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sardonic-sprite · 1 year

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Home Alone

Some days, Tim was really fucking glad to have Batman for a next-door neighbor.

He couldn't exactly remember a time when he was quite this glad or relieved, though. He'd never been on the verge of being kidnapped before.

But that was ok. He wasn't going to be kidnapped.

He had a plan.

Call the police would probably have been more rational, but the power was all still dead from the snowstorm, and Tim figured the roads to Bristol were blocked up, too. At the very least, his driveway was, and it was long enough to be considered its own short road.

Stupid fucking snowstorm. It was its fault that Tim's parents couldn't get back in town, and that he was alone and trying not to end up kidnapped on Christmas.

But it was ok. Because he wouldn't. Because he had a plan. And about two hours to set it into motion. And if it failed, the kidnappers were probably just going to be so pissed they'd kill Tim, so technically his goal of don't get kidnapped would still be met.

Technicalities were usually much more fun.

Tim ran around the house in a frenzy, darting glances out the window every few minutes to make sure the creepy men hadn't gotten any closer. But no, they were still huddled around their fires out in the yard, waiting for him to surrender.

Big fat nope to that one. Tim didn't know who they were working for, or why that guy wanted an eleven-year-old kid, but he knew it was most definitely for something very bad, and he wasn't interested in the particulars.

He paused, shuddering at the thought that entered his head, then scattered a few more Lego pieces on the floor.

The thing was, Tim could neither call for help nor run away while the power was out and the bad guys were surrounding the house. But if he got them inside the house, and made sure they couldn't follow, then he could race across the half-mile stretch to the property line. Crossing that would trigger Batman's security, and he'd come and investigate and bring Tim somewhere safe and beat up the bad guys, and maybe even be impressed at how clever and resourceful Tim had been.

Of course, even getting outside hinged on how many bad guys actually did come inside, and how many got caught in Tim's traps long enough to give him a head start. The traps had never been tested, after all, and Tim only had time for so many math calculations to determine their effectiveness. Drake Manor was also so large that he couldn't sufficiently cover it. He'd have to guide the bad guys where he wanted them to go.

Which meant he was using himself as live bait.

... It was gonna be fine.

The clock began striking nine as Tim finished his second-floor traps and double-checked the wiring. His heartbeat was going crazy in his chest, and he took deep, slow breaths in time with the chimes to steady himself. If he hyperventilated and passed out, he was worse than dead.

"TIMOTHY DRAKE," boomed the voice that had called out before, somehow magnified so that each word was perfectly clear, "THIS IS YOUR LAST CHANCE. SURRENDER NOW AND YOU WILL NOT BE HARMED. REFUSE, AND WE WILL USE ALL FORCE TO APPREHEND YOU."

Tim threw open the nearest window and stuck his head out, squinting against the snow to see the nearest fire. He didn't know if the man was at that one or not, but it didn't matter. He was sure his cry of "FUCK YOU, ASSHOLE! EAT SHIT!" was heard by all.

He slammed the window shut as the voice yelled furiously and sprinted down the stairs, skipping over the wires and traps. He wasn't sure how many were going to enter in each direction, but the first landing was the best place to bring them all closer.

Tim had to wait there for several minutes, anxiety building, before he heard the first cry of pain. It sounded like it came from the front door, and Tim smirked, thinking of the heavy vase that had just gotten shattered over the bad guy's head.

Strangled swearing erupted from the kitchen where superglue had stolen shoes to bare feet to a sea of Legos. A howl rose from the living room where a hot plate had been set under the window.

"DRAKE!"

"Last chance to surrender!" Tim hollered mockingly, wiping sweaty hands on his pants.

Screams and a terribly loud bang meant that his flashbomb had successfully blinded someone, and the most creative swear Tim had ever heard in his life confirmed that sticking his mother's sewing needles into the grey carpet had been a stroke of genius.

"You will pay for this, you insolent whelp!"

"You want it in cash or credit?" Tim needed them closer. Besides, it was just a little bit fun to tease.

"In blood!"

The first man appeared at the foot of the stairs. He held his right hand close to his chest, but otherwise looked unharmed. He must have avoided the lighter in the hall, though by the sound of it, one of his buddies hadn't.

Tim gulped. All he could see above the black ninja mask was the man's eyes, and he looked furious.

"Um, how about traveler's checks?"

The man started up the stairs with a roar and immediately toppled backwards, slipping on the generous coating of oil over the hardwood.

"Oh, yeah, I just polished that."

One man staggered into the foyer from the front hall. He still had dust and broken pottery on his head and shoulders, and his eyes looked unfocused. Another limped in from the kitchen, barefoot and glaring. He drew a knife, and Tim scrambled backwards.

"No!" The first man grabbed the other's wrist. He didn't look happy about it, but he said, "Lord Ra's wants the boy alive."

"He can live without his arrogant little tongue!"

Tim tried to think up something clever to say, to get them to come up the stairs, but he really did not want them any closer than they were. Out in the yard, they couldn't hurt him, but here they could. They could hurt Tim very, very bad.

Two more ninjas stumbled in, one blinking and squinting, pant leg still smoldering. The other, who looked like a woman, was walking on the sides of her feet. She left a thin trail of blood behind her, and Tim both felt sorry and wished it were worse all at once.

"He's lost his tongue even without your blade, Hans," laughed the first man. "Not so brave now, are you, boy?"

Brave, Tim. Brave like Robin.

Jason wouldn't be scared of these goons, and neither would Dick. Dick would make fun of them, and Jason would cuss them out, so Tim did both.

"Like hell I'm scared of you shit-faces! The wax dummies at the history museum would make better ninjas than you!"

Hans yelled and ran at the stairs. He didn't hear the first man yell, "Fool, it's oiled!" until he was already flat on his back. Tim listened very hard, but couldn't hear anyone else in the house. He taunted, "Where's the rest of you? Maybe you could use the power of friendship to figure it out," to make sure.

"Thank whatever god guards you there are none others," the woman snarled. "Or you would choke on your blood even as you laugh."

"Dramatic," Tim quipped weakly, voice a bit too high.

"How did we fail him that Lord Ra's would punish us this way," moaned Pottery Man. "Being tormented and mocked by an infant."

"Hey!" Tim cried, indignant. "I'm eleven and five twelfths!"

"Enough of this!" Number One shouted. "Hans, the servant's stair, Edda, the back stair. Jethro, the dumbwaiter." They scattered, and One began stalking up the oiled stairs, clinging to the rail and motioning the blinded man to stay behind. "You think we do not know every hall and stair in this house, boy? Every entrance and exit? What do you think will be your salvation if you stall us?"

Tim swallowed, edging into the hall and carefully pushing open the first door. He may have to adjust his escape plan.

"Indiana Jones, Raiders of the Lost Ark, Steven Spielberg, 1981!" Tim hollered. He dove out of the way as his father's massive, prized floor globe, the one twice the size and weight of Tim, rolled down the improvised ramp and onto the stairwell, gathering speed every second.

Tim took off, running down the hall to his bedroom without looking back. He heard screaming from several parts of the house, and would have jeered at them about not expecting him to know how to trap his own house, but he no longer wanted to give away his location. He'd need extra time now. Climbing down from his window was going to be a hell of a lot harder than climbing the rope he'd put in the dumbwaiter for himself.

Tim pulled out his army knife as he passed the dumbwaiter door and started sawing at the rope, grateful the set-up could double as another trap. He didn't even have to cut all the way through, the ninja's weight snapping the fibers in seconds once they frayed. He heard a yell and an awful snap.

The cry of, "I'll kill you, brat!" should not have been comforting, but Tim didn't want to have killed anybody, so it was.

He made it to his room, shut and locked the door, then shoved his dresser against it, grunting and panting. He had to lean against it for a moment to catch his breath, swiping the sweat from his forehead. He gave himself thirty seconds, but dropped it to twenty when the shouting drew nearer.

"I can do this," Tim whispered, stepping onto the windowsill and staring down. "I can totally, one hundred percent do this."

He sat down and shimmied around until he was clutching the window ledge with ungloved hands. His fingers were already freezing. His toes hung and flailed in open air for a few terrifying seconds before they found crevices in the weathered brick.

Tim took a deep breath.

Slowly, inch by inch, he worked his way down the wall until his feet hit the top of the first floor window. His fingers scraped and bled against the bricks, turning white with cold and terror. Sweat ran down his face and back, making him hot and cold both at once. Once he got his hand or foot on a hold, it was hard to make himself move again.

Carefully -- oh, so, so carefully, when Tim's feet hit the top of that window, did he turn his head over his shoulder. The snow rose to the bottom of the window, making the drop only about three feet into a cushion. Tim closed his eyes and jumped.

The snow crunched loudly beneath him, and he broke through it up to his knees. He didn't dare waste time celebrating, but immediately started off, hoping the blizzard would help to cover his tracks.

Half a mile due east. Tim could make it.

Half a mile through ever-deeper snow, in wind and dark, with only a coat and boots, and furious ninjas hunting him down.

Tim had to make it.

At first he tried to run, shoving his hands in his pockets to make them warm, but it was like trying to run through a pool, and Tim soon found himself basically swimming with his arms and legs. Within minutes (though each felt like an hour) he couldn't feel his fingers at all.

The snow was high enough to slip into the tops of his boots, melting into his socks and making his feet grow numb. Tim started crying, only realizing it when the tear tracks burned down his cheeks and froze there. Every breath became a white cloud in front of his face.

The whole world had turned into the snowstorm. Tim didn't know anymore if he was going east or west, north or south, up or down. If he was still going towards Batman and safety, or if he'd got so turned around he was about to run right into the ninjas' arms. He stumbled and staggered, knowing he had to keep moving no matter where he ended up. Fall down in the snow, and he was never getting back up.

Then finally, finally, Tim saw light in the distance.

"Help!" he cried, but his voice was ripped away by the wind.

"Batman! Mr. Wayne! Robin! Help me, please!"

A shadow blocked the light, and Tim sobbed in relief as arms hugged him tight.

"So this was your clever plan, was it, boy? No wonder Lord Ra's took an interest in you."

Tim screamed and started thrashing, but the ninja had his arms pinned, and the snow blocked his kicks. He tried to bite, but there was nothing in front of his face but thick cloth.

"Let go!" he wailed. He was so close, he couldn't fail now. "Let me fucking go! Hel--mmph!"

Tim was spun around and a hand covered his mouth, grip bruisingly tight, enough that Tim couldn't even move his jaw, let alone bite.

"Oh, no, boy," the ninja snarled in his ear. "You will be brought before the Demon's Head, and punished for every injury inflicted, and even the great Detective can't save you!"

"Can't he?"

Tim's heart leapt as a hulking shadow appeared out of the snow, Batman's unmistakable growl now a roar over the wind. He had done it! He'd gotten to Batman! He was saved!

And then he felt ice cold metal against his throat.

"Stay out of this, Detective. Lord Ra's cares not if he must resurrect his prize."

Tim trembled, even though he'd stopped shivering ages ago. He didn't know what that meant, but he never wanted to find out.

"He should care that Gotham and its people are under my protection. Let the boy go, or there will be retaliation."

"We do not fear your posturing, Detective," the ninja sneered. He started dragging Tim back, away from Batman and safety. "And we do not fear your allies. But continue to oppose us now, and we will strike you down--"

"Wanna bet?"

There was a loud thunk and the ninja's hold went slack. The knife dropped to the snow, its wielder crumpling, and Tim stumbled, grabbing for his throat to be sure it wasn't bleeding.

"Kid? Kid, what's wrong, are you hurt?" Robin hollered over the wind.

Tim slowly shook his head, staring at the ninja. He felt something warm and big and surprisingly soft drape over his shoulders, like a blanket, and looked up to see Batman leaning over him with his cape.

"You're freezing," he murmured, sounding much more like Mr. Wayne. "Robin, get him inside!" His voice dipped back to a growl as he said, "I'll deal with the League."

"Here, kid."

Batman was replaced by Robin, but the cloak remained wrapped around Tim. He was bundled tighter into it, then scooped right off the ground and into Robin's arms. He squeaked in surprise, but pressed closer because Robin was so warm.

"Geez, you're tiny!" Robin half-shouted, wading through the snow only a little faster than Tim had. "How old are you, kid?"

"Eleven and a half," Tim mumbled. Jason Todd was a fine one to talk about being small for one's age.

As Robin muttered something like, because the half makes all the difference, a big black shape loomed out of the snow right in front of Tim's face. It took him far too long to realize it was a Bat-Snowmobile; Robin had plopped him on top and climbed on behind him before he registered the headlights had turned on.

"Hang on tight!" Robin ordered, and the engine roared to life.

Tim yelped, grabbing Robin as the vehicle lurched and zoomed into the storm, throwing his arms around the older boy's neck and hiding his face against his shoulder. One arm wrapped around Tim's waist and gently squeezed.

"Just hang in there a few more minutes, squirt. It's not far."

"What's not far?"

Not Tim's house. Please, not Tim's house. He didn't want to go back and run into the rest of the bad guys -- the League -- without Batman. Robin was awesome and warm, but Batman was powerful, and Tim didn't think the League would give up without more of a fight.

Robin hesitated before answering. "Wayne Manor is just under a quarter mile. They can look after you while I go back to help Batman."

Tim sighed in relief. Wayne Manor would be warm and safe, and until Batman and Robin came back to be Bruce Wayne and Jason Todd, Tim would no doubt be looked after by Alfred Pennyworth, and he was as powerful as Batman himself in Tim's book.

I did it, he thought happily, cuddling closer to Robin's warmth. I actually fucking did it.

"Eat shit, Lord Ra's."

Robin laughed.

After only a few more minutes, Wayne Manor appeared, looming out of the dark with a few cheerily lit windows. There was a glowing Christmas tree visible through one, and seeing it warmed something other than Tim's fingers.

Robin parked the Bat-Snowmobile outside the back kitchen door and swung himself off, then scooped up Tim to plop him on the ground. He kept an arm around Tim's shoulders as he went and knocked on the door. Tim could see the kitchen lights on, and it only took a minute before the door opened to reveal Alfred Pennyworth in a robe and nightshirt.

"Good heavens!" he exclaimed, and immediately backed up to usher them inside.

"Mr. Pennyworth, this is Tim Drake, your next-door neighbor," Robin introduced. "His home was attacked tonight by the League of Assassins, and he had to run a long way through the cold. If you would look after him and warm him up, Batman and I will be back before too long."

"I-- yes, of course," Mr. Pennyworth said, surprise changing to concern. "Thank you, Master Robin."

Robin nodded and ruffled Tim's hair. "You'll be safe here for a while, ok, squirt? Batman or I'll be back soon."

Tim nodded, and Robin grinned and left. Tim could hear the roar of the Bat-Snowmobile as it tore off outside.

Mr. Pennyworth turned to put a kettle on the stove, then told Tim, "Come, let's get you out of those wet things, Master Tim."

Tim nodded eagerly, stumbling a bit on frozen feet as he followed Mr. Pennyworth to a bathroom, still clutching Batman's cape around his shoulders.

"I'll set some of Master Jason's things outside the door for you. You're about the same size, I think. If you can find your way back to the kitchen, I'll have hot cocoa ready in moments."

"You don't have to go to any trouble," Tim said shyly.

"Nonsense, dear boy." Mr. Pennyworth smiled. "Tisn't any trouble at all, I assure you."

He left, and Tim stripped out of his sweats and socks. He hated to drop Batman's cape on the ground, but it had gotten soggy with snow just like everything else. He tried to fold it up, but it was like trying to fold his sheets, it was so huge.

A knock came at the door, and Mr. Pennyworth called that there were pajamas and a sweatshirt outside. Tim answered with a thank you and waited a moment before sticking one hand out the door to snatch the bundle.

He was startled into a laugh to see that the pajamas were themed like Batman and the hoodie like Nightwing. He wondered if Dick had gotten it for Jason. There were also a non-themed pair of slippers, and now that the feeling was coming back to Tim's toes, he could tell they were wonderfully soft.

Once dressed, he found his way back to the kitchen, where a kettle was starting to whistle before Mr. Pennyworth plucked it off the stove.

"Warming up, Master Tim?"

"Yes, thank you, Mr. Pennyworth."

The butler tutted. "Alfred is quite alright, dear boy."

"Thank you, Alfred," Tim corrected shyly. He'd never called an adult by their first name before.

A very loud yawn from behind made Tim jump, turning to look at the doorway, where...

Tim blinked.

Where stood Jason Todd.

He was dressed in Wonder Woman pajama pants and a red hoodie, rumpled like he'd been asleep, but his hair was still damp and his nose and cheeks pink from the snow and cold. His eyes looked bleary and sleepy, like he'd just woken up, but he most definitely scanned over Tim like he was looking for injuries.

"'S goin' on, Alf?" he asked, slurring his voice to sound half-awake. "Who's that?"

Tim just kept staring, dumbfounded, as Alfred said, "You recall young Timothy Drake, Master Jason? I'm afraid he ran into quite the spot of trouble tonight. Robin brought him here for us to look after until the situation is resolved."

Jason's eyes widened like he hadn't himself, as Robin, dropped Tim off ten minutes ago. "No way," he muttered. "What the hell were you doing, Timbit, that you got mixed up in superhero stuff?"

Tim hesitated.

"Batman! Mr. Wayne! Robin! Help me, please!"

"So this was your clever plan, was it, boy? No wonder Lord Ra's took an interest in you."

Tim hadn't had any idea just why he was being almost-kidnapped, except maybe for ransom or something, until the ninja had said that, and Batman showed up seeming to know all about that Lord Ra's guy and his ninja-kidnappers. At the time, he'd been too terrified to analyze, but now he wondered...

Did Ra's somehow know that Tim knew who Batman was? Tim didn't think that was possible. He hadn't even told his parents. But maybe Ra's was a mind-reader. Or had some kind of special powers. But then why would he need Tim to tell him who Batman was? Especially when the ninja sounded like Ra's and his League already knew all about Batman.

"Timber?"

Tim blinked and looked back at Jason. He and Alfred were both watching Tim, sharp-eyed. That was when he realized Jason wasn't just asking as a shocked civilian, he was investigating as Robin. In order to protect Tim, he and Batman needed to know why he'd been endangered in the first place.

"I...I don't know," he admitted. Jason's mouth twisted into a thoughtful frown, until Tim hesitantly added, "But I might have a guess?"

"Yeah? What do you think?"

Alfred set a cup of steaming cocoa on the table in front of Tim. It warmed his face, and he almost thought it burned his hands when he cupped them around it, but he didn't care. One sip warmed him all over inside, like he hadn't been cold or frightened at all. He wondered if Alfred was magic.

There was another clink of ceramic, and Tim realized Jason had gotten a mug of cocoa, too, and had sat down across from Tim. He held out a bowl of marshmallows, and Tim took two with a soft thanks.

Jason waited until Tim had taken two more sips before prompting, "Timmers? What's your guess?"

Tim took a deep breath, trying to calculate how mad Batman was going to be when he found out, and blurted, "I know who Batman and Robin are."

"What? No way! Who are they? How did you figure it out?" Jason gasped, face splitting into a grin, looking for all the world like someone expecting to hear the most amazing secret in the world.

But Tim saw the panic behind his eyes.

"I wouldn't tell you, if you didn't know," he promised. "But they're you. You and Mr. Wayne. I... I know because it was Dick Grayson first. He's the only person ever who can do a quadruple flip, and I saw Robin do it with my own eyes."

Jason stared.

Alfred stared.

Tim ducked his head and stared at his cocoa.

Then Jason said slowly, "You... you saw the first Robin in person? Doing a four-flip?"

"Yes?"

"How... how old were you?"

Tim frowned, calculating. "Nine?"

Alfred coughed.

"You were nine," Jason repeated. "And you were out in Gotham and saw Robin. Doing a fancy flip. And figured out one of the most dangerous and well-kept secrets in the city."

"Yes," Tim said, a bit more confidently. "Like I said, only Dick Grayson can do that flip. And if he's Robin, Bruce Wayne has to be Batman. And you have to be the next Robin. It's... it's just logic."

It's just logic, Jason mouthed. His lips stayed parted in astonishment as he turned to look at Alfred.

"That's... quite impressive, Master Tim," he managed. "Although, might I inquire... just what were the circumstances under which you saw Robin's flip?"

Tim hastily took a sip of cocoa. Jason raised his eyebrows and copied him, not setting down his mug until Tim did. Tim immediately took another sip. Jason and Alfred exchanged a glance.

"IusedtofollowBatmanandRobinaroundatnightandtakepictures," Tim blurted.

Jason blinked rapidly several times before suggesting, "A-again... slowly, please?"

"I... I used to, to follow Batman and Robin around at night. And take pictures."

"And your parents let you?" Jason yelped.

"They didn't... exactly know?"

"How...?" Jason's voice kept sounding more and more strangled. If Tim didn't know better, he'd have thought an invisible villain was throttling him.

"Well..." Tim ducked his head, shoulders almost rising to his ears. He stared intently at the melting marshmallows in his cocoa as he said, "They're not really around much."

"What exactly do you mean by 'not much,' Master Tim?" Alfred asked, both firm and kind, but also concerned.

Tim's ears felt hot. "They're usually on digs. They come back for a weekend or so every couple months. So they never knew I went out at night. I never told them I figured out who you are. I promise that I've never told anybody, and I never would tell anybody, even that Ra's guy, no matter what he did!"

He looked back up at Jason and Alfred, hoping they could see the honesty in his face.

Their faces showed a mix of shock and horror. Jason's eyes were wide and round, but Alfred's were pinched, and his mouth was drawn into a hard line. Tim swallowed nervously.

"You're a very impressive young lad, Master Tim," Alfred said in a carefully measured voice. "If you'll excuse me a moment, I think I ought to go inform Master Bruce of... these developments. I assume your parents were not home tonight?"

"Their flight got cancelled," Tim admitted. He wondered for the first time, as Alfred nodded curtly and stepped out of the room, if Batman had a mind-wipe machine or something. He very much hoped not.

Jason made a low whistle, then murmured, "Well, damn." He took a sip of cocoa, looking at the door Alfred had left through.

"What's 'well damn'?" Tim asked, voice too high.

"Alfie's 'bout'a go off," Jason chuckled, then, seeing Tim's expression, clarified, "not on you, Timberly, on your parents. And Ra's. Definitely also on Ra's."

"Why would Alfred be mad at my parents? And what does he need to tell Batman? Are you mad at me? Because I figured it out? Or..." Tim gasped in horror. "Or because I led them here? I led them here! Oh, God, I told a villain who Batman is! I--"

"Tim! Tim, calm down, it's ok!" Jason seemed torn between laughter and concern, but he reached out and put a bracing hand on Tim's shoulder. "You didn't do anything wrong. Ra's already knows who we are. Alfred just has to tell Bruce, um. Not to look for your parents. And why they're not there. And that's why he's pissed off, because nobody should leave a little kid all by himself for all but a few weekends out of the year."

Jason looked pissed himself when he said the last bit. Unfortunately, all of it just left Tim with even more questions. But even as he opened his mouth to ask them, there was a loud rattling and banging from above.

"What was that?" Tim yelped, jumping and spilling cocoa on the table.

"The storm," Jason said, completely expressionless. He grabbed some napkins from the holder on the table and dropped them on the spill, clearing it with one neat swipe. "Don't worry about it."

"You're sure it's not the ninjas?"

Jason snorted. "Don't ever let them hear you call them that. I'm sure, kid. Batman's got it covered."

Alfred came back into the kitchen muttering about reception, and took Tim's and Jason's empty mugs over to the sink to wash. There was a loud pounding from up above, first moving distant, then drawing near again. Tim realized it was running feet.

He raised his eyebrows at Jason.

"The storm, huh?"

Jason shrugged with a smile too mischievous to be innocent.

A moment later, Bruce Wayne appeared in the doorway, hair mussed and face pink, barefoot and wearing a red bathrobe that did not succeed at hiding the Batsuit underneath.

The way he blinked and squinted at the warm kitchen light appeared genuine, but he sounded far too awake as he said, "Alfred, what's going on? Who's this? Jason? I thought you went to bed."

Jason glanced at Tim, mischief peaking.

"Dad!" he exclaimed, jumping up and running over. "Dad, you'll never guess what happened! This is Tim Drake, from next door, and he was attacked by supervillains and Batman and Robin came and saved him and brought him here!"

"Oh! My... God..." Mr. Wayne faltered, glancing from Alfred (who's back was turned to hide his smile) to Tim (who was just as confused as he seemed) to Jason (who was grinning just a bit too wide), before narrowing a bit at the last one.

Jason beamed up at him, and Mr. Wayne apparently decided not to worry about it, because he turned to Tim and asked, "Are you alright, Tim?"

"I... think so," Tim said slowly, staring at Jason, who was mouthing at him. Mr. Wayne glanced down at his son suspiciously, but Jason shut his mouth in an instant.

"Are you hurt at all? Cold?"

"No, I'm ok now. Mr... uh, Alfred's hot chocolate warmed me right up."

Mr. Wayne smiled. "It does that quite well. Are..." He turned hesitant again, glancing at them all before asking, "Do you know if your parents are alright? If they escaped?"

"They weren't even there," Jason said, bright smile turning downright ferocious. "They leave Tim all alone in the house all year and only come in for a weekend every once in a while. And since that's criminal neglect, and Batman and Robin asked us to take care of him, I guess I got a little brother for Christmas like I asked for after all!"

Tim stared. Mr. Wayne stared. Jason beamed. Alfred coughed in a way that sounded much too much like a laugh.

"Um..." Tim started, but had no idea how to continue.

"It... I... don't think it's all quite that simple, Jay," Mr. Wayne cautioned hesitantly. Jason just stared straight up into his face, both grinning and glaring at the same time. It was mildly terrifying, and Mr. Wayne cleared his throat before turning to Tim. "But of course, you're more than welcome to stay with us until it's safe. We'll be glad to have you."

Tim stammered out a thank you, wondering if Mr. Wayne offered because he knew as Batman that it wasn't safe. He hoped not. As awesome as being Jason Todd's little brother sounded, Tim already had parents and a home, even if they were... distant. He also wondered why Jason was pretending he was an ordinary civilian, and that Tim didn't know better. And Alfred was going along with it, even though he'd been about to tell Batman everything just before.

"If you're quite warm and well, Master Tim, I think a good night's rest would do you good," Alfred said, "as it would the rest of us."

"Oh. Um, yes." Tim blinked and looked at the clock, which read 11:30 PM. "Sleep. Yeah."

"Great!" Jason chirped. He did a cartwheel over to Tim, channeling Dick Grayson, probably, and pulled him up, slinging his arm over Tim's shoulders. "C'mon, Timbers, we can have a sleepover in my room."

"Uh, sure."

A sleepover with Robin? Tim was equal parts confused and ecstatic. He followed Jason past a mystified Mr. Wayne, who wished them both goodnight, and up a small back staircase to the second floor.

It wasn't until Jason had showed them into his room and they got settled in bed that Tim finally asked, "Jason? Why didn't we tell Mr. Wayne that I know who you are? Isn't it kind of important?"

"Oh, Timmy Tim Timmers. Think about it. We only get to tell him that once."

"But-- oh. Ohhh."

"Exactly." Jason sounded smug. "Just you wait, Timbit. I have a feeling you and I are gonna be the holiest terrors this city ever saw."

#feral tim drake #ra's: 5 ninjas should do it right?#he's like a toddler itll be fine #tim: fucking bet you old assbutt #day 2 #home alone #tim drake #bruce wayne #batfam #fic #ao3 writer #sprite wrote #amow winter whumperland 2022 #day 5 #trapped in a blizzard #day 10 #hot chocolate #jason todd #alfred pennyworth

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odinsblog · 1 year

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#lol #bomb cyclone #christmas blizzard #bby its cold outside #christmas 2022

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blizzardstarx · 4 months

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new pfp!!

happy (almost) three years to my child Aura <3

i finally brought back their markings under his eyes

i had removed them for years until now

also three years of bandanna Aura lmfao

^ feb 13 2023 (?)

#blizz's art #aura!!!#oc #god my old art is so 😭😭😭😭😭#i was new at digital art in 2021 and the bucket tool on the website i used was so bad #so i had to manually color it and did not know how to use layers lmfao #but its nice seeing how much my artstyle has evolved #i created aura in may 2021 i think #i thought it was 2020 but now that i think about it #also my lines were so wobbly LMFAOOOO i drew on my chromebook on sketchpad app #<- for both those past drawings #also i did do a bandanna wolf in 2022 buttttt it was of my oc blizzard #aura predicted that i was nonbinary lmfaooooo #i created them as nonbinary and a year and a half later i discover im nonbinary #had to edit the last one to not confuse ppl #im sorry for the long ass tags 😭😭😭 but feel free to ask anything about aura <3 like his backstory etc

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ifnemfrog · 2 years

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Trees on fire in a blizzard. AI generated on Craiyon from a prompt by Nemfrog. July 23, 2022.

#ai generated #ai art #craiyon #polaroids #forest fire #blizzard #nemfrog #2022 #ifnemfrog

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ashintheairlikesnow · 2 years

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The Least

CW: Hypothermia, environmental whump, referenced pet whump, this is genuinely a comf piece though

Follows after this piece. You can see other work Marc Sonders is in right here. For @amonthofwhump day 5, Trapped in a Blizzard

A knock sounds at the door, but Marc doesn’t dare move out from under the blankets, even just to answer it. He’s not even sure he can.

He’s still shivering, muscles locking and releasing so intensely and so close together that he isn’t sure he’d be able to stay standing even if he did try to get up. All he does is briefly peek his head out from under the blankets and say, in a tremulous voice, “C-come in!”

The door doesn’t lock, anyway.

Not from the inside.

It’s made to keep him in, not keep anyone else out. Even if it was unlocked, he’d never make it back into the town before he froze out there in the snowstorm. It’s coming down too hard, too fast, and it’s so cold Marc can barely stand to breathe in the air. It’s like knives stabbing deep into his lungs.

He’s in a little shack of a space just outside of Hope, far enough away that the residents aren’t frightened of his presence, but close enough for interrogations. So far, he’s answered every question they give him, and Brock thanked him for not being trouble. He’d explained to Marc, in his friendly enough voice, that he’s never felt easy having to make someone scream.

Me neither, Marc had confessed, and Brock’s thin humorless smile told him that his attempt to connect had not exactly been a resounding success.

Between you and the person you were doing harm to, Brock had said in a level voice, only one of you held the remote, Handler Sonders. Only one of you held a whip. Only one of you held any power to stop it.

Right, but it didn’t-... feel like-... I’m sorry. Please, call me Marc. I’m not a handler anymore.

You and I both know that handlers don’t have the option to simply quit. You remain Handler Sonders until and unless I change my mind. You see, Handler, between the two of us... only one of us has the key to that door. Only one of us can order you buried in the woods or up on the mountain.

Marc swallowed around a lump in his throat. Only... only one of us has the power, he echoed.

Brock smiled. Precisely, Handler Sonders. Your cooperation so far is appreciated. We’ll be voting on allowing you out in another few days.

Then he had left Marc here, sometime... yesterday. Just before the snow started to fall, and the temperature dropped from chilly to dangerously freezing in what felt like ten minutes but in all reality, probably took a couple of hours. Now he’s out here, in a shack-house located inside a fenced-in horse pasture. The horses are settled snugly tight into a stable, now, a big barn that looks like a painting against the view of the mountains in the distance, the forest where the secret road to the border winds through. Marc has seen people trudging in and out to keep them fed, caught a flash of heavy woolen horse blankets slid over their backs. They’re warm enough.

It’s just Marc who is freezing, slowly, maybe to death.

Maybe that’s how they get rid of handlers out here. Maybe they held the vote, he failed, and now... this. He’ll stay locked alone in a single room with almost nothing in it. He’ll lay here, isolated, until he loses his mind. He can’t say he’d blame them, really. Not after what he’s been party to.

The key turns in the lock, the door pushes open inward, and Marc’s first thought is simply of the white.

Snow is piled up two feet high against the door, some of it spilling downward and not even melting much when it touches the little shack’s floor. That’s… probably not good.

Heavy snow boots crunch down onto the floor, thickly padded quilted snow pants shaking white powder off, heavy gloves that barely resemble hands and a ski coat, gloves, face mask, and fur-lined hood. The figure is short, but with all that on, Marc can’t begin to tell who it is, other than to know it isn’t Beringer.

Ber’s taller than that, and he wouldn’t leave Mallie alone, not to come out here.

Not that they’ve let them see each other more than once or twice, and it’s been at least two days since the last visit. Two days since Ber had last pressed a quick, rushed kiss to his lips and Mallie had wrinkled her nose and declared them both very gross and then cried when Beringer had to pull her out of Marc’s arms.

Ber is probably already in Canada, honestly. They’d want to get him up to the border ahead of the storm. Marc wouldn’t hold it against him. If he took Mallie with him, well, that’s good, too, even though it makes Marc’s entire chest burn and ache and tears sting his eyes at the idea of his little girl being somewhere where he can’t see her again.

It’s okay, though. Someone else can do a better job raising her to know right from wrong. God knows Marc’s fucked her up just by making the choices he made, choices he thought would help him afford a good life for her, but what’s a good life if you’re not actually good? Beringer knew being a pet was wrong even while he was one. Marc had to figure it out from conversations over Mallie’s little head with a man who seemed to catch his attention more every day at drop off and pickup, until he realized…

He had a crush on a pet.

Not wanting him like the prospectives want them. Not wanting him like a body, but wanting to know the person inside of it. He had wanted to know who Beringer had been before, and had let himself go hunting for information he wasn’t supposed to have to find out. He’d asked about his favorite tv shows and really cared about the answer.

He’s been a bad guy in so many lives, and he never felt happy about it but a job’s a job, right? You have to make a living. WRU made it so he could have a house with a backyard for Mallie to play in, so he could take her to the doctor when she was sick and buy ridiculous cakes for birthdays. WRU had made sure he could pay for Mallie to go to private school - there’s a tuition reimbursement for half the cost, for God’s sake! - and get braces one day…

It had seemed like a good enough trade - someone else’s life, some stranger’s, made worse to make his better. It had seemed like a good trade… until it wasn’t, any longer. Until he’d realized what it meant to have other lives torn apart to sew together your own.

Yeah… yeah, he won’t blame the people in Hope if they let him freeze to death out here. He deserves it, and more.

The person in the doorway shoves it shut behind them, dropping a heavy knapsack to the floor and groaning with relief. Then they shove the ski goggles back from over their eyes, pull off the face mask, and Marc realizes who it is, blinking with surprise as he pushes himself up on one elbow, even as his body protests every movement.

“Rye,” He says, and the young man’s face breaks into a wide smile.

“You remembered my new name!”

“Course I d-did. It’s a good one. Did… B-Brock s-s-send you?”

“Yeah. I brought some stuff for you. The others still don’t want you in the town, um, safety reasons. But with the snow…” Rye glanced at a window, watching the snow continuing to fall in great heavy flakes, so close together it felt more like fog than frozen rain. “And the temperature… you’re not safe out here, there’s no real heat in this place. The blizzard’s going to go at least one more day, we think.”

“Yeah.” Marc’s breath puffs out in front of him, making a new cloud right inside the room. “I kn-know. I’m sh-sh-shaking pretty bad, actually… And my h-h-hands feel… well, th-they don’t feel m-m-much…”

“Yeah. So I brought some stuff. You shouldn’t be, um, frostbitten or anything else just yet. You just stay there.” Rye holds up a gloved hand, and Marc settles back into the bed, watching him. The younger man shuffles around, opening up the heavy backpack - it’s one of those army-style things that can hold a hundred pounds of stuff without bursting. The Rye he knew had been lithe and couldn’t possibly have hauled that kind of weight around. But this Rye - he looked a little older, of course, but also stronger. There’s a hint of muscle to him that he hadn’t had before. It looks good, he looks… healthy. Happy.

Marc smiles, watching from beneath the dubious protection of his blankets as Rye starts pulling things out of the knapsack.

First, a thick plastic square like fogged bathroom windows after a hot shower that Rye tapes over the single window in the shack, his lips pressed together in concentration. Almost immediately, some of the chilly drafty breeze simply stops making its way inside.

Then, something in a box that he sets down on the little wooden table with its single chair. Marc squints - it’s little heating pads, the kind that you crack and then hold as they warm you. He nearly lunges off the bed for it, startling Rye so badly the kid trips over himself and nearly falls back into the wall.

“Sorry! I’m sorry, just, I’m s-so cold-”

“No, it’s okay, go ahead, you. I just didn’t expect-” Rye laughs, breathy and nervous. “I guess I’m still kind of flinchy from… before I ran away.”

Marc’s useless numb fingers somehow manage to clumsily paw open the box and pull out one of the packs, listening to its crack with a thin trickle of hope as he breaks it. The warmth starts slow, at first, and then all at once and he retreats back into his blankets to hold it tightly until his fingers start to tingle and burn as the feeling fully returns to them. It hurts, but it’s so good to know he can feel things that he doesn’t even care.

“I’m sorry,” He says, looking up to meet Rye’s eyes.

He’s glad the younger man isn’t that close to him. He knows he would smell, if this place wasn’t so frozen he can’t even sweat. He needs a shower, like, three or four days ago now - but really, isn’t this what he deserves? Didn’t he lead trainees with hair matted to their skulls from overwork, or a week in isolation, to the showers more than once?

Even if all he did was look down at his phone and let them have any privacy they could find - even if he never, ever had his own trainees go into iso - he still escorted other trainees as a favor to coworkers. He still saw how they looked at him, worried he would touch them or frightened that he wouldn’t. He still ignored his prickling unease every time a trainee put a hand on his arm to try and curry favor by giving away the only thing they had left to trade.

Even if he said no, every time, he still knew it happened.

And he still worked there.

Hell, he sat across the lunch table in the cafeteria chatting about TV shows and football games with guys he knew had been beating the shit out of someone who couldn’t fight back a half-hour before.

“It’s not your fault,” Rye says, shrugging.

Marc shakes his head. “No, it r-really is.” He watches Rye set up a tiny little space heater in one corner, close to the bed he lays on and facing him. When it clicks on, he’s almost fascinated by the soft buzz and the way, after a few seconds, he can feel a touch of warmth against his cheek. “I could have taken you to a safehouse, or something-”

“Wouldn’t have gone, probably. I don’t know. I don’t like to think about it, the-... the Facility. Training and all that.” Rye lays a blanket over him, one that’s silvered like foil on one side. “Juliet sent this for you, it’s hers. She’s, um. She came here and got stuck out in the cold, too, before they found her, and she says these blankets are worth their weight in gold. She keeps seven in her room.”

“Seven?”

“Seven. She says you never know when you’ll freeze and need them. I think she’s a little scared of cold, now.”

Marc nods. He’s already warming, with the tiny heating pad under the heavy blankets. His toes start to tingle, too, inside the three pairs of socks he’s wearing. “Don’t blame her. I might not be so happy with it, either. Rye, can I ask-... my daughter. Is she-”

“She’s in town, she’s safe. She’s asking for you, a lot, but Brock wants to wait until he can finish asking you questions. Then maybe he’ll have some smugglers take you up to the border or something.”

Marc swallows, his heart nervously fluttering, and forces himself to ask the next question. “And… and the person I came with. Beringer, is he… did he leave, or…”

“Are you kidding?” Rye looks up, and then smiles. His face is full of kindness, just like it was in training. He was such a good trainee, worked his ass off in his classes, just rocketed through every step. Marc had really liked him.

He’d really enjoyed the company of the poor kid he was helping train to spend his life counting pills to make sure some old lady took them on time-

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “No, I just-... did he make it to Canada before the snow? At least?”

“No. But, hey wait, don’t get upset or anything, I just mean… he didn’t leave. He stayed.”

“He… he stayed?”

“Yeah. He said he won’t go anywhere unless he can take you with him. So he’s watching your daughter while Brock figures everything out.”

Marc’s exhale comes out of him so fast it’s almost an oof, which makes Rye break into soft laughter. Marc puts his burning hands up over his face and finds he could almost sob with relief he hadn’t quite realized he would feel. He won’t go anywhere unless he can take you with him. “Thanks… thanks for telling me. It helps to know.”

“He really likes you, I guess.” Rye pulls out a thermos and a bag of crackers. “We had beef and vegetable soup for lunch. I got you some, plus there’s some cornbread in here, too. It should still be really hot. Oh, and... hold on, Juliet sent some coffee...”

“Thanks… thank you.” Marc pushes himself up to seated, keeping the blankets wrapped tightly around him, and finds his hands working well enough to hold the thermos if he keeps it balanced on his leg. The soup steams up out of it, and he inhales salt and beef broth smell with delight. Has soup ever smelled so good?

Rye hesitates, watching him, and then sits down at the little table. “Handler Sonders-”

“Please, just Marc. I quit, like I said. Or, well, I kind of walked off the job. But please... I don’t want to be called that shit anymore. I ran away.”

“Just like me.” Rye grins, and he has a bright and shining smile, the kind you find yourself answering whether you mean to or not.

Marc shakes his head, spooning a bit of soup into his mouth and trying not to make an audible sound of happiness as it nearly burns his tongue. Outside the taped-up plastic-covered window, the blizzard is getting heavier. “Not really. You… you ran because of what was done to you. I ran because of what I did.”

“But you decided not to do it anymore.”

“... Yeah, pretty much.”

“Well, that counts for something.”

“Does it?”

“To me it does.”

Marc takes another bite. This time he can taste the beef a little bit better, gets a chewy bite of it, a bit of carrot that nearly melts as fast as he spoons it up. “So what made you choose the name Rye?”

“I don’t know. I just liked it, the sound of it. Juliet calls me Rye Bread sometimes.” Rye smiles. The little shack is warmer now, with the little heater hard at work, the window taped, and the good company. “I don’t mind, she’s not nice but she’s, um, kind, you know? She’ll do anything for you but she might ask you why you did it the wrong way the first time.”

“I think kind is probably better than nice.” Marc thinks about Rye as a trainee, skinnier then. He’s put on weight, it looks good on him. Weight, muscle, and a brighter smile. “I tried to be nice, but what I did was… evil, not kind. Can you stay for a while?”

Rye glances back outside at the falling snow, then turns back and nods. “Sure. For a little bit. Not like we can do most of our chores in weather like this, anyway.”

“Great. I just… tell me about your life.”

“What part?”

“... everything since the last time I saw you.”

The way Rye brightens at interest and attention is sickeningly familiar, but Marc fights past it. He does want to know, to see what Rye made of himself when he created his own identity, after the Facility took the first one and he decided to shake off the second. He does want to know who Rye really is, now.

“Uh… okay, yeah, sure. So, you remember my prospective…”

The snow falls, and Marc finds himself wishing he’d known how to walk off the job when he could have taken Rye, too, but finds that in the end… in the end, it doesn’t matter. Rye found his own way here, and so did all the others in the little town.

Marc wants to know them all.

It’s the least he can do.

@burtlederp @finder-of-rings @arlinthesnep @endless-whump @doveotions @emdeighamae @wildfaewhump @whump-tr0pes @hackles-up @orchidscript

#rye is altogether too cute #amow winter whumperland 2022 #day 5 #trapped in a blizzard #environmental whump #hypothermia #bbu #box boy universe #marc sonders #beringer #whumper turned whumpee #but he was always #reluctant whumper #caretaker and whumpee #whumpee turned caretaker #box boy #rye bb #captivity #sort of

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heywriters · 1 year

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Blizzard of 2022 (from my window). We couldn't leave the house for four days lol. First time experiencing snow this way. Welcome to the Midwest, me.

#og #about #climate #weather #blizzard 2022 #polar vortex

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ya-zz · 26 days

Note

Would you ever go back to writing for mha? I read the fics you uploaded on ao3 and its sad to see you dont write for the fandom anymore :(

I have thought about it, I won't lie, but I probably won't. It's not that I fell out of love with it, I just got really busy with my final year of uni and getting a job that I no longer had the time to watch or even read the manga.

Still love Aizawa, all the comms I got of him and all the gifts. Still got my lil shelf shrine for him and the pins on my lanyard for work, but I most likely won't go back to writing for the fandom...

#askyazz #it's nice to see that the fics from 2022 are still being read and liked #Aizawa was a hard obsession much like Ramattra is now #though there is definitely more for that man then there is for our omnic #blizzard what are you doing #give me a full scaled figure of Ramattra already #make him real

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mass-convergence · 1 year

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Oh ... so that image:

Yeah this one?

This is from 2019.

I was wondering about that when the upper air maps were definitely not matching that particularly well.

I mean the 06 UTC analysis still certainly looks like boobies so it's got that going for it.

#storm #weather #meteorology #so we could probably still call this the Great Boobie Blizzard of 2022 and I wouldn't object

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aci25 · 1 year

Video

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This is what you get when you ask the sports guy to come in to cover a blizzard in the morning show.

#blizzard #cover a blizzard in the morning show #local news #breaking news #funny stuff #today in iowa #this is winter #winter 2022 #cold weather #Sports Reporter at KWWL-TV #this is your local news #winter storm #sports reporter

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superblizzardfire · 1 year

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The Morn After

ThorBruce fluff fic for @marvelrarepairbingo2022 Prompt: Thor and Bruce cook a meal together

When Thor awoke, Bruce was gone.

He squinted at the empty space beside him, struggling to recall exactly how the good doctor had ended up in his bed. Asgard had celebrated the arrival of its new year, and all had partaken in the feasting and drinking that followed. Perhaps a little too much drinking. He licked his dry lips and winced at the headache throbbing at the base of his skull. It was fortunate that they had reached his bed and not passed out on the floor.

Groaning at the bright sunlight flooding the room, Thor clambered out of bed and cast about for his clothes. They were strewn all over his room, and his tunic (crumpled beside the door) was stained with wine. Of his cloak there was no sign.

Thor turned again to the empty bed, unsure if he’d dreamt the events of last night. He remembered bouts of drunken singing, Bruce clutching his shoulder and laughing, a brush of lips in the dark, swiftly followed by cold, skilled hands…

Yet now Bruce was gone. With a sigh, Thor stood over the washbasin and cleaned himself. So many days had begun thus: waking to an empty bed with vague memories. It was common knowledge amongst the folk that their prince was a talented, if fickle, lover. Plenty would approach him, but few stayed past the morn. Somehow he had hoped that Bruce would be different.

Read the rest on AO3!

#mrp2022 #marvel rare pair bingo 2022 #thorbruce #blizzard writes stuff #bingo complete woohoo!

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jcmarchi · 5 months

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Discord Lays Off 170 Employees Due To Overhiring

New Post has been published on https://thedigitalinsider.com/discord-lays-off-170-employees-due-to-overhiring/

Discord Lays Off 170 Employees Due To Overhiring

Community chat application company, Discord, has laid off 170 employees, or 17 percent of its staff, according to a new report from The Verge. Discord CEO Jason Citron cites overhiring, which has led to the company becoming “less efficient” in how it operates. The layoffs affected people across various departments.

The Verge obtained an internal memo from Citron sent to employees announcing the layoffs, which have already happened. That memo explained why the layoffs were happening, when affected employees would receive the email telling them they no longer have a job, and follow-up meetings for those who remain at Discord.

“We grew quickly and expanded our workforce even faster, increasing by 5x since 2020,” Citron writes in the memo. “As a result, we took on more projects and became less efficient in how we operated. Today, we are increasingly clear on the need to sharpen our focus and improve the way we work together to bring more agility to our organization.

“This is largely what drove the decision to reduce the size of our workforce. While difficult, I am confident this will put us in the best position to continue building a strong and profitable business that delivers amazing products for our users and supports our mission for years to come.”

You can read the full internal memo at The Verge here. The Verge writes that Discord raised about $1 billion in funding in total, with more than $700 million “in cash on its balance sheet and the goal to become profitable this year,” according to the publication’s sources.

These Discord layoffs follow a heartbreaking trend in these first couple of weeks of 2024. Just this week, we learned video game engine creator Unity is planning to lay off 1800 employees (25 percent of its workforce) by the end of March, and that streaming company Twitch is laying off 500 people (35 percent of its staff).

This string of layoffs this week follows a terrible 2023 for the people who make games and those in game-adjacent industries.

n January of last year, Microsoft laid off 10,000 employees amidst its ongoing $69 billion acquisition of Activision Blizzard, which it completed in October.

Striking Distance Studios, the team behind 2022’s The Callisto Protocol, laid off more than 30 employees in August of 2023. That same month, Mass Effect and Dragon Age developer BioWare laid off 50 employees, including long-time studio veterans. The following month, in September, Immortals of Aveum developer Ascendant Studios laid off roughly 45% of its staff, and Fortnite developer Epic Games laid off 830 employees.

In October of last year, The Last of Us developer Naughty Dog laid off at least 25 employees, and Telltale Games also underwent layoffs, although an actual number of affected employees has not yet been revealed. Dreams developer Media Molecule laid off 20 employees in late October.

In November, Amazon Games laid off 180 staff members, Ubisoft laid off more than 100 employees, Bungie laid off roughly 100 developers, and 505 Games’ parent company, Digital Bros, laid off 30% of its staff.

In December, Embracer Group closed its reformed TimeSplitters studio, Free Radical Design, and earlier in the year, Embracer closed Saints Row developer Volition Games, a studio with more than 30 years of development history. A few weeks before the winter holidays, Dungeons & Dragons and Magic: The Gathering owner Hasbro laid off 1,100 employees.

The games industry will surely feel the effects of such horrific layoffs for years to come. The hearts of the Game Informer staff are with everyone who’s been affected by layoffs or closures.

[Source: The Verge]

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patrice-bergerons · 2 years

Note

Cuddle prompt for 00Q #30

Pretty please?

send me cuddling prompts!

okay anon this got way out of hand and will be a two-parter but here it is, part 1, featuring dangerous field missions, blizzards, and some cuddling for warmth.

When he accepted the position at MI6, Q had pictured himself designing state of the art weapons, helping shape the future of intelligence and keeping his country safe, all from the safety of a nice office or a sleek workshop. Standing on a frozen Norwegian lake in the middle of a blizzard, getting ready to dive in, on the other hand? Not so much.

It’s just that the latest criminal megalomaniac who wants to see the world burn has fitted a dirty bomb at the bottom of this lake and it is set to go off in two hours. The henchmen are all dead but the blizzard means they can’t get help in time and the lack of waterproof comms means he can’t guide Bond on how to disengage the bomb remotely. Ergo, Q shedding his clothes with gay abandon in -15 °C weather. He would have at least packed a wetsuit had he known.

“When you go in, the first thing you will need to do is to get over the cold water shock,” Bond is saying and doesn’t that sound marvellous. “Your heart rate will jump and you will be gasping for breath but it will pass in less than a minute—just float and let the panic flow through you.”

Bond’s coat and beanie are white with snow and he has to speak up to be heard over the howling wind. Q appreciates that his voice is all business now, any hint of concern for Q’s wellbeing relegated to a remote corner of his eyes.

He nods, taking off his jumper followed by his trousers. The cold cuts into his bones without a moment’s mercy—bollocks, he thinks as he shivers.

Bond does him the favour of not acknowledging it.

“You will have at most five minutes before your hands become too numb to handle tools—come up for air if you need to but you won’t have time to do it more than once.” Q puts on his headlight as Bond turns on their torch and places it upside down on the ice.

“The surface will freeze over quickly-”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Q cuts him off. They have been through this already. “Don’t panic, follow the light, and you will break the ice for me by shooting at it as if it’s a target M asked you to capture alive at all costs.”

Bond’s surprise is quickly eclipsed by a smile. His eyes are a familiar, vibrant blue, like an act of defiance against this white hellscape they have found themselves in, and so very warm. Sometimes you put him in his place and he looks at you like you hung the moon in the sky—like you can reach out and hang it there if it disappears one day.

“I’ve got this, James,” Q says, offering Bond a quick smile of his own. “Now shoot.”

In the end, it takes him two trips to disarm the bomb.

The device is unfamiliar enough that, combined with low underwater visibility, he has barely figured out what needs to be done before he runs out of air on his first trip. He surfaces and stutters out a two word response to Bond through chattering teeth before diving back again.

When the deed is done and he has chased the weak glow of Bond’s torch to safety again, he is barely feeling much of anything—not the cold, not his extremities, nor the strong hands that pull him out of the water.

“Lift your arms,” Bond instructs and his arms rise above his head in response, having bypassed any chain of command with his brain. Bond takes off his tee shirt in a single deft motion and replaces it with his dry jumper. His pants come next, swapped for the pair of trousers he’d left behind. Pity I’m a grower, Q thinks absentmindedly as he is already being swaddled in his puffy coat, then in his beanie that makes his wet hair stick to his scalp, gloves and his dear old glasses, fat use they are in a snowstorm.

He has imagined Bond dressing him and undressing him, perhaps more times than he would care to admit, and it was never like this but all he can reach now is the cold fact of that knowledge. The way he theoretically knows the winter cabin they commandeered is a ten minute walk away, but there is no kindness, no warmth in this place, only the sharp wind and an endless, terrible white that presses on in every direction until everything you were and you are is frozen over and buried in snow.

It’s only Bond that keeps that terrible fate at bay—he has hooked an arm under Q’s shoulder and leads them steadily onwards, through knee deep snow and the blizzard which hurls more of it in their faces at every turn with vicious glee, his will a match for the worst anyone can throw at him, including the winter.

When they make it to the cabin, Q is summarily deposited onto the bed.

Bond removes his coat for him and swaps his trousers, now caked with snow, for a pair of thermal tights before he lays him under the duvet and blanket they had stacked on top of one another, much like a life-sized Barbie doll.

Q tries to focus but his thoughts feel like feral kittens, mewling and scattering before he can hold them in his hands.

There is no glory in it, Bond says quietly, shaking his head. He is sitting across from Q at an old, stately pub that is a far cry from either of their usual haunts. They have had too much to drink and Q has made a quip that he will regret every time he remembers it afterwards and in Bond’s eyes, hazy now with alcohol, is a glimpse of something that cannot be put to words, broken and mute and vast.

The cabin brings to mind the word ‘cottagecore’—rustic and kitschy, it is too posh and impractical to be anything other than a seldom used holiday home of a rich couple. The henchmen lie dead on the ground, their blood staining fresh fallen snow crimson. He is not shivering and does not feel cold which is Bad with a capital B.

Bond turns around from where he is standing in front of the fireplace, lighting fire to the logs they built before they headed to the lake, and Concern (with a capital C, Q supposes) flashes across his face, knitting his brow in a knot. This was supposed to be a simple assignment and one Q handled, yes, in Norway, but strictly from his computer.

“I make for a decent field agent, don’t you think?” he asks weakly, to cheer him up.

“You were brilliant.” Bond smiles and Q hates him for it. “You might put me out of a job if you ever decide to switch careers.”

He shifts a little despite the monumental energy cost to have a more authoritative angle and lets his voice go as haughty as he can.

“The same cannot be said for you of course.”

A warning.

Bond turns back to the fire momentarily, raking it to make sure the logs catch, but he understands.

“I don’t know what you mean—I am excellent with a computer. Just changed my password successfully last week.”

Different as they are, they do understand each other, most of the time—Bond more so than any other double-0.

Q snickers, letting himself fall back into the bed; the soft wonderful bed.

The fire now lit, Bond soon sheds most of his own clothes and instructs Q to do the same with his outer layer.

“Your personal radiator reporting for duty,” he says as he peels open the covers to sneak under.

Bollocks, thinks Q as Bond takes him in his arms and arranges the two of them so that Q is mostly lying on top of him with his head pillowed on Bond’s bare chest.

This will be an afternoon.

#00q #007 fest #007 fest 2022 #teambondvillains #my fic #nothing i love more than trapping characters together during blizzards mmmm

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