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voiceless-terror · 3 years

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More than Enough

For @tma-mspec-week Day Three: Polycule

Characters: Jonathan Sims/Sasha James/Tim Stoker/Martin Blackwood

Rating: Teen

Summary:

“But what if-” Once again, Jon struggles to find the right words. He knows their situation is unorthodox to most people, and the thought of Martin looking at him differently is too much to bear. “What if he doesn’t understand?”

“Then explain it to him,” Sasha relays patiently, her hand never leaving his. Things are always so clear to her, Jon envies that. “You’re my partners, you’re dating Tim, sometimes me and Tim have-”

Or: How One Became Four.

It starts with Sasha and Jon.

She’s fresh off six months in Artefact Storage, shell-shocked and stand-offish. Jon starts a few months later and they learn the ropes together. She warms up, divulges little tidbits of her time in the other department that Jon devours. He’s young, hungry for answers and Sasha’s already jaded by her few years in academia. This is just a transitional job, she assures him. It pays better than most research gigs and allows her to keep up a certain lifestyle.

“I’m looking at other places, putting out feelers,” she confides in him one day over coffee. It’s become their daily ritual, a mid-morning break where they can commiserate on the staid academics that ask too much of them and the fanciful statements that end up on their desk. “Whatever you do, don’t get stuck here.” She leans back in her chair, gives a cynical little smile. “Or maybe you should. It’ll be different for you, you’re a man.” He starts a protest but she cuts him off. “It’s an old boys club and you know it. Besides, I know all about your extra meetings with Bouchard. He’s never done that with anyone else. Who knows - in a few years you might be my boss!”

He scoffs at that. Jon feels like he’s treading water. He’s a great researcher, sure, but he hasn’t exactly made himself popular among the others. He’s quick to bite, dismissive, blunt. It’s why he and Sasha get along so well, tucked away in their own little world. Of course she would notice the attention from Elias; Jon’s flattered by it, even if he stammers his way through every interaction. Elias seems to find this amusing, but Jon wants to impress him.

Though not at the cost of his friendship with Sasha. “I always mention your work to him. I’m rubbish with technology, but you-” She rolls her eyes.

“Don’t, he’ll see right through that. Manipulation’s not your strong suit.” Jon stares down at his rapidly cooling drink, an embarrassed flush spreading across his features. But her hand reaches out to grasp his and a fond smile lights her features. “Thank you, though. It’s sweet of you.”

Jon likes Sasha. Their personalities occasionally clash, but never for too long. Jon’s quick to forgive and Sasha’s too fond to hold a grudge, though she’s loath to admit it. So when her roommate suddenly moves out and she’s left in a bind, it’s only natural for Jon to take her place. He’s been rent-poor, living paycheck to paycheck in a shitty studio that’s still an hour’s commute. Sasha’s closer and her flat’s substantially nicer; she offers and he accepts, easy as that. It’s a practical move, and Jon has to admit his lonely little flat is starting to feel suffocating.

They fit together easily, like pieces of puzzle slotting in place. Sasha’s brutally efficient in her personal matters; bills and maintenance that Jon finds overwhelming and confounding she takes care of with ease. He’s heard her on the phone in that light, practiced tone of hers as she casually threatens the landlord for necessary repairs. Jon finds himself relaxing bit by bit, feeling comfortable in his own skin as she snarks at the dinner table over a dish he’s made. He used to cook for Georgie like this. Now he cooks for Sasha.

“You’re good at this,” she comments one night over chana masala. “Loads better than the frozen meals I’m used to.”

“It’s nice, having someone to cook for. Harder to do it for one.” He feels a bit uncomfortable with the admission, though he knows he shouldn’t - this is what it’s like, when you love someone.

He’s never said that to her, of course. He gets attached too easily but never knows quite how to show it. And it’s not his usual sort of love, he doesn’t want to date her. She’s more than a friend, and Jon’s never had many of those; he has no metric to measure this against. He thinks he could stay in this flat with her forever, so long as he could see her smile every morning and yawn every night.

On a Saturday morning she stumbles out of bed and makes her way over to the kitchen. “Morning,” she grumbles, as she reaches for the coffee pot and kisses his forehead. Jon doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to.

On a Wednesday night Jon drinks too much.

“Sasha,” he slurs, her arm the only thing keeping him from falling off his stool. “I want you t’ know…”

She smiles indulgently, takes a sip of her drink. “Yes, dear?”

“I-I love you.” She pauses and Jon’s heart drops. “N-Not like that, but like friends. Good friends. Very good friends. But m-maybe not.” She’s still smiling, that’s got to be a good sign, right? “I-I just love you, okay?”

And then she laughs, puts an arm around his shoulder and pulls him close. “I love you too. Stay with me forever, okay?”

He takes her hand between his and promises, with all the solemnity a drunken man can muster, that he’ll stay with her forever and then some. The next morning, while they’re both nursing massive hangovers, Jon broaches the subject again.

“Did you mean it?” he asks tentatively, trying to keep the worry out of his voice. “What you said last night. Do- do you want me to stay forever?” She turns to look at him, bleary eyes suddenly alert.

“Yes.” There’s no tease in her words as she leans into his side, a warm weight on his shoulder. “I don’t think I’ve ever meant anything more.”

Jon stays.

______

Two years later, Tim joins the Institute.

He’s handsome; charming, but subdued. He’s been assigned a desk near theirs, invading the quiet little corner that had become their world. Tim greets them both with a smile and a perfunctory handshake before settling down at his desk and powering up his laptop. He doesn’t speak to them again.

Jon watches as he goes back and forth between circulation and his desk, building an impressive stack of books- The Pantomime Life of Joseph Grimaldi, The Congress of Clowns and Other Russian Circus Acts. Sasha told him he worked in publishing, Jon knows she got that information through her usual nefarious means. Perhaps he’s writing a book, Jon says. Sasha thinks otherwise.

“He’s one of those,” she says over sandwiches and tea. She invited Tim, but had been turned down with an apologetic smile.

“Hmm?”

“Like you.” She sets her drink down, eyes him with her steady gaze. “He’s got a reason.”

Mr. Spider doesn’t like it.

Jon shivers at the reminder. Sasha never brought it up after he initially confided in her one vulnerable night last year; she just held him through the shaking and the tears. He’s only told the story twice; once at eight, again at twenty five. It never got easier.

“No one believed me,” he whispered, tucking his face into her shoulder as his body itched from phantom legs skittering across skin. She squeezed him back.

“I do.”

They’re friendly enough to Tim, giving him his distance while still trying to be helpful. Jon points him in the direction of texts and scholars who might be useful, Sasha teaches him a few of her more invasive tricks that Jon refused to learn. Slowly, bit by bit, he opens up. Never shares his story, no- but he smiles, jokes around with them, accompanies them on their lunch breaks and eventually entices them to after work drinks.

He’s handsome when he smiles, Jon thinks to himself as Tim regales them with stories of dates gone wrong. Sasha catches his eye and winks. He wonders if she’ll tire of Jon now that Tim’s around. He’s everything Jon’s not; good-looking, confident, secure in his intelligence. Sasha laughs so freely around him. He could ground her where Jon cannot- they can be a chaotic force, the two of them. It’s why they keep to themselves.

But at the end of the night it’s Jon’s hand she takes, swinging it gently with hers. “Stay with me forever?”

He smiles. “Forever.”

They invite him over to their flat one night in spring, when the trees are blossoming and Jon’s allergies are acting up. He’s sniffling miserably on the couch, Tim sprawled next to him as Sasha pours some wine. Despite his misery, Jon’s content.

Tim nudges him with his foot. “So what’s your deal?” he asks in a wheedling tone, though his smirk betrays an almost imperceptible anxiety. It’s strange. “You and Sash. Dating, roomies…?”

It’s Sasha who answers, handing Jon a glass of wine and standing before Tim, tall and proud. “Jon’s my partner.” It’s matter of fact, and Jon can’t help the warmth that floods him. “We’re not dating. I’m not interested in that.” She hands him his glass with a smirk. “But if you want to romance Jon, feel free.”

Jon sputters as she laughs- he’s transparent, as usual. They’d talked about it briefly- Sasha’s fine with him dating other people, but Jon’s never felt the need to. Sasha’s enough. She still is, but he can’t deny the way his heart swoops whenever Tim aims that smile in his direction. Sasha likes him too, in her own way.

Tim’s still gaping at them and Jon can’t help but join in on the laughter, as embarrassed as he feels. “Is the great Timothy Stoker nervous?” Sasha says in between giggles. “Guess we know how to shut him up now.”

“L-Look, can you blame me?” Tim says, a smile growing on his face. “You two can be very intimidating, not to mention gorgeous-”

Jon kicks at his leg. “Don’t joke.”

“No, we are.” Sasha interrupts, daring him to disagree. She turns that deadly smile back on Tim, delighting in his falter. “So what’ll it be, Stoker?”

There’s silence, Jon can feel his heart racing. They’ve got this all wrong, Tim doesn’t want him, Tim’s going to leave, Tim doesn’t understand-

“Can I take you out to dinner tomorrow night?”

Jon blinks. “Uh, yes?”

“He likes Thai!” Sasha calls as she walks over to her bedroom, leaving the two of them on the couch, laughing nervously.

“So you’re bi, then?” Tim asks, scooting closer to Jon and throwing a blanket over their legs and an arm around his shoulder. It’s warm in all the right ways and Jon leans closer, the awkwardness dissipating at the touch of his hand.

“I prefer pan,” he replies. It’s the first term that felt right to him. Georgie used to make some stupid joke about a ‘gender buffet’ and him ‘having one of everything.’ It still makes him smile. “And- and you should know I’m also ace. So there’s some things I won’t be able to do for you.” He looks for disappointment in Tim’s eyes and finds none. “I hope that’s alright.”

“Of course.” Tim smiles like he means the words and Jon feels light, almost dizzy. “Are kisses alright?”

He nods shyly, and Tim takes this as his cue to pepper him in obnoxiously loud smooches- one in his hair, another on his nose. Jon manages to bat him away after Tim almost gets him in the eye.

So Tim and Jon are dating. Tim takes him out to dinner, the movies, one memorable night of karaoke. Sasha joins in when she wants; they go to museums and lectures. One night she laces her fingers through Tim’s, smiling at his wide eyes.

“What?” she says innocently, doing the same with Jon. “I’ve got two hands.”

On Wednesday nights Tim goes to the gym. Jon sits at the table, passes Sasha a bowl of reheated spaghetti before settling down in his chair. He fidgets, not touching his fork.

“What is it?” Sasha asks, setting her own fork down. “You’ve got that look on your face.”

“I-” he stutters, sighing as the words won’t come. Just tell her like you practiced. “I’m not trying to, well- hmm. I don’t want to insinuate anything-”

“You would never.”

“But, I’ve noticed- I’m not- Tim is very handsome.”

Sasha smiles indulgently. “Mhm. Go on.”

“And I’ve noticed. I don’t- if you wanted to-” Goddamnit. Pull yourself together. “I wouldn’t mind it, if you were to - that is, if you’d like to engage in-” He closes his eyes, purses his lips in frustration. “Please stop me.”

“Why Jon,” she replies, her voice coy and teasing. “Are you giving me your blessing?”

Jon sighs, his face warming as he opens one eye- she’s grinning, just as he expected. “...Yes?”

Six months later, Tim moves in.

_______

“Jon wants to bring a boy home!”

Jon smacks him in the arm and scowls. “Tim, don’t-”

“What, it’s true!” He leans back in his chair, a self-satisfied smirk on his face. Jon wants to knock the smile off his face and maybe onto the floor, if he can get a good kick in. “I don’t blame you and in fact, I encourage it. Martin’s a catch-”

“Martin?” Sasha perks up. “Finally!”

“Not you too-”

“Jon, he’s a very sweet boy-”

“-good-looking, too!”

“And if you want to bring him over, please do.” She reaches across the table to give his hand an encouraging, if condescending, squeeze. “I’ve seen the way you look at each other.”

“I don’t think I’ll need to go into that much detail just yet,” Jon cuts her off, ignoring Tim’s snicker. “It’s just...what if he thinks it's weird?”

“Weird can be good. And if he doesn’t agree, well - he’s not worth your time.”

If only it were that simple.

It’s been about three months since he first ran into Martin in the break room. He’d seen him around plenty of times, but despite his hulking form, the man can make himself very, very small. It wasn’t until he quite literally ran into him, causing him to drop his newly organized files, that Jon got a good look at his face.

It was a nice face. Soft, kind, with big blue eyes and curly red hair that fell across his forehead. He wanted to touch it, tuck it behind Martin’s ear and he almost did, despite the man’s rambling apologies and meek demeanor. He stood there, frozen, even as Martin handed back the file with a bashful smile.

“Sorry, I’m pretty clumsy. Are you alright?”

Jon was fine. He should probably say that.

“Y-Yes. I’m Jon.” Wow. Smooth.

“I know.” Martin put a hand behind his neck, nervously chuckling. “You’re quite known around these parts.” His eyes widened and his face turned red. A nice red. “N-Not in a bad way, of course! You’re- you’re just very smart and- and direct- and oh Lord, that’s not a compliment, is it-”

“Thank you for my file,” Jon replied robotically, his eyes trained somewhere over Martin’s shoulder and not on his very, very blue eyes. “I have to take my leave now.” Why are you talking like this?

Their next few encounters were similarly stunted and awkward. Martin made tea at ten every morning, coincidentally when Jon got his yogurt from the fridge. He started making Jon a cup as well; he wasn’t sure if Martin was particularly excellent at making tea, or if it just mattered that he was the one making it. Jon tried not to dwell on the sentimentality of it all.

He shouldn’t want another partner. He’s got Sasha, who he loves, and Tim, who he also loves, albeit in a different way. They should be enough for him. They are enough. But Martin makes him tea and asks him how his day is going and smiles at him and people don’t do that. He tells himself he just wants a friend, but he finds his mind wandering- Martin��s hand in his while they walk down the street, Jon nestled into his side on a movie night and Tim’s there too, because Martin is very comfy and handsome and warm. Sasha’s in her armchair reading a book because tonight they’re watching a romantic comedy and she hates those. Jon hates them too but Martin likes them, of course Martin likes them-

No. He’s getting distracted. And he’s standing in front of Martin like an idiot, saying nothing. This is going terribly. Why did he ever think this would not go terribly-

“Jon? Are you alright? You look like you’re about to have a stroke.”

“I’m not having a stroke,” Jon responds on auto-pilot. “I’m trying to think of a clever way to ask you out but you are very distracting.”

Shit. Martin stares at him, mouth open in shock. He’s got nice teeth. Very straight.

“Um- I-I thought you were with Tim?” Martin squeaks out. Oh God, I’ve scared him. Do I keep going? “Or- or Sasha, oh! I’m not accusing you of -”

“No, you’re correct,” Jon grinds out, willing himself to be calm. He doesn’t want Martin to think his frustration is aimed at him. “Sasha’s my partner and I’m dating Tim, and sometimes Sasha and Tim-” No! Abort! “-sorry. We’re together. But, um, I-I also like you, and I think Tim likes you but he hasn’t said- I’m sorry, this is going all wrong.” He looks down at the floor, clenching his jaw. “I understand if you say no.”

“I’m not saying no,” Martin’s voice is lower now and Jon feels a hope rise in his chest. He’s not? “So it’s, it’s like an open thing? You’re accepting applications?” Jon would laugh at the joke if he weren’t so paralyzed with fear.

“Not really? It’s, we aren’t dating around or anything, but I suppose it is open, in a way.” He pauses, takes a deep breath. “Open for you.”

Martin’s smiling like he can’t believe his luck, and it confuses Jon because who wouldn’t want him? Kind, handsome Martin who makes him tea and doesn’t laugh at his stupid jokes but rolls his eyes affectionately and tells his own in turn. Jon doesn’t think he’ll ever understand his humor but it makes him smile and that’s important. And now Martin’s taking his hand and he- oh fuck Martin’s taking his hand Martin’s got his hand and it’s warm, just like he knew it would be-

“I-I think I’d like that.” A squeeze. Jon dies but only a little. “Wow, this is sort of crazy for me, y’know? You’re all so, so intimidating and good-looking-”

“Yes, we are,” Jon agrees, squeezing his hand back. “But we’d like to buy you dinner, if you’re amenable.” Martin laughs and says yes, he’s very, very amenable. It feels right holding Martin’s hand. It feels right to see him with Tim and Sasha, smiling and joking. It feels right to lean into him at the end of the day, to nudge his side in the night and apologize in the morning.

Martin’s lease expires in seven months. They start looking for a new apartment after three.

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29032062

#tma #the magnus archives #tma mspec week #jonmartimsasha #archive polycule before there's an archive #jonsasha #jontim #jonmartin #timsasha #jonathan sims #tim stoker #sasha james #martin blackwood #jon is pan #tim is bi #sasha is aro

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excuseme-howdareyou · 4 years

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Day 7: Nightmares | Time Travel | Mythology AU

........

"Bruce?"

Dick's voice was tiny and quiet and barely more than a whisper. Still, Bruce rolled over in his bed and blinked sleepily at the small boy standing in his doorway. His blanket was wrapped around his shoulders, making the short preteen appear even smaller buried underneath the mass of fabric, and the nervous look on his face made Bruce's throat feel tight.

Sitting up, Bruce rubbed the sleep from his eyes and chanced a glance at the clock. 4:27AM. "What is it, chum?" he asked.

Dick pulled the blanket tighter around himself. "I can't sleep," he admitted quietly.

Not entirely unexpected. The Manor was still new to him; it was a far cry from the circus and no doubt-

"I... I had a nightmare."

-and oh.

Bruce swung his feet over the edge of the bed and beckoned Dick to come closer with his arm spread out in gesture for a hug. The 12 year old needed no other initiative and launched himself across the room. He was almost a teenager, but Bruce was still able to easily pick the lad up and settle him into a tight embrace. Gangly elbows and knobby knees curled up and Dick was almost lost in the swatch of blanket, but Bruce held onto him -blanket and all- with as much tightness as he dared.

It had been two months since the death of the Graysons, one since coming here to the Manor. He did not have to ask to know what the nightmare was about.

One little hand squirmed out of the blankets to grasp tightly onto the sleeve of Bruce's nightshirt. He did not let go after that and Bruce did not try to stop him.

After all, Dick needed to be able to hold onto him to make sure he didn't fall too.

...........

The first time Bruce caught Jason in the middle of the night, he was standing on the kitchen counter in his bare feet, trying to reach the container of cocoa sitting on the top shelf. He was also cursing up a storm under his breath. ("Who the hell puts stuff up this high? Stupid tall people.")

"Late night snack, Jaylad?" Bruce asked with a smile and leaned his shoulder against the doorjamb.

Jason nearly fell off the counter in his surprise. "Bruce!" he whirled around, his hold on the cupboard door the only thing keeping him balanced in his haste," I was uhhh..." His eyes darted around the room nervously. Then his shoulders drooped in defeat. "Please don't tell Alfie I was standing on the counter."

Bruce couldn't help but grin. "It'll be our secret," he promised," Though I've learned it really is impossible to hide anything from Alfred. The man knows everything."

He and Jason had a running theory that Alfred could read their thoughts.

(It still hasn't been disproven, by the way.)

Recognizing that Jason still hadn't gotten his cocoa, Bruce walked forward and with his immense height easily reached up and grabbed the tin container. He handed it to a sheepish Jason, who jumped off the counter.

"So," Bruce continued by getting two mugs out of the cupboard as well," Had a craving for hot chocolate?"

Jason had the container on the kitchen island and pried the lid off. "No, I uhh..." he frowned, even as he reached in and grabbed the measuring spoon inside," Couldn't sleep, ya know? Figured a hot drink might help."

The smile slid off Bruce's face. He knew what 'couldn't sleep' meant.

"Wanna talk about it?" he asked.

Jason looked like he was about to blurt out his thoughts, but then changed his mind as he dumped a spoonful of cocoa mix into each of the mugs. "Nothin' to talk about," he muttered sourly.

Bruce knew from experience it was best not to press.

Doesn't mean he wasn't going to stay in this kitchen for an hour, drinking hot chocolate with his son. And when Jason toddled off back to bed, he seemed... calmer, more at ease. And when he yawned, wide and tired and Bruce caught a glimpse of that chipped canine tooth, he couldn't help but tussle that head of messy hair.

"Hey!" Jason protested.

"Goodnight, Jaylad," Bruce leaned down and pecked his lips on Jason's forehead," I'll be here in the morning when you wake up."

Judging by the smile on the boy's face, it was the right thing to say.

...............

Tim wouldn't tell Bruce when he had a nightmare. But he had certain tells that if someone looked, they could tell he was having a restless night.

It took Bruce an embarrasingly long time before he noticed it. He wanted to blame it on the fact that Tim lived across the street at his own house and so Bruce didn't see him after patrol was over. But even from the front steps of the Manor, it would've been obvious to see. And so it was actually Selina who brought it to his attention, one of her 'visits' to the Manor to see if she could rouse Bruce into a game of manor-tag. (Only this time she marched straight up to him and whacked him over the face with a sofa pillow)

"Go look outside your front window, you dense idiot," she frowned at him, then left for the night.

And that's how Bruce found out that Tim climbs up onto his roof whenever he can't sleep. How long he's been doing it, he doesn't really know and Tim wasn't telling. But Bruce could recognize that look in his eyes; the empty stare as Tim sat on the peak of his roof and gazed -almost longingly- at the driveway leading away from his house.

He didn't make a sound when Bruce sat down next to him, just glanced up then went back to staring at the road. Bruce wondered what he saw there. Or if... he was daydreaming about something he wished he saw there.

"Nightmare?" he asked.

"No more than usual," came Tim's reply and wasn't that just a stab in Bruce's heart?

"Wanna talk about it?"

Tim shook his head.

"Okay."

A few minutes passed before Bruce noticed that Tim was starting to droop. Whatever nightmares plagued him, exhaustion was still catching up to him. Without a word, Bruce reached over and tugged the teenager over into his side with one arm wrapped around his shoulders. Surprised but not fighting it, Tim tilted his head until it rested on Bruce's shoulder and yawned.

"Whenever you're ready, we'll head back to the Manor," Bruce told him.

Tim blinked up at him in confusion. "Really?" he asked," But I thought I had to be here in case Ms. Nefzger came early tomorrow?"

Ms. Nefzger, the housekeeper that only shows up every three days. Bruce felt a sweep of guilt that that was the reason why Tim was staying in this large house by himself; to keep up the ruse. "If it happens, then I'll deal with it," he said instead," Tonight, Alfred's got the guest room ready for you, then tomorrow you can chose which room you want for your own."

The smile Tim gave him reminded him so much of another boy with dark hair and blue eyes. "You mean it?"

"Yeah, Tim. I really mean it."

..................

It was the small parade of animals down the hall that garnered his attention.

First it was the damn turkey, leading the way with a ruffle of feathers. Then the click clack of Titus' claws on the hardwood floor, the sound preceeding the sight of his large head appearing. Through his open door way, Bruce then saw the shadow of his youngest son, right at Titus' side and holding Alfred the Cat in his arms, as the menagerie paraded past.

Equal parts curious and concerned, Bruce rose from bed to follow after him. He supposed he was lucky that Batcow wasn't part of the proceedings.

"Damian?"

Damian and his pets stopped. "Father?" Damian turned around, surprised to see Bruce standing right behind him.

"What's wrong?" he asked, noting that his son was still in his pajamas and slippers," Is everything okay?"

Damian opened his mouth, hesitated as if he wasn't sure what he wanted to say. Then, with a scowl, he announced," Just doing a patrol of the house, Father."

It didn't take a genius to realize that probably wasn't what he was really doing. "Mmhmm," Bruce couldn't help but smile fondly at him, then guessed," Couldn't sleep?"

Somehow not expecting his bluff to be called, Damian froze at the implication that he'd been found out so soon. "I..." he blinked," Maybe?" He held unnaturally still, as if half expecting to be sent straight back to bed.

Bruce was enough of an old hat at this by now. "Yeah, me too sometimes," he reassured him. He reached out and laid one hand on his son's shoulder, wanting to give him a hug but not wanting to disturb the cat in his arms. "What can I do to help?" he asked.

Damian stared at him in equal parts awe and confusion. "Umm," he fumbled for words," Well, sometimes... Richard would sit and watch Animal Planet with me?"

"You got it," Bruce smiled and gave his shoulder a squeeze before straightening up," Shall we get a snack first? How's hot chocolate sound?"

................

They were halfway through the 'Ice Worlds' episode of 'Planet Earth' when they were joined by a third person. "Rough night?" Jason whispered as he leaned over the back of the couch and saw Damian fast asleep snuggled between his father and Titus. Bruce had to tilt his head back to get a look at his second oldest and wondered when he'd come in.

"He couldn't sleep," Bruce answered back just as quietly, not wanting to wake Damian," Everything alright? What are you doing still up?"

"I'm a grown man, Bruce, I don't need a bedtime," Jason scowled at him, but it didn't last long as Tim appeared at his side and lightly slapped him on the back of his head.

"Stop getting so offended over everything," Tim scolded him, then turned to Bruce," He just finished his stakeout and came to harass me for my case notes."

Yeah, that sounded like Jason.

Just then, Jason noticed the duo of cocoa mugs on the coffee table. "Hey, you had hot chocolate without me?" he pouted.

Holding back a chuckle, Bruce told him," It's still in the same place as always, Jay." Then he couldn't help but grin," Need any help reaching it?"

The word Jason signed back at him would not be polite to repeat out loud. "Make me a cup too!" Tim whisper-shouted at his retreating back.

"Ooh, I thought I heard David Attenborough," and all of a sudden there was Dick on the other end of the couch, munching on a granola bar he probably had stashed away in a pocket somewhere. (At this point, Bruce was over questioning where he came from)

"Just don't wake your brother," he whispered and got a pantomimed 'lips-locked' from his eldest. It was all in vain though, for as soon as Jason returned -with two cups of hot steaming cocoa- he shooed Titus off the couch so he could take his spot. The dog's movement woke Damian, who blinked sleepily at the troupe all around him. Finally, his eyes landed on Jason, who'd taken Titus' spot.

"Todd," he grumbled, and the drawling way he spoke it told them he was only half awake.

Jason smiled at him," Heya Baby Bat," then gestured at him with his open arm. A moment later, Damian leaned over in the opposite direction of Bruce and was soon fast asleep on Jason's shoulder. Bruce wanted to be jealous that Jason stole his cuddling time with Damian, but couldn't deny how adorable it was.

(Dick thought the same thing, cooing at Jason and tried to hug his other arm, only to have Jason whisper-shout at him," Hey, don't spill my cocoa!")

A small form curled up on Bruce's other side and he looked down to see messy dark hair and sweet dark eyes. "Movie night?" Cass blinked up at him. 'Wasn't she at Barbara's tonight?' Bruce wondered, but gave up trying to guess. He was all too happy to wrap his arms around her shoulders (except where Tim was apparently using her as a pillow, cuddled up and sipping on his cocoa) and hold his only daughter tight.

"Yeah, family movie night," Bruce whispered back.

#batfamweek2020 #batfam #fluff #right in the feels #bruce wayne #loves his kids #is a good parent #batdad #Batman #comfort #dick grayson #jason todd #tim drake #damian wayne #cass cain #cassandra cain #nightmares #robins

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pupuprinssi · 3 years

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Merry Christmas and such. Here’s a small fic. ❤

Jon blinks. The lights in the archives are bright and the smell of mulled wine is so strong it's almost nauseatingly pungent and sweet, and he has little memory how he came to be there. At first, he panics; it's a reasonable response to finding one's self in the midst of a situation that cannot be recalled or reasoned with. But it feels... benign. It feels celebratory, so he leans back in his chair and takes a breath, tries to remember how he got there before making any rash decisions. There is a mug there on his table, the same table he's been working at for years, on top of a statement he assumes he was interrupted examining if not reading when the mug arrived. He touches it with his fingertips, the warm side of it, to assure himself that it is real and this is not a hallucination. His head aches a little, but everything seems to be alright; the mug is corporeal enough, its ceramic side smooth and polished, and as he turns it he feels a little... awkward reading the text printed upon its side. Tears of my employees, it states. The tears are red, the pungent and sweet smell lingering heavy in the steam that rises from them. Jon forces himself to laugh a little. He doesn't remember how the mug's gotten there, but... it feels appropriate enough. With a shiver he turns the text away from himself and lifts the mug to his lips, if only to continue reassuring himself that this is normal.

Of course it's normal. This is the Institute he works at. This is his... his office, his territory, his Archive. It seems significant, but it's mundane. He's been here for years, hasn't he?

He drinks the mulled wine and places the mug back on the table. Yes, everything is as it should be. He's just tired. He doesn't sleep well, after all. That sounds like him. His fingertips turn the page of the statement idly before he leans over it and clears his throat.

"Hold it," Martin breathes out, and Tim's fingers wrap around the kitten more firmly.

It's struggling, the little beast. Sasha doesn't look like she approves of what they're doing.

"Hey, Sasha? It's a cat. It'll be fine," Tim tells her, noticing the same sour look upon her features. "Cats love boxes."

"Could you just wrap a ribbon around it or something?" Sasha asks. "This just seems cruel for no particular reason. It doesn't have to be literally wrapped up."

"It's fine, Sasha, I'm leaving it a lot of space to breathe. It'll only be there for like, five minutes," Martin assures her. He's almost finished measuring the square of wrappings they need to cover the whole cardboard box. The paper's got some cartoony trees printed upon it with little golden, metallic stars on top of them and floating about the space inbetween. He's feeling a little... antsy, really. Jon makes him feel that way. It's nothing new, of course, he just... he's just a little bit in love. It's fine. That's how it should be. It feels right. "Okay. Drop her in, will you?"

Tim grabs the kitten under its tiny arms, and it meows loudly in protest even as he cups its behind in his palm. He lifts it up to his face and smiles at it, fingertip running down the top of its small head and between the two grey-brown, black-tipped tabby ears - they've got little tufts of fur on top sticking up like a lynx's ears. Martin watches him, unable to help the soft smile on his face. Jon's going to love it. They've talked about it before, haven't they? Martin can't exactly remember, but he knows Jon's wanted a cat for a long time. This one's a... a rescue. Someone's accidental litter. It's going to be a great cat for Jon, and Martin had to get it because... because Jon's never going to, right? He doesn't plan for the future like that. He's too stuck being a workaholic. He needs something to get him going home in the evenings.

Martin lifts the box and holds the top open, and Tim lifts the cat up above it and slowly places it inside. The kitten meows again even as its body meets the towels inside that Martin brought from home to have them smelling like him, but it appears to calm down soon and curiously sniffs around itself even as the lid of the box is closed again. Sasha lets out a disapproving sigh, but doesn't contest it when Martin places the box down on the square of paper laid out on the floor and begins to wrap it up.

"You know they say don't ever buy an animal for somebody else as a Christmas present? That's how you get strays," she says then.

"Ah, drop it, Sasha," Tim says cheerfully, stretching his arms up above his head. "Martin's right, Jon's never going to do it and he needs something soft and warm to cuddle at night that isn't literally Martin. Maybe it'll relax him a little bit, I don't know. Really, it's harmless. He'll love it."

"Well, just tell him I'll take the cat if he ends up feeling like he has to give her up," Sasha says with weight in her words, and Martin nods.

"I'll tell him that. It's going to be ok, Sasha, we've talked about it before. He wants a cat, it's just... never a good time for him. So, you know. We just thought we'd pick a good time for him."

Sasha leans her body to Martin's office desk and lifts up her mug of eggnog. Tim notices and parts his eyes from the box now containing a small cat, and he lifts his gaze to Sasha, smirking. It takes Sasha a moment to realise her drink has been contaminated.

"You didn't," she says, barely containing a snort to retain her fake-judgemental voice.

"Oh, I'd never," Tim reassures her, smiling brightly.

Martin eyes his own eggnog suspiciously, but he's got his hands full of wrapping paper and tape. The truth will have to wait. *

There's a knock on the door. It comes at a good moment: the mulled wine he drank almost without noticing was most certainly alcoholic and Jon can feel it in his relaxed, warm body. His anxiety's toned down and everything feels temporarily almost alright, even though the statement he spoke into his recorder still lingers at the edges of his consciousness where he's laid it to rest.

"Come in," he calls clearly through the haze.

Martin peeks his head in, and Jon's chest tightens. He smiles a genuine, relieved smile, although he's uncertain why he feels that way at the sight of him. Maybe he was afraid Martin wouldn't be there. After all, he's still not really sure how he ended up there himself - he just knows that it's alright that they're all there. They... all. Yes; behind Martin he can see Sasha peeking in, and behind them stands Tim, carrying a thermos with him. They all file into the room and close the door behind them. Martin at the head has his arms wrapped around a gift-wrapped square, and Jon has the creeping feeling he'll be the recipient of it.

"Ready for a second round?" Tim asks, stepping forwards and leaving Jon no time to decline before he's already poured him a second mug of the same mulled wine. "Nice mug."

Jon tilts his head a little uncertainly, attempting a smile. "Thank you," he says, not for the comment on his mug but for the drink that he didn't ask for. He's got a feeling that he wants to be a little intoxicated today, that he's been due for a little relaxation for a long time now.

"Don't drink too much," Martin says as he steps up next, taking Tim's place at the front. "Tim's probably been more than a little heavy-handed with that, if the eggnog is anything to go by."

"I'm just making sure we're all having a good time and we all know that the only way to have a good time at the Magnus Institute is to be really, really drunk so you don't know that you're there to begin with," Tim states in a contented tone.

Martin rolls his eyes and places the box in front of Jon. "Merry Christmas, Jon."

Jon reaches his hand forwards, then retreats it and glances up at Martin. He's smiling so softly, his eyes warm as they meet Jon's, and Jon's heart skips a beat. He smiles back and pulls his mug closer as if for emotional support, and then he looks down at the box which is... making a sound, a scratching sound that alarms him, makes him question where he is again. Is it something bad? Will something change if he opens it? He picks up the little card attached to the ribbon.

"From Martin, Tim and Sasha. To Jon." The back of the card, in Sasha's handwriting, states: "Open quickly."

Jon lifts his gaze back to Martin for comfort. If Martin's there then nothing inside the box can be that bad. It'll be alright, he knows it will. He knows it like it's plain as day to him, the only thing he needs is to reassure himself that Martin's with him. He wouldn't take a noisy box like that from anybody else but he trusts Martin, at least. He loves Martin. The thought warms him up almost as much as the mouthful of mulled wine he drinks before he sets his fingers to the task of unwrapping a cardboard box. There's a sound... a sound that a little baby might make, he thinks, and his hands stop over the box for a moment. No, not a baby, a baby animal: it's either a little whimper or a meow. His lips part and his heart races a little faster, and he turns the flap of the box to pull it up.

Inside he finds a tiny, curious tabby: black stripes, yellow eyes, white paws and chest and a brownish coat underneath all those markings. Its little pink nose lifts up and sniffs his fingers and it meows again, lifting its paws onto the edge of the box and pulling itself up to climb out, but the box is too tall, so Jon reaches in and helps it onto his hands. It's so small, so fragile in his palms and so completely unthreatening and mundane and good that he almost tears up at the sight. The silence in the room is ringing in his ears before he lifts his gaze, and he's got that stupid smile of wonder on his face that he knows makes him look at least ten years younger than he is, and a hundred younger than he feels.

"Thank you," he breathes out.

Martin chuckles. Sasha exchanges looks with Tim, who's grinning in his usual way.

"We all thought you needed a friend," Martin says, daring to step closer to the desk again. His hands land on the edge and he breathes out, shivering before a chuckle escapes him. "You can name her whatever you'd like."

Jon's holding the cat against his chest now, and she's very quiet there, no longer struggling but simply soaking up his warmth. He feels an emotion he can't really describe that makes him reach out his other hand and touch Martin on the cheek, and Martin closes his eyes and smiles and leans closer, and they kiss softly over the desk. The audience lets out a mixed response: Sasha chuckles, Tim sighs.

"There they go again," Tim says, that same grin lingering in his voice.

Jon ignores him. "Would you help me pick a name?" he asks, his lips still very close to Martin's.

"Tonight after work?" Martin asks, and Jon nods.

He knows that they're headed for the same address - wherever in London that is. It all feels... very good now; so very real that he can almost believe it.

#the magnus archives #magnus archives #jonmartin #written

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aestheticvoyage2021 · 3 years

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Day 248: Sunday September 5, 2021 - “Take Me Home, Two Lane Roads”

9am, I woke up wondering where I was (it was Pratt, KS). Last I remembered, I was grumpily unpacking the car, going through the motions until I could give up and pass out. And now, with the question looming on if we could make it all the way to Tucson in one go, Audrie had let me sleep. I half supposed she figured I would need it, with the other half supposing she had made up her mind that it was a fool’s gambit...either way, the stakes were now raised. As efficiently as possible (90 minutes) we got the kid and the car and the dogs packed up and ready to hit the road. The future was definitely unwritten but I knew if we got as far as Southern New Mexico, we’d be going for it. I chalked it up to having a speeding ticket to pay that we’d earn it back by slicing a nights hotel off the trip. It could be done - we were professionals after all. But this would be a tall task - 950 miles from Pratt to the Pueblo, 14.5 hours that couldn’t be measured with accounting for milk stops. And like out of a Chevy Chase movie, 5 minutes into the run, we were pulling to a stop. “We’re going to need food if we’re going to do it” I declared... good food. “Rick’s” struck me as a magic horseshoe.

Inside, I found the perfect slide of Sunday morning Americana. An awkward teenage girl waited on me and poured three cups of coffee in a real loaner coffee mug while shouting back and forth with the short order cook through the kitchen window. I got two big omelettes to go, with a homemade cinnamon roll, and an extra side of sausage for Audrie to replace her toast. I looked around at the people and the history here and decided I loved it. This is Kansas, but it might as well have been somewhere in Gratiot County or Glasgow, MT or any you-name-it small town between Mississippi and Maine and I thought about how this goofy rambler with baby already taking his first milk break out in the parking lot, was playing a character in the story of this place. The passer through. I tipped well, in hopes of good karma and took my take-aways outside for AC and I to enjoy in the morning humidity, standing up of course, in the parking lot; itd be a really long day of sitting, for all of us. The food was perfect; our tanks were full. Roll on.

The road stretched ahead down a two lane highway, filled with little towns and speed traps, but seemingly in the most perfect straight line pointed southwest. It carried us past grain elevators and flat fields and farm towns of Southwestern Kansas, when we saw a billboard for Dorothy Gale’s house - “the one from Wizard of OZ? oh google that!” AC provided the narrative and we had a plan for our next Milk Stop - Liberal, KS - two hours down the road. What we found there was about the closest thing to a tourist trap as we’d find on this ramble (yes even more than Mark Twain’s Brewery). Just a block off the highway was a replica house, with donated yellow bricks, and marble wall displaying all the names of the young girls who had played the Dorothy tour guides here over the years. We didn’t pay for the actual tour, but we did set up on a bench in the front yard for some breastfeeding....Im sure for the other toursits rolling through they had to think, “now thats something we don’t see everyday” as our little cowardly lion went off to see the Wizard, the magical milk wizard called Mom. 4 miles later, we weren’t in Kansas anymore.

Audrie drove us across the Oklahoma panhandle, which goes by very fast and before you knew it, we were cutting across the northwest corner of the top of Texas. This was the closest thing to Bee-line next to if we were drawing it ourselves. We made our next big milk stop in the town of Dalhart where after another hour’s stopped we were seriously starting to question if we could go all the way or not. But in our hip-pocket we had an ace, we’d be gaining two hours back as we crossed the timezones into New Mexico and then Arizona. Runnig backwards through time! As long as we could hold up, maybe we could pull this off. And so I wandered into the gas station and got a couple five hour energy drinks. My mind was made up. Id sleep in my own bed tonight.

Drove us across the New Mexico line as the terrain started to change and look more Southwestern. Fields had given way to desert brush, and rolling hills, and a the Texas line a big stunning storm cell loomed in the blue sky off to our south. We’d be outrunning that, no problem. Audrie and the dogs, and the baby all got their naps in before we pulled onto an Interstate for the very first time in the long-drive-day. A very short haul that would pull us from Tucumcari to Santa Rosa, where we’d take a long milk break and dog walk and fill up on gas. We’d hang here for quite awhile as William really started to fuss and be done with the car, but as we set off, back on a two lane road, headed South now toward Alamogordo, the sun started to set and I hoped the dark of night would provide us the long quiet run that we were needing. “go to sleeeeep, little onnnneeee” We would need to pull off and try to potty and change diaper and get any comfort that we could from the deep cry that now filled Silver’s cabin but it was so ironic because as much as it was unbearable anymore for William, the view out the windshield was stunning for us! A cloudy sunset, a wide open road, perfectly spaced windmills on the horizon -not another car in front or behind for hours. I almost could imagine William’s cry was for wanting t see too....though I knew, of course, it was really a “what the hell is wrong with you two?”

Before long, darkness fell, and the pretty colors were gone, replaced with those high New Mexico stars. Beautiful out here at night. I cracked my window and got some sleep as AC took her shift, that dragged us all the way to Las Cruces, and one last milk stop and gas fill. It was time now to earn my badge. I started the day at 9am central time wondering if we could go all the way, even with the slow start and had spent all those miles coming across Kansas, Oklahoma, and Texas thinking about all those long great runs I had made over the years, stretching out those miles to every corner of the continent. Those long bright nights in Alaska and the Yukon; practically running out of gas on the Alligator Alley of Florida; limping home from the Boundary Waters on Subi’s last ride. I knew that as we left the lights of Las Cruces behind, this would be one of those legacy drives worthy of finishing strong. Two days and one night drive cross country with two dogs and a 12 week old baby ending on a 950 mile marathon across the southwest. Only rodeo clowns like me, would try such a thing. I put on the best ramble music I had, and got started on the last 4 hours to home. 15 miles from home, Audrie wakes up and tells me to turn down the music....but at that point, we’d done it. Those two lane roads, had brought us home. We definitely weren’t in kansas anymore. We unpacked as simply as we could and then piled into bed - both dogs assuming their positions, pressing me all the way to the edge of my King sized bed. But I was so tired and accomplished I failed to even care. We were home. Mission accomplished.

Song: Vampire Weekend - Harmony Hall

Quote: “Here the earth, as if to prove its immensity, empties itself. Gertrude Stein said: 'In the United States there is more space where nobody is than where anybody is. That is what makes America what it is.' The uncluttered stretches of the American West and the deserted miles of roads force a lone traveler to pay attention to them by leaving him isolated in them. This squander of land substitutes a sense of self with a sense of place by giving him days of himself until, tiring of his own small compass, he looks for relief to the bigness outside -- a grandness that demands attention not just for its scope, but for its age, its diversity, its continual change. The isolating immensity reveals what lies covered in places noisier, busier, more filled up. For me, what I saw revealed was this (only this): a man nearly desperate because his significance had come to lie within his own narrow ambit.” ― William Least Heat-Moon, Blue Highways

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heartslogos · 5 years

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mafia!verse: the wedding [1]

There are social events that hold personal, and social, significance and power. They bring communities together. They provide avenues for bonding and exchanging information, exchanging money, exchanging blood.

Society uses these occasions to build. To grow. To war.

And during these occasions nothing is more important than hospitality. Civility. Propriety. The following of certain accepted social agreements and unspoken rules. The covenant of neighbors, of social hierarchy, of class.

Birthdays are an example of such an important occasion.

The classic tale of Sleeping Beauty illustrates exactly why this is so important. A child is born and everyone comes to wish the happy parents well. The parents invite everyone of import.

But everyone knows that there’s one person who wasn’t invited. And whether or not they would have accepted the invitation is irrelevant. What matters is that no invitation was offered.

One does not slight someone of such power and importance.

Now, the Wayne family isn’t made of fairies. There’s too much talent for iron and its various formats for that. But at least two of them are so rotten not even death would take them.

Another such occasion with as much importance that would require the same amount of respect and healthy handling of such societal niceties as a birth is a wedding, which usually precedes a birth by about eight to nine months depending on how close that shotgun is to someone’s head.

Weddings are important things. They’re the start of something. They’re the end of something. They’re the making of something. They are the destroying of something.

Weddings bring people together. They end wars. They start alliances. They usher in peace. They can start feuds. They can start grudges.

And the Wayne family was not issued an invitation to this one.

Dick Grayson drives up to the security guards posted all the way down at the end of the street, parking his car right there in the damned center of it and knowing not a single person present — security guards, people who also happen to unfortunately live in this affluent suburban neighborhood, reporters, police — is going to stop him.

The man’s an angel to end all angels.

The word end is used in its most literal, finite, and apocryphal sense here.

Man’s got a smile like a morning star, you could call him Vesper. You could also call him by the other name, too, but you’d get more of a laugh than anything.

He smiles that devil’s smile and the security guards falter. Most do.

Dick Grayson adjusts his suit, and turns to the sound of another car. Dark cherry red coming to a smooth stop next to his.

“Jason,” his eyebrows raise as the car doors open, “Tim. You came together?”

“Yup,” Jason answers, jerking his thumb towards the passenger side as it threatens to swing closed on the occupant. “Timbo over there’s having a day. I felt like being decent and giving the man a ride.”

“Feel like being decent and helping me out of the car?” Tim calls from the other side. Jason leans against his side of the car, making no move to go help. Dick shakes his head and goes to help.

“Having a day are you?” Dick asks, holding the door open so Tim can swing his forearm crutches out and pull himself out after them.

Tim Drake was supposedly assassinated on live television four or five years ago. Supposedly. Rumor has it that it was all staged. To make the people who saw that video feel sorry for him. To get the negative press coming from outside of Gotham off his back. To get people who do want him dead to lower their guard so he could surprise them by popping back up when they least expect it.

Jury’s out on whether he was really shot or not — several thousand witnesses, a still somewhat visible bloodstain right out front of W.E., and a box of evidence in the police department vaults aside. But he’s been using the crutches on and off ever since and no one’s got the balls to challenge it to his face.

“Yes.”

“And Jason just so happened to be around to give you a ride?”

“I might have been there already as the day was progressing towards crutches territory,” Jason admits, making a motion for them to get a move on so he can lock the car.

“Oh? Anything I should be worried about?”

“We were bonding,” Jason says, “Right, Replacement?”

“It’s fine, Dick,” Tim ignores Jason and starts to swat Dick’s hands away as he tries to fix Tim’s hair. “What are you doing here?”

A motorcycle snarls in the rapidly deceasing distance.

“It’s a family gathering off the manor grounds,” Jason groans, “Ode to joy.”

Cassandra’s black monster of a motorcycle comes to a perfect stop, next to Jason’s car.

She flips the visor on her helmet up, examining all of them before resting her eyes on Tim.

“Bad?” She nods towards the crutches.

“They aren’t for the aesthetic.”

Before anyone can say anything about that, one way or the other, a final car comes by. It doesn’t park, it idles as its passenger leaves the back seat, before slowly reversing and turning itself around to drive off again.

“What are you all doing here?”

“Attending a wedding,” the four of them answer, eyeing each other and Damian.

“Alright, I’ll bite, did anyone here get an invite?” Jason says, “Raise your hand if you feel excluded from the block party that literally everyone was invited to.”

Four hands raise. Tim whacks one of his crutches against Jason’s tires to cast his vote.

“I heard Vale was invited,” Damian says as they all stare at each other.

“I’m sure our invitation was lost,” Dick shrugs, “I bet they didn’t know who to address it to. There’s six of us, after all, and most of us are never at the manor.”

“Such optimism.”

Cassandra points at the closest security guard, making sure he’s met her eyes before she points at her bike.

“If this has moved,” Cassandra says, “I will remove you.”

She does not wait to see if this is understood. She turns around and starts to take off her leather jacket, revealing a black undershirt.

Cameras flash. The reporters who didn’t get a chance to pass security know better than to ask questions, and to be content with whatever pictures they can manage.

“Shouldn’t you be hiding your face?” Jason gestures towards the flashing cameras as the four of them move to somewhat obscure their sister from the flashing lights. “Might look bad for you if you’re seen crashing a wedding.”

Tim’s smile to the cameras causes a riot of flashes that are now solidly directed and him. It looks so menacing in its niceness that it would make sharks look like herbivores.

“Don’t be silly, Jason. I own those reporters.”

“Tim, Tim, Tim,” Dick chides, “You can’t own reporters. Owning reporters is owning people and that’s slavery. It’s been outlawed.”

“Slavery is illegal and wrong,” Cassandra says from where she’s standing a bit off from them, pulling out a neatly folded dress shirt from her bike’s storage compartment and doing it up. “Damian, do my tie.”

Damian sighs, “Yes, Cassandra. You’d think that you’d know how to tie it yourself at this point, considering all the other knots you know.”

Dick points at her as he slings an arm around Tim and Jason, drawing them in together earning a grumble from Jason and an irritated eye roll from Tim, “Exactly, Cass. Besides, there’s something more powerful than owning a person.”

Cassandra and Dick both turn at the same time to face the cameras directly in a sharp snap.

“You can own the face of their fear.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Jason passes a hand over his eyes. “You’re the goddamned worst. I don’t know why I bother. Alright. Let’s get this shit show on the road.”

Dick smiles at the guards.

“You don’t need to see our invitation, right?”

Damian doesn’t wait, he brushes past the guards and starts walking towards the house with the white ribbons on its tall stone wall.

“Our invitation is the fact that we are Waynes, and all the money used to pay for this wedding came from our graces,” Damian says, “And frankly, I would like to see such graces return with some measure of gratitude.”

“Agreed,” Tim adjusts his grip on his crutches as he moves forward, parting guards without any resistance. “This union wouldn’t have happened without my influence and I would like some minor acknowledgement of that. And there are some people here who’ve been annoyingly persistent in how hard they are to reach.”

#heartsfic #c: unwanted and enduring knight #c: a star going red giant #c: icarus rising #c: uncompromising victor #c: the dreamer who always sees the stars #c: the children's champion

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torestoreamends · 7 years

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This ficlet is inspired by conversations I had with Samuel and James H at stagedoor on the 14th of October. I asked them about Scorpius and Draco’s roles in the Voldemort timeline, and Samuel said that he thinks the Scorpion King is evil and has a closer relationship with Draco than Astoria in that world. Meanwhile, James said that he thinks Draco might be undercover, fighting for Dumbledore’s Army. I wanted to try and explore those ideas, and this is the result.

Draco watches his son and doesn’t know what to do. Scorpius is three years old, a tiny, fragile life only just begun. He exists in this cruel, awful world, where people are killed and tortured, burned alive with Fiendfyre for daring to speak out against the Dark Lord, hit with Crucio after Crucio for harbouring Mudbloods, until they lose their minds and are left as shells to rot on the streets. This isn’t the sort of world to raise a child in, but that’s exactly what he and Astoria are doing.

Sometimes Draco lies awake at night, thinking about it. Thinking about what Scorpius will see as he grows older, the things he’ll have to do, the pain he might suffer.

“You’re worrying again,” Astoria murmurs far too often, rolling over and running her hands down his scarred chest. “You shouldn’t worry. You should sleep.”

“You worry,” Draco says, looking at her.

She gives a tired little smile. “I’m his mother. It’s my job to worry. It’s your job to show the world who the Malfoys are. You need to sleep.”

She’s right. It’s exhausting. He’s had a meteoric rise through the Ministry thanks to his connections and the Mark on his arm. His schoolboy hatred of Potter and Dumbledore’s Army stands him in good stead. How could Draco Malfoy be anything but loyal?

The best thing about his position is that he rarely has to raise a wand to hurt anyone himself. A cushy Ministry desk job is as far removed from the violence as it’s possible to be, and he’s glad of that. And an administrative role allows some things to be forgotten, some files to go unread because he still hasn’t got a secretary, some charges to be dropped through lack of evidence. As long as he’s angry enough at his juniors, it can go forgiven. Shoddy work would never be Draco Malfoy’s fault.

Home is the thing he finds hardest. Raising Scorpius with values he doesn’t believe in. Some days he feels lost when he looks at his son. When the cat drags in a half dead sparrow, Scorpius watches with cold curiosity as the bird flails in pain on the doormat. Astoria puts it out of its misery, and later Draco sees Scorpius mimicking the spell using a stick as a pretend wand. It makes Draco’s insides go cold and he wants to tell Scorpius to stop, to teach him that once upon a time that spell was Unforgiveable, that it still should be. But his son is safer this way, safer with this world’s values, and he’s torn. In the end he walks away and lets Scorpius play at killing.

---

Draco watches his son and doesn’t know what to do. Scorpius is eleven years old, about to go to Hogwarts, and his first wand has just arrived from the Wand-makers, a fine purveyor of wands operating out of Knockturn Alley. While he was waiting for it to come, Scorpius had spent hours poring over spell books in the library, teaching himself not just the basics – Alohomora, Reparo, Lumos – but also a few Hexes and Curses. Ones he thinks might be useful.

Draco will never forget the look of glee in Scorpius’s eyes when he first holds that wand. The cold, clear, sharp light of a frosty winter morning. There’s no warmth to that smile. No joy. Just opportunity and power.

He and Astoria take Scorpius to board the Hogwarts Express, and he knows that Scorpius is observing how everyone treats them with deference. They’re the highest of the high. A cut above the rest. Pureblood aristocracy. They wear neat, fine clothes. They look like royalty. And the normal people in their drab robes, with tired, miserable faces thanks to the influence of the Dementors that line the platform, just step aside and stare as they pass.

By the time they reach the train Draco is gripping Astoria’s hand for support against the cold, clammy darkness of the Dementors, but Scorpius is smirking. He holds his head high like he’s a king, kisses Astoria on both cheeks, shakes Draco’s hand, then boards the train. Through the window, Draco sees him evict a small boy from the prime compartment he wants to sit in, and by the time the Hogwarts Express pulls out of the station he’s holding court with five other boys, who are all clamouring for his attention.

Draco and Astoria escape the influence of the Dementors and lock themselves away in the Manor to recover. At least the rest of the world will assume that Draco is sad to see Scorpius go to school. Some emotion is safe, natural, understandable. Or at least it can be made to look that way.

That night an Owl arrives from Professor Umbridge, informing Draco and Astoria that Scorpius has already made an excellent mark on the school, that his grasp of basic Dark Arts is exceptional for a first year, and that he is doing a fine job of defending the honour of the Dark Lord. It doesn’t take much reading between the lines to know that Scorpius has already been using the Hexes and Curses he was so fascinated by in his books, and Draco goes to bed that night feeling faintly sick. He wonders if they could have prevented this. If they could have taught Scorpius to be another way.

Astoria traces her fingers over the burning Mark on his arm.

“He’s fitting in,” she whispers. “He’s too young to be taught an act. He’s too young to be at risk. We can endanger ourselves but we can’t endanger him. He’s better off. He’s doing well. We should be proud.” She sounds like she’s trying to convince herself, and Draco turns to look at her, at her lined, worried, frail face. He reaches out and wipes a tear from her cheek.

“I am proud,” he whispers back. “Aren’t you?”

She swallows and nods. “He’s my son,” she says. But that’s all she says.

Draco gathers her in close and holds her as she cries. At night, hidden in the darkness, is the only time they can be themselves. By the morning the tears will be dry and they’ll be ready to gush about how much their son has achieved so early in his school career.

---

Draco watches his son and doesn’t know what to do. Scorpius is thirteen years old, he’s standing beside his mother’s grave, and there are silent tears rolling down his cheeks. Death isn’t so easy or entertaining when it’s tearing your heart and your family into pieces.

“Are you alright?” Draco asks, and it’s the most pointless question he’s ever asked, but he doesn’t know what else to say. He hasn’t known what to say for weeks and months.

“I’m sorry,” Scorpius says, in a choked little voice, and he looks up at Draco. “I’m sorry I wasn’t a good enough son while she was alive.”

Draco blinks at him, uncertain what he means. “You are exceptional,” he says. “She knew that. She loved you very much.”

Scorpius shakes his head and wipes his eyes on his sleeve. Draco has never seen him do that before, but then he’s never seen his son in distress before.

“No,” Scorpius says. “I haven’t done enough. I should have done more. I should have done better. I should have shown her how much I support Him. I should have made her proud.” He sniffs and draws himself up straight, looking directly at Draco, eyes dry now, determined. “This will be her legacy,” he says, and he holds his left arm out and points to where his Dark Mark will be when he earns one. “I’ll do it for her. For both of you. I will live up to our name. I will make the Malfoys proud.”

Draco is speechless. He doesn’t know what to do or say. He thinks of his Astoria, the one who worried about Scorpius, the one who cried in the darkness when she heard what he got up to at school, the one who wished they were in a world where they could be free, the one who sometimes cast a Patronus so they could have some respite from the draining, cold anguish. She was his light in this dark world, and her legacy cannot be more darkness. But he has no way of telling Scorpius that. It’s too late. Scorpius is invested. Scorpius is a true inhabitant of this world. Scorpius is everything he should be, everything he needs to be. And if Astoria’s legacy is Scorpius’s continued safety, then perhaps she could have understood that.

Draco draws himself up tall, because it’s all he knows how to do, and he nods. “Very well.” He holds his hands out, wrists crossed. “For Voldemort and Valour.”

Scorpius lifts his head high and looks him right in the eye across the grave. “For Voldemort and Valour.” And then he turns and walks away, heading back to school, and Draco is left in a turmoil of loneliness and pain, which only deepens when the Daily Prophet arrives the next day.

New Counter-Mudblood measures implemented at Hogwarts

Star student, Scorpius Malfoy, has proposed a new Counter-Mudblood regime, to begin at Hogwarts with immediate effect. Anyone suspected of stealing magic from the Pureblood community will be investigated and severely punished.

This policy will bring Hogwarts School in line with the new Pureblood Protection Act, which has been drawn up by Draco Malfoy, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and will...

Draco crumples the paper in his hand and doesn’t read anymore. He just stares at nothing and tries to work out what has happened to his family. His heart was already broken, and now its shatters remnants have been flung apart, never to be repaired.

---

Draco watches his son and knows exactly what to do. Scorpius is fourteen years old, and he’s standing strong and determined on the other side of the office. Tears sparkle in his eyes, and he looks warm and bright and everything Draco could have ever imagined of Astoria Malfoy’s son. He challenges. He fights. He’s so different. This isn’t the Scorpius he knows but it’s the Scorpius he always dreamed of. And he’s scared, because if his son is like this then he’s in terrible danger, but at the same time he trusts this boy. This is a boy who can make a difference in this dark world. There’s something about him. His heart shines like a beacon of hope.

“Whatever you’re doing,” Draco says, because he doesn’t know, doesn’t know if he even wants to know; he doesn’t need to be more afraid or more hopeful. “Do it safely. Can’t lose you too.”

Scorpius looks at him, and tears trail down his cheeks. His mouth is set in a grim line, and Draco can see so much of himself in that face, so much of Astoria too. The determination. The mask. The need to survive.

But something more. The ability to make a difference. This Scorpius – because something tells him that this isn’t his Scorpius – is in this world but not of it. And he can change it.

“For Voldemort and Valour,” Draco says, crossing his wrists and giving an encouraging nod, wanting to show Scorpius how this must be done, wanting him to understand that this is survival. Rigid conformity is the air they breathe, the blood that pumps in their veins, whether it’s real or an act. They are made to do this, and if they don’t do it well enough then they’re faulty, disposable goods, and they will be destroyed.

And apparently this Scorpius, the Scorpius with Astoria’s heart and mind and soul, seems to understand, because he stands up, back straight, head held high like he’s a king.

He crosses his wrists and repeats the phrase in an unwavering voice that sends a surge of confidence through Draco. “For Voldemort and Valour.”

#Harry Potter and the Cursed Child #Cursed Child #Cursed Child fic #Cursed Child headcanon #Scorpius Malfoy #Draco Malfoy #Astoria Malfoy #The Scorpion King #Malfoy family feels #Keep The Secrets #My writing #(I wrote this on the bus back from London)#(It's 2000 words because I have no chill)#(How does one have chill when the Scorpion King is involved?)

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aliciagaliano · 5 years

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Crossed Roads, chapter 8

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Author's Note: Another relatively short chapter yay, next one probably will be long as usual

Disclaimer: Cloudy With A Chance of Meatballs belongs to Sony Pictures Animations.

The respective OC's belongs to me.

...

Tear up this town Blinking in the sunlight as the walls come down This fire will burn Digging for a truth that just can't be found Don't want your lessons in love I want to tear it all up

Tear Up This Town - Keane

...

Flint… wake up…

He pretty much lost his conscious almost after he saw Alice back, only finding himself in the darkness wanting to sleep and recover from the entire jolly ride of the day… he groaned when the voice talked to him, remaining in the same place and position…

Wake up… Flint please!

"I wanna sleep… Marlene?"

His eyes suddenly opened pair in pair to find himself surrounded by destruction as there was someone standing in front of him like a beast in four legs, realizing it was her… Maximus was, on the other hand, staring at her scared as apparently was the first time he ever saw her in that way with a couple of big claw-like cuts upon his face and other parts of his body… the inventor tried to move, feeling his body burning in pain and how it also felt like it was going to rip in tiny pieces with the slightest movement.

Again Flint tried to move, feeling his abdomen burning in pain more than any other part of his body due the wild punches he got before, "Alice..." He slowly, almost silently said, now he looked some parts of her body, he realized some of her most severe wounds healed already, her hair looked messier and somehow, slightly longer and spiky-ish, his body made another attempt to move, wheezing in the process and coughing a bit…

His coughing made her turn around and look at him, indeed looking like the panther when his mind went lost due rage, to then turn back towards him growling softly after she heard her enemy moving a little bit; as much he could tell, there was something he missed in the minutes his mind blacked out as there was significantly more destruction than before… once again he tried to move in vain feeling number than before, his whimpers brought her attention back onto him, making her quickly start to help him to try to sit down…

It was almost in vain, the pain was much more than he could handle…

"Flint..." She softly whimpered seeming remorseful for his actual state, slowly her features seemed to go back to normal as now her main focus was him and not Maximus, "I'm so sorry… this is all my fault..."

"It's alright Al�� I've got w–" He couldn't end the sentence as he started to cough heavily, covering his mouth with a hand, to then spit some blood on his hand and on the soil...

That only added fire to the volcano…

He tried – empathising on tried to ease her rage somehow but it was too late; she clenched her jaws hardly as the demonic features came back remarked as the purple aura surrounded her entire body again.

Without hesitating a single moment she turned around back to the Panther man raging brand more than before, loading lots of air in her lungs, launched another roar full of pure and burning rage directly to Maximus, causing another shock wave that sent him flying back, moving at high speed towards, appeared opposite powerfully to punch his chin, everybody swore to have almost heard a cracking sound, to then see his body flying towards the grasslands being closely followed by the girl.

Now the two major threats of the moment were gone, the townsfolk got out the shelter and tried to follow their fight as crazy it could be, the only ones who stood were Brent and Alex who finally managed to move and Tim with Henry, going to aid his beaten son… the three teenagers felt amazingly bad for the inventor this time, among all the many times he got teased and that kind of stuff, they never thought they'd see him in that very way…

And Flint? He was completely done, barely conscious once again, when his father moved him all he did was agonize, whimpering in utter pain, "Flint… you're…" He tried to say.

"I need to stop her… dad..." He said, "I need… to–" He didn't end the sentence again due a heavy coughing, letting out some blood once again, "Shit..." Mumbled trying to get up by himself, yet his body was refusing.

"You really, really need a damn medic, Lockwood." Henry said, trying to stop him.

"No one here... is going to need anything if… if no one stops her..." The inventor said, "We may not be here… anymore if… she keeps rampaging like that…" Again he tried to stand up against all odds, not caring the pain crossing his entire body, "I have to stop her..."

Using all his will he finally managed to stand up, barely, but up, being supported by his father and the other three to not fall once again, between his breaths they heard his lungs wheezing loudly, with the panther man having made a lot of internal damage… "Son, it's very dangerous and you can't even walk..." Tim said softly and concerned, "I don't want you to risk your life again… I don't want to lose you..."

"I know dad..." He said, tearing up in response, "I told you when I found her…: she's my responsibility now… and I'm responsible of what she does..." He looked down cleaning his mouth from the blood, to then look at his face, not directly to his covered eyes, looking determined, "Look you know I've… said stupid things to her today… I still need to fix that..."

Without saying anything else he turned around and tried to make his way towards the battleground, wobbling to the sides about to lose his balance… and it was going to be a long way where he mightn't be able to reach in time… before he could fall again, the three (temporally) ex-bullies held him tight making themselves responsible for their early behavior.

Despite all the pain he was feeling at every single movement, with their help they rushed towards the grasslands almost running out of time...

The least the fisherman could do now was wish them luck.

Once the four arrived they encountered behind a huge crowd – pretty much the entire population witnessing the battle from a safe distance and keeping the children behind as it was quite a brutal scene that not many could handle, they stood quiet for a second, then the stomach of the inventor started to burn again making him cough for the third time, but he couldn't give up, it wasn't an option in any case. Once again filling himself with determination, they got through the crowd all together, to then being stopped by Earl, Cassie, and Cal:

"Flint, where are you all going?" Cassie asked worried, much more to see him so… beaten, "Oh God… you're not planning to–"

"I must... stop... Alice..." He interrupted without much air, just walking was too much, "I really need to stop her… I..."

The young inventor almost fainted again, but was stopped by them group that forcefully had to put him down, making him whimper in pain, his hand made its way upon his chest wheezing, to then, obviously, start to cough badly…

"Dude, you're completely nuts!" Calvin exclaimed surprised, scared to see him so badly injured, "He almost killed you, and this time she perhaps will try to kill you again! She's completely out of her mind and you're not in the shape of even moving a single muscle! It's suicide!"

He tried not to swear out loud again...

"I agree with my little angel," Earl said, "Flint Lockwood, you've got way too many hits on your head! You're gonna die, I can't let you do it!"

Indeed nothing could get his nerves more than hearing the same thing all over and over again even if they were right and had a fair point, even his body was still screaming and pleading to him to lay down and lose his conscience, he was too weak in the worst possible physical condition with so many injures and a possible internal bleeding… perhaps even about to die…

It wouldn't matter if everybody else had the same fate as him… and that'd happen if he didn't stop her…

"Earl… in the same way you're responsible of your son… she's mine..." Many more tears were coming out his eyes again, "I've said hurtful things… almost related to this… entire disaster… she's my only friend… I need to solve this… it's the only way..." Throughout the overwhelming, burning pain his body felt he quickly got enough strength, somehow to stand back up, "Let me do this…"

The police officer decided to meditate about it for a few moments before getting to an actual decision, after thinking a little on his son, he gave the green light to Flint to go, who became happy for that. Then, there was this massive light that felt like blinding everyone once again, this time it wasn't coming from Maximus... was from Alice with an arm in high covered by dark energy raising a new massive ball of energy similar to the one from two chapters ago; she didn't seem to no longer measure her own limits, with everyone only looking scared, he realized that she had left the alien panther unconscious…

His predictions weren't the best as his fears became true, "That attack can reduce the entire planet to star dust. And all for wanting to fix affairs with Maximus..."

"What?" The six people around him exclaimed alarmed

"Are you saying that if she doesn't stops now, we will be universal history?!" Earl asked fully alarmed, Flint only nodded slowly, "What the flipping heck are ya' waiting for, Lockwood? Go now!"

Without any more doubts, ignoring all the damn pain once again and making them go to a safer place (something they didn't), they ran direct to the place, he still felt pain, but it didn't matter now, the only thing that mattered was to make her react before it was late.

His eyes caught then a huge rock and right in front of it, giving her back there was her preparing the shot of grace; it was tall enough, perfect to jump, he took one moment to jump out of there, falling behind the girl by surprise, making the giant energy ball disappear, bringing a momentary peace for everybody else. Both began to struggle with everything they had, Flint trying to hold her arms while she tried to break free, the young man had problems to contain the superhuman strength of Alice, but somehow he was managing to do it...

Of course something had to happen...

Alice arose a few inches from the ground and began to hit herself wherever she could in a desperate attempt of getting free from the grip of the young, becoming harder, stronger, horrible pushing him to be closer to release her, clinging with more force to it but losing them fast at the same time due all the damage he was getting. Things just got uglier when she raised in the air, and began to fall back in a hammer attack, with all the intention of making Flint let go, who this time was doomed.

When they arrived at the ground, a huge cloud of dust arose in the area, scaring everyone because of the unknown fate of the young inventor. From the top of the curtain of dust, Alice jumped out, completely unscathed, her hair became more pointed, as well as their nails and teeth walking on 4 feet, dust, a hand appeared dragging on the ground... the young inventor just couldn't move anymore. He was very exhausted, even more than before, his lungs were wheezing more than they did before, his arms almost had no more forces to stand up, yet again like a miracle or as a power taken from inside he stood up again, barely, but did it.

Quickly he tried to hold back Alice, who was close to charge a new supernova, before he got the chance to hold on against her again, she disappeared, reappearing behind him... he didn't have time to react…

A scream of pain crossed the hills and far away calling everyone's attention, his body barely had time to process the burning sensation crossing his back in diagonal... Alice, who has strived to protect him just gave him a giant claw scratch on the back, tearing his lab coat and leaving him with a huge wound of four claws. Neither he could believe it...

Completely lost in rage and unconsciously, she began to beat him, and ultimately, she sent him flying against the rock where he had jumped before, attempting to stand, the dark energy took the form of a gigantic claw, and scratched to Flint again, leaving a huge claws in the stone and doing the same that happened to his back, making him split blood, and weakening him completely...

Tim, who arrived a while ago looked to the scene scared, his eyes couldn't credit what he saw neither Earl nor any of her friends or the three bullies: the young girl just attacked her best friend mindlessly, Brent looked also at the scene expecting a real miracle, at least one small...

And Flint… he was defeated on against the rock sitting down on the soil without feeling his back, without feeling something small and drained of energy... the damage which had received before by Max, and now by the young, he was thinking... just things... who was really, what was his purpose in life... Why he is still alive...

He never realized when his mind left...

When he recovered his conscience he found himself alone in the middle of the grasslands, at the feet of a big, familiar green tree as the sky was clear and painted with the colors of the sunset, he sat down quickly feeling totally confused as the last thing that came to his mind was everything fading away, realizing he didn't feel pain… actually, the thing that called his attention the most was realize he was completely unharmed, as if he never got beaten…

Slowly, confused and disoriented he stood up to see where he was, finding there was a familiar lake in direction of the sun setting and someone sitting at the shore of it… curly brown hair, around fourteen years old, wearing a simple white dress… he couldn't believe it… she repaired in his presence, showing a pair of warm brown eyes and a happy smile… "Hello Flint, nice to see you again..."

He slowly approached to her still unbelieving what his eyes were seeing, the girl stood up showing that her dress was at the height of her knees, he remembers that they were around the same height, now he was actually half a head taller than her… without saying anything all he did was hug her so tight at the point he didn't want to let go again, she giggled in response and hugged back, having been like a lifetime…

"Marlene I…" He said, a lump was forming in his throat making him feel like choking, he was so emotional in that moment, only to have her index finger upon his lips.

"I'm glad to see you too, Anthony..." His expression was one of cringe, as if he hated to be called like that, she giggled again in response, "How come you can hate an amazing middle name? I always thought it suits you."

"Why did I tell you so…?" He asked looking ashamed, yet smiling, she invited him to sit down and look at the sun falling slowly, the light refracted on the surface of the water, the ambient was calm… it was so charming, something he needed a long time ago… "So… am I… dead…?"

She went silent for a moment, like wondering what to answer, "Well, actually no, but almost..." She said, "This place is most likely a place in your mind where time is relatively dead, where we can talk without worrying about anything else. A place of you and I… somewhere only we know..."

He looked to the sunset again, with his eyes crystallizing with tears as the deep sorrow of her loss came back, he couldn't handle it again, covering his face with both hands to sniff hard and whimper softly; her hand caressed his back to then get hugged from a side, "Why didn't you let me take you…?" He asked, "I could've saved your life… maybe you would still be alive if… if..."

"Flint… there was nothing to do for me… in either way, I would've left you, and I know how painful it still is but you have to let go and move on..." She took his left hand and pressed it with hers, feeling it wet due tears, "There's nothing that hurts me more than seeing you suffering… your mother is the same, we don't want you to keep yourself stuck with us and just move on..."

The inventor stuttered an apology encountering himself in a very sensible point in his emotions, yet his pain was understandable. Sometimes even she felt amazingly guilty for what happened feeling that she was the one who should apologize for causing him so much troubles throughout the couple of years she's been gone… "Hey, listen…" She said again, "I'm the one who owes you an apology for bringing you all of this pain to your life. You've lost your mother in a similar way, then I left and you got back to be alone… but now just focus on the people down there who loves you. You have your father, your monkey Steve, and now Alice..."

Friends had their upside downs too, that's what she explained: it was natural to fight sometimes, but if the friendship was true then they'd come back together and keep going, renewing their bonds and making them stronger every day; it wouldn't be in any other way than that. It always takes time learning to fly, at the same time it was hard to find a friend and an answer to some simple questions… in any case, they'd come together if things among were real and not just a smoke screen…

Looking at the sunset he understood what she said, starting to fell encouraged to try again even if he could fail over and over again; the spectrum of reds and blues of the sky reflected in his eyes showing what felt like determination and understatement, as if something inside got to knowledge a missing thing, to then close his eyes and smile. Not with grief, nor regret, but with peace… he looked to her eyes. "Thank you Mar…"

"Don't thank me silly, you just needed a little guide to understand..." She said, "In any case, if you're telling her about us, bring her here after whatever is going on down there is over. I know she became special to you, otherwise, you wouldn't have brought me here years ago..." He nodded in response, hugging her tight feeling like it'd be the last time they'd see.

"I'll miss you so much..."

They broke the hug as she placed a hand upon his cheek, caressing it softly, "Your mother and I will always be by your side, Flint..." There he kissed his cheek for a long moment, "And don't ever forget that I love you… even beyond death..."

When he recovered his conscience, slowly he felt his forces coming back, for some strange reason with someone or some people helping him to stand back up, he felt awesome and full of life without knowing why, his determination grew bigger and bigger at every moment while this blue aura started to surround him, those burning pain disappeared even if he still was badly injured...

Alice was loading a new energy with both hands: bigger, way dangerous and deadlier than the previous one. Without hesitating a second he quickly ran behind the young girl from her back, covering her with his charming aura at the point it started to override the purple, dark energy that made her go wild; she was surprised he was even up...

"Alice! I'm Flint, please stop this! You're not like this…! You're not a beast…! Calm down… I'm begging it to you..." From a complete struggle, she slowly stopped trying to get herself free as a warm sensation invaded her, consuming the darkness...

An enormous light surrounded the place as a light spread, blinding everything… when they all recovered their vision, there was nobody but now a giant field of flowers of many colors that everyone reminded to poppies – something nobody understood how happened, there neither were Flint, Alice nor even Max who probably recovered conscious and left without their realization. Tim was frantic, truly worried about his son, screaming his name just to hear the echoes across the fields... so were they… dead…?

They refused to think that.

For once that's when the town realized they actually cared a little bit – deep down about the inventor as they were used to whatever he had in plans and also have him used to pretty much destroy everything in his path (sometimes, not always). It was fun how people actually realized things when it was too late for it, like how someone realizes they actually cared about something or someone after it's gone/over; it was a gift to see that everyday and being able to show how much they cared, but now…

Was it the case?

In any case, the fisherman quickly went to look for his son and the girl to where they previously were among the grass and flowers under the setting sun as the stormy weather was taken away by the battle, yelling again his name while the policeman, son, his best friend and the three ex-bullies following from behind ready to help in anything they could.

That's when they finally found them lying on grass, Flint holding Alice in his arms as both of them were unconscious and looking like a mess. One side, she looked unharmed as her wounds healed again after getting covered by the layer of dark energy, on the other, it seemed like his wounds stopped bleeding yet he was totally worn out… slowly, between Earl and Tim lifted the inventor up, to then find himself in his father's arms as Alice was placed upon his back carefully. Seemed like a complex thing, but he could carry them both.

Once back they saw the citizens staring at them worriedly, to then look at what was previously a battleground: of what was the town was made powder, some parts, however survived like some of the homes (and actually, amazingly enough the Lockwood house was untouched), while the commercial area and downtown was totally gone… it'd take long, really long to get everything back to what it was…

The goddamn sources...

"Alright, we have much work to do…" Earl spoke discouraged as he clapped his hands twice to get everybody’s attention, he was already having plans on what to do, when to start and see what exactly survived among the debris.

"Earl... wait..." Said a weak voice.

Alice awoke, more tired than after having received the attack of the supernova and way weak due the entire jolly ride, she got herself down the back of the fisherman to almost hit the ground, getting saved by Earl and placed down, slowly, barely standing up, wobbling tiredly to the sides and about to lose her conscious again, to be supported by her friends once again...

"Guys... let me go... please..."

"You are too tired to stand alone Alice, you really need a break…" Cal said worriedly, "Come on, this entire mess it's over so you can now take some rest."

"Just trust... me... please..." She asked once again, struggling against the tiredness.

Even if they were reluctant to it they let her go, she just couldn't keep standing right and began to wobble to the sides again. The adults were trying to persuade her to just fall down already and take that well-deserved rest after the entire madness, she completely refused… see her best friend in his father's arms added a big weight upon her shoulders at the point it felt she was about to fall again, but was stopped by two enormous hands grabbing her arms and some behind her back, making her crack a little smile...

"Thank you..." She said in a low voice, partly wanting to pass out right there knowing she could lean on them, partly trying to keep up.

"Thanks to you…for everything..." Tim said.

"What... what do you mean...?" Indeed, she didn't understand him, maybe she was too tired to understand.

Tim just looked at her, and began to tell her how much that resembled Fran and how grateful he felt for being by Flint's side regardless the problems that happened in the day; of course unlike his son she understood whenever he used fishing metaphors which got her emotional, he then offered something totally unexpected in her honest opinion...:

"Would like to be a part of our little family?"

She was surprised by the offer, looking slightly embarrassed having being taken totally off-guard. She had her own family, yes, but she was a lot away from them and now she was being given a place to belong. Just like the first time they met she looked down and said:

"I'm not seeking to replace anyone..."

"No one will replace anyone Alice..." The man said once again with a softly voice, "We both agree in the same... and I would really like to stay with us… I already see you as a daughter and I'm sure Flint sees you as his sister… you make him happy and… I just want him to be happy too..."

In the same way that happened in the McHale house, she broke down into sobbing… all she expected from them after the entire madness was receive hate, stones and sticks, angry yells from a mob wanting her to run away, but instead she was having kindness… not like she didn't like that, it was just extremely unexpected. Tim managed to carry his son with an arm so he could hug her with the other, she completely gripped against him crying and sobbing hard, showing how necessary it was.

Once again it was the reminder that how more than a warrior, she was still a young girl.

With the others, Earl was crying a bit of excitement, saying something like: "This is enough to make a grow man cry". Cassie and Cal were happy for their new friend while the dynamic trio of Brent, Henry and Alex just walked away from them. Alice broke the hug cleaning her eyes, to then walk down the hill where they were towards the ruins of the town…

Everyone watched the girl with more curiosity than a few minutes ago wanting to know what she was going to do, when it seemed that she would do nothing, the golden aura came back... some rebel clouds that refused to disappear with the heat of the battle were located above the town, she threw her power into the sky as a golden pillar and it disappeared in a cloud, storm clouds were gathered back around the island, and then definitely fell down with tears down her face.

"I took... so much away... and now… I'm returning what was taken... thank you... Flint..."

At the moment they were going to go back to her, a raindrop fell making them stop, then it began to rain... at first it seemed stupid to have spent whatever was left of energy in a rain, but then the rain made the town get rebuilt as if it was a magic trick or an illusion... what most surprised them was to see how the same Flint was being healed and all his clothes were fixed, but the only person who didn't have the same effect was Alice, who had a smile on her face…

Then the scientist woke up out of sudden, totally confused and looking to his sides probably thinking everything was a dream… until he saw her on the ground, quickly he checked on her not having realized his body healed, being his concern big enough.

"Why is she smiling?" Earl asked confused

"Pride... I think..." Said Flint

"Pride? Why do you think it's pride?" Asked Tim

He shrugged, Earl whispered something to Flint's ear, making this smile... then said:

"Don't worry... will pass you your message."

The cop smiled, Cal and Cassie waved their goodbye and left to their homes to freak out about everything that happened in the day; Tim charged the girl in his arms as they took her back to their home. This time at least she wasn't wounded compared to when they found her, just totally drained, so they took her back to Flint's old room, who this time said to his father:

"Dad I... I will stay with her..." He still didn't have the chance to apologize her properly, and he didn't want to leave her alone in case just anything in the sightliest happened, "I really want to be here when she wakes up..."

"Are you sure, skipper?" His dad asked, the thing he wanted to do now there was peace again was prepare some tea and talk to his son about Marlene, but maybe it was better to leave the talk for another day.

"Completely, so I'll tell you when she wakes up and that..." Maybe he would, maybe he wouldn't, there were still things to sort out and a long story incoming, "Although… we still need to talk… to her… to you… but I need first to sort out some things to her before going to it… alright?"

"Alright skipper..."

Flint gave him a fake smile, just like Tim, when he got out the room their smile disappeared, and tears came to his face as he sat down next to the bed of the young girl who was now cuddling Newt the bear, hoping when she wakes up with Steve...

Tim on the other side closed the door and the smile of this also disappeared, he put a hand on his face and sighed heavily, with tears also falling from underneath his unibrow, ready to go away he looked to the picture frame of the family photo of his son, and his wife... the last thing he expected was anything happen to his new daughter...

Everybody was worried about them...

#CWACOM #cloudy with a chance of meatballs #flint lockwood #fanfiction #fanfic #angst #angst is over #more crossover incoming #crossover #dbz #db

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titoslondon-blog · 6 years

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New Post has been published on Titos London

#Blog New Post has been published on http://www.titoslondon.co.uk/inside-azzedine-alaia-the-couturier-the-design-museums-new-exhibition/

Inside Azzedine Alaïa: The Couturier, The Design Museum’s new exhibition

Not even death could get in the way of Azzedine Alaïa. Though his heart failed him last November, aged 82, the master couturier known as “the king of cling” left great designs in place. Not least the vision for Azzedine Alaïa: The Couturier, the exhibition that opens today at London’s Design Museum. “We felt like [the first fashion exhibition in the new Design Museum home in Kensington] needed to be something special,” says Alice Black, the museum’s co-director, “and Azzedine certainly stands apart from the rest of the fashion world.”

And stand apart the Paris-based couturier did. This is the man who famously shunned the traditional fashion calendar, showing his collections only when he felt they were ready, never before. His obsession with perfection and his dedication to his craft is notorious. He did everything himself—from drawing and cutting his own patterns, to choosing fabrics, draping and sewing them together. “He was just incredible,” says long-term collaborator and guest curator Mark Wilson.

Monsieur Alaïa’s style went beyond his sculptural dresses, though. He designed for women’s bodies—often directly on their bodies—rather than an abstract idea of them. “He always had a mannequin beside him,” recalls renowned industrial designer and long-time friend Marc Newson. (The pair were so close Alaïa designed the dress for Newson’s marriage to fashion stylist Charlotte Stockdale.) “He was the consummate craftsman, always sewing.” He was innovative, too. He worked closely with the knitwear factory of Silvia Bocchese in Florence for years, developing new knitwear techniques. At one point he even used glass powder to give his fabrics a specific kind of iridescence. He experimented with Vionnet’s bias-cut approach well ahead of its mid-1990s revival and made an art of laser-cutting and pleating. Through it all, his designs stayed true to his timeless aesthetic; their apparent simplicity masterfully concealing the technically complex and rigorous construction that they truly require.

Yes, Alaïa’s designs were undeniably sexy, but they were also empowering, emphasising—and liberating—the characters of the bold women he dressed—from Greta Garbo, Marie-Hélène de Rothschild and Grace Jones to Madonna, Michelle Obama and Naomi Campbell. (He was also famously a father figure for Campbell, who refereed to him as Papa and lived in his Paris apartment from the age of 16.)

Revered and respected by the fashion elite with unflinching dedication for five decades, he transcended trends and never cared about the “new mood”. Instead he made a habit of flying in the face of convention—often late into the night, the National Geographic channel blazing on a screen next to him. His kitchen table—the heart of his home and business—achieved mythic status, welcoming “the illuminati of style” as Tim Blanks describes in his final interview with Alaïa in British Vogue, “the inner-est of inner circles”.

Black tells Vogue of the thrill of meeting the Tunisian-born designer and sitting at that very kitchen table with girlish glee: “It was a dream.” Seven months before his untimely death, she met Alaïa to pitch the idea of the exhibition. “I was warned early on not to try to ‘sell’ him anything,” she recalls, “either he wants to do it and he’ll do it, or there is nothing you could ever say to convince him otherwise.” Luckily for her, and us, when she knocked on Alaïa’s atelier door in April 2017, it was already open. Alaïa had visited the new John Pawson and OMA-designed Design Museum shortly after it opened in November 2016 and immediately liked it.

Wilson, chief curator of the Groninger Museum in the Netherlands, was drafted in to curate the exhibition. He staged two Alaïa shows at his own museum in 1997 and 2011, plus a further three, including the runaway success that was the 2015 exhibit in Rome’s Galleria Borghese. This would have been their sixth exhibition together. “Over time we understood each other,” says Wilson of their ability to communicate despite not speaking the same language (Alaïa did not speak English and Wilson speaks only a little French). “We had each other’s back when we were doing these shows together. I don’t understand why, but we just did.”

The timing of the exhibit is all the more poignant because, were it not for his passing, it would have been perfectly scheduled to coincide with the opening of his first flagship outside Paris, on London’s New Bond Street. “When we first met I didn’t know of his plans to open a store,” recalls Black. “[In a way,] I feel like I was just a pawn,” she says laughing, “and I just happened to play the role I was supposed to play.” Not that it is a role she remotely resents. “He was a very instinctual person,” says Wilson. “It just felt right. It’s not like he plotted this, but it just sort of happened.”

Alaïa’s friends and collaborators, including Italian editor, gallerist and businesswoman Carla Sozzani, see the show as an opportunity to carry on Alaïa’s legacy. In no way, though, is it a retrospective. “You would need triple the space to do a proper retrospective,” says Wilson pragmatically, but more importantly, that is not the exhibition Alaïa had envisioned.

“It was never a question [of whether we would change or cancel the exhibition],” Sozzani tells Vogue. “Azzedine had made very clear his wish that his legacy would continue after him. He conceived this exhibition as an homage to two of his passions: fashion and design. It was his last project, and it is an honour to be able to show it.”

With over 60 couture pieces, spanning four decades, the uncompromising detail and quality of the maison and its founder is exquisitely laid bare. “It is an installation, a contemporary temple,” says Wilson, who proposed the idea of screens, rather than walls. Alaïa immediately called on the designers and artists he most admired (and whom he was friend and patron to), including Newson, the Bouroullec brothers, Konstantin Grcic and Kris Ruhs. Newson’s eight flesh-pink panels crafted from anodised aluminium stand four meters tall by 10 metres long. Dappled with edamame-sized holes and sinuous strokes, they have a distinct sensual, textile-like feel. “The challenge was to create an object that is transparent,” Newson explains. “To create some sort of a minimal barrier between one garment and another, so you can roughly make out what is going on on the other side of it.” Alaïa’s final couture collection—shown in July 2017—stands elegantly in front of it, opening the exhibition.

Elsewhere, dresses are themed by material. “Azzedine did collections, of course, but they were not thematic—he was working and reworking, and reworking and re-re-reworking ideas and techniques,” explains Wilson. “So we broke it up by materials: chiffon, velvet, lace, and, of course, the black outfits, to visually explain how he did that.” To allow that attention to detail to really shine, not a single garment is hidden behind glass or backed into a corner. “You get to see everything in 360 degrees. That is really important,” says Wilson. The dresses—all of which have been remade and rescaled specifically for the exhibition, the proportions super-enhanced—fit the invisible mannequins like a glove, so that they appear to be floating, suspended in mid-air. It is as much a sculpture exhibition as a fashion showcase.

Forensically detailed photographs by the British artist Richard Wentworth, who spent years documenting life at Maison Alaïa, paper the walls. Each image feels spontaneous, but is charged with deference to the couturier and his craft. What may seem quotidian—a close-up shot of Monsieur Alaïa sewing a garment, for instance—is all the more moving now that those hands are no longer with us. Film footage brings him back to life, if only for an instant, through the adulation of his devotees, including Sofia Coppola, Brigitte Macron and Michelle Obama.

While the Design Museum will measure success through the number of visitors the exhibition attracts, for Wilson it is, as it always was when working with the couturier, an audience of one. “I know if he is happy and he’s into it, people are going to be blown away.” He may not be here in person to judge for himself, but Azzedine Alaïa’s signature is everywhere. And true to form, it is perfection.

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Image: Jamie Spence

‘Azzedine Alaïa: The Couturier’ will remain on view at the Design Museum until October 7 2018

The post Inside Azzedine Alaïa: The Couturier, The Design Museum’s new exhibition appeared first on VOGUE India.

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