tea. Tim makes soup. And Jon is tucked tightly in Tim's bed for the first time in over a year.

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miss-choco-chips · 3 years

Text

North star

Core disaster week Day 1: Bart’s Birthday// First kiss

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Cassie smiled, sitting down in the picnic blanket. There was so much fucking food- it was awesome.

But not as awesome as being together, all of them. It’d been a while since they managed to meet like this. Kon, particularly, had been hard to pin down and convince to come; but exceptions had to be made on certain days, and Bart’s birthday was the height of special occasions.

Tim, too. She risked a glance at him, stony and silent, and smiled sadly. It truly had been too long.

Sitting each on one end of the blanket, like a flesh and blood compass rose, she smiled again at the unintended philosophy of it all. Bart to the east, bringing the sun into their lives, his energy and warmth a hope for the new day; Kon to the south, lost in memories of the past but a steady, firm ground beneath them; She herself to the west, holding the weight of it all on her shoulders like the sky held the heaviness of sunset; And Tim, sweet, depedable Tim, was undoubtedly their north.

“Cassie? Wonder-honey-baby-dearest girl?”

Snapping out of her reverie, Cassie waved Bart’s concerned face off.

“Don’t worry, just lost in thought. C’mon dude, it’s your day, we can’t start eating until you do!”

A little unsure, Bart sits back on his spot, glancing to his right at Tim. He hesitated a bit, something extremely unusual for a speedster presented with a widely varied menu (Kon and her had flown all over the world picking and choosing his favorites from every possible country- there was a lot).

“He doesn’t mind”, interrupts Kon softly, before anything else can be said.

Taking his word as the gospel it is, Bart’s face broke into the biggest smile and cleaned up his first plate of ‘a little bit of everything’ in less than a blink, already reaching out for more. Without even pausing his chewing, he started babbling out at Tim, who for once didn’t reprimand him on his table manners, nor tried to use a napkin to clean his chocolate-stained cheek. Cassie tried very hard to hide the pang that surprise-attacked her heart.

Desperate for a distraction, she turned to her right, to Conner. He was looking at the other two fondly, a small smile breaking through his face of steel like it was butter.

She remembered back when they were younger, just children, before all the tragedies and the losses; he had smiled easier, then. Wider, unprompted, freely. Giving that handsome smirk like it was candy on halloween.

“It was a good idea to come here”, he acknowledged, once again making her snap out of her head.

“One day, you’ll just accept that all my ideas are good.”

“Do I need to remind you about the deal with the beet demon?”

“That wasn’t that bad.”

“Cassie. We had to eat borsch for every meal. For a month. I don’t think Bart ever forgave you about that.”

They both waited for a second to see if the speedster was about to interject, but he seemed to have missed their conversation, regaling Tim with a tale of his latest training session with Wally.

“Anyway”, Kon coughed, drawing her back to their moment, “it really was. I… I know I wasn’t the easiest person to convince, so..”

“‘The easiest person’? I had to track you down across an entire hemisphere, lasso you like a wild animal and drag you here kicking and screaming. Literally. My bruises have bruises.”

“Anyway, thanks. I… needed to see you all again. I never thought we’d be able to just… sit here and enjoy ourselves, without… you know, all the…”

“Angst?”

“... yeah. How did you even manage to secure us this spot?”

Cassie smiled, leaning back against her arms, enjoying the sun on her face.

“You can thank Tim’s brother for that. I made him promise to make sure no one interrupted us today.”

The other meta snorted.

“It’d be a cold day in hell before I thank Nightwing for anything.”

She winced a bit, but refused to let the implications ruin her good mood. “Come on, you know he’s not my favorite person in the world, but he’s really doing his best to be here for” -a quick glance, Bart still talking his heart out to Tim- “the new Robin. If you can bury the battle axe...he’s not so bad, nowadays.”

Unsure, he shrugged.

“I don’t really care if he discovers the cure to cancer and spends the rest of his life in seclusion as a monk. If I see him on fire and I have a big water bottle, I might help him put it out- after taking a few drinks, first. But that’s as far as I’d be willing to go for him.”

Considering the numerous times Kon had tried to outright attack the older vigilante, Cassie was going to take it.

“How's Jon?” she asked, subject change as unsubtle as a kick to the chest, taking a delicious french pastry between thumb and forefinger and examining it.

He copied her, selecting something brown and salty-looking from the assorted items

“Nothing new. He’s still a better mentor than Supes, though his choice in friends leaves much to be desired. Still, like I told you, I’m… better? I think?”

A pause, as he washed down whatever he ate with a raspberry slushie. Bart’s incessant chatter, once annoying, was now a beautiful background noise. He was just so damn happy, Cassie felt more accomplished even than the time Diana first told her ‘good job’ after a spar. All he’d asked her for his birthday, soft and broken among his tears, had been this; just the four of them, together.

And she’d done her best to make it happen, securing this place and guilting Kon into accepting. She’d done it, and the memory of Bart’s genuine laugh as he told Tim about his last caught villain would -hopefully- be enough to deter the nightmares sure to come with sunfall.

“Anyway, he’s good. What about Donna?”

Cassie let her head fall back between her shoulder blades with a groan, closing her eyes against the glaring midday sun.

“Ugh, don’t remind me. I love her to pieces, but honestly? I can see why my mom has so many grey hairs. Diana is lucky she’s perpetually young and perfect and thus doesn’t need to deal with stress lines. If this is what I was like when she trained me, I have a lot to apologize for. Starting, but not limited to, our days in Young Justice. We did so many stupid things back then.”

“So, the Titans are a riot?”

“They are a bad influence, and I hate how they taught Donna to disobey when I tell her to go to safety and let me do the fighting, but honestly, it’s so much like looking at our past, I can’t help but want to wrap them up in a blanket and wish them luck.”

“I wish you luck. This is why I refuse to take a younger hero under my wing. Too much responsibility.”

“You are a weak bitch. Even Bart is mentoring someone. We have to nourish the younger generation, Kon. Think of the children.”

“You are nineteen, stop talking like you just turned seventy.”

“Well, Cissie is retired. It’s not such a stretch.”

“I’ll tell her you said she’s old.”

“Don’t you dare.”

After those first few hiccups, the rest of the afternoon went smoothly. Uncharacteristically restrained of them, no food fight ensued, but even so it was a pretty fun day. They caught up with each other, teased about past exes and questionable fashion choices, and every silent, solemn moment was endured with joined hands and hearts, a united front against the grief.

Bart’s wet eyes shone, filled with gratitude, when he blew the candles. Cassie caught the exact moment on camera, having learnt the value of getting those precious seconds immortalized forever somewhere other than her own mind.

He kept his wish to himself, but it wasn’t really a mystery. Just by the way he glanced at Tim, they could harnett a pretty solid guess.

Heartache was a familiar, almost comforting feeling to her now, but the wave of raw emotion that almost washed her away at Kon’s crystalized eyes and Bart’s trembling hands gave her pause. Cassie looked away from them for just a second, giving herself this moment of weakness, and in the fleeting light of sunset, she could have sworn she saw a familiar face, looking over them from the shadow of a tree, smiling fondly.

But it was missing with her next blink, so she just shook her head to dispel any traces of wistfulness and turned back to her boys.

It was in silence that they picked up their stuff. Super speed would have made it a chore of just a millisecond, but none felt the urge to run away, so they took their time, hands brushing and then clutching while they cleaned up this sacred place they had borrowed for the day.

Cassie really needed to thank Damian for coming through for her on this. As much as she had despised the other vigilante in the past, a leftover feeling from Tim’s own feud with his older brother, she had learned to forgive and forget. It was, she’d come to accept, the only way she could move on.

Basket finally full with the blanket, empty plates and chocolate stained napkins (Kon’s hand had trembled as he cleaned Bart’s cheek in their leader’s stead), they stood together, arms around each other with the birthday boy in the middle. One by one, they said their goodbyes. It hurted a little less than the last time they could manage to do this, perhaps helped by the fact Kon hadn’t stormed off midway this time.

Cassie smiled. It was sad, it was raw, it was heavy. But it wasn’t broken. She-they- weren’t broken. A puzzle with a missing piece was incomplete, not shattered.

The hand not around Bart’s shoulders stretched, as Cassie’s finger traced the poem they had Bruce engrave in Tim’s tombstone.

“He was my North, my South, my East and West,

My working week and my Sunday rest,

My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;

I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,

Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;

Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;

For nothing now can ever come to any good.”

The kids that had chosen that poem as immortalization of their grief had been drowning in it, she knew. Had needed a way to let the world know “we are not okay, we’ll never be okay again”. It was, maybe, what saved them back then.

But she wished she could crouch down in front of those lost, overwhelmed kids and tell them ‘you never stop missing him, but you learn to be happy again; and he brings you all together, just like the first time’.

So Cassandra Sandsmark, former Wonder Girl (now something more), lets her head fall back, looks at the setting sun and smiles. Because she can. Because she’s alive, and she’s gonna fucking smile for him, if its the last thing that she does.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

The shadows of the coming night hide him, embrace him, want to keep him; he puts a stop to that, let’s himself be kept from wandering eyes but avoids the eternal retaking. He’s seen that side of the road and is under no hurry to visit it again.

Instead, he watches the young heroes, bathed in light and laughter, sitting around a dead bird’s grave.

He yearns. He wants, more than anything, to go to them. To join them in the warmth, in happiness. To go back to the only home that never felt anything else than welcoming.

But he has work to do; there’s a new Robin in the streets, and he needs to ensure that what happened to him doesn’t happen to this frail, rough around the edges and full of life bird.

He waits until they pick up and leave, before donning his suit and walking in the opposite direction. Hopefully, a time will soon come when he can smile with them again.

But, for now, the Red Hood has a clown to hunt and a criminal underbelly to conquer.

#my writting #tim drake #kon el kent #cassie sandsmark #bart allen #core disaster week #core four #day 1 #Bart's birthday #angst #hurt comfort #kinda #don't yell at me #I'm sorry I didn't edit this #I'm in Sk8 the Infinity hell right now #no thoughts head empty only Renga from Sk8

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writerseven · 4 years

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Would you be willing to do a small, darkish story with Ra'sTim? Idk what about but I would love to read one with your style with that pairing!

yes!! i have been wanting to write something with these two for ages, so thanks for the request!

this is sfw because I wasn’t sure how explicit and/or dark you were looking for, but there is some blood, injury, non-consensual touching, and of course ra’s being a creep. and also it's longer than intended because i'm really bad at keeping myself to short word counts. enjoy!

He can’t feel his fingers anymore.

The bite of metal into his wrists is still sharp and vicious, so that’s delightful, but the painful tingling that rocketed through his fingers has died off. If he focuses hard on twitching them, he gets the dullest blip of sensation, but that’s it. Otherwise, his fingers might as well have packed their bags and run away, leaving him to this shit show.

He should probably look up to make sure they aren’t turning black or something. Check on his wrists, too. The scrapes weren’t deep last he looked, but it’s still a less than ideal place to be bleeding from.

His head is just so heavy, though. The damp hair clinging to his face only seems to weight it down further. He doesn’t even have all his pounds of gear on, no cape nor cowl, not even a shirt, but his body has never felt so heavy. In hindsight, giving up on balancing on his toes was a bad decision. His shoulders and wrists are probably unionizing to lodge a formal complaint about having to hold up the entirety of his body.

He’d just...slipped. And he was tired. And he didn’t have the energy to straighten back up.

Tim has been here for...for long enough he’s not quite sure how long he’s been here. Long enough he should probably check on his fingers again, instead of staring at the blood trails down his legs and under his feet. Probably why he slipped. The bright side of being shirtless is he won’t have to throw a stained shirt away, because these pants are definitely goners.

It’s not much of a bright side.

It’s also, Tim won’t lie, kind of insulting that he got stabbed in the abdomen again, in the exact same spot. At least he doesn’t have another spleen to lose, so it’s fine. Probably. Maybe.

He really hopes it’s fine, because dying so soon after he had a beautiful recovery movie-moment of deciding he wanted to live after all would be a little bit annoying. Plus, of everyone to die to, Ra’s so does not deserve the satisfaction.

Speak of the devil.

“Detective.”

Tim jerks in his bonds—not the most well-thought out move. He hisses as the pain in his wrists flares up. For the first time in uncountable hours, he’s struck by enough energy to force himself onto his toes again. He’d rather not look so pathetically dangley in front of Ra’s.

He didn’t even notice the door open. He might be a little light-headed. Probably, he deduces, from all the blood loss and dehydration. (They don’t call him a genius detective for nothing.)

“Good evening,” Ra’s says. When Tim pulls his head up, there’s a hint of amusement to his expression. Bastard.

What did he say, evening? Is it evening now? Tim would have hoped to either come up with a clever escape attempt or be the subject of a heroic rescue by evening. Unless Ra’s is lying about the time to...be a liar. And fool Tim. For nefarious reasons.

He might be over thinking this.

“Could be better,” Tim rasps.

Ra’s looks perfectly put-together as he meanders closer. This has got to make the top five list for Most Fucked Up Tim Has Been, but for all Ra’s’ expression betrays he might be sightseeing in a rose garden. Tim has studied up enough on captivity and torture to know that’s exactly the point, exaggerating the power dynamic, but it’s still fucking irritating.

“Yes, I must admit you look a little pale,” Ra’s says sympathetically. Considering he’s still wearing the body of his sacrificed albino son, even with the dye-job on his hair, it’s just a little bit ironic.

“Probably all the blood loss,” Tim says, out loud this time. (Genius detective.)

Ra’s stops in front of him. Tim has to lift his head all the way up to a normal level—a near insurmountable task—to see the infuriating little smile on his lips as he observes Tim’s wound. He kind of regrets looking when Ra’s takes his gaze on the scenic route up Tim’s torso before meeting his eyes.

Tim scowls. It would probably be more impressive if he didn’t almost forget to hold his neck up for a second.

“If you’d like to come down...”

“I'm not working for you,” Tim snaps.

He can’t feel his fingers. He knows the cuts are shallow, but his wrists still feel half a second from slicing through. His arms periodically zing up and down with pain; his shoulders are screaming; his head is near-impossible to hold up. His toes hurt. His legs shake. The stab wound on his torso has dulled to an ache, which is probably bad news. Honestly, his lungs aren’t feeling swell either. He’s cold in this little stone room, and he has a bit of a sore throat too.

There’s still zero fucking chance he’s letting Ra’s Al Ghul get his claws in.

The Demon’s Head doesn't blink at his denial, used to it by now. If anything, his face softens. “My work is for a better world, Detective. I would never make you do anything immoral. No murders to mar your conscience, if that’s how you prefer it.”

Liar. Tim says nothing. It won’t help him.

Ra’s takes his chin delicately between fingers. Tim is embarrassed to note he’s holding up most of its weight. The rest of his body stays at a thankfully safe distance, though Tim suspects that may have more to do with Ra’s not getting blood on his robes than any decency.

“There are plenty of ways to serve,” Ra’s says. Like spindly legs of a spider, fingers splay over Tim’s chest, palm tantalizingly warm against the bare skin.

Tim tenses. Knowing exactly how much it will hurt and deciding on it anyway, he shoves himself back.

Pain surges along his arms. Tim grits his teeth, barely hearing the rattling chains above over the roar in his ears. With the way he dangles, he rocks back into place right after, feet scrambling for purchase—but his point is made.

Ra’s’ hand drops. For a split-second, Tim swears he’s going to return it and push the issue, but it stays down.

Tim catches his breath as the man steps back. There went all his remaining energy for the day. Or month. He’d like to go back to his dead dangle again. Well, okay, he’d really like to curl up on the floor. He’s just not willing to make a deal with the devil to get it.

Not yet.

Tim blinks, raising his swimming vision just enough to see Ra’s has backed up to the door. His expressions are hard to read regularly, more so when he’s all blurry. Tim gives up.

“Perhaps next time,” Ra’s voice says, distant and annoying—and just a tiny bit beguiling, as Tim hangs and shivers.

The sound of the door closing echoes through the cell, cutting him off from temptation.

#ra'stim #rastim #tim drake #ra's al ghul #i really realize that i don't know the most common tag for like half the ships i write #anyway thanks again anon!#i have uhhhh...many thoughts for longer fic with these two but i keep it tiny for now #7fic #7ask #anon

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ollieofthebeholder · 3 years

Text

leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall): a TMA fanfic

Tumblr tag || Also on AO3

Chapter 22: Sasha

Basira brings the first tape before the week is out, and Sasha is apparently the only one surprised that Jon doesn’t seem happier about it. As a matter of fact, he seems downright distressed.

The assistants normally stagger their lunch breaks so there are at least two people in the Archives at any given time, something they’ve done almost since the beginning, but Jon comes out of his office and suggests all three of them go together, and Tim and Martin hustle Sasha out before she can ask questions. It’s Tim who points out, sotto voce while they’re standing in line at the cafe, that Basira probably called to say she was dropping by and Jon wants them out of there to preserve the fiction that he’s not telling them what’s going on. Sure enough, they pretend to ignore Basira in the parking lot on their way back to the Archives and re-enter to find Jon sitting on the edge of Tim’s desk, turning a tape over and over in his hands.

“That was quick,” Martin comments. “Thought it’d be harder for her to get them to you.”

“I did, too. I wasn’t—anticipating anything before next week at the earliest. And since I don’t know how soon she’ll be back with another one—or come back for this one, for that matter—I kind of have to listen to it as soon as possible.” Jon looks up at them with a pained expression.

Sasha frowns. “Am I missing something? Why’s that a bad thing?”

“Because I don’t…the real statements take a lot out of me. Live ones are worse. According to the Primes, doing more than one a week is going to be a drain. At least until I…build up my tolerance, I guess.” Jon sighs. “Which I’m not altogether sure I want to do.”

“We could record any real statements you get for you,” Sasha offers. “Then you can just listen to the tapes.”

“I wouldn’t do that to you all,” Jon says, looking shocked. “I wouldn’t wish this on anyone.”

“Yeah, but you’re the Head Archivist. Why would it affect us like that?”

“It’s the statements, not the position,” Martin says. “Each one is a thread that binds you closer to the Eye. Regardless of who takes it.” When they all stare at him, he blushes and adds, “I talked about it with Martin Prime while I was recovering. He told me he read more than a few statements over the last year and a half he was at the Institute.”

Jon rubs his forehead. “All the more reason I should keep doing this. I just…I don’t want to lose myself, either.”

Tim hesitantly reaches out and puts a hand on Jon’s shoulder. “You won’t. I mean, Jon Prime hasn’t lost himself, has he?”

“Only because he has Martin Prime to keep him grounded.”

“Well, you’ve got us.”

Jon smiles, but says, “I don’t want to put the burden of my humanity on you.”

Martin tilts his head. “Even if we offer?”

“Even then. I just…it’s not fair to you.” Jon sighs, obviously frustrated. “And I’m curious. There’s no denying that. Especially about…this. Gertrude actually seems to have labeled it properly. And—well, I only met her once or twice, and I-I was very new at the time.” He looks at the three of them. “Did any of you?”

Tim shakes his head. “Apparently I’d remember if I did,” he says, shooting a look at Sasha.

Sasha shrugs. “You would. We talked a fair amount. She—she said I ought to apply for the position of Archivist if it ever came up vacant.”

Jon flinches, but doesn’t say anything. Martin swallows. “I think she avoided me, actually. Never could figure out why, but any time she sent up to the library for something, Diana made a point of sending anyone but me with it. Which was weird, since usually she took any excuse to get me out of the way for a few minutes.”

Tim drapes an arm over Martin’s shoulders. Jon looks embarrassed, but stares at the tape in his hands. “I suppose I’d just like any insight to her time here. And, well, even with—” He glances up at the ceiling. “Even with what we know, there’s so much we don’t. And I understand that, there are some things we need to discover on our own, and other things we won’t believe until we have proof. Still.” He sighs. “And on top of that, I find myself wondering if the Eye is going to have any influence over the tapes Basira brings or if it’s going to be random.”

“What’s this one?” Sasha asks.

Instead of answering, Jon hands her the tape. Sasha peers at the label—a case number, a name, and the words Algasovo, central Russia. “Well, I doubt Basira picked it at anything but random if she wasn’t being influenced somehow.”

She passes the tape over to Tim and Martin, who study it before handing it back to Jon. “Does that mean anything to you? Algasovo?”

“No. I’m not sure it means anything to Basira, either.”

“Hang on.” Sasha sits at her desk and flips open her laptop. A few keystrokes later and all four of them are peering over her shoulder at a list of search results. All of them are generic, or else written in Russian—basic information about the town, the weather, and the surrounding area. “It’s a nothing village in the middle of nowhere. But Gertrude obviously thought this was important enough to put on tape.”

Martin nods. “And if it’s something we need to know about…”

“I suppose I’ll have to listen to it,” Jon says with a sigh. He stares at the tape again, and there’s something in his eyes Sasha recognizes—something hungry. He wants to listen to it. But there’s also something in his eyes that she sees reflected in Martin and Tim’s—fear. He’s afraid of what he’ll become as much as he desperately wants, needs to know.

She thinks about what Martin said, about how the statements will affect all of them no matter who reads them. She thinks about Martin Prime quietly telling Jon Prime that you being here might help him. She thinks about all of them listening to everybody’s statements all at once and not getting half so wiped as Jon looked on Monday when Basira left after making her statement.

“What if we listen together?” she blurts.

Jon looks up, obviously startled. “What?”

Sasha taps a fingernail on her desk. It’s getting ragged, she really needs to make an appointment for a manicure—maybe this weekend, she thinks. “If it’s going to affect anyone who records it, or reads it or listens to it or whatever…there’s probably a finite amount of energy to it, right? It’s not like we’ll all absorb the full amount of fear, it’ll most likely be more…it’ll get siphoned out and divided between the four of us. If we all listen to this tape together, maybe we can stop you from becoming…like that. Or at least slow it down. Maybe it won’t take so much energy from you.”

Jon hesitates and looks at Tim and Martin. Tim shrugs. “Worth a shot.”

“I’m up for it if you’re willing,” Martin agrees.

Jon swallows, then nods. “All right. Let me go get the tape recorder.”

Martin blinks. “What, you want to do it here? In the open?”

“I don’t believe there’s any point in hiding in my office to do it. Or Document Storage or whatever. Nobody’s likely to come down and interrupt us. It—it should be fine.” Jon leaves the tape on the desk and heads into his office.

“I’ll make us some tea. We’ll probably need it.” Martin fishes four mugs out of his desk drawer and disappears in the direction of the break room.

Sasha watches him go. “We really ought to just set up a tea station here in the Archives. Save wear and tear on the carpets.”

“I know you’re being sarcastic, but that’s not half a bad idea,” Tim says. “Bet Jon would agree.”

“Agree to what?” Jon comes over with the tape recorder in hand. “Where’s Martin?”

“Getting tea. Sasha suggested setting up a tea station here.”

Jon pauses. “Actually, why haven’t we done that before now?”

Tim’s right—Sasha was being sarcastic, but she enters into the discussion anyway and they’ve got a list of things to pick up after work almost fully written by the time Martin returns with the same cups he always uses for them. They rope Martin into the discussion, since he’s the one who knows the tea procedure inside and out, and they’re all a lot more relaxed by the time they settle down to listen to the tape.

Sasha’s attention is immediately piqued by the statement. Gertrude’s familiar dry, reedy voice sounds much more intense than she remembers from their conversations. It’s obvious the statement is real—it comes across in the texture of Gertrude’s voice—but she reads it calmly, no hesitation or upset. Something about the scenario draws Sasha in as much as it frightens her. Maybe it’s knowing that it killed her in the Primes’ timeline, or maybe it’s just that it’s the antithesis of the entity she’s essentially bound to, but the Stranger scares her the most out of all the entities. It fascinates her, too, which she supposes isn’t the greatest sign in the world, but too much of her mind is focused on the statement to really care.

At last, the statement ends. Gertrude gives a short summing-up that makes it clear, at least to Sasha, that she never intended for these tapes to be used by anyone outside the Institute, or indeed outside the Archives; her supplemental makes reference to things she obviously already knew and speculates in a limited sense about the nature of the younger brother of the statement-giver, and then the tape clicks off.

The scrape of a chair breaks the spell, and Sasha blinks up in time to see Martin, his face creased with empathy, wrap Tim in a hug. Tim doesn’t even bother to stand up from his chair, just clings to Martin like he’s drowning. Sasha can see the tears rolling down his face. Shit.

“Tim?” Jon slides off the desk, looking a bit shaky, and puts a hand on Tim’s shoulder. Tim reaches out blindly and pulls Jon into the hug, too.

Guilt rises in Sasha’s throat. She should have guessed. Out of everyone in the room, she’s the only one who knows why Tim came to work for the Institute in the first place, and it really should have occurred to her as soon as Gertrude uttered the word circus that this one would hit Tim hard. Add in the younger brother in peril and her dry comment about them being lucky to escape with only significant mental trauma, and it’s no wonder he’s crying. But she was too wrapped up in the statement to even think about him, let alone notice what Martin evidently picked up on immediately.

God, some best friend she is.

“Oh, Tim,” she whispers, penitent. She gets up from her seat and joins the group hug, hesitantly, not sure if she’s welcome. She doesn’t want to wedge herself in the middle of things, so she just squeezes Jon and Martin closer to Tim and prays that’s enough.

Someone is murmuring something, over and over, and it takes Sasha a second to realize that it’s I’m sorry and a second longer to realize it’s Jon, apologizing repeatedly into Tim’s hair. Christ, he’s starting to tear up, too, and he doesn’t even know why Tim’s so upset. Unless he’s figured out the whole mind-reading thing already. She doesn’t think so, though.

Finally, Tim takes a deep, shuddering breath and pulls back. The others ease off, with varying degrees of reluctance, and Martin fishes a tissue from somewhere on the desk and offers it silently. Tim takes it and wipes his face. “S-sorry,” he says hoarsely.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Jon says, obviously trying to be brusque, but it’s as obvious a lie as when he was trying to be brusque with Martin the night of the attack. “You have nothing to apologize for. I—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have made you listen to that.”

“You couldn’t have known.” Tim closes his eyes and breathes deeply for a moment, then looks up. “My—I still owe you a statement, I think. Not today,” he adds quickly, evidently seeing the slight panic that crosses Jon’s face. “You can’t take that, and neither can I. Just…whenever you think you’re up to it. But—short version, I lost my brother to a Russian circus. It’s why I joined the Institute.”

Sasha actually knows precious few details beyond that—Tim may have told her the whole story, but they were both drunk at the time and she’s blurred out a lot, although she remembers the salient points. Jon looks stricken. “Tim, I—I didn’t know.”

“No reason you should have. I never told you.” Tim finishes off his tea in one long swallow, then pushes back from his desk. “I—I need some air.”

“Take your phone.” Jon’s voice is soft. “Call if you need us.”

“I will. I will.” Tim pockets his phone and heads out.

Jon watches him, then turns to the other two. He still looks shaken and visibly distressed. “Did you know?”

“I had no idea.” Martin touches his shoulder gently. “Jon, sit down. I’ll—I’ll get you another cup of tea.”

“Not right now. I’m fine.” Jon does sit, though, and he squeezes Martin’s hand briefly before looking up at Sasha. “Did you…?”

“He told me once,” Sasha admits. “I don’t remember most of the details, honestly, but I knew about Danny. I just didn’t make the connection while we were listening to the statement.”

Jon rubs a hand over his face. “I didn’t even notice—God, I was so focused on—I’d have stopped it if I’d known.”

“I don’t think you could have,” Martin tells him. “I—he started turning grey right after Gertrude mentioned the circus, and by the time they realized the brother was missing he was starting to hyperventilate. I wanted to tell you to stop the tape, o-or try to intervene, or something, but I—until the tape stopped, I couldn’t move. It was like sitting there listening to Martin Prime rattle off that chamber of horrors all over again.” He sounds frustrated and upset. “Like I was bound there. I don’t get it. It’s not like I’ve never interrupted you doing a recording before.”

“Only once,” Jon says. “And you—” He freezes, suddenly stiffening, and looks back and forth from Martin to Sasha. “Oh, God. You’ve both interrupted me, but that’s the point, you came in in the middle of the recording. You’ve never been there from the beginning.”

Sasha gets it, all of a sudden. “Because we were there from the start, we got caught in the—the threads of the statement. I wonder if anyone ever interrupted Jon Prime if they’d been there from the start?”

“I—I don’t know. I suppose I can ask.” Jon rubs his forehead again. “Not right now, though.”

“No, not right now,” Martin says firmly. He stands up from his desk and moves towards the shelves.

“What are you doing?” Jon asks.

“Getting Leanne Denikin’s case file,” Martin answers over his shoulder. “There’s just a couple things I want to look at.”

Sasha looks at Jon and shrugs. “While he’s doing that, let me see what I can pull up about our statement-giver. Gertrude said she recorded this in ‘97?”

“Y-yes,” Jon says, looking a bit shaken.

“That was almost twenty years ago. The Internet’s come a long way since then. Bet I can find things she could have only dreamed of.” Sasha cracks her knuckles and opens up her laptop again.

Jon raises an eyebrow at her. “Do you read Russian?”

“No, but there’s this nifty thing browsers do now where they’ll translate whole pages for you. It’s not perfect, but it’s good enough. Mostly.” Sasha offers Jon a cheeky grin. “More technology Gertrude didn’t have access to. And I have no idea if she read Russian.”

Jon’s eyes go slightly unfocused for a moment. “She didn’t. The Eye might have occasionally led her to read or understand a language she didn’t know, but only if doing so would give her the knowledge the Eye craved.” He closes his eyes and winces, shaking his head as if to clear it, and it’s only then Sasha feels the faint buzz of static receding. Before she can say anything, though, he adds, “The Roger Rabbit principle, I suppose.”

“The what?” Sasha and Martin, who’s just returning with a file in hand, say in unison.

“Did you ever see that old movie, Who Framed Roger Rabbit? It’s a blend of animation and live action—it takes place in a world where cartoon characters are real people and live alongside actual humans, although they live in a-a suburb of Los Angeles, I suppose, called Toon Town. The eponymous Roger Rabbit gets accused of murdering a man and turns to a human detective for assistance. There’s a segment in the film where the detective—Eddie Valiant—and Roger are handcuffed together, and Eddie is attempting to cut the cuffs off, but the box he’s using is wobbling, so Roger slips his hand out of the cuff and steadies it. When Eddie realizes what he’s done, he demands to know if Roger could have done that at any time, and Roger replies, ‘Not at any time. Only when it was funny.’”

“I think I get it,” Sasha says, glancing at Martin.

Martin nods. “You’re saying the Eye only lets the Archivist access languages otherwise unknown if it gets something out of it in return. Like extra fear.”

“Something like that.”

Martin sits down and drops two files on his desk. Sasha cocks her head. “What’s that second one?”

“Oh—since Gertrude listed the case number, I figured I’d see if I could find the paper file somewhere in the shelves.” Martin waves one of them at her. “It was in the back corner. I think it’s one of the ones Martin Prime said he was gathering, that he could sense were real.”

“What makes you say that?” Jon asks.

“You won’t like my answer.”

“Try me.”

Martin looks up at him. “The shelf was almost packed solid with cobwebs.”

Jon bites his lip. “You’re right. I don’t like that answer at all.”

Sasha tries to disguise her laugh as a cough as she goes back to her search.

She gets absorbed in the work—a totality of focus she’s only noticed a few times before—and is therefore caught off-guard when a mug of tea suddenly appears at her elbow. She looks up, startled, just in time to see Jon surprise Martin with his own mug. Sheepishly, Jon says, “I was starting to feel a bit useless, but I—I don’t know that I want to be alone in my office right now.”

“It’s fine. Thanks.” Martin offers Jon a warm smile, which Jon tentatively returns. Sasha wonders if they’re moving towards a romantic relationship. She also wonders how much faster they’re moving than the Primes did and if she’s going to have to shoot Tim before he uses the two of them being together as an excuse for why they should give it a go, even though she’s fairly certain he’s mostly joking about their “will they-won’t they” storyline.

“Either of you found anything yet?” Jon asks.

Sasha shakes her head. “Well, I was able to verify that Ivan Utkin did die in 1984, just like Gertrude said—it’s not that I doubted her necessarily, just that I wanted to be sure. That’s young, though. He was only forty-eight. His obituary doesn’t list cause of death, and, well, that was the height of the Cold War, so I’m not sure if the records exist anymore. I’ll keep trying, though. Yuri Utkin died in…” She swallows. “May of last year.”

“Around the time Gertrude Robinson died.”

“A bit after,” Sasha specifies. “The twenty-fifth.”

“Ah, the Glorious Twenty-Fifth of May,” Martin murmurs, not quite under his breath. When Sasha gives him a funny look, he adds, “Discworld reference.”

Jon shifts his attention to Martin. “Anything interesting in there?”

“It’s definitely the same circus. I mean, we knew that, Gertrude specifically called out Nikolai Denikin in her summing-up, but I’m guessing that the steam organ Utkin mentions in his statement is the one up in Artifact Storage, which…isn’t great.”

“No,” Jon agrees. Something suddenly seems to occur to him. “Sasha, how long have you been with the Magnus Institute?”

“Six years,” Sasha answers. She’s been in academia for ten years—well, eleven now—but the first few years after graduating she worked for the EPCC, until the project she was on shut down and she needed to come to London anyway. “Since August of 2010.”

Jon seems to deflate a bit. “So you weren’t here when the Calliophone came in.”

“No, but—Martin, you were here, weren’t you?”

Martin nods absently. “Yeah, I—kind of remember it getting delivered? Not surprised nobody can find the paperwork, though.”

Sasha looks over the top of her computer. “Why do you say that?”

Martin looks up, too. “There was some staff turnover in Artifact Storage about that time. There were a lot of injuries over the month, and at least six people quit. Then the head at the time—um, Henry Winchester—died and…I heard it was kind of messy.”

Sasha’s interest is caught. “Messy how?”

“Christ, Sasha, I don’t know. It didn’t happen on Institute grounds, so it’s not like I saw it. I just remember a couple people muttering about crime scene photos and peri- versus postmortem injuries and whether it was something that would end up in the Archives at some point.”

Sasha bites the inside of her cheek and stares at her computer for a second, wondering if she can dig up the police report and see what happened. Then she shakes her head slightly. It’s not relevant to anything they’re working on right now and she doesn’t need to be using Institute resources—including time—on personal projects.

“Actually, Sasha, do you think you can see what you can dig up on that?” Jon asks, and Sasha looks up sharply, wondering if he really is reading her mind. “If it’s…if Henry Winchester’s death was ‘messy,’ it’s possible that whatever killed him was…well, whatever killed Leanne Denikin’s ex. And, ah, being able to connect the death of the previous department head to an artifact from one of our statements might give us a bit of clout wh—if we have to tell them to leave another artifact alone.”

“I’ve got to admit,” Sasha says, backing out of the network of old Soviet record sites and tapping into the series of back doors she normally uses to access police records, “even knowing what we know, it still seems hard to believe that someone could be killed by an evil clown doll.”

“It’s probably not actually the doll,” Martin says absently. “Probably just a manifestation of the Stranger. There were clowns in the circus, after all, it’s not without the realm of possibility that the doll in Denikin’s steamer trunk was just an effigy of a real clown.”

Jon gives him a look of mingled amusement and amazement. “You’ve really got the hang of this side of things, haven’t you? The rest of us are fumbling in the dark and you’re marching in front with a spotlight.”

Martin’s cheeks turn pink, but he shrugs. “It just…makes sense, I guess. It’s like—like I’ve had this bag of puzzle pieces my whole life, only they’re a photomosaic and they aren’t really distinct enough to put together easily and there aren’t any distinct corners or edges to it. But now someone’s finally given me the box, so I can see what the whole picture is supposed to look like. Makes it easier to put together the right way.”

“We’re lucky to have you,” Jon says with a smile.

If Martin blushes any harder, the heat is going to set off Sasha’s computer fan. He mumbles something and goes back to work comparing the two statements.

Sasha hits a wall in researching the police records. No, not a wall—a black hole. There’s simply an empty space where the records ought to be. She backs out and tries again and again. Still nothing.

“We may have to get Tim to work his magic on this,” she tells Jon. “I think this might go past hacking files and into seducing file clerks.”

“Are you saying you don’t think you’re capable of seducing a file clerk on your own, Miss James?” Jon asks with a lift of his eyebrow. Sasha makes a rude noise in his direction and he smirks.

Martin looks up. “Where is Tim, anyway? Shouldn’t he be back by now?”

The smile melts off of Jon’s face. Sasha glances at the clock at the bottom corner of her screen and is astonished to realize it’s nearly four in the afternoon. “I’m not letting any of you boys go off on your own in the middle of the day anymore. Every time I do, you disappear for hours on end.”

Before Jon or Martin can answer, Jon’s phone rings. He fishes it out of his pocket and answers with a crisp greeting. Instantly, his expression shifts. “Tim! Are you all right? We were just—what?” A frown puckers his forehead. “You’re where? How did you…never mind. I know where that is. Stay there. I’m on my way.” He hangs up and slides to his feet, then opens Tim’s desk drawer and fishes out his keys.

“Is everything all right?” Martin asks, a little anxiously.

“It’s fine. Tim got himself turned around and needs a rescue.” Jon flips through the keys and mutters under his breath, “I never pegged him for the damsel in distress type.” Straightening, he adds in a normal tone of voice, “I’ll be right back. Martin, if you can, go through the Hector Silvana file and see what we still need to follow up on…Sasha, have you had a chance to look into those incidents in Jason North’s statements?”

“Not yet, but I will.”

“Thank you. I’ll be back soon.” Jon turns on his heel and strides out of the Archives.

Sasha waits until she hears the door close, then tilts her laptop slightly closed and looks over at Martin. “So, while the Helicopter Parents are out of the Archives, how’s the search for a new place to live going?”

From the way Martin’s ears go pink again, she knows she’s right; he’s been avoiding the topic. Tim is still weirdly persistent about them staying at his house, and while Jon puts up halfhearted protests, Sasha doesn’t think he’s actually all that keen to go back to his own flat. Sasha’s been crashing in Tim’s bed since the Primes moved out, mostly because the others keep protesting the idea of sleeping in there and she’s just tired of arguing and also slightly tired of Tim’s living room, but she’s ready to go home. As much as she loves her boys, she looks forward to having her own space again.

“I’ve been looking,” Martin says, a bit reluctantly. “There are a few…Martin Prime told me where he ended up in his timeline, and it’s—it’s not bad, really, but it’s a bit out of my price range. He didn’t have a choice, he had to get somewhere in a hurry and it was the only place he could even come close to affording. I know Tim’s going to eventually want me off his sofa, so I’m looking, but…”

“Well, if you need someone to put in a good word for you, let me know,” Sasha says. “I don’t think there are any units open in my building, but my landlord runs a few different ones. Might be able to get you a good rate.”

“Th-thanks. I’ll let you know.”

Sasha re-opens her laptop and goes back to work. She somehow doesn’t think Martin’s going to ask her for a recommendation. As a matter of fact, she’s already mentally betting with herself against him asking Tim how much he’d charge to rent out his spare bedroom. They might all live alone, normally, but she’s noticed over the last couple of months that the boys seem much more relaxed sharing a space than they did before. And besides, living alone in the Archives for weeks on end probably isn’t good for anyone’s sanity. No wonder Martin wants to be around people these days.

She’s managed to verify an apparent lack of supernatural involvement in two of the incidents involving Jason North when she hears footsteps and Martin looks up from his work. The look of relief that spreads over his face tells her without looking around that it’s Jon and Tim returning, none the worse for the wear.

“Thanks for the lift,” Tim says, sliding into his seat and bumping his shoulder against Martin’s companionably. “Seriously, I didn’t realize I’d wandered so far, I just—”

“Tim, it’s fine. No real harm done,” Jon says, in a tone that indicates they’ve been having this argument for several minutes. “It’s been a long day and you needed to clear your head. Nothing’s actively trying to kill us at the moment, so far as we know. It’s fine.”

“Yeah.” Tim opens his laptop. “Still. Next time I need space, I’ll go…I don’t know, reorganize a shelf or something. Feels more productive.”

“At least it’s a nice day,” Martin says, but there’s an element of uncertainty in his voice as he glances at one of the high-set windows in the Archive. They’re technically underground, and while it was nice enough when the three of them went to lunch earlier, that’s no guarantee it still is.

“Yeah, it is. Oh, and, ah, I found something kind of interesting.” Tim reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper, which he waves at the other three with a slight teasing grin.

Sasha can see in his eyes, though, that whatever it is, he’s very, very serious about it. “Oh? Do tell.”

Tim unfolds the paper and spreads it out on his desk. Sasha, Jon, and Martin all crane their heads over to see. It’s one of those flyers that real estate agents set out sometimes in front of houses for sale or rent, which is when Sasha remembers that Tim technically rents the little semidetached house they’ve all been crashing in lately. This one is terraced, but looks bigger, and appears to be in a halfway decent neighborhood. The price at the bottom is surprisingly reasonable for a house in London proper.

“Are you thinking of moving?” Sasha asks, surprised.

“Well, yeah. I-I mean, I wasn’t before, necessarily, but…well, I’ve been thinking. I’ve been living in that same house since, well, before Danny died,” Tim says softly. Martin looks up, eyes filled with sympathy. “It might not be a bad idea to start over somewhere new, you know? And it might be nice to own something, to start putting down roots. Plus, this one’s bigger—three bedrooms, it says. A-and I thought, well, I mean, if all of us went in together, it might…” He trails off.

Jon looks more startled than he has all day. “Wait. You thought—you wanted all of us to—”

“Well, it’s just—” Tim looks at Martin. “You need a place still, and I know—I thought it might be easier to share expenses on a place than to go full out on your own. And I’ve—I’ve kind of got used to having all of you around. I like it.” He looks from Martin to Jon to Sasha and back, his eyes almost pleading. “It’s just an idea, but—I mean, I thought I’d see if you guys were interested.”

Sasha is touched, but she’s also a little worried. Tim can be impulsive and tends to throw his whole heart into something, and he’s also been known to pin all his hopes on a single course of action. If he’s had the idea of all of them living together permanently in his head for more than a few minutes, it might not be easy for her to extract herself and go back to her own flat. It has to happen, though. She’s got just enough of a life outside the Institute that it’s important for her to get away.

Martin picks up the flyer and studies it more closely. “Says there’s an open house on Saturday afternoon,” he says, handing it over to Jon. “Might be worth taking a look, anyway.”

Tim brightens visibly. Jon examines the flyer, then nods slowly. “I think that would be an excellent idea.”

He offers it to Sasha, who smiles and shakes her head. “You boys have fun. I’ve got an appointment Saturday afternoon.”

It’s not exactly untrue. Second and fourth Saturdays are visiting days, and Sasha hasn’t been by in a while, so she probably ought to go. Plus she really does need to get her nails done. But it’s also a convenient excuse to avoid going and not have to pretend she’s going to be splitting the mortgage with them. Because Sasha knows herself well enough to know she’s not going in with the other three if they decide to do this. She values her independence, she values her privacy, and she does not want Tim to entertain any hopes that they might actually get together at some point. Besides, she picked her building for a reason, one she’s still not ready to share with the boys. She should probably feel guilty for keeping secrets, but she doesn’t.

“We’ll let you know what it’s like,” Tim promises.

Sasha smiles and nods and goes back to work and tries not to think about the fact that she’s basically going to break Tim’s heart.

#ollie writes fanfic #leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall)#the magnus archives #tma #panic attack tw #love is stored in the jonmartim #and occasionally backed up onto the sasha

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fromiftowhen · 4 years

Text

fic: and you decide what you think of me

Hey anon! Originally this was going to be my post for the undercover day for Chenford week, but it didn’t work out. That day ended up being i’ve got the real thing (and nothing else matters), but I liked this enough to keep it in my gdocs until this meme came around.

And then I opened it up and realized it was about as finished as it was going to get. So I’m doing something I don’t typically do, and posting it here instead of on ao3... because it’s finished, and there (probably) won’t be more, but it’s not quite as complete as I usually like my fic to be.

So, enjoy! (Feel free to ask about any of my other WIPs!)

(The Rookie -- Chenford. Rated T. 2235 words.)

It’s not that Tim hates undercover work. It’s that he hates the roads it can lead a person down, the way it can consume a life and ruin a marriage and throw his world off its tidy, easy axis.

So he never volunteers, he never takes the chance, his career never suffers for it, and his axis stays as it should. It can’t change his life again if he doesn’t get involved.

Which is why, of course, it somehow falls directly in his lap, and he never sees it coming.

Or. She does, actually. And he never sees her coming.

He couldn’t have seen her coming if he tried.

——-

He’s just finished his beer when she crashes into him, long brown hair brushing his cheek, and her stumble is just controlled enough, just the exact right amount of pressure, that he knows it’s intentional.

“Babe!” It’s loud, louder than necessary in the relatively empty bar, and he wants to ask who she is, what she’s doing, but.

“I’m sorry, just help me out here,” she says, and her hand is on his shoulder and she’s kissing him, quick and dirty like they’ve done it a thousand times before, like they know each other, like he’s her safe place to land.

It feels like coming home, in the weirdest way, but not to any home he’s ever recognized.

“Sorry,” she whispers, just a breath against his lips as she pulls back. There’s a tiny flash of recognition in her eyes as she takes a step back, like maybe she’s seen him before. And maybe in a different life, maybe, they knew each other, because she feels a little familiar. His skin pricks in what might be recognition, but he can’t place it.

“Yeah,” he clears his throat and wishes his beer wasn’t empty. He glances around, checking to see if she’s clearly trying to get away from someone. What the hell is going on?

She holds herself like law enforcement, strong muscle and confident, challenging eyes. He feels like he’s being read, and he doesn’t necessarily like it.

“What in the hell—“ he starts, but she just smiles, and he wishes he didn’t immediately feel warmer, better, somehow.

“Thanks. See you later,” she whispers, shaking her head, and it’s like the tiny motion distracts him, because the next thing he knows, she’s gone.

——-

He’s still reeling a little when Grey calls him into his office the next morning. He shouldn’t even be surprised to see a flash of long brown hair as he walks in, but somehow, he still is.

“Sergeant Bradford, I hear you may have walked into an undercover op last night.”

He glances at the woman. “More like it fell into my lap, sir.”

Grey glances between them, and maybe he’s about to introduce them, but he misses his shot.

“Semantics,” she mumbles, reaching a hand out. The press of her hand is firm, so different from the way her fingers had floated against his shoulder last night. He wishes, half-heartedly, that he could stop thinking about it.

“Lucy Chen,” she says, and the name sounds a little familiar, maybe.

“Tim Bradford.”

She nods, like that was the expected answer. “Sorry about last night. I recognized you from a couple joint crime scenes last year, and I needed to blend in a little to keep my cover, so..” She trails off, and he doesn’t need her to fill in the blanks.

“Agent Chen is working an undercover assignment to help bring down a big drug ring out of Malibu. She was hoping you’d be willing to lend a hand.”

He glances at Grey sharply before he responds. “I don’t work narcotics, sorry.”

Grey nods slightly, but Lucy looks undeterred. It’s a little aggravating.

“Then it’s a good thing I’m not a narcotics officer,” she says, smiling. “Agent Chen,” she says. “I’m a profiler with the FBI.”

And it all clicks into place, that nagging familiar feeling. A kidnapping case last year, and a high profile bank robbery a couple months after that. He’d been first on the scene for both, and she’d come blazing in, lots of energy and questions and earnest answers, a little hard to miss.

He nods. “Not a big fan of feds, either.”

“Ouch, Sergeant. I won’t take that personally.” She smiles, and he hates how he already feels a little doomed. “But I’m hoping you’ll reconsider. I just need a little backup, and it turns out a few of our principle suspects saw me with you last night, so it’d be easier to keep that part of the cover the same.”

“Aren’t there a thousand colleagues you could rope into this?”

“We’re trying to keep as many of my colleagues out of the early stages of this, in case they need to go undercover at some point. This is a months long operation, and my part in it is small, it’ll be over soon. Yours would be even smaller.”

He glances at Grey, who gives a tiny shrug. Super helpful.

“What exactly would I be doing?”

She grins, like she knows she has him. “Basically exactly what you did last night.” He wants to ask if that means she’ll randomly kiss him and disappear again, but he stays quiet. “Just help me blend in a little, maybe keep the creeps away. Nothing life changing.”

He rolls his eyes. He wants to say no. He wants to stop thinking about the fact that he hadn’t kissed anyone in months, before last night.

He wants to say no. He means to.

But she sticks out her hand to shake, a deal, a promise, and nothing in him can say no.

——-

He’s regretting his inability to say no the next night, shoulder-to-shoulder on the edge of the dance floor in a crowded club at what is alarmingly past his normal bedtime. The music is loud and the crush of bodies makes him equal parts annoyed and on edge.

Agent Chen — Lucy — though, she looks like she lives for it — the noise, the music, happy, laughing, loud people all around her. She looks alive, vibrant and carefree, and it’s distracting in a way he couldn’t have prepared himself for. He has no frame of reference, but instinct tells him that’s just how she is.

She’s anything but distracted though. He watches her, the way she’s clearly taking in her surroundings, keeping her eyes on their target for the night.

“Fun crowd, right?” She half-shouts over the noise and he raises his eyebrows at her. If she says so.

He shrugs.

“I spend the majority of my day behind a desk, reading files,” she explains. “I spent most of my 20s behind a desk, actually.”

He leans closer, so he doesn’t have to shout. “This doesn’t seem like an assignment a profiler would usually take.”

She shakes her head. “It’s not, unless you spent most of your 20s behind a desk and woke up one day bored and craving an adrenaline rush and basically demanded some real field experience.”

The honesty surprises a laugh out of him and he smiles despite the crowd, despite the noise.

“Kidnappings and bank robberies aren’t enough of an adrenaline rush?” He asks, and her eyes absolutely light up. He doesn’t want to notice it, but it’s impossible not to.

“So you do remember me.” It sounds like a gotcha.

“I remember the cases,” he mumbles, glancing away.

“Mhmm.” The way she’s looking at him readies him for another question, but their suspect moves onto the dance floor and she grabs his hand before he can react. “C’mon.”

She pulls him out on the dance floor, and he’s a little embarrassed at how easily he lets himself be dragged. It doesn’t feel like work.

“Dancing wasn’t part of the agreement,” he says as they stop just a ways away from the suspect.

“You don’t have to dance, bud. Just stand there and look pretty.” He wants to protest, and he definitely rolls his eyes, but he lets her step into his space and wrap her arms up around his shoulders. The song isn’t slow, and suddenly neither is his heart rate.

“Come on,” she urges. “Act like you’ve danced with a woman before.”

He huffs out a sigh and lets his hands skim her waist lightly, pulling her in so she can look over his shoulder easily.

“Better?” He half-grumbles, his eyes scanning the dance floor around them.

“Mmm.” Her soft reply is distracted. The song slips into something louder, faster, and she presses against him, her hair brushing the side of his neck. He vaguely wonders if it looks as intimate as it feels, pressed together close as the music pulses around them.

“What is it you’re looking for exactly?” He asks, pitching his voice just loud enough she can hear over the music, even though his lips are basically buried in her hair.

“Body language.” It’s quiet, and she shifts against him to move them slightly. “We’re putting together profiles on the major players now, so when the op develops more, when we have to send someone in really undercover, they’ll have as much inside information as possible.”

“Body language?” Her hand slides to the back of his neck and he tenses.

“It can tell you all you need to know about a person sometimes.”

He rolls his eyes. He doesn’t disagree, necessarily, but it feels flimsy to base any real assumptions off of it.

“For example,” she continues, “you tensed when I touched your neck. That tells me you either really don’t like being touched there, or you really do.”

He feels extremely aware of every muscle in his body now, how they’re at risk of tensing and giving away secrets he isn’t even aware he’s keeping.

“But whether or not you enjoy being touched there isn’t really the question I’m directly trying to answer. It becomes what else can your body tell me about why you tensed up that can help me figure out if you enjoy it or not?”

“Good lord,” he mutters.

“But of course, I’m not going to go dance with that guy, so it means looking for nonverbal clues and observing the way he interacts with people.”

“What does that—“

Her other hand drags across the back of his neck, her nails raking the skin lightly, and he tries so hard to keep from tensing, from reacting in any way.

“— Teach us about a suspect?” She finishes, and he doesn’t know her, not really, not at all, but the laugh in her voice is unmistakable.

He nods, but doesn’t let himself respond otherwise.

“It helps us figure out how to approach him, who to send in, what to focus on. Does it need to be someone he’s intimidated by, does he need to exert force over them to trust them, how does he interact with men versus women, or in a group dynamic? What are his weaknesses, physically, emotionally?”

“Seems like a lot of work,” he says, and maybe it seems a little too bookish, a little too clinical for him to really invest in, but she doesn’t need to know that.

She leans back, and it’s the first time he’s seen her face in several minutes. He’s not sure he knows her any better, but the look on her face makes him think she knows him better. “It is,” she says. “But I excel at my job.”

She leans back in, and it goes like that for another hour as she tracks the guy around the club, peppering in little facts and details about what he’s doing and what it means about his personality.

Some of it, honestly, is distant white noise to Tim, her voice pleasant and upbeat, her words carefully chosen but bold. He does his job, he holds her close, he scans the dance floor, he keeps her safe.

——-

He walks her to her car after their suspect leaves, and he’s all too aware it’s the first time he’s not been touching her in over an hour. He walks with his hands in his pockets and wishes he didn’t spend so much time thinking about what she’s reading into that body language.

She smiles when they stop at her car. “Thanks,” she says, and he shrugs.

“No big deal.”

“No big deal,” she echos. “So, if I need you again, you’re in?”

“I guess.”

She laughs. “Well. It’s not a no. I’ll take it.” He watches her glance away and then back to him, her eyes falling on his lips, and it doesn’t take a body language expert to read the signs.

She leans up on her tiptoes, presses her lips to his quickly and runs her fingers along the back of his neck.

“Sorry,” she murmurs, pulling back. “Just wanted to see what it was like when it wasn’t for show.”

He swallows and nods. “And?”

“Just as good as the first time,” she smirks, backing away toward her car. She waves, getting in the car, and he thinks he smiles in return.

Just help me blend in a little, maybe keep the creeps away. Nothing life changing, she’d said.

He’s definitely not the expert here, but he’s pretty sure she was wrong.

He runs a hand over the back of his neck as he turns to head to his truck.

She feels a little life changing.

#my fic #chenford #the rookie #tim bradford #lucy chen #the rookie fic

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that-one-girl-behind-you · 4 years

Text

Illicio 16/?

Part 15

"Compel me, then. Ask." Martin looks at him in the eye, and Jon averts his gaze almost immediately.

"I wouldn't. Not to you," he mumbles.

"Then you'll have to take me at my word, I suppose." Martin gestures to the door. "Please."

"...Martin, I'm so sorry."

Stab the knife in. Twist it. Anything it takes.

"I'm not." Martin's heart aches, but it feels cold and far away, like everything else.

XVI

Gerry closes the door to Jon's office with a pleased smile, pushing his hair back into place.

"I must admit-" Tim says, immediately souring Gerry's mood. He's sitting behind a desk with his feet up on it, looking at him with a thoughtful frown. "I've known him for seven years, and I never thought I'd see the day he'd have a make out session in his office."

"Well, you never finish getting to know people. Did you need anything?" Gerry arches an eyebrow.

"Is Melanie going out with you today?" Tim asks, and Gerry scowls.

"How is that any of your business?"

Tim rolls his eyes, swinging his legs off the desk and climbing to his feet. "Apparently it's my business because Martin had to save your sorry ass from the hunters the other day, and now we have to have a buddy system, so thank you for that."

Oh. Oh, no.

It suddenly makes a lot of sense, why Jon pulled him back for a last, heavier kiss. Gerry feels like he's been had, and he somehow knows if he were to march back into the office to ask for an explanation, he would find an empty room.

"I don't need a babysitter, Stoker, and I definitely don't want you around meddling in my investigations." Gerry turns to head for the door, gritting his teeth when Tim comes to stand before him again. "Did Jon put you up to this? Because-"

"Don't be stupid." Tim snorts. "I couldn't care less about him-"

Gerry rolls his eyes. "Why don't you try selling that one to someone who didn't see you vaporize Manuela Domínguez?"

"-but Martin cares that you don't get killed, for some reason." Tim speaks louder to cover Gerry's words. "So you're going to have to suck it up, because I'm coming with you whether you like it or not."

Gerry crosses his arms over his chest, leaning back against Melanie's desk. "You have no idea how close I am to killing you every time you speak, Stoker."

"Why don't you try selling that to someone who doesn't know how whipped you are, Keay?" Tim's grin turns smug and he leans forward. "You can't touch me."

Gerry has to remind himself really quickly that decking him in the face wouldn't even bring the satisfaction of breaking something, and worse: it would make both Martin and Jon angry at him. It should be a relief, really, that Martin has a friend as dedicated to him as Tim.

It probably would be, if said friend wasn't this much of an asshole.

"Oh, they know you. They'll forgive me." Gerry narrows his eyes. "I just need to find a good excuse."

"So! Where are we going today, pal?"

-------------------------------------------------------------

The door to the office opens silently, and Jon has a spare moment to be impressed at Daisy’s handiwork again.

The room is both empty and silent, and Jon feels a pang of pain when he realizes Martin isn't... Gerry has been by the flat a couple times -much to Tim’s annoyance-, but there’s no sign of him other than the thick fog that seems to linger in any space Martin has claimed as his own.

“Martin?” he calls out softly; the fog swirls in tantalizing spirals, disturbed both by the open door and his passage through it and gathered more thickly around the imposing mahogany desk. “A- are you here?”

There is no answer; the dense fog drifts away from the desk like pushed by an unseen wind. Jon sighs. He could- he could call on the Eye. Nothing should be hidden from him, here at his place of power. He could See Martin, no matter how tight a grasp the Lonely has on him.

“But you don’t want me to See you, do you?” he mutters, more to himself than to the flaky idea of Martin’s presence. “This is- It wouldn’t be fair to intervene just because I miss you. I- I trust you’ll let me know if you need me.”

He turns away then, because Martin’s memory bites at his core like a rabid dog.

It feels like he last saw him was an eternity ago, instead of just two months or so. It has occurred to Jon before that they don’t work on the same time as the rest of the world anymore. Theirs is a time measured not in minutes, but in losses.

“Enough. I- that’s enough.” A tape recorder clicks to life somewhere in the office, and Jon smiles, grateful. “Yes, thank you. Just… just a slip.”

He feels like a magnet that is facing the wrong pole, as he begins moving across the office.

Something in his chest pulls at him when he takes a step in a direction it doesn’t like; the desk calls at him, no doubt full of statements and tapes the Eye considers inoffensive. When he moves towards the stationary cabinet by the corner of the room, it feels like his feet weigh a ton each, like the floor has become sticky and viscous and unwilling to let him go. Jon closes his eyes; maybe it’ll help if he doesn’t see where he’s going?

When he opens them again he’s standing at the threshold, facing the corridor.

“Harder than I thought…” Jon mutters under his breath, before turning to the office. At least he knows he’s on the right track now.

‘What are you looking for?’

“What am I looking for?” Jon mutters to himself, before he turns towards the cabinet again. “It’s there, isn’t it? The thing you don’t want me to see.”

‘There’s nothing in there. Just old papers, and some tapes.’

Jon nods. “Yes. Yes, that’s what I need.” Or that’s what the Eye doesn’t want him to have, and if Gerry’s right, that’s exactly what he should be trying to get.

It feels like a year before Jon takes the last of the ten steps that separate the door from the cabinet, and he pulls the doors open like they weigh a ton each. They slide noiselessly on their hinges, revealing the filing boxes full of yellowed paper, and a single cardboard box bull of shiny black tapes.

Jon’s hand hovers over them for an eternity before he shoves it in with a clatter of plastic against plastic. It comes back out with a tape held tightly in its grip, and for a moment Jon thinks of fishing birds, diving in from hundreds of feet in the air to catch unsuspecting prey.

’Is that what you wanted?’

“Yes. This- this is the one I wanted. The one I need.” Jon feels a surge of dark triumph looking at the unassuming tape. Whatever could be so important that the Watcher is so desperate to keep from-

The tape slips from Jon’s left hand, but his right comes to catch it awkwardly; his burned fingers twitching and spasming as his whole hand cramps in pain, and for a moment Jon is afraid he’s going to drop it in the pile again and lose it forever.

The doors to the cabinet swing closed with a slam.

Jon jumps back a little, giving the room another once-over. It looks just as empty as before, swirling fog and unfinished paperwork on the desk.

“...Martin?” he asks again, a little more hopeful this time. Maybe the office was never empty, maybe… He takes a step towards the desk. Is he imagining the scent of tea, the sound of rustling footsteps echoing his own? “Martin, are you here?”

’You need to leave, Jon.’

He does, doesn’t he? His hands want to let go of the tape, to chuck it out the window and hope a car runs over it and turns it into a million pieces. Whatever it contains, it’s dangerous, and he needs to hear it. The faster he does it, the better.

Before he closes the door behind himself, he gives the desk another look. He could swear there’s a figure profiled in the fog, but then again his wistful thinking has gotten the best of him before.

-------------------------------------------------------------

"You must be Martin then," says a clearly amused voice as he closes the door to the office, without locking it, because apparently that's as unnecessary as it is useless. "I must say, Peter definitely wasn't exaggerating."

Martin heaves a long-suffering sigh. He shouldn't have come today. The thought that Tim or Gerry would look for him at the flat was really the only thing that kept him from staying there.

Jon's visit last morning left him shaken, and he's been trying to call the Lonely back ever since without great results to speak of. It's a bit impressive how loving can complicate things so much, even when Martin is only faintly aware of what loving means anymore. A little like watching trees shake under a stiff breeze, but not feeling anything against his skin.

"Well, there's no need for that." The man chuckles when Martin finally lifts his gaze to him. He's old, is the first thing Martin thinks. Wrinkled and either extremely short or hunched over by age, the only thing suggestive of life is the glint of mischief in his sky-blue eyes. "I'm merely visiting, I'll let you go back to trying to drown in your own misery in just a minute, see?"

"Who are you again?" Martin arches an eyebrow. Manners are an effort he's not willing to make right now.

"Ah, of course. I forgot, my apologies." The man extends a small, wrinkly hand that Martin looks at pointedly for a few moments, before it's retracted. "Should've known, I suppose. Simon Fairchild, I trust you've heard of me?"

Martin has, a lot. Perhaps in the past the name would've been enough to scare him. Now he just stares at him warily, and feels the fog curl around him almost protectively.

"What are you doing here?" Martin asks. "I told Peter I didn't need any more convincing. I believe him."

"Do you?" Simon's eyes spark with something that reminds Martin of years ago, when Sasha -not Sasha, never Sasha, probably- teased him about a crush over the rim of a cup of coffee.

"Does it matter?"

"I rather think that's up to you, don't you?" Simon leans against the wall across from him, tapping his cane against his thigh. His entire posture is like a tightly coiled spring, ready to bounce into action at any moment with an energy disproportionate to his age. "But no. I was brought in as an impartial judge, so to speak. Wagers can get messy, between those two."

Martin sighs again, feeling the start of a migraine blossoming behind his eyes and yearning for the cool, soft embrace of the fog. "Listen, I have no idea what you're talking about. Please just say your piece and go."

"Hmmm I suppose that was it, if you look at it purely in terms of what Peter asked. You're well and truly taken, aren't you?" The man's fingers tap impatiently against the length of the polished cane. "Humor an old man, if you will. Since you're apparently convinced of Peter's little theory, what do you make of it?"

"I didn't take you for someone who'd care." Martin thinks back at the paperwork he's been completely useless at finishing ever since Jon stumbled in yesterday, and he's suddenly struck by the futility of it. Will anyone even mind if he doesn't finish it? If he fades away and leaves behind only the slight scent of humidity and salt on the half filled forms?

"Oh, I don't. Not really." Simon grins when Martin looks up at him again. "But it makes for good conversation, and I find that corralling you lonely folk into idle chat is very amusing."

"Hm. What do you want to hear, then?" Martin shrugs. "There is another fear, and it's apparently bigger and meaner than the ones we already have, because that's just what we need it seems."

"That just about covers it."

"I guess my only question is... why is Peter the only one that seems interested in stopping it?" Martin scowls. The question has been fluttering around in his mind for a while now, a remnant of his connection to the Eye probably. "I get that Elias doesn't believe him, but you apparently do. Why don't you care?"

"I'm afraid I don't really care for anything at all, lad, not really." Simon shrugs with an unapologetic smile. "Nothing, no one really matters in the end, does it? We're merely... pieces. Insignificant in the face of the great, grand everything."

"That's a very lonely way of thinking."

"The overlap again, I suppose. Our patrons aren't really that different, don't you think Martin?"

"My question stands. If the Lonely wants to stop this new fear-"

"You're presuming an awful lot there." Simon gives him a knowing grin."I hardly think the Lonely wants to stop anything. This is all Peter's endeavor. And yours, of course."

"Mine." Martin sighs.

"Don't think the irony's lost on me, by the way. Two followers of the Forsaken, trying to save the world? You can't write a joke like that."

Martin arches an eyebrow. "What's the punchline?"

"Why, that no matter how much your entire existence is based around not caring, you very much do, it seems."

Martin rolls his eyes, shaking his head. "I used to." And he did, didn't he? Simon is not entirely wrong, it's a dark, bitter joke that Martin chose to sacrifice his humanity out of love. Is he still doing this for that reason, or is he just going along with it now because there's really nothing else to do anymore? With the fog wrapped so tightly around him that he can't see further than a step ahead, is there even a path to deviate from anymore?

"Martin?" Gerry's voice washes over him like a pail of cold water, and Martin flinches. The man is frozen at the end of the corridor, no doubt on his way to the office to try and wrest him out of the Forsaken again. His eyes are narrowed in suspicion as they jump from him to Simon, and Martin tenses a bit more. "Everything alright?"

"And you must be Peter's little headache." Simon's face lights up in delight.

"Simon Fairchild." Gerry doesn't really ask, stepping up to the two of them with steady, confident footsteps. Martin remembers quite abruptly that he too is a creature of the Eye, and this is very much his home turf. "What are you here for?"

"You're not the slightest bit intimidated, are you?" Simon chuckles. Martin's ears pop, and he focuses on Gerry's hand squeezing his arm to ignore the sudden nausea. "I can see why Peter is so annoyed with you."

"I'm flattered." Gerry says dryly. "Need me to show you the way out? I'm sure Martin needs to get back to work."

"Hm… I was planning on just leaving, but I suppose it's always good to stockpile on favors." Simon's eyes glint mischievously again as he pushes off the wall. It's sudden reminder that he's not merely a kooky old man having fun at Martin's expense.

"I'm sure Simon can find the exit by himself, actually." Martin says firmly, taking a step forward. Whatever is Gery thinking anyways, squaring up to Simon Fairchild himself? He has to have heard of him, he has to know how insanely dangerous he is. "And I think we're done with our chat, too."

Simon being on Peter's side probably means he will not hurt Martin, but he somehow doubts Gerry will be granted the same courtesy.

"See what I mean?" Simon chuckles. "Can't write a joke like that."

Martin rolls his eyes, but at least the man is focused on him. He takes another step to position himself firmly between the two of them. "You've seen whatever it was Peter wanted you to see, haven't you?"

"And a bit more too. Just a delightful conversation, if I do say so myself." The tip of the cane taps against the polished hardwood floors, one, two, three. "Hope to have another one soon. Have a nice evening, Martin."

He walks away then without sparing them another look, with the familiarity of one who's traversed these corridors countless times.

"Don't forget to close the window." Gerry says in a low grunt, and Martin rounds on him.

"Shut up." Martin snaps. "What were you thinking?"

Gerry arches a pierced eyebrow, his eyes unimpressed. "Unbelievably stupid, huh? Just up and having a chat with an avatar of the Vast. Can't think why anyone would-"

"Oh, cut it." Martin rolls his eyes. "What do you want?"

It takes a moment, but Gerry seems to deflate. "I wanted to check on you. Maybe ask you to call Tim off."

"Yes, because this really convinced me you don't need someone to keep you out of trouble."

"Implying Tim is not trouble." Gerry snorts. His lips remain curled in something that can't quite be called a smile, but almost the suggestion of one. "You're looking a bit more like yourself."

"...I guess I am." Martin sighs; his hands look a bit less blurred, and he guesses the rest of him does too. "That's not necessarily a good thing."

"It is in my books." Gerry shrugs. "Do you- should I leave?"

Martin arches an eyebrow. "Are you really asking for my opinion on the matter?"

Gerry's smile comes in full now, and it's blinding. It's easy to see why Jon fell in love with him; they deserve each other.

"I had to at least pretend, didn't I?"

-------------------------------------------------------------

"Is that the same tape you've been staring at since yesterday?" Helen asks, her voice echoing curiously from somewhere in Jon's desk.

His mouth twitches into a smile, and he pulls the drawer open to see Helen's face peeking out from the bottom-turned-door. "Have you been watching me?"

Helen gives him a sharp smile, all fractured, amused angles. "Isn't that what one does here?"

"I suppose." Jon nods simply. There is not much that can be done to stop Helen from popping in wherever she wants to, really. One just has to deal with her; at least she's noticeably less prone to stabbing than her predecessor.

"Well, why haven't you listened to it?"

"Someone doesn't want me to, I think."

"Which one?" Helen asks, and Jon gives it a moment's thought.

He doesn't not want to listen to the tape, which probably takes the Mother of Puppets off the equation. Instead, it feels like every particle in his body -a body that he's very aware was kept from death by the Beholding- is recoiling at the idea of pressing that button. Perhaps it would be easier, Jon thinks, if he hadn't allowed himself to change this far.

"The Eye, I think. Whatever's in there, it doesn't particularly want me to know."

"I thought the tapes were yours." Helen hums thoughtfully; it's several frequencies and rhythms at the same time, and Jon feels the beginnings of a headache start to pound at his temples.

"They are," Jon says. 'But I am the Eye's,' he doesn't add. It's not something he wants to declare. Not something he wants to call. His patron already has much too tight a grip on him without him declaring allegiance.

"Hm. Well, you only had to ask, dear." Helen grins.

A long fingered hand climbs its way out of the drawer like a flesh-colored spider, and Jon can't help but to snort in amusement. This is probably the only thing the entities could never plan ahead for.

"Thank you, Helen," he says as a too-sharp finger presses down on the play button, before the hand retreats back into the drawer.

"My pleasure." Helen's laughter echoes around the inside of the drawer as it slides shut on its own.

'Right. No use putting it off further.' Gertrude's voice is dry and businesslike as usual, and something in Jon immediately screams for him to throw himself against the tape, stop it.

This is the traitor, who never called herself the Archivist but used their powers to her own gain. The one that sought knowledge not to add to the Archives but to destroy the delicate balance of the entities, to sow war and destruction under the banner of the Eye in hopes of painting a target at its core. This is the one that hurt his Gerry, left him behind like a broken toy, bound into painful non-existence. This is the Enemy, turn it off!

Jon doesn't. Instead, he focuses on his predecessor's words to fend off the Eye's insidious whispers.

'And so Eric Delano ended.'

Oh.

-------------------------------------------------------------

Click.

"Oh. Hi." Martin lifts the stack of papers to reveal the tape recorder waiting underneath. "You know? I've always wanted to catch one of you on the move. I put those papers there ten minutes ago and you weren't under them." He taps the tape recorder like one would boop a cat's nose, and the device clicks contentedly.

It's been... an odd week. Between Jon's visit, having to actually speak to Tim to convince him of keeping an eye on Gerry, and then Gerry himself coming to try and pick a fight with Simon, he's feeling like he's standing with a foot on each side of the line.

The Lonely still has its hooks in him, enough so that Martin wants it back, but not enough that he can actually walk in and out of it like he did when the Hunters were threatening Gerry.

"Is that what you're here for? Do you want me to talk about my state?" he asks the recorder. "That's really the only thing I've got now. No new statements, no-"

A suspicion starts taking shape in his mind, and he narrows his eyes. "Peter? Are you-" The door to the office flies open, and Martin jumps back and to his feet, heart hammering in his chest. "Who-?!"

"Martin?" Jon all but trips his way to the desk, and Martin takes him in with a concerned look. His face looks ashen, his lips almost white; his hair is a mess, like he's been running his hands through it, and his hands themselves are shaking. His eyes are wide and frantic, halfway through going back to his natural color and swimming with something as he looks up at Martin. "I- it's great you're here, I-"

"If you're going to break into my office on the regular, I preferred the other way." Martin snaps; his heart's still racing, and he can feel the Lonely trying to pull him back.

"The other- oh. So you were here. I- I thought I heard your voice, I- I followed it instead of the Eye."

"Jon-"

"Right. Right, I- sorry for startling you. It wasn't my intention." He looks a bit lost now, like the wind has been taken from under his sails, like he hadn't planned as far as finding him here. His gaze has always held weight, but as his eyes run over his face Martin feels like he's standing under a spotlight. "I- I've missed you."

Martin winces, the three words imbued with a meaning he doesn't know how to process.

"Jon-"

His eyes burn on Martin's skin. Is this how his victims feel, or is the fear of being wanted different from the fear of being known?

Jon reaches a still shaky hand towards him. "I'm- I know what you said, I- I trust you. I know you know what you're doing and Martin, you-"

"Jon, what do you want?" This way is easier. It hurts, but he has to send him away. For his own good; for everyone's.

His hand drops, but Jon's eyes are still glued to his face like Jon's afraid if he stops looking for a single second, Martin will fade away.

"I think I found a way for us to leave the Institute."

"...What?" is all Martin can force out, his brain screeching to a halt. "Jon, what-"

"Gerry's father, he- he quit the Institute Martin. We could do it too." Jon sidesteps the desk, unsteady on his feet, just unsteady in general. Martin's mind is still trying to process the words.

"I- Gerry's father used to work here?"

"Martin, you're not listening!" Jon's hands clamp around his wrists, and Martin's mouth clips shut so fast he nearly bites his tongue off. "We could- we could leave."

"But- Jon, how?" The Beholding is not like the Lonely, you can't keep it at bay by being around other people, if anything that makes it worse. There will always be fear and suffering around, and as long as you can see it-

Oh. Oh, shit.

"...You're joking," Martin breathes out. It's the only thing that makes sense, because otherwise Jon would be suggesting-

"It's... I realize it's pretty drastic, but-"

"It is! Have you- did you tell the others or-"

"Uhm... n- not really." Jon's grip falters, like the breath has been punched out of him. "You're the first."

"I'm- why?" Martin asks. Perhaps the fact that he thinks he knows the answer is the scariest thing of them all.

"I thought-" just like that, Jon's hands drop from his wrists. "We could leave here, Martin."

"I- this is too much, where- Gerry, where is he?" Martin stutters out. He'll know if this is real, if it would work. He's been in this world for far longer than any of them and-

"He's by St. Paul's, with Melanie" Jon responds almost immediately, and even just the thought of Gerry seems to be enough to ground him a little. "They haven't found the Corruption book yet. They're- they're coming back now, but they're thinking of stopping for food."

"Stopping for- Jon he doesn't know?!" Martin runs a hand through his hair. All the fog is gone from the room, and dear lord, how he misses it. "Jon, what were you thinking?! Gouge your eyes out and just leave him to find you?"

"I haven't- he wasn't here," Jon mutters, averting his gaze. "Martin, it doesn't- Gerry's not tied to the Institute, he's tied to me-"

"Yes, by the Eye!" Martin snaps. "What, you think it's going to let you keep him after you do this?!"

"I-"

"A-and then what? Is he just- what is he going to do? Just... take care of two blind men for the rest of his life? That isn't fair, not without asking him!"

"What is the alternative, then?" Jon cuts in, and when Martin finally looks down at him, he looks positively devastated, the eyes of a drowning man that sees a ship take the wrong turn. "What are we going to do, Martin?"

"... Don't do this, Jon," Martin sighs, and Jon flinches back like he's been slapped. "I can't- don't make it my choice. I can't choose for- for you, for him."

"Martin-"

"Could you even survive at this point? Because- because if you die, he dies too. Have you thought about it?"

And what if he did? What if Jon did think about it, and he decided he'd rather be free, even if it meant not living? If everything Martin has done is for nothing, because saving the world has absolutely no meaning if Jon's not in it? If-

"Martin?" Jon's voice has a broken quality to it when it reaches him, and Martin opens his eyes -when did he close them?- to find that oh, the fog is back. "Martin, don't- please don't go."

"Please leave, Jon."

"I- What?"

Yes. This... this feels better. Even the heartbreak is numbed. What does it matter if Jon leaves him behind, if he's always been alone? If he wants to be?

"Peter is bound to come back soon, Jon. I'd much rather he doesn't find you here." Martin exhales, and mist breezes past his lips.

"I don't care. Martin, please- come and talk to Gerry with me. We can- we'll figure something out, we will."

"You made me a promise, Jon." Martin looks towards the door. "You said you trusted me."

"A- and I do! You know that, but Martin, I- we could go. Together, please-"

"I don't think it's something I want anymore." Martin shrugs. "And you need to respect that. I thought you'd moved on with him, I thought you'd leave me alone."

"Is- I don't believe it. I can't believe that's what you want." Jon's voice is soft like the caress of the fog on Martin's skin. This is it. This is- he could make him leave. Maybe forever, and if this crazy self-mutilation plan of his is right, maybe, just maybe, he will be safe.

"Compel me, then. Ask." Martin looks at him in the eye, and Jon averts his gaze almost immediately.

"I wouldn't. Not to you," he mumbles.

"Then you'll have to take me at my word, I suppose." Martin gestures to the door. "Please."

"...Martin, I'm so sorry."

Stab the knife in. Twist it. Anything it takes.

"I'm not." Martin's heart aches, but it feels cold and far away, like everything else.

-------------------------------------------------------------

Jon is antsy.

It would be obvious even if Gerry couldn’t taste the anxiety in the quiet 'Thank you' that Jon gives after he helps him out of his coat. They usually talk on the way home, but this evening went by with Gerry narrating his and Melanie's hunt for the Corruption book to a mostly silent Jon.

It's... it's alright, he decides as he goes into the bathroom for a shower. Jon promised not to lie to him; if it's something he needs to know, then he trusts he will tell him. He's pretty much forgotten about it by the time he comes out in a cloud of steam, his hair still pinned up on a loose bun to keep it out of the way and wearing a loose t-shirt comfortable enough to sleep in.

Still, his stomach falls to the ground when a pair of arms come to wrap around his middle as he stands before the kitchen counter, brewing himself a cup of coffee.

"I'm here," Gerry says before Jon can even voice a question, because that's what matters. Anything else they can fix together. "What's bothering you? Did- is everything alright with Martin?"

Jon's forehead comes to rest between his shoulder blades, and Gerry lays a hand over Jon's tangled fingers on his stomach.

"Nothing is alright with Martin. But this- I- this is not about him."

"Then?" Gerry asks, even though he's got pretty clear feeling of who it is about. Jon shifts behind him to reach up and press a kiss on the back of his neck. "Jon-"

"I stole a tape from the Institute."

Gerry scowls. "I hardly think you can steal something that's yours, Jon."

"I'm- this one is not mine." Jon's arms tighten around him, and Gerry runs soothing circles with his thumb over the burn-smooth knuckles. "I- I think you should listen to it."

"Is it about me?" Is it about someone he couldn't save?

Jon steps back, and waits until Gerry's turned to face him to tentatively brush a hand against his.

"It's- it's a Gertrude tape." Oh. Well, those are never easy. Gertrude is still a can of worms Gerry doesn't dare look too deeply into, she- "She's calling your father from the book."

Gerry freezes.

The words echo around in his mind as he tries to connect them in a way he can process, in a way that he can deal with. How come his chest feels so heavy when there's not a heart in there?

"I'm- s- so he was in there after all," he says. His voice sounds strained, and he clears his throat, his gaze stubbornly fixed on Jon's collarbone. "I always wondered."

Jon says nothing, simply looks over to the little breakfast table tucked in against a corner. A single tape recorder waits there, like a miniature coffin containing the only remains of a man he never knew.

"How did you find it?" Gerry asks, and fuck, his voice is hoarse again. "I- did it come to you?"

"The- I went into Martin's office yesterday after you left. It- I was looking for things the Eye didn't want me to see." Jon's free hand comes to rest at Gerry's hip, and Gerry can feel his gaze on him, trying to catch his eye. "You don't have to listen to it if you don't- I can tell you what he-"

"No," Gerry blurts out so suddenly it startles even himself. "I'm- I'll do it. "

"Would- I can leave if you want me to. I'll wait at the living room, or- please look at me?" Jon's voice sounds thin, almost begging, and Gerry shuts his eyes for a second just to get his bearings, before opening them again.

"I'll- stay. Please."

Jon nods once, firmly. Gerry can't help but to marvel at the thought that all he needed to do was ask for what he wanted for Jon to do it. That Jon won't think he's weak for it.

The tape recorder still looks deceptively harmless when they come to sit at the table. Gerry lifts a hand to it, and is quietly surprised at how steady it is; is all the chaos confined only to his head?

"I'm here," Jon whispers by his side when he hesitates over the button. Gerry nods. It's- that's all that matters.

Click.

-------------------------------------------------------------

His father sounds like him, is all Gerry can think for the first few minutes.

Not- not exactly like him of course, but enough that if you heard them talk closely after the one another, you'd know they were related. There's a similar cadence to their words, a rhythm in the way they start their sentences, and- Jon's hand wraps around his again, and Gerry abruptly remembers to pay attention to the actual words being said.

'You should've seen what she did to my body afterwards.'

Ah.

It's... he's known she killed him for a long time, but the confirmation still hurts a little. Would his life have been any different if he'd found the page himself? Maybe a little less lonely.

'So why did she give me to you?'

'I- I don't know. She seemed to think it was a gift.'

Gerry doesn't think he ever heard Gertrude sound so dubious, so lost. Not the woman that strolled into Pinhole Books and single-handedly got rid of his mother, the one who took him around the globe with her, hunting avatars, stoping rituals.

He misses her, he thinks with a full sort of ache in his chest. What is it that Eric -his father- just said? Aware of the heartbreak, but not really feeling it.

'So? What did they not want me to know?' Gertrude asks in the tape, and Gerry's lips curl into a bitter smirk. Of course she wouldn't like to be kept in the dark. It's poetic, really.

'I quit.'

Everything in Gerry's mind comes to a screeching halt at those words. It's- you can't quit the Institute, he Knows that. The Beholding has its chosen tied to its place of power more tightly than any other entity.

But... but then why was the Eye so determined to not let Jon find this tape? If- if there's a way to get him out, to get Melanie and Martin out-

'I want you to find my son. If Mary is- if she's gone, or worse, I want you to make sure he's alright.'

...Oh.

"Turn it- turn it off," he blurts just as Gertrude concedes that he might be useful. "Jon-"

"Ger- are you alright?" The tape clicks to a sudden stop, and Gerry realizes he's closed his eyes only when he has to open them again to look at Jon. "I'm-"

"Gertrude knew." The words weigh like two lead blocks placed over his chest. He takes as deep a breath as he can, though it comes in shaky as he pushes his chair away from the table and leans on his knees, burying his face in his hands. "All that time- she knew what happened to him. And she never told me."

What else is new? She moved him across a board she never allowed him to see. You're not supposed to ask questions, Gerard, you don't want to lean more into the Beholding than you already are, do you?

"Gerry, I'm-" Jon chair screeches against the floor when he stands from it to crouch before him, his face framed by the long black curtains of Gerry's hair. His hands stop a few inches short of reaching him; Jon hasn't hesitated to touch him for a while now, but teetering on the edge of a breakdown would do it, Gerry guesses. "Gertrude-"

"Don't. Please don't talk about her," Gerry interrupts, because he's not sure if Jon's words will be attacking or excusing Gertrude, and he can't for the life of him work out which he'd rather hear less.

"I won't, I'm- sorry." Jon's hands finally come to rest at his knees and he stays there immobile, just staring up at him like Gerry's all that's ever existed. He gets the odd, dispassionate thought that not many beings have been looked at this intensely by an Archivist and felt reassured instead of terrified. "I'm- I'm here."

"She never- I knew she'd known my father. I found a photograph of her old team, with Michael and Emma and h- but she never-" Gerry tries for another deep breath, but it feels like no air is actually going into his lungs, and he shoots to his feet so abruptly Jon almost topples back. "She was the last person to see him. She- she went to find me because he asked her to."

It's infuriating, to feel gratitude towards a man he never knew. To grieve a voice in a tape without the slightest hint of what Eric- what his father was really like.

He's aware he's been pacing the room only when he stops, his back thumping harshly against the wall because at least physical pain is something he knows how to deal with. Jon comes to sit by his side when he slides down to the floor, like that day at the Institute so long ago when Jon got marked by the Flesh.

"He loved her." Gerry's voice is heavy and slow, like a drunk man trying to sort out through the hazy memories of past nights. "Even- she did all those things to him, and he still loved my mother."

"Did- did you notice?" Jon's voice is just a weak murmur, no Archivist here, just a man that cares for him, hard as it may be to believe.

"What?" Gerry darts a sideways look at him, tired. Jon's hands are stretched the slightest bit towards him, like he wants to touch him but doesn't dare to; his face is a mask of empathy, as sad for him as Gerry has never seen him look for himself.

"He- Eric... your father called you Gerry." Jon's lips curl into a small, careful smile, and Gerry breaks.

Surely he's too old an adult to crumble down in tears for the ghost of a man he never knew, but Jon clumsily reaches to wrap his arms around him, and Gerry thinks that maybe, just maybe he can be weak for once, in this hug that feels like home.

-------------------------------------------------------------

"We don't- you don't have to listen to the rest of it, if you don't want to." Jon's voice is almost too quiet, like he's afraid to break the silence they've fallen into.

Gerry looks up at him from where he's resting his head on Jon's lap; the kitchen floor is unforgiving on his back and shoulders, but the slight discomfort helps in keeping him grounded. "Is it true?"

"Hm?" Jon pushes a lock of hair away from his face, and Gerry leans his cheek into his palm.

"Is there a way to quit?" Gerry asks. The shock of piercing, migraine-like pain that strikes his mind is enough of an answer.

"I- apparently. It's not- I don't know if- I might be too far gone."

"What do you have to do?" It's on the tape, he knows, but he can't- maybe one day he'll be able to listen to the whole thing, but for now all he can think of is this pained ghost that only wanted to make sure his son was alright.

Jon exhales slowly through his teeth, before bringing his free hand up to his face and making a plucking motion with index and thumb just an inch from his eye.

"Oh." It makes sense, Gerry guesses. No eyes to behold with, problem solved. "Will you do it?"

"I'm- I can't leave Martin there." Jon sighs again, a bit more defeated this time. "I'm sorry, just-'

"I get it." Gerry shrugs, tangling his fingers with Jon's over his cheek. It's no good. Either all three get out, or no one does. "is that what happened then? He said no?"

Jon nods once, slowly. "I think it was too much for him, in his state. He- he was worried about you, though."

Huh. That's- logically, Gerry knows Martin has worried about him before. It's been twice now that Martin steps between him and an avatar with bad intentions. Still, it comes as a pleasant surprise that Martin cares not only when in the heat of the moment.

"About me?" he asks, because it's a bit easier than to make heads or tails of everything he's feeling right now. "I'm not an Institute empl- oh. Huh. I guess it is very likely that I'd die if you quit."

Jon scoffs. "I didn't- it's stupid, but I forgot all about that in the moment. I just- you're mine, you're not tied to the Institute. I forgot the Eye-"

Gerry snorts when Jon cuts himself abruptly. "What was that?"

"I'm- I didn't-" Jon sputters, his face growing red. "I didn't mean it that way, I'm-"

Gerry laughs, delighted.

It still hurts, the not-quite memory of the father that was ripped from him. The chain around all of them, and the terrible condition to break it off. The fact that Martin is keeping them at arm's length to try and save the world, when they'd much rather save him.

But it all looks a lot less grim when watching Jon try to regain his composure after the slip. When he remembers that for once, he's fighting not just to harm the entities, but to keep the ones he cares for from them. When he thinks about how for the first time in his life, other people are interested in protecting him for a change.

"Stop laughing!" Jon snaps, smacking softly at Gerry's shoulder. "I didn't mean-"

"It's alright. You could've." Gerry catches his struggling wrist, and brings it up to his lips to lay a kiss on the palm of his hand. "I kind of am yours."

"I- what?" Jon freezes.

The problem with these things, Gerry decides, is that they're often painted as the culmination of a whole journey. The last thing you say before the credits roll, the last words on a final page.

He doesn't want that, a tale of hardship with the suggestion of happiness at the very end. He wants his story to be a promise, a challenge to a world that, no matter how hard it tries, can't take this from him.

"I love you."

#jongerrymartin #vit writes #illicio #jgm

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otpnessmess · 4 years

Text

Daminette December Day 3: “Decorating”

TW: Major Character Death.

Now that I made that clear, I want to apologize in advance for any sadness this can cause. I just couldn’t help it. Nonetheless, I hope you enjoy your read as always! Also, @ethelphantom is awesome for putting up with me and going over this.

Ao3 - Masterlist

Decorating any type of thing had never been Damian's forte, but he tended to become particularly grumpy about it around the time the holidays rolled around.

During the time he spent under the supervision of his mother and grandfather, holiday decorating was sparse, if there even was any at all. He couldn't say he was mad about the lack of spirit, however. Normal people liked to believe that there was something special about the season, with their holier-than-thou attitude and preaching hope and happiness wherever they went. Damian found them annoying and was more than glad his family didn't engage in such festivities.

When he arrived at Wayne Manor, though, he wasn't ready for how different things were handled. Being introduced to the family a few days before his birthday meant half of December had already gone by, which in turn meant that the holiday craze was on its peak point.

'Disgusting.' The boy scowled around at the menagerie of trinkets and garlands hanging everywhere he could see. Was that mistletoe on that door frame? Why would you bring a tree inside, only to put stupid colorful balls and a star on it? He was pretty tempted to go back to his mother and her strict training. Anything sounded better than staying in the mansion from hell, with these savages and their awfully cheerful spirits for the month.

Bruce never allowed him to do that, however, so the only thing Damian could do was learn how to at least tolerate it.

It was surprisingly less difficult than they originally planned, even if it took the family several years to completely warm him up. They learned presents were a great incentive. His siblings knew perfectly well that, was Bruce to find out they were gifting him with weapons and strange books (which contained incredibly inappropriate things for a 12-year-old), there would be hell to pay. But hey, at least the kid seemed to appreciate them. Hopefully, he liked the gifts enough to keep quiet about it and not plan any murders.

By the time he was 16, the holiday season was not such a burden anymore. Like, sure, Damian still hated carols, and those cheesy Christmas movies his family used to watch all huddled together on the sofa. But, as Jon liked to remind him, that's not what the holidays were supposed to be about.

That same year, his friend introduced him to Marinette. She was in Gotham on a trip with her class, and since Jon was a fan of just befriending adorable people, he made it their new mission to do so with her. Not that it was hard, mind you. When the tiny girl learned that Damian could speak French as well as he could English, her face lit up. Much to Jon's dismay and surprise, quick responses to whatever the hell Marinette was saying kept falling from his best friend's lips. And thus a friendship was born.

It was sad when, a month later, they had to go to the airport together to say their goodbyes. She promised to keep in contact with both of them, before waving as the duo saw her disappear inside the plane.

For two years, they kept close contact. Damian used every opportunity he had to hop on a plane to visit his friend in Paris. As the nineteen-year-old touched ground in France's capital, that frizzy December morning, it was with determination on his heart. There was no beating around the bush anymore. He was going to confess to Marinette. Even if she didn't like him that way, it would have been fine. He would never stop visiting or being her friend because she rejected his feelings. That was something cowards did, and Damian Wayne was a lot of things, but never a coward. He, however, turned out to be one of the lucky ones whose feelings were reciprocated by the one they loved. That night, standing next to the Seine, Marinette had said she liked him too. Damian couldn't be more excited about starting a new chapter of his life, with her by his side.

More holidays came and went. Mari accepted a scholarship to a university in Gotham for designing, and now the couple was living together. They got a very nice apartment in the middle of the city, close to both the university campus and Wayne Tower, where Damian had started to help out Tim in the family business.

His Angel couldn’t have been more excited when he offered to take her shopping so they could decorate their new home. And he honestly didn’t feel the need to complain even 5 hours into skipping from store to store, arms full of bags.

Once they got back, they immediately put their hands to work. He still hated Christmas carols, but maybe, just maybe, seeing the woman he loved hanging stupid and colorful ornaments on their tree while humming, made him hate them a bit less.

The lovebirds adopted a routine and executed it to a T multiple times over the upcoming years. Marinette took care of the tree while Damian went around hanging those dumb garlands that he now kinda liked. They reminded him of his Angel teasing him while pretending it was a feathered boa. It had been a hilarious sight. His absolute favorite thing to do was to call his beloved to him, only for her to step under the mistletoe he had just put up. She would always roll her eyes at his stupid demeanor before kissing him senseless. No matter how many times he did that, Marinette would humor him. And once they pulled away, she would always have a smile ready for him. The kind of smile that could blind you if you looked at it too hard.

The kind of smile that could easily light up an entire room.

The kind of smile that made Damian wish it had been him that fateful night.

The world hadn’t deserved to lose her. And she hadn’t deserved to go.

God, he missed her so much.

Most of what he had on his mind about the incident was a patchwork of other people’s memories. His own memories didn’t manage to survive the shutdown that overcame him when his brothers showed up at his door, all of them sporting pained and scared expressions. It was a cold and dark evening in Gotham, most people having already retreated into the warmth of their homes. Marinette hadn’t. The only thing he could clearly remember from earlier that night was seeing the snow slowly fall outside as he waited for his Angel to come back from her dinner with Chloé.

A drunk driver, they had told him. The man fell asleep in front of the wheel and drove straight onto the sidewalk where she was standing, waiting idly for her blonde friend to come back with their hot chocolate.

Damian had lost a part of himself that day. Those who were close to him worriedly wondered if he would ever be able to heal from it.

They hadn’t had the time to start decorating yet that year.

Despite his family’s best efforts, he completely secluded himself. The boxes full of Christmas spirit had been waiting in the middle of the living room for the young couple to break into them yet again. Ready for another holiday season of making new memories, as well as remembering the old ones. They stayed right there. Unopened. Inside the empty apartment Damian hadn’t dared step into after that night. His father had insisted on having him stay with them, and he had no energy to even try and fight it. In his numbness, he ignored everything that happened the following month.

Bruce had someone clean the apartment regularly, but leaving it untouched otherwise. Marinette’s family took care of the very private funeral they held, agreeing to have her stay in Gotham where she had decided to spend her life. Damian had attended, he was sure of it, they said they had dragged him along. However, he sometimes still doubted the image of her in a white gown, laying there on a casket, was real. His beloved had looked beautiful even then.

The following year was not easy. Ten years with Marinette had gone by in the blink of an eye. One could argue it was a lot of time, but for the 26-year-old Damian, it hadn’t been nearly enough with his Habibti by his side. She was his anchor in the stormy sea that was his mind. He had been her sword and shield whenever something or someone made her doubt herself.

That was all gone now.

No anchor.

No one to support.

He was on his own.

But slowly but surely, his stubborn nature surfaced. And had decided that it was enough. It refused to let Damian wither away. Not willing to throw away everything the woman he loved had worked so hard on. Marinette had made him want to be a better person, and he was not going to dishonor her in that.

That’s how that December afternoon had found him standing in the middle of their living room. Having a staring contest with a giant tree.

Even if it had taken him longer than in previous years, he had managed to put up all the usual house decorations. Although he couldn’t help but feel the mistletoes were mocking him whenever he walked under them and there wasn’t a smile, or a roll of the eyes, or a kiss for him. After some hours, the only thing left to decorate was the tree. But there was no Marinette to decorate it. Which left just Damian to complete the job.

One by one, the ornaments his fiancee had picked with the utmost care all those years ago were hung on the branches. At the time, Marinette had said they were a promise. For as long as they had each other, they could have these as a reminder of all the good moments. She had made it her mission to, no matter where they went on holiday, or if they were just celebrating a special occasion, buy a little ornament for their tree. It had stuck with them. Birthdays, anniversaries, promotions, important moments. They all had their commemoratory trinkets.

It took him some minutes to gather his thoughts and himself together, but he did eventually start. With every little decoration he put up, he began to feel his heart become lighter and lighter as he relived the memories they each carried. Memories of the great times they had spent together. Having finished with those, wrapping up the tree with lights proved to be the easiest task he had taken on so far, they were just lights. But now he had to finally face the most challenging part: the star.

Damian didn’t know how much time he just stood there, twirling the silver star in his hands. He reminisced about how every year, whenever it was time to finish with the tree, Marinette would seek him out happily. She used to drag him along and wait for him to hoist her up by the waist so she could finally wrap up her work. He always teased his Angel about not being able to do it herself, since she had indeed been the one to pick the tallest tree for their house.

Thinking of her brought a sad smile to his face, as well as some resolve to his brain at last. A moment later, the star was standing tall and proud in its place, looking down at him.

“There you go, Habibti. It’s done.”

Tears welled up in his eyes as he smiled at the photo he had previously balanced in between the branches. A photo of them on their last Christmas together under the tree on the morning of the 25th.

He was still sad.

He still missed her with every fiber of his being.

But, as he glanced into those beautiful blue eyes he loved so much, Damian could finally feel how the weight that had found home on his chest for the past year alleviated, leaving nothing but a dull ache in its place.

He took it as a sign, and hope bloomed in his heart.

May Marinette remember him wherever she was, because he was sure he always going to remember her. And with a last look at the picture in his hands, he finally knew.

He was going to be okay.

And there it is! Day 3 is done! Thank you all so much for reading and leaving so many lovely comments, both here and on Ao3. I cannot explain just how happy those make me <3 Hopefully I will have enough time to write at least something tiny for day 4, so see you tomorrow!

Tag list:

@tbehartoo @daminette-december2019 @vixen-uchiha @18-fandoms-unite-08

#daminette december #damian wayne #marinette dupain cheng #marinette dupain-cheng #daminette #day 3 #tw: major character death #damian x marinette #miraculous ladybug #liswrites

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flyingkiki · 5 years

Text

Curiosity, 2/?

Oh, hohoho. I am so gone. These two are giving me tingly happy feelings. We needs to build our TimRae army.

####

Raven had shitty family members, Tim noted. Not that it needed to go into his files on her because they already established that with her father, but seriously. Her demonic brothers were assholes, to say the least. He grunted as he swung his staff with all his bodyweight into the demon’s back, saving Batman from loosing an arm. But, fuck, man.

Basically, this is what’s happening:

Some cult, an offshoot of the Church of Trigon, has made its way into Gotham. For the past few days, they’ve been haphazardly opening portals and luring in demons into the city. They were under the belief a new lord of the underworld would bless them. Unfortunately, none of the demons that came into the world were demon lords – just angry demons out for some blood.

And, as it later turned out, after a half-sibling who killed their father.

Raven faintly wondered where she got her luck. All she wanted was to have some peace and quiet for the week – things were going surprisingly well in Jump. But no, some assholes had to play church and worship demons. What the fuck. She grunted and blocked an attack from one of the more gnarly demons, and flipped over it. She sent a ball of black energy to its back just as it was about to turn to her, and she watched as the demon skidded across the ground.

Raven briefly looked over her shoulder, making sure Red Robin and Batman were still alive somewhere in the forest clearing. Good, they still were. She faintly wondered if she should take them out for dinner as a peace offering for having to deal with her shitty family. Raven watched them struggle with a bigger demon – did these demons grow over the past few days? She furrowed her brows. Grunting, she turned back to the demon she was fighting and frowned.

“Sister,” red eyes glowed and the demons arms twitched, as it stood in front of her. The demon growled, fangs baring and it looked ready to pounce again.

“I hate my family,” Raven breathed, hands glowing and with a chant let go of a large blast of black energy.

“You killed father,”

Raven’s eyes widened as she listened to the first coherent sentence from the demon. They never really said anything, aside from sister. This was a first.

The demon growled, noting her opening, and pounced Raven. Fangs bared and claws sharp, it made a swipe at the smaller girl.

Raven grunted as she barely dodged the attack. She felt hot claws dig into her back and blood trickle down her side. She inhaled sharply as searing pain flashed through her body and she stumbled away from another attack. This was not good.

“Die,” the demon growled and started to run towards her.

“Raven!”

She faintly heard Tim in the background but her eyes were focused on the demon that was charging towards her. This whole situation was pissing her off. This stupid cult should have never started trying to bring demons into the world. Her brothers should just fuck off. And if she got her hands on one of the cult members, she’d –

The demon yelped as Raven’s soul self rose from her body. Her energy pulsed, anger and frustration running through her system. Her demon brothers should not be here. They should be no where civilians. She growled as her eyes glowed red, and her soul rose higher. Inky tendrils flooded the clearing, crawling over the floor and towards the two demons who were frozen to the stop.

Tim’s eyed widened as he watched Raven turn into her soul self. She rose off the ground, black energy pulsing through the air and black tentacles slithering across the floor towards the two demons. He inhaled sharply as her red eyes glowed, her face hooded and a shadow if a raven looming over her. He had never seen Raven use this kind of power before in battle, his heart hammered in his chest as a black tendril slithered just past his boots and towards the demon he and Batman were fighting earlier.

“Don’t come back,” Raven growled and with pulse of black energy, the demons were engulfed in the black tendrils. There were loud howls of pain and the tendrils crushed the demons into the ground. Black dust billowed in the air before slowly settling on the ground. The black tendrils slithered on the ground for a moment, before retreating back into Raven’s cape. Nothing was left of the demons.

“Raven,” Batman stepped next to Tim, watching as Raven lingered in the air. Her eyes continued to glow red as she stared at the pentagram on the forest floor. She turned to Batman, red eyes furrowed.

“They’re gone,” Batman supplied, waiting on guard for Raven’s next move.

Red eyes blinked and they flashed white. Familiar large purple-blue eyes stared down at Red Robin and Batman and she let out a soft gasp. The black energy around her disappeared and she landed unsteadily on her feet. She sent them an apologetic look.

“Sorry you had to see that,” she mumbled. She glanced at the pentagram before adjusting the hood over her head.

Batman nodded, eyes narrowing as he surveyed the scene. The cult members that summoned the demons were long gone after making a run for it during the battle. His frown deepened. This cat and mouse chase had to stop soon.

“You’re bleeding,” announced Red Robin, looking at the blossoming red patch over Raven’s right shoulder.

She forgot about that. Drawing her left hand underneath her cloak, Raven pressed her hand against the torn flesh. She winced. This might take a while to heal. “It’ll heal,” she said.

Tim frowned. He knew about her healing abilities, but he also knew that the display of massive amounts of energy can slow down her healing process. “Let’s go back to the cave,” he said. “Ride the Batmobile with us,”

Raven made a face. “I’ll fly,” she said and began levitating.

Batman frowned. “You lost blood and your energy is low. Better just ride with us,”

She waved them off and spun on her heels. Like hell was she going to ride a car in a shape of a bat. She knew they’d drive like Dick – like lunatics. “See you at the cave,” and without waiting for their reply, she flew off.

Batman frowned. “Stubborn,” he clicked his tongue.

Tim chuckled. “Seems pretty familiar,”

They arrived at the Batcave in record time and found Alfred making his way down into the med bay of the cave with some medical supplies and a steaming cup of tea. Alfred stopped and watched his two charges jump out of the Batmobile and remove their cowls. “Miss Raven is in the med bay. She arrived a few moments ago and we’ve been working on cleaning her wounds. Some of the cuts ran in deeper than expected,” he supplied as the trio walked towards the med bay.

Tim nodded, long black hair falling into his eyes. Pushing it back, he offered Alfred a soft smile. “Thanks, Al,”

Raven looked up from tending to her wounds. She had peeled off the top of her uniform, leaving her in a utilitarian black sports bra. Her bloodied cloak hung over the end of the bed she sat on. A bloodied sterile gauze was in her left hand, fresh from wiping away some of the blood from the back of her shoulder. “Hey,”

Bruce noticed the bloodied gauze. “Are you alright?”

Raven shrugged. “I’ve had worse,” she said. She thanked Alfred when he set new supplies next to her. “My family doesn’t like me all to much. I can pretty much say the feeling is mutual,”

“Do you think they are after you?” Bruce asked. “The demon you fought looked keen in killing you,”

Raven rolled her eyes. “Most people, and metas, would like to see me gone once they know who and what I am,” she sent a knowing smirk at Bruce, remembering the first time she met the Justice League and asked for help. It wasn’t a warm welcome, to say the least. She shook her head when Bruce continued to stare at her. “Honestly, no. I don’t think so. I’m not really very welcome in the family after we killed Trigon. We’re just dealing with a ragtag team of cult members and blood thirsty demons who find themselves on earth for the first time with no idea what to do expect kill,”

Bruce nodded. He sighed and pushed himself away from the medical cabinet he was leaning against. “Okay,” he began. “We’ll keep our ears close to the ground and listen for any new activities. I’ll coordinate with Oracle and see what we can do,” he said and began making his way out of the med bay. “Rest and get your energy back,”

“Understood,” replied Raven, watching Batman leave.

“Need help?”

Purple eyes slid over to Tim, her stare heavy and calculating. Raven reminded Tim a lot of Bruce, he could barely read her emotions. He eyed the bloodied gauze in her hand and took a small step forward, faintly wondering if he was stepping over boundaries. She was after all, half naked and they barely knew each other. Emphasis on the half-naked.

Raven watched Tim take another step forward, a tentative smile playing on his lips. She could feel several emotions coming off of him – concern, interest, curiosity, attraction. Raven blinked. Tim was so different from all the other Robin’s she met. Dick was a mix of seriousness with a strong intent of proving himself, he was strong willed, guarded, and such a hardheaded asshole sometimes; Jason was a wild mix of chaos and charm, and Damian was, well, Damian. The young boy was practically a storm of emotions. But Tim, Tim of all the Robins was a sea of calm in all of the chaos that goes around them – despite of the amount of caffeine he kept on drinking. She knew that he was the smartest of the Robins; an excellent strategist – she could practically feel how fast his brain works. Yet, he was so different from all the wildly active Robins she knew in her life. This intrigued Raven.

She titled her head and offered Tim a small smile. “Okay,”

Tim paused briefly, surprised that she would let him help her. Nodding, he stepped behind her on the med table and took a look at the three wounds that ran along her shoulder blades. He whistled at the sight of the gaping wounds. “Yikes,” Tim made a face. “Remind me to never get on the bad side of your family,”

Raven snorted.

With nimble fingers, he finished cleaning the wounds and set out to stitch them closed. He noted a few other scars that ran down her back and sides and disappeared into her uniform. He faintly wondered where they were from and what stories they told. These were not in her medical files. He always taught she could just heal herself completely.

“Sometimes, when I’m too tired, my healing process is slower than normal. Sometimes some scars stay,” said Raven suddenly, tilting her head just a little bit so she could see Tim over her shoulder.

Tim paused, blue eyes widening in surprise as they connected with amused purple eyes. His needle hovered close to her skin. “Huh? I –”

Using her good hand, she tapped the side of her head. “You think pretty loudly,” she quirked her lips. “Also, empath.”

“Oh!” Cheeks warmed, blue eyes averted from her amused purple ones and Tim focused on closing the wound on her shoulder. “Sorry,”

Raven shrugged, a small amused smile playing on her lips. “It’s okay,”

Tim concentrated on finishing his patch up job, trying to slow his thoughts down. After a few more moments of silence and after finally, finally, taping the last gauze over the wound, Tim was done. “I’m sure Cyborg does a better job at the tower,” he said after stepping away from the bed.

Raven looked at her shoulder briefly and hummed softly. Cyborg did a better job, but Tim didn’t need to know that. She looked up at Tim and tilted her head. “Thanks for the help,” she said and hopped off the table. She looked at what remained of her torn leotard and wondered if it was even worth trying to slip back on. She let out an exasperated sigh. Just her luck.

Tim watched Raven struggle to put her torn uniform back on. He averted his eyes briefly when he caught sight of her sports bra. Also, abs!

“Oh, wait. Here,” he said trying to hide his flustered voice and quickly turned on his heels, rummaging through one of the medical cabinets. Making a triumphant sound at the back of his throat, Tim turned around and grinned, offering Raven a grey t-shirt.

“I keep this here for emergencies,” he said as Raven took the offered shirt.

Raven chuckled softly and slipped on the oversized Superman shirt on her. She practically disappeared into the shirt as it hung over her body and fell mid-thigh. It was nice and soft, very comfortable. She looked at the worn Superman logo and she lifted an eyebrow at Tim. “Nice merch,”

Tim laughed, desperately trying to ignore how cute (?!?!) Raven looked in his shirt – she looked so small! “We taught it’d be nice to annoy Bruce once in a while,” he said. Blue eyes twinkled. “Jason has a full wardrobe and, uh, boxers,”

Raven rolled her eyes, amused still. “Of course he does,” her lips quirked a bit in a little smile. She picked up her torn robe and nodded at Tim. “Thanks for the help, Tim. I’m going to rest now,”

“No problem. Good night, Raven,” Tim watched as Raven walked out of the med bay, movements slow and graceful. As he watched her, he quickly squashed down any thoughts of how good she looked in his shirt. Tim swallowed and looked away, instead focused on putting away all medical equipment they just used. Notes, Tim, notes. Raven’s healing process is slower when she is drained. May leave scaring when healing slows down. Scars dip down the small of her back and tiny waist – oh god.

“Good night, Tim,”

Tim paused from returning the antiseptic and saw Raven pause briefly at the doorway and glance at him briefly before slipping through it. Tim blinked.

So much for taking notes, Tim.

#TimRae #RaeTim #Red Robin #Raven #TimRae Fanfiction #TimRae Fanfic RobRae #tim/raven #teen titans #fanfiction #rachel roth #Curiosity TimRae

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doubledeaky · 5 years

Text

Take Your Time, Do it Right

Adult Tim Murphy!Joe Mazzello x Female!Reader

A/N: Hi! This was inspired by the S.O.S Band song of the same name and every post from @dr-tim-murphy so, go follow her! She’s a sweetie and is always supplying us with good Tim content. I hope I got Tim’s characterization at least a little bit right. As always, feedback is always very much appreciated! -macy:)

Summary: A long night at the office calls for a long night in the bedroom.

Word Count: 5,464 words

Warnings: that good smut, cursing, and mentions of scars

Summer, your absolute favorite time of year. Most detest the almost blistering heat and constant sheen of sweat brimming their brows, but you love it. The long days, the blooming flowers that line every muddy ditch and street corner, the smell of coconut sunscreen and the sight of bright smiles under the glowing sun, everything. You could do without the excess sweat, but everything else, you feel you couldn’t live without.

Today was a prime example of the perfect summer day. It’s mid-May, the sky is clear and a bright cyan hue, flowers perfume the air, and the shaded areas under billowing oak trees are populated by lounging adults and squealing children. You’re taking advantage of the weather, sitting idly with an easy smile on your white front porch swing. Your thin button-up shifts with the direction of the breeze and your bare feet graze the stained wood underneath them. This day would be absolutely perfect if a certain someone was home to enjoy it with you.

Summers for you were usually very laid back. Most days were spent at home, working on your long list of commissions and enjoying maybe too many tall glasses of sugary pink lemonade. That was what you loved most about your occupation; life didn’t stop because your work, it only flowed in tandem. Unfortunately for Tim, the summer months meant long hours at the office, catching up on assignments and planning new ones for the coming fall.

You couldn’t for the life of you decipher the system he worked under. Fall and winter carried an already rather large workload for him. Spring and summer, time reserved for a break, however, carried an even larger one. You assumed he took advantage of the excess hours of daylight this time of the year provided. Even if they didn’t, you knew Tim would still immerse himself in his work as if time were inexistent and the only material thing present were large stacks of monotonous notes and peer-reviewed journals.

You admired Tim’s incredible work ethic but being a right-brained individual made it hard to comprehend every aspect of your left-brained boyfriend. You’re a creative, he’s an intellectual and it creates a usually harmonious balance. Only, you wish he’d sometimes break the cycle.

You would never stand in the way of his work, but it was certainly tempting to coerce him abandon it of his own accord. You were content waiting for him though, peacefully swaying with the rhythm of the cushioned swing, your mind swirling with ideas and concepts for new pieces. Like Tim, work for you never stopped, the process was just slightly unique.

After two hours of mindlessly soaking up the sun’s rays, you decided to call it a day and retire to your makeshift art studio. The “studio” was actually the small spare room in your and Tim’s house, but it was enough. Your current commission sat quietly in the corner, only the first layer of paint coating its surface. You stared at it, noting every detail you’d like to add in the future, envisioning how the final result would look. This was one of your favorite aspects of the trade, the imagination it took to master the creative process of art. You could easily sit unbothered for hours and just paint the images flowing within your busy mind, bringing them into this world with just the stroke of your brush. The passion you had for your work was reflected if not outmatched by Tim’s, and that is why you allow him to run free, it’s where he flourished.

You ran your fingertips over the raised areas of dry paint, its varied texture strangely calming you. The painting was coming out just as you’d envisioned and there was no feeling just as satisfying, unless you count the sound of Tim’s keys unlocking the splintered front door. You grinned, absentmindedly wiping your hands on your paint-stained apron as you skipped excitedly into the front room. You flopped down quickly onto to the worn couch, trying to look nonchalant, as if you weren’t waiting up for him. The sunlight still seeping through the heavy blinds told you the day was either still fairly young or it was nearing eight in the evening.

Tim made a good bit of noise as he entered the house. You could hear his briefcase knocking against the walls and a heavy stack of papers slamming against the small table that greets everyone when they walk into your home. You tried to mask your giggle as Tim continued to clamber and curse as he moved towards the living room, his characteristic clumsiness always amusing to you. He finally made it to the room where you were sat, and his face immediately let you know how his day went. His cheeks were bright red, his brows were furrowed and rimmed with sweat and a scowl was present on his usually sweet face. You wrung your hands, quickly trying to determine how you would make him feel better. You stood as he sat, one of his hands immediately came up to pinch the bridge of his nose and a low groan escaped his lips as he slumped further on the couch. You grinned sympathetically at your overworked boyfriend, and sank to your knees before him, trailing both hands over his strong upper thighs in an attempt to comfort him.

“Bad day?” You asked, your head lolling to the side lazily, eyes scanning over his stiff frame upon what was the most comfortable couch in the known world.

He groaned in response, his eyes visibly clenched tight under the hand covering them, evident in the faint crinkles running outward from his amber eyes. Your hand came to rest on his left knee, cheek coming down to lay atop the other. You could see the smallest semblance of a grin on his lips and he finally removed the hand from his face, moving it down to cover your own on his knee.

“That would be an understatement.” He sighed, his free hand running through his flame-red hair, knocking the glasses perched atop his head to the sofa. He picked them up and tossed them in the direction of coffee table, relaxing minutely as he sat back on the couch, smile growing as he took in your features. You returned his fond gaze and lifted your head, thumb drawing circles over his clothed knee cap.

“Wanna talk about it?” You asked softly, standing to sit down next to him. He immediately wrapped an arm around you, work Tim quickly melting into domestic Tim in your presence.

It had taken you a while to win Tim’s complete trust, even longer to break through the nearly impenetrable walls he’d built over the years. It had been frustrating, sometimes exhausting, and you often wondered what it was about him that willed you to put yourself through this hell. Then, he showed you why. He was driven and incredibly determined in every aspect of his life. He wanted to make the relationship work and was willing to do anything to keep you in his life. You were taken aback, never in your life had you seen someone so steadfast in all aspects. Tim’s seemingly unyielding determination made you stronger. You wanted to make it work too. You’d be the first to admit that if Tim wasn’t in your life, something would certainly be missing. So, you two took the plunge and it’s a decision you would never take back or change in any way.

Your relationship with Tim has been the most beautiful year and a half of your life and your glad you didn’t allow yourself to give up, which you were notorious for in the past. Tim changed you; before, if things automatically didn’t go your way or work perfectly, you’d give up and assumed it wasn’t worth your time or energy. Now, nothing could stop you and every obstacle you encountered was just a challenge, not a hinderance. You are forever grateful that Tim didn’t give up on you and never would.

He shook his head softly, moving a strand of hair from your forehead. “No, I already have so much work to do over the weekend. Just wanna be with you.” He grinned, his pink cheeks indicating he was seemingly embarrassed by his previous statement.

You had this effect on him often. You never failed to reduce him to a smitten, blushing mess. Tim had never been so enamored with an individual, he’d never felt such an overwhelming love. When he thought or talked of you, he couldn’t but smile. His male coworkers always gave him shit for it, prodding him with their bony elbows and sending him sly smirks, saying he was whipped or that you had him wrapped around your little finger. Tim could never defend himself though, because it was true. Smitten couldn’t describe how he felt about you true justice.

You grinned at his words, hiding your face in the material of his navy blazer and he couldn’t stop the soft laugh that escaped him. He poked your shoulder to try and bring you out from hiding, giving you a gentle smile as he laid his head back.

“Tell me about your day.” He breathed, settling himself further into your warmth. Your hand came up to run through his mussed hair as you organized the events of your day to relay back to him. Tim always wanted to know about your day, and it always surprised you. No man had ever cared so much about the seemingly mundane activities of your life.

“Just worked on a few commissions and enjoyed the pretty weather. Missed you a ton.” You explained, smiling as you finished your sentence. He breathed out a laugh, shaking his head as if the tail end of your first sentence was unbelievable. He lifted his head and looked to you, as if to confirm that you were finished talking.

“I don’t know how you could enjoy this day. It’s so unbelievably hot.” He groaned, fanning himself dramatically. You giggled, standing up, stumbling slightly as you did.

“I love it. You would too if you didn’t wear sweaters and slacks every day.” You joked, motioning a hand towards his outfit. He narrowed his eyes and gave you his signature pout.

“It’s part of the uniform, Y/N. If I could wear beat up grandpa shirts and jean shorts to work every day, I would.” You gasped, turning towards him and placing a defensive hand over your chest.

“It’s not my fault I chose a fun job.” You joked, falling down on the cushion beside him, giggling as you did. He feigned offense, placing his own hand over his chest.

“My job is fun.” He defended, blinking wildly in disbelief.

“To you.” You reminded, pointing a paint-stained finger in his direction. He grabbed it softly and kissed the pad of it, the sentiment effectively melting your heart. He sighed, sitting back into the couch again and rolling his shoulders, his eyes clenched tight in discomfort. The sound of faint popping and cracking making you crinkle your noise in disgust.

“Well, it really isn’t fun right now. The work load is killing me.” He said, rubbing his left shoulder as he did. You gave him a pout, sitting up to place a sweet kiss to his warm cheek. It grew warmer at the contact and he suddenly seemed shy. His demeanor made your heart swell; he was still the meek, flustered man you’d bumped into at the local record store nearly two years ago.

��Why don’t you take a break?” You asked softly, giving him your best pleading gaze. He laughed and looked down, the small gap in his teeth not going unnoticed by you as he smiled. Another thing you absolutely adored about him.

“That’s what I’m doing now.” You rolled your eyes playfully and snuggled into his side, the scratchy material of his shirt making you shiver uncomfortably.

“No, like a proper break. Just a few weeks of no dinosaurs.” His eyes widened, the words that left your mouth seemingly foreign to him.

“I-I don’t think I can do that. Boss will be pissed.” He stumbled, a nervous energy suddenly overtaking him. No matter how much Tim detested some of the work he was assigned, he would never leave it incomplete. He’d die before he let himself slack off.

“C’mon, Tim,” you pleaded, hand gripping his arm and yanking it like a toddler. “You practically run your department. There’s no reason you wouldn’t be allowed to take just a few weeks off.” You reasoned, using your useless minor in speech to argue your case. He still seemed unconvinced but didn’t look completely against the idea. He knew he needed a break, and he knew your judgement was especially sharp in this area. He threw the idea around in his head for a moment, your big doe eyes not helping him to decide against it.

“I’ll ask.” He finally said in mock defeat, smiling wide as you celebrated with a small sound of glee. You pulled him up with all your strength and spun him around.

“I’ll be holding you to that, Tim Murphy-Hammond. You’re in dire need of a break, and your girlfriend is in dire need of you.” You warned jokingly, still smiling wide. Tim’s cheeks were burning red and it was only then that you recalled your accidental innuendo. You smacked his arm softly with a playful glare.

“Don’t be such a guy.” He let out a shaky laugh, his eyes appreciating the sight of you in only worn, extremely thin and reveling painting clothes. You chastised him with a pointed look, sticking your tongue out as you gestured towards your shared bedroom.

“Go change, dinosaur boy. I’ll wash my blue hands and then we’ll put on a movie. Summer break starts now.” You shouted as you retreated into the kitchen. Tim smiled, already pulling his blazer off, immediately feeling cooler, wondering why he hadn’t done this when he’d first gotten back.

When Tim returned in a more casual pair of sweats and a university t-shirt, you were already sat on the couch, a few DVDs scattered in front of you. Tim went to sit down next to you, but you stopped him before he could.

“Wait, I was thinking since you’re so stressed at work and I’m here doing art projects,-” he laughed, and your cheeks grew hot, “-I could treat you to a massage.” You finished, wriggling your fingers at him as you did.

His eyes widened, you’d never offered him a massage and just the thought of you touching him in such an intimate way sent heat to his lower stomach. He nodded softly and you smiled, directing him to sit on the floor in the space between your legs. He did so slowly, his cheeks burning as he settled in front of you, your thighs almost like a barrier between him and everything else. He noticed a faint smear of yellow paint on the inside of your right thigh and he almost brought his fingers up to brush against it but resisted. You brushed your hair away from your face and got comfortable, even dramatically cracking your knuckles which made Tim laugh sweetly.

“Wanna take your shirt off, Mr. Scientist?” Tim seemed taken aback before he remembered you’d seen him shirtless before.

He pulled it off slowly and somehow, he felt more vulnerable than any other time he’d been shirtless in front of you. In this position, you could see every scar, every freckle, the closely cropped hair at the back of his neck, the tiny birthmark at the top of his spine, everything you usually couldn’t and you relished in it. You hesitated before placing your hands on both of his shoulders, hoping he wouldn’t notice how clammy there were. He sighed loudly, the simple touch already reducing him to a mere puddle. You were surprised at how tight his muscles were and how easily you could tell. You experimentally pressed a thumb softly into the flesh of his left shoulder and he inhaled sharply, craning his next to the right. You enjoyed the affect your simple actions had on him and felt a rush of confidence as you leant closer to him, your breasts nearly touching the back of his head.

“Oh, baby. You’re so tense.” You sighed, pressing your fingertips into the tight muscles of his shoulders, eliciting a small moan from the man. You smirked, satisfied with the reaction you were receiving and continued, increasing and decreasing pressure over the expanse of his shoulders and upper back.

“Fuck.” He groaned, head lolling back into your lap, eyes closed in ecstasy. You giggled, smoothing your hands over the skin, noting particular freckles that caught your eye.

“My baby’s so stressed.” You cooed, bringing your hands up to rake through his copper hair, grinning as you watched his eyes disappear into his skull.

He whimpered, legs shaking and hands gripping the material of his sweats to ground himself. You leant down and placed a kiss upon his slightly sweat forehead, smiling as you continued your ministrations, watching every small movement of his face intently. Every time you noticed him bring his lower lip between his teeth, furrow his brows, or let out a small noise the heat in your lower belly grew and you restrained the urge to drag him into the bedroom. You decided teasing him would be enough to satiate you for now and brought up one hand to haphazardly unbutton your shirt in an attempt to cool down. Tim didn’t notice you toss the paint-covered shirt to the side, your fingers dancing over his shoulders the only thing his mind could register.

“Can’t believe how much work they’re making you do, my love. You definitely need a break.” He nodded, swiping his tongue over his lower lip, his throat suddenly too dry to speak. You smirked, shifting in your sheet as the tension in your gut grew slightly uncomfortable.

“You look so beautiful like this, Tim.” You praised, and he drank it up, whimpering softly at the praise.

He really did, his eyes were shut so delicately, long lashes resting atop his cheekbones, lips parted, face relaxed; the only word to describe his appearance being ethereal. He suddenly turned, effectively stopping your actions, and your eyes widened slightly in surprise. His eyes were hooded and what could be seen under them were lust-blown irises. You couldn’t help but lean down and press a heated kiss to his parted lips and his hand came up to grip your thigh, his touch needy.

“Do you mean that?” He breathed as he pulled away hesitantly, his eyes still lazy but his voice serious.

You were confused for a moment until you realized he was asking if you actually thought he was beautiful. Your heart swelled nearly two sizes, pressing against your ribs painfully. You nodded frantically, hands gripping both sides of his face, your breathing intermingling with his due to the close proximity.

“Every word.” You breathed, returning his lips to yours, as if the absence of his touch would kill you.

Both of his hands were on your thighs now and he slowly began to lift himself from the floor, pulling you with him, careful not the break the heated kiss. Now you were both stood in the middle of the living room, shirtless and out of breath. Tim quickly realized you’d abandoned your shirt and his hands trembled at his side, aching to touch you. You grinned, wrapping your arms around his naked waist and pressing a chaste kiss to the skin below his ear.

“Go on, baby. Touch me.” He didn’t hesitate, bringing both hands up to cup your breasts, his head falling into the crook of your neck where he was quick to press kisses to the skin there.

You whimpered, nearly tripping over your own feet as you clenched your thighs together to relieve the intense pressure in your core. The bulge in Tim’s pants pressing against your lower stomach told you that he was in the same boat, but it didn’t little to ease the ache. You desperately gripped the skin of his upper back, silently communicating to him what you wanted. It took him a moment to understand but he finally registered your plea and began to slowly walk backwards towards the bedroom, turning from you for only a moment to open the door, the both of you almost falling into the room. You were both giggling like two drunk teenagers and it reminded you of why you loved Tim so much. Everything with him was so easy, everything was always so beautiful and happy. Even now as he desperately presses kisses to your collarbones and sternum, your chest is tight and you’re genuinely giddy, like a middle-schooler with a silly crush. You yearn to always be near him and every interaction with him is cherished. Every aspect of your life without Tim is empty, but wherever he’s present is so pure and good. Like a garden in full bloom under the giving sun, your fondness of him grows ever so bright when he’s around

“You’re so beautiful. God, I’m so lucky.” He breathes, drinking in your appearance with a quick once over.

You hardly hear him, but you don’t have to, his expression says all you need to hear before you join him where he’s sat on the edge of the bed. You make yourself comfortable in his lap, just admiring him for a moment. His close-mouthed smile, so lazy and lop-sided. It makes him look so boyish but still so beautiful. The scar that runs through his left eyebrow, severing one half from the other. The freckles sprinkled just below his eyes and over his nose. The faint smile lines and wrinkles between his brow that you could kiss all day. It all makes him so Tim. All these things are so characteristic to him that on anyone else it only screams Tim to you.

“I’m the lucky one here.” You laugh, cupping his face gently in both hands, thumbs running over the scarred slope of his left cheekbone. He shakes his head but smiles, his own hands gripping your hips tightly, the calloused texture sending shockwaves throughout you.

“I know I won’t be able to win this argument so I’m not even gonna try.” You laugh and nod, knowing just how accurate he is.

“S’okay, my dear. You’ve never won any argument between us so what’s one more.” You joke, leaning into his chest as you laugh.

He gives you a playful eye-roll, biting his lip to suppress a smile. You let out a sigh and grin when you feel him press a soft kiss to your shoulder, his hand moving to run up and down your arm. You mirror his actions, kissing your way up the slope of his shoulder, being particularly delicate over any scar in your path. He breathes out a gentle sigh of contentment, enjoying the feeling of your lips on his heated skin.

In previous relationships, Tim struggled with physical contact. He was afraid, be it of rejection or repulsion. He was just afraid of their reaction, so he was very hesitant going into a relationship with you. He liked you so much and was afraid that seeing him in his most vulnerable state would push you away.

On the contrary, seeing him that way only drew you closer and Tim had never felt that. He’d never had someone completely disregard any and all flaws to just be with purely him. It was beautiful, and the feeling has never gone away.

“Can I take these off?” Your sweet voice suddenly snapped him out of a seemingly trance-like state and he nodded frantically at your request.

“Please.” He choked out, his legs beginning to tremble as you eased the material over his legs.

“Relax, baby. It’s me.” You reassure, removing your shorts before climbing back into his lap. His chest is rising and falling fast but your touch calms him, like it always does. He sometimes has to remind himself that it’s you he’s with now, no one else. Not the people who’ve hurt him, just you.

“Yeah.” He breathes out, any other words halting in his throat as you start to move against his lap. You lose yourself for a moment, shamelessly grinding against him, only pulled back down to earth by the whines and whimpers falling from Tim’s parted lips.

“Fuck, you look so pretty like this.” He groans, his hands expertly guiding your movements.

Amidst the chaos, you reach behind yourself, unclasping and pulling off your bra in one swift motion. Tim has really never gotten used to the sight of you nearly naked and he’s impossibly hard underneath you. You whine desperately, the friction finally easing the ache between your legs. Tim boldly grips your hips and flips you onto the bed, his knee between your thighs nearly pulling a scream from you. You could tell Tim was really wound up. He was usually so gentle and soft but his demeanor now was something you could get used to.

“Someone’s eager.” You joke, but your laugh is cut short when Tim places his pointer finger right over your clothed clit, pressing on it. You squirm, your breathing picking up as he increases pressure.

“Please, Tim.” You whine, moving your hips to generate some type of friction. He grins, satisfied knowing he can have a similarly debilitating effect on you.

“Someone’s eager.” He mocks, holding you down by one hip, keeping his finger in one place and effectively torturing you.

You groan and grip his shoulders, digging your nails into the flesh there. He hisses and finally decides to hook both index fingers under the elastic of your underwear, pulling them down at an agonizing pace, his eyes never leaving yours. A pained sigh of relief escapes you as he flings the material to the side and nestles himself between your thighs, resting his head on your lower tummy, just admiring you, his hand running up and down your side. You grip at the roots of his hair, silently begging him to stop torturing you and he complies, hoisting your legs over his shoulders and delving in without hesitation. Your mouth gapes in a silent cry as his tongue circles your clit and you bite down hard on your lip as he nips lightly at the bud.

“Fuck, Tim. Don’t stop.” You gasp, your grip on his hair growing tighter, the groans leaving his mouth only adding to the pressure in your gut.

The coil within you is sizzling hot and pulled taut, on the brink of snapping. Tim can tell, the way your clenching around nothing, your hips unable to remain still as they grind roughly on his face. He’s looking up at you through thick lashes, taking in your pleasure-distorted features and somehow growing harder, rutting against the mattress to relive the pressure in his lower stomach. Your breathing becomes labored and Tim knows you’re nearly there so, he stops. A strangled cry of frustration leaves you, nearly sobbing at the loss of contact. Your peak fades into the distance and you sit up, giving him a pout as he peels away his boxers, all your anger dissipating as you take him in.

He’s coated in a thin sheen of sweat, muscles rippling and contracting under his skin, breathing labored and shaky, and eyes focused on only you. He’s beautiful and you know you’ve told him so many times, but it’ll never be enough. He notices your staring and feels the tiniest tinge of insecurity but pushes it down, opening his arms and gesturing for you to come closer.

“C’mere.” He mumbles, eyes hooded, and grin fucked out. You oblige, crawling towards him on all fours towards him, pulling a groan deep from his chest.

“Have I ever told you how lucky I am?” He sighs, pulling you back into his lap. You smile, your bent legs settling on either side of his hips.

“You may have mentioned it before?” You joke, running a finger over his lower lip which is stretched into an adoring smile.

He breathes out a laugh and brings down a hand to cup your ass, humming appreciatively as he does. For a moment, you both just gaze fondly at one another, smiling lazily and blinking slowly, high off of each other alone. Then you remember the uncomfortable heat in your belly and roll against Tim’s lap, the tip of his cock running through your folds. Tim stutters out a gasp and grips your ass harder to stop you, afraid he’ll cum from this alone. You whine and wrap your arms around him, your bare breasts pressing against his heaving chest.

“Please, fuck me. Please, Tim.” You whine, lips pressing hot kisses to his throat, the sensation making his eyes flutter closed.

He regains composure though, leaning against the headboard to gain better leverage. You move with him and grip his cock gently, Tim seizing all movement as you line him up with your entrance. You look to him and both have a mutual moment of agreement before you sink down on him, both of you letting out desperate moans.

“Shit, you’re tight.” He hisses, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips.

“Fuck, Tim.” You squeak as your hips meet his. He’s buried to the hilt, fully within you now.

He’s big, but he’d never let you convince him that he’s nothing more than average. Even when his cock has you screaming his name, he pins it down to technique rather than size and it always make you giggle. After adjusting, you lift your hips just a few inches and sink back down, gasping as you do. It had felt like an eternity since you’d felt him and the stretch you were experiencing is indicative of that. Tim watches your movements intently, mouth agape as you move softly above him. The feeling of your walls engulfing his cock is bringing him closer to the edge faster than he’d care to admit. You place your hands on his chest for support and pick up a steady rhythm and when he thrust up to meet your movements its almost punishing.

“F-fuck, Tim. I’m close.” You moan, arms trembling, mere moments away from collapsing.

“Me too, baby doll.” Tim groans out, hands keeping your hips in place as he takes full control, his thrusts bringing you closer and closer. Your arms give out and you rest fully on his chest, moaning in tandem with him as you feel your peak nearing. Tim’s rhythm is growing sloppy and you know he’s close. You lift your head to connect your lips with his and bring a hand between your bodies to rub at your clit, almost screaming into Tim’s mouth. You pull away, fully panting as Tim picks up speed. He locks eyes with you, the intensity of his gaze almost blinding.

“Cum with me, doll. Cum for me.” He groans, his pace beginning to noticeably stutter. You nod, mouth agape in a silent moan as you clench uncontrollably around him, gasping his name as you do.

“Tim, fuck.” You breathe, still overcome by your orgasm.

Your walls clenching around him is enough to push him over the edge and he cums with a low groan and cry of your name. His thrusts slow until he stops, still sheathed within you as you both attempt to level your breathing. You press a kiss to his chest, eyes closed in bliss, perfectly content in your current position. Tim’s hands are running softly over your upper arms and he’s smiling wide.

Once you’re calm and growing a bit sensitive, you lift your hips and he aids your efforts by pulling out, both of you hissing at the sensation. You quickly resume your position and rest your head atop his chest, hand right above his heart. You’re both quiet, just listening to each other’s breathing.

Tim’s chest then suddenly rattles with laughter, you look up to him in pure confusion and maybe slight amusement.

“What?” You ask, half-laughing but still confused. He smiles at you with just the smallest glint of mischief in his honey-colored eyes.

“I’ll definitely be asking for vacation days after this.” He quips, gesturing to the space between your sweaty bodies. You gape and smack his chest playfully before laying back down on it. You smile and close your eyes, feeling sleep inch its way over you.

“You better.” You yawn, snuggling further into his warmth. He laughs softly and for the third time that night, he remembers how lucky he is to have you in his life.

no taglist for smut, my guys. hope that's cool -macy:)

#joe mazzello #joe mazzello x reader #joe mazzello smut #joe mazzello imagine #tim murphy #tim murphy x reader #dr. tim murphy #bohemian rhapsody #borhap smut #borhap imagine #bohrhap #jurassic park #smut

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awhitehead17 · 5 years

Text

Peaceful Morning

TimKon, General Rating, Fluff, Hugs, Kisses.

Summary: It seems like Tim is finally understanding what a vacation is all about.

Enjoy! :D

Waking up without a sense of urgency or in a drugged haze was a weird sensation, one of which he wasn’t used to. Tim blinks his eyes open before closing them again, just letting his body wake up in it’s own time. He felt so at ease, so relaxed that he didn’t really want to wake up at all if he was being honest.

He wills his eyes open again and stretches out, releasing any tension that his muscles had built up during the night while he slept. Once stretched he rolls onto his back and takes in the scene around him. The sheets were tucked tightly against him, the pillow was folded at a weird angle underneath his head and he was alone in bed.

Tim frowns, why was he alone? He lifts his head up off the pillow and looks around the hotel room they were renting out. That’s when he finds his bed mate. Kon was over at the desk fiddling around with the kettle and the coffee, he was dressed in only sweat pants, leaving his top half uncovered. Tim certainly wasn’t complaining, he loved seeing Kon shirtless.

“Well that’s a wonderful sight to wake up to.” Tim comments to his boyfriend.

Kon stops what he was doing and turns to him, a bright grin stretching across his face, “What? Me being shirtless or the sight of coffee being made?”

Tim pauses, taking a moment to consider it. In the end he shrugs, “Either, maybe both?”

Kon lets out a soft chuckle before walking over to the bed. He kneels on it and hovers over Tim, as he starts to bend down Tim leans up and meets him halfway for a light kiss. When they pull back Kon stares at him, “How you feeling?”

Tim gives him a dopey smile, “I feel weird, like super relaxed, so at ease that I don’t even want to leave the bed.”

Grinning Conner replies back, “Well Tim, believe it or not that’s exactly what a vacation is all about. It’s about time you start getting your head around the concept of it.”

Tim smacks him lightly, “Shut up. Anyway, why are you up? You should be in bed.”

He shrugs, “I was awake and decided to get up. I didn’t want to disturb you from sleep since I kept you up for most of the night.”

Conner says that last bit with a smirk and that causes Tim to let out a soft laugh before he rolls his eyes, “As I recall, we were both keeping each other up last night. You need sleep just as much as I do.”

The half Kryptonian shrugs again, this time not saying anything. Tim reaches up then, hooking an arm around him and pulls Kon down so he’s lying down next to him. Kon takes it in stride and moves around so they’re spooning despite Tim still being under the covers and Kon on top of them.

Kon presses a kiss to his temple, “Was last night okay? Cause I really enjoyed it, we should do it like that more often.”

Tim squeezes the hands around his waist and laces their fingers together, “Last night was fantastic, the whole day was brilliant actually.”

And it was. Yesterday was spent with the two of them adventuring around Paris, the morning and afternoon was filled up with visits to the park, long walks through the streets and visiting a variety of touristy places before getting back to the hotel and getting ready for a meal.

After the meal they took a stroll in getting back to the hotel they’re staying at and once back in their room, one thing lead to another before they were both falling down onto the bed in an intimate position.

What made last night special was that it wasn’t their usual rushed, heated sex that they normally would have after a mission or patrol when they still have energy to burn off. This was a lot more intimate, a lot more slow and passionate. They took their time with it, enjoying being pressed against one another, exploring each other’s bodies in the best way possible.

Despite dating for over two years they hadn’t shared a night like that with one another at all so it definitely made a change of pace. Tim couldn’t have been happier with how the day and night went. Maybe that’s why he’s so relaxed this morning?

Tim brings Conner’s hands up to his mouth and kisses his knuckles lightly, “It was good, this whole trip has been excellent. A little bit weird but it’s been good.”

While he can’t see it Tim just knows Conner is rolling his eyes behind him, “Of course you would say that having nothing attacking us or trying to kill us every other day would be weird. I’m glad that we’ve had this chance to relax.”

Most of the hero community had sent Tim and Conner to the other side of the world away from most things, the couple had been told that they wouldn’t be contacted no matter what and that they should take the time to relax and enjoy one another’s company. Of course Tim protested at first and surprisingly so did Kon but they were ruled out and the compromise was that Kon could keep an ear out for their team and they could be contacted in an absolute emergency, apart from that they would be all alone.

So having no other choice Tim and Conner have taken the vacation that’s been handed to them and have relatively enjoyed it.

Behind him Conner shifts and starts to get up, Tim lets him go and curls up in the bed, watching his boyfriend as he wonders around the room. Conner heads back for the desk and continues to make coffee for them both. Once done he carries over the two mugs and places one down on the bedside table by Tim and takes the other with him as he goes over to the balcony doors.

Pushing the curtains back Conner opens up the door and steps out onto balcony where he’s instantly swallowed in yellow light. Tim watches him for a moment, observing as Kon leans on the railing and as he looks at the buzzing city surrounding them.

Tim finally makes himself move out of the bed. He pushes the covers away and grabs his mug as he stands up. Going over to the doors he joins Kon on the balcony, he has to squint though because the sun was indeed bright that morning. Stepping beside his boyfriend he sips at the hot liquid and also takes the city in.

They stand in silence for a moment before Conner was moving, he transfers his mug to his left hand before wrapping his right arm around Tim in a warm embrace. Tim instantly leans into it as he wraps his left arm around Conner’s back.

A few more silent, yet peaceful, moments go by before one of them were moving again. This time it was Tim, he leans back from Kon just enough so he could press a kiss to his cheek. Conner looks down at him and Tim gives him a smile, “I Love you. I’m glad we’ve been able to do this.”

Conner grins as he bends down and captures Tim’s lips in his own kiss. Once they part he says, “I’m glad too, this has been incredible and also, I love you too.”

#Tim Drake #Kon-El #timkon #fanfiction #fluff #Hugs #kisses #general rating

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iamnotbrianmay · 5 years

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The A Experience

tag list: @seven-seas-of-why, @twotitsjohndeacon, @dancindeaky, @gee-uloser, @mozzarellamazzello, @mozzie-s, @deracine-dogma-deux, @shutupanddontjudge, @warping-reality, @demianhill

Okay thank you all for sticking with me, this chapter marks what I will call a mid-season finale, because next week I'm going on my school trip to the beach, then I'm having a week long soccer tournament and then I'm going to New York to participate at an MUN, so I probably won't post for like two weeks or more.

There hasn't been a first kiss, first fuck, first anything and all of you are still loyal, so for that thank you very much. Also, I ask for your patience because it won't happen for a while.

But now, I'm going to write a very long chapter, very angst filled, very plot developing, and then leave you in the biggest fucking cliffhanger I could ever possibly leave you in because I just love to torture y'all. But seriously, thank you for sticking around, and I hope you enjoy.

Also, the writing style is a little bit different, but I hope you like it!

WARNINGS: This chapter contains a non-consensual kiss, an abusive relationship, and very heavy panic attacks and angst. If you are not into that please proceed with caution.

"Roger, I didn't think I would see you tonight."

The bar crowded and smelled strongly of beer and cigarettes. Once he hears the voice his head shoots up, and he meets the eyes of one of his classmates. His hair is messy and wavy, his eyes the colour of warm chocolate, and his smile is almost infectious. Roger runs a quick hand over his messy, short, hair trying to make it at least presentable.

"Tim," Roger says, a little bit breathless, "didn't take you for the kind that would come to a gay bar."

The older man threw his head back in laughter, the neon lights of the club making his features soft and beautiful at the same time. Roger melted into his chair, and instantly realised he was too far gone.

The memory comes and goes in the blink of an eye, and he takes a step back, burying himself further into Brian. As if to trying to gain energy from his friend, "Tim. Hi."

He feels Brian bristle, "You know him?"

Before Roger can answer Tim takes another step forward, and the blond instinctively wraps his arm around Brian. Something flashes through Tim's eyes, "We dated a few months ago. But there no bad blood between us, is there Roger?"

It's like someone else is moving his body for him, someone else shaking his head and giving Tim a sweet smile while answering, "No, none at all."

Brian was the only one to notice Roger's tension, or rather his arm did, because he felt blunt fingernails burying into his flesh and his fingers tense as the shorter man spoke.

"Roger, I didn't think I would see you tonight."

"Can't live in fear, can I?" The younger man said as he twirled his drumstick between his fingers. "You made me realise that."

The bassist took one step forward, and Roger held his ground, not willing to back down once he was so close to getting what he wanted. Tim leaned down and brushed his lips against Roger's, and the world seemed to stop. Once he pulled away Roger had to bite his lip to pounce on Tim and kiss him senseless. They had a gig to preform.

"I knew you just needed a little coaxing, baby." The bassist whispered, "I knew I would get you."

Once Tim greeted everyone inside the house he walked over to Phoebe and started chatting with him. Leaving Roger and Brian alone. The guitarist grabs the drink from Roger's hand and places it on the nearest table. Soon the taller man was guiding Roger out of the living room and into the house's backyard. Out on the cold Roger feels like he can finally breathe, and he reaches for his Juul only to find that he must have left it at home when he left with Freddie.

He runs his hands through his long hair, relishing in the way it now reached below his shoulders, and let a soft whimper escape from his lips.

"Roggie," he hears Brian say softly, "Roggie, talk to me. What's wrong?"

Roger's hands are trembling, and when he tried to speak the words get caught in his throat.

"Roger, do you need me to tell Tim to leave?"

"Roger, I didn't think I would see you tonight."

"I know, Tim," Roger said as he pressed a soft kiss to the other man's lips. He couldn't seem to get enough, couldn't seem to stop himself now that he knew he didn't need to stop, "You told me that already."

"I'm so glad you came."

Roger smiled, looking at his boyfriend who in turn was looking at him through heavy-lidded eyes, a lazy smile plastered on his face, and the softness of the afterglow making him look like an angel to Roger. The blond couldn't hold himself back any more, he pressed himself to Tim's lips, and then switched his position so that he was laying on top of the older man.

Tim chuckled, "Eager for round two, are we?"

Roger grinded down on Tim, "You have no idea."

Roger can't speak, he can't will his body to nod, and he curses at the sky for sapping all of his strength on the moment he needs it the most. The only thing he can do is let out a single, very pathetic, whimper that makes Brian step forward and wrap his arms around Roger's shoulders.

"Hey," the taller man tells him as he places his chin, "It's alright, I'm here."

He can't even will himself to wrap his arms around Brian.

"It's alright," he whispers again, "I can take you home if you want to."

"Roger, I thought I wouldn't see you tonight."

The rain was falling down in what seemed like buckets, fat, cold, droplets rolled down Roger's back and he wrapped his arms around himself to try and keep warm. A small part in his brain unhelpfully reminded him that the rain was not what was making him cold.

"I thought I had explicitly told you that you had to stay home."

Roger shrugged, "I know, but I got bored."

"I can't fucking believe you always have to go against everything I say!"

Raged filled Roger's chest, "I have a right to choose what I can and can't do! You can't control me, Staffell!"

There was a beat of silence, "I'm sorry, baby. I was just trying to protect you."

"It's—" The blond felt his anger deflate like a balloon, "It's alright, I guess. Just don't do that again."

This time, at the mention of home, at the mention of being far away from the monster currently lurking in the living room, his body obliged to his commands. "Please."

He felt Brian nod, then he felt another quick squeeze, "I'll go inside to tell everyone you are not feeling well. Think you can wait for me here?" Roger nodded, and Brian left. Pulling open the door before stopping for a second and turning towards Roger, "Is there anything you want before we leave?"

Did Roger need anything? His answers seemed to be reduced to a single word per answer, but Brian didn't mind, "Cigarette."

The curly haired man pursed his lips in distaste, but then he nodded and walked inside.

"Roger, I can't believe you turned that down." "It was nothing, Tim." Roger said, as he brewed his boyfriend some tea, "I don't really like to smoke."

"Yeah," Tim said, "But I got that pack specially for you. Do you know how expensive flavoured cigarettes are?"

Guilt flooded Roger's chest, but he pushed it down and smiled at Tim once he handed him the cup of tea, the brunette did not return the smile, "You know I hate the smell, and the taste.

It was true, he made Tim wash his mouth every time he smoked before kissing him. He walked away every time someone took out one of their stupid-looking vape boxes, and vehemently turned down everyone who had ever offered a cigarette or vape to him in his short life time. All in all, Roger Meddows Taylor was not a smoker.

"That's why I bought them for you," Tim insisted, "'cause I love you and I know you hate normal ones. But it's fine, I can give someone else your gift if you don't want them.”

This time Roger couldn't keep down the wave of guilt that washed over him, the same wave of guilt that pushed him to grab one of the apple flavoured cigarettes and lighting it.

Roger turned his head towards the sky. The night was pretty clear, with a bright, large, moon, and one or two stars here and there. A voice on the back of his mind reminded him about Freddie's suggestion of taking Brian stargazing for their first date, and Roger allowed a small smile to cross his lips.

He heard the door open and close softly, and expectantly waited for Brian to come stand by his side. And the person did come to stand next to him, but when Roger turned to look at Brian, he didn't see the curly haired, absolutely adorable, guitarist. But rather Tim, who stood there looking at the stars as if he wasn't causing Roger's Universe to collapse.

"Roger, that's the third time you turn down a drink tonight, are you sure you are alright?"

"Yeah, don't worry," he said nonchalantly, "Tim just advised me to cut back the drinking, and to be honest? I feel pretty good about it."

"Rog, that's the third thing he tells you to cut back on."

Roger nodded, "I know, Bowie, but he has been right about everything until now. So I think I'm gonna follow his advise."

David looked at Roger as he took a long drag from his cigarette, "Will he ever advise you against smoking as much as you are?"

"Nah," another drag and a large cloud of smoke, "He is the one that buys me the ciggies."

"I don't know why you were looking up," Tim said, "you can't see shit through the pollution."

A blanket of cold seemed to settle on Roger, "What are you doing here?"

God, he hates how pathetic he sounds, hates how small and scared his words sounded next to Tim's, which seemed to command Roger to answer him, even if no question was asked.

"Well, this are my friends," Tim says, as if that were the most obvious fact in the world, "now the question is what you are doing here."

"Brian is my boyfriend." He says, and Tim's head snaps towards him, "And Freddie and Deacy are my friends."

"Roger, I didn't think I would see you tonight."

"I wasn't planning on coming," his voice sounded small, even to his own ears, "but I really need your help, Bowie."

The other man rounded the counter and came to sit beside Roger, "What's wrong?"

"When did you notice that Tim had gone too far?"

The other man seemed taken aback by the question, and covered Roger's hands with his own, "Did he do something to you?"

When Roger nodded his shoulder felt like it was on fire, and tears threaten to spill from his eyes.

There is a commotion inside, something that sounds like angry shouts. But the sounds are far, far, away; getting even more blurred and nonsensical as Tim takes a step towards him.

"Brian is your what?"

His voice is barely above a whisper, "Boyfriend."

Tim raises his eyebrow, and lets out a humourless chuckle, "You could have chosen anyone in the world and you chose Brian May?"

"What?" The words are out before Roger can stop them, he is looking at Tim's eyes as they become steely. The words taste like lead, like poison, and he doesn't need to be a genius to know he shouldn't have fucking done that. "Are you jealous?"

"Roger, is everything alright?"

The rain was falling down on the sidewalk outside, and water droplets were falling from his hair and into his eyes. He feels his tears mixing with the rainwater, and feels the cold bringing down his already low energy. "I can't stop."

Dominique takes a step towards Roger, "What?"

"I can't stop smoking."

Thunder rumbles in the distance.

"It's been three months since I broke up with him and I can't stop smoking."

Roger's sister had taken one look at Tim before deciding she didn't like the other man. Clare, beautiful and strong Clare, had taken him into her room that night and told him to dump Tim Staffell before it was too late. Before he fell in love with someone who definitively did not love him back. Roger had laughed at her face, and told her to shove her jealousy up her butt.

She was the first one to know when Roger had dumped Tim. The first one to open up her arms and let him cry until he couldn't utter a single tear. She was the first one to look at him with pity in her eyes once he took out one of his cancer sticks, and smoked it. The first one to ask a question that would haunt him through the next two months of his life, "Oh Meddows, what did he do to my brother?"

To say Brian was fuming was an understatement. He thundered into the house, marching up to the only person he knew could have even thought about inviting Tim Staffell after he had told them not to, and turned Freddie Mercury around. The other man smiled innocently, and chuckled once he saw Brian's face, "Oh dear, what did I do now?"

"Why did you invite Tim?"

Freddie frowned, "You are angry about that?"

"What else would I be angry about, Freddie?" Brian raised his voice, anger fuelling the volume, "You invited the person I had been in love with for years to the first time I bring my boyfriend to a dinner. What else am I supposed to be angry about?"

Confusion clouded his face, "Nothing happened between you and Roger?"

"What?" Brian felt the anger rise, "Why would anything happen between us?"

"I—" Freddie's face went through a thousand different emotions before settling on regret, "I thought bringing Tim here would make you realise what you have with Roger is invaluable."

The worst part was the Freddie's planned had worked for about fifteen seconds. He had looked at Tim and his first thought had been, well, he really doesn't have anything on Roger. That was until he saw Roger crumble right before his eyes, and Tim looking at Roger with hunger. Only then did the spell break, and did Brian realise that Roger was probably in danger.

"You fucking knew," Brian accused Freddie, "you knew about what we were doing and you didn't think about fucking telling me?"

"It would have ruined the surprise."

"What bloody surprise?"

"Roger was going to ask you out on a date tonight."

That was all it took for Brian to snap out of his trance, he felt his breath shorten and his vision become blurry. He look around the room, and found that everyone was around them, watching the exchange intently. Everyone but two people, Tim and Roger. Now, he didn't know what the history behind Tim and Roger was, he only knew that the older man had shaken up Roger enough for him to become a trembling, mute, mess. And Brian had left him alone in a place that Tim could easily reach him.

"Roger," he whispers, as his anger starts to dissipate, and turns into worry, "Roger!"

He runs out, ignoring the shouts for him to come back, ignoring the way that something glass-like falls to the floor and shatters. He ran out without stopping to see if Freddie was alright from the sudden aggression.

And he was damn glad he didn't stop.

The world around Roger melts away, leaving him cold, alone, and terrified. Tim lets out something resembling a growl and fear curls at the pit of his stomach. Then Tim is pressing him against the nearest wall, pinning his hands at his sides, his hips to Roger's, and his lips against his.

The worst part is that Tim still tastes like home.

Roger feels completely numb, completely disconnected from the world, as Tim kissed him like he used to do when they were still together. And the only thought he can muster is a plead for Brian to burst through that door and knock Tim's teeth out.

He can hear his name being called from inside, he can hear Brian's voice as he frantically calls for him, but he can't find it in him to break the kiss. He is pinned to the wall by more than just a single man. And when he wills his body to move all he can do is twitch pathetically and feel as a tear falls down his cheek.

And for the second time that night Roger Meddows Taylor is left absolutely powerless.

So this happened, I can't say I regret this, but I certainly do feel like it just changed the course of the story for all of you who thought you knew what you were getting into. You didn't think I'd be kind enough to let you go without drama, did you?

I am a slut for kudos and comments, also please do tell me what you think about what just happened cause I felt like it was the absolute BEST but I really want to hear what you have to say.

#the a experience fic #maylor #brian may #roger taylor #freddie mercury #john deacon #my writing #my fic #oof this is by far my fav chapter i have written

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singledarkshade · 6 years

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Under The Sea

Part Three

Stepping onto the bridge of the Seaquest, Nathan smiled as he looked at his crew working as efficiently as they always did. He was extremely proud of his people, the best the UEO had to offer.

“ETA to Kingsman?” he asked, moving to take his chair.

“Just under fifteen minutes, Captain,” Tim replied, “I’ve spoken with Commander Hollingsworth and she is looking forward to our arrival.”

“Well we are here to upgrade their equipment,” Jonathan noted.

Tony chuckled, “And we bring new faces for them to look at.”

Nathan smiled very slightly, “Mr O’Neill, Mr Ortiz, is your team ready?”

“Yes sir,” Miguel spoke up, “We estimate the upgrade will take ten hours.”

“Good,” Nathan nodded, “Once we dock get your team ready to go. I want to be able to drop our guest off as soon as possible.”

Silence descended on the bridge for a moment broken by Henderson’s cry of surprise just before the entire boat jerked.

“Report,” Nathan ordered.

“I’m not sure, Captain,” Henderson said confused, “It’s like we hit something.”

“Something?” Nathan asked.

The helmswoman let out an annoyed sigh, “That’s all I can tell you, Captain. I’m not getting any readings.”

“Deploying WSKRS,” Miguel spoke up.

“Show me on the main screen,” Nathan ordered, turning to watch.

The WSKRS moved in formation, exploring the ocean before them, suddenly bouncing off an invisible wall that shimmered golden.

“What the hell was that?” Kate demanded staring at the screen.

“From the readings I’m getting,” Miguel said, he let out a sigh, “I have no idea. Lucas, look at this.”

The teenager bounced over from his own seat and frowned, “What? This can’t be right.”

“Lucas,” Nathan said, “What are you seeing?

Looking up his blue eyes wide Lucas said, “It’s the same energy signature as our guest.”

“Get him up here,” Nathan ordered, “Now.”

Rip followed his guard onto the bridge of the boat he was on a little bemused that he had been brought here.

“What can I do for you, Captain Bridger?” he asked, taking in the entire room.

Bridger motioned him over to look at the viewscreen, “We appear to have hit an energy barrier.”

“And you think I have something to do with it?” Rip frowned, “You do realise that not only have I been in one of your rooms under guard, I also arrived here with nothing but the clothes on my back.”

Bridger nodded, “The energy signature of the barrier is the same as the one that we found when you were scanned, meaning this is from your universe.”

Frowning in thought Rip started, “Gideon…” he stopped sighing in annoyance. He wasn’t on the Waverider and Gideon, although standing by his side had no access to anything they could use. Taking a breath he turned back to the Captain, “Can I see what happened when the barrier is struck?”

“Mr Ortiz,” Bridger turned to one of the men sitting at the stations to the side.

Rip watched, smiling at the results, “It’s part of the core.”

“The core?” a teenager appeared beside Bridger, “What core?”

“From my timeship,” Rip explained.

The teenager grinned at the thought, “How does that work?”

“Not now, Lucas,” Bridger told him, “Mr Hunter, what do you mean exactly.”

Glancing at Gideon briefly he smiled, “It means this is how you get me out of your hair. From my previous experience if I touch it I will be moved out of this universe.”

“To where?” Bridger asked.

Rip shrugged, “Hopefully my own.”

He saw the worried looks on the faces around the room at his answer.

“Where else could you end up?” the teen, Lucas, asked a little uncertainly.

“From my current knowledge,” Rip replied, “Anywhere. But that is assuming I can get to the shard.”

“Especially as it seems to be creating a forcefield we have no idea how to disable,” Ortiz replied.

Gideon moved closer to him whispering softly, “We can disable it, Rip.”

“I think I can disable it, if you can get me there,” he told them.

Bridger turned to his people, “Can we?”

Lucas and Ortiz started to talk quickly, Tim and Kate moved from their stations and joined in the discussion.

“We think we can,” Lucas said after several minutes, “But we need some time to work on a plan.”

Bridger nodded, “Since we can’t get anywhere near the colony until we disable this, get to work.”

Rip turned to him, “Do you mind if I join them? My knowledge would be useful.”

“Have fun,” Bridger said, chuckling at the confused look on Rip’s face, “I know what they’re like when working on a problem.”

*********************************************

Gideon perched on the table in one corner of the lab where the four members of the Seaquest crew sat with her Captain. She was quite enjoying spending her time in this form while with her Captain. It allowed her to interact easier with him and she knew having her in this form comforted him.

Watching Rip with the four members of the Seaquest crew was entertaining to say the least. All four were very intelligent, each with their own specialty complimenting one another as they worked together with ease. They had obviously been a team for a long time and they were a proper team. Listening to one another’s ideas and building on them sometimes finishing one another’s sentences.

Rip listened to their back and forth for several minutes before he started making some suggestions. His presence was enfolded into the dynamic quite quickly. It was gratifying to watch him being treated as one of the group and not an outsider. Gideon knew how he had always felt like one with everyone but Miranda or herself.

No matter how much he tried with others.

“Okay,” Tim said setting up the information on the screen, “Are we sure that this will work?”

“If,” Kate noted, “And I mean if we have the power requirements right.”

Ortiz frowned, “Why do you think we haven’t?”

“Because of the energy is from my universe,” Rip added, “It could have completely altered the calculations in a way we haven’t predicted.”

Lucas nodded before finishing, “And we could make the entire thing along with everything in this area explode.”

“If we’re lucky,” Kate chuckled before leaning back in her chair, “Alright. Tim you drive. Lucas, you’re staying here. Before you argue it’s because Rip is going to take your spot in the launch for this.”

“Why can’t Ortiz stay behind?” Lucas demanded, an annoyed pout on his face.

Patting his arm Kate smiled, “Because I said so. And you know Nathan’s rules about you and dangerous situations.”

Letting out a sigh Lucas shrugged, “Fine but you owe me, Rip.”

Confused Rip glanced at the other three who all shrugged, “Owe you what?”

“Well specs and more of an explanation on your time drive will make things even,” Lucas grinned.

Rip chuckled, “You know I might not return if I get too close to the shard.”

“But if you do,” Lucas told him, “You agree to my terms?”

Nodding Rip replied, “Alright. If I make it back I will go over the specifications of the Time Drive with you.”

“Oh,” Kate grinned, “Somebody make sure there are plenty of snacks for that.” She sighed, “Alright I’ll go report to Nathan. Tim, you and Miguel get the launch ready. Lucas, go complain to Darwin before you get back to the bridge.”

“Miss Foster,” Rip spoke up, “What about me? Since you’re giving orders.”

Kate hesitated before shrugging, “Go with the boys. Keep them from making any mistakes.”

Rip walked along the corridors behind Tim and Miguel, as they insisted he call them watching the friendship between the two men. Glancing to his side he saw Gideon smiling at him.

“What?” he asked softly.

“You worked very well with them,” she said proudly.

Rolling his eyes, he shrugged, “They’re intelligent people. Good at what they do and willing to work with others.”

Gideon nodded.

“No egos,” Rip continued thoughtfully, “Just four people who know one another well and listened to everything no matter how unusual the idea might be.”

“Captain?”

He sighed, “I’m just finding I like it here. Who knows where I’ll end up next time I touch the shard. There’s no way to know what it’ll be like. And let’s face it we have no idea how long it will take me to get back to you.”

“Are you thinking about staying here?” Gideon asked.

Rip shook his head, “No…Yes…No. It’s just nice being somewhere my contribution is listened to.”

“I always listen to you, Rip,” Gideon reminded him.

He smiled softly, “I know, Gideon. And I appreciate you every moment for simply that.”

She gave him a warm smile back before frowning as they came closer to their destination, “I will not be able to speak with you while Mr O’Neill is present, but I will be with you at all times.”

“I’ll do my best to ask you anything in a way that doesn’t require your voice,” Rip promised, making her smile and give a gentle nod.

Walking forward he caught up with Tim and Miguel who motioned him to join them. Climbing down the ladder into the small submarine Rip smiled wondering if they’d teach him how to pilot it. He took the seat he was directed to and watched them intently as they got the launch ready to go.

“Alright, boys,” Kate’s voice preceded her dropping into the launch about ten minutes later, “Are we ready to go?”

Tim glanced back at her, “Just waiting on you. Once you’ve deigned to join us and strap in then we can get started.”

With a grin Kate climbed up and took the seat across from Rip behind Tim, “You’re getting cheeky, O’Neill. You know I only like that sometimes.”

“Oh please you two,” Miguel rolled his eyes, “Not in front of company. We’re trying to pretend that we’re professionals remember?”

Rip chuckled softly.

“And we have a go for launch,” Tim said ignoring the other man, “ETA six minutes.”

Rip smiled as they left the Seaquest sliding into the deep ocean. It was a whole new world to him and Rip knew that if he was stuck in this world then it might not be such a bad thing.

Part Four

#fic #legends of tomorrow #rip hunter #gideon #seaquest #nathan bridger #tim o'neill

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