#BeYonder ficlet
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sO i got to part two of the daniel jason todd fenton au :)
>:) word count 8k+
So, first, taglist for folks who asked for it:
@blep-23 @mikyapixie @isnt-that-grape @randomenglishmajor @illryiannightmare @the-navistar-carol
SECOND: this part needs a trigger/content warning list:
- CW Mild Swearing
- CW Slight Psychological Horror
- ^ CW mild depictions of being haunted by your own ghost/death flag and not realizing it (other people do though)
- CW Brief Emetophobia (Danny throws up during a second nightmare)
- CW Danny has nightmares of dying - except its of Jason Todd's warehouse death. It's not explicit but it's implied
- TW Mild mentions of perceived Blood
- TW Depictions of Corpses (first is non-descript, and then second one is slightly more descript but its not anything uh, super descriptive)
- TW Mild description of burns (the descriptive part above)
- TW Depictions of Panic Attacks (Danny's nightmares)
I mentioned that this au was inspired by a song lyric from Jann's 'Gladiator' here is that line:
I know your addiction's attention,
Let's start a show
Is it everything and more than you were hoping for?
Show us something we ain't never seen before
The day after Danny meets himself, he's downstairs having breakfast in the dining room with the rest of the family, listening idly in on their conversations. Tim Drake is talking about something about Wayne Industries with Mr. Wayne - and wasn't that a startling surprise to learn the first time? - and Damian was slyly trying to feed Ace under the table. Duke Thomas was mid conversation with Cass, much of it audibly one-sided as Cass swaps between ASL and verbal speech.
(Danny comes across her a fair few amount of times in Wayne Manor. The first time was in the library. She hands him a book about planets, smiles, and walks away.)
(He hasn't talked much to Duke Thomas yet, but he plans to - he seems cool. They just haven't had the time to run into each other yet. Danny might just have to corner him, he thinks.)
And finally Dick Grayson on his left, his Dick Grayson, was talking away with the other Dick Grayson - who had stopped by from Bludhaven for the morning for his day off. He was a cop, ew. They were comparing lives, specifically college lives. There wasn’t much to talk about in their childhood, it seems. Danny was quietly listening in.
(They both gave their Bruces headaches as children, apparently. Climbing the chandeliers and sliding down the staircase banisters. Flips and tricks only a child raised by the circus could do.)
All-in-all, a very quiet morning, Danny thinks. That is, until the other Dick Grayson turns to him and goes; "I'm sure you've been asked already, but what do your parents do, Mini Jay?"
Danny squints at him, and releases his grip on his spoon to raise a pointed finger. "First off: only my Dick Grayson can call me Jay, you have your own." He says, slightly playful and nodding to Dick - oh that was going to get confusing, fast. He should come up with a nickname for one of them, probably - "And second: you're the second person to ask me that, actually. Jason - er, myself? - asked me yesterday. My parents are ectologists."
Apparently, mentioning that he met himself is a set of magic words, because the whole table stops what they're doing, and Danny's half-sinking back into his chair when all eyes turn to him in varying degrees of surprise. Dick - Richard, he’s going to call him Richard - looks at him with wide eyes and furrowed, confused brows. "You saw Jason?"
(Danny sends Bruce a confused look, but he's not paying attention - looking at everyone else with threaded eyebrows and a faint frown. Well, at least Danny isn't the only one confused by the reaction.)
(What a comfort.)
"I guess that nickname is a dimensional constant." He mutters under his breath, and straightens up, eyeing the room warily. It... doesn't bode well to him that the Waynes were surprised by his other self's appearance -- was hisself estranged from the family?
...He hopes that doesn't happen in his world. Dick and Bruce may not be his adoptive family, but he likes them quite a lot. He wants to stay in contact with them when they get home.
"Yeah, he was in the library." He says, frowning at Richard Grayson. "He was sitting in my armchair." He supposes it was Jason's armchair first -- god, that was so weird to refer to himself in third person. "We talked for a little bit, and he asked me what my parents did. They're ectologists, by the way."
He turns to Mister Wayne and tilts his head, "Did you really not know that he was here?" He asks, narrowing his eyes. He wouldn't expect Richard to know, he doesn't live here. But Mister Wayne looks just as surprised, perhaps even a little remorseful.
(There’s a pit in his stomach that’s growing bigger.)
(His neck burns with a new pair of eyes, ones that he can’t see.)
Mr. Wayne looks thoughtful for a moment, and then carefully, he goes; "Jason is rather... independent. He comes and goes from the manor when he feels like it." And the way he speaks sounds like he was choosing his words carefully. Danny suppresses the shiver of unease.
Something was not well in this house. Something unspoken was haunting the air.
(Jason would know about hauntings, wouldn’t he?)
He hopes history won't repeat itself, he likes Bruce quite a lot.
"...Alright," he says after a moment of silence, not hiding his wariness as he slowly turns back to Richard. His eyes flick towards Bruce, and then to Ricard. "Anyway, my parents are ectologists, as I've said for the third time now."
Richard, for his effort, takes the topic change easily, and his surprise shifts into one of curiosity - as does everyone else. (Did Danny really not mention what his parents did? Even Dick and Bruce look intrigued.) "That's... new." Richard says lightly, Danny commends him for the way he sounds non-judgmental. "What are ectologists?"
Danny quirks a dry half-smile, and deadpans; "Studiers of all things dead and afterlife."
...And there is that reaction again. A ripple of surprise and intrigue that spreads throughout the room as everyone looks at him, like a bunch of cats perking up their ears.
On the other side of the table, Damian scoffs quietly, a sound much like the one Jason - the other one - did when Danny told him. Danny's eyes snap over to him in an instant, he stares at him, trying to study him. Why that reaction - again?
He lets himself frown, briefly, before addressing Richard again. "Everyone just calls them ghost hunters, but the 'official' term is ectologists." He drawls, air-quoting the word 'official' with his fingers as he rolls his eyes. "They've been obsessed with ghosts since college. We even have a lab in the basement, and they keep liquid ectoplasm samples in the fridge."
Danny's been in the lab a handful of times, he and Jazz both have, either to clean it as part of their chores, or to listen to a lecture from their parents for their newest invention. The lab is cool, kinda, but Danny thinks it wouldn't look out of place in any evil lair of a Rogue with a doctorate.
…He’s glad that the Fentons weren’t stationed in Gotham. They would have blown up a street. He’s surprised they haven’t already.
"Ectoplasm?" Dick asks, leaning over to catch Danny's eye. Almost by instinct now Danny smiles at him, and then nods.
"Mom and dad say it's the stuff that makes ghosts." He explains, leaning back against his seat, his arms crossing. "It's invisible in its natural state, and it makes up everything. Kinda like the Force from Star Wars, or just, matter in general."
That cracks a few quiet, laugh-like sounds through the dining room. Danny halves a smile again, a swelling of pride in his chest that lingers for a moment. "My parents say that when ectoplasm condenses enough in one area, it can start taking on visible properties," he continues, "they say that ghosts are just the memories and emotions of a dying person or animal being imprinted on a concentration of ectoplasm, and that the ghost itself isn't actually the person or animal, just matter trying to mimic it."
Which Danny guesses makes sense, even if the way they talk about ghosts made him really uncomfortable. His parents insisted that ghosts weren't actually people, but he just couldn't shake the idea that they were. How close to ‘human’ does something get before they actually are?
Well, no, that wasn’t fair. Superman wasn’t human, and yet everyone treated him like he was. Let him rephrase himself:
How human-like must something get before they are considered as such? Before they’re considered sapient and sentient, and real?
"That's... quite interesting." Someone says, and Danny turns to see Bruce leaning his elbows against the table and putting his chin on threaded fingers. He looks genuinely engrossed in what Danny's said, and pride once again leaks into his heart. "You mentioned they kept ectoplasm in a liquified state in their... fridge?"
"Oh yeah," Danny says, putting his full attention to Bruce, "it's crazy. They keep little test tube racks in the freezer full of liquid ectoplasm, and it's this - uh - glowing, bright green stuff. It used to be the weirdest thing in the house."
(From his peripherals, Danny notices the room tense up again at his description — and he bites back the urge to slow his talking down and narrow his eyes. Suspicious. Suspicious. The Waynes weren’t scientists - why do they react to something like they are?)
(Nobody knows what ectoplasm is. To the scientific world, it's an unconfirmed theory of a state of matter. Why do the Waynes act like they know what it is?)
(Danny is not stupid. Even if his scientific family makes him feel like it, sometimes.)
Bruce gives him this half-tilted, confused smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling up. "Used to be?"
Danny opens his mouth, the answer already on the tip of his tongue -- and then he freezes. His jaw clicks shut as he frowns. Should he say what his parents' latest pet project was? Surely, surely, it would be fine? Their inventions never work - and a life-sized portal is just another thing on his parents' crazy ideas list.
His teeth sink into his bottom lip, chewing on the skin as he rolls the answer over in his head. ...Surely, it would be fine. His face turns in hesitance, and his shoulders scrunch and twist to his ears, like he's about to admit something that could get him grounded by his parents.
"They... may, or may not, be building an inter-dimensional portal in the basement?" His voice steadily pitches upward nervously the longer he speaks. By the time he finishes, his voice is close to a squeaky pitch.
There is a horrified silence that follows him, sitting in the air so still-like that Danny could hear the whoosh of a pin drop. He should have expected that, nervously surveying the ranging horrified expressions on the Wayne family's faces. "...I promise they're harmless... to the living." He hesitates, "Mostly."
Bruce stares at him for a long moment. "Mostly?" He repeats, his brows arched high and pinched together. Danny cringes back a little.
"Dad's a little clumsy, that's all." He says, shrugging with a helpless smile. It doesn't help, he thinks, and the silence is strangling. Sitting up, he's a little frantic to add; "I really, really, doubt it's going to work, Bruce. Their inventions never do. Mom and dad built a mini portal in college and it didn't work either!" There's a moment of silence following him, before he quietly adds, wincing, "It- it did hospitalize the guy who was helping them, though."
He only heard about that when he asked his parents about the portal - it was still in production when they picked him up. Jack Fenton claimed it was safe as safe could be - they’d make sure that the ‘college’ instance never happened again.
Bruce - both Bruces actually - looked vaguely ill at the thought. Mister Wayne’s face was blank, his face sunk into his folded hands, and Bruce’s stare burned into Danny, intense like concentrated fire.
Danny for some reason - either through his panicked urge to make things better, or through temporary insanity - laughs forcibly. "The worst thing that could happen is that the portal could explode, but that never happens."
Next to him, Dick makes a stressed sound. "That's not better, Jay." He forces out. He looks even more horrified.
Danny sucks on his bottom lip for a long beat. Then lets out a breath.
"Yeah, I know." Danny sighs, deep and long while his shoulders slump. He watches the room for a moment, with their various stony-like expressions, and looks back at the very concerned-looking Bruce. "But Bruce, I swear it's fine. Nothing's gonna happen, please don't call the Justice League on my parents. They really are harmless."
Bruce looks conflicted.
"I was being dramatic when I said the portal could explode, it won't." He continues, giving Bruce what Jazz has called his 'cheating puppy eyes'. "My parents are eccentric about their line of work, but they understand lab safety. They'd never do anything to put me and Jazz in danger."
...Actively or on purpose, that is.
He and Bruce stare each other down. One second, two seconds; what feels like thirty seconds pass in silence before Bruce relents, sighing deeply and uncannily dad-like. He drags a hand down his face, and rubs his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. "When we get back to our universe, you are giving me your phone number so you can contact me if anything happens."
Danny beams, nodding hurriedly. "Thank you, Buzz."
Bruce isn't able to hide his smile - small as it was - quickly enough. "You're welcome, Danny."
—-----
Danny has a nightmare that night. He doesn't remember most of it. There's a ticking sound, and high laughter, and there is a thumping heartbeat in his ears. Everything is dark and he is in agonizing pain.
He wakes up in paralyzing terror, a scream lodged in the back of his throat. His head pounds like a concussion and there is a shallowing ache in his ribs, like someone's kicked him, and kicked him, and kicked him until all air has been knocked from his lungs. He can't breathe.
Danny's hands scrabble for his throat, and even though he can hear himself gasping for air, it doesn't feel like he's taking any of it in. There is no relief in the action, no reassurance, and everything is so hot. He kicks at his blankets, his panic growing higher as they tangle around his legs.
He needs-
He needs--
He needs to move. He needs to get up. He needs to free himself. He needs to prove that he's not dying. He feels like he's dying. He feels like he's burning. There are tears swelling in his eyes as he finally gets the blankets off his feet, and he rolls - quite literally - out of bed.
He tries to catch himself, he does. But he doesn't. He hits the floor with a heavy thud and can hardly bring himself to care -- he catches himself on his elbows, and the sting it causes makes him feel worse. The air is knocked out of his chest again.
The ground is cold though, blessedly cold. And before Danny can realize this, he lifts his head and, disoriented, looks for the door. It's too dark, it's too dark. His head swivels blindly in search of it. He needs to get out, he needs to escape.
"Bruce." He croaks, still trying to force air down into his lungs. His call comes out raspy, weak, and hot tears blur his vision.
"Dick." He tries instead when a minute passes and no one comes, and he thinks he can finally start breathing. No one comes to find him - his voice is too quiet to wake anyone up. The tears in his eyes bubble and pop, and stream down his face.
He makes a distressed noise. "Jazz?" He whispers, his voice shaky and uneven with an encompassing want for his sister. It's nearly been a month since they got here. He wants Jazz.
No one hears him. He's alone.
God, he doesn't want to be alone. Please don't make him be alone.
Danny eventually gets himself calmed down. But he is curled up on the floor, trembling with the lingering traces of fear from whatever dream had woken up. His fingers dig painfully into his arms, leaving crescent-moon indents by his nails. The contents of the nightmare are already fading further into his mind, slipping out of his hands like water. Like ash.
He feels no need to chase after it.
The back of his shirt is damp with sweat, and in between the trembling he is also shivering, goosebumps lacing up his arms. His eyes have adjusted to the dark, and he stares with wide, crying eyes at the side of his bed. His breath comes out in short, shaky pants.
He doesn't know how long he lays there, trying to comprehend what happened as his mind still hangs onto the edge of the dreamworld. It feels like there is something in the room with him, crawling along the walls.
Danny forces himself to get up, and the sudden standing makes his vision blacken and swim as blood rushes to his head. He stumbles, slightly, and lurches halfway across the room for the light switch.
He squints as the room is drenched in light, chasing away the lingering paranoia in the back of his brain. He is still shaking. His head still hurts. He still looks, wide eyed, around the room for anything out of place.
There is none.
But he still feels unsafe. He needs- he needs to find someone, or go somewhere else. He grabs a firm pillow off the bed, and leaves.
(He ends up in the library alone. He turns on the lights and grabs a book Dick recommended to him, and he curls up tight in his armchair. He ends up falling asleep just as the sun is rising.)
(He doesn't tell anyone about the nightmare.)
-
Progress in getting the three of them back to their home dimension is slow. Dimension Hopping is a rare experience, and what update Bruce gets he relays back to Danny and Dick: they're trying to figure out a way to send them back safely, from the exact time they disappeared, and to find what dimension they're from. It's complicated magic.
It's been three weeks.
Danny, for one, is getting homesick. He misses Jazz, Sam, and Tucker terribly, and his parents. Bruce and Dick are great, really, and Danny kinda wants to keep in touch with them after they return to their own world, but they aren't replacements of his sister and friends.
His nightmare from a few days ago still haunt his steps. He closes eyes, and that high-pitched laughter and blood-rushed pounding burns itself his ears and fills a level of unseen terror into his heart. Danny thinks that if he was hit with Scarecrow's fear gas, this is what it would feel like.
He tries to avoid falling asleep by reading in his room, by stargazing, but the place sets him on edge; an unsettling reminder of that nightmare. So he goes to the library when it gets too much, he's run into Bruce twice now doing it, and they both do reading.
Danny thinks Bruce can suspect something is up with him, but he doesn't want to tell him about that nightmare. Dick either, for that matter. He just wants to forget it.
They spend afternoons in the gym, they have it mostly to themselves - Tim Drake is at Wayne Industries, Damian Wayne is at school, so is Duke Thompson, and Cassandra Cain is... doing whatever she does during the day. Danny's not totally sure.
Dick in that time, tries showing Danny how to be more flexible. He says he's a fast learner, but Danny knows he's been slacking lately with his lack of sleep.
There isn't much they can do outside of the manor - Bruce and Dick can't go outside because they'll catch the attention of the paparazzi, and they are both significantly younger than their counterparts, and Danny isn't allowed out without a chaperone.
Which has its own unique set of problems because rumors could rapidly start if he's seen with any of the Waynes multiple times. The paparazzi aren’t dumb enough… okay, most — some — of them aren’t dumb enough to make a tabloid claiming there’s a new Wayne kid just because they see the Waynes interacting with one kid, one time. Multiple times however? That’s another story. And, he has the same issue as Bruce and Dick - he's a baby-faced Jason Todd. Who is Bruce Wayne's adoptive son in this world. He could be recognized.
And how do you explain a tiny Jason Todd to a world where Jason Todd is a full grown man?
So all three of them are... stuck inside, so to speak. And making do with what they can. Danny spends most of his morning and early noon with Dick, and then they both separate after to have time to themselves before dinner.
Bruce is in one of the studies, doing... something. Danny's not sure and he keeps forgetting to ask.
--
Dick likes Danny - Jason? - Jay. Danny said that he can call him Jason, and he doesn't protest to being called Jay.
Point is: he likes Jay. He's a delightful kid to be around; he's funny, and clever, even if he doesn't realize it himself. And Dick's a little upset that Jay isn't his brother in his world, he would've loved to have him around the manor. He probably would have visited more if he was around.
Something that he and Bruce were still slowly trying to fix...
He likes spending time with him - getting to teach him his acrobatic tricks was not something he expected, but he loves showing Jay how to do them. He thinks this is probably how Bruce felt when he was training Dick how to be Robin, all those years ago.
Speaking of which, Dick was still not over the Robin jacket that Jay wore. The origins of it weren't the best - Jay started wearing it to take back the insult the other kids at his school were throwing at him - but isn't that what part of what being Robin was about?
Cheesy, he knows. But his point still stands.
He thinks that if he had to pass the Robin title down to anyone, it would be Daniel Jason Todd-Fenton. Or perhaps just Jason Fenton-Todd? Jay doesn’t seem all that attached to the name Danny.
(“Mom and dad just started calling me it when they picked me up.” Danny — Jay shrugged when Dick asked him about it, the two of them swinging from bar to bar. “I wasn’t tellin’ ‘em my name at the time, so they gave me a new one.”)
If he had met Jason before the Fentons had, Dick thinks maybe he would have adopted him instead. And what would that future look like? Would he have been able to, when he had to go to college and classes? Would he have been able to keep going out at night, and keep that secret to himself?
He’ll never know, he supposes.
“I think that’s it for today.” Dick says, swinging off the jungle gym and landing on the mats with a cat-like thump. Behind him, Jay groans, and drops with a less graceful thud as Dick stretches out his spine. There’s a satisfying pop-pop-pop of his back as he leans back.
He turns, and sees Jay going for his water bottle. He looks tired — from what, Dick doesn’t know. But there are dark bags under his eyes and a sleep-distracted look on his face. He’s been distracted, and their lessons have been suffering from it.
Dick wants to know what’s bothering him, but Jay hasn’t said anything, and Dick doesn’t know what he could say to make it better.
“I can still keep going.” Jason insists, but he tiredly slumps over to grab his water, and straightens up sluggishly. It’s probably not a lie, but anything Dick shows him he doubts that Jay will retain it. “You don’t have to stop.”
“Oh but I want to.” Dick says, walking over to grab his own water. “I’m human too you know—” and Jay snorts at him with a grumbled ‘doubt it’. “—so I also need my breaks.”
“With the way you can bend I really don’t think so.” Jason mutters, eyeing him up and down. Dick laughs quietly and takes a long sip of his water. “Seriously, circus boy, what do they feed you? Actually - what did they feed myself?”
Dick’s laughter doubles as Jay’s eyes grow wide and wild, his head shaking with spasming arms. “No, seriously! I don’t know if you’ve seen the other me yet, Dick, but he- he’s fucking huge!” He exclaims, and jumps as high as he can as his arms try to make a silhouette above his head. “I- I’m almost as big as Jack Fenton, and we’re not even biologically related! I don’t know where he got that much height to him, ‘cause- ‘cause Willis, that drunk bastard, was never that big!”
Dick hasn’t seen the elusive other Jason Todd, and he’s been so curious about him. Both he and Bruce have — especially considering that everyone else doesn’t seem to want to tell them about him. He tried stopping his other self to ask about Jason Todd of his world, and his other self just said that he was his little brother and the second robin, and that he did a lot of his own stuff.
It was a whole bunch of fucking nothing. And he and Bruce were growing suspicious about it. They hadn’t thought of it before because, well, they were busy adjusting to being in a new world and trying to figure out a way back. And then Jason was never really brought up, but neither was Dick Grayson unless Dick asked about it, and he didn’t think to ask about Jason Todd before.
It was all just strange.
But Jay’s exclamation over the size of himself distracts Dick long enough that he forces himself to put the mystery of Jason Todd on the backburner for now. “I’ll- I’ll have to see him for myself, Jaybird.” He says when his laughter subsides, and he straightens up.
“Seriously,” Jay stresses, and he starts to make his way towards the gym door. “He’s fucking massive, Dick. Built like a brick shithouse.”
Dick almost starts laughing again, “Where did you even learn that phrase?”
Jay rolls his shoulders back and grins at him slyly, “I read.” He says, and it’s so clearly not how he learned that word that Dick barks out a laugh.
They reach the door, and Jay holds the door open as Dick reaches for the light switch. He looks behind him, surveying the room quickly to make sure that there’s nothing they could have left on the floor, before turning off the lights.
Bright green eyes stare at him from the mirror. Right where Jay is standing.
In an instant, the lights are back on. Dick’s heart has been kickstarted into fifth gear, suddenly and loudly racing in his chest as he darts his head around the room. It was only two seconds, perhaps only even one, but fear has been shot like an adrenaline needle into Dick’s veins. An inhuman, skyrocketing fear alike to Scarecrow’s fear gas.
What was that?
What was that?
WHAT WAS THAT?
But there’s nothing there. There’s nothing there. There’s nothing there. There is only Jason where the eyes were.
From the mirror’s reflection, Jason turns his head — he hadn’t been looking at Dick, he hadn’t been looking at Dick — and stares up at him. There is confusion written on his face as he glances up at Dick, and then at the mirror. He meets his eyes - Jason’s blue, blue, not green, eyes — and Dick forces himself to look away from the mirror and down at Jay.
“What was that for?” Jay asks him, perfectly normal and perfectly confused.
Dick feels like he just ran a marathon. He’s panting, he doesn’t know why, and he forces himself to sound like he wasn’t as he wets his lips and furrows his brows. “I thought I saw something.” He says, frowning.
He didn’t think. He did. He did.
What did he see?
It was standing where Jay was. Those eyes. Those green-green eyes. It was where Jay was. He forces himself to shake his head, his frown deepening, unsettled. Jason peers around him as if to see what he had, and Dick puts a hand on his chest, stopping him. “It was nothing, let's go.”
He turns Jay around, and ignores his bewildered look. That lighthearted mood he had earlier has plummeted, replaced with an eerie paranoia as he takes the door from Jason’s hand and flicks the lights back off.
When he looks over his shoulder at the mirror, there’s nothing there.
—------------
Danny has another nightmare. It’s the same one. It’s dark again. That high pitched laughter fills his ears. The ticking is louder, louder, louder. It’s counting down, but to what - he can’t see — he can’t see what it’s counting down to.
There is still so much pain. His head hurts, his body hurts. He has a body now, he can remember he has a body. He’s in so much pain. He looks down at his hands and pooling around his knees is a bloody yellow cape, it’s torn and bloody and his hands are bloody and torn and he’s wearing green gloves.
He wakes up just before the ticking stops. He doesn’t know how he knows that the ticking stops.
Danny rolls over and hangs himself sideways off the bed, gasping for air that doesn’t come. He wants to scream again, to shriek with such terror that it sends everyone in the manor running into his room. He doesn’t, he can’t, he has no mouth and he must scream.
Danny gasps for air instead, and then dry heaves until he throws up onto the floor. His head is spinning with the fadings of a dream-made concussion, again. His chest hurts deeper, more, it’s no longer shallow and as if someone was sitting on his chest, like someone had beat him in the stomach and chest and head.
He feels like he’s choking. He is, he’s choking on what bile he can’t get out of his throat, and he forces himself to swallow it back down. He’s crying, he realizes, and dragging in air down into his lungs to the point it hurts.
What is going on? He thinks through the haze in his mind. With what lucidity he has he brings a hand to his head to make sure he’s not bleeding. His palm swipes against sticky skin, and all that comes back is sweat. He’s not bleeding. He feels like he is.
Make it stop. His inner mind wails as he finally, finally, starts to calm down again. He’s still crying. The tears burn down his cheeks, and he absently sticks out his tongue and licks the ones that gather at his lips away. He wipes at his face again, and when he looks at his hands, all he sees is skin.
He’s not wearing gloves.
His hands reach for his back, and grasp his sweat-soaked shirt instead. He’s not wearing a cape. It soothes him, just a little bit. But not enough to keep him feeling safe.
Danny peers over the side of the bed, and through his dark-adjusted eyes he sees the sitting puddle of throw-up on the floor. He cringes, sniffling. He can’t keep that there. He needs to — he needs to clean that up.
Alfred must be sleeping by now — what time is it? He doesn’t know. He can’t wake him up. Where does Alfred keep the cleaning supplies?
Danny throws his legs over the side — they’re not broken, he thinks dazedly — why would he think they’re broken? — and he stumbles to the door. He avoids, somehow, the sick.
(He passes by a mirrored vanity on his way to the door. He doesn’t see his reflection staring at him with green-green eyes. He doesn’t see those eyes following him.)
He runs into Bruce in the hallway. He should have guessed it so. Danny freezes in his tracks, fear shooting up into his throat as Bruce turns towards him, already a smile pulling on the older man’s face.
It drops immediately when he sees him. It twists down, and his face burrows into concern. “What’s wrong?” He asks, and Bruce is kneeling before him before Danny can blink. He looks worried. Danny must look awful then.
(He does. He looks pale as a ghost, and his face is splotchy red and shiny with tears.)
Danny blinks at him numbly, trying to get his thoughts in order. Bruce’s hands are on his shoulders, Danny throws his hands over them, squeezing the knuckles and blinking widely. “I had-” he licks his lips, “a- uh, nightmare. And then I threw up.”
Fuck, he feels like a toddler. His eyes burn with embarrassed tears. He’s fucking thirteen. He’s not a baby. But he feels like a little kid going to their parent’s room. Bruce isn’t even his dad. He shouldn’t feel this way.
But Bruce doesn’t make fun of him, or scold him, and Danny didn’t really expect him to, but the concern that melts over his face as his eyes soften makes him feel all warm and fuzzy anyways. “Okay,” Bruce says, expression softened but no less worried, and stands up. “Okay, we can go find Alfred then.”
Danny’s lips press together, uneven and wobbling. “Please don’t.” He says before he can stop himself, and his voice cracks. He feels like such a baby. “I can clean it myself. We don’t have to wake him up.”
“Do you even know where the cleaning supplies are, chum?” Bruce asks, and in the dark hallway he can see him raise an eyebrow. Danny’s lips press tighter together. He doesn’t. But he can find it.
They wake up Alfred. Dany feels like shit the entire time.
“I’m sorry.” He croaks as he follows Alfred and Bruce down the hallway with a mop and a bucket. He’s so embarrassed. He’s going to cry again, and he hates it. “I can do it, Mister Pennyworth. Please.”
“You sound,” Mister Pennyworth starts, his voice soft, “just like young Master Jason when he started living here.” He turns to throw Danny an endeared smile, and Danny thinks it’s supposed to make him feel better. It does, a little bit, and it also makes him feel worse.
“I am Jason.” He says, and tears spill down his face again. He is Jason. That’s his name. It’s not Danny, it never has been. The time he’s been here has slowly been pointing that out to him. He may be Fenton, but he’s not Danny.
Alfred gets it all cleaned up, and Bruce sticks with him after he leaves. Danny’s grateful and resentful of it — hasn’t he embarrassed himself enough tonight?
Bruce leads him to the library, a funny parallel to the first time. “We can ask Mister Wayne —” Bruce’s face scrunches up slightly, and Danny laughs under his breath. At least he’s not the only one still weirded out by it. “— about getting you a new room tomorrow.”
Danny sniffs dryly, “How’d you know?” He didn’t think it was obvious that he didn’t want to go to sleep in his room. Bruce smiles knowingly at him, sadly, and they both sit down in the lounge chair next to the fireplace. It sits across from Danny’s armchair.
“I know a thing or two about nightmares.” He says softly.
Oh.
Yeah.
That’s right. His parents.
He probably had nightmares about that.
Danny looks away from him, his eyes drop to his hands. His bare, non-bloody hands. He leans into Bruce’s side. “I don’t wanna talk about it.” He mumbles. He doesn’t want to talk about dying. Or what he thought was dying.
“And you don’t have to.” Bruce says, slinging one arm around him and slumping against the curve of the chair. Danny reluctantly follows his falling, and finds himself trapped between the back of the chair and Bruce’s side. His ear is pressed to Bruce’s heartbeat. “We can just sit here, and talk about something else.”
Danny blinks at the empty fireplace. “Okay. Tell me about films again.”
Bruce’s fingers dig gently into his hair, and scratch slowly against his scalp. “Okay, Danny.”
Danny frowns. “And don’t call me Danny. It’s Jason.”
He doesn’t look up to see Bruce’s smile, but he can hear it as the man thumbs over the shell of his ear. “Okay, Jason.”
(Danny falls asleep halfway through Bruce’s telling of the history of the Grey Ghost. Bruce knows by the way his breathing slows into a steady rhythm and his eyes don’t open.)
(He smiles for mite a moment, before it drops and his eyes turn to the bookshelf in the corner. Standing there is a small black figure, with two burning green eyes.)
(They stare at each other for a long, long minute, Bruce’s heart rising slowly. The figure tilts its head, and disappears. Bruce doesn’t sleep for the rest of the night.)
—-------
Danny stares down Bruce. Bruce stares him down back. It’s morning. It’s breakfast. Everyone is at the table eating, and he and Bruce are having a silent staring contest. Danny has to ask Mister Wayne about moving to a new room, he thought he would be able to do so after breakfast.
(Who was he kidding? He wasn’t going to ask at all - why bother Mister Wayne about something he can get over?)
(Bruce, apparently, wasn’t having it. With that stupid knowing look on his face.)
But Bruce wants it to be now. Danny narrows his eyes at him, and Bruce raises an eyebrow back. Dick Grayson, his world, was going to notice soon. He was sitting next to Bruce this morning. That traitor.
If you don’t do it, I will. Bruce’s face says. Bastard. Danny was going to take away his Jason rights.
Danny’s the first to relent, pressing his lips together into an annoyed, thin line, before he lets out a silent sigh and turns to Mister Wayne. “Mister Wayne?” He says, cringing slightly when Mister Wayne looks up at him - as with most of the room.
“Yes, Danny?”
He spares one last look at Bruce, who nods curtly at him, and Danny throws him one last annoyed look before turning back to Mister Wayne. “Would it, uh, be fine if I changed rooms?” He asks.
Mister Wayne tilts his head, slightly, to the side with a look of interest. “You can, but what brought this up? Is everything okay?”
Fuck. Shit. Fuck. Danny was expecting that question. He glares at Bruce from the corner of his eye. And then smiles shakily at Mister Wayne. “Um, uh, yeah. Everything’s fine— it’s just, it’s stupid. Some, some stupid nightmares keeping me up.”
Mister Wayne’s brows furrow, and Dick looks concerned from Danny’s peripherals. “It’s not stupid, you can change your room. I’m sorry you’ve been having nightmares.”
He doesn’t even ask what they’re about. Bruce didn’t either — he thinks he would’ve, maybe — but fuck, jeez. Danny laughs uncomfortably, scratching his jaw. “Yeah- um, thanks. It sucks.” He just barely stops himself from blurting out that he was dreaming that he was dying.
That was not a can he wanted to open. They would have questions, he knows they would, and he doesn’t want to think about it. The image of his bloody, torn hands are already seared into his mind.
Everyone goes back to eating.
(Dick keeps looking up at him with a shadow of a frown on his face, like he’s keeping an eye on him. Quick enough that Danny doesn’t notice it. Bruce does, and watches his son from the corner of his eye.)
(Danny doesn’t see it, but his reflection turns its head. And peers around the back of its chair. Its eye burns green and it stares at Dick. The next time Dick looks up, it catches his eye.)
(He doesn’t straighten up, he forces himself not to react. He just keeps staring at it, his breath locked in his lungs, his limbs filling with a low, buzzing static. He doesn’t know what it is. It’s terrifying him.)
(The reflection doesn’t react to him, but its eyes seem to… glitch. And an eye appears next to it, and another one appears in a line. The pupils slowly turn to look… at Danny.)
(The window begins to crack.)
“JaSON!” Dick suddenly yells, standing up so abruptly that his chair falls back and slams against the ground with an echoing bang. Danny jerks back in surprise, and stares at Dick, who looks at him with equally wide eyes.
Dick looks like he’s seen a ghost, his face pale as a sheet. He looks ill. He’s panting, there’s a sheen going over his forehead, like he’s just run a mile. But he’s gripping the table like he may just vault over it.
And everyone is looking at them both once again. Bruce looks incredibly concerned.
“I— what?” Danny says, pushing his back into the chair as far as he could go.
Dick blinks, and heaves a breath. Like whatever trance he was in was just… snapped out of. His brows furrow, and he moves, suddenly, peering over Danny like he’s trying to look around him. Left, right, and over, and then back again.
“You—” he pauses, breathing in, “you looked like you were about to disappear.”
Danny stares at him in disbelief. And he looks behind him, laughing nervously. There’s nothing there but his own reflection in the smooth glass window. “What- what kind of fucking—” he turns back around to look at Dick. “Why would you say that?”
“There was something in the window.” Dick says immediately, and Danny is immediately rising to his feet and rushing around the table. Nope - nope, nope, fuck that. He’s by him and Bruce in an instant, as the other Waynes stand up and turn to the window as well.
Dick’s arms are around him the moment he’s within reach, tugging him into his side as one hand presses down against his chest, keeping him close. Dick hasn’t taken his eyes off the window, brows furrowed and serious.
Everyone looks so serious. It’s freaking him out a little bit.
“What was your nightmare about, Jay?” Dick asks when he finally tears his eyes away from the window and looks down at him. He’s got a protective hold on him, something so similar to Jazz whenever their parents set something on fire upstairs.
Danny swallows dryly — does he have to say it? Saying it might bring him back to it, and he doesn’t want to go back to it. Twice was enough for him. “I was dying.” He admits anyways, and regrets it immediately when half a dozen heads all snap to look at him.
In a panic, his mouth runs. “I was- I don’t remember anything- I just, it was dark and I was in pain and-” He presses his lips together, “I— I was in so much pain. There was this laughter—” Laughter. Familiar laughter now that he thinks about it. From the news. Danny’s lips curl downwards, and he whispers to himself, “Joker?”
“Joker?” Dick repeats, his voice hard. When Danny looks up, his face is unrecognizably stern. “You had a dream that the Joker was killing you?”
“I— no— yes?” Frustration bleeds into his chest, fear pooling up his throat as the nightmare pulls on the edge of his memory. “I don’t fucking know. I didn’t see anything, all I heard was ticking and that stupid laughter. And I was bleeding, and I was wearing this yellow fucking cape, and- and I was dying.”
He pulls himself away from Dick, his breathing picking up. “I just- I was— there was this ticking sound and I woke up before it stopped, and I- I don’t know why I knew it was about to stop — but I know that when the ticking stops something bad was going to happen— and it was just a nightmare.”
Danny grits his teeth, and looks back up at Dick, forcing himself to calm down before he works himself into a panic. “It was just a fucking nightmare, Dick.” He says forcibly, and then he marches out of the room to the library.
His appetite’s been ruined.
—---------
Danny’s — Jason’s — asleep next to him. Bruce would think it was sweet if it weren’t for the fact that Jason’s been having nightmares about dying of all things. Nightmares that weren’t, he suspects, completely unfounded.
His other self looked ill in the face as Jason marched out of the room that morning after Dick’s outburst. Outburst. That’s all he can think to call it even if it sounds juvenile. Like it was unfounded as Jason’s nightmare.
His other self has been hiding something from him. Something about Jason Todd of this world, who he hasn’t seen at all since they arrived, but Danny — Jason — has. He would’ve thought the other Todd was a ghost if his other world’s… children… hadn’t confirmed seeing and knowing him recently.
(That was something he still hasn’t fully comprehended. Children, plural? He adopts more after Dick? He has a biological son?)
He’d be interrogating his other self on this if Jason wasn’t asleep next to him. It would be remarkably easy, as they were all sitting in the living room for the afternoon. All his other children were vigilantes, he wouldn’t need to keep pretenses.
But Jason is asleep next to him, and he doesn’t know. So he resolves to staring holes into his other self’s head, who was going through documents. A case, he bets. His other self doesn’t pay him any mind, but Bruce knows he knows that he’s staring at him.
(“What have you been keeping from me?” He growls the moment Jason is out of the dining room, rising to his feet. The look on his other self meant that he knew something about those nightmares that Bruce didn’t.
His other self looks at him, “Nothing that concerns your world.” He says, all of the kids looked tense as well, but now they were staring between the both of them like a fight would break out.
“Bullshit.” Dick snaps before Bruce can speak, he walks around him and points an accusing finger at his other self. “You looked like you saw a ghost when Jaybird said he was dreaming of the Joker killing him. You know something.”
He did not tell them anything.)
Whatever it was that his other self was hiding, Bruce would find out before they went back to their world. This concerned him, and it concerned Jason’s safety. If he wasn’t safe and his other self knew something about it, Bruce would be furious.
Jason’s ragged gasp cut through the air like a knife, and Bruce’s gaze snapped down to his face as the boy’s eyes flew open and he jerked sharply. Jason’s hands were latched onto his shirt before Bruce could react, his nails dragging into his skin like he was trying to claw himself up.
It was another nightmare. Jason was clawing at him, trying to sit himself up while jagged, awful sounding gasps filled the air. He wasn’t looking at Bruce, he wasn’t looking at anything, his eyes glazed over like he was still trapped in the nightmare.
Bruce wrapped his arms around the small boy and pulled them both down onto the ground, ignoring his other children standing up and looking at them until he had Jay in a cradle.
The boy was still gasping for air, hyperventilating. His hands drop from Bruce’s shirt and scratch at his throat, his arms forming an ‘x’ while he tilts his head back and desperately tries to draw in oxygen. Bruce tilts his head back up with his hand, and leans him against his shoulder.
“Breathe.” He murmurs, pushing damp black curls out of Jay’s face. It was a poor command - Jason’s eyes were squeezed shut and his face scrunched in pain, Bruce doesn’t think he can even hear him. “You’re safe.”
“Bruce.” Dick hisses into his ear, and Bruce doesn’t look at him. He grunts to let his son know he heard him. “The mirror.”
Bruce’s eyes fly up.
There was a floor length mirror sitting in front of the couch. A mirror that Bruce was conveniently, coincidentally, sitting in front of. A mirror that should have been working as all mirrors do.
A mirror that, instead of showing Bruce his reflection back as he was, showed him in his Batman suit. Jason was in his arms, but in a torn, bloody uniform. A uniform that looked like a Robin suit. Jason - his Jason - wasn’t a Robin. But here he was, dressed as one, his black-yellow cape pooling beneath him and covered in blood.
The Jason in the mirror, the Robin, wasn’t breathing. His head lolled over Bruce’s arm lifelessly.
Bruce’s heart skids to a stop, and he looks back down. Jason was still breathing, his hyperventilating was beginning to slow, but he was breathing. The pained crease of his face was softening, even as his brows were still furrowed.
When Bruce looks back up at the mirror, the reflection has changed. It wasn’t back to normal, Jason was just in a different suit. He was wearing a white hazmat suit now, and he was burned, horribly. The suit was melted to his skin in patches around his body in black, charred splotches, what wasn’t burned was torn, and the skin he could see was cauterized. The only part of him that was bleeding was his head, and it soaked his black hair red. What of his face he could see, there were bright green lightning figures going up his neck, burning the skin around where it glows.
The mirror cracks down the middle, severing Jason from Bruce.
He forces himself to look down, terrified to see the reflection a reality right in front of him. But Jason was alive, uninjured, and breathing quietly. Bruce presses two fingers to his throat, and feels a steady pulsepoint thumping against the pads of his fingers.
Jason’s eyes open and blue stares up at him.
When Bruce looks up at the mirror, the reflection is back to normal.
#dpxdc#dp x dc#dp x dc crossover#dpxdc crossover#dpdc au#dp x dc au#dpxdc au#dpdc#dpdc crossover#Danny is Jason Todd au#i didn't think of anything beyond the ending point howEVER#this post is totally open for additions if anyone is interested#i love seeing add-ons to posts#anyways EVIL LAUGHTER#THIS IS THE PART I WANTED TO GET TO. PYSCHOLOGICAL HORROR#ANGST#if this was a fic i would have ramped up the horror more#alas tis a ficlet#starry terrorizes the waynes with the fact that jason is going to die in his world and there's nothing they can do about it.#he doesnt know he's going to die. but they do :)#fun fact jazz was going to be here and she was going to be the one to see the ghost#if this was a fic that ending scene would've occurred after more build up of dick and bruce and co seeing the figure following danny around#in the original variant au the waynes dont meet danny until he's already died and is a ghost#and i was gonna have one more jason appearance but couldnt fit one in#merry belated christmas folks#have some angst after two consecutive clone^2 posts of fluff#i tried to picture what danny's body would have looked like before being ghosted and#extremely burned was the first thing that came to mind. his suit is also almost entirely melted. something to kinda resemble his ghost half#but also i couldn't stomach making him completely unrecognizable because he WOULD have been#genuinely think danny's body would have been like. half melted at least
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“You’re going to blow out your arms,” the villain observed. They watched as the hero merely grit their teeth, shoving themself through another pull-up. It looked painful, and if the sweat slicking the hero’s brow was any indication, it was.
They waited for the hero to let themself drop from the bar and accept the villain was stronger. But they didn’t.
Three more pull-ups, and the villain stepped in.
“Hero,” they said slowly. “You’re about to tear the ligaments in your arms. You need to stop.”
The hero blew out a shuddering breath. Struggled for purchase, fighting gravity—and let themself drop.
The hero’s hands were bleeding, calluses torn open by the bar. The hero didn’t seem bothered when their own hands shook so much that their blood began to splatter on the gym floor.
For a moment, the villain could only stare at them.
Shit.
They didn’t know how to handle this. They knew the hero was dedicated. They knew the hero was strong, and perpetually trying to be stronger, but they hadn’t thought…
They hadn’t thought the hero would be so willing to tear apart their own body for success.
It was supposed to be fun, the villain thought. They felt a little sick as the hero pressed their palms together to soothe the bleeding, an action that was practiced and familiar. As if they had done this before.
The hero reached for something in their bag, smearing blood on the side, and pulled out a roll of blue electrical tape. The villain didn’t understand why, until the hero tore a strip off and made to wrap their hands with it.
The hero would be the death of them.
They crouched in front of the hero, plucking the electrical tape out of their hands.
“What are you doing with this?”
The hero blinked at the villain like they were the strange one in this situation.
“Wrapping my hands?”
The villain hissed in a breath.
“With electrical tape?”
The hero flushed slightly, looking down at their bloody hands. They looked close to tears.
“It…sticks to skin, really well. And it doesn’t move, either, when you move your hands or wherever else, even if you’re fighting. Plus, blood doesn’t make it come off, at least, not for a while.”
The villain blinked at them.”
“Blood doesn’t make it come off,” the villain repeated, processing. The hero nodded, reaching for the electrical tape. The villain settled it out of reach.
“Not if you wrap it right.”
Dimly, the villain realized that meant the hero had done this enough times to have it down to a science.
“And you couldn’t use a bandaid?” The villain asked incredulously. The hero shrugged a shoulder, then winced at the motion.
Yeah, the hero had absolutely blown out their arms.
“Bandaids move—“
The villain hushed them.
“Be quiet for a second.”
The hero, wisely, went quiet.
The villain rubbed a hand over their face, then studied the hero for a moment. They took one of the hero’s hands into their own, studying the damage.
“Why did you do this to yourself,” the villain murmured.
“What do you mean, why,” the hero snapped. “It’s my job.”
“Your job is to save people,” the villain corrected. “Not destroy yourself.”
“I’m not destroying myself—“
“You are.”
“Shut up—“
“Hero.”
“I need to be better,” the hero snapped. Their voice rang out across the gym, echoing into the rafters, and they both froze. After a moment, the hero spoke again, voice soft. “I need to be better.”
They said it like they needed the villain to understand. The villain wondered who they were really saying it to—the villain, or themself.
“Better than who?”
“Everyone.” It was hushed, like a secret.
The villain watched them, waiting.
The hero took a shaky breath
“My whole thing is being the best. I have always been the best. That’s the only reason I matter. If I’m not strong enough, then I am nothing, so I need. to be. better.”
The hero had started crying, very quietly, like they were afraid to take up too much space.
The villain was not equipped to handle gifted kid burnout.
“There’s more to you than just being a good athlete,” the villain said hesitantly, and the hero shook their head.
“No. There isn’t.”
“Hero.”
“Can you give me back my electrical tape?” They hiccuped to contain a sob.
“No,” the villain said firmly, and then the hero really was sobbing.
“You don’t understand—“
The villain didn’t. Not really. They had never been the kind of talented that the hero was.
They wondered now if maybe that was a blessing.
“I don’t,” the villain agreed. “But I do understand that you’ve saved half the city, and you give everything you have to give, and you always do your best.”
“But I-“
“No.” The villain stopped them. “You are doing your best.” They tipped the hero’s chin up until they met the villain’s eyes. “And it is enough.”
The hero froze, eyes darting over the villain’s face. They wondered if anyone had ever said that to the hero, if whatever mentor they had was giving them anything other than orders to be stronger. Be better. Be more.
The villain had some new targets to take care of, it would seem.
For now, though, they had to take care of hero.
“We’re going to go wrap your hands,” they said softly. “And then we’re going to take care of your arms, and you’re going to take a nap.”
The hero nodded, watching them like they were some kind of good, selfless person.
“And if I ever catch you using electrical tape again, so help me, I will put you six feet under.”
That startled a laugh out of the hero, and they let the villain guide them to their feet.
“Fine.”
The villain turned to them. “Okay?”
Are you going to be alright?
The hero seemed to understand.
“Okay,” the hero agreed.
Yes.
And so, it was.
#writing#writing community#snippet#angst#heroes and villains#ficlet#writblr#hero/villain#hero whumpee#exhaustion#overworked#villain caretaker#whump#kind of#in case you’re wondering. yes you CAN do this to yourself. it’s completely possible#essentially what happens is if you do a motion (a pull-up) more than your body is capable#it gets mad. this is different from training till failure. this is to failure and then beyond#so while you started using the correct muscle groups you those muscles get tired and despite the tired you don’t stop#so then your body switches to muscles it SHOULDNT BE USINF and then you fuck up your elbows (in the case of pull-ups)#and then you can’t straighten your arms for a week bc the ligaments and tendons and all the little movement parts want to keep it curled in#I’m not a doctor#I’m just a gifted kid who was an athlete who got burnt out and destroyed her body lmao#this is possibly maybe based on true events that occurred#anyways. I’m not a doctor but you can use electrical tape on wounds. yes it sticks. yes it stays. it’s honestly very useful.#electrical tape > bandaids#do not do anything listed here it is BAD. do not blow out your muscles it hurts. properly clean ur injuries. I beg you.#don’t get injured at all#thank you to my friend who went “pull-up’ competition and then watched me create this angst#love u besties. drink water. go to sleep. summon demons. ❤️ self care
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prompt: drunk, bored alex bossily trying to convince sober george to make out with him. george knowing if this happens, he will reveal Everything (disastrous; the thing he wants most in the word; will ruin their friendship), so he tries to distract alex with napoleon's correspondence.
Alex was buzzed enough that the hotel room had started to swirl around him in a gentle anticlockwise spiral. He was starfished on his back on the queen-sized bed, feet hanging off the end, and the gravity holding him in place felt heavier than usual but also friendly, as if it wanted him to be happy and comfortable.
“George,” he said, except it came out too long, stretched and languid. Geoooooooorge. He cleared his throat and tried again. “George. Look, mate, this is important.”
“No it’s not.”
Alex ignored this. “I really think we should. Like, I think it’s a good idea. Ojbec—objectively.”
There was no reply, so Alex lifted his head up off the pillow. It took more effort than usual, due to the gravity thing, but he got a good view of George hunched over at the weirdly small hotel desk, staring at his tablet, not looking at Alex at all.
“Are you looking at porn?”
“No, I’m not looking at—fuck’s sake, Alex! I’m reading my emails. Mostly, I’m ignoring you.”
This was hurtful. “Why?” Alex asked, hurt. He carefully lowered his head back down.
“Because you’re totally off your tits and you keep asking me to make out with you,” George said. “And I know you don’t actually want to and you’re only saying it because you’re depressed that you got P17, because you’re insanely competitive even when you’re driving a Roomba. So. I’m doing the decent thing and not responding.”
“The FW45 is not a Roomba!” Alex said, and then, after a pause for thought, “Roombas can sense walls.”
“Right, yeah, that’s the relevant point here,” George said. “C’mon Alex, why are you even going on about this? You’re straight.”
George made the word “straight” sound vaguely insulting, which was, Alex thought, interesting. He was too drunk to work out why, but perhaps that could be a project for his sober, more brain-forward self. In the meantime, he tried to wrestle his thoughts into order so he could answer the question George had asked. Why was he going on about this? Well, George was very pretty, for one thing. Pretty face, pretty body. “You have eyelashes like a camel,” he said, and laughed at the despairing groan George let out. “What, you do! Also, I’m bored, and there’s no one else here.” That sounded wrong, and wasn’t really what Alex meant, but he didn’t know how to fix it. “I don’t mean—there’s loads of people at this Grand Prix, obviously. But like. In my hotel room, it’s only us.”
There was a brittle little silence from George, during which the room continued gently spinning. Eventually George said, “Thanks Alex, but somehow I’m going to have to turn down this incredibly flattering offer.”
“Hey, c’mon, wait—”
“Move over or I’ll sit on you.” George sounded impatient and grumpy, like maybe the emails he’d been reading had upset him. Alex did as he was told, and carefully rolled himself over to one side of the bed. He felt the mattress dip as George sat next to him. “Right,” George said. “As you’re clearly bored, and a menace, I’m going to entertain you. All right?”
“Entertain me… with your mouth?” Alex asked, hopeful.
George exhaled loudly. “Yeah, close, Alex. No, even better than that. I’m going to read to you from the correspondence of Napoleon Buonaparte.”
“Napoleon? The short git with the hat? ‘Able was I ere I saw Elba,’ that guy?” Alex got a bit tongue-twisted on the palindrome, but who wouldn’t.
“The very one, mate. I’ve been reading his writings for inspiration on the track.”
That was objectively insane, of course, but also somehow the most charming thing Alex had ever heard. He could feel fondness fountaining out of his chest so strongly he was surprised the billowing golden splashes of it weren’t actually visible. “Fucking hell,” he said. “George, I like you so much.”
“I—what?”
“That’s why we should make out,” Alex explained. “Because… because when two people like each very much, that’s what they should do.” He turned over so he could see the effect this line of argument was having on George.
George looked mildly concussed. “Alex, are you having me on?”
“No!” Alex felt indignant at the idea. “Georgie, I wouldn’t, about this. You know I wouldn’t.”
When George swallowed Alex could see the motion in the beautiful tanned line of his neck. “Right,” he said. “Well then. I’m not going to make out with you now, you’re absolutely munted, but. Ask me again in the morning, Alex.”
Alex nodded, and let his eyes drift shut. “Brilliant,” he said. “Will do.”
thank you to sarah for the best prompt game in the business, and to @onadarklingplain for reading this over and helping me figure out the ending!
#galex#my fic#gr63#aa23#why is george stone cold sober while alex is hammered? OBJECTION#beyond the scope of this ficlet! but lets say he's on abx or something#for my successionheads the napoleon thing is making me think about george/conor parallels lol
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Hope
Hopeful, Kotallo looked down at the prosthesis that would give him a chance at a new beginning. He was unsure yet, worried it might not live up to its promise.
Everything was in place, all straps secured, all fittings adjusted, all mechanics greased, checked and double-checked.
He met Aloy’s gaze, who nodded at him encouragingly. He pulled his lips into a straight line and took an apprehensive breath as he carefully flexed his new arm. He rotated the mechanic wrist, stretched and bent the metal elbow, balled the prosthetic fingers into a tight fist. It worked.
Kotallo smiled cautiously, then nodded in Aloy’s direction.
“None shall stand in our way,” he said.
“None,” she agreed.
#kotallo#my vp#my vp edit#my writing#ficlet#aloy#kotaloy#this is my ship#horizon forbidden west#beyond the horizon#horizon photomode#always kotaloy#Tenakth Thursday
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This isn’t really a ficlet. It’s more of a screen test. If I like it and you like it, this might be my next project after my SCBB fic is done. I’ll start posting excerpts of that soon!
CW: Mentions of death and dying, and loss.
Of all the things to kill Lena Luthor, it was a heel shearing off her shoe. It wasn’t even a proper high heel, just a two inch rise on a pair of rather stately shoes from a designer of no particular note. Lena had since passed on the Louboutins, and had long adopted more conservative cuts for her suits and dresses. She’d given up her title as CEO decades ago and now fulfilled the role of director emeritus of L-Corp’s research and development division.
It had been a good life, except for one glaring exception. She’d cured over twenty types of common cancers, developed vaccines, and almost personally reversed global warming. She had only one regret as the heel sheared off her shoe and she went tumbling down the stairs to the floor of the L-Corp lobby.
Curiously, she was only dimly aware of the pain. It was something distant, like it was happening to someone else. She heard more than felt a crushing blow to her hip and when the marble rushed up to fill her vision, the world simply went explosively white and the only thing she felt was cold.
The world stayed white, which had perplexed her. Lena had never believed in any sort of life after death, even though she had a vague sense of the supernatural. Her mother was rumored to be a witch in the Irish village where she grew up, and she’d been told as much when she visited as an adult to seek out her roots. She expected, well, nothing. Not even an awareness that there was nothing, just an absence. As she grew older, on those nights when her mortality came crashing down around her in the fitful depths of the early morning when sleep rejected her, she would rationalize death as simply not having to get up tomorrow.
She did not expect to find herself standing in her old office, the one from a lifetime ago. Her stark minimalist desk dominated the room. Without knowing why, she ran the pads of her fingers along its cool length, a ghost of a sad smile dusting her lips.
The sofa was there, too. She could barely bring herself to look at it. After Kara’s betrayal, she had disposed of it thoroughly and rearranged the office. She’d eventually be driven out of the room entirely by grief and settled into another office on a lower floor and began spending more time at home, but the penthouse gave her no solace, either, and she ended up selling it and ultimately moved the research and development department back to Metropolis and worked there.
Lena’s breath caught at the sight of a familiar photograph on one of her bookcases. She took it in trembling hands, knowing then that this must be an illusion or a dream, because she’d smashed the frame and shredded this photograph in her own two fingers.
It was her and Kara, faces pressed together and grinning, their eyes so radiant with joy that it burned Lena’s heart to see and she immediately hurled it across the room, hurling it at a vase of rare plumerias that Kara had brought for her, leaving behind a full belly and a soaring heart.
A hand plucked it casually from the air and set it on an end table near the sofa. Lena stood her ground, though her legs began to tremble.
Standing in her office was a man she didn’t know, dressed smartly in a black suit that would have been in fashion all those years ago. He had a curiously calm air about him, reserved and almost peaceful.
“Who are you?” said Lena. “I’m dead, right? Are you God? The Devil?”
“I am not a god, nor am I one of the true immortals, though it is said that in strange æons, even death may die.”
“Then who are you?”
“My name is Mxyzptlk. Kara might, perhaps, have told you of me.”
“No.”
He snorted softly.
“Typical. I am a very long lived being, Lena Luthor. My kind measure our lives in eons, and as a wise human once said, a foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds. For the last ten thousand years, I have been a troublemaker and an imp. Now I shall be something else. I have decided I shall be grand and wise.”
“What does that have to do with me?” said Lena.
“Not you. Kara. I still owe her a debt, and I must balance myself before I truly transition into my next iteration. I am here to balance that debt.”
“How?”
“By giving you the opportunity to give love one last chance.”
“I was never in love with-“
“Do not lie to me.”
Lena took a half step back, grabbing the desk for balance. Mxyzptlk took a few steps closer.
“I am as far beyond you as you are beyond an ant, the very forces of chaos and entropy heed my command. All time is an open book to me. Whether you admit it to yourself or not, you never married because you were hoping they Kara would stop giving you space and time to heal like you said you wanted, but never did.”
“How dare you? You don’t-“
“What Kara did to you, the way she manipulated her identities to confuse you, was cruel. Lying to you for so long was cruel.”
“Then why should I take you up on whatever this is?”
“A do-over. You’ll go back with your memories intact. You’ll have the chance to set right what once went wrong, and so will she. Or you can avoid her entirely and seek happiness elsewhere. You can leave National City behind or refuse her lunch invitations or whatever it is you think you wish you’d done. I’m not here to force you to love her. I’m giving you another chance, in truth, on her behalf. One she would pigheadedly refuse out of some misplaced sense of morals or decency.”
“Have you offered this to her?”
“No. Where she has gone now, I cannot follow. I can’t even show you where she is: her god has taken her home to his warm light. She rests in the lush fields of a prehistoric Krypton she never knew, spending eternity with her family. Rao has even used his strength and purpose to talk Mother Sol into allowing the Danvers into his domain.”
Lena’s voice cracked. “What?”
“Kara passed earlier today on Argo, from old age and cumulative injuries from her time as Supergirl, without a yellow star to protect her from them.”
“It sounds like she’s happy,” said Lena, turning away. “I… I still want her to be happy.”
“Rao is a bold god, a strong and protective one, but he is an honest lord. He does not give her the gift of forgetting, and perfect memory of love lost can be make a hell of heaven.”
“She loved me?”
“As much as you loved her. Enough to let you go.”
Lena’s hands began to shake. “It’s been so long. How-“
There was a knock at the door. Lena jumped, almost falling.
Mxyzptlk flashed to her side, crossing the space without moving.
“Choose now.”
“Who’s out there?”
“I don’t know. Whoever has the strongest claim over your soul, I suppose. You must choose now; to delay a true god is beyond even me.”
Lena swallowed, hard.
“Do it,” she whispered.
The world went mad. Everything was spinning, and trying to throw her stomach out of her body through her nose. The acrid smell of jet fuel and burning electronics stung her nose. The pilot beside her was unconscious.
And then…
The spinning slowed, and she was no longer falling. A gentle sense of lift raised her into the air, the city falling away from the cracked glass in front of her. Very gently, the helicopter came to rest on the roof, and she glimpsed a familiar figure in a cape and skirt, and her heart nearly exploded in her chest. There was a gust of wind that rocked the chopper and ice crystals crawled over the glass, crackling in the National City sunshine.
Then, she was there. Kara tore the door loose in a single, fluid motion and climbed inside, pausing to check the pilot, peering through flesh and bone to asses his injuries.
Then she looked at Lena.
Kara’s breath caught, and her pupils blew wide. Kara stared at Lena like she was something knew, unknown and wondrous, the edges of her lips curling just so despite the self serious tone as she asked if Lena was okay.
It was her. Alive, here, now. Lena couldn’t help herself; she lifted a trembling hand to cup Kara’s soft cheek, without thinking. Her throat nearly closed and no words escaped her lips. She just felt that warm, soft skin and stared right back into Kara’s otherworldly eyes, savoring the tickle of Kara’s loose honey curls slipping over the back of her hand.
“Miss Luthor,” Kara said. “Your heart is racing. We’d better get you an ambulance.”
“You saved me,” Lena whispered.
“That’s what I do,” said Kara, winking at her.
Lena almost died again.
#supergirl#supercorp#supergirl fanfiction#supercorp fanfic#lena luthor#kara danvers#kara x lena#karlena#supergirl fanfic#ficlet#angst#heavy angst#we have to hurt our precious babies before we make them feel better#why can’t we give love one more chance#might expand beyond a ficlet#angst with an eventual happy ending#sad lena luthor#mr mxyzptlk
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“If Spock were here and I were there, what would he do?”
He asks the question urgently, thoughtlessly. Spock is the smartest guy he knows, the quickest, the best. He’s better at this than Jim is, could think up three alternate plans of action before Jim’s even managed to reign in his panic enough to think clearly.
If Spock were here, and Jim was down there, he’d already be halfway to safety.
“He’d let you die.” Bones doesn’t even look at him when he says it.
Jim’s breath doesn’t catch - he hasn’t caught enough of it yet for that - but his racing thoughts do stutter. Bones had said it with bite, squeezed out through gritted teeth, but he had still said it. Had still meant it.
Jim blinks at the screen, reboots his thoughts, gets back to planning.
Bones exaggerates, loses his temper. It’s one of the things Jim likes about him, the way he’s so easy to rile up, the way he gets surly and indignant even when Jim forces himself to laugh things off.
But he doesn’t look like he said it in the heat of the moment. He looks angry, worried, sincere. He does not look like he would take it back if given the chance.
Jim can’t linger on that, or why the idea hurts quite so much as it does. He’s good at compartmentalizing, and he does. He orders his ship into the worst possible course of action, flies her through half a dozen protocol violations, lies in his report, and he’s not the least but sorry.
Spock is predictably fixated on the protocol violations more than his friends and their distress, more than his own, but he is standing on the transporter pad, alive, confused, indignant about both of these things.
Jim cannot bring himself to regret any of it. He couldn’t leave Spock to die.
Spock stabs him in the back for it. Of course he does. Vulcans do not lie. And Spock likes to pretend that he doesn’t understand emotional motivations. He makes his report to Starfleet and Jim loses his ship for it.
He wishes he had the gall to be cold about it, at least. If he didn’t know Spock - a chilling concept but one worth entertaining - he might think that his actions having a negative impact on his crew mates would be of no concern to him. But he does know Spock and, more than that, he knows that he cares a hell of a lot more than he pretends to.
Spock is, as much as he ever is, upset about the whole thing. He never meant for this to go so far, Jim knows. He can see it in the sharp glance he cuts him when Pike confronts them, the lost look he gets when Jim turns to him in anger. The attitude he throws at Pike when he’s questioned. Spock is a prideful, sarcastic bastard, but rarely toward his superiors and never without cause. Jim realizes, through his embarrassment and betrayal, that Spock is defending him, however minutely.
It doesn’t make it hurt less. If anything, it’s worse because it means Jim can’t really stay mad at him about it. It’s Jim’s fault. It always is.
Jim is consulting his old friends Jack and Jose about it, considering consulting that pretty woman across the bar about it, when Pike shows up and pulls him from the gutter. Like always, the old man just won’t let him lick his wounds and feel sorry for himself.
Still, Spock is reassigned and Jim has lost - a lot. Everything, really. He never expected to be made Captain but he felt at peace in that chair more than he ever had anywhere else. The Enterprise had become his home and her crew his family. He had come to rely on them in a way he never had his actual family. It makes the loss all the harder. He is, as he has always been, the kind of man that squanders any good fortune he finds. He ruins everything he touches, pushes all the good people away.
Spock is waiting at Starfleet Headquarters just to remind him of that, sharp in his dress grays. Jim can hardly stand to look at him.
“Captain.” He says, ostensibly in greeting but Jim can see the speech he’s itching to start from across the hallway.
He stalks into the lift, doesn’t make eye contact as he sends it up to executive levels.
“Not anymore Spock - First Officer.” Spock looks almost baffled when Jim finally turns to him. He folds his hands behind his back, fingers the brim of his cover, in an attempt to keep himself from doing something stupid. He has to keep this professional. Spock is usually the one that does that for the two of them, but for once he looks as stunned as Jim felt hearing the news. “I’ve been demoted and you’ve been reassigned.”
Spock is silent for a beat but he recovers quickly, though his brow is still furrowed when he speaks.
“It is fortunate that the consequences were not more severe.”
Jim breaths in deeply, breathes out slowly.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he says, more to himself than to Spock.
Predictably, Spock doesn’t deign to respond to that.
“Captain, it was never my intention-“
“Not Captain,” he interrupts pointedly, turning to meet Spock head on as they shoot up floor after floor, “I saved your life, Spock. You wrote a report. I lost my ship.”
The doors hiss open and Jim turns to leave, stepping into the white halls. Spock stays still a moment more than he usually would, but he follows soon enough.
“Commander,” he says, and Jim almost rolls his eyes, “I see now I should have alerted you to the fact that I submitted my report.”
It is more concession than Spock would usually ever make in such an argument. Jim doesn’t want to hear it.
“I am…” angry, betrayed, disappointed, “familiar with your compulsion to follow the rules. But you see, I can’t do that.”
He stops, turns to meet Spock’s eyes, only a step or two distance between them. He needs Spock to hear him, to listen, really listen for once.
“Where I come from, when someone saves your life, you don’t stab them in the back.”
Spock looks almost offended by the implication, whatever he thinks it may be.
“Vulcans cannot lie,” he says, which Jim knows is, ironically, a goddamned lie.
“Then I’m talking to the half Human part of you,“ he bites back, desperate enough to touch upon even that sorest of subjects. Spock does not talk about his Mother but Jim knows without ever being told how dear she was to him. How close.
Spock tenses at the words, eyes a fraction wider as they track across Jim’s face, startled, uncertain. Jim hasn’t brought up Spock’s family since their first mission, has tried to make amends for the things he had said out of necessity. Hearing him mention it now must trigger some memory of their violent altercation, of Jim’s cruel taunts. But Spock doesn’t look angry or offended, only concerned, alarmed. He seems only now to grasp the gravity of Jim’s upset.
Jim had thought, bitterly, that he would be glad to finally be rid of him. They’ve come a long way from insults and violence, so far that he can’t imagine how they started so at odds. Still, he knows what he’s like, and he knows that Spock finds him difficult - at least as difficult as he finds Spock. But he likes that about him, too. Spock wouldn’t understand that kind of illogical paradox though. He would not feel the same. It doesn’t stop him from trying to chase after Jim and mediate whatever argument this is. Jim doesn’t think even Spock understands what it is he’s trying to fix here.
“Do you understand why I went back for you?” Jim barks, irritated. He doesn’t know why he can’t just be pissed off about this. He is mad, yes, but there’s also an unfamiliar pain in his gut, a pressure in the back of his throat like heartache.
Spock blinks at him, confused. He doesn’t know. Of course not. Spock likes to pretend that he doesn’t understand emotions. Jim is very good at compartmentalizing.
It’s a bad mix.
Captain Abbey of the USS Bradbury - Spock’s new CO - saves Jim from having to explain himself, interrupting their argument to introduce himself with a raised brow. It must be strange to see a Vulcan in such a heated disagreement. They’re well known for their aversion to any such thing. But Jim knows Spock and he forgets sometimes that they might be expected to keep their very commonplace arguments private. Jim finds himself relieved at the interruption, regardless, thinks that it would be better for them both if they continued pretending that he did what he did out of brash stupidity. It’s what Pike thinks, it’s what the Fleet thinks. It is not the truth - at least not wholly.
“The truth is, I’m gonna miss you,” he says, because he will and Spock deserves to know it.
Spock doesn’t have many people left to miss him, and hasn’t ever heard it enough from the ones he does. Jim will always miss him, misses him even now, standing a foot away from him. There’s a distance between them that wasn’t there before and Jim knows it’s necessary as much as he hates it.
This is what separations feel like. He’s done it before.
Spock stares at him for a moment, mouth open on words he doesn’t voice. He looks - Jim doesn’t know. He’s never seen him make such an expression before; blank, surprised, but more of a mask than true calm. He knows what calm looks like on that face. After a moment, Spock closes his mouth with a wet click, a puzzled look overcoming him and Jim can’t believe that the only time he’s ever managed to render the man speechless was likely the very last real conversation they’ll ever have. He scoffs and stomps away and refuses to feel anything about the conflicted look Spock spares him before he follows his new Captain.
The man is older, colder, wiser than Jim. Spock will probably learn a lot from him. He’ll probably argue with him less too. Jim is almost sad about that, weirdly. He likes when Spock argues with him. The way his brow raises, the irritation hidden by aloofness. It’s fun. He likes to see how far he can push him, likes when he does that thing that’s like a smile without actually smiling.
He’s going to have to learn to live without it.
He sits at the table with the admiralty and tells himself it is doable. He has adapted to survive worse things than a lost friendship. Than a lost home. He breaths and closes his eyes and focuses on the mission Pike needs him to complete. It’s what he’s good at.
Things go from bad to worse quickly after that. Most of John Harrison’s ambush is a blur, but he knows that when the dust settles he is running for Spock.
He doesn’t know how he knows where to find him but it is as easy as following the tug in his gut, the unconscious itch in his feet to take him where he needs to be. When he does find him, Spock is sitting there, at Pike’s side.
The admiral isn’t moving.
Jim doesn’t quite register what that means, not until he’s knelt next to him, not until Spock turns to look at him with wide eyes. It is a look of unmistakable shock and Jim startles, his own shock shattering at Spock’s alarm, and he reaches forward, scrabbles to find a pulse.
There isn’t any.
Jim had lost his Father, and the absence had hurt despite never knowing him, but the pain of that loss was a reverberating echo, the sucking pain of a hole where someone should have stood. This is not like that. This is sweeping and aching, a tide of grief crashing over the whole of him. He crumbles before he can catch himself, buries his face in Pike’s bloody chest. It is as close to an embrace as they will ever get again. He fists the cloth of his uniform, feels the cut of the Fleet insignia in his fist.
He cries.
Looking at that aged face, for the first time he feels the fear of what it’s absence will mean. There will be no more guidance, no more safety net. No one in his corner, to go to bat for him with the Fleet, to pull him out of the gutter. No more crooked grins and pats on the back, no more beers and stories and arguing about nothing.
He ruins everything he touches, pushes all the good people away. Pike is gone so far now that Jim won’t ever be able to make it up to him. He knows exactly how much of a pain in the ass he was. Pike stuck with him anyway.
He takes a breath, and another, tries to find that resolve in him that Pike swore he could see. He doesn’t know if it’s really there, but he thinks he can invent it, make it out of the fragments of the people around him.
Pike’s grit, Spock’s steadiness.
Spock sits next to them - Jim and the only man who’s ever really treated him like a son. He watches Jim cry over his corpse and it doesn’t feel like the intrusion it should be. He watches him pull himself back together, sits there silent and grieving too.
The Vulcan condolences will come to Jim later - formal, ceremonial as Vulcans tend to be.
I grieve with thee.
Spock does. He does not say the words but Jim feels it, knows it as if he had. Spock has grieved so much, but still he grieves with Jim.
He stumbles to his feet, pushes himself up with Spock’s shoulder. Spock lets him. He turns just slightly into his touch and Jim squeezes tightly before he let’s go, stumbles away. Spock turns toward him but doesn’t quite manage to focus enough to see him. Jim doesn’t notice.
They are both far away.
#star trek#star trek aos#spock#jim kirk#james kirk#my writing#spirk#ficlet#star trek 2009#star trek beyond#kirk#star trek spock
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a snippet of my NFL!Buck AU ! please let me know if you liked it and maybe I'll write more!!
Buck was getting a little too familiar with the backseat of this police cruiser. Like, he knows that they aren't supposed to be the most comfortable of environments, but it wouldn't hurt to give him a little bit more leg room, right?
However, when the door opened to his Coach's scowling face, Buck regretted any negative thought he ever had about being stuck in here. Just shut the door and take him straight inside the station, thank you very much.
"You know Coach Nash, we really have to stop meeting like this," the police officer said as she took the cuffs off of Buck's wrist. She wasn't wrong. Buck had hoped the same thing too.
"Hey Bobby," Buck said, drawing out the 'y' in the 'hey,' as he shot a sheepish smile to his Coach, but the expression on Bobby's face didn't change.
All he got in response was a curt "Evan." Getting first named was never a good sign.
"I promise Coach I didn't start the fight," Buck scrambled to explain, "I wasn't even drunk! Officer..." Buck shot a look at the Police Officer's name tag. She's arrested him a couple of times before, and Buck suddenly felt bad that he didn't know her name, even though he expected to never see her again after the first time. and the second time. and... "er- Grant can back me up."
"It's Sergeant Grant," she corrected, "and you better remember that, Buckley, because I may not be as kind the next time I have to put you in the back of my patrol car."
"Uh yeah... Sergeant Grant... look, I swear Bobby. I didn't know she was his girlfriend!! The guy was acting really gross and she was looking uncomfortable, so I told him to knock it off, and then–"
"Buck, that's enough," Bobby cut him off, "Athena, thank you for calling me. I appreciate it. This won't happen again."
"Mmhm," Athena hummed as she opened up the driver's side door. How did Bobby know her name? "Until next time, Coach Nash."
As she drove off, Buck spun back to Bobby, opening his mouth to try again, because he had to explain that he was serious - that this wasn't going to be like last season. He'd changed. Or at least he was trying really, really hard to change ever since Bobby had given him an ultimatum and another chance. He went to every practice. He stopped hooking up with random influencers in dark club booths. He was working hard to not feed into his "Party Boy Buckley" reputation. Bobby had to see that.
"Buck, just get in the car."
Shit.
#911 fox#911 abc#911 fic#911 ficlet#buddie wip#wip#buddie fic#buddie#evan buck buckley#bobby nash#I don't know if I'll ever actually write this fic#but this just came out of me so I had to put it down somewhere#Bobby is Buck's coach#but everyone else has the same job#I'm serious I am looking for feedback#because I'm never actually published anything beyond a drabble#sorry for the ramble#sar writes#nfl!au#NFL!Buck#NFL au#my post
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Thank you for posting the best Sean Finnerty reflections and nonsense, my brain is still static about the finale but he really is the Most Character
I'm glad you're enjoying it because HUGE SAME. I have so much to do but if I did not organize some of my thoughts I was going to stare into the middle distance for seven hours thinking about it. At least on the dash we're all sharing in the madness together! xD
#I was also forced to write a ficlet cuz if I didn't I was going to really start attempting art beyond my skill level 😔#and that would REALLY consume all my time this weekend lol#candela obscura#co spoilers#sean finnerty
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byler headcanon
what if…
this wasn’t the first time Will disappeared from the Byers house in the middle of the night, but it was the first time Mike didn’t know about it and the first time he didn’t end up in Mike’s basement in a sleeping bag next to him on the couch.
Some days were bad for Will. Some days the name-calling and the shoves in the hallways stuck with him until late after school. Some days Will could hear his mom fighting with Lonnie over the phone or see light in her room late into the night through the crack of the door and hear her sob. Some days he saw Jonathan getting home after an extra shift he picked up right after school, or saw him being alone at lunch in the cafeteria.
Some days Will Byers couldn’t help but feel too much, almost like his body was a poke away from bursting open, letting out all his secrets and raw emotions. But he knew that wasn’t of good use for anyone. He didn’t want to worry his mom who had enough with trying to raise two boys and keep the house running on her own, or Jonathan who already gave him so much from his life so he wouldn’t feel as much the absence of their father. In days like those, Will liked to disappeared. It would be a secret agreement. His family would know right away he had ended up at the Wheelers, mostly because Will would leave behind a note for them to find in his room (he didn’t want to worry his mom and brother, of course).
Usually, Mike could tell which nights Will would end up in his house. He’ll notice his silences being a bit longer, his eyes wandering a bit too far, his smile not reaching his eyes. In those days, part of the light in Will’s eyes would be out, and Mike would feel his skin prickling with the need to reach out and ask what’s wrong, interlock their pinkies like they used to do when they were younger just to reassure him Mike was there. But he knew Will didn’t like to be fuss over and that he would come to Mike when he needed to. Mike knew when to expect Will in his garage, sneaking down into his basement to spend the night. He knew when to leave the lights on and the door unlocked and the sleeping bags ready.
But Will hadn’t been off that night. He had been happy, and laughing, enjoying the campaign, even after he rolled that seven and the Demogorgan got him. Mike flipped the lights off that night.
And then, the next morning, Will was gone and no one knew where he could be. There were searching parties and Mike had this stupid direct order to not go out there and look for his best friend. That was his best friend lost, somewhere in the woods, and they expected him to stay out and do nothing about it?
Even when things got more complicated, even when they ran into El and learned about her powers, about the Upside-Down, and the Gate, and the monsters. Even when Mike saw them pulling Will’s body from the water, Mike keep leaving the lights on, the door unlocked and a pair of sleeping bags at the ready in his basement. Just in case Will was out there, lost. Just in case it could help him find his way back to Mike.
And even in the Upside-Down, Will saw. He saw the lights shining like a beacon suspended in air, one of the few drops of warmth in the middle of this version of Hawkins. And he knew, of course, that just like his mother, Mike hadn’t given up on finding him yet.
#i just know their bond reached beyond the upside down#the light as a metaphor of course#mike could never give up waiting for will and looking for him#he always went to bed during that week hoping will would show up#mike being in bed and jumping to the window whenever he heard something outside thinking it could be will#it never was#byler#mike wheeler#will byers#byler tumblr#stranger things#byler endgame#byler ao3#byler fic#byler scenario#byler headcanon#cleradin#byler fanfic#messrs writes#byler ficlet#my ficlets
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SG Earthspark: Not sure if my the fic should be one AO3 work with each episode being one chapter, or 26+ multichapter works in a series, one work being one episode. I originally thought about having the main title be "Through The Shards Of A Broken Window" after a lyric from a Nico Collins song. But i've also recently thought about titling it "New Divide" after the Linkin Park song i saw a TFES edit of, because i thought the lyrics fit SG Earthspark's first season.
"In every loss in every lie / In every truth that you'd deny / And each regret and each goodbye / Was a mistake too great to hide / And your voice was all I heard / That I get what I deserve / .... / So give me reason / To fill this hole / Connect this space between / Let it be enough to reach the truth that lies / Across this new divide"
New Divide would be an interesting reference because iicr they used the song in the end of Revenge of The Fallen aaand it's a good song. I am biased. But, Through The Shards Of A Broken Window would be a good reference to it being SG and I can see the metaphors going on there
You can utilize both if you go the series approach, but that'd require you come up with a name for every episode which could be quite arduous
#maccadam#transformers#sg earthspark#ultimately up to you what you choose#i personally think new divide is a good fic name and if you don't end up choosing it maybe pocket it for future use#also depends on how long each episode is on whether it's better as a multichapter fic or a fic series of it's own#idk#i don't exactly have ex— no_ that's a lie_ i do have previous experiences with multichaptered works#just not any that I've published beyond the ficlet collection
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hi hello YES PLEASE more of the perv!eddie and eagle scout!steve
all i can hear in my head rn is steve saying 'more. i like more' which i agree hahaha.
more is on the way bc this au and 'its rotten work' are the only two things i've been thinking about for weeks.
currently, i'm in the planning process for eaglescout!steve (making a moodboard, researching the eagle scouts bc i don't know nearly enough about them lol, deciding which direction i want the fic to go in, etc.) and hope to have the first part out soon !
also thank you sm for stopping by my inbox to be so sweet <3 made my day !
#marissa's asks#I can't tell you how over the moon I am that people like eaglescout!steve/perv!eddie#the response has been beyond anything i ever imagined THANK YOU#steddie#steddie brainrot#perv!steddie#perv!steve harrington#perv!eddie munson#steddie fanfiction#steddie writers#steddie ficlet#steddie au#steddie ao3
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Pretty Flower AU
Because I will probably never write this as an actual fic, here's a ficlet idea you can riff on if you want:
AU in which Joowon goes undercover at a massage parlour himself, instead of using Lee Geum-Hwa as bait.
Except with his big square frame and strong hands and attention to detail, he's genuinely good at being an actual masseuse, and he quickly develops a following of people who want his help working out their little kinks (shut up).
That suits Joowon just fine - holding down a full time slot at 물망초 allows him to screen all the regular customers, especially the one that comes in every week and fits the perpetrator's profile to a T. He always asks for Joowon and lays on his table grimacing and joking through the rigorous paces Joowon puts him through for his bad leg. He's politely friendly with all the women -- too carefully polite, Joowon thinks, and bides his time till his suspect slips up.
"You're going to a massage parlour, hyung?" Jihoon squeaks, nearly drowned out by Jiwa's disapproving "Dongsik-ah."
"Aigoo, it's nothing like that, everyone calm down," Dongsik grumbles and nearly burns his tongue on the slice of meat Jaeyi flips onto his plate. She serves him a saccharine smile, and he repeats, "It's nothing like that! They've got someone who does nearly professional chiropractic work and charges next to nothing. Half of Munju goes to him."
"Him - !" Jihoon yelps and then, "Um, i mean, good for you, hyung. I'm happy for yo- ah!"
Jiwa unsticks her sharp elbow from her brother's ribs. "I'm sure it's none of our business," she concludes. "They're hardworking citizens that need a livelihood to survive, just like the rest of us."
"I'm really not - !" Dongsik gives up and downs the rest of his soju.
Sure, Han Joowon is exactly his type, and that voice, fuck, but Lee Dongsik would be a fool to risk losing those magic hands that have allowed him to sleep through the night without incident for months now. He can't even remember the last time he's had to refill his prescription.
That is to say, he has mixed feelings on the day Han Joowon rears back from where he's got Dongsik pinned on his table (shut up), reaches into the back of his jacket for a pistol, and storms the room across the hall.
"Police! You're under arrest!" Inspector Han Joowon shouts, and there's Lee Dongsik's godsend, gone.
Dongsik climbs into his jeans and emerges to find Han Joowon blocking the door against the other employees at the parlour. Over his shoulder, Dongsik sees a familiar face - Kang Jinmook, who Dongsik's family was well acquainted with up until Jinmook was arrested on charges of stalking and attempted murder of his wife and was sentenced to twenty years in jail. Piece of shit must have got out this year and gone back to his old ways, with a vengeance.
Han Joowon surveys the angry, terrified faces of the women who took him in when he was fresh on assignment, laughed gently at his awkwardness and included him in ladies' night out, who tirelessly scoured the streets in their scant off-hours for their missing friend. Joowon clears his throat and tells them, "Ladies, you cannot assault a suspect in custody, even if he is guilty, while a police officer is present."
And then he leaves the scene, walks back into his own room, and shuts the door. A collective shout rises on the other side, drowning out Jinmook's feeble pleas for mercy. Han Joowon flips on the radio and maxes out the volume. "Apologies, Lee Dongsik-ssi. Shall we continue?"
Dongsik barks out a laugh at this cheeky young prince. "So I guess you'll be tendering your resignation here immediately."
"I go where I'm assigned."
"Hm-m. I don't suppose you make house calls." Dongsik mentally slaps himself on the forehead. "That wasn't a line. Really. It's just my luck that ... you know you could get a second career as a physical therapist." He doubles back. "Shit. That wasn't a line either, I promise."
"It could be," Inspector Han suggests.
"You're right. I apologize. I should have been more clear."
"No. I mean ... " Han Joowon reaches out to fix where Dongsik's hastily donned jeans have rucked up the line of his shirt. "It could be a line. If you wanted it to be one."
...
"Wow," Jihoon goggles. "Good for you, hyung."
Han Joowon sits perched on his chair next to Dongsik, his perfect posture belying his discomfort. Back in his usual semi-formal, muted attire, he looks more severe and handsome than ever.
"Inspector Han," Jiwa interrupts loudly over the sound of sizzling meat. "I'm glad to see Seoul Metropolitan form a productive collaboration with violent crimes in Munju."
"I'm glad the perpetrator was brought to justice," Han Joowon replies dutifully. "Manyang is a nice town. I'm sorry it had to experience such a tragedy."
Oh Jiwa accepts these condolences with queenly poise. "And when do you plan on resuming your usual duties in the city?"
"Manyang is a nice town," Han Joowon repeats. His hand finds the top of Lee Dongsik's thigh - his good one - underneath the table and squeezes. "I was thinking of sticking around here for a while, if I could find accommodation."
"I can think of a few places that might take you in," Dongsik murmurs under his breath, and it's worth Jiwa's elbow when Joowon ducks his head and offers up a tiny, genuine smile.
"Ahjussi, I can always pack this food to go," Jaeyi threatens him, waving the tongs under his nose. "If you and your physical therapist need some time alone."
"Oh no, Jaeyi-yah," Dongsik replies cheerfully. "You know, I come from a long line of gardeners. When one has the luck to come upon such a pretty flower, you have to show it off."
#pretty flower au#beyond evil#jwds#dsjw#exquisite corpse-ish#ficlet#fanfiction#i should be working on my WIPs instead of fucking around
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watching her leave
Kotallo watched silently as Aloy strapped on her gear, made sure the armor was properly secured, and checked again if there was enough ammo in her pouches.
He didn’t like seeing her leave on her own; he would’ve much preferred to come along, aid her, protect her, act as her shield. But he knew how stubborn she was, and if truth be told, there was still so much he had to do here at the Base, so much to prepare for.
His heart beat uncomfortably in his throat, making it difficult to breathe, as she straightened out and turned to look at him. Their eyes locked.
“I’ll be fine,” she whispered.
Kotallo pulled his lips into a tight line, then nodded curtly. “Be safe.”
Aloy nodded in return. “I will.” Then her voice broke. “Don’t hate me for leaving.”
“I could never,” he said and drew her into a last embrace. “We have a mission. It must be done.”
She raised her chin to meet his lips.
“Return to me,” he whispered when they released from each other.
“Always,” she promised.
#kotallo#kotaloy#aloy#this is my ship#my writing#my ficlet#my vp#my vp edit#horizon photomode#horizon forbidden west#beyond the horizon
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Beyond the Lights, Pt 3
Dating Lena isn't easy. If that's even what they're doing. Part of Kara feels like she's simply tagging along for the whirlwind life of Lena Luthor, flitting from interview to recording studio to modelling shoots. But just when Kara is about to call enough and leave, she catches Lena's eye, and the smile that answers that split moment of eye contact makes the stolen hours, minutes, moments between them worth it.
In those stolen moments, Lena finally begins to open up. About her life, her feelings. The fact she wants to write her own songs. The fact she never wanted to sing pop in the first place-- how her true love are the haunting melodies of her homeland, and that one day she wants to bring the lilting style to an eponymous album.
In exchange, Kara shares that while she does actively love her job, she's already wearing thin. The job is tough, and she sees too much for her faith in humanity to remain intact. She doesn't ever want to lose sight of the good in people, but she doesn't know what else she could ever do that could help people in the same way she does now.
It's tender, and somehow more intimate than any sex Kara's ever had. She feels like Lena can see inside her, and as they continue whatever it is they're doing, she slowly discovers that she can read Lena.
She can see how much the pressure of Lena's career weighs on her. She sees the way Lena's eyes flick to her mother when a photographer asks to see more and more skin, and how Lena's jaw tightens when Lillian always gives the greenlight, either ignorant or indifferent to her daughter's discomfort.
Kara sees how uncomfortable Lena is in a room full of people all clamoring for her attention-- or just clamoring for her, attention be damned. At times it seems like Lena is nothing but a doll to them, to be moved this way and that, and that is when Lena is the most frighteningly empty.
Their intimacy comes to a screeching halt, however, when Kara finds out that Lena is in a relationship with fellow recording artist and frequent collaborator Jack Spheer. Lena assures her that it's just for the label, that Jack is gay too, it means nothing... but Kara can't shake the hurt of having to find out from a tabloid first-- and that it means Lena isn't being as honest as she thought.
"So if the press thinks you and Spheer are dating," Kara says carefully, "what exactly do they think we're doing?"
"Does is matter?" Lena asks, sliding her hand over Kara's.
Kara pulls away. "Yes. It matters. I spent too much of my life hiding who I was and who I wanted. I'm not going to do that again."
"What do you expect me to do, Kara? The label is holding my album over my head-- if I don't give them the version of me they want, they'll scrap the whole thing!"
"Why does it even matter? It's not your music! You said you don't even like--"
"I have not worked as hard as I have, sacrificed as much as I have, to see it all go up in smoke."
Kara regards her solemnly. "Then I guess that's it."
"Wait, what?"
"I should go..."
Lena reaches for her, but Kara pulls away, already reaching for her keys and jacket. "Kara, wait, please--"
"Good bye, Lena."
She pretends not to hear the sob in Lena's chest as she pushes out the door and heads home.
#supercorp#beyond the lights au#angst#there's gonna be a lot of that in this au#the movie was especially angsty#but it had a good ending#just fyi here is where the ficlet will kind of diverge from the movie#the themes will be similar#but the events will be a little different#bc i didn't wanna make jack an asshole
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Challenge's cancelled due to unforeseen circumstances. I need to prioritise other things.
#android talking#sorry to everyone it's just one thing after another it seems#i'm trying my damnedest but this year has been one difficulty spike after another financially speaking#I can't keep up and i can't keep using savings#i'm gonna end up beyond destitute if I can't turn things around soon#still gonna try to do a ficlet or two when there's a little free time#and i might share a quick drawing here and there#but i need to focus on working my ass off until i make back all the money I just lost
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Hey, how's it going ❤️❤️
Steve kind of strikes me as the guy who turns music on before having sex
Hes in the middle of making out with Billy, when he's like "oh no the music", and he leaves a confused and angry Billy on his bed.
The blond doesn't relax until Steve returns with his favorite CD.
"Are... are you fucking kidding me Harrington?"
hello!!!
y'know what you're valid as hell for that, i can definitely see it 😂😂 back when he was sleeping around a lot he probably had a couple tapes specifically for when he had girls over. nothing too romantic, he didn't want them to get the wrong idea, but it was still nice to have something to set the mood.
but then with nancy he just liked putting on whatever bands she was into. he just wanted her to enjoy herself, he liked just being around her when she was happy, knowing he helped make her that way.
(she found the background music kind of distracting, to be honest, but it was cute when steve would pause to lip sync the chorus of songs he knew just to make her laugh)
when he starts to fall for billy he lets him fiddle with the radio when they hang out. listens to him complain about how few stations there are. tries to remember all the bands billy talks about.
sometimes one of the songs he used to fuck girls to will be on the radio, and he'll spend three to five minutes hyper-aware of every measured breath he takes as he struggles to act normal about it.
but for all the time they spend listening to music together, the goddamn radio is off when billy finally makes a move. which makes for an incredibly terrifying couple minutes after they've gotten hot and heavy and steve suddenly jumps up and out of the room.
when he comes back he's got a couple tapes in his hand and a furrow between his brows, and billy looks like he's about to panic but steve is too preoccupied to notice.
"i don't have any of your favourites."
"what?"
steve blinks at him, the waver in billy's voice catching his attention. he plops back down on the bed, dumps the cassettes between them and reaches for billy's hand instead, lacing their fingers together almost absentmindedly. "i wanted to put on something you'd like."
there's a pause. "...what."
"y'know, to set the mood! but all i've got is..." he gestures helplessly at the pile on his duvet.
"you...harrington, you fucking nutcase, you could put on cyndi lauper for all i care, just fucking touch me for christ's sake—"
he's not entirely sure what he does put on, but it's not cyndi lauper. whichever cassette was on the top of the pile gets shoved into his deck before he launches himself back into billy's lap and stops caring much about anything that isn't the boy under him.
#harringrove#harringrove ficlet#steve harrington#billy hargrove#stranger things#a raven's writing desk#had this thought about him putting on music while he fucks partly because he just doesn't like doing anything without background noise#his house is too quiet all the damn time#one noise in the silence always seems deafening. obscene.#so. mood music.#he likes it for other reasons too and that stops him from thinking too much about the emptiness beyond his bedroom door#but sometimes when he's with billy he can't bring himself to get up and restart a tape that ended twenty minutes ago#so it's just them in the quiet. talking low and lazily exchanging kisses#all there is to listen to is billy's voice. his heartbeat. his breathing.#and it scares steve a little that he's so okay with that
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